by Darren Shan
I’ll just have to wait for morning — and hope I’m not eaten before then.
Midnight. You can always tell, even when the moon and stars are blocked out. I want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. It’s been a long day, coming on the back of a sleepless night. Hunger adds to my tiredness. But I dare not shut my eyes. There’s no telling how swift the demons will be if — when — they attack. Seconds of grogginess could spell the difference between life and death.
Later. A few hours shy of dawn. I’ve been dozing, despite my desire to remain awake. Halfway between the worlds of dreams and flesh. A dangerous state, open to the threat of both realms. Banba always told me to sleep or stay awake, never hover betwixt the two.
A cry in the darkness jolts me out of my half-sleep. It sounds like a child but it can’t be — we passed no villages earlier, and no child would dare wander the world by night, not in these troubled times.
I look around. Everyone’s awake. All eyes are focused on the spot from where the sound came. Ronan’s bow is aimed, an arrow ready to fly at its target the moment he sights one.
“Don’t move,” Drust whispers, just loud enough for all to hear. “The spells are still intact. This might be nothing to do with —”
“Motherrrrrr...” comes a cry, clearer this time. A girl’s voice. Full of pain and grief.
“Help us... motherrrr...” A different voice, this time a boy.
“So cold... motherrrr...” A third child, also a boy. He sounds younger than the other two.
“What is that?” Lorcan asks, nervously tugging at his earrings.
“I’m not sure,” Drust answers. “Only demon masters can mimic human voices. And the undead don’t retain the power of speech. Perhaps Lord Loss is manipulating a lesser demon.”
“Motherrrr... hold ussssssss...” The girl again. Her voice sends shivers down the back of my neck. I want to run to her and wrap my arms around her, even knowing she can’t be human. She sounds young, scared, lost.
“I don’t like this,” Goll mutters, his eye darting left and right, trying to pick out figures in the darkness.
“They might be real children,” Fiachna says. “The demon could be using them to trap us.”
“No,” Orna says, and there’s a tremble to her voice. “They...I...”
“Motherrrr!” the elder boy cries, as if in response to Orna’s voice.
Orna stands. “No!” Drust barks, but she ignores him and takes a step forward, hands clasped over her breasts, face torn between terror and delight.
Something moves in the shadows. Three shapes advance. Drust curses, then creates a ball of fire and sends it floating down the hill to illuminate the creatures. Three children are revealed, stumbling forward. Undead. Their bodies are in good condition, most of the limbs are attached, the flesh isn’t ripped to pieces, heads on necks. But they’re definitely not living children. They move sluggishly and one boy’s missing an eye, the other both its ears, the girl some fingers.
“My children,” Orna croaks, and although I was cold with fear already, now I turn to ice.
Orna takes a second step down the hill.
“Orna!” Goll hisses. “Stop! They’re not your children! It’s a trick!”
“But they are,” Orna says. Tears are flowing down her cheeks, a warrior no longer, all woman now — all mother.
“It’s a glamour,” Drust says softly. “They’re probably the bodies of other children disguised to look like yours.”
“No,” Orna says. “I’d know my young loves anywhere.”
“Cold... motherrrr...” the youngest boy moans.
“Lonely... motherrrr...” the girl wails.
Orna takes a third step.
“They’ll kill you,” Fiachna says. He gets up, breaking his masking spell. Moves towards her, hands outspread. “If you go to them, they’ll slaughter you, like the demons slaughtered them. It doesn’t matter if they were your children. They’re the Demonata’s now. They’re Lord Loss’s.” He shouts, scaring us all, “You’re out there, aren’t you, demon lord? Watching this and grinning, aye?”
No answer, except more cries from the undead children.
Fiachna closes on Orna and reaches for her, to lead her back to safety. Before his fingers touch her, she leaps away from him and draws a knife. “Stay back!” she snarls. Fiachna blinks and lowers his hands. Orna looks at the smith pitifully. “They’re my children,” she whimpers. “I can’t leave them. They’re calling me.”
“Motherrrr!” all three wail at the same time.
“This is madness,” Goll says, stepping up beside Fiachna. Orna points her knife at him. Goll glares at her with disgust — but with sympathy too. “Put your weapon away and come to us. You’ll see the folly of this in the morning.”
“But they’re my —”
“No!” Goll shouts. “They’re nothing except walking lumps of rotting flesh! Look at them, woman! Look with your eyes and brain, not your heart. Your children are dead. Accept that. Let this vision pass.”
“But what if... maybe they could . . .” Orna’s shoulders slump. Tears fall more freely. Fiachna moves towards her again. Goll stops him and shakes his head — wait.
“Can we lift the spell?” I ask Drust. “Remove the glamour so she can see them as they really are?”
“No,” Drust says shortly. “She’s seeing with her heart now, not her eyes. No magic I know can combat a self-powered spell like that.”
“I could shoot one of them with an arrow,” Ronan says, squinting as he takes careful aim.
Orna growls like a wild animal. “You’ll die on that spot if you do!”
“Let her go.” Connla laughs cruelly. “If she’s so desperate to mother demons, who are we to stop her?”
“Bricriu!” Goll roars, the foul curse for a meddler. Connla only smiles.
“Please, Orna,” I mutter, trying another approach. “I need you. You’re like a mother to me. Let me be your daughter. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”
Orna’s eyes soften and she smiles. “You’re a good girl, Bec. And I love you, almost as much as I loved... love my little lost ones.” She shakes her head ever so slightly. “But you’re not mine. They are. And they’re calling me.”
“But —”
I get no further. In an instant, taking us all by surprise, she leaps away and is racing down the hill towards the three undead children, who raise their arms and croon with delight.
Fiachna starts after her but Goll trips him. As he rises angrily, turning on Goll, the old warrior sticks his hands out, palms upward, the sign for peace, then says softly, “Macha help her.”
The fury fades from Fiachna and he turns to watch, along with the rest of us. “You should have let me go,” he murmurs. “I might have caught her.”
“No,” Goll replies. “She was too far ahead and too desperate.”
Orna reaches the children and stops. I expect them to attack but they just stand there, staring at her, arms out-stretched, waiting for her to hug them. For a moment I wonder if we were mistaken, if these are her children and mean her no harm. But then Drust nudges me and points to the right, farther down the hill. I spot the outline of Lord Loss, inhuman eyes fixed on the woman and children, wicked smile visible even from here.
Ronan fires an arrow at the demon master, then another, but both stop short of their target, as though they’d struck an invisible wall. Lord Loss doesn’t even glance in our direction.
Orna kneels, extends her arms, and draws the children in close. I see their faces, alight with evil glee. The eldest boy gently, lovingly brushes the soft flesh of her neck — then sinks his teeth into it. Orna stiffens but doesn’t cry out. The girl latches on to the warrior’s upper arm, chewing at it like a dog with a bone. The youngest boy’s head sinks beneath Orna’s shoulders. He rips her tunic open. I can’t see from here, but I know he’s suckling, drawing blood instead of milk.
Orna’s arms tighten around the children, hugging them closer. She hums a tune women sing to
send their young to sleep. I gasp with horror when I hear that and turn away from the awful sight of the undead boys and girl feasting on the living flesh of their mother.
Fiachna squats beside me and grabs me tight, letting me bury my face in his chest. “There, there, Little One,” he coos. “She’s happy. She thinks she’s back with her children. We should all be lucky to die so willingly.”
“But they’re not!” I cry. “They’re not her —”
“I know,” he whispers, stroking the back of my head. “But she thinks they are. That’s all that matters.”
Although I’ve turned my back on the carnage, I can’t block out the sounds of ripping flesh and the occasional painful hiss from Orna or moan of satisfaction from the un-dead beasts. Even when I cover my ears with my hands, I hear them, or imagine I do.
After a while the others turn away from the sickening sight, one by one, ashen-faced, eyes filled with regret, stomachs turning. Even cruel Connla, who gave up on her before anybody else.
The only one who doesn’t turn away is Bran. The boy remains sitting where he awoke, watching silently, head tilted to one side, frowning curiously, as if he’s not entirely sure what’s happening and is waiting to see if this is a game with an unexpected, amusing finale.
Eventually, since I can’t bear it, I walk over, turn him around, and sit beside him. I lean against the simple boy and keep him facing away from Orna, allowing her the humble dignity of dying in private.
Family
WE leave first thing in the morning, pausing only for Drust to set Orna’s remains aflame so she can’t return to life as one of the undead. Often demons take the bodies of their victims with them. I think Lord Loss made the children leave Orna so her bones and last few scraps of flesh could further unnerve us.
We march in silence, all thoughts on Orna and how she went willingly to her monstrous death. Is her spirit with her children now in the Otherworld, or is it doomed to wander this land for all time, lost and damned?
Even Drust is somber, leaving the lessons for later, proof that in spite of his stern appearance, he too is human, with the same emotions as the rest of us.
The ground has been getting rockier the farther west we proceed. Fewer trees, no fields of crops, not many animals, no raths or crannogs. But people live here, or did at one time, since there are remains of many dolmens and wedge tombs. Most of the dolmens have been knocked over, the stones scattered, the bones they housed burned to ash. And the seals of the wedge tombs have been broken, either by demons or humans. If we were to go into the tombs, we’d find charred ash or the sleeping undead. I don’t think any of the dead in this land lie whole and in peace anymore.
In the afternoon we come to a small village of beehive-shaped stone huts. It’s an old settlement, with only a crumbling short wall surrounding the perimeter. The huts are in poor condition, some fallen in on themselves. At first I think it’s a ghost village, all the people dead or fled. But then I spot smoke coming from a few of the huts and hear a woman shouting at a child. We look around at each other, surprised to find life in such a hostile, vulnerable environment.
“Humans or demons?” Fiachna asks.
“I’m not sure.” Drust sniffs the air. “There’s a scent of something inhuman, but . . .” He smells the air again, eyes narrow slits. “There are humans too. Peculiar.”
“Should we avoid it?” Goll asks.
Drust thinks awhile, then shakes his head. “We need to rest. We’ve had little sleep recently. We must seek shelter.”
“But if there are demons . . .” Goll mutters.
Drust glances up at the sky. “It’s a long time until sunset. We should be safe. And I’m curious. I want to know what these people are doing here — and how they’ve avoided being butchered by the Demonata.”
There’s a narrow gateway into the village but we climb over the wall in case the entrance is set with traps. There are animals within, scraggly sheep and goats. They scatter when they see us, bleating loudly.
A boy sticks his head out of a hut, a slingshot in one hand. He starts to shout — he thinks some animal has entered the village and scared the sheep and goats. Then he sees us and his shout changes from one of anger to one of alarm. “Strangers!”
Within seconds two men, three women, and three children — two girls and the boy — are in front of the huts, spears and crude swords in hand, facing us. We hold our ground, weapons raised defensively. Then Goll gives the order for us to lower our arms. He steps forward, right hand held palm up, and shouts a greeting.
One of the men meets Goll halfway, face creased with suspicion, eyeing us beadily. The pair have a quick, hushed conversation. At the end, Goll turns and nods us forward, while the man returns to his place among the others.
When we’re all together, Goll makes our introductions. The man who met him then tells us they’re the MacGrigor. His name is Torin. The other man’s Ert. The women are Aideen, Dara, and Fand. We aren’t told the names of the children.
“They’re on a quest,” Torin says. He’s a short, muscular man, dark-skinned. “They want to stop the demons.”
One of the women — Fand — laughs. “Just the eight of them?”
“One is all it takes,” Drust responds.
“We don’t have much respect for druids here,” Ert says, spitting into the dirt at Drust’s feet. “Your kind aren’t as powerful as you pretend to be. We had dealings with your lot before and they failed us.”
“Failed you in what way?” Drust asks with cold politeness.
“We’ll talk of that later,” Torin says, frowning at Ert. “For now you’re welcome. We won’t turn you away. However, we can’t feed you, so if you want to eat, you’ll have to hunt.” He squints at the sun. “I wouldn’t wait too long.”
The woman called Aideen points to a pair of huts near the wall, both in poor condition. “You can stay there,” she says. “You’ll be safe if you don’t wander.”
“We’ll call for you later,” the third woman — Dara — adds.
“Thank you,” I mutter when the men don’t respond.
“Our pleasure,” Aideen replies. She starts to turn away, then stops and stares at me. “Girl,” she commands, “come here.”
I step forward cautiously. Aideen reaches for me sharply and I draw back from her cracked nails, readying myself to bark a spell. She spreads her fingers to show she means no harm, then smiles crookedly. I stand still while she cups my chin and tilts my head back.
“What is it?” Torin asks.
“Her face . . .” Aideen murmurs, turning my chin towards Torin.
The man frowns. “She looks like... but she can’t . . . Girl! What’s your name? Where are you from?”
“Bec,” I tell him. “I’m from the rath of the MacConn.”
“Are you of them?” Torin asks. “Is your mother of the clan?”
“My mother’s dead,” I answer softly. “Nobody knows who she was or where she came from. She died not long after I was born.”
“Aednat’s child!” Aideen gasps, her fingers tightening on my chin. “She must be!” I tingle with shock when she says that. The face of my mother forms quickly in my mind, and for the first time ever I have a name to go with it.
“You knew my mother!” I cry.
“She was my sister,” Aideen croaks.
“Then this is where I’m from? This was where my mother lived?” When Aideen nods wonderingly, my head spins and my heart leaps. “Why did she leave?” I yell. “What happened? Who was my father? Is he still alive? Do you —”
“Enough!” Torin interrupts. He’s glaring at me — the news that I’m of his people hasn’t pleased him. “We must think on this. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
Then he heads back inside the large stone hut, waving at the others to follow, leaving us to stare at one another uncertainly and make our way to the smaller huts to set up camp for the night.
My head’s still spinning. I’d almost forgotten about the spirit of my mother beckonin
g me west, and the notion that maybe she wanted to help me unlock the secrets of my past. Inside I never really believed I’d discover the truth about my family — it was a childish dream. Yet here I am, in the most unlikely of places, suddenly confronted with her name and the promise of my history.
Aednat. As soon as Aideen said it I knew it was my mother. Maybe it’s the magic that makes me sure, but I think I would have known even if it had happened before my new power blossomed. But her name is all I know. Who was she? Why did she live in this wilderness with the others? And why leave her family to bear me in loneliness and die so far from home?
I want to ask the questions now, find out the answers immediately. I want to rush to the large hut and demand the truth from Aideen and Torin. But this is their home, meager as it is, and it would be disrespectful to speak out of turn. If their wish is for me to wait, then wait I must — no matter how frustrating that is.
Ronan and Lorcan hunt for food in the hours before sunset. Game is scarce in this rocky wilderness but the twins return with two hares, a crow, and a fox cub. Fiachna, Bran, and I pick berries and wild roots while they’re gone. It makes for a fine meal. There’s even some left over, which we offer to Fand when she comes to fetch us shortly after sunset.
“We have our own food,” she says curtly.
As we’re walking to the largest building, there’s a ferocious howl from one of the huts in poor repair. The warriors in our group draw their weapons immediately but Fand waves away their concerns. “It’s nothing,” she says.
“That was a demon,” Goll growls, not lowering his sword.
“No,” Fand says. “It was my brother.”
We stare at her with disbelief. She sighs, then strides towards the hut where the howl came from. We follow cautiously. At the entrance, Fand crouches and points within. We bend down beside her. Dim evening light shines through holes in the roof. In the weak glow we see an animal tied by a short length of rope to a rock in the middle of the hut. It’s human-shaped but covered in long, thick hair, with claws and dark yellow
