He’d taken from the beams upon which they still hung the plaited straw angels his Janet had spent summer days making. He stroked the dusty straw with a calloused finger, wondering if the memory of those magical days would help.
It didn’t.
He’d bound it to him, and nothing would stop it returning. He kicked at a stone with his boot, the impact jarring his leg even through his numb foot.
Shep was whining at the door, frantic and forlorn. He rushed out, sniffed Bert over, then relaxed under his caress. Bert hated to leave him inside, but what else could he do? The dog was so vulnerable himself.
His eye alighted on the feeble excuse for a wolf’s head he’d attempted to carve. A rushed and botched replacement. He knew he’d already lost. There was not a flicker of life in it; even he could see that. The beast would never be fooled.
He picked it up and hurled it. It hit a bush and the sheep nearby bolted for safety. That made him feel even worse.
He went inside, poked at the cold ashes in the hearth. He’d been gone so long even the last ember had died away. He slumped to the floor. Shep crept under his arms, and he held him tightly and shut his eyes.
The banging on the door woke him. He looked around blearily, wondering why he was on the rug. His mouth felt full of mulch and his eyes stung. As he struggled to his feet the door opened and he was struck by a rush of icy air.
“Grandpa! Guess what?”
Thomas bounded into the room, slammed the door behind him, then stopped. “Grandpa, what’s the matter? You look awful. Has the wolf been back?”
Bert nodded weakly. Thomas gave him a look of sympathy.
“That’s what I’ve come to tell you. That hunter, the one his lordship’s bringing up, he’s here! He’ll kill it for us now. He’s got huge guns, far better than those of Cousin Joseph’s, and he’s coming here now! They went to Mr. Gatesby’s in a motor car.”
The boy hopped from side to side. “It’s amazing! Big and silver and black. I’d love to have a ride in one! But anyway, Mr. Gatesby said you had the worst of the problem, and they should see you instead. So they’re coming now; they’ll be at the track soon.” Thomas looked at him expectantly.
Bert rubbed his eyes and went to the door. The sun was high and the sheep were white grazing dots.
As they walked down the hill Shep, who was running on a short way ahead, suddenly froze, one front leg in the air, and stared toward the rowans. A low growl emitted from his drawn back lips.
“What’s the matter with him?” Thomas looked the same way.
Bert felt a chill come over him. That’s where he would find them. The ones that had gone. He’d take his lordship and that wretched hunter over there and show them just what the problem was.
“Look, he’s here!”
The rattling, coughing motor car, belching smoke and fumes from its rear end didn’t really need announcing. Thomas was staring as the motor car eased to a halt. A few children were racing up the lane to see.
Bert stopped and waited as the two gentlemen began to extricate themselves. Thomas stood at his side. His lordship approached, flicking his walking cane in front of him.
“Allenston. I hear you’ve had a spot of bother with a wild beast.”
Spot of bother? Spot of bother? Bert’s hand tightened on his crook. He saw himself driving it into his lordship’s pampered, perfectly shaved face.
“Gatesby tells me you’ve had the worst of the problem; are there any dead animals for Mr. Bigley to inspect?”
Bert took in the leather jacket, the carefully polished boots, and the flamboyant hat that the big game hunter sported. Already he was having to hold the hat as the wind whipped around them. The pompous, city-bred prat would get absolutely nowhere.
“There were two last night, over by the rowans.” He gestured, turned, and strode toward the trees, not waiting to see if the men followed.
“Have you hunted lions, sir?”
Bert gave Thomas a whack around the head, but Bigley turned to look down his nose at the boy. “I have, my boy, and savage ones, too. Man eaters: they killed two of my own men.” He smiled disdainfully. “Their heads are on my wall. Your little problem should be easy.”
Thomas’s mouth fell open. Grandpa, I don’t want to be a shepherd. I’m going to hunt lions. Bert walked faster. He could hear his lordship breathing hard as he struggled up the slope. Bigley, though, he seemed to be coping with the pace, he thought with a grudging respect.
He found them immediately. On the grass, as if specially laid out. Thomas cried out as he saw them. Bigley went up to them, careful not to get blood on his polished boots.
Of the first, there was a head and nothing else except the skin. Even the bones had gone, crunched up by immensely powerful jaws. The second was nothing but skin, the wool matted with red, and a thighbone, gleaming white. A strange smell of burned iron mingled with the stench of blood.
Bert steeled himself and looked at the eyes of the first, still retaining their expression of absolute terror, then turned away. Jack-in-the-Box, the ewe that had so amazed Thomas by jumping up to eat the ash leaves that day. He recognized the markings on her face.
“Hmm, yes, well, quite.” His lordship looked shocked.
Bigley prodded the remains with an experienced air. “Yes, I’ve seen the likes of this many times. A wolf, definitely.”
“A wolf would not have eaten the bones, sir.”
Bert saw the flare of anger in Bigley’s face. “My good man, I have hunted animals around the world. I know more about wolves than you ever will. Kindly leave me to make the judgments.”
“Mr. Bigley is a good friend of mine, Allenston. He’s doing us a great favor, coming to help us with this problem. So, what do you propose?”
“I and my outfitter will search for trails and lairs.” Bigley waved his hand in the direction of the fells. “There’s always scope for local help, of course, but I feel in this case there will be no need.” His gaze traveled disdainfully over Bert and the massing crowd down by the motor car.
“There’ll be plenty of places for it to hole up—cave, rocks, and the like—up on those hills. Then I’ll lay bait in likely places, and when it comes . . .” He smiled grimly. “Its head will soon be adorning my wall.”
“We’ve already searched for its trails and lairs,” Bert said, but the gentlemen were already walking off, satisfied with their plan.
He went to fetch a shovel to bury the remains.
34
“I still think we need to fight them, Bran. They’re like dogs. They’ll never give up until they’ve taken everything we have. What’s happened in the south says we have to fight. Better die in battle than die as starving rats.”
Bran handed Coll a cup of mead. “They can’t afford to waste many warriors up here. They’re stretched to their limits already. Let them build their forts, let them build their roads. They’ll crumble to dust eventually. Nothing lasts forever.”
Coll nodded slowly as he looked into his mead. It was as if his unborn daughter had already doused his temperament. Would the babe have that strange red hair? The two men sat in silence for a while, lost in thought.
“How are you going to imprison the cysgod-cerddwr? I can forge a wolf’s head if you need me to. As real as life itself.”
Bran looked at him. Coll’s face was sincere and open. He’d almost forgotten how much Druid training the smith had done. The wolf was the closest earthly likeness to the cysgod-cerddwr, but there would be no need to create the entirety of its form. The head was the seat of the soul, of life itself. That was why so many otherworldly beings could only be destroyed by decapitation. So many stories had now become legends, but all were based on truth.
“I’ll carve it with stone. I don’t doubt you can do it, but I have to create the image myself.”
Coll nodded. “If you need anything, just ask. It’s a hard battle to fight alone.”
He’d misjudged the smith sorely, Bran realized. A humbling thought.
&nbs
p; “There was something I was thinking of. A better tool for working the stone.”
Coll sat up straight. “Tell me.”
“Like a chiseled blade, but curved to reach the inner surfaces. Flat and blunt on one side, sharp on the other. I’m not sure how it would be done. But I must start the work tomorrow.”
Coll was looking at the smoke hole with his eyes half closed. “I can see it. It would be difficult, but I can do it. The furnace is still hot; I’ll have something for you by morning.”
Then he was gone. Bran looked at the closing door drapes and shook his head. What had it taken to finally reconcile them? But it had happened when it most mattered, which was the important thing.
When Coll returned to his lodge the next day, he’d forged the tool even better than Bran had envisioned. He’d added a curved handle as well, for better control. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself?
Coll was looking at him with barely suppressed pride, and they clasped hands.
“Thanks, Coll.”
When Coll left the lodge, Bran began his preparations. By the time the sun was close to the western horizon, he was nearly ready. He placed his bear’s skull on the post outside his lodge. Took one last look at the village below, and closed the drapes on the door, submerging himself in darkness.
Three days of isolation. Three days of fire and rush light. Three days to form the prison of the cysgod-cerddwr which that contain it safely in this world forever.
No one could disturb him. The task involved himself, his totem, the ancestors of the Pridani and the Gods he called upon. If these forces were disturbed, the reprisals could be severe. The skull, radiating the winter sun, was a warning. People would glance nervously at his lodge and make the sign against the evil eye. Mothers would hush their children, cowherds would still their animals’ bells, all fearful of some malign attention.
Bran lit four bowls of beeswax, finely worked so they barely guttered, and positioned them around the lodge. The darkness retreated toward the eaves. He glanced around, but they weren’t here. Not yet.
He threw the dried stems of wormwood and mugwort onto the fire. The parched woody stems flared up at once and the pungent aroma filled the confined space. The smoke tingled his throat and lungs as he took the pot of simmering water and prepared his drink. Infused with wood sage, beech fungus, hazel, and yet more wormwood, sweetened with plenty of honey, it would open his eyes to see the inherent image in the stone.
He turned to face the fire and began to sip his tea, making a point of relishing every drop. Already he could feel the familiar buzz as the honey entered his blood and the magical components of the plants wove themselves into his soul.
To create an image of anything, whether with stone, wood, paint, or metal, was to capture a part of its soul. But this task was far more intricate than that. He couldn’t just create an image of the beast’s soul. He would need to capture the entirety of it.
To do that, he had to create a likeness so good that the beast, separated from its body in another realm, would be fooled into believing it had found its home.
And when it was drawn longingly to it, he could bind it so it could never again escape.
Bran studied the block of stone he’d selected. Durable, eternal, but also easy to shape and carve. He half closed his eyes and visualized the form of a wolf emerging from it. He let his mind drift and watched the head turn, look at him, then tip back and howl. Somewhere far in the distance across the fell, another wolf answered. The jaws snapped shut and the eyes again met his in challenge.
He reached out his hand to touch the virgin stone and the wolf’s form retreated. But it was in there, waiting.
This wasn’t a task he could do alone. He began to speak, drawing down the powers of the spirit world, invoking the ancestors from their eternal slumber. Calling all those who would aid him in his task.
As he uttered the final invocation, the fire hissed. Flames surged upward as if a burning branch had split open. The shadows dancing around his lamps took on shapes, twisting and writhing, drawing closer to him. He concentrated on his heartbeat and the heartbeat of the earth.
“Who calls us? Who disturbs our peace to draw us back to this world of death?”
The words, cold as the midwinter wind, unforgiving as the moorland crags, brittle as a splinter of ice, came from everywhere and nowhere.
“I am Bran, Pennaeth of the Pridani,” he silently answered.
The flames shivered.
“The cysgod-cerddwr must be removed from this land. It is not a being of this world. I require the assistance of those from beyond the veil. You must lend your help.”
The shadows crept closer. A sharp chill stroked his neck, along the vein that took blood to the skull. He knew not to flinch.
The pressure grew sharp. A popping sensation. He could feel blood coursing down his neck, his chest, pooling into the earthen floor.
“The Pridani must be freed from the cysgod-cerddwr. It must be imprisoned, and your power will strengthen its bonds. Three days, and then you will return to your land of life.”
His voice was calm. He couldn’t allow the slightest suggestion of weakness. He concentrated on his breathing, on the pulse of life echoing around him.
A smell of earth, of decaying leaf mulch. The blood loss made his head spin. He had to fight not to slump to the floor. The shadows crept closer.
“Lend your strength to my knife. I must begin work at once.”
The words took all the strength he had, but they were cold and clear. The pulsing blood was dwindling to a lethargic trickle. Sparks danced across his vision. He couldn’t hold on much longer.
A sensation like a bubble bursting. The blood stopped flowing. The shadows writhed about him. Over the aroma of the burning herbs, the lodge was filled with the delicate perfume of beeswax.
Bran touched his hand to his throat. Clean. Uncut. He smiled.
He picked up the stone, arranged his tools about him, and began to work.
It took him a day to shape the rough outline. Only his innate senses, the tides of the sun and moon flowing in his blood, told him of the passing time.
He put down his tools and gazed at it through the smoky atmosphere. Blurred, indistinct. But he could see the nascent form of the cysgod-cerddwr emerging from the hazy stone, drawn outward by the spirits he had summoned.
But every action caused—needed—a counterreaction. For the carving to capture the soul of the cysgod-cerddwr, it would also need a part of his own soul.
He felt a shiver of disquiet. He laid his hands on the stone, watched the surface ripple under his fingers. Something in his mind urged him to tear them away. He could feel the invisible touch of the spirits, like the brush of a spider’s web, reaching out of the stone to grasp them. He forced himself to submit.
He knew what was needed. His memories, his past. The moments that had made him who he was.
The time was clear in his mind. As he recalled it, he saw it forming in front of him, a shadowy scene drawn greedily into the stone.
He was ten years old. Old enough to have known better.
It was Samhain night, and he looked at the deserted, dying bonfires with the thrill of a boyish dare. Embers pulsed in the cold breeze. A charred branch suddenly blazed up. He could smell the rich, fat meat still lingering around the empty spits.
He glanced around for observing eyes and sought what he was looking for. Luisa, the Pennaeth, was a smith of phenomenal talent. She had forged three iron ravens for the Samhain rituals, and Bran had the strange, overpowering urge to gaze upon them. He’d slipped from the village walls at near midnight, after everyone else had safely returned inside.
He’d almost turned back, more than once. Cringed at every rustle, every snap of a twig. He knew what lurked the land on Samhain night.
He could see them now. They gleamed black, red, white, in the firelight. He caught his breath as he looked up at them. He could feel the strength in the talons gripping the poles, hear the breeze ripple thro
ugh the feathers, outspread for balance.
Sense the predatory gaze upon him.
He stepped back, his mouth suddenly dry. Looked over his shoulder. The village walls seemed a long way away.
He looked up at the nearest raven again. It met his eyes impassively.
It had moved. Turned to face him. Its wings were drawn in, ready to swoop.
He stepped back, spun to see the others. The same. One bobbed its head slightly.
The realization rushed over him. The sickening understanding that everything that lurked in the depths of his every nightmare was real. As his every security was ripped away, the three metal birds screamed toward him.
35
The stick pounding on the wall post broke him sharply from his trance state. The image shattered.
“Bran? Bran, I must speak with you. There is a problem.”
He recognized Coll’s voice. The man was both foolhardy and very stupid.
He stared desperately back at the shimmering air. Only fragments like teardrops remained. Could he recover it? He knew how hard it would be.
He eased his hands from the stone. A sucking sensation as his past—and his future—were released. He took a moment to recover his presence. There was no further sound from outside. At least the smith was not so foolish as to try and enter.
He took a sheepskin and covered his work, his tools, and the discarded chippings, making sure there was nothing left in sight, then blew out the candles. The shadows retreated to the edges of the lodge, out of sight. He went to the entrance and pulled back the hides a fraction. The piercing sunlight of a new dawn made him shut his eyes, tears rising sharply.
“Come in, Coll.” His voice was harsh and cracked after a day of silence. He withdrew back into the gloom.
Coll hesitated, then ducked through the drapes. The darkness retreated for an instant, then flooded back. Bran watched him as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He looked at the wax lights, still smoking, at the sheepskin with its unknowable contents. His nostrils twitched at the powerful herbs in the air and his eyes flickered around the shadows of the room. He made the protective sign against the evil eye and his eyes came back to Bran with nervous dread.
The Wolf of Allendale Page 15