The fey woman’s face became a mask of anger; it was terrible to behold. The air seemed to crackle with her fury. Outside, lightning flashed white.
“Go,” whispered Lily to the wee man. “Run, go!”
But it was too late; both he and she found themselves unable to move, frozen in place as the words of the curse rang out. Ash would be changed. He would be condemned to suffer in the tower until Lily could rescue him. The ferryman and his folk would be bound to serve and to hold their silence.
It had seemed important, Geiléis remembered, to ask questions while she still could. How might the curse be broken? How long would it take? Why could she not do what was required herself? The fey woman set out the details, complete in every particular. It must be done on Midsummer Eve, soon after dawn. The chosen woman must act willingly. Lily could not come with her; if she attempted the task herself she would fail. One chance every fiftieth year; only then would the thorns permit a woman through. Yes, there would be thorns—a hedge impassable save by magic. One warning summer beforehand, giving Lily time to prepare—see how kind she was being?
“Once every fifty years?” Lily echoed, shocked, disbelieving. “But—that’s impossible! By the second time I would be old. By the third time I would be dead.” Ash’s eyes were agonized; through the gag he roared a protest.
“Oh, you will live to see him freed.” The fey woman was calm now, calm and cold. “In time. The tale must have its ending.”
“What about Ash’s family? They’ll be searching for him. What do I tell them? What about my family?” Suddenly there were more questions than she could imagine.
“You speak so readily of love, you human folk,” the fey woman said. “How long will your love endure when you must witness this man’s suffering day and night? How long will love last when your only companions are heartbreak and loneliness? You vowed to save your sweetheart. How long will that vow last, I wonder? A year? Fifty years? A hundred, two hundred? How well will you love your handsome young man when he becomes a monster?”
The air seemed to tremble; a shadow passed across the tower room. Ash’s stifled groans became something far more terrible, a primal howling that set an icy hand around Lily’s heart. The fey woman lifted her candle higher. “How do you like him now?” she asked in honeyed tones.
The fetters had fallen away, and Ash had collapsed to the floor. The candlelight threw his shadow onto the wall, an odd shape, curiously hunched, like that of a creature from an old tale, something that lurked in dark corners and came out at night to frighten passersby. The howling filled Lily’s ears; it made her head ring like a high bell; it brought tears to her eyes, whether of sorrow or pain, there was no telling.
“What have you done?” she breathed. “What have you done to him?”
“Make your farewells. Then leave the tower and take that little wretch with you.” A contemptuous glance at the ferryman, who was muttering something to himself, perhaps a prayer. “He’ll see you home. The curse binds his folk to help; they’ll see your precious Ash fed and watered when he’s awake. Fifty years is a long time. I’ll be kind; the boy did give me some satisfaction. He can sleep away the years between. He’ll bother you and your neighbors only for the fiftieth summer, and the one before, so you can make your preparations. A reminder, in case you ever think of forgetting the curse and moving on. There might be other young men, after all; other opportunities. Don’t think of marrying and going away. That will only lead to disaster.”
Lily crouched down beside Ash. Or what had a few moments ago been Ash. She could not see him clearly in the fitful light, but what she did see was . . . cruel. Monstrous. Vile. His mouth . . . his hands . . . She swallowed acid bile. She made herself reach out and touch, with the same gentleness she had used when he was a man, and as handsome as a prince in a tale. “I love you,” she whispered, stroking his hideous face. “Remember that, Ash. I will always love you. I will save you. I promise.”
“One thing more,” said the fell voice from behind her. “He’ll get lonely in here. He’s young. He’ll get bored.”
A reprieve, oh gods! She would be able to visit, to bring him what he needed, to read to him, sing to him, help him endure.
“You’ll tell him the story of how this happened,” the fey woman said. “At dusk each night, over the seasons when he is awake, you will tell it one part at a time. That way you’ll be in no danger of forgetting the price of your offense. He was mine. My plaything. You took him. You should not have done that.”
“Are you saying—do you mean I can come here to the tower and see him every day?” Ash had quieted under the touch of her hand; he had lifted one great scaly paw to rest it against her cheek.
The woman laughed again, her scorn echoing through the stone chamber. “Did you not hear me mention a hedge of thorn? You will not come to the tower; no one will come save the small folk, to bring him food and water. You will tell the tale wherever you are. You will tell it whether he can hear you or not. But do not forget. If you miss a day, he will believe you faithless. He will lose hope. And you wouldn’t want that, would you, since his predicament is entirely of your own making? Go now. Who knows? If you prove resourceful, you may free him next summer and walk hand in hand into the life you hoped for. I said go!”
That last touch, thought Geiléis, that very last touch of his misshapen hand had broken her heart. He’d tried to say something, Lily, perhaps, though the odd shape of his mouth turned the word into an agonized grunt. No gag could have disabled his speech more effectively than that vile distortion of lips and teeth. She’d bent to kiss his poor face; his skin was as rough as pine bark against her lips. “Good-bye, Ash,” she’d whispered. “Wait for me.”
Then down the stair, across the island, into the boat, back to shore, home through the woods. To find that the nightmare was there before her.
29
Grim
Days go by, and Flannan still doesn’t work out the code for this document of his, the one he said he’d start on straightaway. Took a while for the archivist to say yes to him making a copy. But he did in the end. Don’t know much about these things, but you’d think by now Flannan would have the job half done, at least. Time’s passing quick as quick and nothing at all from him. Not even a visit to tell us how far he’s got. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, and I’m at St. Olcan’s all day. Seen Brother Ríordán a few times—that’s the archivist. Tall fellow, pale and a bit bent over, though he’s not an old man. Comes out of the infirmary sometimes, stands in the garden looking at us, goes back in. Doesn’t walk over and say, Good morning. How’s the work going? the way some of the others do. Just stares. Likes books more than folk; that’d be my guess.
Back at Geiléis’s, Blackthorn’s on edge. Stamping around the place, chopping herbs like she wants to kill them, cursing under her breath. Upset because there are too many secrets in this place—the wee folk taking food to the tower, Geiléis’s people maybe helping them, the messages they’re leaving. And Blackthorn can’t ask about any of that because she’s promised the wee folk not to. Then there’s Caisín and those scars that nobody said anything about, not even when Geiléis was telling the story about what happened last midsummer. Blackthorn did ask Geiléis about that, and Geiléis said she was sure she’d mentioned it, hadn’t she? The curse must be making Blackthorn forget, she said. Hah! Not likely. My guess is, Geiléis left that bit out so Blackthorn wouldn’t get cold feet about the whole thing. One look at those scars and any woman in her right mind would be saying no thanks, I’m not doing it.
Geiléis is even worse, nervous as a caged ferret. Easy to understand. This bit of writing could be the end of all her worries with the monster. That’s if Flannan’s right and it does say how to drive the creature away. Me, I’m not so keen to hear the translation. Suit me if Flannan never did translate the thing, if it meant we could just go home instead. Thing is, though, that’s hard on the monster. Sad old life,
up there on its own. If we can help it, we should.
At least I’ve got something to keep me busy. There’s the roof to get finished, and only me and Tadhg to do it. Pity I can’t make myself stay up here, work at night too. But I can’t. Like walking right into your worst nightmare, that’d be. Turn me into a gibbering wreck, not fit to do up my own shoes, let alone thatch a roof.
• • •
When Blackthorn does the ritual, I take the day off thatching. We all go to this spot she’s chosen, big open field with a nice view of the river. Long walk up there; Onchú did ask if we should ride, and Blackthorn said no, walking would give us time to put our thoughts in order. And not set us above the local folk. Quite a few of them are there waiting when we arrive, some with horses or donkeys. There’s a dog or two. More folk than she expected. No monks, of course. And no Flannan.
Opens my eyes, watching her do this. Shows a whole new side of her. Makes me wish I’d known her when we were younger. She’s borrowed a gown from Caisín, color of a stormy sky, looks nice. Fancy shawl around her shoulders, green like shadows under trees. Her hair’s long enough now to make a little plait at the back. She looks solemn. She looks beautiful. Not that she needs borrowed clothes and done-up hair for that.
She calls all the people in. Tells them what we’re going to do. Four folk are helping her, one of which is me. She gets everyone lined up and leads us into a circle. Big iron pot in the middle. We’ve carried that all the way from Geiléis’s house, hanging from a pole, man at each end. Small fire burning in the pot, meaning it’s not only heavy and awkward but baking hot too.
The four helpers stand at north, south, east and west. I’m north. Geiléis is east, looking a picture with the sun on her fair hair. Took a bit of persuading, Blackthorn said, to get her joining in and not just looking on. A local farmer’s in the west. Big burly fellow, frowning a bit like he’s thinking hard, wanting to get it right. Onchú’s in the south. When we’re all in place Blackthorn walks around the circle on her own, stopping next to each of the helpers and calling the spirits. Sort of greeting, welcome and thank-you all in one. I’ve got a little basket of soil from down by the river, and when she stops by me I do what she’s asked me to do, take a handful and cast it out like I was sowing seed. Geiléis is holding white feathers, long ones, maybe from a goose or swan, and when it’s east’s turn, she moves them in a sort of dancing pattern.
Onchú’s got a bundle of sticks that Blackthorn bound together and soaked in some mixture or other, then hung up to dry. When it’s his turn he dips the bundle into the fire pot until it catches alight, then blows it out. Smoke coils and twists everywhere. When Blackthorn calls the west, the farmer sprinkles water from the bowl he’s holding.
Through all this the thing in the tower’s screaming, the way it does. We’re far enough away so I can hear Blackthorn, though. She steps into the center. Talks about cleansing and what it means. Talks about what a sad place Bann is, with the shadow of the curse over it. Says it was once like other places, healthy and happy and hardworking, a place where children could grow up without being frightened, and folk could go about their daily business without that sound hurting their ears and filling up their heads with nightmare thoughts. Says it will be like that again, and that even in the darkest times there’s hope. The way she puts it, it’s like poetry, something deep and lovely and powerful. And her face—it’s all lit up with her words, like the spirits she’s talking about are in her, shining out. Hard to believe, looking at her, that she doesn’t believe in gods and spirits anymore after what happened to her family. Hard to believe she thinks she’s useless as a wise woman, though that’s what she’s told me more than once. If she could see herself now she’d know how wrong that was. That look on her face is holding everyone in wonder. Even Geiléis. And me? I’m remembering Brother Fergal saying, God forgives sinners. Funny old world it is.
Blackthorn walks around the circle again. “May all-powerful fire warm all who dwell here; may its light banish the shadows,” she says. “May the sorrows of this place be cleansed by the purity of water. May the peaceful heart of this place be nourished by the good earth. And may the clear air raise us up, as it does the lark and swallow, the dove and raven, and send us forth on strong wings of hope.”
She stands quiet a bit. The rest of us do likewise. And there’s a small miracle. The screaming stops. The monster falls silent too.
Blackthorn hasn’t been expecting it. Nor has Geiléis, who’s gone white as milk. All around the circle folk look startled, almost afraid. Me, I’m holding my breath, wondering how long the silence will last. Not that I doubt Blackthorn. Just got a feeling, that’s all. My feeling is this isn’t going to be done with until Midsummer Eve.
Turns out I’m right. We’re following Blackthorn out of the circle when it starts up again, as mournful as ever. Geiléis puts her hand up to her face. Doesn’t want folk to see she’s crying. Blackthorn’s not crying. Only sad.
Geiléis pulls herself together. Thanks everyone for coming and thanks Blackthorn for the ritual. Senach and the others have carried food and drink up from the house. But folk don’t stay long. Quick bite to eat, then away off home, even though it’s a long ride or walk for most of them. If they’re disappointed, they’re good at not showing it. Maybe they’ve had so many disappointments they’ve forgotten how to hope. Know how that feels. So it’s over, and we go back home, and my belly starts to churn because tomorrow it’s back to St. Olcan’s for me.
• • •
It rains again. Not just one wet day, a whole run of them. The brothers find us a couple of big lengths of oiled cloth to get up over the rafters, keep things dry underneath. I do some repairs on the wall and make the double compost enclosure for the garden, jobs I can get done in the wet. Weather clears, but we’ve lost a lot of time. Starts to feel as if we mightn’t get the job finished by midsummer. I say so to Tadhg while we’re eating our midday meal, and Brother Fergal, who’s in the garden nearby, hears me. Doesn’t say anything. But that afternoon, later on, suddenly we’ve got six monks carrying bundled reeds over from the barn in relays, and one of Fergal’s garden helpers doing Tadhg’s job of carrying the bundles up the ladder, and Tadhg, so pleased with himself he’s pink in the face, helping me put on the next layer and peg the bundles in place. At the end of the day there’s only one end to finish before I do the ridging and make the creatures for the top. Which is just as well, because there are only five days left until Midsummer Eve. Only five, and still nothing from Flannan.
We’re done for the day. I climb down and say thank you to the helpers. Hard to find the words. Feels wrong, them helping me. Feels like I should tell them who I am and where I came from. The truth. Then they’d throw me out and the roof wouldn’t get finished after all.
“Good job,” I say. “Don’t suppose we could have help again tomorrow? One morning’s work, then I can finish up on my own.” A bit awkward, asking. The monks look worn-out. But pleased with the day’s work too.
“I think we can manage that,” says Brother Fergal. “We’ve watched you work on this with something approaching awe, Grim; it feels as if you’ve become part of this community. Why don’t you join us for a meal this evening? You’d be welcome to attend the service first.”
Know what they mean when they say your blood turns cold. Feels like mine’s draining away. I shake my head. “Thank you, but no, I’d best get back to Lady Geiléis’s place. Haven’t seen Flannan around, have you?”
“He’ll be in the infirmary,” says someone. “Wrestling with his translation.”
“Or with Brother Eoan,” says someone else. “He was waiting for a bird to come in. I’ll take you over there if you like.”
Thing about thatching is, it’s messy. End of the day, you’re filthy from head to toe. “I’d better have a wash first,” I say. “Don’t worry. I know where the pigeons are.” Back at Geiléis’s, I’ll have a bath, change my clothes, get p
roperly clean. But I’ll put my head under the pump and wash my hands before I go looking for Flannan.
The bells start ringing. My helpers head off to the chapel, grubby as they are. Come to think of it, God most likely wouldn’t care if a man was clean or dirty, as long as his heart was in the right place.
“Be doing it on your own soon,” I tell Tadhg as we splash under the pump. “You learn quick.”
He blushes again, a surprise. “Thank you, Grim.” After a bit he adds, “You’re a good teacher.”
Got nothing to say to this. It makes me feel happy. And it makes me feel sad. Makes me think of the life I could have had. The man I could have been.
“There’s Flannan now,” Tadhg says, looking across the garden.
Flannan’s coming out of the pigeon loft. Got something in his hands; looks like he’s reading, though it’s too small for a book. Little scroll of parchment, I’m guessing. Must have got that message he wanted. Wonder what it says. Must be interesting. He stumbles over a rock and just keeps on walking. Then I think, ah! Maybe he’s got a friend somewhere who speaks Armorican. Or who knows codes. Maybe he’s got the answer.
He’s a couple of strides away before he sees us. Almost walks into us.
“Grim! Brother Tadhg.” He’s lost for words. For him, that’s unusual.
“Got your message, then?” I try to be friendly. Fact is, I’m worried. Not just about Midsummer Eve, but what comes after too. Him and her. Flannan and Blackthorn. Got a feeling he’s not going to say good-bye, nice to see you again, and head off on his travels.
“Who told you about that?” He just about snaps my head off. I give him a bit of a look, wondering what it is I’ve said—thought I was being polite—and Tadhg mutters something and makes himself scarce.
“One of the brothers.” I keep my voice easy. Seems Flannan’s as jumpy as the others about Midsummer Eve. “Mentioned you were waiting for a bird to come in. Hope it’s helpful.” I nod toward the little scroll.
Tower of Thorns Page 29