Den of Wolves

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘I can remember talking to him, you know,’ she told the crow as they headed up a rise under old oaks. Here, the dense canopy held off the worst of the rain, and it became easier to draw breath. ‘When I was little. Aunt Della would take me in to see him every evening before supper, and I would sit on his knee, and we would tell each other what we had been doing that day. I’d show him my crooked embroidery and my untidy writing and he would praise me for trying my best. And he would tell me about selling a load of pine or buying a new stud bull. I wanted to ask him about Mother. What she looked like, the things she enjoyed doing, how she died. Only I didn’t. I knew it would make him cry.’

  The crow made a derisive comment.

  ‘I don’t know what happened. Or why. But the older I grew, the harder it became to talk to him. Or to almost anyone. Like a spell, a curse, that stole away the words. He’d ask a question and when I opened my mouth to answer there’d be nothing. Nothing at all. He thought I was doing it on purpose. Playing a trick; being troublesome. So did Aunt Della. I think he still believes that, or why would he think going to Winterfalls would cure me?’

  ‘Kraaa.’ The crow flew down to the forest floor and began to claw up the sodden debris, hunting out some morsel.

  ‘I could always talk to Alba. I wonder where Alba is? If she’d come to Winterfalls with me I would have had one friend there, at least.’

  ‘Kraaa.’

  ‘All right, all right, I know. It’s all nonsense. Even you don’t believe in me.’

  Everything went still for a moment. As if an uncanny voice had spoken without making a sound. As if an unseen hand had stirred the troubled pot of her life and said, ‘Ah!’ Then, with a rush and flurry of wings, there came a goldcrest to perch on her shoulder and a tiny bright wren to settle in her hair. The crow came up to her feet, fixing her with its perceptive eye. We believe in you. You are one of ours. Now, shall we be getting on?

  She’d meant to go straight there by the quickest route she could find. There was no using the main track. Even in this weather there might be folk coming out and in, farm hands or messengers. But she’d intended to find the most direct way for a person on foot, a person who was wood-wise and could make speed even where the trees grew close and the undergrowth was dense and the ground was full of sudden drops and difficult rises. Allowing for the need to cross streams swollen by the spring rain, she’d calculated that she would reach the house and barn at around midday.

  What led her astray she did not know. The rain eased; the way should have become simpler, quicker. But after that still moment, the moment of magic, the forest seemed full of strange shadows. Cara knew the place was tricky; there were countless tales of folk being lost, of carts going off the track and getting stuck, of travellers hearing eldritch sounds or spotting things that could not possibly be there. Wolf Glen’s own workers came to and fro without difficulty, as if the place had accepted them. It was outsiders who had trouble. That was why people used the other way, to the west, through Longwater. Though folk didn’t like that path either. They only visited Wolf Glen if they really had to.

  Cara found herself hesitating; needing to stop and check the terrain ahead; needing to fix markers such as a particular tree or stony outcrop to be sure she was on track. Something was wrong. She always knew the way; she knew it inside, deep down, without needing to think about it. Had she wandered into some fey place, some place of danger, without being aware of it? She knew the signs to watch for: mushroom circles, piled-up stones, woven grasses, odd things hanging from low branches. She had seen none of these. But here, in a clearing surrounded by graceful pale birches, she felt the pull of something perilous. ‘I’m heading home,’ Cara whispered to whatever might be there, invisible, watching and listening. ‘Home.’

  The three birds rose up as one, flying off into the trees. A cry broke the quiet of the clearing, the voice of something small, lost, hurt. A wordless call for help.

  Her gut tightened; her skin prickled. She opened her mouth to call, Don’t worry, I’m coming, but no – best go quietly, looking out for danger. Where had that little voice come from? Surely down there, where the rocks formed a sort of mound almost like one of those old cairns, the ones with chambers where perhaps, long ago, dead warriors had been laid to rest. Thornbushes had almost covered it, a fierce barrier. No wonder the little creature was stuck. What if it had some horrible injury? What if she couldn’t free it? Mistress Blackthorn would know what to do. But Mistress Blackthorn wasn’t there.

  The thorns were thick and strong. Cara had her good knife at her belt, but she would not blunt it, cutting a way through, unless there was a need for that. She would risk calling out.

  ‘Who’s there? I can help you!’

  She waited for perhaps the count of ten. Then, faintly, came the small cry again. No words; but, undoubtedly, Help! From the cairn, yes; but not near the spot where an entry would be. From somewhere deeper down.

  ‘Kraaa!’ The crow was up in the birches somewhere, and its call was a stark warning. Don’t. Don’t go there.

  ‘I can look, at least,’ muttered Cara. ‘I can’t just walk past and do nothing.’

  In the end she did use the knife. The thorns were easier to cut than she’d expected. Quite quickly she cleared them away from what did indeed prove to be an entrance, a narrow opening between the stones that seemed to lead to a cave. Or maybe a tunnel. Common sense, along with her knowledge of old tales, said go no further. Caves and tunnels were like mushroom circles: alive with the possibility of danger. Even a person with no belief in the uncanny would think twice about entering a doorway like this, all shadow inside. Especially if nobody knew where that person was, and the doorway was far from any dwelling of humankind.

  ‘Kraaa!’

  ‘Hello?’ Cara called, peering into the dark space. ‘Are you there?’ Stupid, really. That little voice had been a creature’s, not a human child’s.

  It came again, weaker, more desperate. In pain. Alone. In the dark. Help! Help me!

  It should be safe to go a little way in, at least. Far enough to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead, but not so far that she lost sight of the forest outside. Without a candle or lantern, she would be foolish to go right in. But the small voice had not seemed very far away. Perhaps she could reach the hurt one and bring it out to safety.

  Cara bent her head and stepped into the passage. Inside, the roof was higher than the doorway had suggested; she could stand almost upright. But the way was narrow. Her body blocked most of the light, making it impossible to see ahead.

  ‘Where are you?’ she called, and took a step forward, and another. No reply. She put her foot out for the third step, but the ground was not there. She fell into the dark.

  19

  ~Grim~

  I weigh it up, walk or ride back to Wolf Glen. Quicker to ride, only Bardán most likely can’t, with his hands. Too hard for him to go up behind me. Walking’s slow, but from what Osgar and the others have said, if we go quick we’ll get there before dark. Sounds like the way in’s a lot shorter from this end. Had to tell them about Bardán being up at the hut and working at Wolf Glen with me, or it would have looked odd, me heading off into the forest. Didn’t want to give offence, seeing as they’d offered a bed for the night. So I broke one of Master Tóla’s rules. More than one, if you count asking the fellows if any of them would be free to come and help, supposing there might be a building job on offer.

  None of them knew Bardán was back. Not one. Thought he was gone forever, left the district or dead. They had heard Tóla was building the heartwood house again. They were interested all right, but nobody wanted to talk about it. And when I told them about Bardán they went quiet. Sounds like his wife was a local girl. But nobody wants to talk about him or her or any of it. Some kind of secret there, a big one, hanging over the whole place. And over the wild man most of all.

  I’ll say one thing for him, he knows
his way around the forest. And he can cover ground faster than you’d think. Bardán doesn’t fancy the main track, the one carts come up and down with lengths of pine for building. The fellows at Longwater said most of the timber ends up on Swan Island. I’ve heard of the place. School of warcraft over there, like something from an old tale. Mysterious. No wonder they need a wood supply. Place would be too windy for much to grow. Only a few trees, and they’d be all bent and twisted. Like a man getting beaten every day, and no escape from it. But alive. Hanging on.

  A bit like Bardán. Lost his family, sounds like he lost a baby too, lost the good use of his hands. Lost any friends he had in Longwater, from the way the men were talking. Or maybe he never had them. But if his wife was a local girl that doesn’t make much sense. There’s a lot about the man that doesn’t make sense. Why did he go back to work for Tóla, after everything? Why’s he coming with me now?

  Can’t ask. The man’s still upset, though at least he’s stopped weeping. Walking along beside me and Ripple, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Points the way from time to time, knows exactly where he’s going. I was expecting to be leading him, but it’s the other way round.

  When I got back to the hut he was waiting for me on the steps. Door was shut on the sad inside of the little house. He’d said his goodbyes to the dead. No sign of that rag of embroidery. He got up and came with me, and he didn’t say a word about Tóla or what might happen when we got there. Only asked about the baby down at Longwater, if it had been born safely, if the woman was all right, if Blackthorn was all right. I said yes to all three and thanked him for waiting. He just nodded. When I add it up, seems to me he might know Fann and Ross and a few of those other folk down there. Not the youngest, but the ones around my age or Blackthorn’s or older. I don’t ask. Don’t want to set him off again.

  But while we’re walking, something’s bothering me. Thing is, Bardán’s a lot like me. He’s a man carrying a weight from the past, a burden that’s sucking the life out of him, making him angry and crazy and sad. That was me, not so long ago. Me before I met Blackthorn. Me before I went to Bann and let some of that madness out before it ate me up. If those monks at St Olcan’s hadn’t helped me, I’d still be that way. But they did help. Still got that dark stuff inside me, doesn’t go away so easy, but the pieces of me have started to fit back together. Started to mend. Bardán’s far from mending. And with Tóla and Gormán hanging over him with orders and rules and threats, he’s going to stay broken a long while. Seems like it might be my job to help him. Reach out a hand to him the way Brother Fergal and Brother Ríordán and the others did to me. See him as a whole man, a real man the way Blackthorn did when she kept me from going mad in the lockup. When she invited me to her campfire. When she pulled me back from the brink. Like the good Samaritan, from the Bible. Brother Galen read me that story long ago. You don’t walk on past. Doesn’t matter if I believe in God anymore. Still got to do the right thing. Only, not so easy, because Blackthorn needs me too. I saw that before. She wasn’t only tired out from what she had to do today, she was sad deep down.

  Makes me feel like one half of me’s pulling east, other half’s hauling west. Ripping me in half. Want to be in two places at once. Can’t happen. Thing is, though, I know Blackthorn’s strong. I know she’ll cope without me. Bardán, he’s a different matter. Needs me over there to speak up for him. Talk to Tóla for him. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I’ll do it. No choice. Anyway, it’s time someone stood up to that man. He’s a bully.

  ‘Not that way!’ Bardán’s sharp, calling me onto what looks like a tricky path, narrow and wandering.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Keep your eyes open,’ Bardán says. ‘Look there, see? Forbidden. Go down that way and you might wander forever.’

  I look where he’s looking. Between two trees there’s a silvery mesh of spiderweb. All right, I might not want to walk straight into that, but forbidden’s a strong word. Then I spot something. Half-hidden in the shadows beneath the web, there’s a big knot, tricky sort of thing, woven from long grass. If that’s not the work of little fey fingers I’m a clurichaun. Seen that sort of craft before, the tiny baskets they carry, every bit just so. ‘The fey,’ I say, glancing at Bardán. ‘A warning.’

  ‘Eyes open,’ he says again. ‘Won’t let them trick me twice over. Never going to that place again.’

  Asking seems like opening a box of trouble. But then, I have to deal with Tóla for him. ‘Was that what happened when you went there?’ I try to sound as if I don’t care much one way or the other. ‘You missed a warning sign?’

  ‘Hah!’ It’s halfway between a cough and a laugh, bitter as gall. ‘No time to look, no time for signs, no time for anything. Running, running. Falling. Down, down . . . Gone . . .’

  ‘What were you running from, Bardán?’ I say it quiet. Gentle. If he doesn’t want to say, I won’t push him.

  No answer from the wild man. He walks on, and I walk on, and the shadows get longer. Looks like I’m going to be sleeping the night at Wolf Glen. Hope Gormán will give me a spot in the foresters’ quarters. Hope Blackthorn’s going to be all right at Longwater. Chances are I won’t see her now until tomorrow night.

  ‘Tell me,’ says Bardán, still walking.

  ‘Tell you what?’ Thought it was me who’d asked a question.

  ‘The story. The Red Giant. What happens next?’

  Morrigan’s curse! Where did that come from? ‘Can’t remember where we got to,’ I say, though I can, even though it’s a while since I started telling him the tale. Fact is, I don’t want to tell him the rest. The story’s too sad.

  ‘Tell it, Grim.’

  ‘Where were we up to, then?’ With luck he won’t remember.

  ‘The shepherd. Dougal. Nearly sunset. Guessing all the things that might be the Red Giant’s most precious possession. If he didn’t guess in time he’d be thrown off the cliff. If he did guess he’d get the treasure and take it home and marry the beautiful fey woman.’

  He’s remembered every little thing. ‘It’s a sad story,’ I say. ‘A sad, sad story.’

  ‘Tell me!’ Sounds like he’s going to leap up and throttle me if I don’t. Sounds like he’s so desperate to hear it he might do anything.

  ‘It’s only a tale.’

  I hear him sucking in a big breath. Maybe not going to kill me after all. Not that he could. But he might do a bit of damage. ‘Grim, tell me.’

  ‘Sun was just about down, sky had that sort of smudgy look,’ I say, wishing he hadn’t pushed me into this. Wondering if I should change the end of the story. But that would feel wrong. A kind of insult, as if he was a child, too young to hear the truth. ‘Dougal was nearly out of time. Wondering if he could bolt for it before the giant pushed him off the cliff. Once he was on the narrow path down, the sheep track, he should be safe. Getting there was the tricky bit.

  ‘“Well?” bellowed the Red Giant. “Run out of answers, have you?”

  ‘Then came a little sound from inside the giant’s cave, like a whimper or a wail, not much of a thing at all, but Dougal heard it. “A baby,” he said without thinking. “Of course, the most precious thing is a baby.” Then, a bit too late, he did think. Started to get an idea of what this would mean, for him, for the beautiful fey woman, and most of all for the Red Giant. “Listen,” he began. But the Red Giant wasn’t listening. He’d gone into the cave and now he came out with his face all blotched with tears and his baby in his arms. A giant baby, of course. No tidy wee bundle, but a big bulky thing the size of a full-grown sheep. Wailing its head off. “Listen,” said Dougal again, “I –”

  ‘He was going to say, I can’t take your child, forget the whole thing. But, with a great sob, the giant laid the child down gently at the shepherd’s feet. “Oh, my wee one,” he murmured. “Oh, my heart’s dearie.” Then he turned and took two great strides forward, and before Dougal could get another wor
d out, the Red Giant leaped off the clifftop. Like thunder, the noise of it was. Rocks crashed down all about him. In far-off places, folk remarked, That must be quite a storm. The sound of his landing was terrible to hear. “Oh gods,” muttered Dougal. “What have I done?”

  ‘The giant baby screamed and sobbed and hiccupped. Nobody left to tend to it. Only Dougal. So he picked it up – no trouble for him, he’d been hefting injured animals for years – and found a way down the cliff path, holding the infant’s face against his shoulder. Didn’t want it to catch sight of its father’s broken body down below. The cliff path wasn’t easy. Chunks and splinters of rock everywhere, broken off by the terrible fall. The giant baby thrashed about, beating at Dougal with its hands. Dougal’s heart was heavy. The kindest and fairest bride in all the world wasn’t worth a loss like this. The person who’d laid this charm or spell on the Red Giant had been cruel. Bitter cruel.’

  Bardán stops in his tracks, so sudden I nearly walk into him.

  ‘Cruel,’ he mutters. ‘Oh, cruel . . . Once they stole, twice they stole . . . His heart was broken, torn to shreds . . . How could a man live after such a blow? So he ran, and he fell, down, down . . .’

  He’s back in the past. Got this mixed up with his own story somehow. ‘There’s a bit more,’ I say. ‘Want me to tell the end?’

  He walks on, silent now.

  Seems best to finish the tale. The ending can’t make up for the terrible wrong. You can’t undo a thing like that. But it puts some goodness back into the story. ‘Dougal took the giant baby home. The beautiful fey woman took one look at it and shrank back in disgust. “That is the Red Giant’s treasure?” she said, eyeing the red-faced, bawling infant. “My treasure now,” said Dougal. He thought about the curse laid on the Red Giant, binding him to give his child away to the first man who guessed the nature of the prize. His reward for taking the baby was the hand in marriage of this lovely, mysterious lady. A bride more beautiful and noble than a poor simple shepherd was ever likely to find. “It’s all right,” he told the lady. “You don’t have to marry me. I’d be too busy, with the baby and all, to give you the time you deserved. So I release you from the spell. If that’s what it was.”