Chapter 19 Maeve
Maeve
Jude waited for her at the front door early the following morning. The night had been a restless one, full of half-formed dreams and waking hours where Maeve had searched her memories for holes with a fine-toothed comb. For anything that felt… off. Too shiny, too perfect.
And she wondered… if she found any, would she know?
There was something else she’d been forced to consider.
Over the years, Maeve had dealt with the occasional nightmare.
They were always the same. She stood alone in a vast room, staring up at the Abbey’s rose window.
The stained glass wasn’t its usual pattern.
Instead, it showed a person. A saint, one arm raised with fingers curled inwards, the other hovering close to their chest. Their eyes were screwed up with pain.
Mouth gaping open. Every piece of stained glass in the window, from the saint to the ornate frame surrounding them, was made of bright, arterial red.
In the nightmare, the glass shattered inwards with a deafening explosion. Shards covered the ground around her like a halo, like the rays of a sun. And always, just before she woke, she looked down at her hands to find blood dripping from her wrists to the tips of her fingers.
Her blood, or the saint’s?
Maeve had scoured that nightmare last night, running over it again and again, searching for meaning. By the time the sun had risen, she felt like she’d hardly slept at all. And the answer still evaded her.
Jude didn’t look much better. Wordlessly, he handed over her coat and a red scarf. She drew the soft wool to her nose. ‘Isn’t this yours?’
‘It’s more of a house scarf,’ he said as he opened the front door. A gust of cold wind swept in, chasing away the last fuzzy vestiges of sleep and replacing them with a sharp tinge of trepidation.
Maeve stepped outside, tucking windswept strands of hair behind her ears. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Oakmoor. There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s usually at the pub, but sometimes she wanders.’
‘She? Is she a friend? Something… more?’
Jude barked a rusty laugh as he opened the gate and gestured for her to go through first. ‘Yes. I love eighty-year-old women. How did you know?’
She buried her face in her scarf to hide her blush, catching his eye as he smiled.
He’d slid a deep green knitted hat over his closely shorn hair, his hazel eyes vivid against the thick fringe of his lashes.
She looked away first, but not before she noticed the faintest hint of pink dusting the tops of his cheekbones.
It didn’t take long to trace their way through the moors to the small village tucked between the hills like a cupped palm.
Immediately, the village made her uneasy.
Curtains twitched as they passed, the wood-slatted and plaster buildings shabby and timeworn.
High above their heads, gossamer clouds raced across the watercolour sky; a sharp contrast to the muted greys and browns of the village.
Watched – that was what the feeling was. Whether it was pure community nosiness or something more malevolent that drew villagers’ eyes to her, she wasn’t yet sure.
Jude stopped in front of a building aptly labelled PUB and pushed inside. Maeve followed him, loosening the scarf from her neck as she looked around, surprised to see it so busy in the early hour. The warm scent of peat and malty pints lingered pleasantly in her nose.
‘She’s in the corner,’ Jude said, bending to bring his mouth close to her ear.
Maeve scanned the room for the elusive she.
Most patrons were men, tucked around tables with mugs of milky tea between them.
To her surprise, the barman, a tall man with a mop of untidy dark curls and light brown skin, pushed out from a door near the back, holding three plates of cooked breakfasts – sausages, eggs, toast, and beans. Her stomach growled.
A woman sat alone at a table in the corner, her back to the rest of the room.
For a moment, Maeve could only make out a pile of intricately knitted scarves layered over an even more masterfully woven cloak.
It flowed from the woman’s narrow shoulders in a fall of bright yellow wool and fine gold thread, the colours as vivid as a field before harvest.
Jude reached her table first, bending over to say something before pulling a chair out for Maeve.
She lingered, still on her feet as the woman slipped off her knitted hat and let out a low, grating laugh.
‘Oh! My, my, my. Sit here next to the old girl.’ She rattled the chair Jude had pulled out. ‘Sit.’
Maeve sat.
Was Jude behind her?
The ground seemed to sway beneath her feet as she met the woman’s gaze. Her eyes were still a bright, vivid blue, shadowed by sagging lids and a scraggly cap of white hair. Pressure started suddenly in Maeve’s chest. The name was there, right there on her tongue. She wanted to say it; she couldn’t—
‘Oh, dear, dear, dear,’ the woman said, swiping a hand over her nose. Her knobby fingers came back red with blood.
‘Siobhan,’ Jude said, reaching forward. ‘Let me clean that for you.’ He gently wiped her fingers with a handkerchief. Siobhan watched with an unsettling blankness behind her eyes.
Maeve’s gaze fell to the pooled contours of her cloak. The bright yellow yarn, the shade so familiar—
Cadmium yellow.
‘Siobhan,’ Maeve echoed softly. She knew that name. How did she know it?
‘Siobhan,’ the woman trilled, tilting her head back and forth. ‘A lovely name for a lovely old girl. She liked it once when the sea was ripe and the sky a pearl.’
Maeve cautiously turned to Jude, finding him already watching her. ‘Is she okay?’
‘No,’ Jude said, ‘but you should still talk to her.’
‘Talk to who? Talk to me?’ Siobhan asked. She sat up straight and tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Many people used to talk to the old girl. Many, many people. So many years. So many tears.’ She giggled, the sound bright and girlish. ‘Leers and jeers and cheers. The old girl got it all, oh yes.’
Jude gentled his voice to a tone Maeve hadn’t heard before. ‘What do you mean by that?’
She shot him a look far keener than any previous. ‘Saint Jude. Don’t play with what you don’t understand.’
Maeve’s mouth felt full of cotton wool. Desperate, she looked around the pub. Tucked back in the corner as they were, none of the other villagers could see what was happening. Or if they could, no one seemed to care. Maybe Siobhan’s strangeness was commonplace.
A finger was suddenly in front of Maeve’s face, inches from her nose. ‘She has questions for the old girl. I can feel it.’
Jude laid his hand on Maeve’s wrist, pulling it forward. ‘Show her, Siobhan. What you showed me. On your scarf.’
‘Her scarf?’ Maeve asked. Her voice sounded very far away.
Siobhan shoved back from the table and leered over them. From the folds of her cloak, a pendant slipped free. Gold flashed in a rhythmic sway. Maeve had no choice but to look.
Two hands. A sun.
‘The Abbey,’ Maeve breathed.
‘No—’ Siobhan cried. Jude’s hands flashed forward to grip her flailing arms as she lurched backwards, stumbling on the leg of her stool.
‘Not them. Not them. No more. No more for the old girl,’ she blubbered like a child, fat tears falling down her wrinkled cheeks and off the tip of her reddened nose.
‘No more. Please. No more for the old girl.’
‘No more,’ Jude confirmed, his grip sliding down to curl gently around Siobhan’s frail wrists as he helped her back to her seat. ‘You’re safe here.’
‘Safe,’ Siobhan repeated softly. ‘No such thing.’ Her eyes flashed to Maeve’s as her voice hardened, growing more coherent. ‘No such thing. Not for the old girl. Not for you, daughter of memory.’
Maeve could do little more than stare, aghast.
‘Can you show her, Siobhan?’ Jude urged. His hands hadn’t left the old woman’s wrists, thumbs stroking circles on the translucent skin on the backs of her hands. ‘She needs to see.’
Siobhan stared at him for a long moment before dipping her chin in a jerky nod.
Trepidation swam through Maeve as the woman reached for one of the slender scarves wound around her neck.
Each one wasn’t just a random pattern, but a picture.
A story. The one she slid free started with the blues and greens of a sea before it shifted to what looked like a stained-glass window, to a lush forest before it ended in stacked rows of grey houses.
Siobhan’s hand was clammy and cold around hers as she extended Maeve’s arm. She began to wind the scarf from wrist to elbow like a bandage.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Jude murmured.
‘Why would I be—’
Then, the pub melted away in a sickening slide of colour and light. The spinning behind Maeve’s eyes intensified with the touch, like the vertigo she’d experienced in Jude’s memory but worse. She fought for clarity, for control over her body as she fell forward—
Straight into a memory.
The first thing Maeve noticed was the smell, slightly sweet like apples left to rot.
It coated every breath and stuck beneath her tongue.
The golden haze obscuring her vision began to recede like a thick mist rolling off sea cliffs, leaving a rush of dizziness in its place as the world around her solidified.
Dense forestland stretched out in every direction, an opening between the trees revealing a jewel-box town on the banks of a crystalline river.
The sheer beauty of it was like nothing she’d ever seen.
A sense of peace washed over her like a wave, filling her chest until she wondered if her heart might burst. Maeve had heard of somewhere like this before, hadn’t she?
Somewhere wholly perfect, where community flourished and prayers were answered. Somewhere meant as a reward—
Suddenly, something hit her just between the shoulder blades, throwing her onto her knees.
Maeve yelped as thick mud met her hands, sluicing up her arms to splatter her face.
The ground wavered, flickering like fingers banded over her eyes as the forest transformed into an endless stretch of churned black mud and back again, so fast it hurt to look at.
She shut her eyes as she scrambled back to her feet.
The earth sank beneath her, loamy and damp.
As soon as she righted herself, the scenery stilled.
She fought for air. Was there something wrong with Siobhan’s memory?
A metallic squeal caught her attention. She spun to look, her gaze alighting on a nearby tree. Each leaf was immaculate, a uniform oval quivering perfectly in time with its neighbour. The longer she looked, the worse the ache around her temples grew.
Look away, she commanded herself. It took effort, it hurt—
Maeve grunted, forcing her eyes from the leaves and down to a sign on the trunk.
THE GODDENWOOD.
Surprise jolted down her spine. Ezra had told her Jude’s home wasn’t far from the fabled town, hadn’t he?
Maeve had been excited at the potential, at the very nearness of the sanctuary.
Somewhere the Abbey’s favoured saints spent their days – a reward for piety and devotion.
A place so perfect that even the paintings of it had hurt to look at.
Strange that Siobhan had managed to visit. Why hadn’t she stayed?
Once more, the sense of unrelenting peace stole over her as she gazed down at the jewelled town. Even the colours were brighter, the ridges of the roofs sharp against the cerulean sky. Just like the depictions of it hanging in the Abbey, down to the last shining window and reaching spire.
Distantly, she registered a low thumping, like the thrum of a heart or waves hitting the shore.
Maeve drifted towards it.
Her steps came effortlessly as she moved through the wood.
Reaching the clear river bordering the neat wall of pastel houses, she knelt to rinse her hands clean of mud, only to spring back with a choked gasp at the acidic-green sludge coating her fingers.
The water still looked crystalline and perfect, but when she reached out to touch it again, only cold slime met her fingers.
Slowly, Maeve got to her feet.
Gold stained the backs of her lids with every blink.
The town was too perfect. Too silent, as she picked her way through its immaculate streets. Every door was closed, every window covered. The town was empty, not a saint to be seen. She could’ve been inside a dollhouse, or some exhibit in a travelling circus.
The thought gave her pause.
Maeve lifted a hand. Shutting her eyes, she traced the contour of a lamppost. It was rough and curved under her fingers, the jagged edges of what felt like a gouged hole pricking her skin. When she opened her eyes, it was back to smooth and crisp black iron.
Odd. Very, very odd.
She continued feeling around with her eyes closed.
Each wall and window, even the cobbles beneath her feet felt dilapidated and filthy.
Maeve brushed against a bench tucked under the shady cover of another too-perfect tree.
Her fingers skimmed over its rugged armrest when, suddenly, her hand sank through something soft and mealy.
She pulled back in disgust, opening her eyes to find her hand wrist-deep in a basket of rotten apples.
Then, in a horrifying unfurling, the town’s perfect veneer peeled back into something else entirely.
Thick layers of dirt blanketed every surface, from the sagging rooftops to the uneven streets. Weeds burst through every crack in the earth. A sickly yellow-grey haze hung heavy in the air, smelling sweet and sulphurous. For a moment, she thought the sky itself had decayed.
Surely, surely, this couldn’t be the Goddenwood.
As if hearing her thoughts, the town began to reform back into its visage of false tranquillity, like a fresh blanket tucked over wrinkled and stained bedclothes, hiding the horrors beneath.
Disbelief, maybe closer to denial, washed over her.
The Abbey had told her this was a perfect town, a reward for the most loyal of saints.
But yet. But yet.
Bending, she peered closer at a slender chain wrapped around the basket handle.
An icon swung from it, shining pure gold against the greyed rot of the town.
Maeve cradled it in her palm. A woman’s face cast in metal stared back at her.
A face she knew. A face she had prayed to, hours and hours of praying, knees to stone, head bent as she begged, as she wept, as she cried out for someone to hear her—
Siobhan.
The woman in the pub was a saint. A saint whose icon hung in the Abbey, whose mind was fading day by day, leaving her to live in fear, in wretched paranoia. And the Goddenwood—
Siobhan’s memories revealed a town far from the idyllic haven the Abbey promised. The Goddenwood wasn’t a reward, Maeve realized. It was a punishment.
She came back into her body with a sickening jolt.