THE MOON CASTS A SPELL
The Child of the Erinyes
Rebecca Lochlann
Published by Erinyes Press
Copyright © Rebecca Lochlann 2014
Internal design © 2014 Rebecca Lochlann
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or shared in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission from the publisher or author.
ISBN-10: 098382777X Electronic Book
ISBN-13: 978-0-9838277-7-1
Crescent moon necklace and Erinyes Press logo by Lance Ganey http://www.freelanceganey.com
Cover images via Shutterstock
Cover Design © Rebecca Lochlann
BOOK 3.5
A PREQUEL NOVELLA
To Book Four, The Sixth Labyrinth
THE CHILD OF THE ERINYES SERIES
MOTHER
Table of Contents:
The Punishment, November 23, 1853
The Boy from the Sea, 1832: twenty-one years earlier
The Factor’s Son, 1839
Aodhàn Comes Home, March, 1845
Mingulay, April, 1845
The Lamb, April, 1845
Greyson’s Orders, April, 1845
Acceptance, August, 1845
Evie, August, 1849
Barra is Purged, August, 1851
A Stranger Lands on Barra, June, 1853
The Black Forest, Kingdom of Württemberg, September, 1853
The Eavesdropper, September, 1853
Owen Bides his Time, October, 1853
Falling From Grace, November, 1853
Table of Contents
THE MOON CASTS A SPELL
Table of Contents:
The Punishment
The Boy from the Sea
The Factor’s Son
Aodhàn Comes Home
Mingulay
The Lamb
Greyson’s Orders
Acceptance
Evie
Barra is purged
A Stranger Lands on Barra
The Black Forest, Kingdom of Württemberg
The Eavesdropper
Owen Bides his Time
Historical Notes
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The Punishment
* * * *
November 23, 1853
I.
Let it be over.
A wave washed over him, shoved him under. He was too tired, too weak to fight, and swallowed yet more seawater. Another swell pushed him back to the surface. The waves were like mad, raging dragons, mountains of death, the cold as sharp as knife blades, the frigid water bitter and abrasive against his throat. Sleet pelted his face.
Lilith, I’m coming. We’ll be together again. She won’t win.
How many more times would he have to tell himself that, when she had won, over and over and over, with every punishment worse than the last?
Claire. Evie. My bonny girls. Forgive me. I failed you.
How had this happened? How had he misjudged the hatred so badly?
What does it matter now? It’s over.
His mind grew as numb as his body. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think he was even shivering anymore.
He closed his eyes. He was losing cohesion, coming apart at the seams. He’d died four times before, so he wasn’t as fearful as someone else might be. Still, the cold was miserable. It was agonizing to draw salty water into his lungs instead of air. He should open his mouth and drink, hurry things along.
Soon his heart would stop.
He saw the murder of his wife and children. He felt the boots on his spine, holding him down, forcing him to watch. He couldn’t block out their screams.
We tolerate no witches here!
Just die, he told himself wearily. Die and be done with it.
* * * *
Faint shouting. A harsh rope passed round and round his torso, under his arms. More shouting. Dangling in the air, then thudding hard against unforgiving wood.
The pain and shock brought him briefly back, but he soon drifted away again.
* * * *
A rush of water, burning his throat. Choking, sputtering. Hands shoving hard against his chest.
He turned his head sideways, retching.
“Are you alive?” he heard someone shout.
“Look at this.” Another voice, also male. “Isn’t that a knife wound?”
“Maybe. It’ll have to be stitched.”
“Don’t waste the needle and thread. This man won’t live another hour.”
He floated away.
* * * *
The stench made him wish he didn’t have to breathe. Babies were crying. He heard moaning, creaking, faraway shouting. Swaying movement rocked him side to side.
His chest felt hot, blistered. He lifted a hand and touched the area, feeling a lumpy wad of cloth.
“You’re awake.” A face swam into view above him. Young, bearded, shaggy brown hair. A dirty bandage, edged with dried blood, on the man’s cheek.
“Can you tell me your name?”
He blinked.
“How do you feel?”
It was too much. He turned away and closed his eyes, but the man didn’t leave. Instead he leaned over and adjusted the cloth.
“Just tell me what to call you, and I’ll let you sleep. Or I can bring you gruel if you’re hungry. It’s the worst thing you’ll ever taste, I warn you.”
Leave me be.
“Och, lad. I’ll come back later. Rest.”
* * * *
He thrashed, screaming, seeing Lilith’s face then the flash of the knife.
A hemp bag, stinking of piss, was shoved over his head. He was yanked to his feet, his wrists bound. He was pushed, kicked, forced out of Bishop House, dragged until he heard the sough of water, and thrown into a boat. Much later, several hands hoisted him up. Just before he was thrust overboard, someone wrapped something around his arm, tightly. The tip of a blade slid up his ribs, one by one, then sank into his chest and ripped downward. “Just in case,” he heard, through his own agonized groans.
Someone untied his wrists and pulled the bag off his head. A soft voice spoke next to his ear. My father could not save you this time, could he?
He was kicked in the spine and went sprawling over the side. He sank into the icy water and came back up, choking. The sound of drunken laughter faded away.
He was so cold. He could no longer remember how he’d come to be in this water, or why.
A child’s arms around his neck. Da, look at this shell I found. Big, luminous green eyes full of mystery and magic. Who was she?
A woman, loosening her glossy dark hair. She sat on the edge of a bed, smiled, and crooked her finger. Come here. Show me how Prince Chrysaleon of Mycenae makes love.
“Wake up, man!” It was that same brown-haired fellow who kept pestering him.
A piercing bolt of pain shot through his head. Someone was screaming. His throat felt raw, burned. You killed Daniel. You think you can hide behind your slave?
“You’re safe! Mother of God! Did you have a bad dream?”
Gradually, he managed to stop struggling. His entire body ached. The shooting agony in his head retreated, leaving a dull throb.
“Wh-w
here am I?” he asked.
“You’re on the Bristol, headed to Nova Scotia. D’you mind what happened? I plucked you out of the ocean, half drowned.”
“O-ocean?”
“Aye, but I think you’re going to survive after all. There were some wagers on it, I admit.”
He could only stare at the man and try to understand what he was saying. His mind was sluggish, his ears ringing.
“Can you at last tell me your name?”
He frowned. Name?
“What do folk call you, man?”
“I— I don’t know.” He didn’t care, suddenly, where he was, where he was going, if he was alive or dead. He suspected this man had saved his life.
He doubted he would ever forgive that.
The Boy from the Sea
* * * *
Barra (Barraigh), 1832
Twenty-one years earlier
II.
Lilith was feeding lettuce to the kit when a change in the air caught her attention. She rose from a squat. There, that unnatural movement of shadow— she squinted into the rising sunlight, trying to see what it was. Not one figure… but two, one shorter than the other, both silhouettes with the sun behind them. The light was blinding, stinging her eyes.
Was that Mam? Something about the outline made her think so. But who was the other one?
Suddenly frightened, she grabbed the kit, holding it tight against her chest, stroking its soft long ears and whispering nonsense.
Her father got up from his perch near the front of the cottage where he’d been smoking. A pungent whiff of pipe smoke drifted her way.
As the approaching figures stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadow thrown by the bulk of the cottage, she saw that it was indeed, her mother, and an unfamiliar boy. Her mother held the boy’s hand.
Her mother and father spoke. The boy said nothing, just kept his face pointed toward the ground. She couldn’t hear what they said, but her father’s tone was irritable.
Her mother led the boy over to Lilith. “This is Daniel,” she said. “He’ll be living with us.”
Lilith clutched the kit more tightly. It responded with a protesting squeak and a strong kick of its back legs.
“Can you say something?”
No. Lilith wouldn’t even shake her head. She wanted to know why this strange boy was going to live with them. She didn’t think she liked it.
The boy squinted at her, revealing brilliant blue eyes and an angry red wound shaped like a sickle, cutting through his left eyebrow, around his eye, and onto his cheekbone. But it was only a glimpse then he sighed and turned back to the ground. His shoulders lifted.
He smelled of the sea.
When she’d found the kit, its leg had been bloody and broken, probably from a failed eagle attack.
That boy’s glance told her everything. He was wounded, like the kit. Pain rolled off him, an awful sadness that swelled like a cold wave through her.
She shifted the kit into the crook of her left arm and held out her free hand. Her mother released the boy and Lilith clasped his hand in her own.
He looked up again. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Ever since she could remember, she’d sung to the sea, and the sea had listened. She’d asked it for a gift, to prove it loved her. This boy was the answer. Her mother must have caught him in a net, and was giving him to her to take care of, to bring back to health.
The sea was there, in his eyes— not the cold, dull grey sea that lived here in the Outer Hebrides, but a clear blue sea, like a polished stone or a gem; the sea as she dreamed it when she stared into the fire at night.
Lilith gave him the kit. He took it carefully. It cuddled against him, lifting its nose to his neck, and he smiled, very faintly.
He would be well and whole again. She’d see to it.
III.
Stuart watched his wife trudge back over to him. His teeth clamped on his pipe and he sucked in a mouthful of smoke, cursing as he blew it out.
“There’s no help for it,” Faith said. “You know that.”
“I can barely feed those I’ve already got.”
“We’ll have to make do. Claire was my friend. She asked this of me as she died. I could hardly refuse. There’s no one else will take him. He’s alone in the world now.”
“I know that, woman. The others would let him starve, and who’s to say that wouldn’t be best?”
“I say.”
“I wonder if anyone but me realizes what a tender heart you’ve got.”
“There’s a vast difference, I think, between tender-heartededness and common decency.”
Giggling drew their attention. Lilith had taken the kit from the boy and put it on the ground. Now both of them were following the creature as it hopped about. Under her care, the rabbit was growing healthy and fat. It trailed along after his daughter like a puppy. Stuart knew he’d be feeding that rabbit for as long as it lived, though he’d prefer it in the stew pot feeding him.
Another giggle. Lilith had no patience for anyone or anything but beasts, and she did have a way about her that soothed the wildest, most frightened creature. Stuart watched, astounded, as his daughter put her hand on the boy’s forearm. They both dropped to the ground and took turns holding the kit on their laps. He would have been far less surprised if Lilith ignored the Carson lad, or ran away from him.
Stuart puffed. “She’s no’ right in the head.”
“She’s fine.”
“She says nothing to anybody, but will talk without ceasing to beasts— not a word of which I understand. And the moon— I’ve often caught her talking to the moon, singing to it even. She’s fey. Queer. Maybe a changeling.”
“She’s not a changeling. She’ll come out of it.”
“She has no’ a single friend. And she should have at least a few words by now.”
“She’s only five. A bit slow, maybe. You’ll see. In another year, she’ll be just like any other child.”
Stuart shivered. He quickly dismissed it as a chill morning breeze from the sea, but he couldn’t dismiss his inner conviction so easily.
No, she won’t. She’ll never be like other children.
The Factor’s Son
* * * *
1839
IV.
Lilith and Daniel sat near the summit of Sheabhal, the tallest hill on Barra, watching the movement of cloud shadows over the islands to the south. They’d been sitting like that for a long time, wordless and content, holding hands.
A boat entered the bay, slowly making its way past the castle in the sea.
“That’s the new factor from Edinburgh,” Lilith said, full of importance. “He’s going to live at Bishop House, and Mam’ll be his housekeeper. I’m to help. She said you’ll help too, in the stables.”
Daniel shrugged.
“Everybody hates him,” she said.
“Already? Why?”
“Because he works for that man— Colonel Gordon, who bought Barraigh. They say he doesn’t care about us, just the profits he can make from our labors. Have you no’ heard any of this?”
“I have no use for gossip.”
It was true. When folk settled into their beloved conjecturing, Daniel went elsewhere— usually someplace with horses. He said gossip always predicted dire, terrible events, most of which never happened. Daniel couldn’t abide it. Like Lilith, he barely tolerated folk. Maybe that was why they were so close, as close as scales on a fish, Faith often said.
Lilith liked listening to gossip, as long as she wasn’t noticed. If she was, she ran away.
“Mam and Da said there will never be MacNeils here again, and that it’s bad luck, him selling to an outsider.”
“You and I will make our own luck. Maybe things will get better.”
“I went along with Mam when they aired the house out and polished the furniture,” Lilith said. “She wasn’t watching, so I sneaked away. Guess what I found?”
“What?” He sounded bored.
�
��A secret passage!”
Finally. His blue eyes took on a glimmer as he stared at her. “A secret passage,” he repeated.
“Aye, running all through the house, covered with cobwebs inside. I say nobody’s been in there in a hundred years. There are peepholes in every room. In some rooms, there are big square holes, big as windows, covered with iron screens. Mostly those are covered up though.”
“Show me,” he said.
“You’re daft. Look, they’re already getting off the boat. They’ll be at Bishop House before we can get there.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll think we’re servants. You said we are, anyway.”
They raced each other down the steep hill, which served as a comforting backdrop to the village of Castlebay, then diverted east, to the flat summit where Bishop House proudly stood. It was the finest building, if not the oldest, on the entire island of Barra, and overlooked the village and the bay.
As Lilith predicted, the new family arrived before they did. She and Daniel slipped into the kitchen from the rear, hearing the thud of boxes and trunks, scuffling footsteps, and gruff conversation from the front of the house. Some man was barking instructions in an English accent, and others, locals, were trying to reply in kind, though few on Barra spoke anything but Gaelic.
They slipped into the corridor, ignored by those who passed them. Keeping to the shadows, they stopped just outside the big round foyer where everyone was congregated, and stared in at the activity.
A grey-haired, older man, dressed in a fine wool suit, sat in a wheeled Bath chair, a blanket over his legs. A younger fellow, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, stood beside him, his corded, massive forearms crossed over his chest. Another man, skinny as a weathered fence post, was attempting to direct the servants. He spoke in English, and was getting red in the face as he struggled to be understood. The man in the Bath chair was pale, his forehead damp with sweat. He coughed repeatedly, and had to keep a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, only rarely allowing it to drop to his lap.
The Moon Casts a Spell: A Novella (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 1
