The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  ‘I was hungry. I’m not clear-headed when I’m hungry. Anyway, what do you think he proposes to do with us?’

  ‘He plans to use us to bring his sweetheart back from the dead. Something about an offering and a vessel.’

  ‘A necromancer? Well, there’ll be no reasoning with him. We’ll have to use force.’

  ‘And how do you propose we do that? We’re both tied up!’

  Just then the door bangs open. Creelman walks in freshly bathed, wearing a long robe of white linen and white cloth slippers. He wears a sword in its scabbard belted around his hips. Around his neck there’s a tablet on a cord with markings on it. On his head he has placed a crude-looking crown, made from cloth-of-gold. He looks so absurd that I would laugh out loud if I weren’t so frightened.

  Creelman walks over to the table. ‘No more talking.’ He stuffs a rag into Cal’s mouth. Cal shakes his head violently as he tries to spit it out.

  ‘Please,’ I beg Creelman. ‘You’ll choke him.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, or I’ll gag you too,’ he snaps, his eyes flinty.

  I shrink under his gaze. Cal’s right: there’ll be no talking our way out of this.

  He walks back to the altar and lights the candle and then the resin crystals and mutters some words over them. Smoke billows out of the bowl, filling the room with a pungent, swirling haze. Grizel would burn dried herbs, usually heather and wild sage, to invoke the element of air and the guardians of the east. The fragrance coming from Creelman’s censer is much headier, intoxicating.

  Creelman begins to chant, at first softly, then louder. He speaks in a language I cannot fathom, perhaps entreating his demon or familiar spirit to come. He takes out a small glass vial and anoints himself with oil on the crown of his head, between the eyebrows and on the lips.

  Then he unsheathes the sword and draws a circle in a sunwise direction around the chamber. The circle passes around the back of my chair and the table to which Cal is tied. Creelman looks right through us, as if we’re no longer there.

  The incense smoke pools in the middle of the circle, floating over the sigil Creelman drew on the floor. As I observe it, a form begins to take shape. At first I think it’s my imagination, but then I see an arm, a torso and a woman’s full skirts emerging in the smoke.

  Cal raises his head to see what’s happening. He sees the smoke woman too, and throws me a wild look. Do something! his eyes say. He wants me to intervene somehow, to use counter-magic, but with my hands and feet tied so tight there’s nothing I can do.

  I strain against the ropes, wriggling my fingers and toes. There’s something in my boot. Mugwort! It’s still there from yesterday. Perhaps our situation is not completely hopeless. The plant has many uses: Grizel often employed it in protection spells, to banish harmful influences. There’s a small hole in my stocking and I make it bigger with my great toe, so my skin can come into contact with the herb.

  The smoke woman is now fully formed. Her features are so astonishingly clear that I recognise her from the painting in the locket. Beitris still looks young, but her hair is unkempt and her skirts are in rags. It’s as if she’s been waiting all these years, just as Creelman said.

  On the other side of the altar the old man unwraps something covered in a black silk cloth. It’s a dirk, with a curved blade and ivory handle. He chants louder now, taking the knife and slicing open his own hand. Blood pours from the wound, which he catches in a bronze cup.

  He dips a quill in the cup and walks over to me. As he approaches, I see that his watery grey eyes are now completely black. He grabs my chin and, twisting my face upwards, scratches something onto my forehead with the quill. I thrash about, trying to remove the mark, but it’s hopeless. Even though I can’t see it, I’m certain it’s the same sigil that he drew on the floor. He means to transfer Beitris’s shade into my body. The vessel. That can only mean Cal is the offering. Creelman means to sacrifice Cal to his demon, to seal their unholy bargain.

  Our only hope is if I can disrupt the ritual somehow. I grip the stem of mugwort between my toes and say in the most commanding voice I can muster:

  By witch’s power and witch’s will,

  I summon Mugwort’s shield to me.

  Break the power of Creelman’s quill

  And let my friend and I go free.

  Ignore this mark writ on my face,

  The smoke-woman now disperse.

  Her baleful spirit gone from this place,

  Freed forever from this curse.

  By water, air, earth and fire,

  In this circle safe are we.

  Guarded from this madman’s ire,

  As I speak, so shall it be!

  Creelman races over and covers my mouth with his hand.

  ‘Silence! Or you’ll feel this blade across your neck.’

  My eyes wide with terror, I nod and he lets go, walking back to the altar. But when I catch my breath I realise he’s bluffing. So close to getting what he wants, he’d never risk it all by killing me now.

  I repeat my invocation, louder this time.

  Creelman’s fist strikes the side of my head and I see stars. When I regain my senses, he is stuffing an oily rag in my mouth. My head throbs from the blow.

  But the smoke has already begun to dissipate and the shade of Beitris grows fainter. Creelman cries out in anguish as he watches her disappear. He continues chanting but he’s rushing now and trips over the words. He mops his brow. I spit out the rag and continue with my own chant, as loud as I can.

  Creelman hesitates for a moment between Cal and me. He looks torn, but then appears to make a decision. He walks over to the table and rips open Cal’s sark. With the tip of the blade, he carves another sigil on Cal’s chest. Cal cries out in pain. I’ve only made things worse: instead of slowing down, Creelman is speeding up the ritual.

  He raises the knife over Cal’s chest. I rock my chair from side to side until it topples over. I land heavily on my left side, the chair breaking apart under my weight. One hand is free and I manage to pull the ropes away.

  Creelman’s black eyes are filled with fury. He hurries around the table and grabs my legs as I dive towards the altar and tug hard on the altar cloth. Sacred objects tumble to the floor. The candle flame lights the oil that has spilled from the vial and in moments the cloth is aflame.

  Creelman stands over me, dirk in hand. He seizes me around the waist with such force that he lifts me off the floor. I wait for the blade to strike, but instead he turns the dirk around and swings the handle at my head. I duck at the last moment and the blow only grazes my crown. He drops the dirk and then fumbles for it. I wrest myself from his grip and dive to the ground.

  Seizing the dirk, I plunge the blade into his foot. He howls in pain and stumbles backwards, tripping over the altar on his way down and knocking the fiery cloth into a pile of dusty parchment scrolls. In an instant, the crammed bookshelves catch alight.

  I run to the table and slice through the first of the ropes pinning Cal to the table.

  Creelman gives out a low wail. ‘Beitris! Beitris, my love!’ The old man rocks back and forth. His white robe is now sullied with blood and dirt and his golden crown is askew, covering one eye. Moments ago he was terrifying; now he just looks pathetic.

  There’s no sign of the smoke woman now, but smoke of another kind is rapidly filling the chamber. Flames from the burning scrolls lick the edges of a threadbare tapestry hanging on the wall.

  Cal shrugs free of the ropes. He rips out his gag and slides off the table.

  The smoke is so thick I can barely see him. I grab the back of his jerkin and we make our way to the door. Creelman tries to trip Cal, who stumbles. He grabs at something to break his fall and sears his hand on a piece of burning wood.

  But Creelman is no match for the pair of us. I pull Cal away and drag him to the door. We both tumble out and trip down the turnpike stair to the landing that leads to the great hall.

  Cal gasps for air. His burnt hand looks painful, and bl
ood trickles from the wound on his chest.

  I sling his arm over my shoulders and hold him firmly around the waist. He stinks of sweat and fear. He’s taller than me and it’s hard trying to carry him. I help him down the main staircase and ask if he can make it outside from here. He nods.

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’ I turn to the stairs.

  ‘Iona,’ Cal wheezes as I start to climb. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I have to.’

  After all he’s done, I’ve no doubt Creelman deserves to die. Still, I can’t leave him in there to burn alive.

  I reach the top of the stairs and push the door open.

  The smoke has engulfed the whole keep now. I fall to my knees, struggling to breathe. Creelman is sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth. He’s weeping. ‘Beitris,’ he repeats, oblivious to the inferno raging around him.

  ‘Come on!’ I pull his arm to try to get him to stand, but he wrenches it from my grasp.

  ‘Nae! Nae, I’ll not,’ he huffs, like a petulant bairn. ‘Beitris, my love.’ He wraps his arms around his knees, resisting my efforts to help him.

  A roof beam collapses, landing near the door. If I don’t leave now I’ll be trapped in here. Crawling on hands and knees, I make my way back to the door. But I know he’ll not follow me.

  Once out the door, I run down to the landing, then make my way down the staircase. When I’m through the gates I circle around the side of the castle. Flames leap out of the windows of the keep.

  My friend is lying face down in the wet grass. I run to him and kneel down to roll him onto his back. His face is bloodless.

  ‘Cal.’ I give him a shake. He doesn’t move.

  ‘Cal?’ I jab my finger into his shoulder.

  ‘Cal!’ I press my ear lightly to his chest but there’s no sign of breath. A wail of anguish escapes me. If only I hadn’t gone back for Creelman, I might have been able to save Cal. I bury my head in my hands.

  ‘You’re never crying, Witch?’

  I look down to see his golden eyes blinking back at me. I throw my arms around him and he laughs weakly as he tries to sit up.

  ‘I’d hug you back, only . . .’ He holds up his blistered hand.

  I quickly dry my eyes and pull the flask from my bag.

  ‘He wouldn’t come with me,’ I explain as I pour water on Cal’s wounded hand. ‘He just sat there rocking back and forth and saying her name. I shouldn’t have left you alone, but I just couldn’t leave him there to die.’

  ‘You could’ve been killed. Stupid witch.’

  ‘You’re stupider. Stupid wolf.’

  Cal watches as I wrap his burned hand with linen torn from one of my petticoats. I inspect the cuts on his chest but they’re not deep and the blood washes away, leaving a raised mark that should close over in a few days.

  ‘I don’t suppose you thought to rescue our cloaks?’

  I slap my forehead with the heel of my hand. The cloaks were draped on a chair in the keep. All we have for warmth now are the clothes on our backs. If we keep moving then we might just stay warm enough during the day, but come nightfall we’ll die without them.

  ‘Well, let that be a lesson to you,’ Cal says. Now that his hand has been dressed, some colour has returned to his cheeks.

  ‘Lesson?’ Standing, I hang my bag over my shoulder.

  ‘Magic’s a dangerous business. And it doesn’t always work.’

  I think a moment, considering his words. ‘Nae,’ I reply. ‘The spell did work, just not how Creelman thought it would. Do you not see? Now he’ll be with Beitris forever.’

  A FAERIE FORT

  ‘The sun will set in an hour or so,’ says Cal. ‘We must be getting close to Dunshee by now. If I can find my cousins, they may let us bide with them for the —’

  ‘You have kin in Dunshee?’ I interrupt him. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ he says, giving me a dark look.

  ‘Because of Rabbie?’

  ‘Aye.’ He rubs his chin. Then he sighs. ‘They may not welcome me with open arms.’

  He stops walking and I can sense that he wants to say something, so I tell him we should sit and rest a while. After we’ve shared some water, Cal starts to speak in a soft voice. ‘We’re descended from an ancient line of druids. Skin-turning — it’s only supposed to be done in sacred ritual, but our paternal line has the magic very strong. We can turn once we reach manhood.’

  I nod. ‘It’s like that for the women in my family.’

  ‘Rabbie was initiated by his father into the mysteries of the order and was supposed to follow in his footsteps and become chief druid. But Rabbie started to skin-turn all the time. He loved being the wolf. He wouldn’t follow the rules of the order and he refused to finish his apprenticeship, which takes many, many years. My grandsire threatened to cast him out, calling him foolish and reckless. There was a great stramash between them. Soon after, they found my grandsire’s body in the woods just outside Dunshee. His throat was ripped out. A wolf attack, folk said.’

  Cal’s tone is flat and emotionless, but a cold feeling creeps inside me as he tells his tale. I rub my hands up and down my arms to stave off the chill.

  ‘After that we were forced to leave Dunshee,’ he says. ‘My mother didn’t want to go, but she was feart of Rabbie. He told her to do as she pleased, but that he was taking me with him. So she had no choice but to pack up and leave her home. You see, she wanted to protect me. And that decision cost her dearly.’

  He pauses.

  ‘What happened to your mother?’ I ask gently.

  ‘She died when I was ten. She was tired of the life, being on the road all the time and calming Rabbie’s rages. Back then we were barely surviving. We were always hungry and the little money we had went to the alehouse. One winter, when we were up in Balmedie, we went to the beach to collect driftwood to make a fire. She walked on ahead, and as I watched she strode into the ocean. I ran as fast as I could up the beach, but she’d disappeared beneath the waves before I could reach her.’

  ‘Oh, Cal. That’s awful.’

  He nods, but says, ‘I don’t blame her. She couldn’t find another way out. Anyway, it was after she died that Rabbie came up with the idea of becoming a guiser. He’d give these elaborate performances, always at night, and at the end he’d turn into the wolf. Folk were terrified, of course, but the next day he’d show them the masks and convince them it was all pretend. His reputation grew, and soon folk were begging us to return to their villages each year. They paid him handsomely.’

  There’s no doubt Rabbie’s a born performer, but I can’t help wondering why he needs to skin-turn when folk would find the masks and storytelling entertaining enough. Money seemed a poor excuse to harness such power. Only the basest sort of person uses magic to cozen, Grizel always said. To be sure, my aunt took payment for her healing work, but she never charged more than a person could afford and she always made an offering to Bride, to give thanks for the abundance her gifts brought her.

  ‘What’s that thing he used the night I saw you turn? Made a loud noise.’

  ‘It’s called a thunderspell.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. It opens a doorway to the Otherworld. Makes it easier for us to turn. Other times, there are natural doorways like full moons, black moons and the harvest festivals. Samhain is the most powerful time for turning.’

  ‘All manner of eldritch things happen at Samhain,’ I agree. ‘It’s the night the Unseen walk the earth. And the Faerie Queen flies through the sky.’

  This is the first time I’ve ever been able to talk to anybody besides Grizel and Ishbel about such things. Cal gives me a grin, as though he’s thinking the same thing.

  ‘So you need a doorway — that’s all?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘We also need to be touching some part of the animal we want to change into. A feather will do. Rabbie always wears a wolf claw about his neck and he gave me one, too.’ From
inside his jerkin Cal pulls out a wolf’s claw, tied to the stitching with a piece of red thread. ‘Far as I know, we can change into any animal. Rabbie only ever changes into the wolf. And he wanted me to be a wolf too, just like him. But . . .’ He stops, giving me a sideways glance.

  ‘Go on!’ I say, enthralled by Cal’s tale.

  He rests his chin on his knees and pulls at his bootstrap. ‘I’ve always loved birds. Eagles, hawks. Stonechats and plovers. Curlews. Jackdaws. All of them. Once, I showed Rabbie an owl feather and asked if I could use it. He beat me, told me I was a fool to squander my gift on trifles. Wolves don’t fly, he said.’ He gives me a wan smile. ‘Just once, I should like to know how it feels.’

  ‘But how does it work? I mean, how do you change back to human?’

  Cal shrugs a shoulder. ‘I’m not certain — not exactly. Rabbie always brought me back. He changes first and helps me. The trouble is that I feel like the animal and forget I’m supposed to be human. The wolf is too strong. Rabbie says that will change as I get more experienced. I’ll be able to control it better.’

  ‘But what about the other day? You changed back without Rabbie’s help.’

  ‘I must’ve taken off the wolf skin somehow, but I don’t remember doing it.’

  I give a low whistle. ‘Skin-turning is powerful magic. Even my aunt Grizel couldn’t do anything like that.’

  ‘What could she do?’

  ‘Healing magic, mostly. Herb lore. She birthed weans and midwifed the souls of the dying to the Summerlands. And she helped women become with child. She could break curses. And she made charms to protect against dark magic.’

  He nods. ‘A skeely woman. We met many of them on our travels. The clever ones knew what Rabbie and I were as soon as we walked into their clachan, and they’d tell us to move on. What happened to your aunt?’

  ‘The kirk elders said she was a witch and they came in the night and took her. She was executed at Candlemas.’ For some reason, I need to say it all out loud. ‘And they killed my sister Ishbel, too — at least, that’s what I believe. There’s a witch finder on my trail, that’s why I had to leave Heatherbrae. My best friend Dalziel is helping him. I was running from them when I turned up at your door. So, what you said before, you were right. I’m a witch. That’s what they call our kind.’