The Beast Is an Animal

by Peternelle van Arsdale

  Two yellow, moonlit eyes met hers and a small, striped wildcat emerged from the grass, tentative and questioning. Cats weren’t allowed in Defaid. The Elders preached that they were outcasts of the Good Shepherd—untrainable, sneaky, and selfish at heart—unlike the dogs who worked their sheep. The High Elder said that wolves and wildcats were to The Beast what dogs and men were to the Good Shepherd.

  Alys had often seen wildcats hunting in the pastures, but always from a distance, never so close. She froze in her crouch and caught her breath. The cat froze as well. Then, after several slow seconds, the animal approached, one cautious step at a time. Finally, when it was just a breath more than an armspan away, Alys reached out, palm up, and waited. She wondered what the cat’s fur felt like. She felt a cold dot of moisture on one fingertip as the cat touched her with its nose, then the edge of a few teeth as it nudged her hand, rubbing her with its cheek, then looking up at her, half welcoming, half challenging. Alys scratched its cheek and chin the way she’d seen villagers do with the friendlier dogs. A rumbling began in the animal’s throat, and then spread to the rest of its body. Alys found herself mesmerized. She felt the rumbling in her own body. She felt warm and furred. She felt cat.

  Then she felt pain. The animal had sliced her palm with one of its claws, then hissed and sprang backward, its fur standing on end, its eyes narrow and teeth exposed in jagged spikes. Blood bubbled from a long welt that sizzled and throbbed across Alys’s palm. Evil thing, she thought to herself. Alys grasped a rock to throw, but the cat had already raced off into the long grass. Alys threw the stone anyway, knowing full well it would never find its mark. Then she licked the blood from her hand and stood, trembling. She was cold again.

  She shivered, and then she thought about Delwyn, asleep in his pasture all alone. Maybe, Alys thought, she could check on him. Alys could give Delwyn some of the mint tea she’d brought with her. That was one thing Mother had always said, that fever sucked folks dry so you had to keep filling them back up again. Decided, Alys stood up, pulled on her pack, and walked toward Delwyn’s pasture.

  She saw him, curled asleep under a tree, just a lump beneath wool blankets with a white-blond head poking out of the top.

  And then she saw them. The girls who looked like trees, the girls who were really soul eaters. They were floating toward Delwyn, across the field.

  And then the girls who looked like trees saw Alys. And they floated toward her.

  And they were near again, and so beautiful with their wide gray owl eyes. Still taller than Alys was, but not so much taller anymore. Their hair was long and black and wild, stitched through with leaves and sticks. Their clothes seemed made of leaves and sticks as well . . . or soil, if cloth could be made of soil.

  Now they were near enough to her to speak, and Alys was never quite sure if they had come to her or if Alys had gone to them.

  They rested hands on Alys’s shoulders, one on either side of her, just as they’d done to her years before. Once again Alys felt the invisible thread that stretched from one girl’s hand to the other, running through her.

  “It’s the girl. You remember her, Sister?”

  “I do, Angelica. I remember the girl.”

  “Do you wish to come with us, girl? You could rest with us a while.”

  That word rest. It settled in Alys and it was all she could do not to give in to it, not to let her eyes droop, then close. It would be so sweet, to sleep. To rest. She thought of Delwyn and she forced her eyes to remain open.

  “But it’s not her time, Sister. It’s not her time.”

  “Ay but it will be, Benedicta. Before too long.”

  And then they withdrew their hands from her and the invisible thread was broken, and they floated away and away from Alys until they were gone.

  TEN

  Alys knelt down next to Delwyn and put her hand on his head. She felt his heat inside of her own body, and a sudden rush of ache in her head and joints, a weakness that weighed her down like a yoke dropped onto her shoulders. She pulled her hand away from him and the feeling drained away. She opened her sack and pulled out the jug of tea, then she shook Delwyn awake. He looked up at her confused and wide-eyed for a moment, as if he weren’t seeing her. Then his eyes cleared. But the sheepdog that lay next to him was seeing nothing. It was as still as stone. Alys reached out a hand to touch its thick pelt and she felt its slow breath, and her own breath slowed, her own eyes drooped. She’d seen sleep like that once before, in Gwenith. It was a bewitched sort of sleep. She yanked her hand away.

  “Delwyn,” Alys whispered, afraid to startle him. “Here, you must drink some tea.” She held the jug to his lips with one hand and helped him sit up with the other.

  “Alys,” he said, “I had the strangest dream.”

  “What was it?”

  “I saw two slim trees floating through the field right there.” He pointed a thin finger straight ahead of him into the pasture. “But instead of branches, these trees had arms and legs, and then I realized they weren’t trees at all—they were women. And they just . . . floated toward me. They never did speak a word, but I felt like they were calling to me by name, like I could hear them in my head sort of singing to me. And it was beautiful, Alys.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Just when I thought I might get up and go to them, they stopped . . . and that’s all I remember.”

  Alys sat all the way down next to Delwyn, and though she’d never done anything like it before, she pulled Delwyn close to her, and set his head to rest in her lap. Then she pulled his blanket over both of them, and she softly stroked his hair while telling him to go to sleep.

  Alys stayed like that for hours, and she felt the heat rise out of Delwyn. As dawn was just beginning to blue the sky, Delwyn’s fever broke, and his sweat-damp hair stuck to his head. It was time for them to be getting back to the Gates, so Alys shook him awake. They both crawled out from under the blankets, and the sheepdog roused itself from sleep as well. Then they both went looking for Albon and Aron.

  At first they couldn’t find the twins, but then Alys’s eyes were drawn to a center of unrest among the sheep out in the field—a hollow space that the sheep circled but refused to enter. When she and Delwyn waded among the flock, they found both brothers at the center of that circle. They were flat on their backs, mouths and eyes wide open.

  Alys had seen those looks before. The look not just of death, but of soul death. Delwyn screamed and he gripped his whistle, ready to blow.

  Alys yanked the whistle from his hand, gripped him hard by the shoulders. “You listen to me, Delwyn. Look at me. Just look at me, not at them.” Delwyn’s eyes kept traveling back to his brothers and their horrible expressions, so Alys dragged him out of the field. Then she turned to him again. “We’ll get help, Delwyn. But you must listen to me for a moment. That dream you had, you must never, ever breathe a word of it to the Elders. Or to any other Defaider. Do you understand me?”

  Delwyn looked back at her, white and terrified, but he nodded.

  “And you also won’t tell any of them that you slept under a tree all night. You will tell them that you walked your pasture, the way you always do, and in the morning you came here to find your brothers. And that is all you will say. You must promise me this, Delwyn.”

  Delwyn nodded again, looking like such a child. No, not a child, Alys corrected herself. Like one of the village girls’ ragdolls. Something made to look like a child but with no life in it.

  She blew her whistle then, and she screamed, tugging Delwyn behind her. Madog came running first, and she told him what they’d found. And about the tree women that Delwyn had seen. “Tell no one,” Madog said. “You know this, yes?” He was looking at Alys, not at Delwyn. Delwyn had gone someplace else inside, where there was no hearing or making sense of words.

  Alys nodded.

  “Now go wait in the pasture while I fetch the Elders. All I’ll tell them is that you were walking back to the Gate from your separate pastures,
and that’s how you found them. Ay?” He looked at Delwyn now. “Ay, Delwyn? Say it.”

  Delwyn raised his eyes. They looked like glasses of clear, still water. He was so far away, Alys thought to herself. Right here by her, but not here anymore. Still, Delwyn nodded finally. “Ay,” he said in a small voice.

  Alys and Delwyn waited for the Elders at the edge of the pasture, unwilling to see again what they wished they hadn’t seen at all. But once the Elders arrived, the children were forced to lead the way to the boys’ bodies.

  The Elders stood staring at the lifeless boys. The High Elder asked Delwyn what had happened and the boy went silent. His mouth dropped open and nothing came out, and Alys watched him in horror. This was no good, she thought to herself, no good at all. The Elders could not know about the tree women, how they called to him. Any child of Gwenith who admitted to seeing a soul eater—and who lived to tell the tale—would be banished. Or worse, burned as a witch. A creature of The Beast.

  “We were on our way back to the Gate from our separate pastures,” Alys said. “And we didn’t see Albon and Aron on the road ahead of us, so we decided to look for them. And then we found them here, just so. We haven’t touched them.”

  “I asked the boy what happened. Not you, Alys,” the High Elder said to her, lowering his black brows so they met the top of his awful hawk nose.

  The other Elders remained silent.

  “This is the work of soul eaters,” the High Elder said. “Creatures of The Beast.”

  The other Elders nodded.

  The High Elder went on. “Evil seeks evil,” he told them. “Like seeks like. The boys were disobedient. The proof is here before us. Why weren’t they in their own pastures, instead of here together? How many times before have they deceived us, these two wayward children? The Good Shepherd can only guard the sheep who follow Him.”

  “It is as you say, High Elder.” This was Shoulder Miles speaking. He folded his arms over his belly. “These boys invited The Beast into their midst. Worse, they have led The Beast’s demons nearly to our doors.”

  There were a few intakes of breath at this. And not for the first time, Alys wondered at the fear of men who huddled behind a big wooden Gate at night.

  “The boys brought this evil upon themselves,” the High Elder said. “Thus nothing has changed for the Good Shepherd’s loyal flock in Defaid. Life shall return to the way it was, and we shall once again learn the lesson that the Good Shepherd can only protect those who follow Him.”

  Alys bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. There were too many things she wanted to say and the words crowded in her mouth and it was all she could do to keep them inside. She looked at Delwyn, and she saw a boy who only resembled the child she’d spent the night stroking. This child was just a mirror image of that boy—thin and cold, and nothing behind it.

  ELEVEN

  That afternoon, when Alys emerged from a restless few hours of fitful, dream-filled sleep, she begged Mother to send her on a chore.

  “You’ve that look in your eye, Alys,” Mother said. “That restless look. I know there’s no sense trying to keep you here. But do you really think Elder Miles is going to let you out of the Gate to go foraging after what happened to those poor boys last night?”

  Alys looked up at Mother. “Ay, he will if we give him something for it.”

  Mother straightened, hands on hips. “And what would you have me bribe him with?”

  “Honey, Mother. You know how he likes it. Him and that fat belly of his.”

  Mother shushed Alys, quick and sharp, as if someone might overhear. “I’ve told you time and again, Alys, not to be saying such things.”

  “You’ve said the same about him yourself,” Alys said.

  “Ay, well, and that’s my mistake.” Mother shook her head and reached up onto a shelf for a jar of honey so dark brown it looked almost black. “If you’re going to bribe him, it might as well be a good one.”

  Alys almost smiled, but then remembered there was nothing whatsoever to be smiling about today.

  Then Mother handed Alys the basket. “Mushrooms,” she said. “We can always use mushrooms. And you can tell Mistress Miles that you’ll give her half of what you forage. That should please her. Though how on Byd you’d tell when that woman was pleased, I’ll never know.” She glanced in Alys’s direction. “Now go.”

  Alys and Mother were quite practiced at lying to Mistress Miles and her husband the Elder. Usually it wasn’t that they lied outright, it was that they just left something out. So maybe they’d tell Mistress Miles they were foraging for berries. And maybe they were doing that. But maybe they were also gathering the herbs needed to stop a woman’s cycle or to ease the pain of a difficult birth. These were the kinds of herbs that the Elders strictly forbade. Anything to do with the monthlies and the trials of birthing were for the Good Shepherd to decide, they said. And to that, Mother said what the Elders didn’t know about those two things was surely quite a lot. Mother was cautious, though. She kept her remedies to herself and she never again mentioned the tea she’d given Mary that night.

  Mother and Alys certainly weren’t the only ones in the village keeping secrets from the Elders. All of the villagers cut such corners—and sweetened their requests for permission with a hunk of cheese here, or a jar of preserves there. Alys could only imagine how full Mistress Miles’s larders must be, thanks to all that sweetening.

  Alys squinted painfully when she stepped out into the full sun, blinded for a moment. She stood there, her hand shielding her eyes, until the sun through her eyelids didn’t stab needles into her brain, then slowly cracked her eyes open bit by bit, until she could make out the world around her. It had been dry for a week, and dust rose up from feet, wagons, and hooves that passed by. If Alys turned right, she’d be at the Gate doors in less than five minutes. If she didn’t need permission to leave, she could walk straight through those doors and make her way to the fforest. Instead, she turned left, toward Elder Miles.

  The Elders lived in the nicest homes in the village. Their homes weren’t grand, that wouldn’t have been seemly. But their whitewash was always fresh, their shutters in the best repair.

  Mistress Miles must have been right on the other side of her kitchen door when Alys knocked, because instantly she filled the doorway in her black dress and starched white apron. She was a formidable woman, tall and broad with dark eyebrows that made straight black lines across her face and charcoal hair pulled in a tight bun. “Be quick with what you want, child, it’s been a constant flow today and it’s keeping me from my work.”

  Alys handed her the basket with the honey. “Mother wants me to forage for mushrooms. And to give you half.”

  “I’ll ask the Elder.” Mistress Miles always called her husband the Elder. She closed the door and left Alys to wait outside.

  The door opened again. “The Elder gives you his permission. He’s noted it in the ledger. Mind the time, though. He’ll know if you tarry.” Mistress Miles handed Alys the basket, now empty of the honey, and gave her a heavy iron bracelet with the number nine engraved on the inside.

  Alys slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, nodded, and left Mistress Miles’s broad skirts behind her.

  As Alys walked toward the fforest she thought about the dreams she’d had after her watch had ended. She hadn’t dreamed of Albon and Aron, dead in the field. That’s probably what a good child would have dreamed about. A child who was more a stranger to such things. She hadn’t even dreamed of the soul eaters. Instead she’d dreamed of The Beast. It had been five years since she saw It last, five years of wondering if she’d ever see It again. But in her dream she felt as if no time had passed at all. The weather that was the essence of It was as powerful to her as ever. The sensation of being part of It, and of It being part of everything else—rock and stream, mountain and tree—was so strong that Alys could feel the wind inside of her.

  All the time since she’d last seen The Beast, she had spent wondering. Was she good, like Mothe
r, or was she bad, like the soul eaters? There was a part of Alys that wanted to be good. And yet there was another part of her—so insistent and noisy in her head—that wondered why she should wish for that. What would goodness get her? A starched apron? A life spent watching for creatures in the night?

  She thought of the way she’d felt when she was with the tree women, how she had been on the verge of surrendering to sleep, and how she would have exchanged anything for a bit of rest. How she might have gone with them if only they’d asked a second time. She also thought of how she’d felt—not herself anymore—when she touched The Beast, the furred cat, and Delwyn’s fevered head. It was different from the way she’d felt when she touched Mary’s belly. With Mary, Alys had been able to stand apart from the sickness she sensed inside. With the others, there was no separation. Maybe one day she’d touch something—or someone—and lose herself altogether. Is that how it began for the soul eaters? Alys wanted to ask Mother these questions, but if she took one step in that direction, Alys knew Mother would find out everything. She would see through all of Alys’s lies and half-truths, and she’d know what Alys had done. Alys wouldn’t be able to keep it from her any longer. Mother would know that Alys had let those creatures take her parents. And then Mother would look at Alys differently. Or maybe she would stop looking at her at all. Alys couldn’t bear that.

  Alys entered the fforest and was enclosed by green and moist earth. It was cool relief after the dry, dusty village. Alys felt something in her back and shoulders unknot as she stepped farther and farther into its damp moss and musty, rotting leaves. This was where she belonged, she thought to herself. Not in that village, or up on that Gate, or in those pastures. It was only here that Alys ever felt that she was going toward something, and not just beating a circular path around a truth about herself that she could never quite get to.