The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  He opened his eyes and saw the flames were now dimly glowing embers. He was cold and stiff and a dull ache nudged at his hip. But he knew where the cysgod-cerddwr was hiding.

  Did it know he’d found it? That depended on how good its soul vision was. If it had seen him, it would move.

  Or it would be waiting when he returned to the cave.

  He pushed himself onto his elbow, blinking to clear his vision, and reached for more wood. He recoiled at the strange sensation of rough bark under his fingertips; he’d been half expecting to feel his claws still. He looked down his body to reassure himself.

  The fire kindled into tiny flames and he huddled closer to it, tucking his cloak as tightly as he could around himself and drawing his numb feet close to the heat. When the soul was outside the body for even a short time, the flesh rapidly chilled like ashes in a hearth. That was why the soul was understood to be something akin to fire.

  But then those with the fieriest souls—he thought of Coll—should therefore be the most powerful. The flames danced across his eyes as he thought about Coll, and Beth, and Beth’s unborn child. An idea began to form in his mind, but as with the lingering effects of the potion, it refused to be pinned down.

  There was a scrape on the door drape, which at once dispersed his fragmented thoughts.

  “Come in,” he called as he got himself up. To his disordered mind the sound was rather like the squawk of a raven.

  He wasn’t surprised to find Beth struggling to duck her unwieldy body through the door. Thoughts triggered events, and those events themselves triggered the thoughts that preceded them.

  Beth hesitated as she took in his slumped posture and obvious chill, then her eyes went to the dregs of the drink, the contents immediately familiar to her. Her head twitched as she noticed the distinct aroma of the nightshade lingering in the heavy air. She gave him a quick smile of understanding and apology, then came farther into the room.

  He tottered slightly as his numb feet betrayed him, then focused. He could see she wasn’t ill, in pain or agitated. Rather, she seemed sad, weighed down and lethargic. As he looked at her, slightly off focus, he was aware of a dullness in her vital energy. Of course the loss of her son had devastated her, but something else was troubling her as well.

  “What ails you, Beth?” He guided her to a stool against one of the roof poles.

  She lowered herself down and leaned back gratefully against the timber, one hand supporting her belly, then stretched her feet out in front of her. Her ankles were swollen, he noted.

  She pushed her limp hair back from her face and raised her eyes to him. He seated himself opposite on another stool, grateful he’d managed the maneuver without his body betraying him.

  “I’m worried, Bran. Worried and frightened.”

  Her fingers plucked at a stray thread of wool on her cloak. “Ever since Raith died, I’ve been feeling, more and more, that all our past, all of our existence, is being swept away. I worry there’ll be nothing left when this one reaches adulthood.” Her hand compulsively stroked her belly.

  Bran tried to gather his thoughts, threw more wood on the fire. He had to think carefully. She was right, of course, but he had to disguise that from her.

  “You feel the same?”

  He started and looked into her cool gray eyes. Curse that drink! It had befuddled his thoughts too much. Better she’d come when he’d had time to recover.

  He chose his words carefully. “I saw the King Stag, wandering in his dying moments, not far from the Clenched Fist.”

  She nodded slowly. There was no need for him to explain further.

  “Will we survive?”

  “We will always survive. We are a part of the land, and the land will survive forever. We may not recognize or even like what we are to become, but we will still be here.”

  A finger of wind crept past the door drapes and swirled an eddy of smoke between Beth and himself, clouding and distorting Beth’s face. For an instant he saw another face looking back at him, young but as old as the land, gentle but unconquerable, transient yet immortal. He shivered. The breeze stilled and the image was gone.

  “My baby,” she continued, her eyes carefully on his. “Coll is saying when he’s born, he will become a great leader on account of his parentage. A Druid.” She swallowed. “Pennaeth.”

  She waited for him to respond, her face expressionless. Although loyal to Coll, she was also loyal to her village and its people.

  “I know what people will say, Beth. It will come to a challenge and battle for leadership. I know well what may happen, but no one can stop the future. It will be the way it’s meant to be.”

  That was the truth, he thought. And the truth would test everyone’s faith in the time to come.

  “What will happen will strengthen us,” he said calmly. “Who leads the Pridani into the future will be the best leader. And we need the best leader.”

  She smiled then, with sad, resigned acceptance. They both knew that individual lives were naught but the merest flicker, as transient as a leaping spark or a dying star in the sky. It was only when all were combined—into the eternity of the night sky, into the glowing flame of life—that their true value became manifest.

  “Coll is adamant it is to be a boy.”

  She sat up straight, looked around the hut, then searched his face. “It’s just a woman’s feeling, I haven’t said anything to him, but I wonder if it is to be a girl.”

  “I believe the same.”

  He saw the jolt in her body, the shock as her feeling was confirmed. Her mouth fell open slightly.

  The babe had been conceived during the Beltane festival last spring. The smoke from the great fire, the symbol of rekindled fertility, had blanketed the celebrating crowd with a thick haze. But everyone had seen the shadowy figure appear. And they had all seen the horns rising from his head.

  The shadow drifted through the crowd, entrancing all those present, including himself, and then took Beth by the hand and led her away into the night. What had happened, she’d never disclosed, but it was no surprise to find she was with child.

  What would the future hold for the babe? The question had been pondered by all and voiced by a daring few. A child fathered by the Horned God himself, he would become a Druid surpassing all others. A warrior, a leader, a Pennaeth. An Arch Pennaeth.

  And if it were a girl?

  Only women could truly resonate with the ebb and flow of the Goddess. Only the female was the true vessel of life, the symbol of hope, of the future. That was why he’d carved the hind and not the stag as the village talisman. And this girl child, sired by the Horned God himself, would carry the inherent nature of both the Goddess and her Son, unite the Two into One. A phenomenal blend of spirit and strength.

  And the timing could be no accident. The land would need this strength like never before.

  Across the hazy room, their eyes conveyed all this without words.

  Bran was the first to break the silence. “You’re right to say nothing about it. It’s a revelation that should be announced to the people as a whole; it will have great repercussions for everyone. I would be grateful if you would keep it to yourself for a while longer.”

  24

  Bert would have to carve the head from hawthorn. The tree of the spirit world, standing sentinel at the doorways into the realm of shadows. All children were warned of the dangers of playing or falling asleep beneath it. The beast would be drawn to this familiar presence in a strange world, making his task so much easier. Now he had to find a suitable piece.

  The tree emerged, ghost like, from the early morning mist. Bert shivered as he stood beneath the bare, cold branches, gnarled by nearly a century of growth. Only a handful of bright red berries remained, lending a meager splash of color to a bleak world.

  A starling landed on the topmost branch with a screech, then hopped down to gobble a few berries. It eyed him accusingly for a second, then retreated farther up the branch.

  He laid his ha
nd on the thick roots, which twisted into the ground. The wood would be perfect. But somehow, it felt wrong to desecrate this ancient tree.

  Use your intuition, his grandfather had said. You will know when you have the right piece.

  Although this would be perfect—aged and mature, a dream to carve—it didn’t feel right. He hesitated for a second.

  He’d take it anyway. It was unlikely he’d find a better piece, and he didn’t have the time to search farther.

  He took out his mattock and laid the cold blade experimentally against the root.

  He felt it shudder; he was sure he had. The starling took flight.

  He lifted the mattock away and the mist silently breathed around him. Was that a sigh of relief he’d heard? He looked uneasily over his shoulder.

  The indistinct forms of rocks, sedge, and heather swum in and out of the fog. The silence enshrouded him. Even the familiar presence of Shep was missing. This was a ritual he had to perform entirely alone.

  Use your intuition.

  With an impatient sigh he struggled to his feet. He carefully noted the position of the tree so he could return to it if necessary, then walked on.

  He walked for most of the morning, examining every hawthorn that grew in the shelter of the long valley. None of them were suitable. He began to wonder if he would ever find what he was looking for. Maybe he’d been right the first time. That the first piece he’d found had been perfect; surely that wasn’t a coincidence?

  He looked back along the valley. He could barely see a hundred yards, and the tree was nearly four miles back. His trousers were clinging to his legs where the damp had soaked through them, the myriad tiny droplets that had formed on his hair had condensed to trickle down his neck, and the dampness of the grass was seeping into his cracked left boot.

  Trust your instincts. What should he do? He stood there for a long moment.

  A loud screech behind him and he turned. Perched on the path he’d been following, looking sideways at him with a glimmering eye, was a huge raven. The gleaming, midnight blackness of its feathers was a stark contrast to the gray dullness around it. He stared, transfixed.

  The raven bent its head and began to preen at its wing feathers, never breaking eye contact. Then it hopped a few steps along the path, farther up the valley. With another loud caw, it spread its wings and merged into the fog.

  He looked after its vanishing form. He saw ravens all the time. They were a plague on the newborn lambs. But it did seem as if this one were trying to tell him something. Hesitating just a moment longer, he followed it.

  After another hundred yards, yet another hawthorn emerged from the murk. He hurried up to it. It had at some point—around fifty years ago, he estimated—split into twin stems. A combination of weakness and wind had brought down the nearest. The broken stump formed a natural jagged bowl full of rainwater. A few yellowed leaves floated on the mossy surface. He looked down and his reflection shimmered back, ghostly and insubstantial.

  He studied the fallen trunk, dry and hard. He could see the grain clearly, and as he half closed his eyes and squinted, he could already see the trapped form of the beast within it.

  He took out his mattock again. This time, as it touched the wood, he felt peace. Trust your instincts. This was the one.

  It cut away easily, going willingly to its fate. When the piece was safely in his pocket, he laid his hand on the trunk and offered a silent message of thanks before turning for home.

  Three days he had to spend on carving his talisman. Why, he had no idea. But the trapping ritual had to be held on the night of the full moon. That was the night after next.

  What should he do? The instructions were meant to be followed exactly, but that would mean waiting another month until the next full moon. He couldn’t do that.

  Surely one day’s difference wasn’t that important? He could carve the head in two days easily. Should he do that, and undertake the ritual at the full moon? Or do it in three days’ time, a day late? He stared at the still formless wolf’s head.

  He would spend two days on the carving, he decided. He couldn’t see what difference an extra day made, but the moon may be important. He was sure it’d be all right.

  Before he began carving, he needed to spend at least an hour in meditation. Purifying his soul. He settled himself against the icy stones as the chill sun hovered over Brownley Hill. He was well used to this, at least. The shepherd’s life had taught him well.

  He sat and watched the sun deepen into red as it sank lower. Thomas would never manage this. He still had a long way to go, to learn to be at peace with the world around him. As soon as he was away from that school, he’d realize then.

  The chill prickled at his face as he breathed in the frosty scent of the fells. He could hear sheep near and far blarting as they settled for the night. A blackbird cackled in the valley as it claimed its roosting spot.

  The sun touched the distant fell side, and he felt something else. It touched him, seared through him, surged through everything around him.

  He held his hands instinctively toward the sun and felt its heat spark through his fingertips, his arms, down his spine and into the ground. He’d never felt this before.

  Alive, in a way he’d never known.

  The fells, the sheep, the blackbird. They were a part of him. Linked in an eternal web of life.

  The sun became a sliver of red and vanished, leaving a red tinge in a rapidly darkening sky. He laid his hands down. The vision faded, but as he stood he felt it seething within him.

  It was time. He was ready.

  He went inside, settled by his fire and began to hew the rough outline. He stared at it, visualizing the form within which he would bring out.

  He could see it perfectly. He’d never seen a wolf before, but from somewhere within him, its soul spoke to him.

  Something shifted around him. The air became harsher, sharper. He looked around the room, saw Shep slumbering, the peat smoldering in the hearth. He was sure he could smell burning pine.

  The stone walls flickered out of focus, moved outward, became smoother, rounder. Then he was looking out across the fells.

  Not the same. He knew that at once. Far, far back in time, farther than he could imagine. Under the chill moon he saw the wolf pack, jostling each other as they raced across the heather. The leader stopped suddenly, stared toward him, ears pricked in a question.

  Shep whimpered and the vision was broken. Bert was on his stool again, surrounded by stone walls, dizzy and disorientated. The flames had died down, as if an hour had passed. But he could still sense that gaze. Intelligent, inquisitive, smoldering with that untamable rawness that was the fells. He’d never imagined this. He knew it would define his creation.

  He shut his eyes for a moment. He looked at the wood again, at the knife in his hand.

  It had to be marked with his blood. To seal the bond between him—his soul—and the creation that would imprison the beast. The only way he could draw the beast inside it.

  He held the blade against the back of his arm. Pressed slightly. His skin tingled. He steeled himself, then drew it sharply across. Blood welled and trickled down his arm.

  He held the gash over the wood and watched the blood drip down. It splashed onto the wood and stained outward into the pale grain. More drops followed.

  He stared. He could feel the world shifting again.

  The droplets grew bigger. Pooled into the white linen, soaked outward across the bed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except clutch at Janet’s hand, stare at her pale, ravaged face, too weak now to even cry out. He was dimly aware of the activity, of the women’s urgent voices.

  His fault.

  She’d wanted to wait until they were married, but he’d persuaded her in the end.

  She’d been three months pregnant when they were wed. Half a year ago. A lifetime ago.

  If only, if only.

  Janet jerked and a strange expression crossed her face. He
heard whimpering and turned to see the woman cleaning mucus from the baby’s face. Its face was swollen and blue. It was hurried away.

  “Mr. Allenston. He needs to be baptized at once. What name shall I say?”

  Janet’s eyes drifted shut. It seemed so long ago, when they’d talked about names. Guy, after her father. George, he’d insisted.

  “Mr. Allenston?”

  “Guy,” he heard himself say.

  The priest’s words came from far away. Minutes. Hours. He didn’t know. The world turned black.

  Bert realized his arm had stopped bleeding. The red had stained deep into the wood and dripped onto his trousers.

  He scrubbed his arm with a cloth, focusing on the raw pain as the gash opened up again. He had to focus, although he could hardly look at the wood now, filled with the most terrible moments of his life.

  He forced the memories back forty years and gripped his knife. He had work to do.

  25

  Bert put his knife down, flexed his aching fingers a few times, then held up his handiwork. The savage visage of a wolf glared back at him.

  He narrowed his eyes and looked at it without blinking. He sensed the twitch of the nostrils, the ripple of muscles as the lips slowly pulled upward, the stirring of fur in the breeze. He saw his vision of two days ago, crossing centuries of time to touch him on the shoulder.

  He opened his eyes fully again and put the carving down. No life was really trapped within the wood.

  Not yet.

  As was his habit, he stained the creature’s eyes. A vivid blue, he decided. He’d never heard of a wolf with blue eyes, but for some reason it felt right. Trust your instincts. Then he wrapped it securely in a bundle of wool. It shouldn’t be touched or even looked upon until the ritual was in progress. Wool at least, he thought with an ironic smile, was something he was well equipped to provide.

  Next thing, he had to prepare the drink. This was supposed to free his spirit and enable him to both see the beast and do battle with it. Rowan berries; they of course were just outside. It seemed right to use those from Janet’s tree, and he picked a basketful. They were slightly underripe, but hopefully that wouldn’t matter.