Twice Cursed, page 16
Inside the vast house below, Frank heard the first signs of life: Malcolm closing the bathroom door and running the only working tap over the basin.
On the second floor there must have been two empty rooms, and Frank was sick of the sight of Lillian, so make that three empty rooms.
Frank took one final look at the smashed figure of Granby, and noticed the man’s teeth were also missing. He thought it a strange city that allowed its old gods to keep such odd tokens.
But now he needed to get the empty second-floor rooms occupied quickly. £125 a week seemed like a reasonable rate. At least to start with.
A CURSE IS A CURSE
BY HELEN GRANT
I saw him coming a long time before he ever reached the village. I was up on the roof, mending the thatch while the weather was dry. It was rather warm, and the sweat was trickling down unpleasantly into my bodice. I stopped to take a mouthful of ale, and glanced down, and there he was.
People down in the village think that Sarah and I have a special sense for when outsiders are coming – that there’s something witchy in it. We don’t disabuse them. In fact, there was a great tree that came down in the storm some years back, so that when you look down from up here on the hill there is a gap. You can see right out to the plain beyond, and since that’s the only sensible way to reach this place, you’ll usually spot any visitors approaching. If the villagers came up here, they’d know this, but of course they don’t.
I sat back on my heels and shaded my eyes.
Probably not trouble, I thought. There was only one of him, and although he was mounted on a horse I could see neither the bright gleam of a cuirass nor the glitter of mail. He might be a pedlar, I supposed, or perhaps a travelling minstrel, though those didn’t usually run to anything grander than a donkey. Once, we had an itinerant priest all dressed in black, like a crow; he rode in with a high fever, almost dropping off his horse, and at first nobody wanted to go near him. They put him in a disused house with water and a chunk of bread, and he died raving three days later. When they were sure he was really dead, they took him to the ruins of the church and put him under a stone with somebody else’s name on it. I believe they ate the horse.
I could not tell what manner of person this was coming towards the village, not from that distance, but I could be sure it was a man. A woman would not ride across that lonely plain, alone and undefended. After a while I went back to my thatching. Inevitably he would find his way up here, to me and Sarah. There is no inn down in the village and most people do not care to take in strangers.
For about two hours more I worked. In one place I think a marten had got into the thatch, such was the damage, and then I had to go down into the house; human urine may ward the creatures off but I’d have struggled to produce anything after working so long out in the sun. So I asked Sarah, and while she was crouching over the bucket and I was staring out of the unglazed window, I said:
“There’s a man coming. I saw from the roof.”
Piss tinkled against the metal and then Sarah said, “Ah.”
I hesitated. Then I said, “I’d like this one.”
She was silent for a moment, so I added, “I’m eighteen, Sarah.”
I heard a rustle as she rearranged her skirts.
“There’s no hurry,” she said.
“We don’t know how long it will be until the next one,” I pointed out.
“No,” she agreed. “But don’t you want to look first?”
“I suppose,” I said. But I had made up my mind. Unless he was diseased, or too old, he would be mine. You have to make the most of what Chance offers.
In the meantime, I went back up onto the roof and carried on with the thatching. Nothing gets done without hard work.
* * *
I first saw him in the morning, but it was almost evening when he came up to the house. He was no longer astride the horse but leading it, picking his way carefully between the rocks and roots that clotted the path. When he first appeared, he was looking down, watching his footing, and I couldn’t see his face, only his thick dark hair. He was neither fat nor thin, but somewhere in between, and around the ordinary height. When he looked up, I saw a lean brown face, clean-shaven and dark-eyed, not actually handsome, but not ugly either; and not old, though not as young as me.
He saw me standing outside the house, hands on my hips, and I saw the beginnings of something appear on his face – warmth perhaps, or curiosity. Then he saw the Wall, and that look was wiped out at once. He stopped walking, and the horse stopped walking, and I saw him glance from side to side, as if there might be somewhere else to go but here.
I sighed to myself, and then I started down towards him, with what I hoped was an encouraging smile on my face.
“Good evening, sir,” I said. “Are you looking for lodging?”
He seemed somewhat troubled as to how to answer this question.
“Is this the house of Sarah and Maggie?”
“I am Maggie. Sarah is indoors.”
I saw his gaze wander behind me again. “I did not know you were so close to the Wall.”
“Well, we are,” I said briskly. “But you need not concern yourself.”
Still he stood there, not moving forward.
“Is the Wall... complete?”
I glanced back at the mossy stonework that reared up behind the house, overtopping the thatched roof. “Of course it is. Do you think we would live here otherwise?”
I waited.
Eventually he said, “The villagers...” and stopped.
“The villagers,” I said, “have probably told you all manner of nonsense about why and how we live here. There is no witchcraft in our safety. The Wall is perfectly complete, and will probably stand for another two hundred years.”
He considered. “I might perhaps walk the perimeter of it...”
“You most certainly will not,” I said. “It would take you all night. Believe me when I say that you will be safer up here than you would be down in the village, where nobody will take you in anyway. It will be dark in a little time, and the next place is half a day’s journey from here. You had better come inside, and be thankful of the shelter.”
“I will.” But I noticed that as he came up to the house, he kept looking at the Wall.
We put the horse in the little building adjoining our place and gave it water and hay, and then I took him indoors to Sarah.
She turned as he came in, looked at him and then looked at me and nodded.
He seemed taller now, in this warm, smoky little room with its low ceiling. He had to stoop under the bunches of dried plants hanging from the beams.
“Are you Mistress Sarah?” he asked.
“Just Sarah will do,” she said.
“I am Luke.”
“Luke of someone, of somewhere?”
“Just Luke will do.”
Sarah began to put out plates. “There is partridge and root vegetables for dinner. How will you pay for your lodging, just Luke?”
“With this.” He held out a silver piece.
She snorted. “That is better than the last travelling minstrel, who wanted to pay us with a song.”
“I am not a minstrel,” said Luke. He put down his pack and pulled out a chair to sit down.
“Then what are you?” She stopped to look him up and down. “Not a pedlar; you’ve been indoors a full two minutes and not tried to sell us anything.”
He laughed. “Not a pedlar either. I am not sure there is an exact word for what I am. The nearest one is sage.”
“Sage?”
He nodded. “A gatherer of wisdom... and information.”
Sarah made a face. “And how does that get you silver pieces? It seems to me that there is no money at all in that.”
Luke put his elbows on the table, comfortably. “My master pays me to travel, and to seek knowledge.”
“And who is your master? A king?”
“I suppose you might say he is a king.”
There was a short silence.
“If this is true,” said Sarah at last, “then your master is very foolish. But if it is not true, then you should know that neither Maggie nor I have anything worth robbing, and that we sleep fully armed.”
He studied her for a moment. “I am not a robber, nor a murderer, nor a tormentor of women. I have one knife, and one bow, and you may lock them into the room with yourselves tonight if you wish.”
“Very well,” she said, and turned her back to fetch the pan of food.
I sat down opposite Luke.
“A sage?”
He nodded.
“And you think there is knowledge here, in this place? Something to be learned?”
“There is something to be learned everywhere.”
His face was perfectly grave, his eyes watchful. I could not think of anything else to ask.
“I hope you will eat well,” I said.
* * *
We put Luke into my small chamber, and I went upstairs with Sarah to the room under the eaves. Sarah carried Luke’s knife and bow.
“I think we should lock ourselves in as he suggested,” she said. Her brow was furrowed. “A sage, indeed. I don’t believe it.”
I walked a little way, turned and walked back.
“I’m going downstairs again,” I said.
“Maggie.” Sarah touched my shoulder. “Stay here.”
“No,” I said. I hesitated. “It will be alright.”
“But if—”
I touched her hand but I did not look her in the eye. “It will be alright, Mother,” I said.
Then I let myself out of the room and went back down the wooden staircase, treading quietly. The fire was banked up and in the low light I saw that the door to the small chamber was ajar. All was silent. I stood there for a moment but not for long because I did not want to think too much about what I intended to do. Then I went in.
Luke was lying on his back on the straw mattress. His eyes were closed, but the instant I crossed the threshold they opened, and he sat up.
He said: “I have three more silver pieces. You can take them. Don’t do what you were going to do. Just take the silver.”
“I don’t want the silver.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want...”
He waited.
“I want a child.”
“What?!” Then he saw my face, and saw that I was in earnest.
“There’s no guarantee, you know,” he said.
“I know.” I rubbed my hands together. “I want to try.”
Luke was silent for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I went over to him and stood there, but I didn’t know what to do, so he held out his hands to me and pulled me close. He smelled of the road, of sweat and dust, of grass wilting in the sunshine, and something else that reminded me of old parchment. None of these were bad smells.
“I may not come back this way,” he said.
“I know.”
“Even if there’s a child.”
“Stop talking,” I said, and he did.
* * *
Afterwards, he drifted off to sleep, lying on his back again. I had only ever seen Sarah sleeping before, and so I watched him for a bit, wondering how he could lie there so confidently with his face exposed. I usually slept like a dormouse, curled into a ball. After a while I became bored, and shook him awake.
He looked fuddled. “You want to do it again? I’m not sure I can. It’s too soon.”
“No, I want to talk.”
“Talk? Ye Gods, woman.” But now he was awake and blinking, so with a lot of sighing he propped himself up on his elbow, facing me.
“Are you really a sage?”
“Yes.”
“So someone pays you – silver – to travel around finding out about things?”
He nodded.
“Just... anything?”
“Well, not anything. There are some things that are pretty well known already, like how to grow the ordinary crops, and make bread, and dry things for the winter.”
“What then?”
“Some of it is about understanding what happened in the past. Why things are the way they are. And the – the extent of things now. People don’t travel much, you know; we don’t know what’s out there. Did you know that if you travel two hundred and ten miles from here you will come to a great body of water, so vast that you cannot see the other side, and nameless?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never been more than twenty miles from here.”
“Well, it’s true. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have. It has a peculiar smell too – of brine.”
I laughed, and shook my head again.
“Really, it does. And some people think that there may be land on the other side of the water, with people on it, just like us.”
“If there are such things to be discovered,” I said, “why did you come here?”
“Because of the Wall.”
“The Wall? Why do you want to know about the Wall?”
This time he shook his head. “Before I tell you that, I want you to tell me what you know about it. What do the villagers say about it? Why is it there?” He put out one lean, brown hand and pushed the hair back from my face. “And you, who live so close to it, what can you tell me about it? Have you seen or heard anything?”
I looked down. “Sometimes. Not often.”
“Tell me.”
I frowned a little. “It’s ill luck to talk of it.”
“No possible harm can come from telling me.”
I was doubtful about this, but he spoke with such sincerity that I decided to tell him anyway. Sarah and I have lived on the edge of ill luck forever, after all.
“It’s a curse,” I said.
“Wait – before you tell me, let me get my quill and my ink.” And he actually climbed out of bed and went to rummage through his pack. I watched, bemused; it seemed impossible that what I said should be important enough to write down. There are people out on the roads who would rob you for clean parchment as soon as for silver pieces. But in spite of this, he fetched all his things and when he was ready, the point of the quill hovering over the ink, he nodded for me to go on.
“It’s a curse,” I said again.
“A curse?”
“Yes. And this is how it came about. Many years ago, too many to count, the village was a much bigger place, and it covered all this great hill. There were a lot more people living here then, and they lived in great luxury and comfort. They always had more than enough to eat, and nobody ever died of cold or hunger or overwork. And yet,” I said, “they were not content. They always wanted more – more food, more entertainment, more life.
“Amongst the inhabitants of this village there lived a very great witch. She was so powerful that she could do anything; she even had power over life and death. So the people sent a deputation to this witch, saying that they wanted to live longer – even forever. They believed that she could do this for them, and they also believed that they merited it. Their arrogance knew no bounds. Bless us with everlasting life, they demanded.
“The witch knew that such a thing would not be a blessing; it would be a curse. She told them this, and she refused to do what they asked. But the people would not be satisfied. They argued and begged and insisted, and when she still said no, they laid hands on her and tortured her.
“For seven days and seven nights she endured the most terrible pains and then she gave in, not because she was tormented to it by the agonies she suffered, but because she became angry and believed that the people deserved to be punished. So she laid upon them the most terrible curse in the world: that they should live forever. And then she died.”
I paused, and heard the scratching of the quill pen over the parchment. Then I resumed the story.
“Nobody bothered to bury the witch. Heedless and pitiless, they went away rejoicing at their good fortune. And for a time it certainly did seem that they were blessed, because they no longer lived under the shadow of death.
“But as time passed, and people began to age and their limbs grew weak and their eyes could no longer see properly, it began to occur to them what they had done. They would have gone back to the witch and asked her to make them young and whole again too, but the witch was dead, and her bones were whitening under the broad sky. So there was no help there.
“Some of the people acquired injuries over the years – they lost an arm or a foot or an eye – and of course they did not die of any of these things, but went on living, even if the damage turned gangrenous and foul. And at last their brains went too; the sharpest and luckiest amongst them lasted for over a hundred years, but in the end they were all as babes – understanding nothing at all, speechless and reasonless.
“Those living outside the village, who had not asked for the curse to be visited on them, became afraid of these shambling, undying creatures. And so they caused a great Wall to be built all around the village, so that the inhabitants would have to stay within and wear out their many centuries unseen by the rest of the world.
“Since that time, nobody has seen what is inside the Wall. But they say that those within continue to live, and that even if their bodies are worn away to nothing at all, or entirely consumed by fire, some part of them still does not die. And if you were to stand close to the Wall on a very clear, still night, and listen for a long time, you might hear those invisible ones as a groan or a sigh.
“And so,” I concluded in the traditional manner, “it shall be until the end of time.”
For a little while, the quill continued its scratching, spilling the words across the parchment, and although I have never learned the art of it myself, I thought the script looked very elegant. Then Luke put down the pen, shook a little sand onto the page to dry the ink, and put his materials away with great care.
“Fascinating,” he remarked. “An original curse story.”
He smiled at me. “And I am wide awake now. If you wish to make the chances of a child a little likelier, I could go again.”
