The Owl Killers

by Karen Maitland

  I was lying beneath a great oak, its hollow large enough for half a dozen men to stand inside. A tattered length of cloth dangled from one of the low bare branches. That must have been what I had walked into. Feeling foolish, I scrambled to my feet and reached to touch it. But it wasn’t cloth: It was a kind of leather, pale and soft, but as thin as parchment. The mist had wetted it, making it slimy. There were markings on it, crude symbols drawn in red. I held the lantern closer. Two long vertical lines with smaller horizontal lines bisecting them. Other symbols too, a spiral and—

  “The flayed hide of a child, Mistress,” a voice rang out behind me. “An ancient spell to summon the gods.” Before I could turn, I felt the prick of a sword in my back.

  “Hang the lantern from that branch and walk into the oak.”

  My heart thumping, I did as I was told, careful not to make any sudden movements which might cause my captor to drive that blade home.

  “Turn around.”

  A burly man filled the gap in the entrance to the hollow oak, holding the sword ready to strike if I should attempt to push past him. In the pearly mist, the light of the lantern hanging from the branch behind him made a shimmering halo of his outline. At first I thought he was hooded, for I couldn’t make out his face; then, as he turned his head to the side, I saw his head was covered by a mask of the great horned eagle owl. The candlelight glinted on a hooked bronze beak.

  “I knew you’d come to me.” The speaker’s voice was deep and distorted inside the mask. “Phillip was certain you’d choose to save the girl, but he always underestimates women, a foolish thing to do.”

  “Phillip D’Acaster? Is he your leader?”

  The man laughed. “You think a strutting cock like him would have the knowledge to bring the Owlman forth? No, Mistress, I am the Aodh. I am the fire.”

  From somewhere deep inside my terror, I heard myself say, “Then it was you who unleashed that demon upon the village. And you who was responsible for the vicious attack on Healing Martha. She was an old woman and a skilled physician who had done nothing but good all her life. Your demon left her a cripple without speech or reason and now she is dead. God will punish you for that. But you failed miserably if you thought your demon would take her soul. All the demons of Hell cannot prevail against such faith as hers.”

  Outside the hollow of the oak the mist prowled round the trees, stirring softly as if it breathed in the candlelight. But inside the hollow of the trunk, there was no mist at all, almost as if there was an invisible door keeping it out. It was very dark and still inside the tree.

  “Poor foolish Aldith was sent to draw you out, but we did not expect the old one to come with you.” The man lowered his sword, but kept a firm grip on it. I knew it could flash upwards again faster than I could reach the entrance.

  “Then you intended that demon should kill me,” I said coldly.

  “Your death would have been useful to us, but dead or frightened away from Ulewic, either would have served our purpose. In the end, you served us better than we could have hoped for.”

  “I served you?” I said, taken aback by his words. “I would never—”

  “But you did. The Owlman is as much your creation as mine, Mistress. I called it back from the shadows of the gods, but the day you swore that your friend had fought it and vanquished it, you gave it power. You proclaimed to all that you believed the Owlman existed. When a priest says he has exorcised a demon, he has in that instant by his word created the demon. You, Mistress, gave the Owlman life because you made of him a demon to be feared and fought.”

  I stared at the dark figure. With sickening dread, I knew that I had unwittingly played right into their hands. I had been so intent on turning this evil deed into good, in making them see Healing Martha as a victor, that I had acknowledged this creature before all the women. I was the one who’d told them of his great power and horror.

  “If I made him, then it will be all the easier to destroy him,” I said. “And that I promise you I will do this night, even if I die in the attempt.”

  “They told me you were clever, but you still haven’t understood, Mistress. In attempting to destroy the Owlman, you would only strengthen him.”

  He laughed. The sound was more chilling coming from the hollow of the blank expressionless mask. “Isn’t that what your Church teaches? Your martyrs and your Christ—who would ever have heard of them if people with your zeal had not set out to kill them?

  “Mark this, Mistress, and mark it well: The Owlman cannot be killed. We have unleashed a legend in this valley, you and I, and legend cannot be destroyed. You can slay a human, you can slaughter a beast, but you cannot kill a demon or a god. They are immortal because we make them so. To fight them is to give them ever greater power.”

  He lifted his sword and pointed it at my heart. The steel blade glinted in the candlelight. “In the morning they will find you bound to this oak tree, dead. I cannot tell you how the Owlman will kill you. Maybe he will rip out your bowels, like poor foolish Aldith, or tear strips from your flesh and devour them while you live. Perhaps he will blind you first or tear out your tongue. But he will come before dawn and he will take his prey.

  “I’m going to make a martyr of you, Mistress. It’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve come here. You will be remembered. Whenever they talk about the Owlman, they will speak your name too. Then the villagers will remember the Old Ways, and turn back to them, back from the Church which cannot protect them, and back from the Christ who cannot protect you. Order will be restored. Your death will breathe life into the Owlman. That is the true resurrection, the one we have known since this land was formed from Anu’s blood and bones.”

  I felt sick. He was going to stake me out for this demon. I thought of Healing Martha’s tortured face, the mutilated body of that village woman lying behind the fallen oak. Is that how they would find me? And what if he was right? What if my death only served to terrify the village into serving that creature? I would have damned the souls of innocent men and women and children, maybe for generations to come.

  Beyond the oak the fog swirled, forming into miasmas and dreams, then just for an instant the mist curled up behind the Owl Master, so that it looked as if there was an old woman standing behind him.

  As if the mist of a memory was gathering in my head, I heard the whisper of a dying voice. “They only have half the spell. You mustn’t be afeard, you have the strength of a woman …” For a moment the white phantasm raised its blank hollow face as if to look at me, then the shape melted back into the whiteness, like ice in water.

  Anger swelled inside me. The Owl Master was right; he needed me to give this demon life, and I would not give him that. I had to get away. If the Owl Master was going to bind me, he would have to lay down the sword. If I rushed at him and struck him, I might be able to throw him off guard long enough to get past him. In this mist he would never find me.

  I swallowed hard. “If you propose to kill me, at least have the courage to show yourself. Do I not have the right to see the face of my murderer?”

  He laughed softly. “Curious, are you, Mistress, curious to see who has bested you? Yes, I think you should know me.”

  He pulled off his owl mask and stepped back from the tree, so that the lantern light slanted on his face.

  “Now do you remember me, Mistress? We’re not strangers, you and me. We met one day on the Green when you ordered me to release that child from the stocks. Back then, you thought you could command the whole of Ulewic.”

  I gaped. “The blacksmith …John? You are the Aodh? But I thought D’Acaster or one of his men would—”

  “Would be the Aodh. Robert D’Acaster, you mean? He’s a fool. Like all of the noble lords, the D’Acasters are descended from out-landers. They’re not part of this land. They don’t know how to use its power.” His grip on the sword had relaxed and now the weapon swung loosely at his side. “You disappoint me, Mistress; did the name not tell you?”

  “
Aodh—fire. I should have known.”

  “Yes, Mistress, you should, but like Father Ulfrid and the D’Acasters you think those of lowly birth are simpletons. It’s a dangerous mistake. Blacksmiths have worked the alchemy of fire and iron and water since the earth was young. We are the horse whisperers and the blood charmers. Who else could keep the knowledge of the Old Ways? I have faced the ordeal of the hide and I—”

  He had stepped far enough back from the tree for me to take my chance. I ran for the gap. Caught off guard, he only saw what I was doing when it was too late. He raised his sword as I rushed past him, but I grabbed the hanging skin and swung it into his eyes. I heard his muffled cry as the clinging hide enveloped his face, but I did not look back. I fled into the mist.

  I’d been so intent on getting away that it took too long to comprehend the deafening roar, then I realised it must be the crashing water of the river. It sounded as if I was almost on top of it, but in the mist I couldn’t make out where the noise was coming from. I stopped, breathing hard, afraid to move in case I plunged into it in the dark. I could hear him crashing through the bushes behind me.

  I groped for a tree in the mist and crouched against it, praying he would run straight past. The water was so loud that I could no longer hear where he was or even if he was still moving. He could be a yard away creeping up on me from out of the mist and I’d not know until I felt the sword in my back. I peered this way and that, trying desperately to see through the swirling white, but the ghostly outlines that loomed in and out of the mist might be trees or men—it was impossible to know.

  “The mist will not shield you, Mistress.” John’s voice rang out over the water’s roar. “He will find you. He can smell you wherever you hide.”

  The voice seemed to be coming from somewhere close by, but fog distorted the direction, so that I couldn’t hear if he was behind or in front of me. I crouched lower, clasping the leather scrip which held Andrew’s Host.

  Then the blacksmith’s voice boomed out again, louder and deeper, reverberating through the silent trees. “In the names of Taranis, lord of destruction, Yandil of ice and darkness, Rantipole, spirit of rage: Owlman, come forth and take your prey.” He gave the same deep sonorous oohu-oohu-oohu that I had heard earlier that night.

  As the echoes of the cry died away, there was a moment’s silence, then came an answering call. Oohu-oohu-oohu. But this call made the breath freeze in my throat. The cry seemed to cleave the night in two. Whatever made it was of monstrous size and power.

  I felt the rush of silent wings overhead, beating down on the mist, sending it boiling round my head. I caught a glimpse of talons, sharp as daggers, the flash of a huge beak in the mist. Then I saw, blazing out of the mist, the twin fires ringing those terrible dark pupils. I was pulled deeper and deeper into their blackness, until the strength was dragged from my limbs. I was consumed in the despair of that icy flame. My legs collapsed beneath me and I lay in the dirt, shaking and sobbing, waiting to feel those giant claws rip into my back. There was nothing I could do to save myself.

  God has ordained you. A young girl, a child, was crouching in prison waiting like me for the end, but she could have walked free. Osmanna did not have to die, but she would, because she was not looking for God in that cloud on the mountain. She did not demand an answer to her prayers for she knew He was the silence. And in that very silence lay the answer. God is in you.

  I forced myself to my feet. I made my arms fall from my face to my side. I stood upright, taller than I had ever stood in my life, and I shouted into the forest, “I am the body. I am the blood. I am creation. Do you hear me, demon? In the name of the God who set His spirit within me I deny you life.”

  There was rush of wind over me. Looking up, I saw the eyes of fire, circling, coming closer. I threw back my head, waiting for the talons to tear at my throat, but it did not strike.

  There came a terrified cry, “No! No, get back! Not me! I am your master!”

  Someone was crashing wildly through the bushes.

  “I command you—” John roared, but the words broke off in a long, drawn-out scream. There was a heavy splash. Then nothing.

  I stood, listening for a long time, terrified that the demon was still hovering above me, but all was still.

  “John,” I called softly. “Where are you?”

  But there was no reply. I fell to my hands and knees, crawling forward through the mist towards the sound of crashing water. I felt the ground disappear under my outstretched hand and knew I was kneeling on the riverbank. I crouched on all fours. The mist hovered about a foot above the water. Below it, the white foam boiled down over the rocks.

  “John, are you hurt?” I called again, but my voice seemed to be smothered by the white blanket and I wasn’t even sure I would hear his answer over the sound of the water. Then the mist parted for an instant and I could see something moving in the river. A man’s head, the face turned towards me, his eyeballs glittering white in the darkness. He was clinging onto the rock in the centre of the river. The icy water was cascading over his fingers as if they had become stones in the riverbed.

  “Hold on,” I yelled. I struggled off with my cloak, twisted it, and knotted it top and bottom. I threw one end, but it was not long enough. The knot splashed into the water.

  I needed a long stick or branch; it was impossible to find one in the mist. I pulled the belt from my waist and buckled it through the knot of the cloak; it lengthened it only a little, but I prayed it would be enough. I lay flat on the bank.

  “I’ll throw it again. This time you must reach out. Now,” I yelled, as the mist closed again.

  The end of the cloak fell into the water, but no hand grasped it and I felt the cloth being dragged down the stream. Again I hauled it out.

  The mist parted briefly once more. I could see his fingers, white with cold, were slipping from the rock.

  “John, let go with one hand and catch this when I throw. You must trust me or you will be swept away. It’s your only chance.”

  I threw again. This time, the end of the cloak fell within inches of his hand, but he made no attempt to reach out for it.

  “No … no … Mistress, you can’t take back from Anu what she has claimed for her own … Remember, Mistress, you cannot destroy a legend … a legend can only die … if no one speaks its name.”

  From above our heads, a piercing shriek rang out like high mirthless laughter. Kraaaaaah. A great bird came swooping down through the swirling mist. It hovered, its huge body stretched out over the water. The skin of its torso and long human legs gleamed bone-white; black talons clawed the air. But the head was the face of Hell itself.

  The strokes of its wings were so powerful that the water was beaten back beneath them into a great hollow with towering waves rearing up around it. For an instant, I saw John’s body lying exposed on the rock. Then something green reared up out of the water, an ancient woman, her hair rippling out behind her like wet weed and her massive wrinkled breasts swaying. Her mouth opened wider and wider like a huge fish, showing rows of sharp pointed teeth.

  John threw up his arms to cover his face, screaming until the whole forest echoed with the horror and despair. But with one sweep of her powerful arms Black Anu had embraced him and dragged him down with her into the raging torrent.

  osmanna

  i’D WATCHED THE PALE LIGHT in the tiny slit of the window turn pink and grey, then shiver into hyacinth. But now there was nothing, not night, nor day. Just a shimmering oblong of pearl, hanging high above my head. I thought I had slept without knowing and it was dawn and they were coming for me, but it couldn’t be daylight; that whiteness was not the sun.

  I was so cold. I had not known how cold my head could feel without my hair. The horn-shaped hat with its scarlet letters waited for me by the door, waited for me to put on my new name. It was too dark to read the word anymore, but I did not need to read it. Know your own name, old Gwenith had said, but deep down I had always known it. It was there at my birt
h, the Demon star, Lilith’s star, the evil eye that winks at man from the heavens. It was my star now, for under that star was I born and under it would I die. Birth and death they are the same; the one curses the other.

  My nursemaid told me that I was born with her sign. It was only a little thing, a tiny red mark on my chest, shaped like a crescent moon, Lilith’s symbol and Lilith’s curse. Three days after I was born, my father had taken a hot iron from the fire and ordered my nurse to strip me of my swaddling bands and stretch my little body out. Then he laid the red hot metal to my mark to rid me of the curse. It would keep me chaste, he said, drive out the demon whore, for, as everyone knows, fornication is the greatest sin and my father demanded chastity. My nursemaid swore she pleaded with him to stop, but he held the brand there, determined to obliterate every trace of the curse. It burnt deep into the flesh beneath. I had taken many moons to heal and she feared I wouldn’t live, but I had.

  Lilith, the night-hag, the winged demon with hairy legs and goat’s feet. The bloodsucker who rides the night, who invades men’s dreams and steals their seed. Who strangles babies in their mothers’ wombs and devours her own children. She fled Adam before the fall, before he brought death into the world. She is immortal. She cannot die. She cannot die in the flames. They will go on burning her forever and she will not die. There cannot be an end to her pain. She will be bound forever, naked and screaming.

  If willpower alone could have made my heart stop … but it wouldn’t stop. It just kept on beating as if I wanted to live. I’d taken off my shift and twisted it into a noose. I tried to climb the wall to the bars on the window to hang the noose from them, but I couldn’t reach them. For hours I had searched every inch of that cell, trying to find a nail to scratch open my veins or a sharp shard buried beneath the straw; even in the dark I went on searching with my fingertips. Groping through the straw, sweeping my hands over the cold flags trying to find one scrap of something I might have missed. Let them not burn me. Blessed Virgin, let me not burn. Please let me die now. I cannot bear it. I know I cannot bear it.