Believe, page 3
“No one?” Billy sounded surprised. “But surely there are others in your village who could do this.”
Aisling considered a moment before answering. She did not wish to be deceitful, and knew she had nothing to be ashamed of, but some things felt like the things one should hold close. “The elders chose me. Gran agreed with them. And so here I am,” was what she settled on saying.
Billy nodded as if he understood more than she’d said.
“But surely such a night as this holds terror for you?” Billy prodded her a bit with his words, and she frowned, wondering what he was getting at. “Have you not heard stories of the Lair Bhan, the ghastly white horse that gallops across the moors auguring death? Such a night as this, when darkness is king and the Other World is close by, the Lair Bhan may be seen.” He rubbed his hands together, and Aisling could hear the rasping of his skin, as if it were calloused and rough.
“Certainly,” she answered carefully, “everyone knows this. But death comes to all, and seeing the Lair Bhan only gives you warning, it’s not a curse itself.” She didn’t tell him that Siobhan had seen the wraith herself, late last summer, and told her of it, warning that her time was near.
The wind picked up, and it almost sounded like the distant galloping of a horse, but the sound disappeared as soon as she listened for it, and Billy was talking again.
“Then what about Lady Gwynn, the headless maiden, and her black boar, who chase luckless wanderers like yourself?” Billy seemed to chuckle as he said this, and Aisling wondered why.
“In all the tales I’ve heard told, as the firelight dies and darkness gathers in the corners,” she said quietly, “No one in our village has ever claimed to see Lady Gwynn, though I have of course heard her story. I think she must roam elsewhere, and so she is no concern of mine.”
They walked in silence for a time. Aisling noted with satisfaction that the ground was rising, growing drier and rockier. She had reached the foothills, the final stretch of her journey. The moon, though less than half full, was high in the sky and its light told her that midnight had passed. She moved her feet faster, beginning to worry that Gran would be cross with her when she arrived so late.
“You can’t expect me to believe,” Billy spoke again, “that you don’t fear the Sluagh, soul hunters from the West, out to steal souls for their Dark Master on dark nights when the shadows are thick, and the sun is long hours away.”
Panting slightly from the exertion of moving faster and going uphill, Aisling smiled because she recognized the path that would take her the last leg of the journey to her Gran, and over her shoulder she said, “But the moon is bright tonight, and I see the way clearly. I hear no hunting cries. Why should I fear such creatures? Surely, they are more the stuff of ghost stories meant to frighten my little brothers and sisters, than true figments of this world, and pose no real danger? “
The wind cried out as it coursed over the rocky mountainside, and Aisling at last could see the silhouettes of the Standing Stones where Gran was waiting. The flickering light of a great bonfire leapt up into the star-filled sky, and she paused to catch her breath.
“Sir, your company has been a great comfort to me, and I am sure you’d be welcomed by Gran if you care to—” Aisling gaped at the empty path behind her, straining her eyes for Billy somewhere in the landscape of stone and shadows.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Was that burnt smell from the bonfire? Is that why her mouth suddenly had the taste of bitter ashes?
A shiver ran through her body, and Aisling hurried the rest of the way to Gran. The old woman clasped her in a tight embrace, and then took her shoulders in her hands and gave her a shake.
“What is it’s been keeping you this long time?” She demanded, fear and relief mingling in her voice.
Aisling told her about the long walk through the dark, her fear of getting lost, and Billy, while unpacking the basket and helping to bring another armload of fuel for the bonfire. Her gran listened silently, then motioned for her to follow, leading her to a place before the great fire where there was a log to sit on, and a smooth place cleared in the dirt.
From a sack she pulled stones, feathers, powders, and a flask of liquid that smelled of pine trees and star light. She watched as her gran placed each thing carefully before the fire in the cleared space, listened as she sang a song with words Aisling had never heard before, and did not recognize. She gasped when she saw her gran rub the fragrant liquid over her hands, and then reach over, into the heart of the fire, drawing out a long stick, glowing with heat and smoking as it burned, yet did not burn her. With the stick she drew patterns in the soft dirt around the stones and things she’d placed there, and a haze seemed to rise around them which made Aisling imagine she could see the night air around them like a fog, swirling and billowing, and then parting like a curtain outside the ring of light.
She saw the symbols dance with the rocks, undulating to the rhythm of her gran’s song, and the feathers multiplied themselves until they filled the sky and floated away to the moon. She heard sounds in the night, and peering through the curtain of darkness, she saw eyes in strange faces, shapes of creatures unlike any she knew. A pageant of pale, wailing figures emerged from the depth of the shadows about them: a troop of hunters with pointed ears and wicked faces, hallooing and galloping on strange, headless horses in pursuit of their quarry; a small group of lurching, hump-backed, three-legged brown things with faces like crying babies, who she knew wanted only what they did not possess and would do anything to get it for themselves; a magnificent yet terrible white horse with blood-red eyes and hooves galloped past, pausing to rear up and scream as only horses can, before disappearing again; a misty figure which seemed only halfway there, drawing nearer in a slow, meandering way as if lost and wandering, which Aisling saw presently was a slim maiden dressed in a gown of moonlight, who had no head above her shoulders, and she carried in her arms a black pig which wheezed and squealed and struggled but never escaped her grasp; behind her there thundered a host of headless riders, galloping on steeds with eyes of flame and pelts of tar; and at last, at the end of the procession, a tall figure in a cloak whose step Aisling felt was familiar, though when she squinted through the smoke and sparks to get a clearer view of it, she thought she spied a pair of hooves peeking out from beneath the long cloak, and a lock of dark hair escaping the hood before this figure, too, melted into the night.
In wonder and awe Aisling turned to her gran.
“Did you see that?” she asked.
Her gran nodded gravely. “I did. They come every Longest Night, the Dark Ones, from the deepest reaches of hell and nightmare, and walk the earth.” She nodded toward the bonfire, now beginning to die down, and as she spoke Aisling noticed that a small wind was blowing from the sea now, and the stars had dimmed a little. “This fire is our protection from them, and these spells,” she pointed to the stones and feathers and drawings in the dirt, which now looked like little more than a child’s playthings, carelessly left behind when supper is called, “help us sustain its protection throughout the year.”
Aisling’s eyes were wide. “Do you mean that all the ghost stories and tales of demons that Seamus always tells are true?”
Gran chuckled. “Perhaps not Seamus’s stories exactly,” she allowed, “but evil is real, and there are dark things worth fearing.”
“The Lair Bhan and Lady Gwyn? The sluagh and dullahan?”
“And even the Devil himself, who wanders the world looking for those he can trick through fear to strike deals which, in the end, will make their souls his, when he comes to claim them. Yes, even he.”
Aisling shivered as the wind picked up. She recognized it as the first stirrings of a new day.
Gran fed her a warmed oatcake, gave her hot tea to wash it down, and as the edge of the sky began to green with the coming dawn she sent Aisling down the path, back to the village in the glen, carrying a basket containing a hollowed-out turnip—the biggest Aisling had ever seen—glowing with coals taken from the heart of the bonfire, ready to begin the hearth fires of her friends and neighbors, sustaining them all with warmth and protection for the year to come.
The walk home seemed much shorter. Aisling was full of wonder at the things she’d seen, and what she’d guessed about her companion from the night before. When she questioned her gran about Billy, she said, “You were never in danger, as your fear was already cured by his company. He couldn’t spook you and trick you into anything, because of himself.”
She wondered if Siobhan had ever walked beside Billy, in all the years she was sent to bring the coals back. As she rounded the last hill, a dewy light touched the stones of the first wall marking the valley she called home. Something made her stop and turn. Peering into a stand of trees, she thought she saw movement—something white, translucent, flitting between the trunks. Then the faintest sound of song, a whisp of tune, a fleeting hint of melody sung by a familiar voice.
Aisling smiled as she took the last steps toward home. She feared no evil. In the pearly light of dawn, she felt the stuff of time and the world thrumming around her, and part of it was her sister, and the spells Gran had woven, and even though the shadows were there too, she knew they could not touch her.
3
The Hanging Tree
Jonathan sat back on his heels and blew out his breath in frustration. Mama had been the one with the magic touch when it came to lighting fires. She could make that smoke curl up with nothing but a few dry leaves, a twig, and some grass. She’d tried to teach him, but he just didn’t have the knack for it.
You’ll get it soon enough, she had promised him. Just keep practicing.
A cold wind stirred the branches of the ancient, gnarled oak above him, and he squinted at the setting sun. He was going to need the warmth of a fire tonight.
He hunched back over his small pile of twigs and grasses and started rubbing the stick back and forth between his palms, trying to ignore the blisters he could feeling coming up.
“You might try pulling that wad of grass back, son,” a voice behind him said. “Let your wood breathe a bit, so it can start to burn.”
Jonathan jumped at the sound, dropping his stick. He looked over his shoulder and saw the silhouette of a short, fat man standing a few feet behind him. He knew he should stand up to show respect, but he was hungry and tired and instead he just stared at him, silent.
“Ah,” he said after a few moments had passed, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Horace Watford. I travel around these parts buying and selling and generally providing the brave souls who’ve settled out here with entertaining exotica to brighten their otherwise workaday lives.” He spoke like someone reciting lines in a play, Jonathan thought, though he’d only seen one play, and that when he was only seven years old, and the family had gone to Sacramento. It was the only time he’d ever traveled so far or spent so much time off the farm. Until now.
“I’m Jonathan,” he said quietly, still crouched over his pile of sticks and dry grass.
“Jonathan my boy, pleased to meet you!” Horace Watford exclaimed, and in three strides was standing over him, beaming. “I see you are attempting to bring light and warmth to your camp on this cold evening.” He, too, hunkered down and peered at what Jonathan had collected and arranged for the purposes of fire making. “While my fingers are not as nimble as yours, perhaps I may be of service in offering advice for getting things started?”
Jonathan wasn’t sure if the man was making fun of him, talking the way he did: too many words, too formal. What adult talked to a twelve-year-old boy that way? But he could feel it getting colder, so he nodded agreement.
“Ah, yes,” Horace rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Now if you’ll push back that wad of grass, my lad, and resume your frictional stick spinning, I believe—ah!” He drew in his breath and sat back on his heels. “There you have it!”
Smoke was twisting up from the small pieces of wood, and Jonathan grinned as he fed the dry grass to the little spark, watching it grow until he could add larger wood chips and, eventually, some of the larger pieces he’d gathered.
Horace Watford watched him work, a benevolent smile wreathing his round face. When the fire was sturdy enough for Jonathan to sit back on his heels and let it burn, Horace fixed him with a stern look and said, “My boy, you appear to be on your own out here.”
“Yes sir.” Jonathan looked away for a moment, then back into his fire.
“I see.” The older man sucked on his bottom lip for a moment. “Well, as we find ourselves in a similar solitary predicament, I believe our wisest course would be to join forces and provide each other with camaraderie for a time.”
Jonathan wrinkled his brow and squinted at Horace. “Sir?”
“Why not set up camp together is what I’m saying!” Horace bellowed a laugh that made Jonathan smile, in spite of the oddness of the man and his discomfort with strangers. As if he could read his mind, he continued, “After sharing a camp fire, no two people can remain strangers---‘prairie kin’ I’ve heard it called, the bond that forms in such situations.” He lowered himself into a comfortable position across from Jonathan and gestured for Jonathan to do the same.
Horace Watford had spun tales of his travels and the strange and wondrous things he’d seen for nearly an hour before the sound of Jonathan’s stomach rumbling interrupted.
“That is my cue, I believe, to suggest we pause to dine,” he said with a slight incline of his head.
“Sir?”
Horace smiled patiently. “Have you any supper with you?”
Jonathan’s face fell into a quiet kind of misery. “Only some jerky. I et all the rest, sir. It’s the last I’ve got.” He turned away and rummaged through a sack stowed safely away from the fire, turning back with a handful of stringy meat that looked tough enough to stand in for rope, should the need arise.
“Alas,” Horace placed a hand on his chest and rolled his eyes to the starry sky dramatically, “jerked beef upsets my constitution with a greater ferocity than I can tolerate.” He sighed deeply, then looked at his young companion and winked. “Go ahead and finish it yourself, my boy. I have,” he chuckled and slapped his belly, “plenty stored up for nights like this.”
Not wishing to be disrespectful, but relieved all the same, Jonathan smiled and began to eat the last of his dried beef.
As he gnawed at the meager dinner, the peddler continued his talking, sometimes reminiscing of his own childhood, often speculating and commenting on matters that Jonathan could not comprehend but supposed had to do with a world in which well-traveled men with money and education would feel at home. Jonathan found himself able to forget, for a time, that he was alone in the world, that this was the last of his food, that he didn’t know how much further it was to the next town or if he’d find any work there. Horace talked so much that Jonathan didn’t think even one time of the three graves he’d had to dig, or the wretched sickness that had preceded his doing so. The sound of flies buzzing in the hot afternoon sunshine, the smell of unwashed bedding, the hopelessness of releasing the livestock so they could forage for themselves—none of it returned to him that night as he scooted closer to the fire, listening to Mr. Watford’s stories. As his eyelids grew heavy, the last, glassy look of his baby sister’s gaze, lifeless, meaningless, desolate, did not float behind them, nor torment his dreams.
He awoke because it was light, well past dawn, and the last embers of his fire were no longer enough to keep the chill off. For just a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, and he wondered why Mama hadn’t woken him earlier to go milk the cow.
With shuddering force, it all came back. He gasped and sat up, looking around.
Mr. Horace Watford was gone, not a trace of him anywhere, not even foot prints leading away from the dusty fireside where they’d camped all night.
Shivering—from memory, from cold, from hunger—Jonathan rose, kicked dirt over the last of the fire’s coals, hefted his sack, and set out on his westward path toward hope.
He saw the buildings on the horizon after only an hour of walking and quickened his pace. By noon he was walking down the main street, passing men and women on horses, a wagon. He could see people inside buildings, through the windows of various businesses. He recalled that Mr. Watford had advised him to stop in at the general store and ask there if they mightn’t need an extra hand. He’d said that the man who ran it was kind and would help him find work if he didn’t need the help himself. Jonathan saw the sign at the far end of the main street, “Goodman’s General Store.” Hoping that the name was a good sign, he mounted the steps and opened the door.
Inside it was quiet and warm. There were two customers walking among the goods, and one at the counter being helped by a man with long whiskers and bright eyes.
“You bring it right back here if it doesn’t meet your needs, Mrs. Wells,” he said. “I’ll find you something that will do what you need, one way or the other.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goodman,” the woman took a package wrapped in brown paper from the counter and tucked it under her arm. “Please give my best to Mrs. Goodman.”
They nodded at each other, and she left. There was the tinkle of a little bell when she opened the door, and Jonathan smiled when he heard it. It reminded him of a bell they’d had at home, one Mama kept in a special place on the mantel over the fireplace, and she’d ring it on special days—Christmas, Easter, birthdays—and tell the story of how it was brought over by her grandfather from the old country.
The smile faded from his face and the joy fell away from him as fast as the memory came, and it was his quiet grief that got Mr. Goodman’s attention.
“Can I help you, son?” He was leaning across the counter top, peering at Jonathan with a kindness that nearly made him unable to answer.
