Chapter 21
Rhea’s refused to speak to me for two days, lying on her bed in the same clothes she wore to the fateful grove.
Refused to eat. And to be honest, I’ve wanted to stay in my own bed and nurse my own wounds, the hurts the summer husband visited upon me, but I don’t.
I can’t. If I take to my bed, I might not get up again, might allow the despair of this awful pass to overwhelm me.
So, I swallow my own potions, I put poultices on my bruises and ointments on my scratches and scrapes, and I keep breathing, working, tending – there’s livestock needs feeding, the fields needing final prep for winter, and an orchard in need of proper pruning.
Mind you, when I reset and healed my own arm and rib, I almost passed out from the pain of the remaking; if I didn’t truly understand before why folk resent healing that hurts, I do now.
Still, I’ve been watching her carefully these past two days and she’s going to need my help soon.
Whether she wants it or not. The girl burned her beloved to save me – which might simply mean she’s going to hate me for what she did.
There’s every chance she’ll depart this forest soon, prepared or not for what comes next; I admit I’d be sad to lose her.
She’s sacrificed something valuable for me, so the most valuable thing I can give in return is a truth, when the time comes.
But, for the moment, I’m content to let her grieve, to ignore me, and I can do with respite from the sound of her guilt-ridden breaths.
It also means that when there’s a knock on the front door, I’m fairly certain she won’t come down, won’t want to be anywhere near me, so I don’t need to worry about her being seen.
I half-expect Faolan to be on the threshold, but that hope is soon dashed.
* * *
Thaddeus Peppergill is a dark-haired, dark-eyed man of faded handsomeness, medium height, mostly trim, still striking but his best days are well over his shoulder.
I’ve never felt tempted by him, but enough women (and a few of the men if Reynald’s gossip is to be believed) have thought him worth a turn; in addition to the offspring from his recognised mistresses, there are sufficient children in Berhta’s Forge bearing little resemblance to their own fathers, and an embarrassingly strong stamp of the Peppergill features.
At my kitchen table, he’s opted for a glass of honeyed rum – early in the day, but the weather’s sufficiently chilly that no one would raise an eyebrow, unless they’re like me and can smell the scent of alcohol already on his breath.
I cobble together a ploughman’s lunch to soak up the excess and hopefully keep him from tumbling off that very fine roan horse tied to a post by the barn.
I’ve treated him more than once over the years for mildly embarrassing conditions, done my best to ensure he doesn’t pass anything on to his partners. Still, not the worst of men.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Thaddeus?’ I sit across from him, begin picking at my own plate of meat and cheese, pickles and bread. ‘Is Matthias well? No ill effects of his adventure?’
‘The boy’s well. Well. But…’ There are shadows under his eyes that hint at stolen sleep, the skin beneath his chin is slack, like that of an even older man. ‘And I thank you for finding him, Mehrab. Deva and I are so grateful. But…’
‘Neither of us is getting any younger, so I’d suggest you spit it out.’
There’s a flare of irritation in his eyes, just briefly, and I know he’s not used to anyone talking to him this way. Of course, I’ve never spoken to him any other way, so there should be no surprise on his part.
‘Come, come, Thad. Speak plainly.’ I think, I know too much about you for you to play coy. Then he manages to surprise me.
‘More children are missing, Mehrab.’
The bread in my mouth is suddenly dry, tastes like sand and I can barely swallow. I gulp down my water, wishing I’d opted for rum. It’s a few moments before I can say, ‘How many? Whose children?’
‘Five. All young, seven or eight, all of them under the charge of Widow Wilky.’
‘Shit. When?’ Why hasn’t Tieve come to tell me?
The widow’s not a bad sort – a little grumpy, but that’s no crime – and she provides for those children whose families die and leave them unable to care for themselves.
She did so even before her wife died, and she herself became ‘Widow Wilky’.
Gods know I’ve kept an eye on her myself for years, just to make sure she’s not a monster in disguise.
But the orphans she cares for return to help her after they’ve left, invite her to weddings and name-days, some call her “mother” or “aunt”.
‘The last few days – and before you shout, remember that some children disappear for several nights in a row before they return, tail between their legs, begging her charity again,’ Thaddeus warns.
‘But these ones… well, the widow’s experienced enough with children to know whether they’re the wandering kind, and she’s adamant these were not. ’
It’s true. Not all want to live under another’s rules.
Some think they’ve escaped such tyranny when a parent or parents shuffle off their mortal coil.
Some run, heading for other villages or settlements.
One or two have settled themselves in the woods, becoming foresters, hunters, small croppers, returned to trade with the village.
But all have been trackable, all have been traced.
‘And no adults have gone missing?’ I ask; he shakes his head. ‘What are their names? The children?’
‘Uh. I—’
‘You didn’t ask. Just took the numbers.’
‘Mehrab, what can we do? There has to be something. We can’t just lock them all up, watch over them night and day. Not indefinitely. Work must be done, life must go on.’
I rub my face, trying to feel less tired, less fuzzy-brained. ‘Salt. That is the easiest thing I can think of on short notice: pour a thick line of salt around the village, make sure there are no gaps.’
He sits back. ‘That’s a lot of salt.’
‘A lot. I’m sure there’s a good supply of it in your emporium, Thad. Think how grateful folk will be to know you generously donated your own stock to help keep their children – and yours, of course – safe.’
‘Is there nothing else you can do? That’s a huge expense,’ he whines. ‘Something more… witchy? You wouldn’t want people to think you were—’
There’s an implied threat in his words, that the witch in the woods might be responsible or held accountable even if she’s not, and I think it’s best for both of us that he doesn’t finish that sentence. ‘Do you know what’s happening, Thaddeus?’
‘No.’
‘Well, nor do I and I am going to do my best to find out – but I doubt I’m clever enough to discover that this very day.’ I point at him. ‘A ring of salt around the perimeter, that’s the best interim measure I can suggest at this juncture. You’re welcome.’
After that he can’t leave quickly enough.
As I watch him through the window, mounting the roan, dangerously close to tipping off, and then finally trotting away, I think about this new development.
Children still, no adults. And nameless children this time – or rather, less nameless and more easy-to-forget.
Children with less parental oversight, for who could keep track of forty orphans, let alone Widow Wilky in her seventies.
I think about the tales of spectral huntsmen preying on little ones, taking the most vulnerable in a herd.
I think about that man-thing of shadow and bone at the Black Lake that night, waiting for me to swim to the shore, about the grey creature that stalked me as I hid inside a tree and the grotesque offerings on my doorstep as if I were a dark god. Connections and questions and no proof.
More questions I have no answers to. More matters to deal with. The one issue I can deal with immediately is upstairs, weeping into a pillow, and my natural urge to fix, to solve, kicks in. With a sigh, I turn towards the staircase.
* * *
‘Once upon a time,’ I say to Rhea’s back, ‘there was a woman. I wish I could say she was a girl, that she was too young to know better, but she wasn’t.
She’d already turned thirty, some might say old enough to have a modicum of wisdom at least, but that’s not the way of such things.
We learn from experience, or most of us to varying degrees, and this girl – woman – hadn’t had the sort of experiences needed to soften certain of life’s vicissitudes.
Many things had come easily to her, though her childhood was a rocky shoal.
But she had certain abilities which had lifted her from poverty and deprivation, gained her power and influence, and yes, fame of a certain sort for rather a long time.
Then it all fell apart – you don’t need those details.
They aren’t relevant, not really to this story, so don’t ask, just listen.