The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

The past mingled with the future, and tears blurred his eyes.

  14

  As the door shut and the sounds of the dance faded, Bert thought he could hear muffled sobs. He hesitated, heard it again. He knew who it was, even before he rounded the corner of the inn.

  Ellen was sitting on the step outside the Sunday school, her red hair curtaining her face as she leaned her head on her knees.

  His boot caught a stone and she jerked upright. Shock, panic, recognition, then despair spread across her face.

  “Uncle . . .”

  She rubbed at her face, trying to disguise her tears. Shep glanced up at Bert and then went to her side, pushing his nose under her arm. She bent down and hugged him, burying her face in his neck.

  Bert sat next to her. She looked quickly at him and then down again. He saw a flicker of hope amid the despair. She was hoping he’d help her, understand her. Do something. Anything.

  The babble of voices and music grew abruptly louder and then quieted as someone else left.

  “You’re in trouble, lass.”

  She turned to face him, her mouth falling open in surprise. He held her gaze as fresh tears began to flow. She groped for her handkerchief.

  He felt for her, he really did. Who had she to turn to? Her stepmother, obviously not. Maud had taken her on as her duty when she’d married Eddie. The other gossip-loving young women, the same. Felton . . . He clenched his fists and looked away.

  “Jack’s a good man. He’s just . . .” She swallowed as her words stuck in her throat. “He says he’s too young. He loves me, he really does. He says he does.”

  He could see her bottom lip trembling.

  “It’s the money, how we’d manage. Whether the mine stays open. But I could take in sewing, we could keep a cow. I could make butter. We’d manage.”

  Her confidence was heartbreaking and Bert struggled to meet her eyes. He knew how stories like hers ended. He put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing the frail bones under the skin.

  “It’ll work out, lass. Don’t worry.”

  His voice, filled with an assurance he didn’t feel, drew a grateful smile. Ellen dabbed at her eyes again.

  “Thank you, Uncle. I knew you wouldn’t think bad of him, like everyone else does. Jack’s a good man, really. You can see that, can’t you? He’ll come around. I know he will. It’s just a big thing, you know?”

  Bert made himself smile back. It cut through his face like glass as he struggled to hide his feelings. Of course Felton had no intention of marrying her. He’d told her the pretty words she’d wanted to hear, and now she was ruined. Damn the boy! He’d always looked out for her, and now he felt a father’s anger toward the boy. If only he were a few years younger, he’d whip the skin from his backside for him.

  Ellen was oblivious to his seething thoughts. “There’s a house up on the bank; Mrs. Tipping’s old place. There’s room to keep a cow there. It’d be ideal for us.”

  He could hear the newfound confidence as she planned her future. Perhaps he should tell her the truth. Perhaps that would be kinder. He shouldn’t have given her a hope that would soon be crushed. Her innocent faith was going to slowly slip away as her belly grew.

  “It means so much to me, Uncle, that you’re not ashamed or angry.” She wiped the last tears away and stood up. “I’d better get home. Maud will be waiting.”

  Bert watched her disappear, then stood himself, his anguish heavy in his chest.

  He crossed the marketplace and started on the road home. The puddles and ruts were glowing an icy silver under the meager moonlight. His boots slipped on the frozen smoothness despite his hobnails.

  As he crossed the burn he noticed a figure standing in the shadows on the bridge, partly hidden by the wall. He hesitated for a second. Who’d be out here at this time of night? Poachers? Robbers?

  Shep was alert, but he didn’t seem hostile; Bert knew well the subtleties of his moods. And who’d want to rob an old man anyway? He carried on, then recognized the figure and smiled grimly.

  Felton was oblivious to his approach, despite his hobnails and the clicking of Shep’s claws. He was leaning on the wall, looking down into the water. Bert stopped right behind him.

  “All right, lad?”

  Felton jumped around, almost falling as he slipped on a frozen puddle, then slumped back against the wall.

  “Mr. Allenston.” He glanced quickly at him.

  The boy was troubled, definitely. At least he could give him credit for that.

  “She’s a good girl, our Ellen.”

  Felton stared at the water. The silence stretched on.

  “It’s just . . . so soon.” He took off his cap and twisted it. “I’m young. She’s young.”

  Not too young to play the game, though. No sense of decency or responsibility. At least in his day they had the honor to see the girl well. He’d proposed to his Janet right away when she’d told him. He gripped his stick and felt Shep tense.

  “I do love her. I’ve told her that. But marriage, I just can’t do it. I want to do things, see the world. I thought of joining the army, going to India. See snakes and tigers. I’m going to be stuck here with nothing for the rest of my life.”

  “It’s too late for that, boy. You’ve made your future now. If you love her, think of her. Ruined. Thanks to you. She deserves better—much better—than you, but for heaven knows what reason she loves you. You. And your life belongs with her now.”

  He was surprised to see Felton bite his lip, his cap squashed in his fists.

  “I do love her. I want her, but . . .”

  Was that tears in his eyes?

  He took a deep breath. “I need to live my life.” He pushed past and strode away.

  Bert looked down into the water, flickering silver and black as the crescent moon shone through the trees. What would happen to the poor girl now?

  He trudged on, turned up the hill toward home. He couldn’t bear to shatter her girlish dreams, but soon, shatter they must.

  His thoughts were disturbed by a low rumbling. Shep’s hackles were raised, his entire body rigid as he stared up the road ahead of them.

  15

  Far below him, Bran could see the blaze of torches. Some were fixed around the village wall, others danced as the hunters sought the intruder.

  Perhaps it’s only a bear, he prayed as he leaped down the hill. Three years before, a bear had got inside the crumbling walls. It had been cornered, terrified, and killed four dogs and a hunter before falling under their spears.

  Please let it be that.

  He touched the raven amulet at his neck, his other hand gripping his staff as he approached the gates. They were always barred now, but he could see the silhouette of a small figure perched on top of the wall. Old enough to stand guard, but too young to dare take part in the hunt.

  The brief snow flurry was blown onward and the moon reappeared. In the cold light he could clearly see the tension in the small muscles gripping her bow. It was Mintana, her fear obvious as she looked down into the maelstrom of noise and movement within.

  He started to call out to her, but driven by some sixth sense, she turned and looked down. Utter relief spread across her face and she almost fell from the wall in her haste to get the gates open.

  The aroma of smoke, animals, and damp earth was mixed with the metallic smell of blood. A strange, discordant hum seemed to echo around the settlement. Men were shouting somewhere out of sight, children were crying. A dog roared savagely, the sound abruptly cut short.

  “It was here!” the girl blurted, trying to make herself heard. “We finished repairing the wall this afternoon; Gods alone know how it got in.” She cringed and moved closer to him. He squeezed her shoulder briefly.

  “Back on the wall. Stay there until it’s safe.”

  She scrambled up the stones and crouched low. Then he turned to face the darkness within.

  It was dark. Too dark. The moonlight had vanished as quickly as it came, but it was more than that.


  Its presence had leached through the settlement, tainting the air with a writhing miasma. A thousand invisible tendrils crept toward him. He struggled not to recoil. He gripped his staff harder and moved forward, toward the turmoil.

  Between two buildings, their eaves almost touching. He felt as if he were walking into emptiness. He had to touch one of the wattled walls to reassure himself, then chastised himself viciously.

  The track between the dwelling houses and craft buildings. A glimmer of ambient light now betrayed his surroundings. The shouts were approaching from his right. The echoing hum was more powerful now.

  A shadow in front of him. Emptiness, deeper than the surrounding night. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, but a terrible presence screamed past his inner senses. That sickening sound bored into his mind, pulsed through his entire being. It was emanating from the beast itself.

  It vanished at once between the buildings. The sense of a swirling, poisonous void lingered.

  Bran stared. His mouth was dry; he was gasping audibly. Frightened, he realized.

  He touched his amulet and ran shaking fingers through his raven’s feathers, feeling the strength of his totem. You never have to face a battle you can’t win, he reminded himself. He drew a breath and felt the power he commanded, the power of the earth and the Gods. He could do this.

  Running feet and a blaze of torchlight. Four men, spears and blades gripped in white-knuckled fists, looked at him. Three others struggled to hold their dogs. Fearn’s monstrous black hunting dog fought at its restraint.

  Bran concentrated on the darkness, aware of the snarling fangs beside him. He took no comfort from them.

  The air clawed at him as he advanced. He could feel it creeping over his skin. The hunters followed. Fearn’s dog lunged forward, almost pulling the hunter from his feet.

  They reached the narrow drove way between the buildings and the outer wall. The shadow had seemed to go left, toward the holding area for the cattle. The juddering in the air was more intense from that direction.

  Bran felt that way with his inner senses, but could find no sign of it. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Visualized his way through every building and walkway. Nothing, but not that nothingness. He turned right.

  The drove way narrowed. The walls grew higher.

  Trapped. No way out but to fight.

  He pressed on. Sweat beaded on his face. The hunters were at his back, but this would not be their fight. He focused on the strength within himself as the air began to vibrate.

  The corner of the outer wall. More torches from the right. Between them, something was repelling the blazing light. It pooled harmlessly on the ground around it.

  The hunters stared. At least one dropped his torch and fled.

  Bran forced himself to step forward. The sense of terror intensified as it echoed back and forth between the hunters and the beast.

  It was feeding on their panic, he realized. He should tell them to go. But he knew what would happen the instant he turned his back.

  He kept going forward. A needle-sharp pressure was driving him back. The sound howled around him until he longed to press his hands over his ears. The most primeval, most unnatural thing he’d ever encountered. On Earth, in the spirit world, in the deepest recesses of Annwfn. Three paces seemed to take a lifetime.

  It was dissolving his senses, leaving nothing but quaking terror. He couldn’t go any farther. His soul had reached its limit. He struggled, limply, as the last of his awareness slipped into the void.

  There was something familiar about it, he thought from far away.

  It sounded like . . .

  Like the war-harps he hadn’t heard for half a lifetime.

  The strings were tuned to the soul, could induce panic, joy, peace, sleep, as the musician desired. Bran smiled.

  He was Pennaeth of the Pridani, and the beast’s tricks were no match for him.

  He let the sound flow through him and around him. It flowed like oil along his raven’s feathers and spilled harmlessly away. He regained control.

  He drew himself up tall, felt the immense power of the Goddess, the earth, flowing up through his body and into his soul. He forced himself closer, inch by inch. He was almost near enough to touch it.

  He had the unsettling feeling, as he gazed upon this nothing, that it walked on two legs. He had a sense of lightning-blue eyes, invisible to the eyes of his body, utterly terrifying to his soul. He was nearly there.

  It exploded toward him. Somewhere, far away, he heard the roar of the dog. He stilled his soul and mind. Frozen and reflective, the shadow couldn’t touch him. It locked itself around him. Sucked the air from his nightmare cocoon. He couldn’t breathe.

  He raised his rowan staff. It was heavy as a grown man. His arms shook as he forced it chest high.

  He felt the sacred sigils carved beneath his fingers. Of the Goddess, the One. With her son, as One became Two. Of her triple aspect as One became Three. And of the totality as All became One. His was the most powerful talisman known, worth a thousand spears and a thousand fangs.

  Pain screamed through him as the cysgod-cerddwr forced his magic back. His hands grew slick with sweat. The wood slipped under his grip. The nightmare pressed closer. He was suffocating.

  He fought for the power he knew was there. Beneath his feet. Between his hands. He had the Gods at his side. Sweat poured down his face and back. He threw his head back and roared as he locked his arms high. The force blasted through his feet, his arms, his staff.

  He knew it was enough.

  The beast was railing, crushed by his strength. It was beaten, he knew it.

  And it knew he knew it.

  He tried to force air into his chest. Sparks burst in his eyes.

  The beast gave way.

  The cysgod-cerddwr leaped for the outer wall. The seething blackness around him was gone.

  Bran’s knees buckled. He sagged onto his staff as air flooded into his lungs. Fearn’s dog tore free and lunged. Its fangs snapped shut on empty air.

  Bran was aware that his mouth was hanging open as he gasped painfully. Waves of dizziness flooded over him. The dog began to pace, snarling upward.

  He began to shake. Apart from the dog and the frightened bleat of a calf, there was utter silence.

  He slowly turned. Two dozen people were watching him. He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

  “He warned us.” Fearn placed a trembling hand on his dog’s head, both reassuring and for reassurance. The brute reluctantly lowered itself to his haunches.

  “It came in the dark, but his barking woke everyone. We all lit torches and went out after it. It feared the light.”

  No it didn’t. But Bran said nothing.

  Fearn was glassy-eyed, almost speaking to himself. “If not for Twrch here.” The fingers on the black fur entwined tighter.

  The hunter had been truly frightened, Bran realized. He’d never known him afraid before.

  “It was after the cattle?” Bran questioned, already knowing the answer.

  Fearn shook his head. He turned and walked through the narrow gap between two buildings, pressing against his dog’s shoulder. He didn’t relax his grip on fur or leash.

  Bran followed, some other men a few paces behind. He glanced back and saw the children held back by their elders.

  The hunter stopped and raised his torch. The wattle of the building had been torn open. Through the gaping hole, framed by splintered laths and sagging thatch, Bran could see hastily abandoned sleeping furs. And blood. Fearn’s cousin and his woman. She was with child, he knew.

  The others crowded around, grim and angry.

  “The spears did nothing. It was like they just hit a shadow.” Bran recognized Coll’s voice.

  “My best iron blades! They’ve never failed before. They should have killed it.”

  Bran sought the smith’s face in the crowd. It bore the expression of one whose beautiful illusion had been shattered. That everything he believed in was now worthless.
He felt sorry for him.

  Then he looked back at the bloodstained floor and felt shame and failure.

  “But we frightened it away,” someone said, desperate to believe.

  Bran nodded. Let the man have solace in his hope.

  In the distance he heard an answering howl, angry and terrible. Defeated. For now.

  It would be back, and soon. He had a lot of work to do.

  16

  Bert scanned the road ahead, expecting a dog or a fox. Nothing.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Shep looked up at him, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and yapped. Then he went forward a few steps, looking up the hillside. Toward home.

  There was a wolf out your way last night.

  He became acutely aware of the icy wind tearing at his exposed skin. He began to hurry, desperate to see the silhouette of the stunted ash that marked the start of his own track. But it was nearly a quarter mile away yet.

  Thick gray clouds were seething across the sky in the last glimmer of moonlight. The snow was earlier than he’d expected. Was that what Shep had sensed?

  He knew it wasn’t.

  A flake of snow struck his cheek and melted, followed by another.

  At last the ash tree materialized and he turned off the road. The snow intensified, a pale dusting which alighted for the merest second before vanishing. It wouldn’t settle, not yet. The ground was too warm. It would be the early hours before that happened.

  Head bowed, he struggled on, aware of nothing but the pounding blood in his ears, the sharp breath in his throat, the stabbing pain in his hip. He’d hurt it fifteen years ago slipping on a rock, and it still flared up in bad weather. But at least in the valley the wind was barely noticeable.

  He reached the clump of rowans. Nearly there.

  Another sound penetrated his mind. Shep was rumbling again, deep in his throat. He was looking toward the fold, to where he’d carefully shut his sheep earlier that evening.

  Bert turned his eyes in that direction, squinting through the flurrying snow. He could already feel the tightness of dread in his chest.