Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

“That man’s warped and twisted like thread gone awry on the loom,” put in Orna.“The curse got him with a vengeance. But maybe we shouldn’t be speaking of this. I wouldn’t want to give you nightmares.”

I refrained from telling them that my own story provided more than enough material for night after night of bad dreams. Their fanciful tales were a welcome diversion from the problems that would face me tomorrow. For, after all, I could pay for only one night in the safety of this inn.“I did meet two men on my way here,” I said.“One was a monk.They guided me down to the settlement, but they left rather quickly when your friends out there started throwing stones.”

The effect of this was startling. Both Tomas and Orna formed the sign to ward off evil, each looking at the other. “A monk, was it?” Tomas sounded disturbed. “Thin sort of fellow, big teeth?”

“That’s right. His name was Brother Eichri. He seemed friendly.They both did.”

“Anluan’s cronies, the two of them,” said Tomas. “If that’s what Duald and the others spotted, it’s no wonder they were throwing things.”

“Anluan?”The conversation was proving hard work.

“Our chieftain. So-called chieftain. I can’t think of one good thing to say about the man, crooked, miserable parasite that he is.”

“More soup?”At Orna’s question her husband fell silent, but the anger in his words vibrated through the warm air of the kitchen.

“If you came here through the woods,” he said after a little, “it’s just as well you didn’t meet the dog.”

“I don’t mind dogs,” I offered cautiously.

There was a meaningful pause.“This is not so much a dog as a . . . Dog ,” said Orna.

“A really big one?”

“Big.You could say that.The creature can take a fully grown ram in a single bite. In the morning, all that’s left is a few wisps of wool.”

Now they really were trying to scare me. If every hapless traveler who wandered into the settlement was regaled with such stories, it was little wonder the place had so few visitors.

“There’s a bed made up in the back room,” Orna said, seeing that I had finished my supper. “It’s nothing fancy, but you’ll be warm.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling very awkward. I was new to being utterly without resources; new to having no shelter beyond dawn tomorrow. New to being all alone. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Fallen on hard times, have you?” asked Tomas.

Maybe he meant well. After the carter, I was not prepared to put it to the test. “A temporary setback,” I said, hearing how unconvincing it sounded.“I would like to sleep now. I need to be able to lock the door. Especially with those things about, the ones you mentioned.” I did not for a moment believe in tiny beings that whispered in one’s ear, or in monstrous dogs. But I had learned about the human monster, and I needed a bolted door before I could sleep.

“It’s the cold, creeping ones that are the worst,” said Orna. “They sing to you, lull you with their voices, and the next thing you find yourself wandering on a little path to nowhere. My own uncle fell prey to them. You can’t arm yourself against them. If they want you, they get you.”

I began to wonder if this whole episode was a crazy dream brought about by exhaustion and sorrow.“If Whistling Tor is so beset by these creatures,” I asked, “it seems strange to me that the village still exists.That’s if I understood you right, that these . . .manifestations . . .have been plaguing the region for almost four generations. I’d have thought people would have packed up and left long ago.”

“Leave Whistling Tor?” The innkeeper’s tone was full of amazement. It was plain that he had never considered such a prospect and found the idea unimaginable. “We couldn’t do that.Whistling Tor’s our place. It’s our home.”

“The sleeping quarters are through this way,” Orna said briskly, as if that topic was too painful to dwell on. “Brace the bar across the door and don’t open up until daylight.”

I did not dream of creeping presences and dogs that devoured sheep whole, but of Market Cross and of Ita. My kinswoman sought to rule me even in my sleep, her tongue a whip scourging me for my imperfections. You’re nothing , her dream voice reminded me. You’re nobody.Your father shouldn’t have filled your head with wild ideas and impossible aspirations.Women don’t earn a living at men’s crafts. Berach should have had you learn a housewife’s skills, not train you into a little copy of himself, just as if you were a boy. Be glad you have responsible kinsfolk to take care of you, Caitrin. It’s not as if you’ve demonstrated an ability to look after yourself since your father died. Be grateful Cillian is prepared to give you his name ...

In the dream, I had no voice. I could not scream a protest, I could not say that the idea of marrying Cillian filled my heart with terror. I could not tell her that turning my back on my beloved craft meant betraying my father. But then, in the long, waking nightmare that had unfolded after Father’s death, I had not once spoken out. My voice had been muted by grief and by a numb refusal to accept that all I held dear had been suddenly snatched from me. Even now, I did not quite believe that in a single season the bright promise of my life had turned to ashes.

Now Ita and I were in a tiny cell with iron bolts on the door. It was bitterly cold; I was clad only in a shift of scratchy homespun. Ita was shaving my head with a big knife. You’ve run out of choices, Caitrin, you disobedient girl.You must go into the priory.You’ll have plenty of time there to consider the result of your folly. A nun’s gray habit was laid out across the pallet. On second thoughts, Ita’s dream voice said, we’ll do it this way. The floor of the cell opened under my feet. I fell, half-naked as I was, and a forest of bony hands stretched out to rake my flesh with long nails as I passed. A howling filled the air, a wretched, despairing noise. Slavering mouths surrounded me, sinking their pointed teeth deep into my arms, my legs, the tender parts of my body, until I felt the flow of hot blood all over me. You’re nothing! Nothing! A derisive, shrieking laugh. Down I fell, down, down, knowing that when I landed I would break in pieces . . . Sleep, whispered someone. Long sleep ...

I woke, heart hammering, skin damp with the sweat of terror. Where was I? It was pitch-dark and I was trembling with cold. An icy draft swept into the cell-like chamber where I lay. A cell . . . the priory, oh God, it hadn’t been a dream, it was true . . . No, I was in the inn at Whistling Tor, and I had kicked my blankets onto the floor while I slept. My bundle and writing box were beside me, the proof that at last I had taken control of my life and fled Market Cross.Tears filled my eyes as I reached for the blankets. It was all right. I was safe.The nightmare was over.

It had been worse than usual, perhaps thanks to Tomas and Orna’s tales, and I had no wish to lie down and close my eyes again. Besides, it was too cold to sleep. A clammy chill was seeping right into my bones. I huddled into the blankets and applied my mind to the dire situation I had brought on myself. I had no resources beyond my craft and my common sense, and even that had deserted me lately. I must think of tomorrow. How to get a ride when folk seldom visited Whistling Tor. How to pay for it with no funds.And the big one, the one that kept my belly churning with fear and my head racing to find solutions: how to stay one step ahead of pursuit.

My head began to turn in circles. My father lying pale and still on the workroom floor. Ita’s voice, always her voice, issuing decrees, giving orders, making things happen, too soon, much too soon, while shock and sorrow rendered me incapable of standing up for myself. And as soon as my sister was gone, the blows. Ita was a master of slaps and pinches. And Cillian ... Cillian had marked me. The bruises on my skin—blue, black, yellow, an angry patchwork—would fade. There were other hurts, deeper ones, that would be harder to lose. You did it, Caitrin, I reminded myself. You got up and walked out.