by Meg Caddy
‘What must you learn?’ I asked, as I asked every time we went on these outings.
His shoulders slumped. ‘Patience. Are you ever going to let me Shift?’
The childish despair made me smile. I put a hand on his shoulder and steered him around. I pointed at the creatures drifting across the grass in front of us, pathetic bundles of rain-sodden wool. White at birth, now they were older they had achieved a filthy brown. They were the ugliest of creatures in winter. When summer came, we would shear the ugliness away, turn it to honest use, and reveal the good creatures underneath. They smelled of oil, and grass, and thick mud.
‘Do you see the sheep?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then as a wolf, you will also be able to see them. I doubt you could kill one, little brother, but our parents do not want us injuring any, either.’
‘I will not chase them.’
‘Considering the chickens you managed to kill last time, forgive me if I doubt your self-control.’ Kemp, staying with friends down the Valley, had Shifted out of turn and run wild in their poultry. Our parents had paid for the damage with a bale of fine wool – and considerable embarrassment.
I steered Kemp down the hill. ‘We are to go to the river, and you can hunt rabbits.’
‘Did you hunt rabbits?’
‘Of course. Well, I was supposed to. The first time I was taken out I snapped at a donkey’s heels and got a kick in the head. I had to be stitched, even after Shifting back into this shape.’ Shifting would heal most open wounds, unless they were inflicted by silver. ‘When I teach you, Kemp, it is because I know from experience what not to do.’
The story of my failure cheered him up, and we walked towards the forest and the river. It was a pleasant walk, for ours was the nicest land-plot in the Valley. Our house stood at the top of a hill near the north end, close to the mountain-pass and the river-mouth, so any mountain traders came past our home first and we saw the best of their goods before they were sold.
Most importantly, it was quiet. Our Valley was not what one would call a crowded den. There were barely four hundred inhabitants in the village itself, and only a handful of families like ours on the outskirts. To my shame, even these few people overwhelmed me when I visited the village market. I preferred the rolling hills and the hushed glades.
The trees closed over our heads. I breathed in the dark aroma of oak and pine. Kemp’s face turned upwards, his nose twitching. I knew he could smell the rabbits, the squirrels, the river running along the muddy bank ahead of us. I released his shoulders and crouched close to the ground. I could smell his excitement. He dropped beside me, quivering, his small hands sinking into the dirt and wet leaves.
‘Now?’ There was a kind of agony in his voice.
‘Now, little brother.’
Kemp shed his clothes and flung his body forward. I heard a crunch of bone, his whimpers as his limbs contorted. There was nothing I could do to help his transition. The first few Shifts were always hard. Kemp dropped to his side, half-Shifted, panting as thick black fur pushed through his skin. The winter coat was a challenge for the younger ones. Kemp’s jaw grew long, hands twisted and shaking. His small, pink fingernails had stiffened, blackened, and were slowly pushing outwards. I reached over and stroked a hand across his soft head. He whined and squirmed on the ground.
‘A little further, Kemp.’
A strangled noise, and then – it always seemed sudden – he was a wolf. His black fur was glossy, his ears alert, and his tail thumping in the mud. He rolled to his feet and bounded, almost bursting from his new skin with the elation of being wild and new. It was always this way. I smiled and removed my own clothes. Over the years, I had been taught to control the animal aspect of my nature, but control did not lessen the joy. For me, the Shift was easier. My muscles laced themselves into their new position. My bones clicked smoothly until they were secure. I felt air rush into me, and life surge through my body. The dirt at my feet moved. Each Shift expelled energy, pushed it into the world. It was why we rarely Shifted indoors. I had tried it as a child and knocked over chairs and tables, breaking several of my mother’s ornaments.
As soon as I was a wolf, I lifted my head and ran to Kemp. He gave a cracked, puppy-voiced howl. He felt it as much as I did, the mad delight of being wolf, being part of a pack. He chased me, tried to catch my tail in his teeth. I knocked him over and roughed with him. He rolled, fell clumsily, and leapt to his paws again to dance around me. I had a distant memory of doing the same thing to my father, and receiving a good nip on the ear for it.
Kemp stopped, mid-leap. He crashed to the ground in a heap and his tail went stiff, fur rising as he caught the scent of rabbit. He launched away from me and darted through the trees. I raced after him, faster as a wolf than I could hope to be as a man. The forest was alive with scents and sounds. Wet branches slapped our faces and shoulders. Kemp, his legs an ungainly length, scrabbled through the undergrowth and crashed into trees and bushes as he went. I cleared logs, loving the rush of cool air. I caught a glimpse of a rabbit and it was all I could do not to chase it down and take it. Instinct warred with intellect, but this was for Kemp. Kemp had to learn how to hunt away from the farms. I whined, but held myself back.
Kemp spotted the rabbit. He howled again and pounced after it as I circled around to drive it towards him. The rabbit was frantic, ducking back and forth under logs and behind bushes. Kemp harried it, not fast enough to make the catch and not canny enough yet to trap it. I slunk, low and slow as I pushed the rabbit towards him. Kemp did not notice. All his senses were directed at the small creature. I knew from experience, that every inch of his furred body would be screaming Food! He was too young and untried to ignore it.
Kemp burst from a bush, spraying leaves, twigs, and dirt through the air. The rabbit screamed and leapt towards me. I started forwards, and…
The smell of blood.
Waer blood.
The rabbit darted away unharmed.
Kemp went through the slow process of a Shift in order to berate me.
‘We almost had it!’ he complained. ‘Why did you let it go?’
I changed shape as well, needing all of my human mind to work through this. ‘Hush,’ I told him. ‘Concentrate, Kemp. What do you smell?’
He frowned, and lifted his nose. ‘Rabbit?’
‘Concentrate.’
He stilled. ‘Blood.’
‘What kind of blood?’
His voice dropped. ‘Blood like ours?’
‘Go and get our clothes.’
Kemp ran. I tried to focus on the source of the blood. Strong; close. It was easy to tell waer blood: I felt an uncomfortable connection to it. A deep familiarity. When Kemp returned with our clothes, I pulled mine on without saying a word. He looked pale now, and frightened. I put my hand on his shoulder, holding him steady as I followed the scent toward the river.
The river was flowing fast, driven by nights of rain. I stopped Kemp a few yards back and held up a hand. If someone was dead, I did not want him to see. I did not want to see, but this was Sencha family land. If someone was injured here, it was our responsibility to help them.
The stench of blood nearly overwhelmed me. I bent and braced my hands on my knees. I did not want to lose my stomach in front of Kemp. It would frighten him even more.
‘Lowell?’
‘Stay where you are, Kemp.’
‘Lowell.’
I turned and saw where he was pointing. My stomach dropped, clenched in a cold fist.
‘Look away,’ I said. Kemp turned away, but I saw his face crumpling. I tried to put aside my horror. Our land, our responsibility. I forced my legs to move. They were heavy and shaking. It seems strange to fear the dead, but I could not throw off revulsion.
The body slumped on the bank. Sodden, legs still hanging in the water where the river had widened and slowed. I approached and crouched. I forced my hands to touch the person’s head. I felt blood there at once, sticky and thick. My stomach turned
over. I lowered my eyes to offer silent prayers. O Hollow, lord of the dark night, scourge and hunter, we implore thee; rest the wandering spirit. O Freybug, our lady of healing, spirit of the dawn, we implore thee…
The person stirred.
I jumped back. It took me a moment to calm my mind. Not dead, thank Freybug, not yet dead.
‘Kemp!’ I turned to him. ‘Go and get Father. Mother too, if she is back from worship. Quick!’
Kemp scrambled through the trees. I neared the body by the water again. There was a lot of blood, but on closer inspection it seemed the damage was not as bad as I had thought. The head wound and the water, the cold, were my biggest concerns, though I suspected a dislocated shoulder as well.
I pushed damp hair away from the face, and realised the person on the bank was a woman – and not a woman from the Valley. She was too fair to be one of our people. I took a thin reed and held it by her face. The slight movement told me she was, at least, able to breathe. I removed my coat and settled it over her. I did not want to move her in case I worsened some unseen damage.
I knelt in the mud, ignoring the wet that seeped through my clothes. We often had traders and chipre-folk come through the Valley with their wares, but this was different. What was she doing in the river? How far had she travelled, and for what purpose? I looked over my shoulder, towards the mountains. They towered over us, dark and distant. Beyond them, Caerwyn, the stronghold of the northern mountains. The traders whispered of chipre-folk going missing in the area, and had started taking longer routes to avoid it. Once, during the summer, I had even seen soldiers from a distance as they marched along a path in the mountains framing the Valley. I shivered, wondering if the stranger had come from Caerwyn.
A cold hand gripped my elbow and I yelped. I stared at the stranger, read the fear in her pale eyes as she met my gaze, or – no, looked through it. It did not seem she really saw me.
‘Kee vah,’ she hissed.
‘What?’ I tried to pry my arm away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. She lifted her head, shuddered, and spoke again.
‘Kee vah.’
I took her hand and uncurled the fingers from my elbow. She dropped back, but did not lose consciousness. Her eyes remained wide and staring, not taking anything in. I feared she was mad.
‘Lowell.’ Our father ran down the hill and knelt by me in the mud and I edged away to give him space. He searched for the stranger’s pulse. She gave no indication of noticing. Her eyes were closed again.
‘Is she badly injured?’ my father asked.
‘Her head wound looks serious. There is a lot of blood. She is half-drowned. She roused herself and spoke to me, but I…’ I shook my head, uneasy. ‘I could not understand what she said. Kee vah.’
‘Perhaps she does not speak the Trading Tongue.’ Gwen, help me. The last remark was a soul-whisper to my mother, still out of earshot as she slid along the bank to join us. I could barely hear it.
Mother must have been on her way home from the worship-house, to get here so swiftly. She arrived out of breath and paused for a moment to collect herself. Then she too knelt, ran a hand gently along the stranger’s back, checking for damage. Once she was assured there were no breaks there she nodded at my father and together they lifted the stranger.
I heard a sniff and looked over at Kemp. He was holding tears back valiantly, but they stood in his eyes. His nose was swelling and his chin wrinkled. Our father shot him a disapproving glance. Ioan Sencha had no time for tears.
I went to Kemp and wrapped my arms about him.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘You were brave. You did exactly as I asked you to.’
He was aware of Father’s gaze. He squared his shoulders, tried to fit an adult’s stance into a child’s body. ‘Who is she, Lowell?’ he asked. ‘How did she get here?’
I had no answers for him.
Also by Meg Caddy
Waer
Devil’s Ballast
Meg Caddy is a bookseller by day and a boarding-school tutor by night. Her first book, Waer, was shortlisted for the 2013 Text Prize and the 2017 CBCA Book Awards. She lives with two rescue cats and an ever-expanding bookshelf.
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textpublishing.com.au
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Copyright © Meg Caddy, 2019
The moral right of Meg Caddy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Published by The Text Publishing Company, 2019
Book design by Jessica Horrocks
Illustrations by iStock
Typeset in Caslon 11.75/16.75 by Duncan Blachford, Typography Studio
Map by Simon Barnard
ISBN: 9781925773460 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925774276 (ebook)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia
