The other things—mugwort, wormwood, broom—were trickier. He tried to think where he’d seen them growing in the valleys in the summer. Most plants had died down for the winter, but he managed to find a few wilted stems. At least they weren’t covered by snow anymore.
It hadn’t occurred to him before, but there was nothing in the instructions about keeping a stock of the ingredients. Perhaps at one time—like he now kept yarrow—it was simply routine for whoever guarded the secret to keep stocks of useful plants.
He boiled the ingredients in spring water until they formed a gelatinous red liquid, interspersed with flecks of gray. It smelled awful. He stirred it a few times, his stomach already twisting at the thought of having to drink it, then set it aside to cool. Shep planted his paws on the bench and sniffed the pan.
“Get away, Shep!” Bert grabbed hold of him and pushed him down. The last thing he wanted was him upsetting it. Or drinking it.
The dog dropped down and went to lie by the stove, head on his paws in a sulk. Bert went to the door and looked out. The sun was around two hours from setting. He’d have to leave soon.
A nervous lump formed in his throat and he breathed in slowly and carefully, forcing his nerves away. The light-headedness and the pounding in his chest he attributed to the day’s fasting.
He’d decided on the location awhile ago. A natural spring down in the wood by the town. The Well of Saint Bride, it had been called in his youth. He was probably the only one who remembered that name now. Stones had been arranged to enclose the waters in a small pool before it trickled on. The beast couldn’t cross water, apparently, like all beings from its world, so the spring would form an ideal prison once he had it trapped.
He remembered being taken there at Candlemas, or St. Bride’s feast day, by his big sister Elizabeth and her friends when he was a bairn. St. Bride was the guiding influence for young women on that twin ordeal of their lives—marriage and motherhood. He’d watched the girls dropping early-blooming flowers into the water as they intoned the name of their desired sweetheart. All the girls used to come here, trying to see the face of the one they would marry.
Now, the path to the well was barely discernible. The stones were covered with moss; leaves and twigs filled the stone basin. No one had visited it for years.
He could hear the steady trickle of water rising up through the rocks, and he knelt and scooped out as much of the debris as he could.
The slimy mass seemed to spoil the harmony of the site, so he gathered it up again and carried it farther into the wood, burying it under some of this year’s leaves.
When he returned the water was running freely, unimpeded by the detritus of time. It had washed away the remaining leaves, and he could see the bottom of the pool clearly. The trickling sound relaxed him. The shrine was restored. The ritual would work.
He knelt and looked into the sparkling waters. Saw movement. He bent closer.
He recognized her at once—her hair, her smile.
Janet was watching Guy by the sheepfold, playing with some wooden animals he’d carved. She looked so young, so alive. The pride in her face, as Guy stood on his squat little legs and toddled off. Above them, a raven circled.
Was this what could have been? Should have been?
Had she ever come to the well to find her sweetheart? Watched this same scene?
And it had all gone wrong. Bert couldn’t stop a tear welling in his eye. He blinked hard. The vision was gone.
He started to stand, then saw a flash of red. As he bent closer again he saw Ellen, tired and thin, fussing over a perambulator. A fuzz of red hair beneath the blanket.
He felt a flash of pride that the Allenston trait had survived, although it looked like she hadn’t carried the bairn well. There was a shadow about her, something black, miasmal, as if something had tainted her. He knew at once what it was.
And then he saw why.
He saw himself, talking to her, confiding in her. Telling her the secret.
The raven again, circling back and forth, back and forth.
It was nothing for a woman, he knew that. Especially in her condition. The consequences . . . He could never let her be hurt. He couldn’t bear it.
He understood what he had seen. Knew what he had to do.
As Ellen leaned toward him, her eyes gentle and urging, as the words formed on his lips, he touched his hand to the water. The image shattered.
Bert shut his eyes for a second. She was safe now. Whatever happened, he’d succeeded there.
He stood up. The air was rapidly cooling now, less than half an hour until sunset. A blackbird was cackling deep in the undergrowth. The water seemed louder now, as if to compensate for the deepening gloom.
He worked quickly, laying out the prescribed pattern on the ground. A five-pointed star with a candle at each point. He marked it out using ground chalk and salt, then enclosed it within a circle that touched each point. Three yards across, it had to be. He paced it out to check.
At each of the five points, next to the candle, he placed a single piece of rowan, hazel, hawthorn, heather, and oak. Then a raven’s feather by each. Each one he’d had to acquire without causing harm, else their protective power would be destroyed. The four woods were easy enough, but he’d had to walk over a mile to find a broken stem of heather—high on the fell, battered by the last gale. He recalled where a pair of ravens had nested last spring, and found several feathers still under the tree.
Then he placed the carved wolf’s head in the center of the pentagram, checking that it was equidistant from each point. He unwrapped it from its woolen shroud, careful not to touch it.
The blue eyes bored into his, and he realized the woods had fallen silent. The blackbird was quiet; not even a leaf stirred.
Gripped with a sudden panic, he blindly stepped backward, aware of nothing but the terrible pull of those eyes. It was as if it were alive already. He could feel the world shifting, sense the wolf of his vision padding out of time toward him.
He stumbled out of the circle and tripped. The gaze of the wolf’s head was broken.
When he regained his balance he could hear the water running through the trees again. A slight breeze fluttered through the branches above him.
He looked around the clearing. The candles made the surroundings seem darker. There was nothing but a looming, empty gloom beyond their power. Was it out there, watching him?
Was that a flicker of movement he could sense, well out of reach of the circle of light? He had to hurry.
He pulled the bottle from his pocket and began to drink. It tasted vile, despite the honey he’d stirred into it. It was all he could do not to spit it out. He tried to gulp it down as quickly as possible, then gasped for breath. He swallowed a few times, trying to get rid of the aftertaste, then stepped back into the circle. His throat and stomach were burning and he was getting dizzier. Had he forgotten anything? He didn’t think so.
He planted his feet in the northern point of the star, the rowan point, breathed a quick prayer, then drew his body up tall.
He lifted his chin and intoned the sacred words, the words of the old language.
“Dewch yma. Dewch yma. Dewch yma.”
It was the summons. The command that would draw the beast to the battle.
He waited, straining to see or hear any sign that it was working. Nothing.
He stood motionless, concentrating. Somewhere in the distance he heard a dog bark.
How long had he been waiting? He had no idea. He felt slightly sick and his left leg was trembling. Was that because of the drink? He didn’t know.
He tried again. He said the unfamiliar words carefully, pronouncing each syllable as clearly as he could. Again, nothing.
His heart began to thump. Had he remembered the words wrong? Fifty years was a long time. He ran through every part of the ritual in his mind, just as he’d been told while sitting at his grandfather’s feet so long ago. He was right; he was sure he was.
But what abo
ut his grandfather, or his father before him? Maybe they had remembered something wrong. Was all the carefully preserved knowledge worthless? Desperately, he tried a third time.
It was nothing definite. More a sense that something was there. A sense of blackness, a void lurking on the edges of his awareness. A faint rustling from the trees. The roosting blackbird took flight.
A thrill prickled over his skin. He felt a flicker of fear in the pit of his stomach, and then a calm readiness.
It was here.
He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again it was onto a new world. A greenish light bathed the trees, the glow of the candles penetrated deep into the gloom. The edges of the circle and the pentagram glowed a bright white, and a pulsating multicolored glow shimmered out from the pieces of wood and feathers. The carved head was radiating a pale blue light. He looked down and saw a stream of silvery sparkles drifting from his fingertips.
Beyond the circle, just on the edge of the ring of light, he could see an indentation. The circle was bowing inward. As he focused on that point, the indentation moved, beginning to circle around him.
“Dewch ifi,” he said, soothing, alluring. He traced a line in the air from the head to the shadow. The sparkles from his fingers coalesced to form a shimmering thread connecting the two.
“Dewch ifi.”
He carried on speaking the mellifluous words, and he thought he felt the beast sigh with pleasure. The thread condensed and he felt it draw inward, unresisting. It wanted it to be over. It wanted to go home. The ritual was working.
Just as it entered the ring of light, the movement stopped. The light was repelling it, he realized. It couldn’t come any closer.
Carefully, he drew a new thread between head and beast. Using only his mind, he began to pull it inward, gently, carefully, so as not to alert it to his true intention.
Sweat began to bead on his brow and run down his face. He began to shake. It wasn’t going to work. The ring of light was too strong. He couldn’t draw it through.
He gasped for breath, holding tightly to the threads. There was only one thing he could think to do. He would have to break the ring to allow it to enter.
He left his spot, making sure he didn’t disturb the threads, and went to the edge of the chalk circle. He’d been told he mustn’t do this, but he could see no other option. And the beast was quiet, tamed. It wanted this to happen as much as he did. It would do him no harm.
Reaching out with his boot, he scuffed the chalk and obliterated a small piece of the ring.
Instant he realized his terrible mistake.
The ring of glowing white began to unravel, whipping around as if in a gale. The candles guttered and a gust of wind blew the circle of chalk dust into nothing. The pentagram remained intact, but Bert was now outside of it. He lurched back in panic, then stumbled and fell. He crashed to the ground next to the carved head, pain jarring through his wrists and hip. Then he saw with horror that his fall had snapped the fragile threads.
He grabbed the head, thinking to try and reconnect them, and the glowing iridescence blinked out.
The beast was free. And it was angry.
The illusion shattered, the beast saw the head for what it really was. It prowled closer and closer toward him.
Its invisible glare transfixing him. He couldn’t move. All he could do was lie there, waiting for it to take its vengeance. He couldn’t even feel afraid.
It circled again. He could feel its presence moving behind him. He shut his eyes and waited. He could feel the icy cold raking over him and his fingers began to numb. He’d failed. His responsibility, his duty, and he’d failed. He saw Janet’s face in his mind. Failed.
He silently recited the prayer he’d said every day since he could remember, over and over, clinging to the familiar, soothing words. A faint candle glimmered in the darkness, wavering under the onslaught of the void. He concentrated on the light. On Janet’s face. The bairn she’d never seen.
Thomas. Ellen. Everything he was fighting for.
The blackness was tearing at him with invisible claws. He clung on. He thought he could hear the cry of a raven, a flurry of frantic wings.
After an age, the storm eased.
He was aware of the leaf litter, cold against his face, and inhaled the pungent, earthy smell. He opened his eyes.
The candles were burned to meager stumps. The raven’s feathers were arranged in a circle in front of his eyes. It sent a shudder of horror through him.
He pushed himself up and looked around. The head he’d so carefully carved was shattered into a thousand splinters. The beast was gone.
But he could still feel its taint, deep in his soul. It had seen him. And it would be back.
26
The winter was beautiful really, Bran thought. True to prediction, snow had fallen during the night and rapidly turned to ice, although it was nothing compared to what the Cailleach could really do if she wanted. He strode up the rocky slope, using his staff for balance on the icy ground. This was the highest peak in the area, and it also marked the midpoint of his journey to the lair of the cysgod-cerddwr.
He couldn’t banish it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. But he could trap it in its cave until he was.
The slope leveled out and the wind, now unhindered, whipped gleefully around him and cut into his lungs. He pulled his cloak over his mouth as he paused. The peak had been used as a viewpoint for generations. Legend had it that it was here the Fomorii had first seen the arrival of his forebears. The irony was not lost on him.
He could clearly see that cursed road in the distance. Formed of laid stone, the road glowed a stark gray in the low winter sun, announcing its ugly presence and the presence of its creators. It slashed across the moor, arrow straight like a sword scar on a warrior’s body. A symbol of division, in more ways than one.
And also, it was a symbol of the way forward. For people, for tribes, for countries. The thought surprised him. With a grudging admiration he saw the true reason for its creation. As Don had said, if one day he was forced to meet some of their priests, he would have to see them as equals.
As he studied the glimmering road, ignoring the vicious wind out of long habit, he made out a figure. He strained his eyes and decided it must be a journeyman or a trader. Moving too slowly, head down, bowed under the weight of his packs. Too normal, not at all like them. And they would never be out alone, anyway.
His toes were growing numb, despite the thick wool stuffing his boots, and he turned back to the trail. That the Pridani themselves were starting to use the road was a sign of defeat in itself. Convenient. Easier. Much better than the grassy trails they were used to—gentle and noninvasive but soon churned to mud by feet and hooves.
The symbol of division was becoming a symbol of compromise and adaptation. He knew then it was here to stay. That one way or another it would carry them into the future.
He glanced at the sun. It was only just past noon, but although the Long Night was nearly a moon past, the days were still short. He had to reach the cave before sunset.
A raven flapped into the air from behind a cluster of rocks as he passed, squawking indignantly at his intrusion. A second one followed. What were they feeding on? A sheep, maybe. But no sheep came this way.
He picked his way across the rocks until he saw it. A brown hairy leg, the skin torn in places, and then a section of antler partly encased in snow.
He knelt beside the carcass of the King Stag and laid his hand on the once noble head. The empty eye sockets met his gaze with an air of futility. All things must have an end.
He stared at it for a long moment.
When he stood up, it was with a growing sense of coming loss. Could he prevent war, provide peace? For his people’s sake, he had to. He hurried on.
Downhill now, on the southern side where the sun had turned the ice to squelching grass. He covered a thousand paces in a short time. It was nothing compared to his years as a Wanderer, when he’d traveled from on
e coastline to the other. From flat, marshy land in the east which exuded chill gray fog, to the jagged black mountains scattered with heather and gorse in the west.
A lark flew up from just under his feet as he hopped over a bare outcrop. He slipped and twisted his ankle. He paused, flexing the pain away as he watched the bird singing wildly as it weaved through the air. It seemed to be a peculiarity of the species. He’d often observed them singing while in full flight from a hawk, and he had meditated on the oddity. He’d come to the conclusion that the hawk would abandon the chase much quicker when his prey had the strength to both fly and sing.
The lark decided he was not a worthwhile threat and fluttered quietly down to a rock where it began to preen. Careful not to disturb it again, he jogged on.
The grass gave way to thick heather. The woody stems deposited a layer of slushy snow over his legs as he passed. Despite his tight leather gaiters and boots, the damp soon began to seep through the seams. The woolen stuffing absorbed most of it, but he’d still expect to have blisters by the time he got home.
Another three thousand paces and he paused to drink a few handfuls of water from a spring. It numbed his fingers and burned its way into his belly. He wiped his hands dry and carried on. At the top of the next rise, he’d see it.
The cave was a slash in the hillside, gouged into the rock by an eternity of the Cailleach’s winter torrents. He had seen similar caves with tunnels stretching two thousand or more paces into the hillside. He had no idea what awaited him here.
He pulled his raven cloak tight around his body, making sure nothing of himself was visible, then dropped the hood over his face. Entirely disguised by his totem, he moved silently and carefully down the slope.
He could feel it now. A sense of niggling disquiet, barely palpable to the senses but enough to warn away any casual intruder. He forced himself to ignore it, to concentrate on his footsteps. On the edge of his vision he thought he could see a gray mist exuding from the entrance.
The Wolf of Allendale Page 11