Joanne Harris - Runemarks

Over the past twenty-four hours Ethel had seen more than she had in her entire life up until that moment. She had seen gods in battle, women who were wild beasts, her husband possessed by an unholy spirit, her house invaded, her property requisitioned, her life left hanging by a thread.

She knew she should feel something. Fear, probably. Grief. Anxiety. Relief. Horror at the unnaturalness of it. But Ethelberta felt none of these. Instead she scrutinized her face in her dressing-table mirror. She was not in the habit of doing so often. But today she felt compelled to look-not out of vanity, but more out of curiosity, to see if she could find any visible sign of the change she felt within.

I feel different. I am different.

She had changed into a dress of plain brown flannel-not inexpensive, but not good enough to tempt the Faërie woman-and had washed and brushed her long hair. Her face was clean and free of rouge, which made her look younger; her eyes-unremarkable when compared with Freyja’s or Skadi’s-were a clear and thoughtful golden brown. She was not a beauty-but neither was she the same muffin-faced Ethel Goodchild who had almost ended up on the shelf in spite of all her father’s money.

How very strange, thought Ethel calmly. And how strange it was that the Gødfolk had healed her. Perhaps that made her unnatural too; marked, in some way, by their passing. Certainly she did not feel the revulsion she knew she ought to feel; instead she felt something like gratitude. Strangely like joy.

She was just about to go out, thinking that perhaps a morning walk would help to calm her spirits, when a knock came on the front door, and, opening it, she saw Dorian Scattergood, disheveled, wild-eyed, red-faced, and close to tears in his eagerness to tell his tale to someone-anyone-who might believe him.

He had run, he told her, all the way from Red Horse Hill. Lying low until he was sure it was safe, he had at last returned to find the dismembered bodies of Audun Briggs and Jed Smith lying beside the open Eye. Of the parson and Adam there was no sign, although he had seen the six Vanir moving fast along the Malbry road and had hidden under a hedge in a field until the demon folk passed by.

“There was nothing I could do,” said Dorian wretchedly. “I ran-I hid…”

“Mr. Scattergood,” said Ethel firmly, “I think you’d better come in for a while. The servants are due at any moment, and I’m sure you could take a drink of tea to calm your nerves.”

Tea, thought Dorian in disgust. Nevertheless, he accepted, knowing that if anyone in Malbry was likely to believe him, Ethelberta would.

She did. Urging him on when he faltered, she took in the whole tale: the wolf woman, two murders, Nat’s possession by spirits unknown, the disappearance of Adam Scattergood.

When he had finished, she put down her teacup in its china saucer and added a little more hot water to the pot. “So where do you think my husband has gone?” she asked.

Dorian was puzzled. He’d expected tears, anger, perhaps some kind of hysterical outburst. He’d expected her to blame him for running away-certainly he blamed himself-and the need to confess it to someone had been a part of his reason for coming to the parsonage in the first place. Dorian had never had much time for Nat Parson, but that didn’t mean he should have abandoned him to his fate. The same was true of the others, he thought, and as for Adam-his own nephew, for Laws’ sakes-he was deeply ashamed at having run.

“They went into the Hill, lady,” he said at last. “No doubt about it. Your husband too. They were tracking someone-”

“The Smith girl,” said Ethel, pouring tea.

“Aye, and her friend. The one who escaped.”

Ethel nodded. “I know,” she said. “I’m going after them, Mr. Scattergood.”

“ After them?” Now he knew that she was mad. In a way it reassured him; her strange calm had begun to make him uneasy. “But, Mrs. Parson-”

“Listen to me,” said Ethel, interrupting. “Something happened to me today. Right here, in the courtyard. It was done in a flash, like a bolt from the blue. One moment alive, the next slipping away into darkness. I’ve seen things, you understand. Things you’d scarcely warrant, not even in dreams.”

“Dreams?” said Dorian. Dreaming was not a pastime respectable folk admitted to in Malbry. He wondered whether Ethel Parson had received a knock on the head and wished he hadn’t called on her. “Perhaps you were dreaming,” he suggested. “There’s funny things-dangerous things-can happen in dreams, and if you don’t happen to be used to it-”

Ethel made an impatient noise. “I was dead, Mr. Scattergood. Dead and halfway to the Underworld before the Seer-folk brought me back. Do you think I’m afraid of a few bad dreams? Do you think I’d be afraid of anything?”

By now Dorian’s unease had deepened into anxiety. He’d never had much experience with madwomen and, being unmarried himself, had little idea of how to deal with one now.

“Er-Mrs. Parson,” he said feebly. “Naturally you’re distraught. Perhaps a rest and some smelling salts?”

She fixed him with a pitying look. “I was dead,” she repeated gently. “People talk around the dead. They say things they shouldn’t. They pay less attention. I don’t pretend to understand all of what’s happening here. The affairs of the Seer-folk are not our affairs, and I wish none of us had been caught up in them, but it’s too late for wishes, I’m afraid. They healed me. They gave me my life. Did they really think that I would return to it as if nothing had happened? Needlework, cooking, and the kettle on the hob?”

“What are you saying?” said Dorian Scattergood.

“I’m saying,” said Ethel, “that somewhere in World Below, my husband and your nephew are still alive. And that if we are to find them again-”

“Find them?” said Dorian. “We’re not talking about a piece of lost knitting here, Mrs. Parson-”

Once more she chilled him with a look. “Do you own a dog, Mr. Scattergood?”

“A dog?”

“Yes, Mr. Scattergood. A dog.”

“Well-no,” he said, taken aback. “Is it important?”

Ethel nodded. “By all accounts there are hundreds of passageways under the Hill. We’ll need a dog to find their trail. A tracking dog with a good nose. Otherwise we may spend the rest of our lives wandering about in the dark, don’t you agree?”

Dorian stared at her, astonished. “You’re not mad,” he said at last.

“Far from it,” said Ethel. “Now, we’ll need a dog, and lamps and supplies. Or I will, if you’d rather stay here.”

Dorian protested less than she’d expected. For a start he welcomed the opportunity to redeem himself for his behavior on the Hill; secondly, whether Ethel was mad or not, she was clearly determined, and he could hardly let her go alone. Borrowing the parson’s horse and trap, he left her to get ready-hardly daring to hope she would change her mind-and returned within the hour with two packs containing food and essentials and with a small black potbellied sow on the seat beside him.

Ethelberta regarded the black sow with some uncertainty. But Dorian was adamant: pigs were his livelihood and he’d always believed in their superior intelligence. Black Nell, the potbellied sow that had caused the scandal years ago, had been a famous truffler in her day, faithful and clever, guarding the farm as well as any dog.

This new sow was descended from Nell herself, though Dorian had never mentioned the fact or declared the broken ruinmark that adorned her soft underbelly with a patch of white. Instead he had used pitch to conceal the mark (as once his own mother had used a hot iron and soot to conceal the mark on her new baby’s arm), and he had never regretted it.