The Blood List

by Sarah Naughton

  He had a vague idea where the midden heap lay, but it was only ever Juliet that made the trip.

  He set off in the direction he thought it lay: a little to the south-east – the direction the devil’s wind blew from. A shaft of moonlight fell through the canopy to light the clearing beneath. He picked his way across to it and stood in the faint glow. Then he saw another clearing a little way off, the moonlight a little brighter there. Steeling himself, he waded through the darkness until he had reached it, then paused to get his bearings. He was fairly sure the heap lay to his left. There seemed to be another clearing further in that direction and he set off again.

  He tripped a few times and had to make a detour around a huge knot of brambles he didn’t see until they’d torn his face and arms. He could pretend they were wounds from demon claws. That would shut Richard up.

  He stumbled on. The trees grew thicker and the birdsong died away, to be replaced by silence.

  Something stung his leg through the stocking. Could a nettle do that?

  To lift his spirits he began to hum. The frail thread of sound was immediately consumed by the silence. He stopped.

  He’d been walking for a while now. Surely he was nearing the heap.

  It was taking much longer than he’d expected to reach the next clearing, and now that he looked more closely the light didn’t seem to be coming from above at all. It was as cold as moonlight but it pulsed and wavered like a candle flame in a breeze. Unnaturally. It was fairy light.

  They had found him. They’d always wanted him back and now they had found him.

  He dropped to a crouch in the undergrowth, turned and began to slither back the way he had come.

  Twigs scraped his stomach and nettles scalded his exposed flesh.

  The second clearing came into view again, the moonlight stronger now, a steady shaft slicing through the darkness. He would crawl around the circle of light so as not to be seen.

  He was nearly there now, just a few more feet.

  Suddenly the ground domed upwards, blocking his path.

  There was no sense trying to run: the forest was theirs to enchant and distort however they wished. He had to face them: stand tall and demand to know what they wanted of him.

  His mind whirred in panic and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There was a strong, sulphurous smell. The smell of enchantment.

  Finally he opened his eyes and stood up.

  ‘I am not afraid,’ he said loudly and clearly.

  Raising his hand to his eyes to protect them from the glare he waited for them to appear. Would they be tall like him, or tiny as children like they were in the stories? Somehow that would be worse. Would the other one be there: the one they had tried to replace him with? Hungry to return to its human family? He shivered. An icy clamminess crept across his skin. But hadn’t Agnes said that in all probability it wasn’t a live thing at all, just a lump of wood they had bewitched to seem like a human baby?

  The canopy whispered. Dust motes tumbled through the cold white moonlight and he followed their trajectory, wondering whether they would transform into their fairy forms when they landed.

  They did not.

  And now he saw that the rising of the ground was not unnatural after all. It was just a little hill of earth, flattened on top. And what was that rising up from a bumpy area protruding from the side – was it smoke? Steam?

  Now that he thought about it there was something beneath the sulphurous smell: something unpleasant.

  Shit.

  It was the midden heap.

  He laughed out loud.

  Now he could make out cattle bones and broken crockery, a stocking, a rotting animal hide.

  Then he caught his breath.

  Lying on top was a small skeleton, picked clean by insects and vermin. A light breeze disturbed the few rags of skin that still hung to the frame. It had a strangely flattened skull and huge eye sockets. The spine was elongated, the arms too long, the legs too short. A strange, malformed thing: unlovable, inhuman.

  Surely it could not be the changeling . . . Not after so long . . .

  Then he let out a hoarse cry of relief.

  It was a cat. Just a cat. A strip of red wool hung around its neck – loosely now, but possibly once tight enough to throttle it. He moved closer. Strung onto the wool were feathers, twists of iron wire, holed stones and what looked like animal teeth. These looked like the sorts of charms used by witches. Certainly the Widow Moone was always trying to hawk such bits of junk.

  Hadn’t the poacher thought he’d seen a cat at first, not a baby? Perhaps he had. Perhaps this was the sacrifice used to provide the blood for the devil’s pen.

  There might be some truth to the story after all.

  He glanced nervously behind him, into the shadows. The moonlight only stretched to the first line of trees. Beyond was unbroken darkness. Something in the darkness began to whisper. The whisper passed all around the clearing, spiralling closer and closer. He tensed up, waiting for whatever it was to burst from the trees upon him. But when it did it was only the wind, rushing up the slope, flapping rags and clacking the light bones of the chicken carcasses. It blew up his legs, billowed his shirt, then passed cold fingers through his hair.

  And then something blew out of the ribcage of the cat to slap against his boot.

  He picked it up.

  It was a scrap of paper: yellowed and dog-eared. Just visible in the corner were a few clumsy markings in brown ink. He couldn’t make them out. Perhaps one was an E, another an L or perhaps an R.

  Then he froze. The devil’s list had been written in blood: blood that would have turned brown as it dried.

  He dropped it with a cry. At once it was caught by the wind and carried off into the darkness. He stared into the shadows, panting. There was no way he was going after it. Even if he came back without it he had surely done enough to impress Richard and set Flora’s heart aflutter. He slithered down the side of the heap and stopped at the bottom. Then he turned in a slow circle.

  He had lost his bearings.

  He peered up through the gap in the canopy, but he was useless at navigating by the stars at the best of times and was now totally disorientated. He turned on the spot, trying to make out the lights of the barn through the closely packed branches. Eventually lights were appearing and vanishing all across his strained vision and he closed his eyes and rubbed them.

  A rustling close by made him spin around.

  A large fox was watching him from the other side of the midden heap. It was a grizzled, bony thing, with half an ear torn off. Its eyes glowed in the moonlight.

  ‘Yah!’ he shouted – a fox couldn’t hurt him; it wouldn’t dare try.

  The fox gave a low bark and a split second later the bark was returned. Barnaby spun around. Another fox stood in the trees behind him, so thin he could make out the shadows of its ribs and spine.

  He picked up a stick and swiped at this closer one. The fox skittered back but didn’t depart. Then the other threw back its head and howled. It was an oddly human sound, almost a scream of anguish, but Barnaby understood its purpose.

  It was a summoning.

  Impossible to judge how close the answering howls were. And how many. How many would they need to be to feel confident enough to attack him? Four? Five?

  The two on either side of him stood motionless, waiting.

  Then suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he spotted something out of place in the haphazard fecundity of the forest.

  A regular line of white spots.

  Slowly, keeping both foxes in view all the way, he made his way to where the line began.

  They looked like pearls.

  He bent down and picked one up. It was cool and firm.

  This was not chance, a will-o-the-wisp or his fevered imagination. These had been left here to mark a path. Was it a fairy trick to lure him to his doom? Or perhaps they were simply white pebbles or beads left to mark the way home by someone who had come to use the midden heap
.

  The trail stretched out into the darkness of the trees.

  Rustling behind him made him turn. The foxes had climbed to the top of the midden heap and were staring after him with opaque, yellow eyes. Now both threw back their heads and howled, their fangs glimmering in the moonlight. Before they had closed their mouths and lowered their heads to resume the watch on their prey, Barnaby had sprinted off along the trail.

  They were waiting for him at the edge of the trees. A line of lanterns, as if a search party was about to depart. There were screams when he burst from the shadows.

  ‘What?’ he said, steadying himself and grinning.

  Griff bounded forward and hugged him, stinking of sweat, and then was wrenched away and his father’s white face was an inch from his own nose, the lips quivering.

  ‘What the hell do you . . .’ he stuttered. Barnaby stared at him. He’d never seen his father in such a state.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘I’m all right. It was just a dare, that’s all.’

  His father’s bewildered eyes searched his own, then he took his son’s face in his hands and pressed his cold clammy forehead to Barnaby’s, which was warm and sweaty from the run through the trees.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you again,’ he muttered.

  ‘Oh hush, you old piss-head,’ Barnaby said softly, but he let his father hold him until someone cleared their throat beside him.

  It was Richard.

  His face was almost as pasty as Henry’s. Richard stretched out his hand. Barnaby shook it and for a long time Richard wouldn’t let it go.

  ‘You are no coward,’ Richard said finally, then he turned and walked back across the field to where the barn still throbbed with music and rowdy laughter. The crowd had begun to disperse now, all except one woman. The furrier’s widow. She was staring at him with that intensity that always made him so uncomfortable.

  ‘Come on, Father,’ he said, turning from her gaze. ‘I don’t want to miss the rest of the party.’

  Back inside he was immediately surrounded by his friends.

  ‘Did you find it?’ Caleb said, his good eye now drooping with drunkenness.

  He looked around the throng of wide-eyed boys and wondered where Flora had got to.

  Finally he nodded. ‘Just a corner, mind.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Richard said, back to his old belligerent self now that the shock was subsiding.

  ‘Well, that’s the oddest thing about it,’ Barnaby said quietly. ‘This wind suddenly blew up from nowhere and snatched it out of my hands and up into the trees.’

  Caleb nodded slowly, ‘An enchanted wind.’

  ‘The devil’s wind,’ Griff said.

  ‘Certainly smelled like it,’ Barnaby said, but they were all too drunk to get the joke. All except Richard. ‘Did you read the names?’ he said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The names on the parchment. Did you read them?’

  ‘Umm. It was torn. I couldn’t really see much.’

  ‘Was the Widow Moone on it?’ Caleb said.

  ‘Er . . . yes. Yes, she was. That one I could read.’

  ‘What about her sister from Gupton?’ Griff said. ‘Can’t remember her name . . .’

  ‘Er . . . I think there might have been another Moone. It was dark, you know, so . . .’

  ‘Is that it?’ Richard said.

  Barnaby rounded on him. ‘It was dark, the paper was ripped, and the wind blew it out of my hand. But feel free to go back and look for it yourself, if you like.’

  Richard pressed his lips together.

  ‘And was it written in blood?’ Caleb said breathlessly.

  Barnaby nodded.

  There was a ripple of gasps.

  ‘A blood list of the damned,’ Griff whispered and even Barnaby shivered.

  Then a gaggle of younger children tumbled into them and the spell was broken. The boldest child asked if it was true Barnaby had been visiting his fairy family in the forest. He told them that certainly it was and that the scratches on his leg were elf-shot. When Griff brought over a platter of pork crackling he refused, saying that he had feasted with his fairy friends on nectar and ambrosia, which turned out to be very filling. He told one of the younger girls that he would love to dance with her but he was worn out from the wild dancing on the fairy hill. The child gawped at him, then ran off and whispered to her mother who cast him a reproachful glance.

  Though he was greatly enjoying the attention his eyelids started to droop. The tension of the forest had worn him out. He wobbled to his feet and, patting Griff’s shoulder, made for the door.

  Juliet was up when he arrived home. She greeted him at the door with a plate of cold ham and bread just baked for the morning.

  ‘Your father’s been back this last hour,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because he’s old and boring,’ Barnaby said, tossing a hunk of bread into the air and catching it in his mouth. ‘Can I have some warm milk?’ He pushed past her and flopped down by the fire as she went out to the kitchen.

  A few minutes later she returned with a cup. She’d flavoured it with cinnamon and brought a plate of cakes with it. Wonderful Juliet: she knew exactly what to do to make him happy. They had grown up together and he loved her like a sister, though she seemed considerably older than their mutual sixteen years.

  ‘Was it fun?’ she said, kneeling by the fire.

  ‘You should have come.’

  ‘There was too much to do here,’ she sighed,

  ‘In that case, sit down and have a rest,’ he said, adding, ‘Then I can use your plump lap as a cushion.’

  She threw a half-burned twig at him but stretched out her legs, and with a deep sigh, he lay down and breathed in the familiar smell of her dress. He was glad to be home. The night’s experience had taken more out of him than he’d imagined.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

  He looked up at her. Her eyes were the palest watery blue, like an overcast sky. It was the first time he’d really studied her for a while. She looked tired.

  ‘I went to the forest tonight,’ he said.

  She caught her breath. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘Barnaby!’ she gasped. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was trying to impress Flora Slabber.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes slid away from his.

  ‘A witch coven was seen in the forest,’ he went on. ‘Dancing with the devil. There was supposed to be a list of the names of the witches, written in blood. I went looking for it.’

  She stared at him.

  He lowered his voice. ‘And I found it.’

  ‘You found the list?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was on it?’

  ‘Oh, you, me, Mother . . .’

  She slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t joke about such things.’

  When she frowned she looked as old as his mother.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘you should be more concerned about the fact that I was very nearly lost and would have been eaten or frozen to death by the morning. There were lights that seemed to want to lead me deeper and deeper into the forest.’

  Rather to his disappointment the anxiety in her face vanished.

  ‘Marsh gas,’ she said. ‘And besides, if you’d been missing for longer than a minute your father would have had the whole village out looking for you.’

  She got up, letting his head bump unceremoniously onto the floor. Picking up his plate she headed for the kitchen.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘What about these . . .?’ He felt in his pocket for the pearl but it was gone.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘There was a path of pearls; it led me out of the forest. I picked one up but now it’s gone and . . .’

  ‘. . . And all that’s left is a wet patch on your breeches.’

  He looked down. She was right. There was a small damp circle where the corner of his pocket lay. He frowned.

  She rested the pl
ate on her hip, smirking. ‘It couldn’t conceivably have been berries, could it?’

  Sure enough, right at the very bottom of his pocket, there was a slimy skin. He drew it out and they peered at it.

  ‘Mistletoe,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think I was scared enough to piss myself.’

  But she wasn’t smiling any more.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Strange,’ she said. ‘The berries would have been taken by birds if they’d been laid in the day, so they must have been left tonight. As if someone knew you were coming and wanted to help you.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Barnaby frowned.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘When I went hunting the other day a huge black dog suddenly appeared. I thought it was going to tear my throat out. But then it was scared by some seeds flying in the wind and ran away.’

  ‘What kind of a dog was it?’ she said, her face troubled.

  ‘An alaunt I think. I thought it must be one of the baron’s hunting dogs.’

  ‘Did it have a collar?’

  ‘I didn’t notice one. I suppose it might have. What’s wrong?’

  Her face was pale in the firelight. ‘Lucifer often takes the form of a black dog . . .’

  Goosebumps sprang up on his arms.

  ‘Have you upset anyone recently?’ Juliet said.

  ‘Only Abel.’

  She gave a humourless laugh. ‘Whatever you think of your brother, he is no friend of Beelzebub. No, I was thinking of witchcraft.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Perhaps someone has performed maleficium on you.’

  Barnaby sighed. Every time anyone in the village sickened or died Juliet was convinced it was caused by malevolent spells. Like most of the villagers she was a firm believer in witchcraft. She hung charms on her bed and always bashed in the shells of boiled eggs once the insides were scraped out, to prevent witches using them as boats. Frances had removed at least three witch-bottles from the chimney that Juliet had hidden up there to protect the household, scolding Juliet that their contents of hair, nail clippings, pins and urine were ludicrous and revolting. Once Juliet had even tried to cure a stye in Barnaby’s eye by licking the eyes of a live frog and then licking the infection: for that Frances had almost dismissed her. Abel often accused Juliet of being a wicked pagan and threatened to report her to Father Nicholas. Barnaby was sure his mother was right when she said that cleanliness and faith in God would keep you far healthier than cat’s urine and dried spiders, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to ignore a magpie or to cross his knife and fork on his plate (although Abel deliberately did so to upset Juliet).