The Second Bell

by Gabriela Houston

  PRAISE FOR GABRIELA HOUSTON

  “A lyrical tale of mothers and daughters, the lies we tell ourselves and the choking strictures of petty society. Gabriela Houston’s twist on Slavic folklore offers readers a mediation on the power, beauty and danger of the natural world, seen through the eyes of a rich cast of characters whose behaviour is all too manifestly human, despite their sometimes supernatural nature. Captivating, provocative and poignant – not to be missed.”

  David Wragg, author of The Black Hawks

  “A fabulous fairytale, beautifully written, full of very human darkness and not-so-human heart. There is magic and joy here, as well as struggle and sacrifice, with characters and a very personal story you won’t be able to stop thinking about long after the tale is told.”

  Dan Hanks, author of Captain Moxley and the Embers of the Empire

  “Houston deftly handles both characterization and pacing as she creates a realistic, enchanting fairy tale with real-world themes.”

  Ginger Smith, author of The Rush’s Edge

  “Prose that scintillates, characters that captivate, and a world that is at once enchanting in its magic, horrifying in its realism, and vice-versa. Houston has gifted us with a folktale that is both mythically resonant and all too human.”

  Tyler Hayes, author of The Imaginary Corpse

  “Houston is able to mark the significance of daily events, highlight her characters, and comment on humanity’s capacity for othering. This intimate fantasy offers a heartfelt reflection on what it means to be human that is sure to please.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “The Second Bell, Gabriela D. Houston’s debut novel, is a coming-of-age tale set in a lavishly detailed backdrop drawn from the writer’s native Slavic mythology… The second bell of this novel may be an echo of the second heartbeat of the striga, but the first bell that rings out clear and loud throughout tolls a folkloric tale of female solidarity, sacrifice and love.”

  Tracy Fahey, author of The Girl in the Fort and New Music For Old Rituals

  “Gabriela’s Houston’s debut novel The Second Bell is a captivating tale about the depths humans, and others, will go to hate, to love, to hurt or to help as they struggle between love and duty. A moving and complex mother-daughter pair, Miriat and Salka ask the eternal questions of what exactly a parent owes a child and vice versa. A fresh and provocative spin on the Slavic Stiga mythology, The Second Bell is a smart and complex journey into the meaning of family, community, nature and possibility. A gripping read and full of heart.”

  Soniah Kamal, award-winning author of Unmarriageable

  ANGRY ROBOT

  An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

  Unit 11, Shepperton House

  89-93 Shepperton Road

  London N1 3DF

  UK

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  Follow Your Heart

  An Angry Robot paperback original, 2021

  Copyright © Gabriela Houston 2021

  Edited by Eleanor Teasdale and Gemma Creffield

  Cover by Glen Wilkins

  All rights reserved. Gabriela Houston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

  ISBN 978 0 85766 890 5

  Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 891 2

  Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ Books

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my beloved daughters Scarlett and Sienna

  Bell, bell, second bell,

  Such a thirst as it can’t quell,

  it will burn and it will drown

  First you drive it out of town.

  – The Heyne Mountains nursery rhyme

  Salka held her arms steady before her. Her wet nightgown clung to her body, which got smaller with each heartbeat. She shivered as the shadow wrapped itself tight around her. It teased and pulled apart her defenses, greedily sucking at the meagre resources of her body.

  She tried not to watch her arms as the fat moved under the skin like maggots, and was pried away from her, followed by her work-toughened muscles. It hurt a little, but she wouldn’t watch. It was only energy to energy, she thought as a thin line of blood trickled down her nose and over her lips.

  The shadow’s tendril caressed her face and took even that.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  Clang

  A slender hand hit the table, the iron rings on the fingers ringing out as they touched the wood. There were no words spoken after that. Everyone knew that Miriat had made her decision and no amount of talking would change it. The women crowded in the small room watched sullenly as Miriat took off her rings and bronze bracelets one by one. She made a point of lifting each item for everyone to see before putting them on a small pile in the middle of the table. You could only take the clothes on your back when you made the choice to go to the strigas’ nest.

  Miriat approached a narrow bed in the corner of the room and picked up a small, warm bundle. She pressed it to her chest. A cry came from inside the folds of the fabric, and a woman in the corner spat with disgust. Miriat ignored her and walked past with her head held high.

  She paused only for a moment, just as her foot was about to pass the threshold. A young man stood outside the door, his hands fidgeting as if he was cold, though he stood in the still-warm autumn sun. His dark eyes watched her impassively, and perhaps Miriat was the only one who could notice the furrow on his forehead and the twitch in the corner of his lips. He said nothing though, and she replied with a silence of her own. Without breaking eye contact, he undid the clasp on his woolen cloak and wrapped it around Miriat’s shoulders, his hands pausing for a brief moment as they brushed past her arms. Some of those back in the house muttered disapprovingly. Moments earlier they’d been family and friends, comforting and coaxing, dr
awing a vision of a life filled with joy and love. If she would only relent. If she would only let them take her child away. Now they begrudged her even the comfort of a warm cloak.

  Miriat took a deep breath and stepped out, leaving her life behind.

  She walked down the road, trying not to look at the people watching her go.

  Aurek the baker, who had hoped to woo Miriat when she was but a girl, now spat at the sight of her and drew his wife closer to his chest. Gniev, the old shopkeeper who had a soft spot for children and would sometimes give them a chewy sweet or two from the big jar on one of the shop’s shelves while their mothers weren’t looking, twisted his amiable face and shouted an obscenity that Miriat would never have accused him of knowing.

  She pulled the cloak closer around her little bundle as the wind blew. A rotten apple flew through the air and splattered in front of her on the stones, its juices spraying the hem of her long skirt. She looked at the crowd. It could have been anyone. Any of the women who, only a few days ago, would spend long hours chatting with her companionably, on the long daily walk bringing the men’s lunches to the mine. Any of the men who drank with her husband to celebrate her pregnancy, or who patted him on the back after they married. Their faces, so familiar, and yet now so strange, like a nightmare that puts the face of a dragon on your child’s head to frighten and confuse you. This cannot be real. She jutted out her chin with a defiance she didn’t feel.

  As was custom, the whole town had gathered to see her go. Three Dolas came down from the mountains in the morning to see the law was obeyed, and they stood now, silent, at the edge of the crowd. Their ceremonial cloaks had hoods drawn across their faces, so nothing but their unsmiling lips were visible. She was grateful for their presence. They were there for her safety as well.

  Save the tears for later. She gritted her teeth.

  A woman, a skilled pastry maker who’d made the cake to celebrate Miriat’s wedding, and would accept no coin for it, ran in front of her and swung her arms wide. Miriat only had a moment to turn her back on the woman, protecting the baby as a bucketful of kitchen waste was emptied onto her back. The crowd whooped and laughed as the half-decomposed potato peel and bits of rotten onions and chicken bones slipped down Miriat’s hair, the pungent juices trickling down her neck and under her collar.

  “Rot to rot, striga,” the woman said, nodding with satisfaction.

  Miriat yearned to hit the woman, or else to throw the betrayed sisterhood in her face. But a glance at the crowd froze her mid-word. They hungered for a reaction. Any excuse to tear her to pieces. If Miriat hit the woman now, then all the Dolas of Prissan wouldn’t be able to help her.

  Miriat straightened her shoulders. “As you say,” she said, turning away from the woman. As she continued down the road, Miriat’s arms tensed, though she prayed none could see it. They would sniff out her fear, even under the stink of the rotting food caked in her hair.

  Miriat left the town and walked down the muddy path leading towards the forest through the terraced fields. The last of the year’s crops had been harvested, and the ground looked bare.

  At the end of the road, just at the edge of the tree line, stood a small hunched-up figure of a woman. Miriat’s heart sank, but she walked on.

  “Are you planning on talking me out of it?” Miriat asked. There was no defiance in her voice, only resignation.

  “No.”

  The older woman pulled the shawl lower over her forehead. She leaned on her walking stick, which some kind hand had decorated with a crude carving of twirling leaves. White, unseeing eyes turned towards Miriat.

  “I won’t ask you if it’s worth it, either. Only you can answer that.”

  “It’s worth it. It’s worth it for me,” Miriat said.

  “Then there is your answer.” The woman pulled out a pouch from the depths of her apron and proceeded to fill a small pipe. The two stood quietly for a time as she lit it and took the first two puffs. She coughed and said, quietly, “You could have other babies though. Later.”

  “Yes, but not this one,” Miriat said.

  “No, not this one,” the woman replied, her voice making it clear that in her opinion that wouldn’t be an altogether bad thing. “You can’t come back, you understand.”

  “Good. I don’t want to.”

  “Not even if it dies.” The woman brushed the greying hair out of her face. “You’re leaving forever. And the forest will never release you.”

  “And what would you have done?” Miriat asked. “If it were you in my place, what would you have done?”

  The older woman puffed on the pipe and, as she exhaled, a circle of smoke wafted above their heads briefly, before dissipating into the air. She nodded. “You’d better be off then.”

  Miriat hesitated and leaned towards the old woman, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Goodbye, Mama.”

  Miriat pulled her child closer to her chest and walked towards the forest, never once looking back.

  There was only one town in the Heyne Mountains. It was an ancient collection of houses and farms held together by law, tradition, and a single road. The houses were small but warm, built to withstand the winter cold. Most of the doors were painted pale blue, both to ward off evil, and to please the eye. The landscape was cold and unforgiving, and it bred a cold people. And sometimes it also bred strigas.

  Sometimes in Heyne Town, a child was born with two hearts. Though no one knew why, everyone knew what was to be done about it. After each birth, a Dola midwife would put a hollowed-out horn to the baby’s chest, place her ear to the narrow point, and listen. Most of the time the steady beating of a single heart would bring a smile to her face and reassure the anxious mother. But sometimes the baby’s eyes would watch the midwife carefully, as the little thud-thud of a double heartbeat sealed the infant’s fate.

  The Dola would then take the child to the edge of the forest, tie a bit of red leather around its wrist and leave it there, never looking back. The family would mourn the child, burying their grief and shame in an empty grave.

  But once in a while, a mother would refuse to let go of the child. And if no reasoning could convince her otherwise, she’d join her baby in its exile. The two of them would then seek a different life in the striga village high up in the mountains, never to return.

  Miriat looked around her. The trees domed above her head swayed, their trunks creaking like a rusty hinge. She held her baby closer still and kissed its forehead. A happy little sigh rewarded her, before the baby’s face screwed up with a threat of an imminent cry. “Oh no, little one, no no, hush, sweetling…”

  She rocked the baby from side to side as she walked towards where the forest path led westward. The air was cold and felt wet, chilling her in each breath she took. The soft whispers of the forest did nothing to alleviate Miriat’s fears. She knew nothing about how she might reach the strigas, whom she’d been taught all her life to avoid and fear. And would they accept her, or just tear her baby from her arms? She shivered. She would not let that happen. She would face them all if she had to.

  The baby’s screams pierced the air. Miriat sat down underneath a tall oak and put it to her breast. The baby’s mouth screwed up in anger as its little arms flailed about her mother’s chest.

  “You should probably learn to keep it quiet,” a high-pitched voice said from somewhere behind Miriat, sending her into a panic. She whipped her head around but saw nothing. Only the leaves moved in the breeze. “I could hear you from the other side of the Hope Tree,” the voice continued, “and you’re in the bear country now, you know.”

  “Where are you?” Miriat said, fighting to keep her voice level. “Show yourself. I have no fear of you.”

  A young girl of no more than twelve slid down the very tree Miriat was sitting under. She had dark eyes and dark hair with a hint of red. She jumped off a low branch and landed next to Miriat. For a moment, it seemed like two girls were standing side by side. But then Miriat blinked and there was just one.

  �
��I’m Maladia,” the girl said, eyeing the baby in Miriat’s arms. “Can I see?” She reached out one hand towards the child.

  Miriat stiffened and pulled the baby closer.

  Maladia chuckled. “What, you scared of the big bad stigoi? You think I’m going to gobble you up? You’re one of us now, better get used to it.” She cocked her head to the side and waited.

  Miriat resented the barb. Still, the girl was right. She unwrapped the baby, exposing its small face.

  Maladia put two fingers on the baby’s neck. Miriat sucked in a sharp breath as she fought the urge to push the girl away.

  “A striga, sure enough,” the girl said after a while. She turned her attention to Miriat’s clothes. “You do realize it’s almost winter, right? You didn’t think to bring anything else with you?” Miriat only shook her head.

  Maladia shrugged her shoulders. “It’s your bum to freeze off, I guess. Some girls hide extra blankets around the edge of the forest before they’re due. Just in case… you know.”

  Miriat looked down miserably. So stupid. She knew some girls took precautions, but in the past months the worry just seemed so distant; Miriat refused to even consider her firstborn might be born a striga.

  Maladia took pity on her. “Let’s look around. I bet there’s some long-forgotten blanket tied to a tree somewhere. We can take the time and look for a bit.”

  Miriat tried to smile.

  “So, what’s the baby’s name then?” Maladia asked as they walked along the treeline.

  “Salka,” Miriat said. “I named her Salka.”

  “Are we getting close? I need to feed her,” Miriat said, as she and Maladia walked between the pine trees. They’d been walking for most of the day, and Miriat had to stop often. The walking was both painful and exhausting so soon after the birth, but she didn’t complain, even though her impatient guide kept racing ahead, visibly bored with their slow pace. Salka began squirming in the cold, in spite of the woolen blanket Miriat had eventually found in the branches of a tree.

  The girl laughed and smacked her forehead. “Right. Sorry! The critter must be starving. Here, sit down.” Maladia skipped over to an old string bark aspen, growing solitary between a pile of large boulders. She looked encouragingly towards Miriat, who sat on the ground with a grunt.