by Cait Dee
There is nothing to do but run. I crash through the boscage, running blindly, the tangle of bare winter branches scratching my face and arms as I push my way through them. My injured ankle shoots with pain at every step, but I dare not stop.
It’s only when my lungs feel as though they might burst that I allow myself a moment’s rest. After checking that nobody is following me, I sit down to catch my breath. It’s then I notice that I’m still holding the wet linen cloth. Even in the fading light I recognise the needlework: those tiny, even stitches that only my sister had the patience for.
With a suffocating feeling of dread, I realise that the cloth the old woman handed to me is the sark my sister was sewing.
And then I know that Ishbel is dead.
THE SHIELING
There’s no time to weep for Ishbel. I’ve no idea where I am or whether the witch finder can track me in the dark. I’m uncertain of what perils lie on this side of the river as I’ve never been this far before. Dalziel clearly knows the area around the ford. Perhaps this is where his father used to take him to hunt for deer. And that’s what I’ve become: Finster’s quarry, no more than a hunted animal. For all I know, I could be running right into the hands of my pursuers. All I have to guide me is sound. I can no longer hear the river and for some reason that makes me feel safer. There are no trails through the woods that I can see, which means the witch finder won’t be able to steer his horse through the dense tree cover. That’s something, at least.
As the winter dark descends I stumble along until I can run no more, my legs shaking with fatigue and the cold that has crept inside my bones. My boots, stockings and the bottom half of my skirt are soaking wet from the river crossing. My wounded ankle aches from Finster’s whip, but it’s nothing compared to the sting of Dalziel’s betrayal.
The stark reality of my predicament seeps under my skin, making me tremble. I long to build a fire, but I don’t have my dirk and getting a flame started without it would be impossible in the dark. Besides, the smoke would lead the witch finder straight to me. Ishbel’s wet cloak offers little comfort from the bitter night winds. I curl up at the foot of an ancient oak, the leeward side of its mighty bole offering some shelter, and surrender to exhaustion. My eyelids close and I say a prayer to Bride that I might yet see morning.
But though I long for the oblivion of sleep, my mind won’t stop racing. Can Ishbel truly be dead? The vision of my sister with Grizel in the Unseen world followed by my encounter with the Faerie washerwoman bode ill for her. Yet three weeks passed from the night they arrested Grizel to the day of her execution in Strathcraig. Surely even a witch finder must go through the pretence of a trial.
And what of Dalziel’s role in all this? The more I think on it, the more I feel sick, soiled. His treachery has cut me deeply, as if he plunged my own blade into my belly right there at the river crossing. He surely knew what the consequences would be if he handed me over to the witch finder. He was lying to me all along.
It pains me to admit it, but the fault is partly my own; I had ignored the warning signs. When I met him in the marketplace at Strathcraig, it was plain Dalziel wasn’t the lad I once knew. My old friend wouldn’t have hesitated to help me look for Grizel. So many times over the last two days the things he said didn’t sit right with me, but I drove those thoughts away because I didn’t want to believe he’d changed so much. I let my feelings for Dalziel cloud my judgment.
With Grizel and Ishbel gone, and Dalziel having joined Finster’s cause, there’s nobody left I can turn to. I’ve no choice now but to journey to Edinburgh and find Angus Ancroft. I don’t know why he’d agree to help me, but I have to trust Grizel. For some reason she thought I’d be safe with him.
As I lie shivering in my sister’s wet cloak, a wolf’s howl pierces the silence of the night. Soon after, another howl follows, this time much closer. My heart hammers in my chest. I sit up quickly, only to see a pair of yellow eyes glinting from behind a tree only a few feet away. I stumble to my feet and back away slowly. Everybody says you must never turn your back on a wolf and you must never run. The wolf will consider you prey and chase you down.
The creature moves out from behind the tree. A black wolf, its coat darker than the surrounding night. It gives a low growl, its fangs bared. I turn on my heel and flee deeper into the darkness.
My breath comes in short gasps. The wolf is gaining on me. Behind me I can hear its enormous paws thumping against the ground.
You’ll never outrun it.
As soon as that thought enters my head, the creature strikes at the back of my cloak, dragging me down, until the fabric tears with a sickening rip. I manage to take a few more steps before tripping headlong into a clump of bracken.
Unable to move, I roll onto my back and brace for the wolf’s assault. I hold my breath and lie completely still. The beast’s muzzle is so close I can smell its hot breath against my neck.
The wolf licks my face and I stifle a scream of terror.
Then, to my astonishment, I hear the beast retreating, its paws padding away through the dead leaves blanketing the forest floor.
I open one eye, then the other. Only moments ago, the creature seemed intent on making me its supper; now it’s nowhere to be seen. I sit up on my hunkers, ready to run should it reappear. But the forest is quiet. It’s gone.
I had been holding my breath and now I let it out in frightened sobs.
Some slow, deep breaths help to calm me down. Eventually I rise to stand on wobbly legs, resting my back against a tree trunk.
I look around to get my bearings. To my surprise, Gregor’s leather bag is at my feet, though I’m sure I left it behind when I fled the wolf. And the tree I’m leaning against is an ancient oak, just like the one I lay down beside.
Was it only a dream? That would explain how the great beast disappeared so suddenly. But I’ve never felt like this, not after a dream. My heart is still pounding and my hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the flask to take a sip of water. Then I check the back of my cloak. There’s a rent in the fabric and a chunk of cloth is missing.
Up ahead, a light flickers between the trees some distance away. I grab my bag, and make my way towards the light, keeping a cautious distance. I want to make sure that it’s not Finster and Dalziel. The torchbearer is on foot and heading away from me. The dancing flame darts in and out of the trees at such a pace I can barely keep up.
After a time, the tree cover thins out and I see a large, dark-haired man making his way across a clearing in the direction of a shieling. He is tall, of stocky build, but has a pronounced limp as he walks towards the dwelling. He snuffs out the torch and then heads inside. Whoever it is, at least it’s not the witch finder.
As I approach the clearing I see golden shafts of lamplight shine through the unmortared stones of the shieling. Smoke billows from a hole in the turf roof. How my aching bones long to sit in front of that fire! I’m tempted to ask for shelter, but know I should resist. What sort of man would choose to live out here all alone, deep in the woods? It could be a poacher, a vagabond, or worse. And what would he make of a stranger — a young lass, no less — arriving on his doorstane in the night watches?
A branch snaps behind me, making me jump. I narrow my eyes but can’t see anything. It might be the wolf, still lurking nearby. Or Finster and Dalziel, creeping around in the dark, trying to find me. Then I feel a splash of rain on my head, and another. Abandoning caution, I run towards the shieling and bang on the door.
‘Good e’en to you!’ I call.
Inside, muffled voices engage in an abrupt conversation. After a few moments the door opens and I see a figure cast into shadow by the light coming from inside.
Whoever the man is, he’d not be expecting a stranger on his doorstep after evenfall. I’ll need to come up with a convincing story or he’ll turn me away.
‘What do you want?’ Not a man at all but a lad, by the sound of his voice.
‘I — good e’en. My name is . . .
Elspet, and I’m lost. You see, I was out riding with my father when our horse became lame. I went to forage for food but then the mists rolled in and we were separated. You’ve not seen him, have you? Did he pass this way?’
The lad shakes his head.
‘Who is it?’ asks a deep voice from inside the dwelling.
‘A lass,’ the lad calls over his shoulder. ‘She’s lost or something.’
‘Invite her in, boy! Are you soft?’
The lad opens the door a little wider, revealing a warm interior. I hurry inside, almost tripping over in my haste.
‘Good e’en. My name is Elspet and I find myself in . . . in some . . .’
My voice trails off as I see, sitting by the fire, a large man with wild black hair and a ruddy face. He wears a frieze coat the colour of tarnished steel over tattered moss green trews. He raises his hand and grins, his eyes disappearing behind folds of flesh. On his knees rests a walking staff with an ornate silver cap. Such a fine piece of workmanship looks out of place in this humble dwelling.
‘I heard your tale, lass. These woods are no place for rambling in daylight, let alone this time of night.’
I nod, fingers nervously pleating the cloth of my skirt.
‘Well,’ he continues, ‘you’ll be wanting your supper. Cal, set a plate afore our guest, there’s a lad.’
The man seems harmless enough and the small hut is cosy and well kept. I allow myself to exhale just a little.
‘Thank you, I’m so grateful, Mr . . .?’
The big man laughs. ‘Call me Rabbie — everybody does. Rabbie Alderwood. And this whelp here, this is my son Calum.’
My eyes have adjusted to the light and I can see the boy more clearly now. He’s about the same age as me but a head taller. He is dressed in a leather jerkin that’s coming apart at the seams and tattered trews of a dun-coloured plaid. He’s lean and wiry, with ginger hair, at odds with his father’s stocky build and colouring. His bright, gold-flecked hazel eyes have purple shadows under them and his face looks sallow and gaunt. He regards me with wariness, if not outright suspicion.
Breaking my gaze, he bends down to spoon some stew into a bowl from the iron cooking pot. As he hands me the bowl it’s all I can do to stop myself descending on the food like a wolf upon a lamb.
‘Thank you, Calum,’ I say, giving him a nervous smile that he doesn’t return.
‘Cal,’ he corrects me, then indicates that I should start eating.
‘Good?’ Rabbie asks after I’ve had a few mouthfuls.
I nod, wiping a drop of stew from my chin.
The big man lets out another belly laugh. ‘It appears you’ve not eaten for days.’ He grins at me. His twinkling eyes are an intense shade of gold.
After the meal, I sit back in my chair and stifle a yawn, suddenly overcome with fatigue. Rabbie tells me to take off my boots and cloak so they can dry by the fire overnight.
‘Thank you, Mr Rabbie, but I’d hate to be a bother. And I need to find my father.’ My clothes are almost dry and I’ve a full belly, which is more than I could say a short while ago. But I’ve no idea how close Finster might be, and I’d rather not spend the night in a stranger’s shieling, tender-hearted though he may be.
Rabbie frowns. ‘It’s no bother! Besides, you’ll not find anybody stumbling about the woods in the murk of night. There’s a wolf pack out there and they’d find you a tasty morsel, make no mistake. Wait till morning, then we’ll help you search.’
‘A wolf pack!’ I catch my breath, not knowing whether to be relieved or terrified that I hadn’t dreamed the attack. In a torrent of words, I tell the Alderwoods of my encounter with the wolf and show them my torn cloak. Cal throws his father a black look. Does he think I’m making it all up?
Rabbie rubs his chin. ‘Then it’s settled. ‘You’ll bide here the night, wee Elspet.’
I’m spent and need to get some rest. There’s nothing I’d like more than to stretch out in front of the fire, but Rabbie’s in a gabby mood. He begins to tell me about their life on the road. I swallow another yawn and give myself a little shake, surprised to learn the shieling is not their permanent home.
He shakes his head. ‘We found it empty a few winters back,’ he explains. ‘Cal and me, we were just passing through. The weather makes for bleak travelling this time of year, and this shieling is braw and couthy.’ The rain beats down hard on the turf roof and I quickly nod in agreement, grateful not to be scrabbling about in the dark looking for shelter.
‘When will you set off again?’ I ask him.
‘Another moon or so. I miss the road. I get restless staying in one place. And we journey all over. The Highlands. The Borders. The North East —’
‘Are you a tinker?’ It’s a bold question, but I’m curious to know how they survive.
Rabbie laughs. ‘Nae. I’ve two left thumbs and couldn’t mend a pan to save myself. But you’re not far off. Keep guessing.’ A broad grin makes his eyes disappear again.
‘You’re a hunter.’ I daren’t say poacher.
‘Nae,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘But we enjoy this forest, don’t we, Cal? The game is plenteous, even in winter. And the ghillie is old and blind,’ he winks. The ghillie, or gamekeeper, looks after the local laird’s lands. Poaching is a hanging offence, but most travellers could only hope to survive the winter on game meat.
‘Why don’t we show wee Elspet what we do, eh Cal?’
Cal swallows hard. ‘It’s late. We should let her get some rest.’
The man’s face darkens with an unexpected frown, and in an instant the atmosphere in the shieling changes. ‘Would you contradict me, lad?’ Rabbie says in a low growl, then grabs Cal in a headlock and wrestles him to the floor until the boy pleads with him to stop.
‘Let him go!’ I cry, standing up with such haste that my chair falls over with a bang.
Rabbie releases his grip on his son and turns to me, his eyes flinty and dangerous. ‘Troth! You’re a mouthy one. Tell a man what to do in his own cot-house, would you?’
‘N-nae,’ I stammer, shocked by his sudden change of mood. ‘But you’re hurting him . . .’
‘Hurting him?’ Rabbie says in high-pitched mimicry, ‘Cal, was I hurting you? Do you need this wee lassie to come to your rescue?’
Rabbie towers over me, gold eyes blazing. Cal’s face is pale, his lips pressed tight together. He gives his head a tiny shake that only I can see.
Then the large man bursts into raucous laughter. ‘Och, I was being jokesome, lassie! Cal knows that.’
Not knowing how to react, I keep quiet and tug nervously at the leather cord around my neck.
‘Why, that’s a pretty bauble!’ Rabbie says, raising a finger towards the bloodstone.
‘This?’ I say, unsettled. My fingers wrap around it. ‘Just an old hag stone. Belonged to my poor dead mother. All I have to remember her by.’
‘Might I take a closer look?’ He gives an encouraging smile.
It would seem churlish to refuse him. After all, he’s just invited me into his home and shared his supper with me. Minister Gourlay always told us to welcome strangers with open arms, but a stranger’s arrival at this time of year would be met with deep resentment in Heatherbrae. Most folk waited out the end of winter with hollow cheeks and empty bellies, scratching around for food like mice in the grain barrel.
Biting my lip, I slip the leather cord from around my neck. I hand him the bloodstone, a knot forming in my stomach.
He holds the stone up to a candle flame. I watch his chubby fingers probe at it with a feeling of dismay. It takes all my willpower to stop myself snatching it away.
Cal looks on, arms folded, his head cocked with a grudging curiosity. The shadow cast on the wall behind him shows his head crowned with antlers. When I blink, the antlers disappear. I give my head a little shake. I’m so tired I’m starting to see things.
‘Where did your mother find it?’ Rabbie asks.
I shrug, feigning indifference. ‘Out walking in the wo
ods, if I recall.’
After studying it a few moments more, Rabbie hands it back to me. ‘It looks well on you,’ he says. He watches me closely as I tie the leather cord around my neck. ‘Cal’s right. We should let you get some rest. Hang your cloak on that chair by the fire. Boots too. They’ll be dry come the morrow. We’ll leave at first light to look for your kin.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ I say.
He nods and then spreads out a blanket and lies down on it. Then he rolls onto his side with his back to me.
Cal lingers a moment longer. He leans over and says in a hushed tone, ‘You can’t stay here, it’s not safe. Leave as soon as he’s asleep!’ He points to his father’s bulky frame.
‘What about the wolf pack?’ I hiss at him. I’ve no desire to stay the night here; there’s something strange going on between father and son and I don’t like being caught in the middle of it. But even without the wolf and the witch hunter, it’s raining so heavily that droplets of water are trickling through the gaps in the stone, forming little pools on the earthen floor.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Rabbie’s voice interrupts. ‘Cal, leave wee Elspet be.’ But the boy gives me a pointed look as he wraps himself in his cloak and lies down on a mat next to his father.
Before long, the big man’s rhythmic snores echo through the small dwelling. I can’t tell if Cal’s still awake, but his warning plays on my mind. I creep over to the door and open it just a crack. The storm is raging now; sheets of lightning blaze in the sky and thunder booms overhead moments after. There’s no way I could go out in that, even if I wanted to. I’ll just have to stay awake, alert. And then, at first light, I’ll be on my way. I need to put as much distance as possible between myself and Finster. If I found my way to the shieling, then who’s to say the witch finder won’t stumble upon it, too.
I sit down on the floor next to the hearth fire and slip the leather cord from around my neck. Since leaving Heatherbrae I’ve lost my sister, been betrayed by my best friend, nearly caught by the witch finder and attacked by a wolf. All that’s left of my old life is this stone and the promise I made to Grizel. I polish the bloodstone carefully in the folds of my skirt, trying to remove the traces of Rabbie’s touch. It’s disheartening that even a stranger can sense the stone’s power when I can’t, and I’m supposed to be its guardian. I hold it up to the light from the hearth fire, trying to see whatever it was Rabbie saw.
