The Serpent Gift

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  “Let go of me,” whispered Dina. “Let go. Let go.”

  I started to sing. An old lullaby I had long since forgotten about, except that it was still there, apparently.

  “Little star, close your eye…”

  It seemed that it did make Dina calmer. Perhaps I had sung it to her when we were both much younger. I couldn’t recall all the words, but it hardly mattered. I could hum. What mattered was that Dina grew less tense.

  Mama returned with a mug full of one of her brews.

  “Raise her head a little,” she told me, “so she can drink.”

  She held the mug to Dina’s lips, but Dina turned her face away.

  “Smells bad,” she said, and her voice sounded sulky and babyish, as if a surly three-year-old had taken over inside her.

  “Look at me,” said Mama.

  Dina wouldn’t.

  “Look at me,” said Mama, and this time she left Dina no choice, because the voice she was using was the Shamer’s voice. “You made me a promise. You promised not to give up. And I’ll hold you to that promise. Do you hear me?”

  Dina hung limply in my arms like a rag doll, but for a moment her voice and her eyes were completely her own.

  “Yes,” she said. And obediently drank what Mama gave her.

  Dina slept. And kept on sleeping. She didn’t even wake when Mama changed the bandage on her arm. The skin around the wound was reddened and inflamed, but Mama looked less worried all the same.

  “No streaks,” she said. And though I had less interest in Mama’s healing arts than Dina, I still knew that she was checking for signs of blood-poisoning. No streaks, that had to be a good sign.

  At noon the next day, Dina woke and wanted a drink of water. She still had a fever, but she was herself again. And the morning after that, the fever was gone.

  “Nice job, Sis,” I told her. “Takes more than a dumb old coppertail to keep you down!”

  That earned me a smile—a very small one, but still a smile. Then she went back to sleep.

  “Make sure she drinks something every time she is awake,” Mama told Rose.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To Clayton.” Her voice lacked any special emphasis, but I knew her well enough to tell that she was angry. That she had in fact been angry for days, but was only now able to do something about it.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said.

  She looked at me for a little while.

  “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps you’d better.”

  It was shortly after midday when Mama and I rode into Clayton town square. Mama halted Falk in front of the inn, but she didn’t get off. She just sat there. Stock-still. And Falk, who was usually none too obedient, knew better than to stamp a hoof or throw his head about. He stood without moving a muscle.

  Mama sat there on Falk so long and so silently that a small crowd began to gather.

  “What is she doing?” whispered one man to his neighbor, not quite softly enough.

  Mama looked at him, and he jerked.

  “I’m waiting,” she said, and released his gaze the way a falcon lets go of a prey that holds no interest after all. The man rubbed his face and retreated a few steps.

  “What for?” asked some brave soul.

  “For the man or woman who tried to kill my daughter.”

  After that, there was no pretending that this was just an ordinary summer afternoon in the square. All other talk petered out. Nobody tried to buy anything or sell anything, nobody came to get water from the well, nobody sat down to enjoy a mug of beer outside the inn. It was as if a sort of whisper ran through the whole village, and within half an hour I would have bet good money that every single living person in Clayton knew where my mother was, and what she had said. And most of them had come to hear the end of the story.

  There was a clear space around Falk and Silky, but other than that, the square was packed. Some tried to talk quietly, but the chatter quickly died, to silence or to a low, murmuring whisper. And when Mama suddenly pulled herself up even straighter on Falk’s back, the whispers died too. Silence reigned in the square, eerie and complete.

  “My daughter was bitten by a coppertail,” said Mama, and although she did not speak particularly loud, there was no one there who couldn’t hear her. “She nearly died. It may have been an accident. I hope it was.”

  She let her gaze pass over the crowd, scanning each face. If they didn’t know it before, they certainly knew it now: they had a Shamer in their midst.

  “Only the lowest of the low would hurt a child that way. If you mean to hurt us, stand forth. If you know anything, stand forth. If you are a human being, you must face your action and its consequence in the light of day.”

  Silence. No one moved. Mama’s eyes went through the crowd, seizing one, releasing him, moving on to someone else. No one said anything. No one stood forth. Not until Irena took one uncertain step toward Falk.

  “Shamer,” she said, and her voice trembled slightly. “We haven’t hurt your child. We are decent people.”

  Mama nodded slowly.

  “I believe you,” she said. “No one here did it. It may well have been an accident. I must choose to believe that.”

  Then she turned Falk around and left the square. And no one in Clayton wanted to get in her way as she rode off.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Did you mean that?” I said, when we were nearly home. “About it being an accident?”

  “Maybe,” said Mama. “It certainly wasn’t anyone in the square. But I noted also that there were some who didn’t come. Andreas Farmhand. The cobbler. And Minna Innkeeper’s eldest son. If anyone did do anything, it was one of those three.”

  I couldn’t quite see any one of them in the role of Dina’s secret boyfriend, not even Minna’s eldest. He was much too old for Dina, older even than I was. But perhaps the letter was not from her boyfriend, but from someone who pretended to be him. Or perhaps there was no boyfriend. Or perhaps someone else had heard of the secret tryst and taken advantage of it. If it had been a tryst. Or any kind of meeting at all. Ifs and perhapses fluttered about in my mind like confused bats, and the only thing that was clear to me was that I would have to speak to my sister. This time, she would tell me—or else.

  But when we got home, Dina was asleep again, and I was not hard-hearted enough to wake her up just to interrogate her. I was still too grateful that we had been allowed to keep her at all.

  DAVIN

  Torches in the Night

  Belle was barking. A loud, sharp, warning bark that had me halfway out of my bed before I was properly awake. Downstairs by the door, I could hear Rose trying to hush her dog, but Belle wouldn’t listen.

  I crawled toward the ladder and peered into the living room below.

  “What is it?” I whispered to Rose, though I could barely see her in the dimness. Belle’s white ruff was the most visible thing down there.

  It was a moment before Rose answered.

  “I think someone is coming,” she said, and her voice was low and anxious.

  I turned to rouse Nico, but he was already awake.

  “Get your bow,” he said.

  I nodded. If someone was coming to our cottage in the middle of the night, it might be because there was an illness or an injury that needed Mama’s aid. But after what had happened in the last few days, I was afraid it—

  “Medama Tonerre!” A rapid knocking on the door, an out-of-breath voice. It sounded like—

  “Open up, Rose,” said Mama. “It’s Irena.”

  And it was. She was breathing so strangely, and her face looked so strained, that at first I thought something was wrong with her baby. That was Mama’s first thought too, it seemed.

  “Sit down,” she said sharply. “Are you bleeding? Davin, get us some light.”

  Irena waved a hand in refusal. “No,” she said, still breathing hard. “It’s not me. It’s—it’s…”

  “Wait till you catch your breath,” said Mama.
/>   Irena did sit down, but she was still shaking her head. “There isn’t time,” she said. “They found Katrin, Tim Saddler’s Katrin. And she—There’s something wrong with her. She was found in the inn’s henhouse, unconscious, and no one could rouse her. And she… someone had painted a sign on her chest. In blood.”

  “In blood?” Mama looked merely confused at first. Then, slowly, she asked, “What sort of sign?”

  Irena looked down at her hands. “Two circles, one within the other. Like—like a Shamer’s signet.”

  I nearly dropped the lamp just as I had managed to light it. Mama stared at the smith’s wife, who still wouldn’t look at anything except her own hands.

  “Irena—”

  “I know you didn’t do it.” Irena raised her head with a look of defiance. “Whatever it is and whoever did it, I know it wasn’t you. But a lot of other people are saying this is the Shamer’s vengeance for what happened to the Shamer’s daughter. You have to leave. You can’t stay here. You have to go now, at once.”

  My thoughts were whirling around in my head. What had happened to Katrin? I knew her. She was one of Nico’s little students, a quiet girl with dark brown curls and a gap between her front teeth. No more than seven, or thereabouts. Who would hurt a little kid like that?

  “She said she knew how to get into the inn’s henhouse,” said Nico quietly. “Perhaps she surprised the thief, or something.”

  “Davin, get my basket,” said Mama. “I have to see if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Aren’t you listening?” Irena suddenly shouted. “You can’t stay! The cobbler, Andreas, Minna’s eldest… how long will it be, do you think, before they arrive here with torches and clubs and whatever else they think they need? You have to go, I tell you. Now!”

  Only then did I realize. That we had to move on again. That we were homeless again.

  Belle began to bark once more, louder than before.

  Irena looked scared.

  “It’s them,” she said. “They’re coming.”

  There wasn’t time for the cart. Just a few moments to yank the bare necessities from pegs and shelves and get out of the cottage. I had to carry Dina in my arms as we rode; she was still too weak to manage Silky. At the last moment Rose managed to catch Tabby, our kitten, for Irena to take away with her. Off we went, me on Falk with Dina, Mama with Melli on the black gelding, Nico and his bay mare alongside, and Rose, scared and pale-faced, on Silky, holding the reins too tightly because she still wasn’t used to riding.

  We used the small path behind the cottage. The cart trail would have been faster and easier in the dark, but we didn’t dare go that way. The way Belle was acting up, they had to be quite close now.

  “Make her be quiet,” I hissed at Rose. “She’ll give us away!”

  “Easy for you to say,” Rose hissed back, but not with quite her usual snappishness. She probably felt she had enough trouble with Silky. She tugged at the rope she had slipped into Belle’s collar and scolded the excited dog, but to no effect whatsoever. Belle understood only that something was terribly wrong and that she had to defend her family. Upset by Belle’s barking, Silky shied sideways into Falk. Rose grabbed at Silky’s neck to stay in the saddle—and dropped Belle’s leash. And Belle took off like an arrow, snarling and howling, headed for the enemy that threatened her humans.

  “No!” screamed Rose. She flung herself off Silky’s back and ran after her wayward dog.

  “Rose! Stop!” I yelled after her.

  But Rose didn’t stop. I threw a despairing look at Mama.

  “Turn back,” she said. “We can’t go anywhere without Rose.”

  It seemed the whole yard was milling with horses and men. I don’t know how many there were, or who they were. They had put something over their heads, like a bag with holes for their eyes and mouths, and the light from their torches danced and flickered, so that all I could see was a glimpse of an arm, a hand, a glint of eyes through the holes in their masks.

  One of them had ahold of Rose’s arm. Another was trying to chase Belle off by swinging his torch like a club. Belle was barking and snarling like mad, and nipping at the horses’ legs.

  Suddenly Mama was in the midst of it. I hadn’t even seen her get off her horse.

  “What is your business here?” she said. And she spoke in the voice that made everyone stop and listen. Even Belle became quiet and cowered down, knowing she had done something wrong. Rose tore free of the man holding her and wrapped her arms around her disobedient dog.

  At first, none of the men seemed willing to answer. Then one of them cleared his throat—the one riding a horse that seemed very reminiscent of the inn’s dappled gray gelding.

  “You don’t scare us, witch,” he said. “We have a score to settle.”

  He would probably have liked to sound tough and determined, but he didn’t quite succeed.

  “What score is that?” asked my mother. I don’t know how she managed to sound so calm, but there was no uncertainty in her voice.

  “A just cause! As you well know.”

  “If your cause is so just, why are you wearing masks? Are you ashamed to show yourselves?”

  The men stirred uneasily.

  “Katrin,” said one of them. “Little Katrin is lying there, and may be dying. With your filthy witch mark on her chest!”

  “Let me see the child. It may be that I can help her.”

  “You’ll never touch her again!”

  “Where is the child’s father?” asked Mama. “What does he say?”

  Again, no one seemed to want to answer. Then the man on the dappled gray said, “He’s with the child.”

  “Maybe that is where you should be, too. I have no part in her illness.”

  “But the mark,” said the other. “The witch mark. What about that?”

  It sounded like a sincere question, as if he had really begun to doubt who was guilty of what. It was a moment when anything could happen—perhaps even the right thing.

  Then the rider of the gray gelding straightened.

  “Witchcraft,” he snarled. “Can’t you feel it? She is confusing our minds so that a man no longer knows how to do what he came to do.”

  He raised his torch as if he meant to hit Mama with it. Dina made a fearful, croaking sound and tried to struggle free of my arms.

  “Be quiet,” I whispered into her hair, and felt like setting my heels to Falk and charging in between my mother and the masked men. If they hit her, if they so much as touched her… I wanted to be at Mama’s side, but I couldn’t leave Dina and Melli. It was tearing me apart.

  “Stay with your sisters,” murmured Nico, and walked up to Mama’s side. Without so much as a dagger to defend himself with. He was no coward, whatever else he was.

  “Good evening, Andreas. Good evening, Peiter Innkeeper. Good Evening, Cobbler. And Vilman Carpenter is here as well, I see. How is Vilman Junior getting on with his sums these days?”

  Nico apparently recognized the men with no trouble at all, in spite of their masks. But then he had had more dealings with the villagers than I had.

  They didn’t much like being known and mentioned by name, that much was clear. They would rather have remained unfamiliar strangers in the dark.

  “I’m truly sorry for Katrin,” said Nico, and it was obvious that he meant it. “If there is anything we can do to help her, we will gladly do it.”

  “There’s nothing you can see,” said Vilman. “She is just… asleep. But no one can rouse her.”

  “Let me help,” begged Mama. “Let me see what I can do. There are herbs—”

  Peiter suddenly turned his gray horse and rode off as if all the evil spirits of the forest were at his heels. The others hesitated for a moment, then followed him. The hoofbeats grew faint, and the torchlight faded among the trees.

  I could hardly believe it. They were gone. And they hadn’t attacked us.

  Melli had begun to cry, soundlessly, as if she was afraid they would hear her. I slid s
lowly down from Falk’s back so that I could hold both her and Dina.

  “Hush,” I whispered. “They’re gone. It’s over now.”

  But it wasn’t.

  All at once there was a drumming of hooves, and three riders came sweeping down the cart trail. They didn’t stop, and they didn’t speak. They just flung their torches onto the roof of the cottage.

  The thatched roof.

  I let go of Melli and Dina and ran to the well.

  “Help me,” I yelled at Nico and hauled on the rope, too impatient to use the handle. The roof was old and moss-grown; perhaps we would have time to put out the fire before it really caught. One torch had rolled off by itself, but two still lay there, burning.

  Nico seized our own water bucket from the pack his mare was carrying, and I poured water from the well bucket into it. Then I started hauling up yet another bucketful. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Nico trying to toss the water onto the roof. It didn’t splash anywhere near high enough. He put down the bucket and disappeared among the trees.

  What was he doing? Had he given up already?

  “Nico!”

  There he was again, with the bay mare. He leaped onto her back and stood there, balancing like a juggler at a carnival.

  “Rose, pass me the bucket!”

  Rose gave him the bucket, and he tossed the rest of the water onto the roof. This time, one of the torches went out. If we could only get the other one!

  From out of the wood came another three riders, or the same three with new torches. The bay mare gave a startled sideways leap, and Nico had to slip down to sit astride. This time, only one of the torches stayed on the roof, but up near the ridge where it would be hard to get at. Already, the thatch had begun to smolder and burn. And in the darkness under the trees, we could hear the next wave of galloping horses approach. Mama put her hand on my arm.

  “Let it burn,” she said tiredly. “We couldn’t stay here anyway.”

  Miserably we watched as the flames began to lick the thatch. Belle whined, and Melli was still crying in her new scared and soundless way.