They began to position the stones back into the wall. Bert soon got into a rhythm. He kept an eye on Thomas’s efforts. It was looking good.
When he judged it was noon he rolled his shoulders back. Shep looked up from the chunk of wood he was chewing.
“Dinner, lad.”
Thomas dropped his stone with a smile of relief. How long had he been waiting for him to say that?
“Down where those two walls come together.” Bert pointed and led the way. He clambered over and Thomas vaulted to join him.
“It’s so warm here!” Thomas exclaimed.
Bert grinned. One of those strange quirks, the warmth of the sun was trapped and the wind deflected. He sat down gratefully. Shep settled against his legs. He warmed his fingers against the dog’s skin.
Thomas wiped his hands on his trousers and unwrapped the food. Bert took the coarsely sliced bread, slathered with butter and thick honey. The rich, pungent flavor took him back to the balmy, sunny days when the air resonated with humming among the heather. He shut his eyes and saw the deep purple swathes stretching across the fell side. Nesting curlews wheeled and cried incessantly. He breathed in the warm scent of the flowers and felt the breeze caress his skin.
Thomas nudged him a moment later. “Grandpa! Wake up!”
He regretfully opened his eyes. He must have dozed off for a minute. He licked the last trace of sweetness from his lips, sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. The wind whipped around his face with glee.
“Come on, then. Back to work.”
Their rhythm broken, it was always much harder to get going again. Without pausing to think, Bert lifted a good-size stone. Icy grit stung the warmed chaps on his fingers.
As they toiled into the afternoon, he watched Thomas surreptitiously. Cold, sore, tired. This was what sorted the men from the boys.
The boy was obviously struggling. His hands were soft and delicate, more suited to knitting than proper man’s work. That was what came from years wasted in a schoolroom. Bert could see they were growing red and sore, and Thomas’s face was getting increasingly strained.
The boy picked up a stone and braced it against his stomach. It slipped from his grasp and clipped his foot. Bert winced. Thomas leaned against the wall, pressing his injured foot against his other leg. His lips trembled.
“All right, lad?”
“Can’t we go back soon?”
“We’ve got a job to finish.” Bert picked up another stone.
“But it’s so hard! The stones are freezing; they’re cutting my hands to pieces. My arms ache, my feet are completely numb, and now that one’s nearly broken.” Thomas was almost in tears. “It’s horrible up here. Can’t we do it another day?”
“Snap out of it, lad. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself. To get anywhere in this life, it needs damned hard work. Grit and sweat. Now stop whining and get on with it.”
Bert turned his back on him and carefully slotted a stone into place, taking much longer than necessary. He could hear the boy sniffling behind him. Just as he thought he’d have to challenge him again, he heard him shuffle away and pick up the stone he’d dropped.
Bert looked at the descending sun for a moment to hide his face. He had to be harsh. It was a tough life, and only the tough would make it. He wasn’t going to do much more, anyway.
“Look, there’s some fur on that stone, like a dog’s! Is it Shep’s?” He pulled a tuft of it away and held it against the dog.
Shep snarled and stepped forward. Thomas backed away, his mouth open in shock.
“Shep! Stop it!” Bert poked him with his boot.
The dog’s mouth snapped shut and he slunk back against the wall. When Bert looked at the stone, he understood.
He could feel an inky blackness stretching up from the fur toward his fingers. A chill spread through him as he stared.
It had been here.
Why had it been so careless? But he knew it hadn’t. It was taunting him. I’m here, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
“Grandpa? Are you all right? What’s the matter? Grandpa!”
He looked around. Thomas was looking worried, almost panic-stricken. The tuft of fur drifted to the ground.
“Someone’s dog’s been this way. That’s all. Let’s get back home.”
As they crested the hill, a rumble came from somewhere out east. It reached a slow crescendo before fading away.
“Was that from Hell’s Mouth?”
Bert winced. When was this damned hunter coming? If nothing else, it wouldn’t come near if he was around.
“They use something to blow up the rocks; all the better to get the lead out.” Bert spat and strode faster.
“Dynamite, Grandpa. It’s called dynamite. A gentleman came to inspect the school last week. He’s called Mr. Richmond,” Thomas said, panting as he struggled to keep up. “He told us all about the new ways of mining, and the factories and quarries. He said soon there’ll be roads across all the moors, and railways, too. The countryside will be opened up for industry instead of wasted on sheep. We won’t have to walk across the fells anymore, and everything will get so much easier for us.”
Bert looked away. These beautiful fells, torn apart by roads and rattling wagons, by shouting and blasting, he couldn’t bear it.
“It’ll be amazing, won’t it, Grandpa?”
Suddenly, he felt very old. “I suppose it’ll happen.”
“Mr. Richmond told us about a ‘scholarship.’” Thomas pronounced the word carefully. “We can take exams and maybe go to the grammar school in Hexham, where they wear a uniform and everything. And it’s all paid for. Even working-class boys like us can work in the new industries.
“I could work as a mine foreman. A train driver. I want to work in a big iron mine. Mr. Richmond said industry’s the future. We won’t have to live on the fells anymore, we won’t have to just keep sheep. He said new doors are opening all the time.”
Bert felt like smacking him. Why could the boy not just accept what he’d got?
But this wouldn’t be for the likes of him. If all the boys left, who was going to tend the sheep?
“I’m practicing my reading. I read in the newspaper they’ve found a lot of lead in Hell’s Mouth, and they’re going to build a new road across to get it out. It’s going to bring a lot of revenue”—he looked at Bert knowledgeably—“to Allendale.” He caught hold of his sleeve and tugged him to a halt. “I’m going to do it, Grandpa! I am. I’ll make you so proud of me.”
“Come on, lad. Sun’ll be set soon.”
They walked toward the top of the hill. Shep ran ahead, sniffing through the heather. A grouse flew up and bumbled through the air. Thomas laughed at its insulted chortling chu-chuck chu-chuck. The bird crash-landed in a boggy depression, stumbled onto its beak, regained its balance, and scarpered into the heather.
“When I was a lad, my brother Henry met a boggle just there. He was going to see his lass, Mary Yates from down in the vale. He thought he saw her standing the far side of that bowl, but she took no notice when he called, so he walked down there. Of course, it’s proper wet down there, and it’d been raining, too, so in no time he was up to his knees in filth, and in his best clothes as well.
“Of course it hadn’t been Mary at all, it was just the boggle pretending to look like her. Poor Henry heard it laughing as he was floundering in the mud. Mother was so angry when he got home, peat and muck all over his Sunday suit.”
Bert wiped tears from his eyes as he remembered. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to laugh.
“It used to take on all sorts of shapes to cause mischief—animals, bundles of wood—but that was the first time it took the form of a girl. So be careful, lad. If you see something that doesn’t seem right, it probably isn’t. And you ask Scruffy Joe about the Wooley boggle!”
“Mr. Richmond said things like boggle are just uneducated superstition. We need to move on from things like that.”
Bert stopped laughing. He felt like he’d been kicked in th
e stomach. How dare he speak to him like that?
“Come on and get back home,” he said sharply. He whistled to Shep and strode off.
He reached the top of the slope, still seething, and stopped. The valley opened out below them, stretching toward Allendale and beyond. The tenuous warmth of the sun was rapidly fading and Bert could feel the cool evening air prickling at his skin. He leaned on the wall and gazed outward.
On the highest fells, a smooth white sheen blanketed the ground. Everywhere was tinged pink by the sun, now a dull red orb above Brownley Hill. Sheep bleated in the valley as they settled for the night, and much farther away the rooks cawed as they jostled in the trees.
He breathed in deeply, the chill catching the back of his throat, and smelled the scent of pine. The burn was trickling far below them and he could hear Shep padding about, then sitting down for a scratch.
He glanced at Thomas who was leaning on the wall as well. He caught his eye, silently. A shared moment of perfection, there was no need for words. All hostility was forgotten as they listened to the song of silence, the music of the fells.
The sun touched the horizon and began to sink. The sky erupted into a soft pink, and all sounds died away. The whole world seemed to be watching.
Thomas was absorbed. The look of peace, of wonder, on his face said it all, and the same feeling spread through Bert’s own heart. Everything would be the way it was meant to be. With Thomas, with the future, with everything. All this talk of leaving, the boy’s heart was here. The fells flowed through his blood and his soul sang the song of the hills. How could he ever leave it all behind?
The last distant sliver of red vanished. The sky gave way to a deep blue and the glowing white began to turn gray.
Bert pushed himself up from the wall. “And thus ends another day.”
32
Bran watched as Beth picked her way through the growing crowd, her movement labored and ungainly. Coll’s arm was proudly around her waist.
Someone offered her a seat and she lowered herself down. She had barely half a moon to go. He was surprised she’d managed the climb to his lodge a few days back. He looked at her face but she refused to catch his eye.
She was wearing an iron brooch on her cloak. One of Coll’s new creations. The twisting, weaving design, flanked with wrought leaves, was simply stunning. It was prominent on her breast, but she was trying to hide it with her hair. Coll would have intended it to be more than a symbol of his skill. It was a declaration of battle.
Amid the shuffling, coughing, and hushed excited voices, the crowd swelled. A few latecomers—shepherds and cowherds letting their wards loose to graze—and then the entire village was present.
Waiting on the higher ground in front of the gathering space, Bran carefully gauged the demeanor of the group. Coll and Beth were a little way off to his left, Beth fidgeting in an endeavor to get comfortable. Fearn was close to hand. Mintana was sitting cross-legged by his feet, looking up with solemn importance and gnawing on an apple. It wasn’t often that the youngsters were included in Pridani meetings.
Bran shifted position and leaned on his staff with both hands. A subtle gesture that drew the attention of all present. They fell quiet.
“You all know why we are here,” he said. “It is time to accept that our land is changing.”
His words were answered by a ripple of breeze through the thatch of the surrounding buildings. All eyes were fixed on him.
“It is clear that the newcomers are here to stay. We cannot hope to defeat them. We only have to look at what’s happened to the Iceni and the Brigantes to know that.”
The children were staring wide-eyed at him. They understood it was a turning point in their lives but were too young to understand how. Among the adults, he could see anger, disbelief, denial.
He continued, carefully choosing his words. “One cycle, one turn of the wheel, is coming to a close. A new time is dawning. If we, the Pridani, are to continue into this new era, we will have to adapt. Accept. Change. If we try to fight, we will be crushed. This is our only chance. Our only hope for the future.”
He could see Coll was growing angrier. He shifted from one foot to the other, crossed his arms. Then he pushed forward.
“Just because you haven’t the skill to do anything but cower like a beaten dog! Why you were made Pennaeth, I’ll never understand. You’re just selling us out to them. You’ll have us all slaves in our own land. You can’t get rid of the beast that’s attacking us, and you won’t even try with the invaders.”
Several people in the crowd looked at each other.
“No, Coll. They will win, eventually. And at what cost to us?”
The anger within the gathered people was palpable. Bran stepped forward slightly.
“The invaders will not be here forever. And neither will we.” He projected his voice so the entire gathering could hear. “The world changes, and the people have to change with it. Lives end, so new lives can begin. You all well know that our history tells that story.”
A murmur with an undercurrent of uncertainty. They had wrested the land from the Fomorii, a fact that lingered uneasily in their minds. It could all too easily happen again.
Bran looked pointedly up at the Clenched Fist. Everyone followed his gaze.
Coll strode forward, stood slightly in front of him and turned to face the crowd. The sun was behind him and made his hair gleam like fire. A good position. Coll could see and judge the faces of the crowd, but with the sun in their faces they couldn’t read any weakness in his own. Bran too subtly adjusted his position.
“We need new weapons, better and stronger, equal to what these foreigners have!” Coll shouted. He’d never learned to project his voice well. He just sounded angry.
“I’ve been testing new techniques this last moon. In my new furnace, I’ve made iron blades better and stronger than ever before. Stronger than the invaders’ blades. They will defeat them!”
He paused deliberately. A masterful move. The crowd’s focus changed. Bran saw the interest, hope, and respect reflected in the massed faces.
“We need a Pennaeth who has strength!”
The crowd drew in closer. Bran could see people glancing at each other. His mouth grew dry and he moistened his lips. Fearn quietly drifted to his side, Mintana next to him.
“Coll, you’re wrong,” he countered. “It’s not just weapons we need. The invaders surpass us in every way. We’re just like . . .” Bran looked across the hostile faces, his fingers tight around his staff. “We are like wasps attacking a bullock. They sting, and they die, but the animal is none the worse for it. We none of us have the power to defeat them.”
Coll’s face grew triumphant. “But what about my baby? Beth’s baby?”
All eyes turned to her swollen belly. She looked around uneasily.
“The Horned God himself gave her his essence! My blood will be the future of the Pridani. My baby will lead us into the future. What does that tell us about who should be Pennaeth?”
A murmur of agreement. More people moved to Coll’s side.
“He is going to be the greatest Druid in the land!”
“No he won’t, Coll.”
A sinew in Coll’s arm twitched and his hand strayed to the knife in his belt. The crowd glanced at each other again. A few looked worried. Bran waited just a second longer.
“But she will.”
Coll looked puzzled for a moment, his fingers still on his knife hilt. And then the tension was broken. His face broke into a stunned grin and an excited conversation started in the crowd. Beth grew red as she was suddenly the center of attention.
Everyone knew the stories, and everyone understood what his words meant. A daughter of the Horned God, born into their own people. She would be the embodiment of their land, in a way nobody had been before. Her descendants would be a part of the land forever. Their future was secured, a chain forged by the Gods themselves that could never be broken, no matter what was to happen in their brief lives.<
br />
So it mattered not which of them was Pennaeth now. Both their times were at an end, so that her time could begin.
Bran allowed himself an inward smile, and he felt Fearn’s silent touch of congratulation. Those three words were all he’d needed for them to understand his message.
33
The last bright star winked out and the sky turned abruptly red, as if swathed in blood.
Bert slowly eased his grip off the gun he’d borrowed from Joseph, his knuckles throbbing as the tension released. His eyes felt like they were full of sand, his back was smarting with pain racing up his spine, and his feet were frozen and numb.
He squeezed his eyes shut, the ache lessening slightly, and sought relief in the darkness behind his eyelids. He was tired, so tired. He felt himself drifting into sleep as he stood. He stood for another couple of seconds, then forced his eyes open.
He went around the fold and extinguished each of the lanterns, which were supposed to keep it at bay. The sheep inside looked up at him mutely. No stretching, no eagerness to greet the day, no waiting at the gate for their first bite of grass. The beast was sapping the strength of his flock in every way.
He opened the gate carefully so the jagged tin he’d nailed to the top didn’t cut his hand. It was a futile deterrent. His flock slowly edged toward him. Molly looked up at him, twitched her ears and shook her head. I know you’re doing your best, she seemed to say as they straggled out. He counted them out, hoping and dreading. The last one left and his shoulders sagged.
Not again. How could it have happened?
He checked around the walls. Nothing. Perhaps he’d counted wrong. But he knew he hadn’t. Two missing. He looked around the walls, topped with wood, wire, tin, anything he could get that was hard and sharp. Nothing should be able to get in.
But it had. And he’d heard nothing.
It was all hopeless. He’d tied bundles of rowan twigs at each corner of the fold; iron horseshoes as well. On impulse he’d wedged iron nails between all the capping stones. He remembered when he was a bairn, the older women said the blacksmith was the only hope against the Wee Folk, and they put nails under their cribs to guard them.
The Wolf of Allendale Page 14