Eve of the Serpent

by Jon Jacks

  She could ask the man, of course.

  But she’d look stupid.

  He’d tell her it was none of her business anyway.

  ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to burn her out, whether she’s responsible or not.’ The first man guffawed, happy to have been given the chance to regain his composure and pride.

  ‘She’s out of bounds, we know that. Who knows what attacking that dire old witch would unleash?’

  She wasn’t old, Prytani thought. So they couldn’t be talking about the lady in the tower after all.

  ‘It’s been tried. No one’s got past that evil lake, or the thorns. Both seem to come alive when anybody’s foolish enough to try and burn her out.’

  ‘Aye, she’s safe, as long as she remains on the Isle of Glass.’

  It was the lady they were blaming for these attacks!

  And that meant she wasn’t just a character in Prytani’s dreams.

  She was real. She really existed.

  *

  Chapter 6

  Despite the similarities between the witch the men were describing and the lady in the tower, Prytani still couldn’t believe that she would be responsible for any attacks as a beast.

  Admittedly, the transformation of men and women into animals was a common occurrence within the tower. This, after all, was how Prytani herself managed to make her own visits there. She had also seen bears, deer, rams, badgers and birds, many of which had briefly transformed back into human form, particularly when they’d alighted on the final step bringing them out into the lady’s room. The ones who frowned uncertainly would turn, head back down the stairs. The ones who remained, however, would become an animal again, watching patiently as the lady wove her tapestries.

  Yet none of these creatures had solidity. Prytani could pass through them as if they were nothing but creatures of the imagination. They could pass through her, too, as if she were purely spirit, not body. Indeed, it was only when Prytani concentrated, when she deliberately chose to see if anyone else was in the tower with her, that she managed to get even the odd glimpse of these animals.

  She hadn’t come across any creature that looked in anyway dangerous, even the bears, the lions. They padded around the tower as if in a daze, unsure where they where, or where they were ultimately headed.

  They sought knowledge, understanding, not prey.

  As the sun gradually lowered in the sky, the people on the roads around them, even in the villages they passed through, increasingly hurried about their business. The oxen of heavily laden carts were vigorously whipped to gain an extra turn of speed out of them. The more wayward geese of flocks being herded to market were abandoned to their own foolishness. Children were scolded and dragged inside, if necessary by a firm grip to their ears.

  The farmers and townsfolk rushing home glanced back at the relatively languidly moving men as if they were crazy, or at best imprudently brave.

  Shutters were snapped closed on windows. Doors rung to the sound of thick wooden bolts being slammed home.

  ‘Maybe…maybe we should seek shelter? Just for the night?’

  The man grimaced as his spoke, immediately regretting his display of cowardice. The leader of the group shook his head determinedly.

  ‘We wasted time finding the girl. We can’t delay delivering her any longer.’

  ‘Give me the beast to facing the wizard’s wrath,’ agreed another sagely.

  ‘How could I show my face after admitting running for cover from a beast that terrifies shepherd boys and idiot tinkers?’

  The sun sank beneath the horizon in a blood-red glow. The moon took its place, shining as brightly as a thousand blazing torches. Its grey sheen spread out across the land, as if it were washing everything in a viscous quicksilver, giving it all a ghostly presence.

  The horses whinnied, neighed, stumbled.

  ‘They’re picking up our own nervousness, that’s all,’ the leader declared hopefully.

  Prytani looked back towards Tamesis. Tamesis had come to a sudden halt, her snout held high in the air.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tamesis?’ Prytani asked.

  ‘What is it girl?’

  ‘What do you see, witch?’

  The men instinctively slid their swords from their sheaths. They each unhooked the shield fixed to their mount’s harness, lifted it up into a defensive position.

  ‘Do you see the beast?’

  As if made of quicksilver itself, as if nothing more than a beam of the moon’s light, something rushed out of the darkness towards the men at unbelievable speed.

  That something, whatever it was, leapt, growled. It hit one of the men full on, even though he was still seated high in his saddle. By the time the man struck the floor, his head was twisted at an ungainly angle, his eyes bulbous in surprise and lifelessness.

  Without a break in his moves, this something had leapt up onto another horse, had dispatched a warrior with the slash of a taloned hand. This time the man slumped back in his saddle, his throat cut to the bone, the head dangling and almost severed.

  The troop’s leader didn’t bother reaching towards this something with his sword. Instead, he brought a horn up to his lips, blew on it as if his lungs would burst.

  The horn’s wail rushed out across the deathly–looking landscape, the response nothing but a hollow echo of its own plaintive cry.

  Spurring their horses on, forcing them to ignore their natural fear and inclination to flee, the other two men rushed to surround the something that had attacked them; the something they assumed must still be somewhere close, going by their dead comrade still limply seated on his mount. Their swords lashed down, sliced through the air – but this something was a blur as it moved, as it ducked, curled and spun.

  Whinnying in terror, one of the horses shied, stumbled, buckled. Its hind quarters abruptly dropped to the floor as its leg tendons vanished in a violent riving of talons and a splatter of blood.

  The rider swung out with his sword, raised his shield, hoping the movement he’d detected in the air around him was something to do with this something that was effortlessly clawing its way through them all. He felt his sword strike nothing, his shield brace itself against nothing. His leather breastplate split open, so deeply that blood and guts readily spilled out of it.

  Fortunately for him, for his pride, he didn’t recognise the shrill shriek he heard as being his own. Rather, he heard it as the shrill cry of the dragon horns being fiercely blown in reply to their troop’s own call for help.

  Hearing the lowing call of the dragon horns, the troop’s leader blew on his own horn all the louder, his chest once again expanding until fit to burst. Burst it did, too, when that something whirled in the air, slammed its iron-hard fist against his rib cage, made it crumple as easily as breaking reeds.

  With a last wail, the horn fell from the man’s lips, from his hand. It toppled along with him into the hoof-churned dust of the road.

  The dragon horns were louder now. The lowing vibrated, oddly trilled, the sure sound of horns being blown by riders on horseback, riders riding pell-mell, rushing to the rescue.

  With a snarl, the something sprang towards the last warrior. The man’s sword arm snapped, the sword flying uselessly up above them all. A clasped, clutching hand tore off his face, cast it aside as if it were a shredded patch of unwanted clothing.

  At last, the something stilled, halted in its moves as it pricked its ears, listened to the dragon horns drawing nearer with every minute. It glowered with intelligent, knowing eyes at Prytani.

  It was waiting for Prytani to do something.

  The donkey was petrified, refusing to even move its tail, rigidly frozen in a catatonic shock. As dumbstruck as her mount, Prytani stared at the beast.

  It was monstrous. Had the surviving horses not already fled, it would have towered over them. It stood on its hind legs, man-like, yet in every other way it was far more wolf than man.

  A werewolf.

  Prytani had heard of them, believ
ed them to be nothing more than creatures of the imagination, of myths and stories to frighten the gullible.

  Tamesis hissed threateningly if vainly at the looming beast. She had bravely if stupidly positioned herself in front of the frozen donkey.

  Ignoring the hissing, spitting Tamesis, the werewolf cocked its head, listening once again to the lowing horns, the thundering hooves of a great many, galloping horses that now unmistakeably lay beneath the wailing. The wolf stared at Prytani once more with those frighteningly shrewd yet bestial eyes.

  ‘Shoo!’ the werewolf bizarrely said to the donkey, flipping his taloned paws as one would to scare away a bothersome cat. ‘Shoo, damn you!’

  Prytani and Tamesis swapped puzzled glances.

  Where the road rose then fell away on a nearby ridge, the first of the oncoming riders appeared, the pennants on their raised spears fluttering like flames.

  The werewolf spun elegantly on its hind legs. It loped away in the opposite direction to the rapidly approaching cavalry, its speed at least that of the swiftest horse. As if not already uncatchable, Prytani watched in complete amazement as the wolf sprang forward, as if diving into a welcoming pool of water. It vanished into an eddying, silvery-sheened mist that now swirled and flowed just above the cooling earth.

  The riders thundered past her, their spears now lowered, seeking out a target to skewer. Only a few of the mounted warriors slewed to a halt around her, taking the reins of her own mount. They glanced down at the dead men splayed across the ground, glanced about them nervously as if weighing up the chances of the beast returning.

  ‘Quick; sling each one over the back of a horse,’ one of the men curtly ordered. ‘We can’t leave them lying here for the beast to devour at his leisure.’

  *

  When the rest of the riders returned from their fruitless chase of the werewolf, Prytani told them what she had seen; the beast simply disappearing, as if blending into the very air itself.

  She had wondered if she should tell them. Her instinct, whenever surrounded by people she didn’t trust, was to remain silent, at least to say as little as possible. To give nothing away, not even how much you feared what was happening to you.

  In this case, however, she was hoping to be reassured that she hadn’t imagined what she truly believed she had seen. Hoping that the men around her would nod in understanding; yes, this was one of the many fearful qualities of a werewolf, one which most people fortunately remained unaware of.

  Instead, they laughed, if rather edgily.

  ‘As if there isn’t enough fear around! We’ve now got a witch scaring everyone all the more, with tales of attacks by wraiths!’

  It had been no wraith that had so effortlessly slashed and gored the bodies of their dead friends, Prytani wanted to retort. But she kept quiet, of course.

  The riders could see for themselves the work of their ‘wraith’: the bodies of their friends, slumped across the back of their horses. Bodies that were horrifically gored, the flesh riven apart, the muscles shredded, the bones cracked and splintered. Blood dripped down the flanks of their mounts, slipped to the floor, splattered onto and rapidly dried amongst the dirt of the track.

  Keeping quiet enabled Prytani to learn far more than any longwinded jabbering would. She listened into the disgruntled mumblings of the men, picking up on their displeasure at being taken from the comfort of their beds, their women, to fruitlessly patrol the villages and farms. The werewolf, they agreed, might not be a wraith; but his success at avoiding them and all the other patrols sent out each full moon would be expected of a far more spectral foe.

  The attacks had started months ago. At first lone men, out on the roads late at night or working on the edges of farms or villages, were suspected of being abducted by brigands – until their bodies were found, gored and half eaten. Traveling or working in protective huddles only brought them their first sightings of the beast; immense, terrifying, powerful, fearless. It still made off easily with its food for the night, while leaving behind the dead and wounded who had foolishly hoped their increased numbers would ensure their safety.

  The farms and villages they passed or trotted through were locked down for the night, eerily silent and apparently empty. Doors and shutters were bolted, all light snuffed out, all chatter from inside kept to a minimum, lest the werewolf realised you were home.

  Pitchforks and scythes were kept close at hand, Prytani heard from the ever-watchful men riding beside her: for yes, even behind their walls of wattle or even stone, no one was safe from a monster that could smash through wood as if it were nothing but woven twigs.

  There was light from neither candle nor lamp on their long journey until, just a little before dawn, Prytani spotted the glow of torches lying far ahead of them. Immediately on spotting the blaze of the torches, one of the riders raised one of the troops’ tall dragon horns to his lips, the bejewelled eyes of the sculpted dragon’s head glittering, the streamers of its mane flowing behind it. The mournful lowing spread out before them, announcing their arrival.

  The dragon horn’s cry received a responsive call, another plaintive lowing from another dragon horn. The rider lowered his own horn with a smile of satisfaction, slotting the long, serpentine-like instrument into a sheath on his mount’s harness.

  ‘Home at last,’ he breathed with relief. He glanced forlornly at the horribly gashed body laid across the flanks of a nearby horse. ‘But I wonder how many others the beast has taken from us tonight?’

  *

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t just a village they had arrived at, but one safely nestled behind a formidable stockade, expertly constructed from heavy, hewn timbers. Moreover, it wasn’t just populated with the usual farmers and artisans, for there was also a sizable stable there, one obviously built for housing a large number of horses.

  Such a great number of horses implied wealth, power. The well-armed men who had opened the stockade’s great doors had greeted the troop of riders as if familiar with each and every one of them. Obviously, Prytani realised, this stockade was their home too, the home of numerous warriors.

  The confidence and sense of security this presence of the armed men gave the village was plain to see. Unlike the other villages they had passed, here candles and lamps were alight in the windows of the houses where the occupants were already rising and preparing for the day’s labours lying ahead of them. Doors were still closed, but in most cases, windows remained unshuttered.

  All but two of the riders directed their horses towards the stables. The two remaining with Prytani and the ever-faithfully following Tamesis led them silently through the gradually wakening village. They trotted past a great hall, one decorated with a multitude of elaborate carvings, portrayals of brave warriors vanquishing huge boars, towering bears, even vast-winged dragons. Like a few of the buildings here, it boasted lower walls of stone, a sure sign of prestige, of people of great importance.

  Even the low lying structure that Prytani was taken to and locked inside was better made than any other building she’d previously had to take shelter in. It felt relatively windproof and warm, and thereby strangely comforting, despite it being her prison.

  Best of all, she had Tamesis with her once again.

  They lay down in the old straw that had been strewn across the floor, curling up together, Prytani’s long hair hardly different in colour to the vixen’s fur. Anyone catching them sleeping like this could be forgiven for failing to easily determine where the girl began and the other ended.

  They could have been one.

  And in Prytani’s dreams, of course, they were.

  *

  The lady, as always, was spinning, and weaving, all at the very same time.

  The threads appeared to come from the very air itself, to fly into the woman’s hands, then fly once more across the room to curl and entwine, becoming the gorgeously rainbow-hued tapestries. The threads snaked through these creations as if alive, as if actual serpents, or even the umbilical cords
that linked mother with new-born child. They slithered, they writhed, they finally settled as portraits, landscapes, seascapes, or a mix of all three.

  As all this happened, the uncountable strings and threads that ran up through the centre of the tower sang. They were being strummed by the wind, by life itself, by the past, present and future. The lady was drawing towards her all the life threads of the dying, reforming it, reusing it, recreating new life, stretching it out and casting it all once more back into the world. Mixing in obvious truths, merging it all with less obvious lies, blending it all until it became the substance of new life.

  How many hands, how many arms, did the lady have? Once again, Prytani couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I missed you last night, little fox.’

  The lady didn’t avert her gaze from her work. She didn’t need to.

  She knew Prytani was there once more, sitting patiently on her haunches, awaiting instruction.

  ‘Are you the wolf?’ Prytani asked calmly. ‘The wolf killing all these people?’

  The lady chuckled. She turned on her seat to face Prytani. Her arms, her hands, however, didn’t seem to drop away from her work.

  ‘No, I’m not the wolf, little fox!’

  She sounded amused rather than offended.

  ‘Although I do realise many people are spreading that rumour. It’s convenient, for them to lay the blame elsewhere.’

  At last, her hands left off from her work. Even so, the threads continued to warp and writhe, the tapestries continuing to form as if their existence were the only things holding the very fabric of the universe together.

  As the lady gracefully rose from her seat, it was obvious to Prytani now – as it always was on any of the rare occasions when the lady broke off from her tasks – that she only possessed one pair of arms, one pair of hands, like any normal woman. And yet, and yet – there was always a blur of movement surrounding her, as if her hands could never, ever really afford to stop their work. As if they continued their important work no matter where the lady was standing.