The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  “Bran, it’s Beth. She’s not well. She’s bleeding. Too much, the women are saying, and it’s still too early. We’ve tried raspberry-leaf tea but it does nothing.” His eyes were pleading. “It’s because it’s such a burden, the babe of a God, isn’t it? If she can’t birth her . . .”

  Bran’s mind was still lingering in the trance world. He forced himself to concentrate. Coll had given her the remedy everyone was familiar with, but he was right. In her case the burden was too much.

  “She must rest. Keep her lying down, so the weight of the babe doesn’t push itself free.”

  “Yes, I made her do that. She wanted to make more swaddling clothes, but I said that can all wait.”

  “Give her an infusion of motherwort. And goats rue as well. Boil the leaves, add honey, leave it to cool, and then strain it.”

  He went to the chest, where he kept his stocks of herbs and found the two plants at once. He handed both pouches to Coll who tucked them into his cloak with the merest tremble in his hands.

  “Don’t worry. If she wasn’t capable of carrying the babe, the Horned God would not have chosen her as his vessel. They both will be healthy and well, but panic will taint her womb. Faith, Coll. Faith.”

  Coll swallowed and nodded. “I just don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  The fire spat and made him jump. He looked around nervously.

  “I’d better go. How goes . . . ?”

  Bran nodded without speaking. Coll turned to leave.

  “Is there any other news?” Bran asked.

  “Don came back. We told him we will make no decision regarding war until the spring. He didn’t like it, but he accepted your decision.” Coll smiled with an easy confidence Bran hadn’t seen before. Their eyes met for a second, then Coll turned toward the entrance, raised a hand in farewell, and was gone.

  Bran turned back to his fire and relit the lamps. When he’d settled his mind back into its hypnotic state, he removed the sheepskin.

  The memories coalescing around the stone were tangled and fractured.

  Panic. Terror. A nightmare plunging toward him.

  Cold eyes, gleaming red. A window into a world of macabre, writhing shapes. He screamed as he ran, plunging through the ashes, uncaring as the embers seared his skin.

  Empty moorland. He’d gone the wrong way. He spun around as talons pierced his shoulder. Razor-sharp pain as blood flowed.

  Empty moorland. The same. He sprinted every way, any way, always toward nothing.

  He could taste blood. Smell blood. Hear a howling more terrible than the scream and clash of warring armies. He saw the chaos of blades and shields. The shadows swallowing the slain.

  Torchlight. Grass. Ashes. He was scrabbling toward nowhere.

  Luisa pulled him up, gripped his face between her hands and stared into his eyes. He couldn’t remember what she’d said, what she’d done. But then he saw again the dying fires, and the three ravens perching silent on their poles.

  They were the totem of the Morrigan. The Dark Goddess. The Lady of Crows. The Carrion Eater.

  He now had a choice.

  The visions had marked him. She had marked him. She had shown him what lay beyond the veil, in worlds where only Druids ventured. He had received his calling.

  His choice. Heed it, or walk away.

  He understood honor, duty, prestige. He understood the power the Druids wielded.

  He understood the terror as his mind had been flayed open.

  He was ten years old. He accepted his calling.

  Every day, every ordeal, every terror he had to face, he was reminded; it was his choice. He could walk away, any moment he wanted.

  He never ran away again.

  And eventually, he knew he never would.

  The memories wound themselves into the stone. Drawn inward by the spirits that hungered for them. He watched them go, smiled grimly. This was who he was. This was who would defeat the cysgod-cerddwr.

  He slid his hands from the stone and picked up his tools. It was time to bring his creation to life.

  Another day dawned and died before he prized his stiff, dusty fingers from the handle of his blade. He flexed them and a sharp ache shot through his hand and wrist. He blinked and looked at the wall, struggling to focus. He felt light-headed and dizzy, and pain throbbed in his temples.

  But he’d done it.

  The shadows swirled expectantly and the air hummed with tension.

  “Your assistance was invaluable,” he said formally. “I and the Pridani and the future Pridani thank you.”

  He blew out one lamp with a sharp breath. Some of the shadows died away. The vibration in the air eased a little.

  “Return to your realm, to your eternal rest.”

  He blew out the second lamp.

  “Your duty is fulfilled, there is no need to remain.”

  He blew out the third. The hum, already far away, spoke of something unfulfilled.

  “Until we one day meet again, in the land of the afterlife.”

  His voice betrayed no emotion. A debt was owed. And he knew what the price would be. He blew out the fourth candle.

  The last shadow vanished and the disquieting presence was finally gone. The hut was now lit only by the glowing embers in the hearth. He made up the fire high and when it was blazing brightly, he held up his creation.

  The fierce eyes of a wolf stared back at him. Its ears were pricked, the hairs carefully defined. The lips curled back in a snarl, the fangs acutely prominent.

  The eyes, though, were dark and empty. The stone was not alive.

  Not yet.

  36

  One night of peace. One night without loss. That Bigley fellow must have done some good, trooping up the fell with three men to carry his guns, netting, and snares. He’d set up camp across by Chat’s Fell, in a spot he’d decided was out of the wind. “Obviously that’s the direction the creature’s coming from,” he’d said.

  He’d have seen nothing, of course. But neither had Bert. The man had warned it off, if nothing else.

  The hunter had rigged up some fancy cloth net, supposed to disguise him and his army from all unwary eyes. Bert looked up and saw the net, fluttering in the breeze, clearly visible in the growing dawn. He couldn’t help but laugh. How he’d managed to shoot as much as a sparrow in his career, he didn’t know. He laughed until he was bent double with weakness. One night without it. He’d never felt so good.

  Thomas was coming up the track. The boy searched his face for news.

  “It didn’t come last night? I saw Mr. Bigley’s camp up there. He could shoot it easily, I think. Has he?”

  Bert shook his head. “No, lad. He hasn’t caught a whiff of it.” He started to laugh again.

  They both looked up the hillside to where a figure was emerging. It stretched, looked toward the rising sun and began to walk down toward the road. His outfitters started to pack up his kit.

  “Off to his lordship’s parlor for port and kippers, no doubt.” Bert shook his head. “But anyway, we’ve got hurdles to make.”

  By midafternoon they’d got a good stack done. Thomas had managed three. Not bad for a first attempt. Bert twisted the final willow lath around on his last hurdle.

  “How’s it going, lad?”

  Thomas glanced around, and the lath he was struggling to bend snapped.

  “I thought it was going well!”

  “Never mind. You’ve done a good job.” He pulled the stopper from the bottle of cold tea and took a swig. Much better warm, but no chance of that in this weather.

  He offered it to Thomas, who shook his head. “Ginger beer; that’s what I like.”

  Bert smiled indulgently. “Got to learn to like tea, lad. You won’t get on in the world unless you do.”

  Thomas checked his hands. Bert almost winced at the blisters across the bases of his fingers. And the boy hadn’t complained once. He didn’t let him see his smile of pride.

  “Those willows”—Bert gestured as Thomas picke
d at a blister—“will be ready for coppicing next year. We cut them every seven years—willow grows fast. Hazel and ash need much longer to regenerate.”

  The boy wasn’t really listening. He was focusing carefully on his work. Bert swigged some more tea.

  “Grandpa? What would happen to Cousin Ellen if she wasn’t married?”

  “What do you mean?” The words came out cold and harsh.

  Thomas blushed and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “They say she should be going to the poorhouse. Would have done if Jack hadn’t married her.”

  “Who’s saying that?”

  “Mrs. Pinkerley. I heard her when I went to the butcher’s for Ma.”

  That damned nosy shrew.

  “Ellen is respectably married. Her baby will be born legitimately. You’ll do well to remember that.”

  Thomas concentrated on his hurdle for a moment. “But why? Why do women have to be married when they have children? Why can’t they be like the ewes and rear them on their own?”

  Bert could hardly stop himself laughing. “It just doesn’t work like that.”

  “But why not?”

  “Women need a man to look after them.”

  “Why? Are they stupider than men?”

  “Not as such. But they can’t do the hard work that men do, obviously.”

  “They couldn’t run twenty miles across the fells. They’d be tripping over their skirts the whole time. But you live on your own. And Aunt Maud lives without a husband. I’m sure one day it will be done.”

  “Maud’s a widow; that’s different. If she could find a husband who’d take on another man’s children, she’d remarry in a day.” Bert looked up at the sun. “We’ll take these hurdles back now, then fetch the ones on the fell. We’ll be keeping the sheep close to home for now.”

  They set off up the hillside. Bert could barely keep up with the boy, he realized with dismay and pride.

  He thumbed the familiar contours of the wolf on his stick, and Thomas was still admiring the grouse’s head on his own. He’d been as delighted as he’d hoped with his gift. Now he was a shepherd proper.

  “Mam said you’ll find it hard soon, living on your own. You’ll be much better off when I’m living with you.”

  Bert snorted. “There’s still plenty of life in the old dog. At least she’s not saying I should move into town.”

  Thomas grinned. “She wouldn’t dare. But with your bad hip and everything . . .”

  “All the more important you get away from that school and up here, eh? You’ll make things a lot easier for the old man.”

  Thomas was silent, staring across the valley. A skylark floated up on a wave of song.

  “When Grandma died”—Thomas searched his face—“why did you never remarry? Dad says you were very young. And then you’d have lots more grandsons than me.”

  It was Bert’s turn to be silent. He remembered the joy, the hope, the worry, the despair.

  His fault.

  The thought of it happening again.

  “Sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I loved her. I could never replace her.” He turned away.

  “Come on, let’s get home.”

  The sheep were waiting in a huddle at the fold gate. They got them penned in, the gates secured, the lanterns lit. There was nothing to do but wait. The ground was hardening and a mist of swirling condensation materialized from their breath. The familiar feeling of dread began to rise as Bert saw the first stars appearing in the deepening blue. Would it come tonight?

  “I ought to go, Grandpa. Will you be all right on your own?”

  He nodded. He couldn’t risk the boy getting hurt. “That Bigley fellow’s out there somewhere. Assuming he isn’t sipping port in his lordship’s drawing room. He should scare it away.”

  “You don’t think he’ll be any good?”

  “Of course he won’t. Guns and traps are useless.” He stopped himself.

  “But he’s hunted lions! He’ll get it, Grandpa. I’m sure he will.”

  “We’ll see. Get off home now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I can’t.” Thomas didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s Monday, I need to go to school.”

  Bert’s never-ending worry boiled over.

  “What nonsense is this? Stop wasting your time with all this reading! You need to be up here, learning something useful.” He stabbed his crook into the ground and felt it flex under the pressure.

  “But this scholarship, I really want it. I can do well, really well! I’ll make you proud!” Thomas stared at him desperately. “You said life needs damned hard work, and that’s what I’ve got to do.”

  “Don’t you swear at me, boy!” Bert was shaking with anger. “Look at everything you’ve got, everything you’ve been given. And you just want to throw it all away. Your future, your responsibility, is here on these fells! Not in some town. Not in some mine. It’s time you learned to understand that.”

  “Grandpa, it’s you that doesn’t understand!”

  “No, Thomas!”

  They glared at each other. Shep began to whine. They both looked down, and the dog crept to Bert’s feet.

  “I’m going home.” Thomas turned and strode off, beginning to run as he reached the track.

  Bert knelt and rubbed Shep’s neck, watching Thomas disappear into the twilight. He had the horrible feeling that something was disappearing with him, never to be seen again.

  37

  The sound was heart-wrenching. You’d never think a sheep could scream, but scream she did.

  For a horrible moment, Bert thought it was Molly. He grabbed his crook and ran. Where was that damned Bigley?

  Of course, wherever the beast wasn’t. It would make sure of that.

  They were already scattered, the gate hanging from one hinge, but he could see the white bundle against the wall, smattered with dark brown. Blood just looked dirty at night.

  He rushed toward it, although he knew it was too late. He ignored Shep’s frantic barking. The beast, visible only as a void, an empty space against the background, moved. Crouched down, ready to attack. He didn’t care. He just wanted it to leave him alone.

  It was tensing. He raised his crook. The shadow lunged.

  Something hurtled past him. The momentum as Shep ploughed into the beast was enough to knock it off balance. The shadow slewed to one side but still an immense weight crashed into him. He spun and fell hard. Spots of light danced in front of his eyes. Something punched into his ribs and a searing pain spread through him as he tried to force air into his lungs.

  He could hear barking, was aware of another sound, indescribable but terrible. He wasn’t sure if he was really hearing it. More a primeval feeling, of nightmare.

  Shep. Where was Shep? He had to get him away from here. He tried to call him but no sound would leave his lips. Now, he felt afraid.

  He struggled to move, found he couldn’t. His legs refused to obey him. His fingers reached out but just slid uselessly along the icy ground. He could feel a warm wetness running down his cheek. A hellish chill crept over him. He tried to look around but could see nothing but blackness. Were his eyes open? He couldn’t tell.

  A roaring filled his ears. Ravenous teeth tore at his soul.

  Around him, above him, strange metallic birds glared down from wooden poles. Ravens. He stared in terror as they turned to face him.

  One flicked its tail and stooped, then all three hurtled toward him. He tried to scream as something unnatural, primeval, savage—even more than the beast—devoured him.

  The rush of a thousand wings. A screeching he recognized. Ravens, fighting over a barely dead carcass. He tried to cover his face, his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut, although it wouldn’t do any good.

  It did nothing to lessen the vision before him. He was surrounded by them. The world he knew faded before the onslaught.

  He felt as if he were being lifted in the air. Feathers fanned his face.

  He’d heard of angels
carrying the saved to heaven. He knew he was looking into the jaws of hell.

  The crow. Bertram.

  The words floated through the air. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined them.

  More words he didn’t know. They resonated like those of the old language.

  Morrigan. Bran. Y cysgod-cerddwr.

  They made no sense in his delirium. He felt as if he was far away, cocooned, as some savage force tore at a distant barrier.

  The crow.

  He saw a shadow prowling a distant hillside. The palpable raw menace faded as it drew farther away.

  Janet, clutching his hand. Our baby, she whispered.

  A young boy, standing unafraid as wraiths twisted around him.

  Something else. Something important. He couldn’t understand what. He tried to look farther, to see what he had missed, but then everything faded away.

  The first thing he felt was cold. So cold. A dull gray hue lingered around him.

  Morning. He’d been there for hours. All night.

  He struggled to sit up, shaking his head to clear the swirling fog. A raven was perched on the fold wall, watching him. It hopped a step closer. Bobbed its head, waiting. He clutched at his face in sudden panic.

  Undamaged. He’d suffered no assault from their vicious beaks. He lowered his trembling hands.

  There was something at his back. Soft. Furry.

  Shep had lain next to him, in his hour of need, to lend him the warmth of his body. His heart swelled. His dear old friend, how had he known? He’d saved his life. He reached out to stroke his fur in thanks.

  Then a sense of strangeness entered his mind. Something was wrong. His hand felt sticky. The fur was cold. Very cold.

  Blinking hard, he managed to clear his vision. A half-open, glassy eye looked into his. One leg was almost torn away, a huge hole gaped in his side. The trail of red showed how far he’d crawled, in his dying moments, to reach his master’s side.

  Bert stared at him. He reached out to rub the stiff cold ears, then bowed his head and cried.