The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  38

  “Has he had any success, this Mr. Bigley?” Ellen was looking at Bert with obvious concern.

  He shook his head. “Two weeks he’s been here, and he’s got nowhere. He’ll never find anything.”

  He could hardly believe it. Two weeks.

  Two weeks since it had taken Shep. Two weeks since he’d seen Thomas.

  Hora fugit. The hour marches on.

  “Don’t be so disheartened, Uncle. This’ll be sorted out.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Have something to eat, you’re not looking well at all.”

  Bert sat down wearily, no strength to argue, and Ellen handed him a slab of fruitcake. “How many is it now?” she asked quietly.

  “Too many.”

  But he’d give them all, just to have dear old Shep back. He stretched his hand down toward the floor out of long habit, but of course the comforting, soft nose wasn’t there to touch his fingers any more. He snatched his hand up again and rubbed his eyes.

  “What else is it, Uncle?” Ellen’s gaze was shrewd. “There’s something else as well, isn’t there?”

  What could he say? It was his responsibility to destroy it, but he’d tried and failed. It was a burden he couldn’t hope to fulfill. Not now. He’d failed.

  “It’s nothing, lass.” It wasn’t right to tell her. She was only a woman. Barely even that. He still thought of her as a girl. And she had problems enough of her own.

  “How’s it with Jack?”

  She seated herself on the settle. “He’s trying to get more work, but it’s not easy. And he drinks so much . . .”

  She was looking tired. And very pregnant.

  “I see he’s been digging the garden, though.” He tried to sound pleasantly enthusiastic.

  “It was so I could grow flowers. I’d love to grow flowers. He said he’d get it ready for me. But he hasn’t found time to touch it for weeks now.” She could hardly keep the tremble from her voice.

  A clamor outside. “They’ve found him! They’ve found him!”

  He looked at Ellen and raised his eyebrows.

  She shook her head and leaned back tiredly. “Must be Richard Pilcher. He never made it home two days ago. His wife was getting worried by last night. He usually manages to remember his way home by midmorning.”

  Through the window Bert could see a crowd massing. He obviously hadn’t been found sleeping it off under a haystack.

  He stood up wearily, the weight of guilt already gnawing in his chest. He would have to go and see. See what other horror was to be burdened on his failure. Ellen started to rise as well.

  “No, you stay here, lass.” It was no sight for a pregnant woman, whatever it was going to be.

  “Uncle . . . ,” she said, fixing him with worried eyes. “Please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  He gazed at her, remembering his happy, perfect moment, already over a month ago. That faint candle in the darkness. He had to try and hold on to that feeling. He nodded. “I will, lass.”

  And he went out to join the crowd.

  As he reached the corner someone dashed out and narrowly avoided colliding with him. Mick Pinkerley. He looked distraught when he saw who he’d nearly knocked over.

  “Mr. Allenston . . .”

  “Get out of the way, boy!”

  The boy kept pace as he strode along. “Um, Mr. Allenston?”

  Bert ignored him.

  “I think something really bad might have happened.”

  “I know that, boy. Keep out of my way!”

  “No, I mean . . .” His words were lost in the crowd.

  A pair of young boys pushed through the legs of the adults, eager for a glimpse. Bert saw their grins fade, replaced by horror. One covered his mouth like he was going to be sick. He pushed his way through the throng, still clinging to the faint hope that the man had fallen. Maybe been struck by a cart.

  But this was no accident. His throat, gaping and bloody, was testimony to that. His hands were red and torn where he’d tried, hopelessly, to fend it off. A single bloody footprint was left next to his face, taunting them. It was over six inches across.

  “The wolf?” he heard someone whisper. Disbelieving, pathetic, hopeful.

  A murmur spread. Everyone in town had lately had the sense of something lurking in the darkness, on the edges of rationality, but this was the first time it had made its presence so blatant.

  He saw Mick stagger to one side and lose his breakfast in the ditch.

  “Someone bring a cart!” Bert shouted. Pilcher may have been a drunkard, but he had a family. A widow. Three fatherless daughters. An infirm father. All destined for the poorhouse. Because of him.

  He looked around the crowd, imagining their eyes on him, accusing and angry. And so they should. It was his fault.

  He heard the motor car long before he saw it. That cursed hunter was coming. The crowd parted to allow the vehicle through, then closed behind it.

  Bigley paused to carefully arrange his hat before climbing out. He swept a speck of dust from his jacket and strode toward Pilcher, swishing his cane to clear himself a path. No one backed away very far.

  “Unfortunate, of course,” he declared as he straightened up. “But if he will walk about at night, hopelessly drunk . . .” He turned aside.

  A ripple of anger spread through the crowd. “When are you going to catch it?” someone shouted.

  Bigley looked over the crowd, trying to ascertain who had spoken. “If any of you had the slightest understanding of wild beasts, of the intricacies of hunting big game—”

  “Balderdash!”

  “You’ve no idea!”

  “Our livelihoods, our families!”

  The crowd drew in closer. Bigley stepped back, glancing toward his motorcar. “I have set traps, lures, laid bait and poison. I have searched for lairs, trails, and prints. I’ve done my best,” he finished lamely.

  A ripple like thunder ran through his audience. Bigley took another two steps back until he reached the ditch bank, holding his cane defensively in front of him.

  Bert went to his side. “Leave the man alone,” he said quietly. “He’s done his best, but he knows nothing about the fells. We all knew he’d get nowhere.” There was no point taking it out on the ridiculously dressed fool.

  Bigley glanced at him, bridling but wisely remaining silent.

  People glanced at each other. Bigley took the opportunity to hurry through them to his motorcar, pulling his hat down farther over his face as if it would help him escape.

  As the machine spat and smoked its way down the road, Bert noticed the Pinkerley boy again, staring at the cart on which Pilcher’s body was being laid. His face was etched with horror, and something else. Guilt. Anyone would think he was responsible.

  Bert looked up at the fells, at a kite soaring far up in the sky. What was he going to do now? He would have to try again. Carve yet another head. Perhaps this time—

  “Mr. Allenston?”

  “What?!”

  Mick cringed, as if expecting a blow. Bert caught himself. He was only a boy, after all.

  “What’s the matter, Mick?” he asked, more kindly.

  “Something terrible’s happened.” His face crumpled, and he was about to cry.

  The boy worked in the mine now. In Hell’s Mouth, Bert remembered Hilda telling him. And he’d been telling the children tales about monsters.

  A sudden beam of hope shone into his mind.

  39

  Imbolc dawned. Halfway between the Long Night and the Equal Night of spring, it was the festival of birth and beginnings.

  The tension in the air was audible to Bran’s ears, more so than it had ever been before. A deep hum throbbed all around him and through the rocky ground beneath his feet, descending in waves to the village below. The earth herself was quivering with anticipation. Today was a new beginning in so many ways.

  Nine months after Beltane. Beth’s babe would be born today. It was also the full moon. His prepa
rations were complete; his carving was finished. Today he would complete the binding ritual to imprison the cysgod-cerddwr.

  He looked up at the Clenched Fist, the first rays of sun illuminating each finger. A beginning could only follow an ending. What was to end?

  It would not be the Pridani. Bran nodded to himself as he weighed the leather bag in his hand. He could feel the power and energy of the wolf’s head, despite it being well wrapped in wool, the only substance that would absorb or leach none of the infused magic.

  He was ready. He breathed in the sharp Imbolc air and felt it surge through his body. He looked forward with calm confidence.

  He banked the fire high so he would have warmth when he returned that night, then strode down the crisp hillside to the village.

  Cowherds called their charges, children ran and squealed, skidding to a sedate walk as they passed him. The smell of baking bread lingered in the air and he could hear the rhythmic swish of querns on the grain.

  He reached the Meeting Place, and soon everyone was gathered. Beth, with Coll’s arm supporting her, looked exhausted, a sheen of sweat on her face. He watched her lean against Coll’s bulk. Mintana stared at him, her face a mask of awe, then burst into tears. She quickly stifled her sobs.

  Bran met the eyes of every one of the people under his leadership and guidance.

  “Today is a new beginning. The beginning of the future.” His words rang around the high walls.

  He fell silent. There was no need to say more.

  He saw something cross Beth’s face, a wave of shock and pain. She cried out, clutching at Coll’s arm. Her nails dug into his skin.

  Her first birthing pain. Bran was surprised at his rush of feelings. The women were already gathering like a flock of sparrows. Beth gasped a deep breath as the pain passed.

  Coll’s thick arm was supporting her while he stared between her and Bran, his face stricken and helpless. Men were all the same.

  “Coll, get her to the birthing hut. She will need support on the way.”

  The smith nodded quickly, masking his panic.

  Bran placed his hands on Beth’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “The Goddess is at your side, Beth. She’s watching over you.”

  She managed a quick smile before another pain took her. The women had gathered furs, water, absorbent moss, and everything else. A couple were already running towards Bride’s Well to prepare a fire. The birthing hut had stood here for generations. The Maiden Goddess watched over all women as they left her ward and entered the wardship of the Mother.

  “And Coll, don’t worry.”

  As women fussed, men stood uncertainly, children pushed to see the start of this legendary event, Bran turned and walked from the village. A kite soared high over the Clenched Fist as he took to the path. Almost nobody saw him go.

  40

  “What do you know, Mick?” Bert fought the urge to shake the boy.

  “You know those stories, that the devil was trapped in Hell’s Mouth by a saint’s prayers, hundreds of years ago?” The boy looked up nervously, searching his face for signs of encouragement.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I think we may have let him out.” He shuffled from foot to foot. “We found something in the cave. Something happened, and then all this started. I think this is all our fault.” His voice shook. A few people looked their way and Bert led him to one side.

  “What did you find?”

  “A stone head. It looked like a wolf. George Templeton found it. I told him not to touch it. It was evil, I could see that. But George, he picked it up. And something left it. It was alive, and then it was dead. And that’s what’s doing this, isn’t it?”

  Mick’s eyes were fixed on him with something like terror. “That’s why no one can kill it. Because it’s the devil himself. No one believes me, but it’s true, I swear it. You believe me, don’t you? You know I’ve never lied to you. We’ve got to do something. We’ve got to stop it. What can we do, Mr. Allenston? What can we do?”

  What could he do?

  He looked up at the hillside. Some of Samuel Gatesby’s sheep drifted in search of grass. Samuel was walking along the wall line, a gun under his arm.

  “What happened to the head?”

  “George took it home for his missus.”

  “I need to get it.”

  Mick nodded eagerly. “I’ll go and see him. He said he owes me a favor. I covered for him when he had to go early when his missus was ill.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “You believe me, don’t you? It is a monster doing this, not a wolf, isn’t it?”

  Bert was silent. But what was the point in denying it?

  “Yes, it is.”

  Overhead, a raven squawked.

  He waited in the market square for the boy to come back. A few people hurried across the cobblestones; others stood in groups, discussing the latest. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, so he went and sat by the, well where he hoped he wouldn’t be seen. He listened to the water trickling into the stone trough beside him.

  He couldn’t let himself get too hopeful. His idea would probably come to nothing. But he kept checking compulsively for the boy’s return.

  He was taking too long. He obviously couldn’t get it. He watched the incessant ripples dancing across the trough for a moment, then saw the boy hurrying toward him.

  Mick was holding something bundled in a leather bag. He stood. Mick pushed it toward him, then wiped his hands on his trousers.

  It was heavy, and even through its shroud of cloth gave him an odd feeling. He fought an urge to drop it. He could see why Mick had wanted to get rid of it so quickly. He didn’t dare unwrap it.

  “What did he say, this Templeton?”

  “He didn’t want it anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “His missus, she didn’t like it. It scared her.”

  A light flickered in his mind. A candle of hope.

  “He said she was upstairs, airing the bed linen, and heard a noise on the landing. She looked out, thinking it’s George, and saw a wolf there, standing on two legs. Huge, it was. Fangs like razors, bright blue eyes. She screamed and slammed the door, and then it walked down the stairs and vanished. When George got home she was still in there. The front door was shut, no way it could have got out, but it was gone. He thinks she’s going crazy.”

  Mick glanced over his shoulder, then wiped his hands again, looking nervously at the package. “It went back to it. Why did it do that? Does it still live in it?”

  The flicker of light grew stronger. That was exactly what Bert was thinking. The binding spell hadn’t fully broken.

  “Thanks, Mick. You’ve done a good job.” He nodded and walked off.

  It was six days until the next full moon. He knew what he had to do.

  41

  Bran saw the two figures long before they saw him. Down near the burn, trying to net trout, by the look of it. No fish at all up here, he could have told them. Two horses were nosing through the sedge with dismal hope.

  They were dressed in the style of the invaders. A leather tunic, breeches, a helmet and an elaborate arrangement of metal plates that didn’t seem to impede their movement at all. They were tall and powerful. Bran could sense a raw menace about them, like forged iron, hard and brutal.

  What happened when dogs were chained? They grew fat and lazy, yes, but they also grew bored and restless.

  He checked the sun again. He had to reach the cave well before sunset. Skirting around the treacherously boggy area to avoid them would take him well out of his way. But if he knew anything about bored young men, an encounter would take awhile. He could afford to do neither.

  He turned left and carefully made his way across the marshy ground. Rivulets of brown water seeped up from under his boots. He reached an outcrop and looked back. The two men were watching him.

  He knew they would follow him. He hurried on with a curse. They were on horseback. He was on foot. He had an obvious advantage.


  He chose his path carefully, leading deeper into the bog. The ground tugged greedily at his boots with each step. He was going far out of his way, but he couldn’t let them follow him to the cave.

  He looked back again. They’d reached the bad ground already but were struggling to steer their mounts through the treacherous peat. Over this type of ground, it was far quicker on foot. That was how the raiding parties in the south achieved such success.

  One of the horses stumbled. Its rider fell with a strange-sounding curse. He struggled but couldn’t free himself from the mud. The other rider jumped down to help, sinking to his shins himself. Bran grinned as he hurried along the barely visible path to the next rise. He could see why they were so desperate to build their roads. He would soon be well away from them. He checked the sun again as he jogged on.

  The sun was less than two fingers’ width from the horizon when he finally reached the cave. The full moon was about to emerge. When both were equal and opposite, when day and night were both and neither there, at the time between times, energy poured through the land in a mighty torrent. It would empower his soul.

  But it would also empower the beast and shatter the constraint he’d laid across the cave half a moon earlier.

  He had enough time. He began to lay out his circle. He fixed a piece of twine to the ground with a rock, stretched it out, and traced a six-pace ring in front of the cave, marking it out with ground chalk and salt. The two white rocks—the color of sacrifice.

  Then he measured two triangles with equal length sides within the circle, superimposed to form a six-pointed star. The three sacred shapes; they could concentrate and bind the most powerful energies known. Powerful enough to force the cysgod-cerddwr into its prison.

  At each point of the star, Bran placed a small wooden bowl filled with beeswax, a reed wick in the center. When lighted, they would act as a microcosm of the light of the soul, in the presence of which the blackness of the beast’s own soul would be helpless.

  Checking the sun again, he began to unwrap the totems of the Pridani, and of the earth on which they depended. A branch of silver birch, the buds already forming. As he placed it at the northern point, he saw in his mind the leaves bursting free. The first step of the cold, dead forest as it moved toward summer.