“What are you saying, Tom?” his father asked.
He shrugged and leaned against the wall, a new kind of hollowness to his eyes. “I’m saying that anyone who goes out to find this thing is going to die.”
The men laughed, rolling their eyes at Tom’s dramatics, but Jude stared at his brother with utter seriousness, and when he stood, the men fell silent again. Their father cleared his throat and looked out the window as if to fully disassociate from his boys. Jude went to his brother, and taking him by the arm, he motioned to the door.
“We’ll see you on the morrow for the hunt,” Jude said as they left the inn.
Out in the snow, Tom pulled his collar close to block out the chill and gave his brother a wary look. “I hope you know I’ll do no such thing. I’m never going into those woods again.”
“You’re not fit to hunt a squirrel. You’ll stay home and rest. You were supposed to be resting now,” he said, but Tom kept on trudging through the snow, his stolid face graying and blank.
“It was no wolf,” Tom whispered.
“Then what was it?” Jude asked, growing impatient with his brother. “You must have seen it. You were twenty yards away. You said so yourself. And the moon was full that night. Surely you must have seen something.”
But again Tom shook his head. “There was nothing to see. It was as if it was there all around me, but I couldn’t see a thing. It was as if the forest itself came alive for just an instant, just long enough to destroy her, and then it disappeared back into itself, only trees and dirt, like it was never there.”
When he spoke, Tom dropped the ends of his words, as if he didn’t have the energy to finish his thoughts, and for the first time something awful occurred to Jude: Was it possible that Tom had done more than just bear witness to the girl’s death? Was that any less possible than his account of the forest coming to life and swallowing her up? Unconsciously, Jude found himself edging away from his brother, just a touch farther down the path, a hair out of arm’s reach, but then he caught himself and realized how ridiculous the thought of Tom harming anyone was. His brother was gentle. He was quiet and kind. He cared for the sick and for injured animals. He did good deeds every chance he got. There was no way he’d momentarily lost his mind and killed a girl with his bare hands. Still, Jude began to wonder if other people might start to find it suspicious that Tom had been the one to find her body, to report it back to the village elders. He’d withheld the fact that he’d been with her at the time of her death from all except his immediate family.
It had been at their father’s insistence that Tom declined to tell that part of the story. The elders were already looking for malice beneath their roof. Connecting Tom any more closely with Fiona Eira’s death would certainly feed their alarm, and so his father had begged him to twist the truth that he might not cast further suspicion on their family. Tom, who was never given to deceit, had had a difficult time with it, but had eventually come round to his father’s point of view. And then there had been their mother’s subtle push.
“Think of Fiona Eira,” she’d said. “Think of what people would say if they knew she’d lured a boy into the woods like an enchantress. Dead or not, think of her reputation.”
When the glassblower’s cottage came into view, they were shocked to see a solitary creature standing outside.
“Is that Rowan?” Jude asked, wonder in his voice.
Tom nodded. “She’s going to be difficult.”
“Of course she’s going to be difficult,” Jude laughed. “She’s Rowan.”
As they reached the glassblower’s cottage, Rowan held out a hand to stop them. And because Tom was given to doing what she said, a simple hand signal went a long way. The boys stopped in their tracks.
“Tom Parstle,” she said. “You are not setting foot on this property.”
“Step aside, Ro,” he said, but she planted her palm firm against his chest.
“I’ve just spoken with Natty Whitt. He tells me Goi Flint’s gone crazy. They say the man’s gone mad—that he’s dangerous. There’s nothing we can do but hope he has a change of heart.”
“If there’s nothing we can do, then what are you doing here?” he asked.
Rowan furrowed her brow. “I don’t know exactly. I just can’t bring myself to leave.”
“I need to talk to him,” Tom said, distracted. “I need to convince him of the gravity of his decision.”
“But, Tom,” she said. “Natty told me that you were the one who found her, and that Goi Flint already thinks you ran off together. It sounds like he’s this close to accusing you of her murder.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Jude, alarmed that someone else had considered the possibility.
Tom scowled. “They think I did this? I could never …”
“I know, Tom, but I’m begging you to go home. That man is dangerous—that house is dangerous.”
“Rowan has a point,” Jude said.
“But all of this … it’s just insanity,” Tom said, gripping his head.
“Exactly, Tom,” she answered. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s gone mad. Onsie said he’s been in his studio working all day, and when he does emerge, he babbles, says insane things. And his wife, she hasn’t set foot outside all day. Some think she left—fled into the woods to hide from her beastly husband.”
Tom’s gaze shifted to the cottage. He stared, undeterred, and Jude placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder as if to steady him. “Give the man until nightfall, and we’ll see what he does.”
“I won’t abide it,” Tom said, striding into the yard with such force that Jude and Rowan knew better than to stand in his way.
With a storm raging in Tom’s head, and only emptiness where his heart should have been, he stalked through the snow toward the old oak door. For a moment, he had the oddest memory eclipse his thoughts—his grandmother serving him hot juniper tea and cinnamon cookies. She sat opposite him, smiling at him, and he remembered the scent of her skin, how sweet it was, how welcoming. She had died when he was only five, and he had no idea how he could have retained such a clear memory of her, much less why it was surfacing now as he walked up to Goi Flint’s door.
He couldn’t help but pause a moment and smile, standing there in the snow like a fool. And he realized he was fighting back tears.
“Tom?” he heard Rowan call. “Are you okay?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Jude said.
But Tom was a million miles away, and he knew with a hardened certainty that he did need to do this. It was his duty.
Tom stomped up the steps and pounded on the front door. There was a moment before anything happened, but as soon as the door opened, the man flew at him with all his bulk, and together they toppled over and collapsed into the snow. In an instant the man was astride him, the cold steel of a blade pressed flush against Tom’s neck.
Tom gasped for air, and suddenly he started laughing, hysterical. Rowan and Jude moved in to help him, but Goi Flint shouted that they’d best back away if they didn’t want him to slit Tom’s throat.
It must have looked a horrific scene, and Tom knew that, but from where he lay in the cold snow, this monster threatening to kill him, he suddenly felt that the entire situation was completely and utterly absurd.
“I don’t want to kill you, boy,” the man growled, but Tom continued to laugh, unable to stop himself.
“Stop laughing, Tom!” Rowan cried. “You’ll only make him angrier.”
“Leave us alone, you hear me, boy?” Seamus Flint demanded.
But Tom couldn’t stop laughing even as his mind’s eye was beset by horrific images—the moon in the night wood, Fiona Eira laid out in the snow, bathed in her own blood.
“For the love of all that is holy, will you shut up!” he heard his brother yell.
Goi Flint pressed the knife harder against his neck, and then Tom saw Jude above, holding a large plank of wood. Then he saw him bring it down hard on Goi Flint’s head. The beas
t of a man flinched and sprang off Tom, turning all of his aggression on Jude, who took off running, disappearing into the darkness.
Tom, free now, scrambled to his feet, and Rowan grabbed his hand. The two of them ran off, following Jude. The glassblower stood in his yard, the snow tumbling down around him, and long after the three had reached the safety of the tavern, he still stood there, holding his knife aloft, wailing into the night.
8. THE HIGH PRIESTESS
ARLENE BLESSING WAS the first to see it. As usual, she was up before dawn, and dressed in her warmest winter cloak, she set off for her morning stroll around the village. The snow was falling in gentle flurries. She walked her normal route, along the line of row houses, near the bakery, where, she could smell, they had already begun their day’s work. She walked past the inn, and down by the glassblower’s cottage—where that young girl had died.
At first she didn’t understand what it could be—a sculpture of some kind, but no, that couldn’t be right. The man was an artisan, and he worked with glass, but surely he would not spend the evening of the girl’s death creating a massive sculpture to display in his front yard. Arlene’s feet carried her forward, her curiosity forcing her to press on and gain a better look—but all the while her heart was twisting within her chest, urging her to turn around.
Slowly, she approached, snow crunching beneath her boots. Whatever it was, it was longer than it was tall, and made of crystal clear glass, peaked at the top into a harsh angle. It was up on a wooden stand, and there appeared to be something inside.
She stood at the edge of the glassblower’s property, unable to believe what she was seeing. A step closer, and there was no mistaking it.
It was a coffin. A glass coffin, intricately carved, and set out in the yard for all to see. Inside it was the girl, her black hair splayed out around her, her lips like rotting cherries set against a newly ashen complexion.
Her body had been swaddled in white mourning cloth, but it was possible to see that she was no longer a full person. Flowers of blood bloomed where her chest should have been, and there was a dip to the torso that intimated she’d been all but hollowed.
Arlene’s hand flew to her mouth.
And then the world seemed to spin, and a deafening cry rose up in Arlene’s ears, surrounding her, threatening to swallow her up, and she lost her balance, her feet faltering in the snow. It was only when she caught herself that she realized that the scream had been her own.
Fighting back tears, she turned and hurried out of the yard.
By the time Rowan awoke, the news was all over the village. The grieving glassblower had done the unthinkable. By then the hunt had been called off—there were more pressing matters at home—and everyone had seen her, laid out in the snow like a memento mori. It was beautiful work, some of the younger people whispered amongst themselves. The glassblower had produced a piece of art unlike anything the villagers had ever seen. Too bad, Billy Bribey had chuckled to Onsie Best, that he was only able to access that talent in the wake of a tragedy, and wasn’t it a pity there weren’t more upon him that he might build them a magnificent glass cathedral. Rowan had been standing behind the boys, her face pinched with sorrow, and she had slapped Billy Bribey’s hand so hard that red swelled forth.
Everyone agreed that something had to be done. Displaying the dead was a gross offense against the Goddess. Sacrilege like that would surely invite disaster. They needed to get the girl out of that casket. They needed to burn her corpse, and like the unfortunate soldiers, her ashes would be placed east of the village in the old cimetière where the ancients used to lay down their dead.
That morning, though, before anything could be done about the poor girl, when only a few villagers had gathered to see if what old Arlene Blessing said was true, the door had swung open, and the glassblower had emerged with a large shotgun in his hand. He didn’t look at the villagers; his eyes seemed to be propped open by the sheer force of insanity, voluble as tops all set to spin.
Upon seeing him, the villagers took cover, but it soon became clear he meant them no specific harm. He didn’t even seem to see them exactly. Rather, he walked over to his glass coffin and stroked it like one might a cherished pet.
“That all might see,” he babbled. “That all might see her beauty.”
Eyes wild, he threw the gun strap over his shoulder and began pacing, slowly encircling his creation, guarding it.
He had been walking thusly for hours now, refusing to leave his gruesome post for even a moment. He circled it like a lion gone mad, keeping the spoils for himself as he stalked around his freshly killed gazelle.
“Where is Lareina?” people were heard to say. “Surely she can reason with him.”
But no one had seen Lareina since the previous day.
Slowly throughout the day, the villagers gathered weaponry. “There’s naught to do but put him in the gaol,” Goi Tate said, and it was as if his proclamation made it so. They waited for the glassblower to show a moment of weakness before they would set on him. Their chance came finally when Goi Flint put down his shotgun to remove his heavy overcoat. Tom rushed him as soon as the man’s hand lost contact with the weapon, and when Tom threw Flint to the ground, Rowan grabbed the shotgun.
“Oh, holy Goddess,” Tom cried when he noticed the blood. His hands, which had a moment earlier been on the mad man’s torso, came away sticky and streaked with red. He jerked away, and several men who had come to help yanked at Goi Flint’s coat, opening it to reveal undershirts soaked through with the red.
“Are you hurt?” Goi Tate asked, but the glassblower shook his head, and with a great howl, he bent forward into the snow, crying out with what they were beginning to realize was grief. From his spasmodic crouch there on the ground, he pointed back to the house.
Rowan’s hand flew to her mouth as she came to understand.
“Lareina!” she screamed, and ran for the front door, only to slip in the snow and fall, smashing her lip on the front step. Ignoring the pain, she pulled herself up and opened the door.
Lareina Flint’s body lay not three feet from the entrance, her throat slit, her soulless eyes wide, her mouth contorted into what must have been one final scream. Behind her was a trail of blood, the path she must have traversed as she’d crawled to the door.
“She was here all along,” Rowan wept, blood from her lip mixing with tears, the acrid sting the only thing that kept her from fainting. “She was just behind the door this whole time while we were on the other side. Oh, great mother, what has become of us? What has become of us all?”
As the villagers dragged Seamus Flint through the snow to the gaol, the man keened like an animal. But when they opened the cell door and shoved him inside, he only bowed his head, smiling like a child.
Later that evening, Elsbet busied herself wiping down tables at the inn. “When are they saying the rites for Lareina?”
“Tonight,” Wilhelm said, his head bent over a fresh pint. “They’ll lay her up at Cairn Hill in the morning. Once that’s done and the girl’s unclean corpse has been turned to ash, we might all rest. Goddess knows we’re all eager for this to be over.”
“Just keeps getting worse, doesn’t it?” Elsbet said, and her husband nodded in agreement. “And our Tom, how lost he seems today. I put it down to Jude, you know. Nothing but a bad influence, that one.”
“Elsbet,” Wilhelm sighed, for it pained him when she spoke of their boy as if he were a stranger.
“There’s wickedness in that one, Wilhelm. I tell you there is.” She paused, waiting for a reaction from her husband, but when she got none, she changed the subject. “Mark me, Wilhelm, an evil has come to our village. First those soldiers, and now that girl and her stepmother together like that.”
Her husband nodded and stared into his ale.
“Maybe …,” she went on. “Maybe it was Goi Flint who killed those men up there. Maybe he killed the girl as well. Seemed mad with guilt to me, he did. We should kill him ourselves. Hang him from
the old beech tree and watch him die.”
Wilhelm shook his head. “Goi Flint was here in the tavern when the girl was killed, and what he did to his lovely wife was born out of madness and grief. We’re in no danger from him.”
Elsbet set a hand on her hip. “So seven people dead, and we’re not a village in danger?”
“I didn’t say that. We are very much a village in danger, just not at the hands of Goi Flint.”
Villagers started trickling in, and Elsbet began pouring ale. The men would have a big night ahead of them gathering wood for the pyre, and they would need their sustenance. Elsbet was having a word with Goi Tate about what she liked to call proper tavern behavior when the double doors burst open and the duke marched in. Quickly the villagers bowed to him, but he waved them off and strode to the center of the room. All eyes followed the great man, and the room fell silent as he cleared his throat.
“I hear there has been talk of burning the bodies,” he said, his voice booming.
“Just the girl,” said Goi Tate, who stood a little straighter against the foreign lord. “The woman is clean, but the girl’s corpse is tainted. Burning’s the only thing for it.”
The villagers nodded, but no one spoke.
“You’ll do no such thing,” said the duke, and a murmur rose among the crowd. “While I understand that these are your customs, I do not share them. I am from the royal city, where, as I’m sure you know, we worship the sea god. We do not burn our dead. Poisoning the air by emolliating rotting flesh is something that, I’m sorry, I simply cannot allow. You’ve already burned my soldiers, reduced them to nothing. I shall not stand by and watch you do the same again. I will not breathe the fetid air.”
Wilhelm Parstle felt obligated to speak. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, but that is how we do things in the mountains. If the rites can’t be performed because the allotted time has passed, then the bodies are unclean. They must be burned, and their ashes laid at the old cimetière.”
The duke squinted. “That’s where my soldiers’ ashes rest?”
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