Against a Darkening Sky

by Lauren B. Davis

  She’d hoped for more. She’d hoped the spirits would reveal some healing charm. The damp fog seeps through to her bones and she wraps her cloak tight. She listens, longing to catch some faint whisper, but the fog presses against her mouth and nostrils as the damp wool presses to her skin. She scatters the last of the juniper over the carcass, speaks her prayers of thanks, gathers her possessions, and sets off. She must accept what the gods have offered. They have their ways, their purpose; it’s not for her to question. Dizzy with hunger and exertion, she peels the two eggs, stuffing them into her mouth, the yellow yolks dry and crumbly. She eats handfuls of snow to quench her thirst and make swallowing easier. Her head clears, but she has little in the way of reserve. She begins walking.

  When she comes upon the monk’s hut it is deserted. Once more, she follows in his footsteps and wonders if she’ll find him collapsed on the path. The wind has picked up, and the fog has rolled out, but clouds have gathered and a light snow falls. The sun slides below the far line of hills, and as darkness descends, she’s grateful for both the early half-moon and the monk’s footprints before her.

  When Wilona finally stumbles into the hut it’s fully dark. The hearth glows, but the flames have died, and clearly Touilt had neither the inclination nor the strength to keep it fed. She has, however, lit a lamp near her bed and now peers at Wilona with fever-bright eyes.

  “And what have you learned, my child?” she says, her voice a croak.

  “That the gods are with us still.” Wilona kneels by the fire, blowing on the embers until they spring to life again. There’s no hiding anything from Touilt, but illness may dim her powers of perception. Shadows dance across the walls. The air carries an acrid, cloying smell.

  “And did they tell you I’ll see my husband soon?”

  Touilt’s husband died long before Wilona came to Ad Gefrin, and Touilt rarely spoke of him, having put such things aside when she was claimed by the gods. To have her talk of reuniting with him now is unsettling.

  “They said no such thing.” Wilona edges a few of the glowing coals to the side of the hearth, tosses a handful of sage onto them, breathing deeply of the sweet smoke.

  Touilt makes a sound that starts as laughter but ends in coughing—horrible, hacking, convulsing coughs. Wilona hurries to her and helps her sit up, rubbing her back, holding a cloth to her mouth. When the spasm finally ends, Wilona gasps, for the cloth is stained with dark blood.

  “How long have you been coughing blood?”

  “I can’t keep track of time.”

  “I’ll make a poultice, and you must eat something. What have you eaten today? There are bones for broth and some mutton.”

  Touilt pushes her away. “I can’t eat. My body rejects everything.” She clutches at her chest and her face distorts with pain. Her fingers dig deep into Wilona’s arm. “I fear I’m being punished.”

  “No, Touilt, no. You’ve done nothing to warrant punishment.”

  Touilt claws at Wilona. “You know nothing. All those nights, all those nights!” Her teeth are stained with blood. “I went to the summit. I sought the spirits, but all I saw was death, rot … daggers and spears and axes … carrion …” She falls back, her breath laboured. “Crows and cattle, fire and clay. Heads hanging from the trees and all the graves open.”

  Wilona shivers, as much from the darkness she sees in Touilt’s eyes as from her words. “You’re in pain, Mother, and fevered. I’ll give you something to sleep, and you’ll feel better when you wake.” She reaches for the poppy tincture. The bottle is nearly empty. The poppy is known to cause strange dreams; maybe that’s where these horrors come from. There are two more bottles; it won’t last forever.

  “The gods call for slaughter, Wilona, and I fear it. They call for death.”

  Wilona holds the trembling woman in her arms and hushes her. When she quiets, Wilona pours some of the poppy tincture into a cup of wine and holds it for Touilt to drink. “Sleep. I’m here; the spirits are with us; the goddess watches over us. Sleep.”

  But sleep refuses to come. Exhausted as she is, Wilona mixes horehound, barley meal, and honey syrup; she makes poultices of betony, cinquefoil, and sinfull. When coughs rack Touilt’s body, Wilona refreshes the poultice and forces her to sip a little horehound in heated wine. At last, near dawn, Touilt slips into a kind of slumber and Wilona dozes too, her head on Touilt’s bed.

  Dying is hard work. Touilt worsens quickly, struggling for breath, weaker every day. Day to night and night to day, the seithkona writhes and moans and coughs, her skin nearly translucent, her bones standing out as though they mean to burst through her thinning flesh. The furs and blankets are spattered with the dark blood from Touilt’s failing lungs. Wilona doesn’t know how many days have passed. Touilt’s tongue is cracked and dry. The older woman’s limbs have shrunken alarmingly, even as her belly distends. Wilona keeps her as clean as she can, but the hut is fetid. Although ice pellets hit the roof all day yesterday, still she opens the shutters a crack, preferring the cold to the stench. No matter how much mugwort, sage, and juniper she burns on the hearth, the air doesn’t clear. Whatever ill spirit has taken possession of Touilt, no prayer, no charm, no amulet, no tincture, decoction, or poultice weakens it. Touilt, still alive, is rotting.

  Wilona’s tear-swollen eyes burn constantly. The pattern the Norns have woven is set. Touilt has, by grace of the gods, already lived longer than many. It’s not the worst thing, Wilona tells herself, for at last, when the seithkona’s body is placed in the barrow, she will travel to the dark world and be reunited with the husband and sons she loved. Wilona only wishes Touilt weren’t so frightened. Where does this fear come from, and why does it come to one who spent her life in the company of the spirits? Surely she can’t think they’ve deserted her now? The air is thick with them.

  As evening comes, Touilt is quiet, and Wilona takes advantage of the lull to nibble a piece of oat bannock. She has little appetite but knows she must eat. If she falls ill as well, she’ll be of no use to Touilt. The bannock is dry and crumbles in her mouth, sticking in her throat. She reaches for the pitcher of buttermilk.

  The chickens outside squawk and then Elba grunts. Someone is coming. Quickly, Wilona puts down the pitcher and opens the door, brushing her hands on her tunic. She peeks through the shutter. Egan and Ricbert are walking down the path, hooded heads held down against a sleety rain. As they near the hut, Wilona’s heart beats erratically. Let them pass by, she prays, let them pass by.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Good day,” Egan calls. “Hello?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Good day, Sister Wilona.” Egan tries to sound cheerful, and yet when Wilona opens the door, looking as though she’d like to gouge out his eyes, he takes a small step backwards. Father Bresal comes to mind, insisting the whole world waits with bated breath for the Good News of Christ’s coming. Gather them gently, as Christ does his sheep, Brother Egan, gently. What would he make of this pagan priestess?

  Wilona’s own eyes have sunk deep in her head, and she’s lost weight. Her cheekbones stick out and her skin looks pulled tight. Its lustrous pearly light is gone. Her hair is matted, her tunic filthy. Abba, let me forget myself to serve her.

  Ricbert, looking wet and cold, clears his throat. “We’ve seen neither you nor Lady Touilt lately. We thought we should pay you a visit.”

  Wilona searches Egan’s face. Ah, he understands: she’s looking for signs I’ve betrayed her. Her suspicion pricks him, but why should she trust him? He flicks his eyes to Ricbert and gives his head a tiny shake. “It was Brother Ricbert’s idea. Even when he visits Mary’s well he sees no sign of you. He inquired round the village and then suggested we visit.”

  “Your kindness is appreciated but quite unnecessary.”

  “Oh, well, that is good to know.” Egan’s hood slips away and the icy rain falls on his head.

  Wilona has no cloak and the overhanging thatch gives little protection from the driving, nearly horizontal rain.
She shivers and crosses her arms, water trickling from her hairline. She glances down at her soiled tunic and looks surprised. Egan tries to keep his face impassive, but she blushes and he knows he has failed.

  “We’ve brought you a few things,” says Ricbert, extending a basket. “Just some cheese and meat.”

  “Does Lord Caelin know you’re here?”

  “We’re your friends, Sister,” says Egan.

  “He doesn’t, then.” She grabs the basket from Ricbert. “Well, never mind.”

  Egan’s surprised she says no more, but it’s obvious she’s frantic to get rid of them. Any doubt he had about the urgency of their mission is gone.

  Ricbert moves toward her. “Wilona—”

  She puts her hand up. “We’re in the midst of certain … delicate …”

  She chooses her words carefully, Egan sees, avoiding mention of now-forbidden practices.

  “… women’s matters.”

  Egan almost smiles. It’s a good ruse. Men, especially religious men, are queasy about women’s mysteries.

  “Ah,” says Ricbert. “Well, then.”

  Ricbert looks at Egan and shrugs. Perhaps the man is right. He knows Wilona and Touilt best, and if he thinks they should be left alone, Egan can’t deny it. He’d prefer not to intrude. For a moment he thinks they’ll leave, and all will be as well as it can be, but then a terrible noise from inside, part moan, part shriek, the sort of noise an animal might make while chewing its leg off to escape a snare.

  “Mother of God!” Egan crosses himself.

  “Wilona … Wilona …” Touilt’s voice is a thin wail upon the wind.

  “I think we’d best go inside, don’t you?” Ricbert’s face is stern and determined.

  Wilona looks as though she might try to bar the way, but then she softens. “She won’t want you,” she says.

  “I’ve known her since birth, Wilona, long before you arrived!” Ricbert moves her aside and lifts the latch.

  Wilona follows him inside. Egan says a brief prayer, makes the sign of the cross, and enters the hut. The hearth fire burns brightly, but the rest of the hut is in shadow. The air is pungent with juniper and sage, yet nothing can mask the terrible stench. He resists the urge to pull his cowl over his mouth and nose.

  Ricbert crosses to Touilt’s bed and sits on a stool. “Ah, old friend,” he says, “I see it’s not good with you.”

  “My husband visited me.” Touilt’s face is the colour of dry clay.

  “Hengest.” Ricbert nods. “An honourable man who fought bravely.”

  “I miss him.”

  Egan stands with his hands clasped round his wooden cross, praying softly.

  “The priest,” says Touilt, grimacing.

  The dreadful thinness of her face makes it more wolfish than ever; the length of the jaw is exaggerated, the eyes feral. Her eyes lock onto Egan and he forces himself to return her gaze, not to look away from the agony, horror, and fear.

  “You’re safe from him, Mother. I’m here.” Wilona squats by the side of the bed.

  Touilt cries out and presses her hands to the swelling in her belly. Wilona turns to Egan. “There, on the shelf, inside the basket. Yes. There’s a vial there, blue glass. Bring it.”

  Egan scrambles to find the right vial, and Wilona prepares its contents in honey-wine. Touilt sucks it like a hungry baby, then frowns and winces, her hands kneading her stomach. “I want him …” She points a skeletal finger at Egan.

  Egan’s heart leaps like a stag in his chest. Praise God.

  Wilona thinks perhaps Touilt wishes to place a curse upon the monk. She knows it’s only fear and pain speaking. Touilt would never use dark arts.

  Touilt grabs her sleeve. “Bring him,” she says, her eyes glassy, her teeth stained brown from the poppy tincture and the blood. “I want him. I want him to take me to his god.”

  Bile rises in Wilona’s throat. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Mother.” She’s raving. It breaks Wilona’s heart. The tears she’s swallowed break forth. Perhaps she should take away the potion. The pain would be even more terrible, but at least Touilt would be lucid.

  Touilt struggles to rise and points again at Egan. “His god promises a paradise of light.” She coughs and Ricbert is spattered with blood specks. Touilt fights and swallows and chokes and grips the front of Wilona’s tunic. “I’m surrounded by shadows! By horrors … Wilona, help me … demons … monsters … my visions writhe with them!” She collapses. “Peace, I want peace …”

  Touilt flails as Wilona makes a sign of protection over her. “Ricbert, calm her if you can.”

  The old priest, strong yet, holds Touilt’s arms so she doesn’t harm herself. From the shelf, Wilona plucks a bag of wood-sage, roots and leaves—the cure for insanity—and fastens it about Touilt’s neck.

  “Will you not leave us, and let that be the peace you promise?” Wilona fairly spits the words at Egan.

  The monk’s face contorts. “I cannot, Sister. I’m bound. Forgive me for increasing your distress. I cannot leave.”

  Wilona works quickly. In her mind she fashions the algiz rune, which connects her to all things. She calls Raedwyn from the wild wood, and feels him flutter above her. “May Eostre, goddess of rebirth, who brings the plants to life each spring, bring you to new life,” she intones. “May Thunor receive you. May Woden own you. May Thunor protect you with the hammer that came from out of the sea, and may the lightning hold all evil away.” She chants the sacred song. Her hands dance about the fretting body of her foster mother, but no matter how she tries, Touilt will not be calm. Near to death as she may be, her will is strong and she’ll not be denied. She screams for the priest, and the screaming turns to coughing, and then a horrible combination of the two. It goes on and on until Wilona fears for her own sanity. The entire room darkens, draws into itself. Wilona feels strangled, as if her head is about to burst wide open in a red explosion—red for blood, for rage, for the scald of regret. She pushes her hands over her ears. It doesn’t help. She throws herself on Touilt’s convulsing, howling body. It doesn’t help.

  At last, her face swollen and blotchy, Wilona acquiesces. “All right, Christian. Help her if you can. Help her.” There’s a cold spot behind her, to her left. Raedwyn has gone. She doesn’t blame him. If she could she’d follow him.

  Egan nods, his face grim, and steps forward to the end of the bed.

  Touilt’s eyes are wild. Wilona wipes her mouth. She brushes the hair from her forehead as she would a child’s. It’s cold as stone. Ricbert stays next to Touilt, who gazes up at Egan as though he is an angel from the White Christ’s heaven. Wilona steps away. She takes Touilt’s key from her belt and opens Touilt’s chest. She takes out the wolf pelt, the one Ricbert brought her in secret after Coifi destroyed the original. She buries her face in it, breathing in the scent of the den, the earth, the moonlight, and the memory of magic. She lays the pelt on the bed next to Touilt, and Touilt’s hand, more claws than fingers, reaches out and buries itself knuckle-deep in the fur. Then she groans and pulls away. Her stomach seizes, and her chest heaves with such might Wilona fears the woman’s ribs might break. She has only enough time to roll Touilt on her side. Blood gushes forth in such a torrent that Wilona’s tunic is soaked. Ricbert leaps back and stands next to Egan, who mumbles a prayer. The blood is so dark. Wilona feels no guilt when she hopes Touilt will die, safe in the arms of the gods and the ancestors, before the Christian interloper can work his foul magic.

  But it is not to be. Touilt hangs on with the tenacity of an ivy tendril to the trunk of life. Wilona senses the distressed spirits of the house scattering to the rafters and the corners. She can almost hear their angry chatter.

  “Let me save her soul, Sister Wilona,” says Egan softly.

  Wilona does not move from her place beside Touilt. The air is sickly sweet and holds the tang of iron. A woman who devoted her life to working with the gods and helping others. How dare he say her soul needs saving. “She’s in the grip of death-vis
ions.”

  He holds a crucifix in one hand, a small glass vial filled with liquid in the other. “And do you deny the power of such a vision?”

  Touilt moans, and plucks at her. It feels like a bird’s beak.

  “Priest,” she gasps. “Save me.”

  “What about your husband, Touilt? What about your sons?”

  “They call to me. They point to the priest.”

  Wilona gasps. Surely a trickster spirit has possessed Touilt. “No!”

  Touilt screams again, and Wilona claps her hands over her ears. Ricbert steps forward. The shadows of the two men envelop Wilona and she feels her power leave her.

  “Brother Egan means her no harm, Wilona. It will ease her passing. I know you love her.”

  Wilona swipes at her cheeks. “More than anyone. She’s all I have.”

  Ricbert places a gnarled hand on her arm. “There’s nothing to fear, Wilona.”

  “Let Christ grant her peace. By God’s grace, her loved ones, it seems, already rest in paradise; let her join them, as she wishes, Sister Wilona,” says Egan.

  It’s obscene. Touilt is dying and they’re a pack of dogs fighting over her bones. She looks at Ricbert, whose eyes are intent, fierce even, in their concern, but she sees no danger there. It would be simpler if she did. Touilt’s fingers keep plucking at her. Wilona steps aside. “I won’t be stopped from my own prayers.”

  “All prayers are beloved of God,” says Egan.

  She sits heavily on a stool by the fire, one hand at the owl feather in the pouch at her breast. With the other she makes the rune signs in the air. Ricbert stands just behind her, and then she feels his hand on her shoulder. Were it not for the anchor of his touch, she fears she might just fly across the room onto Egan’s back and wrestle him away from Touilt.

  Egan, eyes shadowed beneath the heavy ridge of his brow, bends over Touilt. Her mouth is open, stretched not in a smile, but in a rictus of longing and fear. The priest makes a sign, like a rune, on his brow, his lips, and his heart.