The Blood List

by Sarah Naughton

  The dog lowered itself onto its front legs and barked.

  He picked another seed head and crumbled it. But he needn’t have bothered. As soon as the first seed struck the dog’s head, it let out a sharp whine, turned, and bolted. A moment later it was just a dark speck racing through the pastureland in the direction of the manor house.

  Barnaby exhaled in a sob. His tunic was wet with sweat and his legs were too wobbly to support him. He slid down the tree trunk and sank his head between his knees.

  Eventually, after a drink from his waterskin and the hunk of pie Juliet had packed for him, his strength returned. He went over to the trail of grain, but all that was left of the coney were a few scraps of bloody fur and the stink of fresh meat.

  He stank too and the sun was giving him a headache.

  In the distance the silver disc of the lake was too bright to look at. But however scorching the day its waters were always deliciously cool. He set off towards it.

  The fields of rye and buckwheat he passed through would soon be ready for harvesting. His heart sank. Harvest time was always the most tedious part of the year.

  The sun was low in the sky and he squinted into its red glare. Darting lights appeared at the edge of his field of vision and he paused to try and focus on them. As a child, before he realised it was just light distortion, he’d imagined these were his fairy guardians. Very occasionally he dreamed he was being watched over by other presences and, despite what he had been told about the spiteful and covetous nature of fairies, those in his dreams were warm and comforting.

  In reality they could not have been, of course, because according to his father he had been so traumatised by his time in Fairyland that he was inconsolable for months afterwards. Those difficult first few days of his life were rarely spoken of, and though he suspected his father was secretly proud to have outwitted the Little People, his mother would not have it mentioned in the house. To Barnaby it was all simply an embarrassment: if anyone new came to the village he would be pointed out to them and the story whispered breathlessly in their ear.

  He came to the tree where they had hanged the witch and its branch creaked as he passed: it always did, even on a windless day.

  Eventually the fields were replaced by bulrushes. Mating dragonflies weaved around their drooping heads. Bees and butterflies bobbed in the wild flowers. The scent of them was heady in the warm air, but as he picked his way to the lake edge the air cooled. The pounding in his temples diminished. Finding a firm section of bank he began undressing.

  The insects soon left the yellow petals of the kingcups to creep amongst the gold hairs of his legs. He brushed them off and walked to the edge.

  The lake was as clear as ice. Even further out, where it got much deeper, he could still make out the pale clay of the bed, flickering as brown trout or shadow-fish flashed by.

  He bent his knees and dived gracefully into the water.

  The first few seconds while his body adjusted to the sudden plummet in temperature were agony, but he forced himself to stay under until he was used to it.

  Finally he broke the surface and set off at a brisk crawl to warm up. Soon he was enjoying the feel of the water rippling along his flanks. It was deliciously refreshing, and the meaty taste of the pie was replaced by the clean, green taste of the lake.

  As he swam the rushes and wild flowers thinned out and a moment later the Waters’ farm came into view. Farmer Waters’ fuzzy-headed daughter was sitting on the grass weaving a rush basket while her brother played nearby.

  The little boy said something and held up a fat pink worm that writhed to escape his grip. His sister laughed then called across to him, ‘Put it down now, and cover it or the birds’ll get it.’

  ‘Good for the birds!’ the boy called back.

  ‘But not for the potatoes, they need the soil to be worked.’

  Barnaby snorted. She had spoiled her brother’s fun for the sake of a potato. But his snort alerted her to his presence and she looked up, pushing her hair out of her eyes to see better. Underneath that mass of dark curls she was actually quite pretty.

  When he was satisfied he had her attention Barnaby struck out to the centre of the lake, kicking hard and keeping himself high in the water to ensure she had a good view of his muscular shoulders. He made a few circles in the centre of the lake, then rolled onto his back and let himself float. Peering out from beneath his eyelashes he saw that the boy was now standing on the shingle beach watching him, the worm forgotten, but his sister had returned to her basketwork.

  Barnaby waited.

  She didn’t look up.

  ‘Coming in, little man?’ he called across to the boy. The boy shook his head. ‘Naomi says there’s a pike in there the size of a ram.’

  Barnaby’s bladder contracted sharply. He scanned the clear water. Nothing but shrimp and minnows.

  ‘Nonsense!’ he cried, to draw her into the debate. She murmured something to her brother then got up and went into the house.

  The boy lost interest and wandered back to the mud. The door of the cottage remained steadfastly closed and no face appeared at the window. The sun had dipped down behind the forest now and Barnaby was starting to get cold.

  Were pike night feeders?

  He swore and began swimming back to where he had left his clothes. He was about five yards from shore when his right leg spasmed.

  He knew at once what had happened. He’d eaten that slice of pie too soon before going swimming and now he had cramp. Badly. His right thigh muscle was contracting in agonising waves and it was all he could do to keep the other limbs working to stay on the surface.

  But they were not strong enough: the weight of the dead leg pulled him under.

  The green of the sky merged with the green water and he completely lost his bearings. He kicked out to try and reach the surface but instead careened head first into a rock on the lake bed.

  He gasped, inhaling water. He tried to cough but more water poured down his throat. Darkness seeped into the corners of his vision. Points of light spun and danced just out of reach. He watched his own hand move forward to touch them but it was too clumsy and slow. The lights seemed to whisper to him, and their voices were the music of the flint and mica rolling along the lake bed. He wanted to speak to them, but they vanished, leaving only the shadows and the cold.

  A bubble escaped his nostril and he watched it lazily as it spiralled up towards the light.

  But now a shadow blocked the light. An ugly, thrashing shadow that tore through the drowsiness that was drifting over him.

  The pike.

  He was so tired, but he had to fight.

  It clamped its mouth around his wrist and he twisted free. A moment later it had him around the throat. Its jaws were powerful but strangely toothless. It wrenched him upwards and the pressure in his lungs became unbearable. He fought wildly as the drowsiness was replaced by pain. Still the colossal fish jerked him up towards the light.

  His clawing hands found a soft part and the pike recoiled, with a yelp, but the grip around his throat didn’t loosen.

  The light became more and more glaring. The pain in his chest was unbearable. He could feel the fibres of his lungs ripping and hot blood filled his mouth.

  His head broke the surface of the water.

  The pike made a sound – or was it him? – a monstrous, heaving gasp followed by retching. Still he fought until eventually the pike, its nut-brown face haloed in wet curls, punched him square on the jaw.

  The girl pulled him to the shore and dragged him up the shingle before collapsing on her back beside him.

  By the time his own wrenching gasps had subsided and he was able to sit up, she was on her hands and knees coughing up clear mucus, like a cat bringing up a hairball. Ribbons of emerald-green weed were wound into her curls.

  She must have felt his gaze on her because she turned her head and their eyes met. Her emerald irises were ringed by burst blood vessels.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said hoarsely.


  As she spat onto the gravel he saw that his fingernails had raked three scarlet lines down her left cheek.

  ‘Next time,’ she wheezed, ‘I’ll let you drown.’

  2

  The Path

  Barnaby limped home, bedraggled and bruised. The Waters girl hadn’t even invited him into the cottage for a warming broth or a stiff drink. Neither had she sent her damned brother to get his clothes: his feet were sore and scratched from the thistles and coarse grass he had to pick through to fetch them.

  At least he would get concern from his father and Juliet, though the best he could expect from his mother would be a how silly of you, Barnaby. As he got nearer home he began to cough, only half for effect: he was still feeling awful, as if someone had kicked him in the chest.

  But no-one seemed to hear him. Certainly no-one came to the door.

  He pushed it open and hobbled in. The parlour was empty. Surely they had not dined without him. He threw himself against the dresser to make it bang against the wall, then he leaned on it, wheezing, waiting to be discovered.

  But it wasn’t his father who came out of the kitchen. Nor even Juliet.

  It was Abel.

  There was an air of sly triumph in the tilt of his brother’s chin that immediately made Barnaby uneasy. Was he in trouble for something?

  ‘Father’s been looking for you,’ Abel said.

  ‘Why?’ Barnaby said, straightening up. All pretence of suffering vanished at once: they knew each other too well to deceive one another.

  ‘The witch is dying,’ Abel smirked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your precious Agnes.’

  Barnaby blinked at him. His mouth opened but no words came.

  Abel turned to go up the stairs. ‘Woe to the women that sew pillows to all armholes and make magic bands upon the head of every stature to hunt souls.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Barnaby snapped.

  Abel smiled. ‘Agnes rejected the Lord God and put her faith in the potions and charms sent from the devil. God has punished her.’

  Barnaby sprang forward, grabbing his brother by the scruff of the neck and spinning him round.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ he snarled, ‘or I’ll snap your stringy neck.’

  Abel’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down against Barnaby’s knuckles but in his face there was no fear, only hatred and sly triumph. Barnaby hurled him aside in disgust and flew out of the door.

  Agnes lived at the other end of the village in a tiny, neat cottage that was always plentifully stocked with firewood and flour and fresh eggs from all the grateful families whose babies she had safely delivered. She was over sixty now and on recent occasions she’d winced at his embraces. He’d been steeling himself for the inevitable but all his preparations were as nothing as he blundered through the streets with tears streaming down his face.

  Her little window was aglow with welcoming firelight and he couldn’t repress the little skip of happiness his heart gave every time he arrived at her door. But then he realised: in May only the dying feel the cold.

  He never usually knocked but now he hesitated, his palm flat against the warm wood. Was this the last time he would ever push open her door?

  He could hear his father murmuring inside. If Henry could be brave, then he must be too.

  The door swung silently open and he was struck by a wall of hot, foetid air.

  He stepped in and closed the door quietly behind him. Agnes’s bed had been drawn up to the fire and was surrounded by figures silhouetted against the flames. Two of the men were speaking quietly.

  ‘She dies very hard,’ one of them said. ‘Are ye sure the cause is not game feathers in the pillow?’

  ‘It has been checked several times,’ the other murmured, ‘and ’tis only duck and goose. Perhaps the evil eye has been put upon her.’

  The other grumbled unhappily and moved away.

  Now Barnaby could see the bed with his father kneeling beside it. Barnaby caught a glimpse of his old nurse’s face and stifled a gasp.

  The last time he visited she was as spry and sharp-tongued as ever, if a little yellow around the temples. Now she looked like a week-old corpse. The flesh had shrunk from her bones and the skin was waxen. He could clearly make out both bones of her forearm as it rested in his father’s lap.

  Had it been so long since he’d visited?

  Then she saw him: her face lit up, and suddenly she became Agnes again. Her lips moved but he couldn’t hear what she said. He stepped closer and the stench of death grew stronger.

  He moved behind his father, laying his hands on Henry’s shoulders while, just for a moment, he got used to her appearance.

  ‘Now, what’s all this fuss,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re not just trying to get out of your chores, are you?’

  Agnes gave a papery laugh – it was a phrase she had used to him on countless occasions.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked, ‘I am.’

  She raised her arm from his father’s lap and stretched her fingers towards him. It was all right now. He was ready. He walked around his father and knelt down on the floor beside her, then he took her hand in his own.

  It was shockingly cold, and light as the shed husk of a spider.

  ‘Bye baby bunting,’ she sang, her voice reed thin and almost lost in the hiss of the flames, ‘Daddy’s gone a hunting . . .’

  But she subsided into coughing and couldn’t continue.

  ‘He’s gone to fetch a rabbit skin,’ Barnaby murmured, ‘to wrap the baby bunting in.’

  The eyes that finally turned on him again were misted with death.

  ‘You know . . .’ he began haltingly, ‘that I love you as a mother.’

  He leaned forwards and kissed her hollow cheek and his tears dropped into her white wisps of hair.

  ‘There, there, my love,’ she murmured. ‘It will be all right.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Without you I would have been motherless.’

  ‘Do not judge her so harshly,’ Agnes whispered. ‘She couldn’t accept the truth. She believed the changeling child to be her own and loved it as her own.’ Her bird chest rose in a sigh. ‘My one regret is that I could not save your brother.’

  Barnaby wiped away his tears away and smiled. ‘Oh, Aggie,’ he said, ‘Abel is no changeling. He’s the spit of my mother’s kin.’

  She pulled him close and glanced furtively around. The other visitors, including Henry, were now speaking in low tones to one another. Seemingly satisfied they wouldn’t be overheard Agnes breathed, ‘He is the image of the other child: the one the fairies took when they returned you. Besides,’ she lowered her voice until it was barely audible, ‘only a changeling could be so odious.’

  Barnaby gave a snuffling laugh. Conversations broke off and all eyes turned on him reproachfully.

  ‘Watch him,’ Agnes continued quietly when the low chatter had resumed. ‘Bitterness and envy have blackened his heart.’

  ‘And what could such a puling weakling do to me?’ Barnaby smiled, adding, ‘besides hit me over the head with a Bible?’

  When Agnes smiled her eyes twinkled as brightly as they always had. As a child he had been afraid of her sharpness but soon enough he had learned how to soften her edges.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘be off with you.’

  He would not have abandoned her but now that she had given him leave he could not wait to escape the thick air of the room. She held him a moment, her fingers gripping his wrist. He held her gaze until the blood rushed in his head, then finally she closed her eyes and her hand slipped from his.

  He was pushed back as more people crowded in to say their farewells. He hovered for a few moments until the death rattle began. It sounded oddly comical. The sort of grunting snore his father gave after he’d eaten and drunk too much and fallen asleep in a chair. But then Father Nicholas shuffled out of the shadows and spread his black wings over Agnes’s frail body like a crow over carrion, and Barnaby fled.

  The fune
ral feast was to be held in her nephew’s barn. His mother and Abel did not wish to attend; which was fine with Barnaby. Though Agnes had defended Frances, Barnaby knew full well there had never been any love lost between the two women. As far back as he could remember the atmosphere in the house had turned to ice every time Agnes arrived, with her characteristic five sharp raps on the door, which made Barnaby’s heart swell with happiness, and sent Abel into a wild tantrum of howling and kicking. Once he had blackened their mother’s eye as she tried to restrain him and for that he had received a beating from Henry, despite the fact that he had only been four at the time. Even as a five-year-old Barnaby had considered this harsh. But that was when he had loved his brother and still enjoyed trying to teach him to catch a ball and say Please and Thank you and Juliet smells. At the time Juliet’s mother was their maid and Juliet and Barnaby, being almost the same age, would play in the meadows at the back of the house while her mother worked. On the few occasions Frances allowed it they would bring Abel along with them, and Barnaby vividly remembered the moment he came to dislike his brother. Frances had given Juliet a shawl of fine silk, brought back from Arabia by one of Henry’s business associates, and she had let Abel play with it, tossing it up into the air and letting it fall on his face so that the sunlight was diffused through its rich colours. For a moment the two older children became distracted, trying to see who could make the most alarming screech by blowing along a stem of grass threaded through their forefingers and thumbs. When they looked up Abel was gone. Too small to see above the tall grass they ran blindly, crying out his name but with no response. Eventually they were forced to stop catch their breaths. By now Juliet was crying. But beneath her cries, and his own panting, Barnaby could hear a rustling sound. He hushed her and listened. It sounded like laboured breathing, close by. Was it Abel, too injured to speak? They set off again and a moment later burst out of the long grass, right next to the stream. Juliet wailed and Barnaby stared down at the rushing waters in consternation. Had Abel fallen in?

  But there was that wheezing sound again, and now Barnaby recognised it: it was laughter.