A Gathering of Ghosts

by Karen Maitland

  In the last few feet before we reached the rocks the wind was so strong that I staggered under the weight of all I was carrying. I had to stop to steady myself. My eyes streamed. Here and there, far off in the darkness, blurs of red and yellow light shone like the eyes of beasts. They were the shepherds’ fires burning far below in the valleys and the fires of the outlaws high on distant tors. Wiping my stinging eyes, I hurried up into the lee of the great towering rocks. Ma groped along in the darkness till she found the crevice between them and vanished inside. Ryana passed her the bundle of tools and squeezed in after her. But I hung back, listening. From deep within came a hollow knocking and a plaintive, high-pitched keening, as if many women were sitting deep inside the hill, mourning and weeping, throwing the melancholy notes from one to another, like the plovers that lived on the wind. Passing strangers and villagers, who heard the sounds, were always agasted and swore that Fire Tor was haunted by demons, or else it was the souls of the dead trapped inside, crying to be released. But I was never afeared: my skin tingled with excitement at the sound.

  ‘Stir your arse, Mazy-wen,’ Ryana called from inside. ‘Ma’s waiting.’

  I pushed the water skin, herbs and kindling inside, then gathered up the wood Taegan had dropped and passed it through the cleft, stick by stick.

  ‘Tell Tae to keep watch for Meggy,’ Ma called, her voice echoing through the rocks.

  ‘Fer why?’ Taegan groused. ‘It’s so dark, I couldn’t see a herd of white horses if they galloped over me. I’ve a good mind to go home.’

  But I knew she’d not dare, just as I knew she would never set foot inside Fire Tor. When Taegan had reached her seventh birthday, Ma had tried to take her in, promising it as a great treat. But I reckoned that malicious cat, Ryana, had been whispering and pistering in little Taegan’s ear, scaring the wits out of her, because later she’d tried to do the same thing to me. Ryana always sneered that when Ma had led Taegan up to Fire Tor, Tae had screamed and fought like a cornered weasel, even scratching and biting Ma’s arms, rather than be pushed through that narrow gap into the dark, though she was so small she’d have passed through as easily as a mouse’s whisker through a fox hole. Neither Ma’s threats nor slaps had persuaded her to go in then or since, though I doubted she could have squeezed her fat udders through now, even if she’d wanted to.

  I turned sideways and slid through into the space between the rocks. Inside it was so dark that my eyes ached. The blackness rippled towards me in waves. I felt for the wall of rock and slid down it, until I was squatting on the damp earth. The whispering spirits slithered around me in the darkness. They crept so close, I could feel them brushing my cheek and stirring my hair as they passed. Another voice began to sing. It was Ma keening softly with the spirits of rock and earth, begging them for the gift of fire.

  There was a hollow click as she struck iron and flint. A tiny scarlet spark flashed out in the darkness, then yellow flame ran over the kindling, growing and leaping till a ruby-red glow filled the long, narrow cave, and the shadows of the spirits pranced around us.

  The walls of the cave were formed of craggy rocks, with a huge flat stone over the top making a roof. At the far end, on the other side of the blazing fire, a narrow slab rose out of the earth, which was always kept covered with a long white woollen cloth.

  Ryana was slumped against one wall, her bulging sheep-eyes half closed, yawning. Ma crouched before the flames, her head bowed, her grey hair tumbling loose down her back. She had spread her tools before the fire. She could do that by touch even in the dark for she knew them better than she did her own daughters – the white Bryde’s Stone, a fox tooth, the hide of an unborn fawn, an ear of barley from a long-ago harvest, a raven’s feather and the dried hind leg of a black dog.

  Ma took a scallop shell that had been packed with dry moss and sprinkled with animal grease. She laid a burning stick from the fire to it. Sparks glittered across the moss and it began to burn with a bright yellow flame that rose steadily higher and thicker. Ma carried the shell into each corner of the cave, circling it there, muttering to the guardian spirits, before she returned to the fire.

  Her wrinkled hand snaked out, and I passed her the water skin, watching as she poured water on to the earth in a circle around the treasures she had laid out. When it was complete, she hunkered down and took a small piece of dried meat from the bag that hung about her withered neck. It was the flesh of a red cat she had dried many moons ago. She chewed the dried meat, and when it was soft, she held it up in her hands before the flames, offering it to Mother Brigid, then laying it solemnly before the fire. Praying over each of her horny old palms in turn, she pressed them over her eyes and began to rock back and forth, singing with the voices in the cave, crying out to the duru moon to open the doorway and let the spirits come and go.

  She tilted forward, rolling her head, her long grey hair flung out like a whip till it was inscribing a full circle in the air. The shadows on the walls were circling with her, spinning faster and faster, until it seemed that Ma was as still as a rock and the cave spun around her in a great dark vortex.

  She turned her head, glaring back over her shoulder, and gave a savage snarl, like a wildcat, her yellow teeth bared, lips curled. She flung her arms wide and I saw red fur erupting through her skin, the glint of dagger claws on her outstretched fingers. Then, just as swiftly, they were gone. A long breath hissed from her open mouth, like the sound of rushing water, and she was limp again, bowed forward, her hands stretched out to the fire, and I knew that the spirit had passed through Kendra.

  Ma held out her hand to Ryana for the worts I’d collected, but she’d fallen asleep in the heat of the fire. I crawled over and dragged the sack into my sister’s lap, shaking her awake. While the charm was being woven, Ma would let only Ryana touch the herbs. Once I’d kicked her, my sister handed Ma the sprigs in turn, each bound with a strand of red wool. The murmurs in the cave grew louder, as if the sight and smell of the sacred herbs excited the spirits, drawing them closer, as the bloody carcass of a goat draws down the kites and ravens.

  Ma lifted each wort in turn, singing its name and virtues to the mournful notes the spirits lent her.

  Remember, Vervain, what you revealed,

  Holy wort you are called, the enchantment breaker,

  And you, Henbane, who call the ancestors to speak,

  Call them to gather and call them to guard . . .

  And so she continued, raising each sprig in turn before the seeing-fire – bryony, wormwood, whortle, crow leek, corn-cockle, cleavers, adderwort. Finally, she gathered them all together and bound them slowly, three times, with a strand of white wool as she sang:

  Against demon’s hand and dwarf’s guile,

  Against the elfin kingdom and the night hag’s ride,

  Against the fiend which flies from the west and the north, from the east and the south,

  Against the eye of darkness that must not be opened.

  Ma struggled stiffly to her feet and walked the bunch of worts three times around the seeing-fire, trailing them through the smoke. Then she stepped over the flames and through the smoke so that it swirled around her. Finally, she approached the cloth-covered slab at the end of the narrow cave. My stomach lurched. I knew well what lay beneath, but whenever Ma went to that rock, I felt as if I was seeing it for the first time. Ma nodded to Ryana, who lumbered to her feet and pulled the cloth from the ledge.

  The corpse lay on its back, bathed in the blood-red firelight. The shadows of the spirits crawled across his chest. He was naked, his skin leathery, tanned to the colour of a thrush’s wing, his hair and beard startlingly flaxen against his dark face. His lips had shrivelled back, revealing long teeth.

  Beneath his chin, the skin had shrunk away from the long gash across his throat, pulling it open as wide as a mouth. Ma had cleaned the wound in his neck and his corn-coloured hair, soaked in the blood that had poured from the skull-splintering blow to the back of his head. She had neatened his beard with he
r bone-comb and plaited a hag-stone into it. But she could not wash the look of shock and horror from his face.

  Ryana had laid a river-polished black pebble on his forehead and I had woven a bracelet for his right arm from the prickly twigs of the flying thorn that grew in the crevice of a rock without touching the earth. And it was to the hand of that arm that Ma now touched the bundle of worts. Then she pressed them against his bare feet, his head, mouth, breast and the withered worm of his pizzle and cods.

  ‘Let me go, Kendra!’ A voice as deep as a grave echoed around the cave. ‘Bury me, burn me, release me from this torment of darkness.’

  I stared up. The shadow of a man hung above me, grey, swirling, as if it was formed of smoke, except the eyes. His eyes were solid, living, burning like twin embers. The mouth opened wide as a scream and dark as a grave.

  ‘Kendra, set me free from this misery and desolation. I beg you.’

  Ma laughed. ‘Not you. I’ll never free you. You are Ankow. You were chosen. She gave you to me. See all the pains I’ve taken to keep your body safe. You should be grateful. You’ll do my bidding till you come to carry me safe to the lych-ways, and then you’ll serve my daughter, her daughter’s daughter, till the sun and the moon vanish from the sky.’

  His howl of despair and anguish made even the rocks tremble. I covered my head with my arms, feeling his wretchedness stab deep inside me, but Ma only chuckled. She broke off a piece of the henbane and laid it below Ankow’s naval. The curly golden hairs on his belly caught the fragile leaves and held them, like a spider’s web. And the shadow vanished.

  ‘Meggy’s come.’ Taegan’s voice echoed through the cave.

  Ma grunted and, taking the bundle of herbs, shuffled towards the narrow entrance, closely followed by Ryana.

  It was left to me to cover the corpse again, extinguish the moss still burning in the scallop shell and collect the water skin, before finally emerging into the darkness. I shivered in the raw air after the warmth of the fire. Meggy and Kendra were already huddled in the lee of the rocks.

  ‘. . . set the charm afire,’ Ma was saying, ‘and walk round the cave three times, so as smoke circles it. And mind yer walk round it with the sun.’

  ‘Wasn’t born with a goose cap on my head,’ Meggy retorted indignantly. ‘I know right way to walk.’

  Ma snorted. ‘No telling what queer notions you’ve picked up from those carrion crows you bide with.’

  The gatekeeper bridled, but Ma ignored her and continued, ‘As you walk, you must say the will worth, tell the spirits what you seek – “May this smoke keep him from the well as the flame keeps the wolf from the flock.” And you’ve to mean it.’

  Meggy shivered. ‘Never fear, Kendra. There’ll not be a charm worked that was ever meant more.’ She glanced towards the east. ‘I’d best hurry. There’s not much time.’

  Ma grasped her arm. ‘This’ll only keep the fiend at bay. If we’re to destroy him, you must fetch me something I can use against him. We have to learn his name.’

  Meggy nodded, tucked the bunch of herbs beneath her cloak and vanished into the darkness. Ma began to pick her way back down the hill, with Ryana and Taegan hurrying ahead, anxious to get back to their beds.

  The echoes of the ghosts still whispered and sang through the cave. I turned to look back at the towering rocks. A red-orange glow danced and flickered through the crevices. The villagers said that whenever the heart of the tor was burning in the darkness it meant Ankow was riding up to the rocks on his skeleton horse, carrying the souls of those who had died. The fire would burn until dawn, and any who were awake in those parts would see the glow of those flames and tremble, afeared that, before the year was out, Ankow would drag them through that crevice into the lands of the dead.

  Chapter 13

  Hospitallers’ Priory of St Mary

  ‘Are you on your way to open the well, Sister Fina?’ The words sprang out of the shadows, making the young woman start violently, for it was not yet dawn, and she’d thought the courtyard deserted at that hour.

  Fina held up her lantern as Brother Nicholas stepped out in front of her, his black cloak billowing in the chill breeze. He was grinning, as if causing her to jump had amused him. The lantern lit his face from below, giving his hard features a wolfish, almost malevolent expression.

  ‘You’re about your duties early, Sister,’ he added. He squinted up at the dark sky where as yet only a pale stain of light marked where the sun would rise.

  ‘Sister Basilia wants to anoint a blind boy’s eyes today with the water from St Lucia’s well. But some of the pilgrims and villagers have heard . . .’ She pressed her long fingers to her mouth afraid the words would escape if she didn’t lock them in. Prioress Johanne had sternly warned all the sisters that they must be guarded in what they told the brothers about the priory, but Fina was certain the prioress meant her. She was the one the prioress was warning and all the other sisters knew as much. Sister Clarice was always watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake, so she could go tattling to Johanne, trying to convince her that Fina was too young and stupid to be in charge of anything more than plucking chickens. The prioress had started to believe her. An unlettered cottager, Johanne had called her . . . Well, that was what she’d meant, anyway.

  Nicholas had turned his head away from Fina, distracted by the sight of one of the scullions, Dye, emerging yawning from a doorway to fetch water. Her hair hung loose and tangled, and she was clad only in a torn shift that hung off one shoulder and barely covered her thighs. But the slattern seemed to hold more interest for the knight than Fina. She could sense he was about to walk away. He obviously thought she was too slug-witted to be worth talking to.

  Words began tumbling from her mouth. ‘Sister Basilia thinks it would be less frightening for the blind child if he was bathed in the well before the pilgrims arrive. The cave is so small, he might easily be jostled.’ She offered Nicholas the small gift of information, like a tiny child might offer a feather or a daisy, knowing it was worthless, but wanting it to be accepted.

  The knight took a pace or two towards her, so she was forced to look up at him. The hem of his cloak brushed her ankle as the wind gusted. His arm was so close to her breast that if she swayed forward his flesh would press into it. In spite of the breeze, she felt the hot flush on her cheeks and quickly lowered her eyes. Why did he stand so close? He should not. He must not. But she didn’t step back.

  ‘Pray excuse me, Brother. I . . . I need to unlock the door and light the candles.’

  She tried to step round him but, whether by accident or design, he moved too, in the same direction and she found her way blocked again.

  ‘Then allow me to escort you, Sister. It would not be gallant to leave you to stumble around in a dark chapel. You might fall and hurt yourself.’

  ‘There’s no need to trouble yourself, Brother. I’ve tended the well so often, I could find my way if I was blind.’

  ‘Ah, but now that we brothers have arrived to protect you, you must allow us to assist you, else we shall feel we’ve made this tedious journey for nothing. Besides, I haven’t yet had a chance to pray at this miraculous well of yours. You surely wouldn’t forbid a brother knight his spiritual consolation when your sweet sisterhood exists to bring us such comforts.’

  Something about the way his tongue lingered on ‘comforts’ made the back of her neck tingle.

  ‘But the boy will probably resist having water splashed on his eyes. Your prayers would be disturbed by the commotion.’

  ‘Believe me, I have offered some of my most devout prayers with a sword in my hand and men screaming all around me in the thick of battle. The squeals of one small boy will hardly disturb me. Come, I insist!’

  He was not smiling now and the fingers that suddenly gripped her arm were not gentle.

  They walked in silence across to the chapel door, where he released her. Frightened now, she fumbled with the bunch of keys that hung from a chain around her waist, praying that Basili
a would come quickly, though she’d be no more help in getting rid of Nicholas than a puppy bent on licking a robber to death. Besides, what was there to be afraid of? A brother knight of her own order merely wished to pray. That was all . . . all he’d said.

  But the moment the door swung open Nicholas pushed into the chapel behind her, pressing so close she could feel his hard belly against her back. The single ruby light burning above the altar served only to make the darkness of the chapel more intense. Her hands were shaking as she lit the candles set ready on the iron spikes at either side of the door.

  But Nicholas stepped away from her and curtly inclined his head before the crucifix hanging above the altar. Seeming to forget she was there, he began to pace slowly around the circular chapel in the space between the eight pillars and the outer wall, murmuring his Aves to honour the Blessed Virgin, as the sisters did in their private devotions. As silently as she could, Fina slipped across to the other side of the chapel and unlocked the door to the well. Now that she could see he was praying, her breathing slowed a little. What had she imagined could possibly happen?

  But she had descended only two or three steps, when she heard footsteps approaching the door above her. It was customary to circle the chapel three times. Surely he could not have finished his prayers already. Panic gripped her once more.

  ‘Wait!’ she called. ‘Let me light the candles below, then you will see a great marvel as you walk down.’

  She hurried down as fast as was possible on the slippery, uneven steps. In the darkness below she could hear the gush and splash as the water poured into the stone pool. The spring was flowing strongly today. As she reached the bottom step, she lifted the lantern to light her way across the floor of the cave. She was about to take the last step down, but she snatched her foot back with a muffled scream. The floor of the cave was moving, heaving, as if the stones were alive and wriggling up out of the earth.