Den of Wolves

by Juliet Marillier

  ‘There now,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell the tale straight away, and we can have a brew when it’s finished?’

  ‘Mm,’ Cara murmured, nervous now.

  ‘Could you tell me, perhaps, why this is of such intense interest?’

  ‘My father is building a heartwood house. Or rather, he’s having someone build it for him. It seems very important to him. So important he’s . . . he’s behaving oddly. He did try to have it done once before, when I was a baby. And it didn’t get finished. My mother died soon after, and my father thinks if he’d built the heartwood house earlier, she would have lived.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Master Oisin softly. ‘That is sad, my dear. How hard for you to bear. Your father knows this old tale, then. Have you not asked him to tell it?’

  ‘I don’t think he really knows it, not properly. Only that the heartwood house brings good luck if it’s made the right way. He doesn’t talk about it. At least, not to me. It makes him too sad. And now that it’s being built again, he’s sent me away.’

  ‘If he does not know the tale, how can he know the right way to build?’

  ‘There’s a . . . a man who does know. A man who’s telling the builders what to do.’

  ‘I see.’

  How could he see, if he did not know Bardán’s story? Part of her wanted to tell him everything. Druids were wise. They knew about the fey, they knew all the old lore, they even had uncanny powers. But she should hear the story first. It might have nothing to do with the strange way Father was acting, or with Blackthorn’s theories. ‘Will you tell it now, please?’

  ‘The tale is very old and has several names. The variant best known to me goes like this. There was once a wealthy man whose lands were broad and whose cattle were sleek. A river flowed between his fields, with a bridge of worked stone across it. Under this bridge there lived a monster. Not the troublesome kind of monster that frightens good folk about their daily business and eats prize cattle and makes fires and floods to amuse itself. This was a quiet creature, content to stay in the concealment of the bridge by day, coming out to bathe in the river water at twilight and to spend the moonlight hours conversing with wild birds and eating the grasses that grew along the banks.

  ‘Not to say that folk did not fear the monster, for she was bigger than the most formidable bull in the herd, with skin like a toad’s and a face only a mother could think beautiful. Folk did not cross the bridge after dusk unless they had pressing business, and if they did so they blocked their ears and kept their eyes straight ahead. For the monster liked to sing. She had a little one, you see, and she’d sing to it as the two of them swam in the river.

  ‘Now the man I was speaking of had many worldly blessings, but there was one thing he lacked: a child of his own.’

  It’s only a coincidence, Cara told herself. This is an ancient tale, it can’t have anything to do with me or Father. It can’t.

  ‘It happened that the wealthy man was walking over the bridge one night, having been out on an errand and delayed in his return. And he caught the sound of singing from down below, singing and splashing as the monster bathed her little one. The words of that song made him stop in his tracks to listen. Build it, build it, stone on stone, stone on stone on stone, the creature sang. Strong as faith, strong as love, strong as living bone. She went on to describe a house with a roof of nine couples, a house built from every timber in the wood. A heartwood house. A magical house. Every tree would impart a particular blessing on the one who built it. Rowan for protection from evil spirits. Oak for strength of both body and mind. Fir for clear-sightedness. And so on. Every blessing a man could possibly want for himself and his family was contained in the heartwood house. Including the blessing the wealthy man most desired at that time in his life: fertility, represented by the elder.

  ‘He listened in silence, and in silence he walked on, leaving the monster bathing her child, still singing. Stone on stone on stone. The next day he came to the bridge with armed men, while the creature was sleeping, and he stole away her child.’

  Tears brimmed from Cara’s eyes. There was nothing to say. Maybe her heart would break right here and now, split apart in her chest so she fell down dead. That might be a good thing, a merciful thing.

  ‘My dear child, what is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Please tell me the rest.’

  But Master Oisin got up to make the brew, and would not go on with the tale until she had drunk some of it. He gave her a cloth to wipe away the tears. It would have been easier to stop crying if he had not been so kind.

  ‘I’m all right now,’ she said, though surely she’d never be all right, not after this. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘If you’re sure, my dear.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘The monster made her way to the man’s house, ponderous out of the water, leaving a trail of slime across the fields and scaring the cattle. She howled outside his door. She screamed outside his window. But he would not give back her child. Not unless she built for him a heartwood house like the one in the song. Stone on stone on stone. Nine couples. Every timber in the wood. A house that would shower him and his with blessings. When it was done, he told the creature, when it was perfect in every detail, he would return her baby.’

  ‘Cruel,’ Cara whispered, trying to picture the creature that lived under the bridge, and finding she could only think of Bardán, the wild man, the monster to her father’s rich man. ‘Cruel and selfish.’

  ‘And, as it turned out, misguided,’ said Master Oisin. The firelight flickered over his calm features, his silver-grey hair, his hands curved around the earthenware cup. ‘The creature built him the house. Cut the timber herself, with her teeth. Laid the stone. Hammered in the uprights. Heaved up the roof beams; she was strong. All the time weeping for her child, who would be frightened and lonely in a house of strangers, with no river to swim in and no mother to sing to him. Would they remember to keep his skin damp so he did not come out in blisters? Would they tickle his belly and make him laugh in delight? Would they be kind to him? She built and built, and the heartwood house grew and grew. Folk from all around came to stare at her as she worked. But they kept a safe distance away. Those teeth were formidable. They did not know that she used them mostly to pull up grass and chew it fine, so her little one could eat it without choking. What were they feeding him? The man did not listen when she tried to ask him. He was deaf to all but what he chose to hear.

  ‘In time the heartwood house was finished, and the creature came to the wealthy man’s door to tell him so. He went to inspect the place. It was indeed a splendid sight, standing tall and fair in his home field, the thatch golden in the sun, the timbers fine and strong, the stone well-shaped. He could find no fault in it. So he had his steward bring the child – a slimy, puling thing that his servants had loathed to touch, an abomination that had wailed all night and lain curled in a tight ball all day – and gave it back to its mother.’

  ‘She held her little one close as she made her way to the river. Not saying a word. Not until she was under the bridge again, and soothing his poor blistered skin with cool water and kisses. Not until she had fed him and rocked him and comforted him, and he, worn out by crying, had fallen into a hiccupping half-sleep.

  ‘When it was twilight she ventured out, and bathed her son tenderly, and sang a new song. A farm hand coming home late happened to hear it, and so strange a song was it that he remembered every word. Every tree in the house, every tree but the ivy, the poplar and the crooked yew. Every tree in the cruel man’s house but the ivy, the poplar and the crooked yew.

  ‘The farm hand had no idea what it meant, but it sounded interesting, so the next day he told a friend, and that friend told his friend, and in time the words the creature had sung came back to the wealthy man. And he raged to hear them, for this could mean only one thing. The creature had tricked him. She had not used every timber
in the wood after all. She had left out ivy, poplar and crooked yew. He asked a druid what that might mean. The druid told him that by omitting those three, the creature had denied him and his heirs the vital blessings of self-knowledge, protection against illness and safe passage to the next life. Even if he might now father a child, without those three neither he nor his line would have a sure future.

  ‘The wealthy man was enraged. He would kill the monster. He would chain her up and lock her away. No, he would take the child again, and he would make the wretched creature finish the job properly. He summoned his men, armed them with pitchforks and scythes, and marched down to the river, cursing all the way. Where was the monster?

  ‘They looked under the bridge. They hunted all along the riverbanks, this way, that way. But the creature was nowhere to be found. She had swum away before dawn with her little one clinging to her back. She had gone to find a new home, far from the habitations of men. And search as the wealthy man might, he never found her, not in all his living days.’

  ‘And the heartwood house was never finished.’ Cara’s voice was a little thread. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

  ‘It was never finished. The rich man tried to add pieces of the three missing timbers, but somehow they could never be made to fit. There was magic in the making of it, of course. And a man like him has no magic.’

  ‘At least the creature escaped,’ Cara said. ‘At least she got her child back and found a safe place for the two of them.’ What did this tale mean? It felt as if it was about her and her father and Bardán. But how could it be? She wanted to go away and hide. She wanted to be up in the yew tree, with her eyes closed against the world, leaning against the strong trunk and thinking of nothing at all. But she had to ask. Had to make herself ask. ‘Master Oisin?’

  ‘Yes, Cara?’

  ‘These old tales . . . Can the things in them sometimes happen again? Not exactly the same, of course, but . . . very much the same?’

  ‘If this were your story, Cara, who would you be?’

  ‘The monster’s child.’ Her voice shook. Deep down, she knew it was true. Even though it would mean Gormán had lied, and her father had lied, and something cruel and terrible had happened.

  ‘Ah, the monster. But she was only a monster in the eyes of those who did not understand the strange and different. The tale makes it clear she was a loving mother, a skilled and hard worker, a gentle creature who fed only on grasses, a singer, a poet, a student of lore. All of those things.’

  Cara was shivering; she edged closer to the fire. ‘But folk wouldn’t see that,’ she said. ‘They’d only see the big teeth and the scaly body and the slime. They’d judge straight away that she was dangerous.’

  ‘It is often thus, sadly. Have you known such a person, Cara? One who is so different that folk feel fear and loathing rather than compassion?’

  Cara remembered that day when she’d been up in the guardian oak and the wild man had come. She had looked down into his mad eyes and been frozen with terror. It would have been so easy to climb down, to smile, to ask if he was all right. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I think he might be my father. My real father.’

  The druid fell silent. For a long time he sat staring into the flames, so long that Cara wished she could take back the words, that she could go on pretending it wasn’t true. ‘How can it be,’ she asked, ‘that an ancient tale like that can be so close to my story, or at least the one Mistress Blackthorn thinks may be the truth about me and my family? Is that magic?’

  Master Oisin smiled. ‘A tale has as many forms and variations as it has tellers over the years. Mine was only one version of this story about the wealthy man and the monster. The heartwood house possesses a deep natural magic, there is no doubt of that. One would imagine the skills required to build such a house could be learned only in the Otherworld. Do you think your father knew that when he hired his builder?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it. But I have to. I have to talk to my father. The man I always believed was my father. Only . . . if I do, and if Mistress Blackthorn is right, it would be . . . it would break his heart. He would get angry. He might do something terrible.’ Like the man in the story, who would have killed the creature if he could have found her. Only this was worse. In the story, the wealthy man had never pretended the baby was his. He hadn’t decided to keep the child and tell lies about it. ‘I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to lose my father and my home and my whole future. But I have to know.’

  ‘Dear child. This seems daunting indeed, and you are very young. Do not rush to action. Take time to consider. Talk to Mistress Blackthorn again; she is wise and brave.’ He seemed to consider for a little, then added, ‘You see this as a loss. But it is not so much a loss as a choice. Two paths lie before you. One is the path you always believed would be yours: a broad, straight way, a path of security and advantage, a path with few challenges or surprises. Safe, predictable, comfortable. The other is a path of many twists and turns, of darkness and light, of difficulty and reward, a path on which you would be forever learning.’

  Cara stared at him. ‘How can you know all that? You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘The flames tell me much. They tell me that you, too, are somewhat strange and different. You might turn that difference to the good, Cara.’

  There was a question she must make herself ask. Another to which, really, she would rather not know the answer. ‘Can you tell if I have . . . if I have fey blood? Like the man who is building the heartwood house?’

  ‘Have you reason to believe so? Other than the possibility that he is your real father?’

  How much should she tell him? Would a druid keep a secret, the same as a wise woman? ‘There was a time . . . I heard voices, out in the forest, and they led me to a . . . a hole in the ground. I fell down, and there were things there, creatures, only I couldn’t see them. They told me my father was a liar. They said my whole life was a lie. It was . . . it was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me. Except this. Except finding out it might be true.’

  ‘Dear child. And how did you escape?’

  ‘I found the tree roots, oak roots, and held on. I knew the oak would keep me safe. The trees are my friends. They have been since I was very small. And after a while a dog found me, and two men let down a rope, and I climbed out. There were some birds, too. A crow and some others. They kept those . . . those things . . . away while I was climbing up. They . . . the fey beings . . . wanted me to stay. They would have made me stay. Like he did. The builder. They kept him for fifteen years.’ She was crying again, the tears flowing with the words. ‘From not long after his child was born, right through until the start of this spring.’

  Master Oisin had an odd expression on his face. She could tell he didn’t think she was just making it up. He looked at her with . . . wonder.

  ‘Birds do follow me around,’ Cara said, dabbing her cheeks with the cloth. ‘They come close. Especially when I’m up in a tree. Closer than they would for most folk.’

  ‘I think you have answered your own question, my dear. What a remarkable tale. Stranger far than the one I told.’

  Cara thought of Wolf Glen, her father, Gormán. Gormán had lied to her. That was the hardest part to believe. She thought of the wild man and how he had looked at her so hungrily. ‘I’m scared to go there and talk to him. My father. Both of them. But I have to. I have to know. Why my parents did it, how they did it. How could my father even think of such a thing?’

  ‘That, only he can tell you. Cara, do not forget what I said before. Take your time over this. And do not go alone. Take a friend with you. A witness and protector. Ask Mistress Blackthorn if she will go, with her friend Grim. I would be your companion myself, but sadly I am here for one night only, then must travel on.’

  ‘Grim is at Wolf Glen already. The wild man – the builder – has crippled hands; he’s telling Gri
m what to do, and Grim is building the heartwood house.’

  ‘Then you have a friend in place.’

  ‘I don’t really know Grim. Only from Mistress Blackthorn. I met him just once. His dog found me that night. He helped save me.’

  ‘A fine man, strong in body and spirit. A man who will stand by folk in trouble. Between them, he and Mistress Blackthorn would keep you safe.’

  ‘Safe,’ Cara echoed, wondering if he meant she needed protecting from her own father. What about Aunt Della? Did she know all about this? Had she, too, told lies from the first? ‘Maybe it’s not true,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s all some sort of misunderstanding.’ Knowing as she spoke that it wasn’t. The hollow, sick feeling in her belly seemed to confirm it.

  ‘Remember the two paths. Be strong, child. Do what you know to be right.’

  They sat there a while longer, not talking. Then Master Oisin offered to escort Cara over to her sleeping quarters, but she said there was no need, it was not far and she would like to be on her own for a little.

  She hadn’t really thought about what would come next, but once she was outside under the open sky, dark though it was, she knew she could not sleep indoors, not tonight, not after hearing that story. The only place she wanted to be was high in the yew tree, cradled safely in its branches and sheltered by its canopy. Nobody would miss her. Mhairi would assume she was with Blackthorn. And she’d told Blackthorn she’d be in the women’s quarters. As for guards, there were some about, despite the late hour, and there were still lamps lit in the main house and – a surprise – over in the stables. Maybe someone was travelling tomorrow. Not Master Oisin, who walked everywhere, but someone who would be riding.

  It was easy enough to reach the tree. She took off her shoes and walked barefoot, and her feet found the way in the dark. When a guard seemed to be moving in her general direction, she whispered, Don’t see me, and imagined herself to be invisible, just a part of the night and the wind and the grasses whispering their own secrets. Whether it was real magic or just luck she didn’t know, but the guard passed by as if she were not there. Once under the shelter of the big yew she hauled herself up, settled in her favourite spot, wrapped her cloak around herself and tried to do what the druid had suggested: consider the two paths ahead of her so she could do what was right. Master Oisin had seemed to think she was a brave person like Blackthorn, a person who could make hard decisions. But this was worse than hard. Losing your father, your home, your whole life up till now, having that all ripped away was like dying. And it hurt. Having a knife stuck in her belly and twisted around might feel something like this. She wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Maybe she should have woken Blackthorn and told her the story. But that wouldn’t have been fair.