The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  At last he fixed the head to the shaft and painted it, swirling the brown and black to resemble the mottled feathers of the hen grouse. The eyes and beak colored, the stick was finished.

  He squinted at it and let his imagination take over. In his mind the bird turned to look at him, bent her head down to pluck at her breast. Shook herself to fluff up her feathers, which pulsed in the dancing firelight.

  He opened his eyes fully and the carving returned to its original form. His grandfather had told him this was the only way to know if he’d captured the creature’s form exactly. More than a mere carving, it was the mirror image of a soul.

  19

  He couldn’t destroy it. That was now horribly clear to Bran. It had cost him dear just to force it from the village.

  He shook his head, the memory still raw. He was one of the most powerful Druids in the land, and he’d gained the upper hand by the merest fraction.

  It would have to be returned to its own world. Forced back the way it had come, through the portal of the otherworld. It was the only thing he could do.

  He looked down on the village below, slowly emerging into the dawn light. Like him, everyone would be maintaining an uneasy vigil for sunrise. He could make out the hazy swirl of rising smoke, hear the cattle as they began to rouse themselves.

  The eastern sky gradually turned a rich blue and Bran resumed his pacing of the hillside. Was it really the same night he’d begun debating the problem? He looked up at the last stars to hold out against the dawn. The Fiery Star was still there, now hanging low in the south, about to vanish behind the far hillside. Even as he watched, it began to grow dim.

  He looked a moment longer, then dropped his head to his chest, his gaze lost among his raven’s feathers, which danced and shimmered in the early morning breeze.

  He needed the answer. Quickly.

  When Samhain came and the otherworld portal reopened, he could lure the beast to the entrance. The ring of standing stones to the north, not yet emerged from the shadows. And if—if—with all his skill, he could hold it there until the portal closed at sunrise, the beast would be removed forever.

  How to lure it?

  His mind flickered back to the torn and savaged bodies in the village, a dark and fleeting notion, but the thought was abhorrent to him.

  And Samhain was still nearly ten moons away. Far too long.

  He paused abruptly. A cold thrill ran down his spine. A blast of wind whipped through his cloak but he paid it no heed as his mind began to whirl.

  There was something he’d been told of, long ago. A way to imprison a soul, so tightly it could never again escape. He’d never heard of any Druid attempting it, and not without reason. It was the most difficult ritual known; more likely to end in death than success.

  The beast would fight, of course. Resist to its utmost. He would need all the strength and wisdom he possessed, the collective experience of countless generations of Druids, and then he might have a chance.

  His heart rate quickened. Would he be able to do it? Would he survive?

  He knew, with a cold, calm certainty, that he could. That, of course, was why he’d been chosen for the task.

  But it would not be easy. There was no guarantee that he would succeed.

  He allowed himself a brief moment of pride that it was he who was to do it. The tale would be handed down in Druid lore forever.

  He sat cross-legged on the grass and leaned back against the stone wall of his lodge. Stone, the symbol of death. Grass, the life force for hunters and prey. Day merged with night and night merged with day, a crossroads from which Bran could choose his path.

  He ran his fingers through the frosty stems, feeling ice particles melt against his skin. He could feel the life singing through the hillside, and then the air was filled with sound. In the silence, the song of life was radiant. He let it fill him, speak to him. He emptied his mind and the song took on words.

  It was one of the Histories, a tale he’d sung a hundred times to gatherings large and small.

  Balor was the most ferocious of the Fomorii warriors. As a boy, he peeped into a sorcerer’s forge, and the eddying smoke had poisoned his eye. From then on, the gaze of that eye meant death.

  The Fomorii allowed him to live, on condition his eye was kept shut. It was opened only on the battlefields.

  The Pridani’s final battle with the Fomorii. Screams and slashing iron. A red mist cloaked the plain. Catastrophic slaughter, unimagined for either side.

  Balor was brought forth. His eye was levered open.

  Lugh, the Pridani champion, charged through the ranks. The poison was seeping toward him. He flung his javelin.

  Balor’s eye was driven straight through his skull. He fell down dead, and his eye fell among the Fomorii ranks, slaying thrice nine warriors.

  Then the Pridani victory was easy.

  It was a Druid from across the Western Sea, whom Bran had met on his years as a Wanderer, who’d told him the secret that only a few now remembered.

  The eyes were the doorway to the soul. Using the sorcerer’s spell he’d unwittingly stolen, Balor could bind another’s soul to himself. Imprison it, breaking the bonds between its body, which gave it life.

  But in doing so, his own soul became bound. Day and night, life and death. Harmony needed opposites. And Lugh—Druid trained, they all agreed on that—had shattered this prison of souls with Balor’s own magic.

  No Druid had ever attempted the same sorcery. To complete it, without losing one’s own soul, had been discussed, debated, but never achieved.

  Could he do it? He’d heard three dozen ideas. Formulated another half dozen of his own. Would any of them work?

  As the light strengthened and the village emerged into the day, he saw his hare and red deer hind illuminated above the gate. Another thought came to him.

  Artwork was an image of the soul. The Druids understood that; the Fomorii had not.

  What if he created an image so perfect, the cysgod-cerddwr would recognize it as itself?

  Warmth bathed the back of his neck and he turned to see the first glowing rays emerge. The night was over. Day was reborn. He knew what he was going to do.

  20

  When the Fist emerged from its wintry blanket, Bert knew the trail would be passable. Smatterings of shrubby green were breaking through the white as the heather emerged. Eight days since it had fallen.

  He watched a kite soar across the fell and dive down on some prey—a vole, most likely—that had ventured above ground. It was a hard time for the raptors, with their prey snugly cocooned below the snow.

  The bird glided up and alighted on the Fist, the knuckle of the first finger, glared around for competition and began to tear at its meager prize.

  He remembered a story he’d heard when he was a bairn. A long-ago witch had buried a giant under the hill to stop him terrorizing the village. He’d tried to escape—and nearly succeeded—thrusting his fist out from beneath the rubble in his bid for freedom. The witch had to turn him to stone before any more of his body emerged.

  He wondered if anyone else remembered the tale now. He’d have to tell Thomas and the other little ones. He loved telling the old stories as much as they loved hearing them.

  He could see Molly poking into a thick bramble bush among the trees down the valley, a peculiar variety to which the leaves clung well into winter. He knew it would be her.

  He leaned on his crook to watch. It always amazed him, the infinite delicacy with which they managed to pick the leaves off the viciously thorny plant. He could barely manage a half dozen blackberries without getting a thorn in his finger.

  She backed out from the bush, disturbing a fluttering of snow as the thorns snagged on her wool. She looked toward three younger ewes, two-year-olds by the look of them, who were watching her enviously, and chortled. Your turn. All three raced to the bush, jostling to get the best spot.

  Bert laughed and shook his head. They were an endless source of entertainment. How anyone
could wish for a different life than this, he couldn’t imagine.

  He looked at the sun. Midmorning already. He’d have to go into town now.

  What had happened, or not happened, in the last week? Was Ellen still expecting wedding bells? Did everyone know by now?

  He’d have to tell her. He couldn’t bear to, but it was for the best. He whistled to Shep and set off, rehearsing what he would say.

  It was about a mile to the house where Maud now lived with her charges. The snow was rapidly melting, a dirty slush that dribbled into the ditches. Here and there he could see the marks of a homemade sledge. A flock of blue tits scurried through the bare trees, chirping incessantly as they searched every twig and crevice. They’d have been suffering the past few days.

  Shep woofed and Bert saw Hilda Pinkerley, the butcher’s wife, picking her way across the Philip Burn Bridge, holding her skirts out of the slush.

  “’Morning, Bertram! Glad it’s clearing at last!”

  “’Morning, Hilda. How’s things?”

  “Not much trade, thanks to the snow. Just a few screwy rabbits our Micky’s caught. He can’t get near the mine these days. Sooner they get this big new road built, the better, I say.”

  “They’ve done more than enough damage in my view.”

  His words came out harsher than intended. Hilda glanced at him.

  “Perhaps you’re right. I remember my grandma telling me about when they built the New Road. One of those Irish laborers climbed down someone’s chimney trying to rob them, only he got stuck. They found him when the fire started smoking. Everyone started fixing scythe blades across their fireplaces after that.”

  Bert chuckled. “I remember that one. Before I was born, that was. No wonder we’ve had no more roads since.”

  “You could get one built up to your place, make it easier for you. Our Micky said he saw you coming down through the snow.”

  Bert studied Hilda’s face. There was no smugness or tiny smile to indicate a juicy secret she couldn’t possibly divulge, not unless pressed and cajoled of course, until she was reluctantly drawn to confide it. Hilda Pinkerley was the biggest gossip in town, noisy as a pair of kestrels, and if she didn’t know, it was pretty sure no one did.

  “You’ll be calling on young Ellen, no doubt?”

  He nodded. Was that a smile on her lips?

  “You’d best get on, then.”

  There was definitely a sly smile there. Had he been wrong? He felt a deep gnaw of dread in his chest.

  He hesitated as he reached the cottage, then thumped on the door.

  “Ah, Bertram. I was expecting you half an hour ago. The delivery boy said you were coming.”

  “Er . . .”

  He looked at Maud. Why wasn’t she at work?

  “Leave that animal outside, please.”

  He looked down at Shep. Ellen always allowed him inside. Then he realized why Maud was at home. Of course, too shamed to go out. Perhaps even lost her position.

  He gestured and Shep sat down on the cobblestones, meeting his eyes with a sorrowful gaze as he stepped inside.

  Ellen was sewing on the settle. Bert’s prepared words vanished, and he braced himself for her tears.

  She jumped to her feet, a smile breaking over her face. “Uncle! I’m so glad to see you!”

  He tried to mask his surprise. Whatever Hilda Pinkerley thought she knew, it wasn’t that. “You look on cloud nine, lass.”

  “I’m to be married!”

  He didn’t know what to say. Questions buzzed through his mind.

  “Jack asked me last week. It’s to be next month, before Christmas.”

  He found his voice at last. “Congratulations, lass! That’s champion news!”

  He hoped it would turn out to be true.

  He heard muffled giggling. The girls were perched on stools in a corner, their hands clapped over their mouths. He’d not even seen them.

  “Catherine! Heidi! Be quiet!” Maud snapped. The girls subsided into guilty silence.

  “It is time you were settled down, my girl. Although how we’ll manage, I don’t know. At least the Fairlies are abroad this month and not next, else I wouldn’t afford a scrap of bread.”

  There was an awkward silence. Ellen’s sewing went a long way toward their living. Bert groped in his pocket and waved the wooden toys he’d carved for the girls.

  Ellen’s face was full of womanly confidence. “Jack’s been to see about Mrs. Tipping’s house; he thinks it’s perfect, too.”

  She jerked her foot back as Heidi’s pony vaulted it. The girl scrabbled across the floor between them. There was a squeal and a clunk from near the settle.

  “Girls! Go outside and play if you can’t behave yourselves!”

  The children got up and sidled from the cottage. Ellen looked down and fiddled with her dress.

  “Would you . . .” She glanced up again. “Would you give me away, Uncle?”

  He couldn’t speak. He gazed at her hopeful, nervous face. The proudest moment a man could have, and one he thought life had denied him.

  “I’d love to, lass.”

  She flung her arms around him and hugged him, her hair soft against his stubble. “I’m so glad.”

  He held her for a long moment and hoped that all would turn out right, that Felton wouldn’t break her heart.

  At last she stepped back. Her face clouded.

  “Other things have been happening, since the snows came.”

  “What do you mean?”

  In an instant he knew.

  “People have been losing sheep. Cousin Joseph, he lost some lambs awhile ago.”

  “I know. I spoke to him at the dance.”

  “It’s got a lot worse since then. Three or four more people have had problems. Samuel Gatesby’s one of them.”

  In the valleys. Less snow, a degree warmer, much easier to move without leaving a trail.

  “All lambs again?” He chewed his thumbnail.

  “No, adult ewes now. Two or three a night. Nothing left but the skins and horns, sometimes a chewed bone. The men have hardly dared sleep. They keep their guns ready, their dogs loose, but it keeps happening.”

  He had to sit down. He realized with a sick feeling what a mistake he’d made.

  The cottage door opened and Kate ran in, pigtails flying. “Mom! Ellen! There’s been another one!”

  “What, Catherine?”

  “Mr. Gatesby, two of his sheep were killed last night! Bobby Laxton just told me. They’ve just found them by the Scar!”

  Bert levered himself up. “I’ll have to go and see.”

  It’d be a terrible blow. Samuel had been stricken with sickness during the summer and lost a score of animals.

  “Can I come, too?” Kate looked up at him eagerly.

  “No, Catherine. It’s no place for children.”

  “Mam!”

  “Catherine! No!”

  “Come here, Kate. You can help me unpick this stitching.” Ellen patted the settle and picked up her work again. Bert hurried from the cottage.

  The crowd was swelling in front of him. He elbowed his way to where Samuel was staring into the air. Did people have nothing better to do than gawk?

  He saw Mick Pinkerley. His face was a mask of horror, fear, and something else. Guilt. The boy turned and saw him. His expression was like he’d been caught with his fingers in the apple store.

  “Mr. Allenston . . .”

  Somebody knocked the boy off balance. He lurched forward and trod on Bert’s foot. He muttered an impatient curse and pushed past him.

  Then he saw it. He stopped and stared, and an icy feeling crept over him. He realized exactly what he was facing.

  21

  The first thing Bran had to do was to find the beast. When he had done that, he could begin the process of imprisoning it. The hunters had failed utterly to locate it, but there were other methods he could use.

  He hurried back to his lodge and ducked behind the drapes. The thick, smoky atmosphere str
uck him forcibly after his night in the chill open air. The peat he’d banked the fire with at sunset—what seemed a lifetime ago now—had smoldered to nothing but the air had barely cooled. Not like the feeble buildings of the invaders. They apparently came from a warm and sultry land; they had no idea how to live comfortably in the lands of the Pridani.

  Bran tied the drapes shut, stirred the fire to expose the embers, then built it high with dry wood. It was soon blazing, and the room was bright with dancing light and shadow.

  He sought out a bowl and his grinding stone, then untied a leather sack hanging from the roof. He took out two pouches, one containing the dried stems of the red spotted mushroom, and the other the dried berry of the nightshade. Together they would free his soul from his body, so his spirit could search for the soul of the beast.

  He tipped some of each into his hand, studied it, then added a pinch more nightshade. Too little and it would be useless. Too much, the fragile link between body and soul would break and he would not be able to return. He tipped the plants into the bowl, added water and honey, and began to grind the concoction to a fine paste.

  The potion ready, he sat cross-legged in front of his fire, looking into the flames as he slowly sipped it. His mind and stomach rebelled at the vile taste, and he had to force himself to swallow. In a few moments the cup was empty. Already he could feel the plants’ magic spreading through his body. The strange sensation as it began to prize his soul free.

  The flames were mesmerizing. He could feel them dancing around his body, in front of his eyes, even when he turned his head away. He was much more light-headed than normal. Had he made it too strong? The thought spun out of his mind as the swirling flames took over again.

  He lay down flat. The movement made him feel as if he were spinning hands over feet, like that cartwheel game the children played. His skin was cold and clammy. Like he was lying in an icy puddle. He tried to turn his head to see if he was. He saw his body lying on the floor beside him.