Chapter 2 #2
Halting on the path, I peer into the forest. The bigger, leafier trees tend to grow along the border of the forest, but in this area, the trees are tall and bare, with naked branches studding their trunks like the spokes of a wheel, all the way up to the forest canopy, where their living leaves are.
Despite the absence of bushes and leaves, it’s amazing how quickly the bare trunks become an impenetrable wall, hindering my line of sight in every direction.
I can’t see anything that might have made that ponderous thud.
“There’s nothing out there,” I tell myself aloud. “Stay calm, or you’ll end up summoning something else.”
I continue along the path, walking briskly.
Halfway between the edge of Wormsloe Wood and Grandmother Riquet’s house, near the center of the forest, a rocky hill surges up like the stone breast of a sleeping goddess.
Locals call it “the Barrow.” With the exception of the occasional hunting party, people tend to avoid the woods in general and the Barrow in particular.
Most hunting is done in the other local forests, because Wormsloe has a reputation that precedes my existence.
People and animals tend to go missing here.
Grandmother Riquet used to warn me to avoid the Barrow, though she would never say why.
Nor did she ever tell me who or what she thought might be buried beneath the hill.
To me, it’s just a lump of rock cloaked with earth and grass.
The path goes around it, but clambering over the mound is faster and provides a better view of the surrounding forest. I’ve done it a hundred times, despite Grandmother’s warning.
It’s a straight shot over the hill and down to the path on the other side.
When I come to the Barrow I struggle up its steep slope, holding my basket against my side and extending my left arm for balance.
At the top I pause and turn in a slow circle, enjoying the view while the autumn breeze whips my red cloak around me and tosses my hair.
My cheeks burn from the walk and the climb.
Something immense catches my eye. A towering shape, moving among the spruce and pines. My heart lurches into my throat.
The figure is nearly as tall as the trees that partially conceal it from my view.
It walks on impossibly long, slender legs, thin and tall as tree trunks, with knobby joints.
Its coat is shaggy, and its aspect is wolflike, I think, though it’s difficult to make out its body or head amid the forest canopy.
Its feet resemble a cow’s hooves, huge and cloven, falling with slow, ponderous purpose.
I don’t recognize this demon… unless… Could it be the spindly shadow-creature I chased out of our house last winter? It seems unlikely. That demon was much smaller and more skeletal, practically a shadow of this one, and it resembled a cat more than a wolf.
Gods, this demon is huge. If there had been a sighting of such a monster, surely I would have heard about it. How has no one seen it before now?
The creature scents the air, then makes a garbled grunting sound. With slow, heavy steps, it weaves its way through the trees and disappears from my view.
Nothing about the demon seemed aggressive, but my heart is pounding wildly and my palms are clammy with nervous sweat. I set down my basket long enough to take off my cloak and drape it over my arm. Then I continue down the Barrow and along the path toward Grandmother Riquet’s house.
I haven’t been to her cottage in almost a year, so when I round the bend and see it again, I stop short. Things have changed dramatically.
She has taken down the fence that used to divide her property from the woods, and the entire clearing around her cottage is dotted with wooden hutches and various small shelters, rather like doghouses—although some of them are more akin to birdhouses, propped on tall, crooked poles.
There are creatures everywhere, ducking in and out of the shelters, munching on vegetables, hopping and tumbling in the grass. I recognize them. They’re all demons I’ve summoned over the years, and they’ve clustered here, forming a motley menagerie around Grandmother Riquet’s cottage.
For a second I wonder if they drove her out and took over the clearing, but I immediately dismiss the thought. They couldn’t have built the little houses themselves. Someone created those dwellings for their benefit. Someone is feeding them and providing them with shelter.
As I advance, the creatures pause what they’re doing to stare at me.
There’s such variety in their forms and colors, so many unique textures of their skin, scales and fur.
Some of them are an unexpected combination of one or more recognizable animals, fused with elements that those animals shouldn’t have, like tiny goat’s horns on a mouse, feathered wings on a lizard, a fox with eight eyes and a prehensile tail, or a six-legged rabbit with the claws of a badger.
Yet many of the demons include parts of animals I’ve never seen before, species that don’t exist in this realm.
My lungs tighten and my pulse kicks up even higher, partly with excitement and partly with apprehension. I’ve never witnessed this many of the demons in a group, and although they seem passive, I’m unsure how they feel about me.
A year ago, Grandmother Riquet would never have allowed the “beasties,” as she calls them, to remain very long on her property.
They disturbed her. She wanted nothing to do with them; in fact, she seemed to think that their very presence would pollute my mind and my energy, undoing the work she was trying to do with me.
The farther I stayed from the demons, the better it would be for everyone, or so she said.
Now, by all appearances, she’s living with them. Treating them like pets or companions.
I head up the path, past the tool shed, and stand before the cottage.
A few things haven’t changed, like the runes and symbols Grandmother carved into the logs when she first came to live in the old woodcutter’s cottage.
She marked every outer and inner wall of her house with the same dozen signs.
My favorite is the serpent devouring itself, with a sunburst at the center of its circular body.
Another symbol looks like two capital P’s turned back to back.
She once told me it symbolizes protection, while a similar symbol, like a mirrored capital R, indicates courage.
I place my fingers in the grooves of a weblike symbol, nine lines intersecting in groups of three.
The Web of Wyrd, she called it. For some reason, that mark has always frightened me a little, and yet I always feel drawn to touch it.
I used to feel a faint buzz in my fingertips when I traced its shape, but this time there’s nothing.
Frowning slightly, I knock on the front door. “Grandmother?”
There’s a scuffling sound, a thump, and a petulant curse uttered in a raspy voice that I recognize all too well.
“Grandmother Riquet?” I call again, taking the door handle.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Sybil Fallon.”
“Sybil?”
She can’t have forgotten me. Then again, she is nearly ninety. Maybe her memory is beginning to weaken.
I hesitate, struck by sudden guilt for not coming to check on her before now.
She prefers to be alone, and she has made that abundantly clear to everyone in the area, sometimes with the help of a pitchfork or an old crossbow.
I’m not even sure the crossbow still works, but she points it at anyone who comes onto her property without an invitation.
She pointed it at me the day I left her for the last time.
That threat shocked me more than any of the terrible things she said during our fight.
It’s why I haven’t returned, and it’s one of the details I didn’t share with Anne or my mother when I explained to them that I wouldn’t be having any more lessons.
Grandmother Riquet has always been self-sufficient, living quietly and only coming to the village with her donkey cart once every few months to exchange woven baskets and neatly stitched quilts for supplies.
But perhaps that is changing. At her age, one can only be self-sufficient for so long, and judging by the presence of the menagerie, her thought patterns have shifted.
“It’s Sybil,” I repeat. With a bracing breath, I add, “The demon girl.”
“Sybil, of course. Come in.”
I glance over my shoulder at the creatures, who are still watching me with inscrutable eyes.
Pressing the handle of the door, I push my way inside.
In the front room of the cottage, a few rays of dusty sunlight filter between the half-drawn calico curtains.
It’s musty, with an underlying stink of sweat and mildew.
I walk over to the wooden table where Grandmother and I used to sit and drink mint tea or dandelion wine, and I set down the basket.
She’s not in the front room, which serves as both parlor and kitchen, and there isn’t an indoor bathroom, just an outhouse near the edge of the clearing. She must be in the bedroom. Is she ill?
“I brought you some muffins,” I call. “Apple cinnamon, with the crumble topping you like.”
“How kind. Bring one in here, would you?”
“Are you not well?” I open the cupboard and take out a plate. I blow the dust off and carry it to the table, where I use the corner of the checkered cloth to wipe its surface before setting a muffin on it.
“I’m fine,” replies Grandmother in a crotchety tone. “Perfectly fine. Stop worrying. You worry far too much.”
“I suppose I do. There’s so much to worry about once you reach a certain age.”
“A certain age.” She scoffs. “How old are you, sixteen?”
“Twenty-two, as you know very well.” I walk to the bedroom door and peer into the shadows. “Don’t you want any light?”
“I’d prefer not. My eyes are weaker than they used to be.”
“How about a candle? Just so you can see well enough to eat.”
“Very well. Hand me that plate and go fetch one.”