The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5)

by Kaaron Warren

  “He must have gotten lost,” says Aelfrith, admiring his coal coat. He is a young male, not a cub, but not a fully grown boar. The streak of white from his snout to his tail is clean as clean can be. All things considered he is a very hygienic badger; well, except for the smell, which is not unpleasant, merely strong and musky.

  Edda nods. “Yes, he’s wandered away from his sett.”

  “Or perhaps he’s been driven out—old boar and new boar can’t live in peace,” I say, flexing my finger in hope of loosening Edda’s tight wrapping. “Especially as he seems to be a biter.”

  “He only bit you, Gytha.”

  “I’m sure it was just to say hello,” laughs Aelfrith.

  I give my sisters the look they deserve and am about to serve up a retort when Father’s bulk hoves into view. “Still fussing with that confounded animal?”

  “O God, how manifold are your works!” I quote.

  “In wisdom thou hast made them all,” follows Edda.

  Aelfrith chimes in with, “The earth is full of your myriad blessed creatures.”

  “Yea, blessed!” we chorus, our mockery taking on the ring of a hymn.

  Adelbert regrets (many times daily, I suspect) teaching his daughters scriptures, for we have ended up with firm beliefs, but also varied means of arguing with him on his own terms.

  “Gytha, don’t you have work to do? You know the client expects that book by season’s end.”

  “And yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, Father. Winter work and no say to me in the deadline! It’s not acceptable.”I frown.

  He sees that bluster and bullying will not get him far this day, so he softens his tone. “Gytha, I am sorry, but this is a special job. No more like this, I promise—but with the coin from this one commission, we need not work for two whole years!”

  “We don’t work, Father. I work,” I grumble, but turn on my heel and stride from the kitchen.

  In the scriptorium, the fire has gone out and I have only a few more hours of usable light left. I poke at the embers and stir them up until flames lick at the twigs I throw on. When it is crackling, I defiantly throw on a larger log than I normally would and watch it catch with satisfaction.

  I rub my hands together until they warm, massage the fingers (carefully with the tender one), then sit down to begin once more (page ten: a drawing of a young woman, who seems to be sleeping, but for the fact there is a great tear over her heart; and words in a language I do not understand, but which make me nervous nonetheless).

  There is a scratching at the door.

  I curse and pull it open. No one is there. Then: a furry weight as Master Brock crosses the threshold and treads over my feet, to sit himself on the rug in front of the fire.

  We stare at each other for a moment, until he closes his eyes.

  I shrug and return to the book.

  * * *

  I come down to a scene of high circus the next morning, the badger limping at my heels. I stop in the kitchen doorway and he peeks out from behind my skirts.

  “The cheese is gone!” Father shouts.

  “The cheese?” I ask.

  “All the cheese!” says Edda.

  “All our lovely, lovely cheese,” wails Aelfrith.

  “The cheese?” I repeat, thinking perhaps I am not awake, but still dreaming. I did not sleep well, and the welt on my finger throbbed throughout the night.

  Father looks at me as though I am an imbecile. “The cheese has been eaten. Our entire winter supply. Gone.”

  Father is fond of his cheese.

  “And no sign of a thief. No doors unlocked, no windows broken,” says Edda knowingly.

  “Well, don’t look at me.” I traipse down the narrow stairs to the cellar, which is a surprisingly small room, half the size of the kitchen, and lined with shelves laden with bottles of preserved fruit and vegetables from last summer, wrapped parcels of salted fish and pork, sacks of flour and sugar, small jars of salt and ground pepper, three kegs of Father’s cider, one of his brandy, and a distinct lack of the five large wheels of cheese I set there at the beginning of winter.

  I look closely at the walls, the floor, as if I might find a secret passageway heretofore unsuspected, then I shake my head. It’s probably Aelfrith, wandering in her sleep again and now feeding her frustrations by eating. She’d best stop or we’ll be well out of food before the snows end. Turning to go back up, I find myself pinned by a dark gaze in a curious face. I narrow my eyes and wonder at the badger sitting patiently at the top of the stairs. The cheese was on the highest shelf, my head height, and badgers are not known for their climbing ability, nor for their love of dairy. I shake my head once more and return to the kitchen, wondering how to phrase my suspicions of Aelfrith politely.

  But this drama, it seems, has passed and another, quieter one has taken its place. Father is nowhere to be seen, and my sisters have moved themselves to the parlour, where they sit expectantly. Aelfrith, in particular, is preening.

  “Where’s Father?”

  “In his study and not to be disturbed,” says Edda.

  Aelfrith nods. “He’s with a client—the client.” She takes a deep breath, which she exhales with words riding upon it, “He’s ever so handsome, Gytha!”

  Even Edda nods and I’ve not seen her enthused about the appearance of anything but a horse for many a year. Then again, we don’t get too many men passing by, only the occasional monk, old friends of Father’s, random clients, and tinkers. Certainly none from the burnt-out bones of Southarp village.

  I make a move towards the door and Edda leaps up, terribly distressed and barring my way. “Oh, no! You mustn’t disturb them—Father said so.”

  I narrow my eyes and stomp off to my workroom. Honestly, she doesn’t know me at all. I sit at the window seat and watch, noting the absence of either horse or carriage. It doesn’t take long before I hear the front door open and see a figure step out from beneath the storm porch, firmly settling a tricorne hat upon thick golden hair.

  He gets a good head-start while I fight with the frozen casement latch and eventually clamber down the stout limbs of the cherry tree. I follow his tracks, deep footprints, and huddle against the shawls I threw hastily around my shoulders. Soon, I’m into the woods; icicles hang where leaves should be, and the patches of sky glimpsed through the bare tangle of branches are grey and unwelcoming. If I do not find him soon I will give up—I’m no fool. He will visit again and I will be waiting; next time I will charge into Father’s study and take the golden-haired man’s measure.

  I’m cold and shivering. The moment I turn around, there he is, grinning like a wolf.

  I see none of the handsomeness Aelfrith was mooning over, merely appetite and a will to do whatever he wishes. In his hands, a knife, long and thin, a stiletto blade; his knuckles are white around the ivory handle.

  “The book,” I blurt and his expression alters. Ah! Here it is, that beautiful mask. But I’ve seen what it covers and I will not be deceived. “I wanted to ask you about your book.”

  Smoothly he hides the knife in the sheath at his belt, tucks it out of sight as if it might be easily forgotten. He is richly dressed, his coat lined with ermine.

  “My apologies—I could only hear someone following me and thought to defend myself from footpads. I did not mean to frighten you.” He points and I follow the direction of his kid-gloved finger. “My coach is there.”

  And so it is, on the road above where we stand in a hollow. Black and shiny as ebony, with four black steeds, a driver and a footman, both blank faced as they peer down at us. I find myself shaking and will it to stop. I clear my throat.

  “The book—I was wondering if you knew its name and author? Only—I’ve been wondering. Professional curiosity,” I say, trying to look scholarly and serious.

  He gives me a brilliant smile and shakes his head. “Afraid not, Mistress Gytha—it is Gytha, yes, my copyist? I am—a collector—the book took my fancy. It’s value is purely ornamental and sentimen
tal. It reminds me of someone very dear. But its ink is fading, the cover is derelict. I require a copy.”

  “But I can re-ink the text, clean the cover, fix the bindings.”

  “No, no. My memory hinges on the contents, not the container. New is best.” His expression tells me that he does not like old things; he is one of those who prefer possessions to be pristine and unused when they come to his hand. An old book is not the artefact for him—the knowledge therein is what he wants, but he desires it in a splendid new repository. I notice his clothing—blue breeches, gold and cream waistcoat, white silk shirt, silver-grey frock coat and highly polished boots—not one item seems overly worn. Indeed, there is no sign of anything having been worn before at all; there is no fading of colour, nor weakening of nap, no hint of threadbare at the collar and wrists, and certainly no wrinkles or folds that might come with habitual attire. This man likes his things shiny.

  “Where did you find it?”

  He smiles again and does not answer, effortlessly striding up the slope to his conveyance. He tips his hat and climbs in. He leans out the window and says, “I shall return in the spring, Mistress Gytha, to claim my book. I trust you’ll not disappoint me.”

  I stand shivering for some time after he is gone.

  * * *

  St Simeon-in-the-Grove is a small monastery, all things considered. A mere twenty monks, aged from twelve (two boys left on the doorstep some years before) to ninety-five (the librarian).

  Edda has let me take our oldest horse, a tall beastie, with feathered feet and a mane like a blanket. Hengroen moves slowly and surely—it’s a bit like being on a very sturdy boat, his gait is almost floating, which makes me feel both safe and seasick after an hour on his broad back. My rear protests as I dismount and I groan loudly. The young monk who comes forward to take Hengroen looks astounded as I tip back the hood of my thick travelling cloak—obviously he has been brought up to believe women are crafty creatures, both fragrant and evil, but not given to terrible bodily noises. He should hear Edda after a meal of beans.

  “Larcwide will see me,” I say, before he begins the speech about how my kind are not allowed in the monastery. A rule instituted since—in fact because of—my father’s tenure. “I’m bringing a book.”

  Of course, I’m assuming he will see me as he has done before—that he will not remember that little fracas a few years back. This young man knows the librarian collects books, is consulted on them regularly, is an authority on things that hold words in one place. I’m banking on the very good chance that he has been terrified by at least one of the old man’s tirades, and will be too afraid to refuse me.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, and pat his hand. He shivers the way a horse does when a fly lands on its hide. “I’ll take the side entrance so as not to cause a fuss.”

  I’m rewarded with a flash of relief and he nods, leading my great mount to the stables for a rest. I dart across the rectangle of snow that in summer is a patch of green, keeping my head down, but I needn’t bother—most of the brothers are at prayer this time of day. At the bottom of a tall tower—not the one with the bell in it, the one opposite—there is a small slender door, overgrown with winter ivy (which in this season looks deceased, as if the wall is shedding its skin), but a sharp eye will note the dry grey handle twisted about with dead vines, almost invisible. I get splinters, but the ingress opens with relative ease. Inside there is a set of black stone steps curving around and up. The air is dry and cold, but warmer as I rise. I can smell ink and paper, and old man.

  The librarian is shuffling back and forth between cases, twitching books from the shelves, muttering, sliding them back into place or shifting them to another spot. The shelves climb the walls and in the centre of the tower is a series of platforms, weighted down with even more tomes, reached by a sort of elevator and pulley system, that creaks above. A thin monk steps off on the third platform as I watch, nimbly balancing an armful of volumes. Larcwide glares upward as dust particles drift down.

  “I told you,” he yells, “to clean your shoes! And did you? Did you?”

  There is a muffled and indecipherable reply from aloft, and the old man swears softly.

  “Father Larcwide?”

  He swings around in surprise and squints at me. He won’t rant about me being a woman, although he may well rant about my incursion. He shared in many of my father’s adventures, but his continued presence at St Simeon is testament to both his inability to produce offspring and to his unassailed position as bibliognost. By virtue of his irreplaceable knowledge, his transgressions could be overlooked. Unfortunately for Adelbert’s career, anyone can be an under-enthused abbot and mediocre copyist.

  “Father Larcwide, I need to talk to you,” I say and hold up the satchel hanging at my side. His eyes sparkle and he gestures for me to come closer.

  He peers at my face and recognition dawns. “Adelbert’s girl? The clever one.”

  I grin and nod. “Gytha. I need you to look at something.”

  “Why me?” he grumps, contrary for the sake of it.

  “Because there’s none like you.” His ego, duly stroked, allows him to lead me along a maze of shelves to an alcove just big enough for a writing desk and two chairs. He sits and invites me to do the same. I draw the thing out of the bag, and unwrap it from the layers of shawl, then place it on the table between us. Larcwide leans forward to read the now-visible title. I have been working at it, testing out a variety of oils and soft cloths, trying to wear away at the black mess. It was slow toil: if I used too much of the lubricant, too much pressure as I rubbed, the stuff would have simply eaten its way through the cover. It is a capricious mix, with a peculiar personality all of its own (bought from the strange little man who travels in spring and summer and brings me supplies of the things that are hardest to find). One letter at a time. So carefully. So very carefully, until:

  Murcianus. A Book of Craft.

  Larcwide’s hands shake as he reaches out but does not touch the tome. His fingers are blue and brittle, stained with age spots. They hover over what I have so painstakingly cleaned.

  “Do you know what this is? Of course you don’t,” his voice quivers. Then, “Where did you get this?”

  No, I don’t know, although, I have a suspicion, have had since I reached a page I recognised: a drawing of a hand with candles set in the tops of all the fingers and the thumb. A hand of glory. But I choose to act the innocent and answer only his second question. “A client. A commission my father took on.”

  He shakes his head. “Oh, Adelbert. Will you never learn?” He closes his eyes, no more than a blink, but he looks exhausted when he opens them again.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He nods. “A grimoire. A book of craft. And this one . . . ” He finally picks the thing up and rubs his fingers on the back cover, in the right-hand bottom corner, finding what I already know is there: the subtle relief of an embossment, M. He almost drops the book, so great is his surprise. “Belonged to him!”

  I want to poke and prod him, extract the information swiftly, but I wait patiently. He looks at me suspiciously, then with judgment. I don’t know who he is.

  “Murcianus. This is the Bitterwood Bible.”

  And I stare blankly at him and Larcwide’s expression rolls into utter despair.

  “Murcianus, one of the greatest encyclopaedists ever known. Well, of the arcane and the eldritch specifically. He wandered the world, recording and compiling every strange ritual, every bizarre being, every spell, curse, myth, legend, enchantment, magical locations . . . ” the monk seems to run out of words. “Just . . . everything!”

  I remain silent.

  “Those books, nowadays, are so rare you barely find one outside of a private collection. They are wonderfully illustrated, most erudite and informative, filled with wisdom and wit and scholarship.” He turns my tome over in his hands. “But there are other volumes, Gytha, like this one, written in the language of witches, comprehensible to only a few, thi
s one is a rarity. Full of knowledge best left unknown, things too dangerous to be writ down. There are places, Gytha, where his works are banned; where those who carry them are burned, their ashes scattered.”

  His face reddens and he looks away, remembering to whom he speaks; remembering at last our argument when I asked him for information my father refused. The one occasion I managed to extract the name of my mother from Adelbert, he was in his cups. He’d called her Hafwen and told me she had been so briefly beautiful, then burned. She was his final indiscretion, the one that sent him from the monastery, lucky to leave with his life. That is all I was able to get from him before he passed out; he woke the next day with a sore head and foul temper, and would tell me nothing more. When I asked Larcwide, tried to extract an answer, he banned me from coming to see him. I’d hoped the intervening years and his age had dimmed the memory.

  “And the book. Where would this have come from?”

  He shrugged. “Lost? Left behind? Stolen? Who knows. All I know is this isn’t some harmless thing you’re working on, Gytha.” He pauses, suddenly suspicious. “You haven’t read from it?”

  I would like to deny it, but my blush makes a liar of me. Larcwide goes pales and pushes the book at me, insistent. “What did you read?”

  Flicking carefully through the pages I find the relevant one, with the drawings of wheat sheaves and other plants. The old man’s dark eyes skim the words and they seem to make sense to him as he sits back and puffs out a sigh of relief. “Transformation, but it’s just a season spell. Not much harm in it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To work change for a few months only, to make an animal change its shape.”

  “Not a person?” I worry at the bandaged finger, which has not healed these past weeks, but itches still.

  “Oh no, that requires far more effort, instruments and ingredients—and if the subject is unwilling? Even stronger items are needed.” He rubs his hands together. Larcwide seems to know rather more about magic than he should, I think, but do not say. “But you have no ability, so I shouldn’t worry about it. Just don’t do it again—some spells are so powerful they need only be spoken, without intent, for them to effect a change, unwanted or otherwise. You should know, though, that every bit of magic leaves a trace, Gytha, no matter small. Even the tiniest skerrick may rub off, leaving the potential for metamorphosis in its wake.”