The Crowfield Demon

by Pat Walsh

  “It’s not true,” William said defensively. “It’s the demon. It’s getting into people’s dreams and it’s making them think that I’m there, too.”

  “I know.” Brother Snail reached out to put a hand on William’s arm. “I’ve been telling them so, but they are too frightened to listen.”

  “Did you tell them the demon is a fallen angel?”

  The monk shook his head. “No, and until we find something to prove what we suspect, I can say nothing.”

  William leaned back against a stack of cut logs and stared bleakly out at the yard. “Why is the demon doing this? Why has it picked on me?”

  “Perhaps the demon knows you had a hand in releasing the angel from its grave last winter,” Brother Snail said, “and if the angel had come here to hunt it down, it won’t thank you for that.”

  William frowned at the monk. “Then why hasn’t it turned on Shadlok? It was his idea to dig up the angel, not mine.”

  Brother Snail was quiet for a while. There was a troubled look in his eyes.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” William said suspiciously.

  “I just wondered . . . ,” the monk began. He cleared his throat and started again. “I just wondered if the demon wants . . . more from you.”

  “More? What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember what Abbot Simon said on his deathbed, Will? About you?” the monk asked. “He said that the light shines brightly in you, and that it marks you out from those around you. What if the demon is drawn to you precisely because of that? What if it is trying to take that light for itself?”

  “How can it possibly do that?” William asked, and then he suddenly realized what Brother Snail was saying. “You think it means to kill me?”

  The monk’s face crumpled with unhappiness. “I pray I’m wrong, but I believe . . . the demon wants your soul, Will. By isolating you from the people around you, it leaves you vulnerable. It will try and make sure there will be nobody to help you when the time comes.”

  William stared at the monk in shock. It sounded all too horribly plausible. “Shadlok won’t turn his back on me,” he said, but there was a worm of doubt in his mind. Was he so sure of that? What if Shadlok had had enough of life at the abbey and saw this as a way of ridding himself of a tiresome burden? He could easily find someone else to be bound to by the Dark King’s curse.

  “You will never be alone, I promise,” Brother Snail said. “I will be there, and the hob, too, and unless I have gravely misjudged him, I truly believe Shadlok will stand by you. But be on your guard constantly, Will.”

  William stood up. He gazed down at the monk, touched by his loyalty, but really, what could Brother Snail do against a fallen angel? What could any of them do?

  “I’d better go. Brother Stephen will be wondering where I’ve got to with the wood cart.”

  Brother Snail nodded and got to his feet. William grabbed the cart handles and started to wheel it out of the shed. “I haven’t had a chance to search through the rubble heap yet. The stonemasons are always around. But I’ll keep trying. The sooner the better we find whatever was hidden at St. Christopher’s feet.”

  “Good lad. We’ll fight this demon, Will, never you fear,” Brother Snail said, forcing a smile, but William wasn’t fooled. What possible chance did they stand against a creature who had defied God Himself?

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Brother Stephen had cut up several of the larger branches, and the trackway was littered with logs. He stopped to lean on the axe handle when William arrived with the wood cart.

  “Finally decided to turn up, have you?” he said sharply. “Well, now that you’re here, you can start loading the logs onto the cart.”

  With that, Brother Stephen got back to work and didn’t speak to William again for the rest of the morning. The silence between them was not a comfortable one, and William wondered if Brother Stephen believed what Brother Martin had been saying about him. It seemed likely that he did. When the bell for sext clanged out, faint and distant, the monk leaned the axe against the tree stump and set off back to the abbey without a word, wheeling the laden cart ahead of him.

  William got on with cutting up the last few branches. With luck, he would finish them before dinnertime and wouldn’t have to spend an afternoon of awkward silence working alongside Brother Stephen.

  The pile of logs grew, and William stopped for a few minutes to rest. He laid down the axe and stretched his arms above his head, easing out his stiff shoulder muscles.

  There was a rustling in the undergrowth, and a small figure emerged from a holly thicket. It was Dame Alys. She pulled her cloak free from the spiky leaves and clambered down the grass bank onto the track, steadying herself with her walking stick. Fionn swooped down from the branches of an oak tree and landed beside his mistress. He flapped his wings and cawed loudly. William eyed the bird with dislike.

  “I saw you here yesterday, with the fay,” Dame Alys said. She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know what you’ve done to make an enemy of that one, but I would not care to be in your shoes. Fays are tricksy at the best of times, but him, he’s the worst of them all.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” William said gruffly.

  Dame Alys walked over to stand in front of him, almost close enough to touch. And certainly close enough to smell. She reeked of death and blood. He wrinkled his nose and turned away.

  “I hear the monks have found the Holy Grail in their church,” the woman said. She stepped sideways, forcing him to look at her. “But that’s a lie. The bowl belongs to me, and I want it back.” She peered into his face, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “But I think you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  William didn’t reply. He watched her warily and tried not to breathe in her gamey odor too deeply.

  “A clever boy like you can surely find a way to return the bowl to its rightful owner now, can’t you?” she said with a sly smile that deepened the web of wrinkles around her mouth.

  “You want me to steal it?” William asked.

  The woman jabbed a finger toward the abbey. “They are the thieves, not me!”

  “Then you go and take it, if it’s yours,” William said. He wanted nothing to do with any of this.

  The woman’s oddly colored eyes narrowed dangerously. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me, boy.”

  William was about to say he had to get back to work when she suddenly reached out and raked a fingernail across his cheek.

  There was a sting of pain, and William yelped. He clapped a hand to his face and jumped back. “What was that for?” he demanded angrily.

  The woman ignored him. She fumbled in the pocket sewn inside her cloak and pulled out an oak twig. With great care she wiped the blood from beneath her nail onto the twig, then returned it to her pocket.

  William remembered the bundle of oak twigs and the fox’s blood he’d found on the causeway, and he recoiled. What did she want with his blood? He made a grab for her cloak, but she brought her stick down hard on his arm and he stumbled backward. In the same moment, Fionn rose into the air with a clap of wings, his claws reaching toward William’s face. William dropped into a crouch. Fionn’s claws skimmed his head, raking his scalp painfully. The bird swooped upward to land on a branch.

  “Bring me the bowl, boy,” Dame Alys said, “or I swear, Fionn will feed on your eyes one of these days.”

  William grabbed a branch and stood up. He swung the branch from side to side. If the crow came near him again, he wouldn’t think twice before bringing it down. “I know what the bowl really is, and I know what your ancestors used it for,” he said, glancing at the woman, but keeping a careful eye on the crow.

  Dame Alys looked surprised. “Too clever by half, you are,” she said, baring brown teeth at him. “Too clever for your own good.”

  “And I know about the demon,” William added recklessly.

  Her face quivered with rage, and she
spat at his feet. “Belinus is not a demon! You have had your chance to help me, boy. I won’t ask again.”

  In a whirl of fury, she turned and stamped away. She pushed aside the holly branches with her stick and forced her way back into the forest. Fionn flew after her.

  For a long time after she had gone, William stood on the track, waves of sick dread churning through his belly. She has my blood, he thought. It was only a smear, but perhaps that was all she needed for an offering to the demon. The question was, what would the demon do with it?

  When the bell for dinner rang, William returned to the abbey. He passed Brother Stephen and Brother Gabriel in the yard. They watched him walk by in silence, their eyes hostile. He heard them whispering behind his back and glanced over his shoulder. He saw Brother Gabriel cross himself.

  The hob was in his usual perch in the blackthorn. He saw the cut on William’s cheek, and his face puckered with concern.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, reaching down to prod William’s cheek gently.

  “I met Dame Alys in the forest,” William said. “She scratched me.”

  “Why?” The hob sounded surprised. “Did you do something to make her angry?”

  “No. She wanted some of my blood as an offering to the demon,” William said, his stomach tightening at the memory, “and she also asked me to steal the bowl for her.”

  The hob clambered quickly down the tree, as sure-footed as a cat. His eyes were wide with alarm. “Nonono! You must not give her the bowl, and you must keep your blood to yourself.”

  “Well, I didn’t run up and offer it to her,” William said. “As for the bowl, I have no intention of giving it to her.”

  William followed the hob into the hut. He sat on a stool while the hob fetched a bowl of water.

  “Bad, bad woman,” the hob muttered as he dipped a rag into the water and climbed onto the table to dab at William’s cheek. The wet cloth was soothing and cool against the burn of the cut. William grinned at him.

  “That’s much better, thank you.”

  The hob dabbed the cut dry, then dried his paws with a linen rag. “The scratch is not deep. It will heal quickly. But she is still a bad woman for doing this to you.”

  “She won’t get close enough to me to ever do it again,” William said, a little of his anger returning.

  “Good,” the hob said. He pointed to the basket of food that had been left on the table. “The one with the simple wits brought that for you.”

  William took a covered earthenware pot from the basket and sniffed the contents cautiously.

  “What’s in it?” the hob asked, leaning down to take a look inside the pot.

  “I don’t think I want to know.” William sniffed again and wrinkled his nose. He was sure that even Mary Magdalene would turn her snout up at today’s dinner. In truth, it smelled like something the old pig had been rolling in.

  The hob was deeply unimpressed by the cold and watery vegetable pottage and burnt bread. William prodded a lump of what might have been turnip and felt his spirits sink. The pottage would barely take the edge off his hunger, and he still had an afternoon of hard work ahead of him. He was sure Brother Martin had deliberately held back the bigger pieces of vegetables and chosen the smallest, most charred hunk of bread out of spite.

  “This is very bad,” the hob said, shaking his head and scattering bread crumbs over the table. He brushed them away with the tuft on the end of his tail, and then scowled down at the blackened crust in his paw. He tapped it with a fingernail. It was as hard as stone and sounded hollow. “This does not taste good at all.” He pointed to William’s mouth. “And it has made your teeth black.”

  “And yours, too,” William said. The hob curled back his lips to reveal black teeth and gums. The hob’s tongue was black as well.

  “It still tastes better than this,” William said, prodding a thick cabbage stalk. It was solid and woody and floated like a drowned slug beneath the surface of the pottage.

  The hob dropped the bread back into the basket and wiped the soot off his paws. “Nasty.”

  William grimaced. Nasty, indeed. Brother Martin could not have made his dislike for William any plainer if he tried until Judgment Day.

  William was scraping the last spoonful from the bottom of his bowl when Brother Snail came to find him. The monk’s expression was grim.

  “Prior Ardo wants to see you, Will, in the chapter house, right away.” He paused for a moment and peered more closely at William. “What happened to your face?”

  William told him briefly. The monk looked horrified.

  “We are going to tell Prior Ardo the truth, now, before this gets completely out of hand, and before that woman does you some serious harm. I will also tell him that Shadlok is a fay, and before you say anything, Will, I have Shadlok’s permission to do so. Indeed, he will meet us at the chapter house in a few minutes’ time. We need to get the prior on our side if we are to have a hope of dealing with this terrible mess.”

  “Are you sure this is the best thing to do?” William asked doubtfully.

  “It is the only thing we can do,” Brother Snail said. “Several of the brethren have asked the prior to turn you away from the abbey, and unless we give the prior a reason not to, I fear that is just what he will do.”

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Shadlok was waiting for them when William and Brother Snail reached the chapter house.

  “We are to go straight in,” the monk said. He looked up at Shadlok. “Are you sure about telling the prior what you really are?”

  Shadlok’s gaze flickered to William briefly. “I am sure.”

  Brother Snail nodded. “Very well. Follow me.”

  They walked along the short passageway to the inner door of the chapter house. Brother Snail knocked and pushed it open. Prior Ardo was sitting on the stone seat beneath St. Michael’s stained-glass feet, the only part of the window left unboarded. He was alone. There was a lantern hanging by the door and a second lantern on the stone seat beside him. In the soft half-light, the prior’s face looked haggard and old. He beckoned them forward and stared at William for some moments.

  “Do you know what is being said about you?” the prior said, his voice hard, his eyes cold. “That you torment Brother Martin in his sleep? That you are in league with the devil?”

  William’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips and nodded.

  “What have you to say about these accusations?”

  “Prior,” Brother Snail began, but Prior Ardo held up a hand to silence him. His eyes never left William’s face.

  “I want to hear what the boy has to say.”

  William cleared his throat. “It’s not true, any of it. At least . . . Brother Martin might have dreamed about me, but that wasn’t any of my doing.”

  “Nevertheless, something unholy is here amongst us, and both Peter and Brother Martin believe it has something to do with you.”

  William glanced at Brother Snail. He had no idea where to begin or how much to say. His desperation must have shown in his face because the monk stepped forward and said in a tone that brooked no argument, “I will tell you what we should have told you long before now, Prior, and I speak for us all. Will unwittingly released something the day he found the bowl in the side chapel. We believe that it is a fallen angel.”

  The prior looked startled but let the monk continue without interruption.

  “This creature was worshipped as a god before Christianity came to this land, in a grove that once stood on the site of our church. Only now, with the floods and the collapse of the tower, the fallen one is slowly but surely stirring again. William is entirely innocent in all this. He is no more in league with this demon than you or I.”

  A muscle twitched beside the prior’s mouth and beads of sweat prickled on his upper lip. He wiped them away with a trembling finger. There was a tremor in his voice when he spoke. “And how do you know this?”

  The monk hesitated. “Some of it comes from the wise wo
man with the white crow, Dame Alys. Some of it was told to Shadlok by local people.”

  Anger shook through the prior’s body. “You have spoken with that . . . woman?”

  Brother Snail shook his head quickly. “No, Prior. The woman approached Will in the forest this morning.” He took William by the arm and pulled him into the circle of lantern light. “She cut his face. She wanted his blood to offer to the demon.”

  A look of revulsion crossed the prior’s face as he stared at William. “This will not be tolerated,” he said hoarsely. “The woman is a heretic. She should be tied to a stake and burned to ashes.”

  “To kill a weed, you must kill the root. The demon is the root, and we have to find a way to be rid of it,” Brother Snail said. “Then we can decide what to do about Dame Alys.”

  Prior Ardo sat in stony-faced silence for a while, then flicked a finger toward William. “Why is the demon so interested in him?”

  “I believe the fallen angel is drawn to the boy because his soul is pure,” Brother Snail said, “not because he is evil or damned. Do you remember what Abbot Simon said on his deathbed last winter, when Will helped carry him down to the church?”

  The prior’s face was pallid in the lantern light. “He said the light shines brightly in the boy.” The prior had been paying attention that day, William realized in surprise.

  Brother Snail put a hand on William’s arm. “I believe the fallen angel wants William’s soul. It is trying to turn us against him, but we must not be tricked into believing he is evil.”

  The prior stared at William for a long time in silence. At last he nodded. “I believe you are speaking the truth.”

  Brother Snail looked relieved.

  “But do not call this . . . creature an angel,” the prior said, anger snapping in his eyes. “It is a demon.”

  Brother Snail nodded. “As you wish, Prior.”

  The prior turned to look at Shadlok, a look of dislike souring his expression. There was deep suspicion in his eyes.

  “You are not human.” It wasn’t a question. “I have always known you were . . . different. You are a fay?”