The Good Hawk

by Joseph Elliott

“King Edmund . . .” says Cray.

  “Finally he uses his brain,” says Knútr. “Yes, King Edmund.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why you think? Always is the same. Ingland and Scotia fight the war for many years. They want to kill each other forever. King Balfour thinks to make the sgàilean, but King Edmund in Ingland is more clever. He digs a ditch. A long ditch all way across between Ingland and Scotia. Then he makes an ilrmein — a ‘plague’ is how you say it, yes? He takes many rats and puts the plague inside them, and then he sends them to Scotia. In the ditch he makes the fire so the rats cannot go back. Plague goes from rats to people, from people to more people, and then everyone is dead.”

  “If that’s true, why didn’t King Edmund come north afterward to claim the land?” I ask.

  “How do I know?” says Knútr. “Maybe he is afraid of plague. . . . Maybe he hears of killing shadows and is afraid of them too.”

  “Who’s their leader now?” Cray asks Knútr. “Who inherited the throne when King Edmund died?”

  “Who says he dies?” replies Knútr.

  “He’s still alive? But he’d be nearly a hundred by now.”

  “More than one hundred.”

  “How do you know all this?” Cray asks.

  “You still cannot work it out. So stupid. We Norsk travel far. We trade with King Edmund and Inglish people for many years. People talk and we listen. That is all. I say everything I know. Now heal my leg.”

  “I’ll heal it when I’m good and ready,” says Cray. He steps out of the stable and beckons me to follow.

  “Do you believe him?” he asks once we’re outside. It’s still raining, so we huddle under the overhang of the roof.

  “I don’t trust him at all, but what would he gain from lying to us about this?”

  “King Balfour did have a daughter. Princess Nathara. It’s always been presumed she died along with everyone else. It is possible that she survived and grew up here on her own.”

  “A lifetime of solitude would be enough to turn you crazy, and the woman we met inside definitely didn’t come across as particularly sane.”

  Cray rubs at the light stubble on his cheeks.

  “If it is Nathara, wouldn’t that make her your queen?” I ask.

  “I guess so. Wouldn’t it make her yours as well?”

  I shrug. “Even before the plague, the Skye clans didn’t really have much to do with the royal family. We should try to find her, though, see if we can get her to talk.”

  “Good idea. You stay with Knútr; I’ll see if I can track her down.”

  He grabs a torch and starts to cross the courtyard.

  “Cray,” I call out. He stops. The rain threatens to put out the torch. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Always!” He winks, then jogs over to the tower and disappears inside.

  I head back into the stable. Knútr looks at me, smugness plastered all over his face. There are many things I’d like to ask him — about the south, about the plague, about King Edmund — but I refrain. Whenever he answers one of our questions, he views it as a victory against us, as further proof of our ignorance. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

  I keep myself busy by attending to Sruth. Cray made up a balm this morning to help her singed hair grow back. I smear it on her skin and massage it in.

  “He’s a naughty boy is what he is!” The voice makes me jump. “You’ll stay there until you’ve finished your supper.”

  “The Mad Queen” is standing in the entrance, shaking her head at Knútr. I wish she’d stop creeping up on us like that.

  “Hello again,” I say. She snaps her head toward me. I scan the stable for anything I can use as a weapon, should it come to that. There’s a rusty spade leaning against the far wall, but it’s too far to reach without making it obvious what I’m doing.

  “You found the horses,” she says. “They got all hairy. Stupid horses.”

  “She is more crazy than I think,” says Knútr.

  I ignore him, as does the woman. “Would you like to stroke them?” I ask her.

  She stays where she is, eyeing the cows, her brow wrinkled. Her body language is not aggressive, but she’s already proved how unpredictable she can be.

  “Someone stuck them with horns. Who was it? Was it you?”

  “They grew them themselves,” I say. She stares at me again, unblinking. “You’re Princess Nathara, is that right?”

  “I knew it was you!” She runs and grabs me before I can stop her. It’s a tight embrace, but an affectionate one. The smell of her breath hits me like a tidal wave of vinegar and decay. I try to peel myself away, but she only holds me tighter.

  “You’re a good boy, Calum, not like the other one. And you grew so tall!”

  “Who’s Calum?” I ask, straining my head away from her.

  She releases her grip and then bursts into wild laughter. “You’re funny! You can’t trick me, you know.”

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “Maybe there’ll be a feast. That’s what Mummy says.”

  I reach into one of the sidebags and take out two apples. I hand one to her. She takes it from me and sniffs it with a frown. I take a bite out of mine to show her it’s safe to eat. She pokes at hers with her tongue, testing its surface.

  “It’s good,” I say, taking another bite.

  She bites into hers, then spits the mouthful back out.

  “You don’t like apples, then?” I wonder what she eats, how she stays alive.

  Rather than throw the apple away or hand it back, she keeps hold of it, nursing it as if it were a treasured object. She is not as old as I first thought, maybe late forties, which means she would have been about five or six when the plague swept through the castle and her parents locked her away. Her sunken eyes make her look older. Her hair looks like it has never been cut.

  “Does anyone else live here with you, Nathara?”

  She crunches her teeth together for a long time before replying.

  “Mummy and Daddy live here, but they went away with you. Now you’ve come back and they’ll be home for supper. Is there going to be milk?”

  “I mean is there anyone else here now? In the castle?”

  “She is mad. You waste your breath,” says Knútr.

  “That’s not helpful,” I say. “Is there anyone else in the tower?” I ask Nathara again.

  “They’re coming back, I know they are.” She is nodding now, a vigorous bob of her head to affirm her conviction. I try a different question.

  “What about the sgàilean?”

  She stops nodding and furrows her brow, as if trying to place a distant memory.

  “You know that word, yes? The shadows?”

  Her eyes widen in recognition.

  “They’re my friends. They’re not my friends.”

  “So they’re here? There’s more than one of them?”

  “They’ll tear you up. They always do that. Don’t mind them.”

  “One of them attacked us last night.”

  “They do. Don’t let them eat the pretty horses, though.” She stretches out an arm as if to stroke the cows, even though they are far out of her reach.

  “The sgàilean would eat the horses?”

  “No!” She sniggers. “Only for me. But not until it’s dark.”

  “You mean nighttime? The shadows only come out at night? Is that what you mean? Do they come inside the tower? How do you stop them from attacking you?” I’m bombarding her with too many questions.

  “Fuil,” she says, which doesn’t answer any of them. “Don’t worry, my precious daughter, they won’t get you. They are so fussy fussing, always fussing. But they know your fuil.”

  “Full of what?” It’s so hard to keep track of the conversation. I’m not even sure if it’s still me she’s talking to.

  “I told them to bring me some honey, but they didn’t do it.” She turns angry and throws the apple onto the ground. She crushes it with her bare foot, stamping again and again.
The pieces are smashed to a pulp beneath her heel. Just as quickly as she starts, she stops.

  “I’ll hide first and you can find me.” Her smile reveals bright-red gums. They remind me of a freshly skinned rabbit. She grabs my hand and leads me out of the stable.

  “Wait — I— ” She’s not having any of it. I grab one of the torches on the way out. She takes me across the courtyard and back into the tower. Her hand is coarse, its grip firm. When I try to wriggle free, she squeezes with surprising strength.

  As we walk through the large room, she points to one of the paintings and says, “Daddy’s always grumpy.” A somber face peers down at us through the gloom. She makes a high-pitched squeal, which could be either a laugh or a cry. “Was it you that made him cross when you burned down all the trees?” she asks. “I saw it. Don’t think I didn’t see it.”

  “I don’t think so. . . .” I say. We’re walking straight over the crusted blood. My heart starts beating a little faster. “Where are we going?”

  “Are you hungry?” she asks, using the same intonation that I used when I offered her the apple. “Maybe there’ll be a feast. That’s what Mummy says.”

  “Why don’t we wait here for my friend to come?”

  I try to pull my hand away, and this time she lets me. Then she drops onto all fours and scurries up the staircase like a long-limbed animal.

  “Wait!” I run after her.

  She stops when she reaches the top step, turns back to me, giggles, then bounds off out of sight. When I turn the corner at the top of the stairs, I find her waiting for me outside a door, sitting on her haunches. It is the door I saw earlier: the one with the trail of blood leading into it. She curls her fingers around the door handle and pulls it down. The door creaks open like a dying bird. She gallops inside. I should go. I should leave. Why am I not leaving?

  I edge forward and hover in the doorway, where I am met with an overpowering smell of rotting flesh. I rub my eyes to make them focus. There’s some sort of body splayed in the center of the room, its limbs protruding at broken angles. Nathara is crouched over it with her back to me, pulling at it with her hands. I consider shouting for Cray but don’t want to provoke her. I place my hand on the door handle so I can shut her in if I have to.

  “Pick, pick, pick, pick,” she is murmuring under her breath.

  When she turns to me, there is something in her hand. Something she has ripped from the dead body. She holds it up in front of her. It is sinewy and dripping. She stands up, and my grip on the door handle tightens. Once she is upright, I get a clearer view of the body. It is some sort of animal, perhaps a roe or a small horse. It’s so decimated, it’s impossible to tell. She must hunt, and then drag whatever she catches up here to eat.

  “Are you hungry?” She offers me the strip of flesh.

  After a moment’s hesitation I take it, not wanting to offend her. She stares at me with her drooping eyes. The meat is rubbery and wet in my hand; it reminds me of the hare’s heart I was made to swallow during the wedding ceremony. What I am holding now is much colder. The animal has been dead a long time.

  Nathara is still watching me. A glint of impatience flickers in her eyes. I don’t want to upset her, but the rotten meat would poison me for sure.

  I have an idea. I take a bite. A bitter tang fills my mouth. I spit the mouthful back out, replicating Nathara’s reaction to the apple. She watches me, expressionless. I throw the remaining meat onto the ground and start stamping on it with my heel. She smiles.

  “You don’t like fiadh, then?” she says, imitating me once again. She wipes her bloody hands on her dress and walks past me, out of the room. She is walking upright again now. After a few paces, she glances back to check that I am following. I close the door on the feeding room and catch up with her, feeling like I have passed some sort of test.

  At the end of the corridor we bump into Cray, coming down one of the many spiral staircases.

  “You found her,” he says. “I thought I heard voices.” The flames from his torch highlight the strong line of his jaw.

  “Who are you? Why are you in the tower? Mummy will be cross.”

  Nathara shows no sign of recognizing Cray from before. She sits on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chest and starts picking at her toenails.

  “She kind of found me,” I say.

  “I feel like I should bow or something. I’ve never met a queen before.”

  “She’s not your average queen.”

  “Where’s Knútr?”

  “He’s still in the stable. She dragged me in. I couldn’t really stop her.”

  “I’ll go back down, if you’re all right with her on your own?”

  “I’m fine. I think she’s mistaken me for someone else. Someone called Calum?”

  “That was her brother, the prince.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to make of that. “I’m trying to get her to talk, but it’s hard to understand a lot of what she says.”

  “Keep trying. Find out as much as you can.” He holds up a small leather satchel that clunks as he shakes it. “I found you some tools. They’re a bit rusty, but they should do the job. I’ll take them down and set up camp in the main entrance. Shout if you need me.”

  Nathara stands up as soon as he’s gone. “Come on, then. Don’t be lazy or the spiders will crawl into your ears and eat your brain.”

  For the rest of the morning, she leads me around the tower, showing me the rooms she frequents the most, the things she likes doing, the objects she treasures. We go up and down so many different staircases that I lose track of how many floors there are. Without her as a guide, I would definitely get lost.

  One of the rooms she shows me contains hundreds of books. I have never seen so many. I run my hand along a shelf and pick a book at random.

  “Don’t touch that!” Nathara says as I am sliding it out. “Daddy says don’t touch the books. There’ll be no eggs for you.”

  I leave the book where it is.

  I wander over to a table at the far side of the room. Nathara is busying herself behind me, counting books for no obvious reason. On the table, there is a collection of papers, bound together in a moss-green cover. It is the only item not on one of the shelves. I flip through the pages. It’s some sort of diary. On one of the pages, the word sgàilean catches my eye. I start to read from the beginning of the entry:

  There are no prisoners left. The last one died during this evening’s attempt. My frustration is immeasurable. We cannot stop now, not now that we’re so close. There’s too much at stake. I spoke to the King and convinced him to send men to Aberdon in search of drunkards and waifs. They will better serve their King and country in our hands. Besides, if we fail, it could be the end for us all . . .

  “Twenty-seven. Thirty-seven. Forty-seven. What comes next?”

  Nathara’s question is not aimed at me, but it reminds me that she’s in the room. I slip the diary into my pocket to read later.

  “Time to go,” says Nathara, and she skips out of the room.

  The whole time she’s leading me around, I try to figure out what she’s thinking. At times, she behaves like a young child, excited to have a visitor to entertain. At other times, she appears old and worn and desperately sad.

  At the very top of the tower, there is a room with a battered-down door. Its windows are larger than most of the others, so the air is fresher. A huge pile of blankets lies crumpled in one corner. The walls are covered in childish scribbles. That, and scratch marks. It pulls at my heart to imagine the child she once was, alone and afraid, waiting for a family that would never return. We don’t stay in that room for long.

  By the time we arrive back in the main hall, it is awash with light. Cray has made a large fire in the hearth and lit hundreds of candles, which hang from the ceiling on three equally spaced metal structures. Bras, Sruth, and Knútr are all inside now too.

  “It’s pretty like before!” Nathara shouts, and she starts skipping around the room. She is drawn
to the main fire and wiggles her fingers in front of it.

  “This should be enough light to keep the sgàilean away, right?” says Cray.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, looking up at the hanging candles.

  “They’re called chandeliers. I found a stack of candles in one of the storerooms — enough to last at least a week.”

  “Nathara likes your fire.”

  “It doesn’t look like she’s used to it. I wonder how she protects herself from the sgàilean without it.”

  “I asked her that. She said something about being full?”

  “Full?”

  “Yes. That they know she’s full or something.”

  Cray furrows his brow. “Could she have said fuil?”

  “I guess. What does that mean?”

  “Blood,” he says.

  Nathara appears beside us without either of us noticing her approach. It’s a very unnerving talent she possesses.

  “Don’t be naughty or I’ll tell them to gobble you up,” she says in Cray’s ear, before bursting into squeals of laughter.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll behave,” Cray says.

  “I won’t let them get you, though, Calum,” she says to me.

  “That’s kind of you,” I say.

  “They do what I tell them, but not about the honey.” She tilts her head to the ceiling and becomes distracted by the lights. “The room is filled with pretty stars just for me. It’s because we’re having a party.”

  She weaves her long hair between her fingers and drifts away.

  “I see what you mean about her not really talking much sense,” says Cray.

  “Did she just say the sgàilean do what she says?”

  “It would explain how she’s survived so long.”

  “This might provide us with a few more answers.” I hand him the diary. “It was on a table upstairs.”

  “What is it?”

  “A diary of some sort, by someone called the Badhbh.”

  “Sounds creepy.”

  “I think he’s the one who helped the king make the sgàilean. Perhaps you could read it while I’m gone?”

  “Oh. . . . I can’t read words.”

  “Oh.” I’m embarrassed for him; I don’t know why.

  “We don’t write things down very often,” he says, “and when we do, we use more pictures than words.”