The Wolf of Allendale

by Hannah Spencer

  He’d done it.

  He reached out to pick it up, his mind still reeling, but his Druid’s sixth sense jerked his hand back. A faint buzz reaching toward his fingertips, a leaking of energy from the stone.

  Something of its soul was not entirely trapped. If he touched it, it would be freed. The terrible thought ripped through his mind.

  What should he do? He must bury it, somewhere where it could never be found.

  A low rumble solved his problem. The cave was collapsing. Gods be good, it would bury the thing forever. He forced himself to his knees, managed to stand.

  He staggered halfway across the cavern, the dim light of morning already penetrating its depths.

  He fell. Behind him the rumble grew louder. Something struck him, then rolled away. He was aware of no pain now, just a creeping numbness. He dragged himself on. More debris buffeted him. Somehow, he kept moving.

  Sunlight touched his face. Nearly there. With a screeching roar, the entire cave system collapsed. With his face to the dirt, the explosion passed above him. His ears rang, then fell silent. His mouth was filled with grit.

  He realized he was outside, his face resting on cool grass. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. The cold air helped clear his lungs and his mind. After a while he was able to sit up. Long practice sharpened his thoughts.

  He inspected the wounds to his body. Already his flesh was turning black and gangrenous. The beast had corrupted his body. He lay down again, watching the sun rising high. The light he would soon join.

  He drifted, peaceful and quiet on the tides of time. Nearly there now. Shadows writhed about him, touched him with formless fingers. The debt was paid.

  He saw Coll taking his cloak, the next Pennaeth, until he handed the cloak to a beautiful, flame-haired woman. Beth’s daughter.

  He saw him provoke a war against the invaders. He saw them fighting back, relentless, until the land fell under the might of their swords.

  He saw a line of people, kneeling, looking up in smoldering hatred as blood dripped from their many wounds. Behind them, a village was burning.

  This wasn’t meant to happen. He couldn’t let it happen. He had to warn them.

  With an immense effort, he focused. Got to his knees, and then his feet.

  Near the cave he found two sticks, and he began the long, slow struggle back to the village.

  He had no idea how much time passed. The slow tramp of his feet, over and over. Over and over. Keep going. He just had to keep going.

  He reached the stream. A few mouthfuls of spring water refreshed him a little, washed some of the corruption from his soul. He struggled on.

  The sun was almost setting by the time he reached the village, although his eyes and mind had grown dark long ago. He could barely make out the causeway across the ditch, and he dropped to his knees as he tried to concentrate. As the gates were dragged open and footsteps ran toward him, he heard a faint wailing sound, far in the distance. The cry of a newborn babe.

  46

  What now? Bert had to make sure the secret was preserved, that someone would remember the story and the ritual. One day the time would come again.

  He looked up at the full moon, flickering through the bare branches. It silhouetted an array of hazel catkins, the first hint of spring in the cold, sleeping wood.

  But who could he tell? Thomas was a child of the new century; he would forget the old ways. He wouldn’t even believe the story, let alone remember it.

  Perhaps Ellen’s bairn. Of all the Allenstons he could tell, his mind kept drawing back to her. Hopefully the child would be a boy. He smiled ruefully. The Feltons, of all people, carrying on the onus of generations.

  He wondered about telling Ellen herself, but dismissed the thought immediately. He knew he could never do that.

  But anyway, it probably didn’t matter. No one would find the wolf’s head here anyway. When had the girls last come to St. Bride’s Well in search of their sweetheart? Not for years. And why would they? They had parties, dances, all sorts of gaiety. They never had to look as far as this. Today was St, Bride’s feast day, and still no one had come except him. It seemed both fitting and ironic that the ritual had taken place today.

  He got to his feet, leaning against an ash sapling for balance as dizziness swam over him. The sapling swayed under his weight as he steadied himself. Ready to harvest next autumn, he vaguely thought. Ideal for wheel spokes.

  He waited a moment for his mind to clear, then began to walk back through the trees. The moon was well risen and he could see his way clearly, but he stumbled more than once. He was glad he’d remembered to pick up his crook.

  He made it to the road and began to walk up the incline. At least the road was relatively even here. He was desperate for a hot drink and his fireside.

  “Uncle! What are you doing out here?”

  He looked around in confusion. Of course, Ellen lived here now, in Mrs. Tipping’s old cottage. He’d forgotten for a moment.

  She was standing on her doorstep, looking pale and pregnant in the moonlight.

  “Lass, what are you doing out, this time of night?”

  Of course, waiting for her husband to return from the tavern. First of February today. He’d have been paid. Bert swayed slightly.

  Her eyes bored into his face. “Are you all right, Uncle? You don’t look well. Are you still worrying about the wolf?”

  “That Bigley’s got nowhere,” he said evasively. Her gaze didn’t waver.

  “I think the problem will be sorted soon,” he added uncomfortably. Ellen was very sharp. He had the feeling she knew exactly what had been going on.

  A screech in the road ahead. They both looked at the raven hopping toward the trees. It was trailing a wing.

  “What’s it doing out in the dark? Poor thing—must be injured.”

  The bird turned. Bert felt a frisson of recognition.

  “Where have you been, Uncle?”

  He forced himself to turn back to her. “Just out for a walk, down by the dene.”

  She immediately looked concerned. “By that old spring? I saw someone had been down there.”

  He started. Had he been wrong? Perhaps she was the one he should tell. Suddenly, he felt he must.

  Her eyes fixed on his, gentle and urging. He could feel the words rising into his mind. He steeled himself.

  “It’s nothing. It’s been a long day; I need to get home.”

  She nodded silently. As he walked away, he could feel her eyes burning into his back. The raven squawked again, almost despairing. The sound tugged inside him, making him long to turn back.

  But he knew he’d done the right thing.

  He had no idea how long it took him to reach home. He managed to kindle a fire from the cold ashes, then shivered and rubbed his hands. It was so cold in here tonight! The feeling that had come over him earlier had got worse. The chafing of his hands left a queer tingling in his skin which began to intensify.

  He stood up, clutched the back of his chair as his legs betrayed him, then struggled to the fireplace. He threw three more logs on, but they did nothing to ease the chill in the room.

  He sat down, shut his eyes for a moment. He was surprised to see the room had blurred. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but couldn’t focus at all. The tingling in his arms became a sharp, stabbing pain. He gasped but his breath caught painfully in his throat. With a huge effort he willed himself to relax.

  His chest freed and he managed to draw a breath. He recalled the death of his uncle, Ellen’s grandfather. They’d said his heart had given out.

  He opened his eyes and saw the room had grown darker. Resignation, sadness, regret. He would never see Ellen’s unborn child. He would never pass on the secret.

  Outside he could hear a ewe’s blart. It was Molly, he could tell. Soft and whickering; she knew. Good-bye.

  He felt like he was falling. There was a soft breeze around his skin and the pain was wafted away. He could smell tobacco, the rich pungen
t stuff that his grandfather had smoked, and instantly he was drawn back into the long-gone past.

  It was light now, an effusive gentle glow bathed the room. His grandfather was leaning on his crook, his cap at its usual angle.

  Well done, boy. He felt his unspoken words. His grandfather held out his hand, gnarled, weathered, and cracked, and he reached up to grasp it.

  Then he pulled back. He hadn’t completed his task. His knowledge, the secret, generations old, it was going to die with him. That couldn’t happen. The darkness returned, and with it the searing pain.

  His grandfather shook his head, his hand stretched out with more urgency. There’s nothing left to do. It’s time.

  Bert let his heart fill with peace. His young soft fingers, years away from the toil of the shepherd’s life, grasped hold of his grandfather’s. Molly and his other girls would be well cared for. Thomas would see to that. He could hear them all now, their voices joined with Molly, then the sound faded into the rush of air.

  His last thought formed in his mind before too fading into silence.

  God help those who were to come.

  Epilogue

  The years passed. The world began to change. Countries rose and fell. Wars were lost and won.

  In Allendale, life too began to change. People looked to the future. The old ways were forgotten. Obscured by the fug of coal smoke and rock dust, the rich folklore and heritage of the fells, once so carefully cherished, was lost forever.

  The Wolf of Allendale became nothing but an occasionally told children’s story. The song of silence was heard no more.

  Around St. Bride’s Well, the woods were no longer harvested as factories replaced the woodland crafts, and so the trees grew tall and strong. Their roots sucked greedily at the ground water and the ancient spring began to weaken.

  Autumn after autumn, leaves shrouded the forgotten and untended spring. Reduced to a trickle, it forced its way up through the leaf litter until, one hot dry summer, it lost its battle for survival.

  Barnaby gazed around as the three boys reached the top of the rise, drinking in the purple swaths of heather he wouldn’t see again. The only sound above their panting was the wind plowing across miles of fells, just like in the old days they’d learned about in school.

  Then a chainsaw fired up down in the wood and the illusion was shattered.

  In a field half a mile away, a tractor was busy harrowing. A few seagulls followed behind. A kite drifted overhead on a thermal and then floated down to the rocky outcrop shaped like a hand, landing on the fore finger. So familiar, so normal, so home. His eyes blurred and a strangled sob escaped his mouth.

  “Hey, come on, Barn! Boarding school won’t be that bad! Think of the midnight feasts, and you’ll be back home at Christmas.” Trevor Felton looked at him with mixed sympathy and concern.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go! Mam doesn’t want me to either. I heard her say eight’s too young, but Grandfather says I’ve got to.”

  Barnaby slumped to the ground and started pulling handfuls of grass. Freezing dorms. Gruel. Bullies. The cane. He wished he could run away into the hills and never go back.

  “That’s what you get for having a rich family. Everyone says the Allenstons are really loaded.” Trevor pulled a paper bag of sweets from his pocket and handed one to Barnaby. He silently took it.

  “Your family can’t do anything but what your grandfather says, can you?” Robert Pinkerley sat down next to him.

  “He was supposed to be a shepherd; we were all shepherds back then. But he got a scholarship to Hexham Grammar School, and now he owns four iron foundries. He says the only way you get anywhere in life is through damned hard work, and that’s what he expects from all of us.”

  Tears began to flood down his cheeks. “Dad had to go to boarding school, and Uncle Godwin, and now we do too. It’s not fair!”

  “At least I’ll never have to go,” said Trevor. “Dad said I’m not to get no fancy ideas, not on his pittance of a wage.”

  After a few moments’ silence, Robert stood up. “Let’s go down to that wood and build a den. It’ll be ready for when you come home, Barnaby.”

  “I don’t know. Granny Ellen told me never go down there,” said Trevor, looking down at the brooding swath of dark green. “The dene’s dangerous.”

  “Why? It’s just a wood, the same as all the others. Or are you frightened there might be ghosts? Or that monster my grandpa told us about last Christmas? The one that came out of the mine, ages ago? Don’t be silly, glow in the dark!”

  Trevor scrambled to his feet. “I’ll smack you if you call me that again.”

  “All right then, Ginger! Carrots! Sunset!”

  “Perhaps you should listen to her, Trev. You won’t get any more sweets.” Barnaby didn’t really want to go down there either. He only had a few hours left now.

  “’Course I will,” Trevor countered. “I’m her favorite.”

  “’Cause he’s the only carrottop, isn’t that right? She hoped you’d all look like her.” Robert danced out of reach of his kick.

  “She’s just lonely, Mam says. Has been since Grampy died. And if I go and see her I don’t have to listen to that boring, soppy story again about how they fell in love and got married, even though everyone hated Grampy. Just like the stories in her boring, soppy books.” He stuck his tongue out. “Come on, Barn. We’re going to the wood.”

  They passed a derelict building after a few hundred yards, the roof long caved in, the walls crumbling, gaping holes where the door and windows had been. The adjoining barn had fared little better. A stone gate post, rusted hinges still attached, stood lonely among a line of rubble. Trevor glanced at the place curiously.

  “I wonder who used to live there?”

  The boys clambered over fallen stones in the doorway and looked around. The interior was bare, just stones and roof timbers were scattered across the floor. A rabbit disappeared into the rubble.

  Only a rusty old stove and two jutting stones holding a rough-hewn shelf betrayed any sense that someone had once lived here. A big tree branch had grown across where the roof beam had once been, stretching out to touch the far wall. A rowan, they could tell from the jagged leaves.

  The silent atmosphere seemed odd to Barnaby, almost familiar. “Imagine living here,” he said.

  He wished he could do that. Live as a shepherd like they used to. Never have to go to boarding school, never have to leave Allendale at all. It brought a lump of despair to his throat.

  He picked his way over to the shelf, stretched up, and riffled through an inch of brittle leaf cover, twigs, and dust. Nothing. Although hundreds of hands had probably searched there before, he still felt disappointed.

  As he turned back, he slipped on the precarious mound of rubble and dislodged a flurry of stones as he fell back onto his elbows.

  “You all right, Barn?”

  He noticed a funny-looking stone under the rubble. He picked it up and dusted it off, realizing at once it was a piece of carved horn. He turned it over and over. It looked strangely familiar, although he couldn’t think why.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” Trevor came over to him. “A bird? A partridge or a grouse or something.”

  Of course! That finely carved stick in his grandfather’s house, in the entrance hall where he kept his shooting sticks. Barnaby loved looking at it. The only nice thing in the house. He could just imagine it turning to look at him, bending to preen its breast feathers.

  He stared at the carving in his hand. Its only flaw was its beak, which was skewed to one side.

  “Barn! Hurry up! Robert’s already gone.”

  He slipped the carving into his pocket and hurried out.

  Two huge planes roared overhead, followed quickly by four more, and all three stopped to gape.

  “Dad says there’ll be war soon.” Barnaby stared up at the rapidly dispersing smoke trail. “He says the West will never be reconciled with Communism, and war’s all they’re planning for in the
Ministry.”

  “I hope they don’t invade us,” said Trevor fervently. “Imagine our fells, all mud and barbed wire and soldiers in trenches.”

  Barnaby shook his head. “It won’t be like that. War’s different now. They’ve got bombs. Big bombs. Those planes might even have been carrying them. Dad says they can blow a whole country to nothing. That’s why we’ve got to go to war.”

  The others looked around, trying to imagine.

  “Come on then,” said Robert at last. “I’ve got to be home for tea soon.”

  The wood felt cold compared to the parched moor, and the three boys fell silent as they stepped over fallen branches and scrub. Trevor glanced uneasily over his shoulder. Why had Granny Ellen warned him away from this place?

  Something tugged at his sleeve and he tore his arm away, a hole opening up in his sleeve as the briar snagged the wool. “Oh no! Mam’ll be furious; she’s sick of mending our things!”

  Barnaby carefully untangled him. “We’ve got loads of old jumpers and things, just put in the attic. I’ll bring you one tomorrow.”

  Trevor didn’t reply, and he immediately realized why. There would be no tomorrow. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.

  Robert went on ahead and then turned back, grinning. Among a clump of ash trees was a natural rocky alcove. “Here’s perfect! Just what we need!”

  Trevor and Barnaby went up to join him. A raven squawked and flapped toward them. Barnaby flinched.

  “These big rocks can be the walls, here’s the way in, it’s like a room already! We just need some branches to roof it, then it’s done.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it.” Barnaby hung back. “I think we should go back.”

  Trevor glanced at him, then stared silently at the alcove.

  Robert raised his eyes skyward, then began to scrape away the leaf litter and twigs with his boot. He yelped as he kicked something hard. Kneeling down, he scraped in the soft ground. He picked something up and brushed it off.

  Its teeth were bared fiercely. The glittering eyes seemed to stare gleefully at them. Barnaby stepped back instinctively.