The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  He was looking old, he thought dispassionately. When had his hair grayed so much? Then he began to rise and slipped through the smoke hole in the roof.

  He swooped and soared, flapping his wings experimentally as he grew accustomed to the strange sensation. His glossy black feathers hummed as they carved a path through the air. He reveled in his freedom, watching the rainbows dancing across his wings in the sunlight.

  He fixed his gaze on an inviting bare branch high in a pine tree and swooped toward it. The air whistled past him as he plummeted, faster and faster. He carefully adjusted his wing position, then outstretched his talons in readiness.

  He folded his wings at what he judged the correct moment, but it was a little too late and he almost went tail-over-beak. He flicked his wings down flat and spread his tail feathers for balance. His claws gripped deep into the bark as hard as he could, and he at last felt secure enough to look down without losing his balance.

  He could see a deer nibbling tree bark a hundred paces away. Cattle wandered, grazing what meager grass they could find. Farther up the fell, the small black dots of sheep ranged about.

  He heard human voices and looked down through the branches. Fearn was approaching with some of the youngsters, all carrying their bows and quivers.

  “Three apples,” he was saying, “to whoever can hit the target at a hundred paces.”

  Bran saw the exchanged looks of excitement. The group passed beneath him and he carefully stepped around on his branch so he could follow their progress.

  Fearn suddenly glanced back, and their eyes met for a moment. Bran saw the hunter’s grip tighten on his bow. He braced himself to swoop away, but the hunter merely nodded slightly and continued after his pupils.

  Bran opened his beak and dipped his head down in relief. Fearn had never been schooled by the Druids, despite his very obvious natural ability. He’d preferred to remain focused on his one true passion.

  What if he’d chosen otherwise? It would not be Bran as Pennaeth now. The sobering thought focused his mind.

  He shut his eyes and saw the landscape in a new form, one of swirling colors and shapes. The auras of life, seen through the eyes of the soul.

  The people glowed a shimmering red, mingled with a rich blue. The arms of the first archer glowed as he prepared for his shot, then a bolt of energy flew through the air. It struck the ground and the color was absorbed into the earth.

  He took in the trees, a deep rich green. The grass, shrubs, and rocks, the river and the sky. All pulsated with the heartbeat of life. With memory and destiny. He looked across the fell to where the sheep were now a soft, fleecy yellow. A red and blue shape watched over them, sitting in a natural rocky alcove that formed a wonderfully pleasant sun trap. He hadn’t noticed the shepherd earlier.

  Other sheep were being walked up the narrow drove lane that led to the fell near the Clenched Fist. The sheep snatched mouthfuls of grass as they hurried on.

  He saw them all, then. Layer upon layer, shepherds and sheep, a thousand years past and a thousand years future. An eternal memory embedded between the ancient walls.

  He turned again and began to feel across the land, seeking that void of blackness. He went farther and farther. The land passed through his mind as he sought through every crag, every cavity, every valley.

  It wasn’t there.

  A surge of despair. Could it hide its soul as well as its body?

  He had to find it. He traveled far toward the south. On the edge of his soul’s limits, he felt the massive, concentrated, alien force of the invaders. He shuddered at the intense throb of energy, exuding colors he’d never seen before. A strange resonance probed inquisitively back at him. Don was right about their priests: they were powerful. He stored the thought away as he turned his awareness back to the north. The cysgod-cerddwr did not lie in the invaders’ direction.

  A long while later, far in the distance, a hint of blackness. He went closer. It grew bigger, more definite. A void of nothingness among the familiar colors of his land. He’d found it.

  He opened his eyes and found himself in front of a cave, leading deep underground. He recognized the place; nearly a day’s journey from the village, although the beast could cover the distance in, how long?

  Nobody lived near this spot. Not even forage for a handful of sheep. He looked around but could see no physical sign of its presence. No bones, no tracks. He knew his raven’s eyes wouldn’t miss the slightest scrap of flesh. He cocked his head to one side but could hear nothing. It could disguise its presence exceptionally well, but thank the Gods it couldn’t disguise its soul.

  He hopped to the entrance, his wings outstretched slightly, but he couldn’t cross the threshold. Something was repelling him. He flapped his wings hard, but to no avail. When he closed his eyes again, his soul vision was overwhelmed by sudden, suffocating blackness. He recoiled in shock.

  A sharp tug at his back, and as he started to hop around he found himself being hauled backward. He flapped his wings hard, trying to fight the assault, but lost his balance. He was now beak to the sky, his feathers snagging on sharp stones as he was hauled painfully away from the cave.

  22

  A bloodstained skin. A shattered skull, one horn still attached. A thigh bone, splintered by an incredibly powerful jaw. Everything else was gone. Devoured. What had done this, Bert wondered, even though he was the only one who knew the answer.

  He took a long breath and tried to look away. All that time he’d wasted, hoping—pretending—it wasn’t happening. The ruined eye sockets bored accusingly into his face. This was his fault. He’d been entrusted with a task, and what had he done? Nothing.

  Samuel Gatesby’s face was grimly impassive, but his eyes betrayed him. There were tears in the eyes of his permanently cheerful cousin. “My two best ewes, Bert. I really needed them.” He swallowed hard. “I’m ruined now. Ruined.”

  “I’ve got some good ewe lambs; I can sell you some.” He could ill afford it, but he had to do something.

  Samuel nodded absent thanks as Scruffy Joe joined them. He recoiled at the sight and the three men shared a long look. This was every shepherd’s worst nightmare.

  “It must be a monster of a dog, a real brute. Where’s it coming from?” someone in the crowd asked. “Someone must have seen it or heard it.”

  “There were gypsies around in the autumn. They had dogs, didn’t they?”

  There was a murmur of disagreement. “They’re long gone. And their dogs aren’t capable of a thing like this! They’re just for hunting hares.”

  “A wolf?”

  “There are no wolves around here!”

  “There are, though. My granddad, he saw one once when he was a lad.”

  “They’re all long gone.”

  There was a moment of silence as Bert tried to order the turmoil in his mind.

  “What about those people from near Haltwhistle? Moved here from away, a few years ago. They’ve got a house full of animals from foreign places. Lions, tigers, wolves, the lot.”

  Hilda Pinkerley had the crowd’s full attention.

  “Spent time in India in the army, he has. My niece works there as a housemaid, and she hates it there. All these strange servants, dark as the night and won’t speak a word of English. Those animals howling through the night. Like as not, one of his wolves has escaped. That’s what’s done this.” She nodded enthusiastically and smoothed her apron.

  A murmur of relief ran through the crowd. But young Mick, Bert noticed, looked even more distraught.

  “Shouldn’t be allowed!”

  “Disgrace!”

  “It should be found and shot!”

  “Perhaps we can track it?” Samuel asked without hope. “It was over your way last week, wasn’t it, Bert? Is there any sign of a trail?”

  Of course there isn’t, he wanted to cry. “Unlikely, but no harm in looking.”

  “It’s pointless,” Joseph said. “There’s no tracks, nothing. My dogs are frightened of it, whatever
it is. They won’t follow the scent.”

  “But we’ve got to do something. Where would it lair up, a wolf?”

  Bert looked into the distance. A tiny movement flickered over a patch of snow. A stoat, most likely. A search, however futile, would be better than doing nothing. And he needed time and space to think. To work out what he should have done.

  “There’s that flue line past your way, Joe.” Samuel gestured toward the chimneys up on the hill. “It’s partly collapsed near the top—could be a good lair.”

  “Bit close to home, I’d think. How about the crags around Brownley Hill? There’d be plenty of places there for it to hole up.”

  “Aye. It’s four miles, but probably nothing to a wolf. Can’t think of anywhere else offhand.”

  The search was arranged. The three shepherds set off, heading for Wooley so Joseph could pick up his dogs and his guns. It was a nine-mile round-trip; no great hardship. Bert pushed the pace as hard as he could, both to punish himself and to get it over with. The rapid crunch of his boots on snow, ice, and frozen peat beat a rhythm in his head that drowned out his other senses. Your fault your fault your fault.

  The excited barking that announced their arrival at Wooley was almost a surprise.

  The two dogs were kept on long chains at the bottom of the track leading to Joseph’s part of the fell, to deter any sheep who may get it in mind to wander. Guard dogs, watch dogs, alarm dogs. Attack dogs, if need be.

  The brown-coated dog on the left went quiet as it recognized its master, but the second, a black, mangy-looking thing with walled eyes kept barking and lunging despite Joseph’s shouts. Eventually a poke from his stick quieted it.

  “Which one’s had the pups you’re trying to sell, Joe?” Samuel glanced at Bert and grinned with only a little shakiness.

  “They’re from old Meg. The missus has her in the house.”

  “Aye, but which one sired them?”

  “Bloke I met at the market. Champion dog he’s got. First class pups they’ll make, worth every farthing.”

  The clatter of running boots announced another arrival. Thomas, and Joe’s eldest—Hughie, Bert thought, although he could never quite remember—appeared in the yard, still in their school clothes.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “We were let out early for dinner, and I brought Tom to see the pups so he can choose which one he wants.” The boy paused. “We heard what happened, Dad. Can we come and help search?”

  Samuel chuckled. Thomas looked at Bert for support. He gestured noncommittally and looked over at a wood pigeon plucking ivy berries fifty yards away and swallowing them whole.

  “Well, seeing as you just happen to be here . . .”

  Bert looked back to see Joe wink. The boy turned to Thomas with a fist raised in victory. Joe unclipped the dogs’ chains and the black cur slunk forward.

  “Thomas, no! Rip, get away!”

  The black cur slunk back before crouching again. Thomas was on the cobblestones, his face contorted, rolling up his trouser leg. Blood was already dripping onto the ground. Hughie looked on in dismay.

  “Thomas, how many times have I told you about him?” Joe was inspecting the wound.

  Four puncture marks, nothing serious. Just a sore leg to teach him a lesson. Bert dug in his smock for the packet of yarrow he kept on him at all times. He tipped out a few fronds of the plant, spat on his palms and rubbed it into a green paste. He pressed it against the wound.

  “Hold that there,” he instructed. “It’ll stop the bleeding.”

  Thomas winced as the juice stung the wounds. He stared up at him, searching for sympathy.

  “It’s your own fault, lad. Should take better care.”

  Thomas looked down but Bert could see the tears welling. Hughie looked like crying as well. Joseph went inside for his gun.

  The bleeding stopped within a minute. Amazing stuff, yarrow. It could be a lifesaver when alone in the fells. Bert clicked his fingers to Shep as Joe reappeared.

  “Let’s get on. We’ve wasted enough time already.” He didn’t bother to see whether or not the boys were following.

  The three shepherds set off up the hill, and a minute later the boys ran up beside them. Subdued, Thomas moving with an exaggerated limp, but otherwise all self-pity gone. None of the men acknowledged it. If Bert had got himself bitten at that age, neither his father nor his grandfather would have gone as far as giving him yarrow to stop his boot filling up with blood.

  “Hare up yonder, look.” Joseph pointed up the slope to their right. Bert picked it out at once. Pure white except for the eyes and nose, a perfect camouflage against its snowy backdrop.

  “Where?” Thomas said at last. “I can’t see anything.”

  Joseph pointed again. “That circle of heather then come left twenty yards to the rock, then down a bit to the middle of that snow patch.”

  “I’ve got it!” Hughie cried.

  Thomas still looked blank. Bert was beginning to feel embarrassed.

  “I can see it,” Thomas said with relief as the hare began to move.

  “I was thinking you needed glasses for a minute. Your grandpa can spot a flea on a dog’s backside at fifty paces. You’re letting the side down.”

  Thomas half smiled, unsure if that was a joke.

  “Come on, we’re not here for wildlife watching,” said Samuel. “Let’s crack on.”

  They soon reached the chimneys. Part of the old underground flue had collapsed, sealing the downward section with stone and turf. All eyes were drawn to the upper entrance. A narrow track of bare ground led into the tunnel, in glaring contrast to the rest of the ground, which was scattered with detritus and melting snow. Something was living inside. The pungent, musky odor told them what. As soon as Joseph waved the dogs inside, it made a bolt for safety.

  “A fox, look!” Thomas cried.

  It bounded across the snow, the dogs in swift pursuit.

  “Back here! Now!” Joseph shouted.

  The brown collie reluctantly gave up the chase. Rip developed sudden deafness for another fifty yards before ceding to Joe’s increasingly furious holler. The fox zigzagged across the snow and vanished below the rise.

  There was no point searching further—obviously the fox wouldn’t share its lair with a wolf. They cut across the fell toward Brownley Hill, skirting the darker area of boggy ground to the left.

  “Your granddad got stuck down there once, Hughie.” Joe gestured as they climbed up to the crags. “A proper wet April, and he tripped jumping over a stream. Damn near drowned himself.”

  “Was he all right?”

  “Clarted up with mud from head to toe, nearly wrenched his shoulder out, and your grandma was heard scolding him in town. Otherwise, bonny.”

  It was immediately obvious that nothing was living around the crags. Not even a footprint from a solitary grouse in the snow. The party soon turned back for home.

  The low-lying sun still emitted some warmth, and Bert was sweating despite the chill air. The snow was rapidly melting wherever the sun fell on it. Over the tramping boots he could hear the chu-chuck of a grouse down in the valley, a gushing burn swelled by the snow melt, a skylark singing. The melody trickled down through the air and he squinted up to make out the tiny speck amid the blue.

  The song of the fells washed the blackness from his thoughts, and the steady pace relaxed his body. Cursing himself once more for the time he’d wasted, he began to think what to do.

  The first thing he needed was something to imprison the beast in. A likeness so good that its soul would be fooled into thinking it had found its way home.

  He would have to use wood; that was where his talent lay. What it had been originally imprisoned in, he didn’t know. All he knew was that something had enabled it to escape.

  He began to visualize the wolf’s head he would carve, running through every step of the process in his mind. He was confident he could do it. His grandfather had drilled him in every technique and trick he knew
. He’d been renowned for his craftsmanship all through the district—he’d even made a pair of ptarmigan for his lordship’s library—and Bert had inherited his talent. He’d only really seen it as a hobby before, but now he understood the true purpose of his schooling.

  “Old Walter’s place,” he heard Joseph say.

  He looked around. Ellen’s grandfather—his uncle—had lived here. Several years abandoned, already the stone walls were crumbling and an ash sapling was growing in the doorway.

  The girl had struggled up here almost every day, with a pie, a loaf of bread, a half dozen apples. She’d often brought things over to Bert as well, the start of their long friendship.

  He thought back to that terrible day. She’d come running across the fell, her legs and dress spattered with mud, gasping sobs as she threw her arms around him. He’d got there as quick as he could but it was too late. They said later his heart had given out.

  He stood lost in the past for a moment, staring at the ruined building that would never again home a shepherd. Was this to be the future? Was all they lived for, worked for, died for, destined to crumble under the grinding motion of time, reduced to nothing but dust and memories?

  When he looked around he was alone apart from Joseph, who was watching him steadily. “All right, Bert?”

  He took a deep shaking breath but couldn’t answer.

  23

  Bran struggled to right himself but just ended up with a beak full of dirt. He tried to spit it out but his strange thin tongue couldn’t dislodge it. He raked his claws out but they found no purchase on the loose gravel. He twisted his neck around but couldn’t see any sign of his invisible attacker.

  Then it dawned on him what was happening. Why hadn’t he realized at once? Perhaps he had made the drink too strong, after all. It had been too long since he’d done this. The magic was wearing off. His soul, repelled by the danger ahead of it, was rushing back along the fraying spirit paths toward his body.

  He relaxed and hurtled backward even faster. He managed to right himself and watched the cascade of sky and ground passing in a blur until he was sucked back through the smoke hole of his lodge.