Chapter 35
Rosie rolls her eyes as soon as she sees me the next morning, which is never a good sign from either man or beast. I apologise as I handfeed her a small apple before saddling her.
I check the contents of my satchel, hook the bow and quiver (the arrows dipped in the same mix I use to lay the wards, since it’s been so effective against him) over the horn, tighten the laces in my boots and check the knife tucked into the right one, pat the knife on my belt, and make sure said belt is firmly cinched in the loops of my trews.
I’ve chosen a coat in place of a cloak today for ease of movement, less likely to get caught on twigs and other inconvenient obstructions.
At last, I lead Rosie out to three mournful faces.
I’ve reminded them yet again that they’ve promised to stay here, and manage not to say ‘If you follow me, you’re on your own’ because those are less than reassuring last words, hardly a rousing battle cry.
No one cries, although Tieve indulges in some suspicious sniffling and I call her over.
‘Tieve, I’ve made a very large assumption that you want to go with us, but you don’t have to – you can return to the village and your family or stay here, make the cottage your home. You’re certainly not being kidnapped. The choice is yours.’
She says, ‘I’ll come with you. If you’ll have me,’ and sneaks a look at Rhea, all hurt and yearning and guilt.
Rhea catches the glance and, to her credit, she nods. Touches Tieve’s shoulder, very quickly like a butterfly’s flit, and says, ‘You are welcome.’
The child bursts into tears, Rhea follows suit and even Fenna.
Wonderful. Time for me to go.
* * *
I pass out through the veil and don’t look back.
I cross the ward-line and urge Rosie towards the path we followed not many days since, towards the clearing where the earth-carved trap lies, towards Night’s Barrow and all that waits there.
Nervous as a cat, I keep a sharp lookout, but I’m also trying to piece together my solution, assess my chances of success, and my worst-case scenario if I don’t succeed.
What I will do if I can’t find a way to pin down a miasmic thing of mist and smoke and darkness.
I refuse to consider what to do if anything’s happened to the baby.
Refuse to consider what I might say to Rhea after all my certainty and promises.
I wonder what might happen if the huntsman were to be caught out of his barrow by daylight.
What might that do to him? Something final?
An eldritch burning? Is there some way to bring the barrow down on him?
Some way to force an opening in the roof?
Even if there was, he doesn’t sleep in the chamber on the first level – but, I assume, below, in the places I did not venture.
I think of the green woman’s tale, that it hid in the darkness for years, pulling itself or what remained of it back together into some semblance of a man-shape.
It didn’t do that in the light. So, it has limitations, weaknesses.
I think of it attacking Berhta’s Forge last night when it’s stayed away until now. Why? A whim? Or was something – some limitation – removed? If so, what? Wait. Anselm died three nights before. Was that also the huntsman? If yes, why then? Again: a whim or the lifting of a limitation? What changed?
The iron knife broke its trap, left a mark on the earth itself.
It doesn’t like water according to the mari-morgan, and I witnessed that myself.
A broken thing, a part of something else.
Something snapped off a god of the hunt – perhaps all the drive to pursue and consume?
Might that be what keeps horse and wish-hounds, man and god, running other living creatures to ground?
Something beyond the need to eat, a greater hunger, a different hunger, for fear and fright? A cruel desire to dominate?
The breaking of a god, such a shattering that unseen things, non-physical things, could be shaken loose. Fractured.
I think about an interesting snippet I found last night before sleep, leafing through one of Yrse’s books: that once upon a time, the god, when whole, might sometime leave game on the doorsteps of homes where there was want.
Where cupboards were bare, and babes cried.
An interesting dichotomy for a thing that reputedly hunted children when the whim took.
Then again, different locations, different gods.
And, I suppose, those circumstances were different – teaching lessons to the arrogant as opposed to providing for the deprived. Capricious things, gods.
Interesting, too, that the shadow half never sought out its other part.
Or did it?
Was that part lost forever? Did it die? Without that grasping, roaring, snarling, greedy component of itself, was it too soft to survive?
What had the green woman said? There’s the story that, injured but not quite dead, he rose and returned to the heart of the woodland to recover – but he was always a broken thing after that.
Two broken things.
And did that remainder that was neither dark nor violent, or not irrationally and passionately so, did it seek out its darkest part? Or did it forget what it had been? Does it too sleep in another barrow, hibernating, waiting and unaware? Where might it be found?
Did both parts make the choice to stand alone?
What parts of ourselves would we leave behind if we could, slicing them out without consequence?
Would the better self root out the dark, the dire, the shameful?
Or would the worse self leave behind its conscience and empathy, anything that interfered with enjoyment of the very worst sort?
Ordinary folk like to think of themselves as “good”, they don’t like to admit there might be a part of them that isn’t so wonderful, and in refusing to admit it, in refusing to look into their own darkness, they become blind to it, cannot see spite in their own actions.
They make of themselves monsters, great and small.
Even gods might do the same. Especially gods.
* * *
Nearly halfway to Night’s Barrow, I hear sobbing and rein Rosie in.
Ahead of me, a light covering of frost that’s not quite melted, speckled with blood.
The trail leads off the path. I urge Rosie forward, but don’t dismount in case a quick getaway is required.
Several yards later, I spy a naked foot protruding from behind a bush.
The foot leads to a still-booted foot, and two legs in torn and bloodied trews, all of the foregoing being attached to a weeping, bleeding Orin Alderson.
In his lap, the grey head of the lurcher, its side ripped open.
Long gone, poor beastie. Still, I don’t dismount, just stare.
He looks up at me, cries even harder, and howls: ‘Help me.’
‘No please about it?’ Rosie paws the ground, unhappy at the noises the lad’s making. From here, I can see cuts and bruises on both legs, and the ankle of the bare foot lies at an awkward angle.
‘Please,’ he cries, lifting a hand from the dog’s head to plead; the other is clamped over what looks like a rip in his torso, red oozing between his fingers, two of which are skewed.
All in all, Orin Alderson is in a lot of pain and I can’t help but rejoice a little in that.
Not happy about the dog, though. ‘Please help me, Mistress Mehrab.’
‘Where’s the baby?’
‘What—’
‘My fosterling’s baby. Small, slightly green, flowers in her hair.
You went into my cottage – no, wait, it’s worse.
You were invited into my cottage by a friend, you betrayed her and stole away a child like some fairy-tale goblin.
At the very least, you offended against the laws of hospitality.
You definitely offended against the laws of intelligence because you stole from a witch’s home.
So, young Master Alderson, you’ll earn whatever help you want. Where is the child?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I swear I’ll leave you here. I’ll abandon you as soon as take my next breath and not lose a moment of sleep over it.’
His mouth thins, the lips tightening to keep his secrets in. I click my tongue to urge Rosie onward.
‘Wait!’ he sobs. ‘Help me.’ I’m not cruel enough to say that’s not convincing, but Rosie keeps moving.
‘Please, I’m begging. It hurts.’
I throw over my shoulder: ‘Where’s the baby?’
‘Night’s Barrow.’
‘Where you took her.’
‘No. Not me. I—’
Now, I wheel my horse about, dismount. I crouch in front of the boy and say: ‘Orin? You’re clearly afraid of someone or something. I’m willing to bet it’s the huntsman, but please be assured that at this very moment, the only person you should be afraid of is me.’
His pupils are very large and dark, he’s in shock; close up I notice his right ear has almost been torn from his head.
He looks even younger, face stripped back by pain; he looks very like his father at this moment.
I reach out, touch the dangling lump of flesh gently.
The lad winces. ‘Did the wish-hounds do this?’
He nods, tears welling again. ‘They killed my dog. My Merry-girl.’
Poor pup.
I rest a hand on the lurcher’s motionless form – she’s still warm. Beneath my palm I feel the slightest rise and fall of breath. My own breath catches. She’s so far gone, but…
A quick cut on my forearm to pay the red price, then I lay both hands on her, gentle as I can, and feel my way through her flesh and bones and all the broken places, into the warmth and the dear heart of her that loves this idiot boy so, and I begin to knit her back together.
It hurts her, I know, I expect to be bitten, but she’s quiet, stoic, only giving a yelp at the end, then she sits up slowly – I’ve never seen a person do that so soon! – and licks her master’s bloodied face.