The Beast of Noor

by Janet Lee Carey

  “Shut up, Cully,” shouted Miles. “That’s just an old story!”

  “Aye,” cried Hanna. “The mountain wolves killed Polly. Mother said so.”

  “Aye, well, your mum’s a dirty Sheen herself, so she would say that.”

  “You’ll leave our mother out of this if you want to keep your teeth in your mouth!” Miles shouted.

  Mic snorted and knocked Hanna’s mussel basket into the bushes. Miles howled. Bounding forward, he pounced on Mic.

  “Miles, don’t!” cried Hanna, but he was already punching Mic’s belly, his chest, his face, wherever he could drive a fist home. Mic was strong, but he wasn’t as fast as Miles. Already Mic’s nose was bleeding, and he had a cut above his eye. The other boys grabbed Miles from behind and dragged him over to the fence.

  Hanna shouted, “Help him!” The old man puffed his pipe and looked away. She rushed to the leaning fence.

  “Stay back, Hanna,” warned Miles. But she jumped on Cully’s back and wrapped her arms about his thick neck.

  Cully spun round, pried her off, and threw her down. Miles shouted, kicked Mic’s shin, and pushed against Gerald and Cully’s hold. Still, they forced him to the ground and held him there.

  Miles writhed under their combined weight. If the Falconer had ever bothered to teach him a single spell, he’d have the power to beat the three of them for good and all. He’d use his magic power to turn them all to maggots. Crush them under his boot.

  Mic straddled Miles’s chest, hissing, “Dirty Sheen. This will teach you to come to town!” He punched him hard in the mouth. Miles roared and struggled under his weight. Mic struck again and again, punching Miles’s cheek, his jaw. Miles tasted blood.

  “Stop it!” screamed Hanna.

  “Harder!” shouted Cully.

  “Get off him now, boys!” Granda’s stern voice came from somewhere above.

  “Quick!” shouted Mic. “To the beach!” The village boys leaped off Miles and ran down the winding alley for the beach path.

  Miles heaved a sickened breath, leaned on his elbow, and spit blood on the sand. Granda gazed down at him, his head seeming more than life size with the dark clouds rolling above. Granda sniffed. “You’re all right, then,” he said with a nod.

  Hanna knelt down and brushed the sand from Miles’s shirt. He pushed her off and jumped up. “I would have beaten them, Granda, if you’d given me the chance!”

  “All three?”

  Miles wiped his bleeding lip. “All three and more. They were talking after Mother, saying she lied about—”

  “Boy.” Granda placed a warning hand on Miles’s shoulder. He tipped his head toward the backyards lining the dirt alley. Mrs. Nye and the other woman were still outside, watching, listening. So was the old man with the pipe. Granda’s gesture said, Not here. Not now. He turned and helped Hanna pick up the spilled mussels, “Your mother will get a good stew from these,” he said.

  An hour later they were huddled around a small fire in a cave partway up Mount Shalem. On the way home the storm had caught them out on the road, the rain coming down in handfuls and the hard wind gusting first this way, then that. After tying the cart horse to an oak tree, they’d run into the thick forest till Granda found the cave he was searching for. It was a low cave and a small one, lichen-covered inside and out, but it was dry enough.

  By the crackling fire Miles rubbed his swollen lip. It would be a while before he could play his flute for the Falconer without some pain, but the fight had been worth it.

  Across the flames Granda coughed and wrung the corner of his cloak, letting the water dribble down to the rocky floor beside him. Steam rose up about his knees. “Well, the storm’s blown us here. We’re well away from other eyes and ears.” He looked across the fire, first at Miles, then at Hanna. “I’ve waited overlong to be alone with you both this way.” He tugged on his left ear and tipped his head. “It’s now you’ll be needing to hear the story.”

  Hanna wriggled by the fire. “Tell us about the Sylth Queen,” she said. “How she comes to Shalem Wood on the Breal’s Moon night.”

  Granda nodded. “A good story, true enough, and we’ll all be honoring Breal’s Moon soon, now that we’ve had an eclipse. But it’s the Shriker’s tale I’m bound to tell today.”

  Hanna’s eyes grew wide. “No! Not that one!”

  “Don’t be such a sniveling baby,” snapped Miles.

  “I’m not!”

  “Aye, you are.”

  “That’s enough,” warned Granda.

  Miles rubbed the cut between his knuckles.

  Hanna frowned across the fire. “The Shriker’s tale is just a story, after all. Isn’t it, Granda?”

  Miles leaned forward, awaiting Granda’s answer. Mother and Da said it was just a tale, but those who believed in the Old Ways said the beast was real—a man killer—and they blamed his family for bringing the monster into the world. “It’s all because of what they’re saying in town about Polly, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, her death has brought the Shriker’s curse back into people’s minds. And you can bet the tale is being told in every cottage on Enness Isle just now.”

  “Every cottage but ours,” said Miles bitterly. “If Mother had only—”

  “Mother said you were never to tell that story in her house again,” warned Hanna.

  It was true Mother had banned the Shriker’s tale five years back, when Miles was ten and Hanna only eight. She’d returned from the market and caught Granda in the telling. No sooner was Mother in the door than she flew into a rage. “Never again!” she screamed. “Never again in my house! Outside with you, Da!” she shouted. And she slammed the door against her own da, her cheeks burning red, as if she’d been slapped.

  In the dimly lit cave Granda ran his hand through his curling hair like a plow furrowing the ground, his fingers leaving combing lines behind. He cleared his throat and passed them each a worried look. “Your mother’s sought to protect you children in her way, but I’ve held back far too long with the things I’ve got to say. You’re Sheens and in some danger now. Someone in this family has to warn you.”

  “I can handle the village folk,” said Miles. “If you hadn’t broken up the fight today—”

  “It’s not them I’m worried about, boy.”

  Miles scooted back a ways. What was happening? First the townsfolk had turned on them, now Granda was snapping at him. The cave felt too close, the wind outside too wild. He touched his sore jaw and felt the tender swelling there.

  “Do you trust me, children?”

  Miles and Hanna nodded.

  “Well, good then. You need to hear the family tale again—come to know it backward and forward and inside out.” He sniffed and wiped his hands on his breeches. “The more you know, the better armed you’ll be for what’s to come.”

  Miles shivered, wondering what Granda meant by “for what’s to come,” but it was too late to ask, for already Granda’s knobby hands were held out to the fire’s glow to cast a shadow on the rocky wall. He moved his fingers this way and that until they took the shape of a great dog’s head. The shadow grew larger. The jaws opened. Miles tensed. He pulled out his knife and shaved a long strip of bark off a bit of kindling.

  Granda began, “It was many long years ago on a stormy winter’s night, the Darro came riding across the sky with his pack of ghost dogs.

  “All shadow and bone the Darro was, being Death’s own man, and he rode his dark horse through the storm right here to Enness Isle.”

  Miles nodded, remembering well this part. He poked the fire with his newly carved stick. Sparks flew to the stone ceiling and parted in three directions like small flocks of sunbirds.

  “The Darro came as he ever does, to hunt souls bound for death’s passage and put them in his sack. The Wild Hunt it was called in those days, and whenever the Darro came riding, people were bound to lose their lives.

  “Well, this hunt was no different from any other, and more than one poor villager died that night,
but one man ran swifter than the rest of them, and his name was Rory Sheen.”

  At the sound of this name Miles waved his flaming stick in the air, and Hanna held the corner of her cloak out to the fire like a damp shield.

  “Now, Rory was a shepherd,” said Granda, “He knew the foothills of Mount Shalem well. And he had himself a faithful bear hound to help him mind his sheep. The dog’s black fur was thick as a bear’s hide, and he was strong as they come. He was a loyal hound, always looking to please his master. So when the Darro and his ghost pack came for Rory, he and his dog gave them great chase,

  “Through Shalem Wood they sped, and the wind could hardly go faster. But after many hours the chase was over and the Darro won out, as he always does in the end.

  “There in the deeps the Darro’s ghost hounds surrounded Rory, some howling their victory and others snarling and showing their great, long fangs. But Rory’s dog, who loved his master beyond all measure, leaped into the fray and fought the beasts to save his master’s life.”

  Miles stopped his carving and looked up. “He was brave.”

  “Aye,” said Granda. “He threw himself at their enemies while Rory cowered by the trees. But the dog was mortal and far and away outnumbered, so it wasn’t long before he lost the fight. And he limped away to lie down at his master’s feet with barely his own life.”

  “A good dog, then,” said Miles thoughtfully.

  “How could he be?” said Hanna. “With all that happened next?” For both of them had heard the tale before.

  “He was good just then for defending his master.”

  Granda held up his hand and they quieted down. Rain angled in through the mouth of the cave. A few drops hit the flames and sizzled.

  “Now, Rory was sore afraid,” said Granda. “He might have prayed to eOwey and found some help. But Rory wasn’t a praying man, and he wasn’t about to start now, so he put his hands together and begged the Darro to spare his life.

  “The Darro was used to poor souls in their last earthly moment begging to be spared. Rich folk had offered him many a bag of gold and silver over the years in trade for their life, but he could see this man was poor. Still, he leaned across his shadow mare and said, ‘What will you give me in return for your life?’

  “Looking about, the poor man could think of nothing, and his dog, sensing Rory’s end, nuzzled his master’s hand to give the man a last bit of comfort before his death.

  “‘Take my dog,’ he said.

  “‘Your dog, you say?’ The Darro flicked his whip and considered the beast lying at his master’s feet. ‘Tell me his name.’

  “‘He’s just a dog,’ said Rory. ‘He has no name.’

  “The Darro laughed at this. Blood still dripped from the dog’s teeth, and even now his own hounds were licking their wounds. No dog had ever fought the ghost pack before and lived.

  “Now, it’s rare the Darro will strike a bargain. But it was clear this man, this Rory Sheen, didn’t know the strength of his own dog.

  “‘Done!’ said the Darro. Then, putting out his hand, he pulled the dog up by the scruff of the neck. ‘I name you Shriker. Shape-Shifter. Mighty Hunter. Your master has betrayed you. And through his betrayal man’s, best friend becomes his worst enemy.’

  “He shook the dog until his bones rattled. ‘Now you are cursed, and the thirst for revenge will drive you all your days until your thirst is quenched!’”

  Miles poked his stick into the flames. He’d heard the Darro’s curse before, but here in the cave, half dark from their small fire, the curse echoed rock to rock, and it seemed to go down into his very insides.

  Granda put out his hands again and shaped them so the black dog’s shadow fell across the granite wall. “Now the beast was cursed, the Darro dropped the Shriker to the ground. The beast turned upon the man who had betrayed him and attacked him to within an inch of his life.

  “I say an inch and no more, for Rory had made a Darro’s bargain, and so he lived. Ah, he lived, all right,” said Granda, “if you could call it living, for Rory Sheen was maimed by the Shriker and driven to madness. Year on year the Shriker followed him, hunting Rory and no other. Times the beast shape-shifted to a wild cat or falcon or formed himself into Rory’s own shadow when others were about, so the villagers would not see his true nature. But Rory knew who was behind him. And whenever the man went off alone, the Shriker shaped himself into a great black dog again. So that in the end all Rory could ever hear were the pad, pad sounds of the hound’s great paws everywhere he went. And when at last his final hour came, on the night of the dark moon, he died a bloody death in the Shriker’s jaws.”

  Granda rested his hands in his lap.

  Miles let out his breath in a slow stream. He’d been holding it a long while, caught inside the story. This was the third time he’d heard the tale from Granda; still, his flesh pricked when he pictured Rory’s death. And there was something else that made his breath catch, the part about the beast shape-shifting. He hadn’t remembered that from before.

  He was about to ask about it when Granda said, “It was long ago this happened. Three hundred years at least, and for a time after Rory’s death the Shriker was not seen nor heard of in all of Enness Isle, but now it’s said he returns at the time of the dark moon to hunt more human prey in Shalem Wood.”

  LOST BROTHER

  He returns at the time of the dark moon

  —THE LEGEND OF THE SHRIKER

  HANNA SHOOK DESPITE HER NEARNESS TO THE FIRE. “Why did you end the tale that way, Granda? You never said before that he’s returned.”

  “Is that the way they’re telling the story in all the villages?” Miles asked. Hanna could hear the anger in his voice, and it unsettled her all the more.

  Granda blew his nose, then folded his handkerchief. “I’m thinking they are, for wasn’t poor Polly killed on the night of the dark moon, just like the story says? It’ll be bad for us Sheens from now on, I’m afraid.”

  “But there’s no reason the beast should return,” said Hanna. “He killed the master who betrayed him, so he got his revenge.”

  “Well, you’d think so,” said Granda, “but remember, the Darro cursed him all his days until his thirst is quenched.”

  Smoke drifted from the flames to the rock ceiling. Hanna watched it part, curling back upon itself. Until his thirst is quenched. Was it a thirst for human blood? She tore a jagged nail from her finger and flinched. “Mother said Polly must have been half crazed to go to Shalem Wood at night.”

  “Aye,” agreed Granda. “Especially on such a night. The beast always attacks when the moon eclipses.”

  “Why does he come then?” asked Miles.

  “It’s a mystery, that, but I’ve seen it time and time again. There’d been no sign of the Shriker since the days of Rory Sheen but fifty-odd years ago the beast came back. No one can say why, but ever since then he comes to Shalem along with the eclipse. And once the beast is back he hunts whenever there’s a full moon. Some of his worst attacks were thirteen years ago.”

  Hanna took this in; people had died the year that she was born. “Who was killed thirteen years back?” she asked.

  “Ah, well, you don’t want to know that.”

  “You said the more we know, the better armed we’ll be against what’s to come,” reminded Miles.

  Granda coughed. “If you must know—the midwife was killed on her way home from Hanna’s birthing. Her man died the next night when he came up mountain all armed and ready to slay the monster.”

  Granda closed his eyes. Opened them again. “Aye, that was a killing year for the beast, every time the moon waxed full, and many here on Enness Isle were slain. But the first was the midwife. Your poor mother didn’t speak for a full year after that. None could heal her, not the Falconer, nor Old Gurty, nor Brother Adolpho with his kind prayers. All shamed your mother was because the townsfolk blamed her for the deaths. She was a Sheen, after all, and she’d lured the midwife into the wood.”

  “But s
he didn’t!” cried Hanna. “Mother would never have done that! She only needed help with her labor and—”

  “I’m only telling you what the Brim folk said. You know how cruel they can be.”

  Hanna drew her knees to her chest and put her head down on them. She didn’t know. Not really. Not until Polly’s death. It was true the village boys had teased her all along about her eyes, and the villagers had never been generous or kind, except for Brother Adolpho and Taunier, the blacksmith’s apprentice, who was still new to the isle.

  The fire warmed the backs of her arms, her elbows felt too hot; still, she didn’t move. No one had ever told her what had happened the night that she was born. Was that why Mother gave her strange looks sometimes? She’d always thought it had to do with her eyes.

  Hanna gripped her knees tighter. All her life she’d wanted to belong, to have friends in town. And her eyes had stood in the way of that. So she’d wished for two blue eyes, or two green, or two brown. Two of any common color, as long as they matched.

  Miles leaped up and started pacing. “If the village folk think our mother could have … if that’s what they all think of us, we should leave this stupid isle behind!”

  “And where would we go, lad? We’re shepherds. This is our land, from Gusting Hill to Senowey River. Leave it and we lose our livelihood.”

  “But if every time someone dies in Shalem Wood when the moon is full we’re looked on as the ones to blame …”

  “Not every time,” said Granda. “It’s only in the dark-moon years, and how often are they?”

  Hanna thought of Hallard’s grandson. Found in Shalem Wood last year. He’d been struck by lightning in the high meadow. No one had called that a Shriker’s kill or blamed the Sheens for that.

  Miles’s shadow crept along the wall as he turned and paced the cave’s length again. “There must be a way to break the Shriker’s curse.”

  The words “break” and “curse” fell hard and sharp in the hollow of the cave.