A few minutes later Bert headed back inside. They’d be all right now.
A sickly, scorched smell greeted him as he opened the door. The pan of porridge he’d left on the stove had boiled dry. He ran and snatched it up, cursing as the handle burnt his fingers.
He stirred it experimentally. Most of it was almost edible. He stood at the door to eat it, his hands warm and cold from the pan and the morning air. He watched the sheep drifting down toward the burn.
He scraped the last caramelized paste from the bottom of the pan as best he could, wincing at the charred taste, then cracked the ice on his water bucket to soak it. He made a mug of tea, clutching it in both hands to warm his fingers. The rising steam mingled with his breath to form strange, twisting shapes in the air.
He looked down toward Allendale, roofs and walls glistening in the low sunshine. There was a dance on tonight, he remembered. He always enjoyed them, although of course he never danced now. Hadn’t done since he’d lost his Janet. It was a chance to catch up with family and friends. Although the town was barely a mile away, he rarely made the journey, and that was mainly to see young Ellen. She was his cousin Edward’s daughter, but he’d always thought of her as his niece. Especially since Eddie—known as Red Eddie on account of his hair—had died, leaving her with just her stepmother for family.
They’d always said you knew the Allenstons by their hair, and Ellen’s was especially vivid. Bert’s had earned him a few comments when he was younger, but it had dulled with age, and none of his grandchildren had got it. It was quite disappointing.
The sheep had long disappeared below the rise, but there were no white dots approaching the Fist. They hadn’t yet crossed the burn. He drained the last of his mug and crunched across the grass. Their hooves had knocked the frost from the grass, leaving a multitude of green trails through the white. If he didn’t know exactly where they were, he’d have no trouble finding them.
The sun was well-risen and he could feel the cold heat prickling on his skin, challenging the frigid air. The frost was already melting in places, but he wasn’t fooled. He could hear a great tit singing, pee-a-too-wit, pee-a-too-wit, the peculiar tune it made only when snow was coming. He remembered his grandfather teaching him that. Come morning, winter would be properly here.
As he rounded the rise he could see them, silent and still. A few noses raised, scenting the air. The group bunched tighter.
He scanned the banks and the clumps of sedge. Nothing. A hundred pairs of eyes silently watched him. He looked closer, squatting to examine the churned mud. A multitude of hoofprints —the shallow area was ideal for both drinking and crossing—but he could see nothing untoward. The tracks were dried and hard, segments of blue ice filling many. None were disturbed.
But they weren’t happy at all.
He crossed the stream himself, hopping over the flat stones he’d laid. Decades of practice lent him balance on the icy rock. Shep hung back, watching him beseechingly.
“Come on, girls! It’s all right.”
Molly’s nose raised slightly, scenting the air, then her ears twitched back. No, it’s not all right.
How he wished he had their senses.
He crossed back again. His foot slipped and cracked through a layer of ice. Cold water rushed into his split boot. He shook it ineffectually. He’d have to get back and dry it out, but he couldn’t leave until he knew they were happy. And there was no way he could hurry that.
As he waited, hopping on the balls of his feet as his wet toes grew numb, they gradually inched closer to the bank. They looked down at the water, and then across toward the Fist.
Molly reached the water’s edge, paused, then the whole flock charged through. Ice and spray flew up to descend in rainbow droplets.
A safe distance from the burn they halted, looked back, then began to drift toward the Fist.
Suddenly, Bert was not looking forward to leaving them alone that night.
12
The Fiery Star appeared that night.
As the clouds cleared on the eastern horizon, its light shone through, surpassing even the half moon. Bran stared at it and shivered, the night air like needles on his skin. He’d seen one a few times before, but never as bright as this. It was a terrible warning. Fiery Stars always heralded devastating upheaval.
He saw from the scant few stars visible that it was slightly left of the Hunter’s right foot. Did that mean anything?
The legend told that, with the reckless confidence of youth, the Hunter had tried to kill one of the Goddess’s own hares, thinking what prestige the beautiful white animal would bring him when he got home.
When he pulled his arrow from the limp body, the point nicked his finger. Within seven days his arm was blackened and swollen. He was raging with fever, and on the ninth day he died.
The Goddess then raised the stars, visible from Samhain, the start of the hunting season, as an ever-present warning.
Bran was about to take on the role of hunter himself. He knelt and placed his hands on the stiff, icy stems of grass, then dug his fingers absently into the soil. The rough chill numbed his fingertips.
He had to destroy the cysgod-cerddwr, there was no other way. So why did it seem to herald such dire consequences? Had he missed something important?
Or did the warning refer to the invaders? Was it confirming his fear that a war would destroy the Pridani?
He swung back onto his heels and rose to his feet in a fluid movement, then looked south into the empty night. They were out there, shivering in their thin blankets, planning their next conquest and wishing they were back at home.
The snows were on their way. The Cailleach was waking. The Cailleach was the fourth face of the Goddess. The face of winter, the face of death.
Death for whom? The quiet thought spoke in his mind.
He recalled a legend, an ancient story about the Fomoriian war he’d heard years ago.
When the Fomorii were defeated and finally fled, they’d left something behind. A demon, their revenge on their conquerors. Its true nature was long forgotten, but he began to wonder.
Was it a coincidence that the cysgod-cerddwr had appeared just as the invaders began their relentless march north? Had it returned to see the final demise of his people, as it had once watched their arrival?
He paced the hillside, deep in thought.
All things had an end, that was true. But that didn’t mean it had to be now. Events may be ordained, but the time of their passing could always be changed. The demise of the Pridani did not have to happen now. The problems of the invaders and the cysgod-cerddwr could both be resolved. He would find the way. He had been chosen for this task, and he would live up to his calling.
The breeze rippled and sang through his feathers as he moved, the rhythmic crunch of frosty grass as he circled the hilltop giving purpose to his thoughts.
Had the invaders’ priests noticed the sign, too? Those purported, as Don had said, to be so much more skilled than the Druids? How would they interpret it?
Perhaps they would see it as a warning, a sign to retreat. He nursed a faint flicker of hope, but he knew it was unlikely.
The Clenched Fist, the eternal symbol of impermanence, came into view, its fingers pale and indistinct under the starlight. Its message was about to be driven home, for someone.
The wind rose and a ray of cold light, channeled by the clouds, fell on two of the boundary stones that defined the edge of the village territory, high on the fell. Placed there by the Fomorii, the same people who’d raised the monoliths and circles, they marked a boundary as old as the land. Bran traced its indistinct line, dipping in and out of sight across hummock and vale. Would it survive his lifetime? The lifetimes of young Mintana and Gwen? Their children?
The clouds drifted and the beam of light was extinguished as if his question had been answered. The breeze whipped over him, now coming from the north. The Fiery Star was obscured and the first tentative flakes of snow began to fall. Icy moisture speckl
ed his face as he stood, motionless as the earth.
It will all work out well, he said to the night. The land and its people will know peace.
He listened, and the song of silence hummed in his ears and his mind. The only sound was the delicate fizz of snow speckling against his upturned face.
Then in the distance, carried on the breeze, he heard a howl of a wolf. Then another, and another. Mournful, hauntingly sad. They too could sense what was coming.
He pictured them far out across the moors, prowling through the heather. They weren’t a problem; not unless the winter was particularly harsh.
Somewhere in the valley a sheep blarted, then fell silent. All livestock were now herded into folds or within the village walls at night, a safeguard against the fickle moorland weather and roving bands of raiders as well as the cysgod-cerddwr.
He focused his thoughts onto the immediate future and felt the heartbeat of the earth surging through his body. He felt the threads of life, of the past and future, converging on one point. A point that was soon to be.
Then a ripple of disquiet struck against him, followed by another. Harmonized as he was with the song of the earth, he could sense something approaching. Something bad.
Then the frantic barking of the hounds tore into his thoughts like an explosion of icy water.
13
Bert wanted to go home. The constant rattle from the fiddles and the drum pulsed through his skull like a blunt knife, the machinations of his distant cousin Samuel Gatesby from Catton way driving the tempo painfully higher. Bert could see the sweat running down his face as his hands bowed and danced impossibly fast, his eyes shut in concentration. He wished he could stop for just a minute.
Dancers nodded and waved as they passed, merging again into the throng before they could see his automatic acknowledgment.
The feeling of foreboding had been eating away at him all day, and more than once on the walk to the town he’d almost turned back. It was out there, and soon, soon . . .
What?
What was really going to happen? He didn’t know, but what he did know was that he was far away from where he ought to be—out on the fells with his flock.
It wasn’t just the beast that was worrying him. There would be heavy snow tomorrow. He’d penned the sheep into the fold before he’d left, so they should be safe, but still . . .
Shep was lying next to his feet, his head on his paws. He wasn’t enjoying the evening either. He didn’t much like noise, but of course Bert would never leave him at home.
He looked around and realized no one else had brought their dogs tonight. At one time there would have been a dog at every shepherd’s feet, and shepherds old and young would have made up a good part of the gathering.
Shep whined softly and Bert stretched his hand down. A damp nose touched his fingers.
“You feel it, too, boy?”
Shep turned his limpid brown eyes up toward his master and they shared a long, silent look.
“Hey, a dog! Does it dance, mister?”
Bert jerked his head up. The youth was grinning down at him, his friends snickering behind. He had no idea who they were—probably come from away for work—although the young lass draped quite wantonly around the boy was Winnie Jones, the postmaster’s daughter.
“You keep a civil tongue in your head, boy, when you speak to your elders and betters.” Bert spat the last word.
Shep just lay still, as if the battle were already lost.
As he’d half expected, the youths weren’t at all abashed. “Shouldn’t it be outside, chasing sheep or something? Like you?”
Laughing, the group swaggered off into the crowd. He stared after them. Winnie turned back and he met her eyes for a second as the group merged into the throng.
He stretched his hand down again, searching for his companion’s acknowledgment, and leaned his head against the wall. Why had he come tonight? He realized with a shock how many faces he didn’t know, and he suddenly felt like a stranger.
The world he knew was dying. He longed to return to the fells, to Molly and his other girls. His friends. He rubbed the fur around Shep’s neck and felt rather than heard the dog’s deep sigh.
He caught a flash of deep orange over to the left and looked over. It was the first time he’d seen Ellen all night. It would be impossible to miss that red hair. Who was she talking to? It looked like the butcher Fred Pinkerley’s son, Mick.
A half smile flickered onto Bert’s face. It was obvious from the goofy look on his face that the boy was love-struck.
His smile faded. Ellen was, for who knew what reason, walking out with that wastrel Jack Felton. A looker, yes, but it was taking her far too long to see sense. And where was he tonight? He hoped, for Mick’s sake, that he wasn’t around. Everyone knew what Felton was like. And Mick was only—what? Fourteen? Fifteen?
A flurry of movement and like a bad penny, there was Felton. He barely needed to grip Mick by his skinny shoulder before the boy was making his escape.
Bert couldn’t hear what passed between Felton and Ellen, but the girl looked on the verge of tears. Several people were watching, many more pretending not to.
Bert shook his head. The Allenstons were an old, respectable family, and Ellen was hardworking and pleasant, as well as strikingly beautiful. There was no reason why she shouldn’t marry well. What on earth did she see in that worthless cad? The answer, as always, eluded him.
Felton pushed his way towards the door, leaving Ellen staring after him. As she smoothed her dress Bert’s eyes were drawn to her waistline.
Wasn’t that a slight thickening there?
He looked closer as her hand went to her now trembling lips. Yes, there was the start of a protruding belly, a swelling around her bosom. Damn that Felton!
He gripped the edge of the bench, wishing it was the boy’s neck he was squeezing.
How long? Not long enough for it to be common gossip, thank the Lord. And obviously Felton wasn’t about to do the honorable thing. Poor lass. She could have done so much better for herself.
He began to lever himself to his feet. He’d find the boy and have words with him. She had no father or brothers to stand up for her, and he was her closest relative. Cad as he was, a life in the workhouse with the other unmarried mothers would be a far worse prospect.
“Now then, Bert. How’s things? Not leaving already, are you?”
Joseph Allenston, or Scruffy Joe on account of his amazingly wild hair, was the son of his father’s younger brother from Wooley. Shep sniffed at his ankles.
Bert sighed and slumped back down. The prospect of a familiar and friendly face was suddenly very welcome.
“Poor turnout from the Allenstons tonight, eh? Thought your granddaughters would be here, but I saw them getting a train to Hexham, all dressed up and whatnot. Another dance there, bigger and better, they said. They don’t want to stay in boring old Allendale with us!”
Bert couldn’t return the lighthearted smile. Thomas’s twin sisters, Claire and Rebecca, seemed to gad about all over the place. Would none of them be happy where they were?
He stared forward, his eyes struggling to take in the rapid blur of movement hurtling in front of him. He was aware of Joe studying him.
“How’s the new apprentice getting on? I hear young Tom’s been helping you out instead of going to school.”
Bert turned to face the sly, grinning face next to him. “How do you—”
But of course everyone would know. The only difference between a secret and general knowledge was that the first would get around that much faster.
Pride made him smile. “He’s doing well. Sharp, quick to learn. He’s a real Allenston.” He decided not to mention the steam engines.
“You’ll be looking for a dog for him. My best bitch, she’s just had pups. You want me to put his name on one? And how about one for yourself—this old boy’s getting on now, isn’t he?” Joe bent and scratched Shep’s head.
The thought hurt. Bert had had m
any dogs over his life, but the idea of a replacement for poor old Shep, it felt like the utmost betrayal. Shep was to be his last. He’d felt that for a long time.
“No, thanks, not at my age. Shep will see me out.” He looked over the heads of the dancers at the ornate clock hanging on the far wall.
Joe laughed. “Come on, Bert. You’re not that old!” He abruptly fell silent. “What’s the matter? You don’t seem yourself.”
“Things are happening, Joe.”
The only words he could find to explain. He leaned his head against the wall and compulsively rubbed his fingers together. “I don’t like it at all.”
Joe nodded, serious now. “You’ve seen that light in the sky? It’s something bad coming, I reckon.”
He paused for a moment. “I’ve been losing sheep. Three so far; the old weaned lambs. Can’t be a fox, not when they’re that size.”
No, thought Bert. This was something far worse.
The music stopped and Joseph’s voice rang loud in the silence. “My Alison reckons she heard a wolf howling last night. It came from over your way.”
The world began to spin. Bert’s chest tightened. He had to leave. He had to get back, now.
“I told her not to be ridiculous, but she’s certain. Did you hear anything?”
Bert took a steadying breath. “No, I didn’t.”
Alison had been mistaken; of course she had. He’d have heard it else.
“Come on, Joe, come and dance!” Alison called from across the room.
Joseph looked at Bert, eyebrows raised. He nodded his acceptance and the pair inserted themselves into the crowd. Despite being well into her fifth pregnancy, Alison had managed to retain her figure and her verve for life. Not like his Janet. He felt a pang of envy as he hurried for the door before anyone else spoke to him. The bairn was laid wrong; that’s what the woman had said. He’d only just had time to fetch the priest.
The Wolf of Allendale Page 5