Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  There were many side tracks, most of them half-hidden, for where human foot no longer trod, a small army of shade-loving plants had made itself at home beneath the shelter of ancient oak, venerable ash and guardian holly. The place must be rich with healing herbs and fungi. I longed to explore those byways, to forage and to learn. The forest called me. But no voice was louder than the monster’s. My own inner voice suggested I might slip out again later, on my own. If I kept my ears blocked I should not be led astray. And who could object to a wise woman gathering herbs?

  The stands of oak and ash gave way to willow, elder and alder. Sunshine streamed down between the leaves, brightening the path. Although the monster’s voice was loud, I could also hear running water.

  “This river,” said Grim. “Deep, is it? How do we get across?”

  “We wade,” said Onchú. “At this time of year the water is relatively shallow. There’s a boat, but it fell out of use long ago. We should block our ears now. If you need to draw my attention or Donncha’s, make a gesture or tap us on the shoulder. Your earplugs won’t keep out the monster’s voice entirely, but they’ll mute it so it’s bearable.”

  I could imagine what kind of response there’d be to the sudden hand on the shoulder, when a man could hear nothing and was traversing an island that held some kind of unspeakable creature. I knew enough about fighting men to be fairly sure the first reaction wouldn’t be a polite query as to whether anything was wrong.

  “Stay well away from the thorns. And keep in sight of us at all times. We won’t be on the island for long.”

  “All right?” asked Grim as we took our supplies of woolen wadding from our pouches.

  “Fine.” I was sorely tempted to disobey Onchú’s instructions; how could we investigate properly if we couldn’t hear? But I’d given Geiléis my word, so I blocked my ears. I saw on Grim’s face, as he stuffed the wadding in his own ears, that his thoughts were running on the same path. If the tower had nothing to tell us this morning, we might need to come back another time. An unofficial visit, without the escort.

  Our track through the woods had taken us down a gentle slope; at no point during our walk had the tower been visible. Now, as we came out from the cover of the trees, the ford lay before us, a broad expanse of rippling water, with the track reappearing on the far side, climbing before it vanished into another tract of woodland. To our right, downstream, was the island, and on it stood the Tower of Thorns.

  “Morrigan’s curse,” I muttered. If you wanted to keep the most savage of enemies, the most cunning and troublesome of adversaries in custody, this would be the place to do it. The circular tower was higher than I had thought when I’d seen it from a distance; it seemed to reach for the sky. It was all of shaped stones, laid cunningly to create the curved walls. Inside, I assumed, there must be a spiral stair leading to the high chamber from which the monster wailed. From this spot by the ford, I could see neither door nor windows. The tangle of thornbushes wreathing the tower must conceal an entry; how else had the creature got in? If it could fly, it would surely have snatched the opportunity to escape, whether to wreak further havoc in the district or to wing its way to freedom.

  Onchú was gesturing us down to the water’s edge. I began to tuck my skirts into my girdle. I wasn’t keen to walk all the way back in a sodden gown. The shore was pebbly; the sunlight made the wet stones shine. Black, white, every shade of gray and green and brown. Some speckled like eggs, some bearing a stripe, some covered with markings resembling spidery writing. If a person could read them, those would be old and strange tales indeed.

  Grim was beside me, gesturing in his turn. Carry you over. If you want.

  Weighing a little awkwardness against the prospect of wet shoes took only a moment. This would be an easy task for Grim, who stood head and shoulders over the tallest of Geiléis’s tall retainers, and whose strength I had seen demonstrated over and over since we were first incarcerated together. The exercises he’d performed nightly to keep him from going mad in Mathuin’s hellhole had been rigorous almost beyond belief. I’d wondered, often, where the man had acquired such self-discipline. I’d never asked.

  He scooped me up in his arms, carrying me like a child, and followed Onchú into the river. Donncha came behind us. Gods, it was frustrating not to be able to hear properly! The monster’s voice was still there, muffled but insistent; if I took out the wadding, I imagined it would be deafening. Which meant that even if I did unstop my ears, most likely I would not be able to detect the softer sounds that might tell me something. Were creatures about their daily business in this part of the woods? Squirrels, voles, foxes? Did animals venture to the island, or were those birds that roosted on—or in—the tower by night the only ones bold enough to visit the place? What about the small fey folk Grim might or might not have encountered? Perhaps they too were affected by the curse. Or they might be the ones responsible for the whole thing. Who knew?

  Grim moved steadily on the shifting stones; in the ford, the water was quite shallow. But the island did not stand in the ford itself. At a certain point the three men had to turn and wade into deeper water, knee-deep for Grim, deeper for the others, and the current was strong. I’d have had difficulty staying upright here. Onchú gestured to Grim to keep directly behind him; I guessed that the riverbed was uneven. My mind filled with unsettling possibilities. A sudden arrow from the cover of those trees, an eldritch surge of floodwater . . . The creature driving Grim mad, so the two of us were swept away and drowned . . .

  Grim was setting me down, and we were on the island. Onchú had his knife ready in his hand; Donncha had taken his bow from his back and an arrow from his quiver. Their bearing suggested high alert. It seemed I was not the only one thinking this was an ideal spot for an attack. But save for the rippling water the place was still. The tower stood at the highest point, in the center of the island. Around it the thornbushes rose tall and dense. The wild hedge stood far above my own height, and was so thick it would surely be impossible to get anywhere near the tower’s entry. If there was an entry.

  I showed Grim in gestures what I wanted to do. Walk right around. Him, me, you, and him at the end. Look for a door. He understood me straightaway, and managed to convey my meaning to the other men. Onchú and Donncha might have argued the point with me; they were less ready to do so with Grim. His very size earned him respect from a certain kind of man.

  We circled the Tower of Thorns. Where was the door? The fearsome hedge stretched all the way to the base and enclosed the tower completely. If any entry existed, it was masked by the tangle of branches. What was the point of hacking a way through only to emerge face-to-face with an impenetrable stretch of wall? Maybe Geiléis’s theory about Midsummer Eve had some substance to it, but even if the thorns could be cut on that day, how would a person know where to start?

  We went around again. The men-at-arms were getting restless. Onchú kept looking over his shoulder, and once or twice I saw Donncha lift his bow, arrow on string, and sight across the ford, back toward the woods we’d come from. Geiléis’s house could not be seen from here, but the creature up in the tower must be able to see her at her window, as she could see it at its own. What must be in its mind as it stood there day by day, screaming and screaming and never getting an answer?

  At the point directly below the tower window, I halted. I could see the underside of a ledge and a hint of shutters to either side, but I could catch no glimpse of the being within. I wondered if it might be visible from the riverbank, a little farther downstream. What would it do if it spotted a watcher? Shrink back into the darkness within the tower, or only scream the louder?

  Onchú had turned, alerted by Grim. I used my hands to convey, Just a moment. Just let me think for a bit.

  Onchú frowned, pointing toward the ford. We must go.

  Grim raised a hand, palm out. Then a placatory movement with both hands. Not long. He pointed to something on the
far bank, diverting Onchú’s attention, and engaged him in a conversation made up entirely of gestures.

  I didn’t have long; these men were highly trained and wouldn’t miss much. No time to find the door, but I might snatch a better look at the thorns themselves. I edged a step nearer, and another step. Almost close enough to touch. I had a little knife in my belt, but the memory of those welts on Onchú’s arm quashed any desire to experiment. So I only looked. It was not a plant I recognized. Not blackthorn—hah! That would have been almost amusing—not bramble, not briar rose. The stems looked woody and resilient; the snapping branches were studded with barbs. The thorns were monstrous, each as long as my index finger and wickedly curved. Even without the poison, they would inflict bloody damage. The leaves were small, holly-dark and set in pairs. No flowers . . . ah! Wrong. Flowers there were, but small and few. Tight-furled as if in self-protection. White as new-fallen snow. Red as heart’s blood. Twined together so close, they might have been growing from the same stem. I felt tears sting my eyes and ordered myself not to be so foolish.

  Screaming and screaming and never getting an answer . . . But how could anyone answer? The monster cried so loudly it must drown out the puny sound of a human voice. Meaning the only time to talk to it, to get through to it if such a thing were possible, would be between dusk and dawn. Though it seemed likely its silence at that time meant it was asleep, and would not hear anyway. And what about the ritual? If I performed it at a time when the folk who came could participate without screams deafening them, most likely the monster would not be aware that it was happening. Unless I held it here on the island, and I agreed with Geiléis on the impracticality of that. It would be too hard to bring folk across with any safety, even supposing they were willing to come. So, if the creature could neither hear nor see the ritual, did that mean it would be a waste of time? Or could I, full of anger and bitterness and doubt as I was, still tap into the old magic of this place and make something good happen? Right now, the tower, the island, the woodland felt empty of hope. Surely the sorrow here was so deep my efforts could achieve nothing at all. Why was I wasting my time in this godforsaken corner of Dalriada?

  Conmael, I thought, I never imagined I’d ask for your help, but I could do with some advice now.

  My fey mentor did not appear in a magical shower of colored sparks; indeed, he did not appear at all, and I had not for a moment expected that he would, since he was very much his own master. “You’re an apology for a wise woman, Blackthorn,” I muttered. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and concentrate.” And out of the blue a useful thought came to me: when one was dealing with the uncanny, the rules of the human world did not necessarily apply.

  I waited until the monster paused in its lament to snatch a wheezing breath, and in that moment of quiet, with my ears still blocked, I whispered, “Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

  Did I imagine that the silence stretched just a little longer this time, while the monster filled its lungs? No time to consider, for as the screaming began again something came hurtling past my head, making me duck. The missile landed in front of me with a crash that was clearly audible, blocked ears or no. Then Grim was beside me, grabbing my arms and hauling me away from the tower.

  “No!” I protested. “Wait!”

  He couldn’t hear me, of course. I struggled in his grip, trying to point to the object that had been thrown from the high window. Just that. Get that, and I’ll go.

  Grim kept hold of me with one hand, as if he feared I might rush toward the thornbushes and impale myself or fling myself bodily into the river. He bent down and stretched out to take hold of the object. It was a stone the size of a man’s fist. Had it hit me on the head, it might well have been the end of me. Especially as I was the only healer in the district. I’d hoped for a signal, some indication the creature had heard my whispered message and answered. Perhaps it had. Perhaps its answer was, Get off my island or I’ll kill you.

  Grim had the stone on his palm; he was squinting at it the way a scholar might look at a manuscript in an unknown language. Before I could take a closer look, our two minders came up beside us. Onchú had turned pale; I realized, belatedly, that his memory of what had happened to him here must still haunt him, and that setting foot on the island must have required a great deal of courage. Didn’t Grim and I dream of Mathuin’s lockup every single night?

  I motioned to Grim to put the stone in his pouch. As we made our way down to the river, I listened to the rhythm of the creature’s voice, and when it paused for breath, I whispered, “I mean you no harm. I’m here to help.”

  It was only when we had waded back across the river, and walked up through the forest to Geiléis’s house, and retreated to our quarters so Grim could change his wet clothing, that he took the stone from his pouch, and we saw that the markings traced on the gray were not the random patterns found on some of the river pebbles, but drawings scratched there with a sharp implement. I sucked in my breath, turning the thing over. Nausea welled in me. In my hand was the rusty nail; in front of me was the filthy wall of my cell, and the rows of lines I’d made there, one for each day, each endless, vile day of my incarceration. A sound burst from me, half sob, half oath.

  Then, Grim’s hand gentle on my shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’ll be all right. Deep breath, now.”

  For once, I did as I was told. “Flea-ridden cesspit,” I muttered. “Will it never go away?”

  “Can’t answer that.” Grim was pouring water into a cup. “Drink this. I’ll get a brew on.” He busied himself while I sat down on the bench and wrestled with my troublesome thoughts. Mathuin. The truth was, that man and what he stood for would not go away until I found the courage to do something about him. And I had the opportunity now. I could head south with Flannan on Midsummer Day. I could make sure the chieftain of Laois got his just deserts at last. I could have vengeance. Then, surely, the evils of the past would start to fade.

  Grim went out with a bucket in hand, heading for the pump. He’d left the stone on the table beside me. I could not bring myself to pick it up again, but I looked at it; studied the markings, swallowing bile, forcing my unruly mind to settle to the task in hand. And I realized that this had been no missile intended to kill me, or to force me off the island. It was the answer to my whispered question. The drawings were crude, as if executed by a clumsy child. A circle with lines coming out from it: the sun. A stick figure with something in its hand—was that an ax? Another figure, crouched with its head against a bench or box.

  I couldn’t make my fingers reach out and touch the thing. Coward. Useless apology for a woman. I got up and paced, arms folded tightly. Four strides across the room one way; four strides back. Ground my teeth until my jaw hurt. Resisted the urge to pick something up and throw it, just to hear it smash. Ordered myself to breathe. I would be calm before Grim got back. I would.

  “All right?” He was at the door, full bucket in hand. “What do you think? Like writing, isn’t it? A message.” He set down the bucket and reached into his pouch again. “Funny. When I got that out, I found this. Under that stuff they gave us to block our ears. Not from Geiléis, though, or anyone here. Can’t be. Look at it.”

  He laid the tiny item on the table beside the stone. It was a whistle like the ones the traveling folk played, only in miniature. The instrument was carved from oak and elaborately decorated with a design of leaves and tendrils and tight-furled, delicate flowers.

  “You mean you don’t know where this came from?” I asked.

  “No idea. But I can guess. Did those wee folk a favor, didn’t I? Thought they’d paid me back by finding my way for me. Thought our exchange was all done. But it looks as if they left me a gift.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with that. The whistle was so small and so finely made that the most doubting of folk would surely have conceded it must be fey. “Be careful,” I said. “Blow a tune on that and
you might summon something you don’t want hanging about.”

  Grim stowed the whistle back in his pouch. “Or find myself in some other land, where monsters are as common as squirrels, and all the folk walk on their hands.”

  “You’d do all right there,” I said. The urge to hurl heavy objects around was abating. “Listen, don’t blow the whistle. I mean it. If the old stories are right, you should use it only as a last resort. And . . .”

  “Maybe you should take it.” Grim had his back to me; he was ladling water from his bucket to the kettle.

  “Me? Hardly.” If I obeyed my heart and went south with Flannan, Grim was going to need whatever help came his way. “If they gave it to you, you’re the one who’s meant to use it.”

  “It’s just, I wouldn’t know what was the right time. Might make a mess of things.”

  “You’ll know. When everything else fails. When you have no other solution.”

  “Like when you ran away and I had to shout for Conmael.” He set the kettle on the fire, then began to look for herbs.

  There was nothing I could say. I imagined myself leaving with Flannan, fleeing into the night while this household slept. I imagined Grim waking in the dark, finding me gone, blowing his magic whistle to summon fey help. My mind refused to go any further. For the life of me, I could not conjure an image of Flannan and myself apprehended by an army of clurichauns. “The thing to remember,” I said, working hard on a calm tone, “is not to use it unless you really have to. These things always come with a catch. If the fey help you, they always want something in return.” Like Conmael, who had saved my life only after I’d promised to abide by his ridiculous conditions for a whole seven years. It had never been realistic. That I’d even tried had been stupid. I simply wasn’t cut out to do good in the world, no matter what Conmael believed.