Bloodhoney

by Paul Stewart

  ‘And the letting?’ Micah said quietly. ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

  Abel paused and picked up one of the wyrmeribs and turned it over thoughtfully in his calloused fingers. His brow creased with thought.

  ‘The letting’s just something brother Kilian does,’ he said and shrugged dismissively. ‘It don’t mean much. You feel a bit weak at first, but with fine food like this …’ He smacked his lips noisily. ‘You soon build your strength back up.’

  He put the wyrmerib to his mouth and took a bite, then another, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he chewed hungrily. Micah picked up a wyrmerib of his own. Across the chamber, he noticed that Cara had just entered, supported on either side by sister Abigail and old brother Absolom. She looked fatigued, though there was some colour to her cheeks now.

  She glanced up, and Micah’s face burned as their eyes met. Then she smiled at him.

  And Micah smiled back.

  Beside him, Abel’s eyes had narrowed, and he was observing Micah with wry amusement. He prodded Micah’s shoulder with the end of the stripped wyrmerib.

  ‘Seems like good food’s only one of the reasons to stay at Deephome,’ he observed.

  Thirty-Nine

  Micah sat back and leaned against the shelfstack. The great jars with their neat labels and precious contents felt cool against the back of his neck. He ran a hand through his hair. It had grown some since Cara had cut it and was beginning to curl up at the ends and tangle.

  Cara. He had hardly seen her since her blood­letting. Once in the eating chamber the day after, since then hardly at all. Despite the sweet promise of her smile, she had not come to Micah’s sleeping niche later that night. Nor the next. Nor the one after that. Now a week had passed and, apart from the occasional task they’d shared here in the store chamber, they’d barely spent any time together, and none of it alone.

  Sister Abigail seemed to shadow Cara wherever she went, and Cara showed no signs of minding. She appeared sad and disappointed in him, as if Micah had let her down in some way. And when he caught her eyeing his hacketon critically, he knew that she was vexed that he had not agreed to stay on in Deephome.

  Trouble was, he could not. He would not – not until he and Eli had sat down and talked things over. And for his part, the cragclimber was being frustratingly elusive. There was a distant haunted look to his pale eyes, and Micah knew that the constant presence of eaves­dropping Deephomers riled him. In the chambers, in the adjacent sleeping niches, on the stockade steps; there was nowhere for him to escape. And when Micah did speak to him, Eli always put him off.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ he would say, fidgeting with his backpack. Or, ‘Not now, Micah,’ as he turned in for the night. ‘In the morning.’

  And Micah had begun to suspect that the real reason for Eli’s reticence was that the cragclimber knew he was going to tell him that he was staying in Deephome for good, and did not want to hear it. And perhaps, Micah thought, that was what he would have told him. After all, it was warm. It was safe. There was food aplenty.

  And there was Cara …

  A small grey-green wyrme poked its head round the corner of an end shelf, its emerald crest raised and ­quivering.

  ‘It’s you again,’ Micah said, and smiled. At least there was one thing in Deephome that wanted to be alone with him.

  Since Micah had spotted it stealing linefruit from a jar, he had taken to leaving scraps out for the timid little wyrme, and it had responded. It had grown used to him and now sought him out most days in this quiet part of the store chamber.

  Micah reached into his hacketon and drew out a hunk of barleybread. The little wyrme approached where he sat, its blackbead eyes bright and darting. Then, quick as a flash, it snatched the bread from his outstretched fingers and scurried off towards its nest, tucked away in some crevice nearby.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Micah called after it.

  He sat back once more and paused. He could hear voices. Children’s voices. They were coming from the other side of the shelfstack.

  Micah turned and peered through the chink between a massive jar marked Cornhoney and an equally large one marked Pickled Redbeet.

  There were a dozen or more youngsters – girls in homespun skirts and white blouses and boys in grey cloaks, their red hats lying on the floor behind them. They were seated in a semi-circle on the stone floor, their backs to Micah. Before them, perched on a low stool, was Kilian the prophet. He was telling them a story. His voice was soft yet animated, and his words were punctuated by the movements of his hands.

  ‘A whole hundred of them, there were,’ Kilian was saying, his eyes wide, and the young children gasped at the thought of such an unimaginable number. ‘A hundred wyrmes that he kept, raising them up from little’uns. But then, do you know what happened?’

  The children shook their heads.

  ‘One of them went missing.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ muttered a small boy.

  ‘So there were only … How many of them were left.’

  ‘Ninety-nine,’ the children chorused.

  ‘Ninety-nine,’ said Kilian. ‘Ninety-nine wyrmes. Yet that wyrmeherder, you know what? He could not stop thinking about the hundredth wyrme. The one who had left the herd and got lost. So he went searching for it. He pounded the weald, trekking high and low, far and wide, night and day, till at last he found it, looking lost and alone on a high ledge.’

  The children clapped happily.

  ‘He picked up that wyrme and carried it all the way back to his cave and reunited it with the other wyrmes, and he rejoiced that they were all together once more.’ Kilian’s eyes narrowed and he looked at the children, one after the other. ‘Now who do you think that ­wyrmeherder was?’ he asked.

  The boys and girls looked at one another, puzzled. Then one of the girls spoke up, her voice uncertain.

  ‘You?’ she said.

  Kilian laughed. ‘That’s a good answer, Esther, but no. Not me. Someone far more important than me.’

  Again, the children looked at one another. More impor­tant than brother Kilian? Who in the weald could be more important than brother Kilian? Then one of the boys looked up excitedly.

  ‘The Maker!’ he blurted out.

  ‘That’s right, Tobias,’ said Kilian, nodding sagely, and Tobias glanced round at the others, his eyes gleaming with pride. ‘That wyrmeherder was the Maker himself. And despite all the wyrmes He still had, it was the one that He found and brought home when it had gone astray that filled Him with such joy. We are like those wyrmes, and we are all precious to the Maker … You, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you …’ he said, pointing to each of the children in turn, as they giggled back at him. Then he sat back and clapped his hands together. ‘Now run along and attend to your chores,’ he announced. ‘Off you go.’ He winked. ‘And make sure none of you go astray.’

  Laughing and chattering, the children scrambled to their feet and left the store chamber. Their eager voices echoed back along the tunnel. Kilian got to his feet and walked round to Micah’s side of the shelfstack.

  ‘So it’s you, brother Micah,’ he said, looking down at Micah. ‘Thought I glimpsed an eye peering through the shelves. Eavesdropping like a true Deephomer …’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Micah reddened, suddenly aware of how nervous he felt in front of Cara’s father.

  But Kilian smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I know that you have been troubled,’ he said kindly. ‘It’s not easy surviving in the weald. Even here in Deephome, there are sacrifices to be made for the good of all. Privacy, certainly. And some freedoms – to do as we please, to go where we want … But these are small things indeed compared to the protection that Deephome offers.’ He gripped Micah’s hand with both of his own and squeezed it warmly. ‘To be safe from all the dangers and hardships of the weald, Micah. And to be loved.’

&n
bsp; Micah looked into Kilian the prophet’s deep brown eyes. There was no accusation in them, no displeasure. Only accep­t­­ance. And Micah felt foolish. Of course he should stay here; safe and happy with the other ­Deephomers, with Cara.

  A broad smile spread across his face. ‘Happen I’m like that wyrme,’ he said.

  And Kilian nodded, his intense gaze never wavering. ‘Happen you are,’ he said, ‘brother Micah.’

  That night, Micah slept better than he had for weeks. When he awoke, it was to the sound of the sentinel’s horn being blown, loud and fitful. It echoed down the tunnels of the Deephome, filling the caverns with its urgency.

  Someone new had stumbled across the valley, Micah thought. Someone new was coming to Deephome.

  He reached out for his clothes and paused. There were two piles. One pile was untidy, thrown off in a heap the night before; the worn shirt and breeches, and the fine hacketon that Eli had made. The other pile was neatly folded and untouched; the grey cloak, the homespun breeches and shirt, with the red straw hat perched upon the top. Micah reached out, his hand shaking as it hovered over first one set of clothes, then the next. From outside, the horn sounded again.

  Micah seized the homespun breeches and pulled them on, then the crisp shirt, the heavy grey cloak, the straw hat of deep red … They felt comfortable, warm, fresh – they made him feel like he belonged. Micah looked down. His hack­dagger and catapult lay next to the hacketon jacket. He hesitated, then reached out and picked them up. He put the catapult in the back pocket of his breeches and tucked the knife into his belt. He pulled the grey cloak over them.

  He wasn’t ready to give up his weapons just yet.

  Micah crawled to the edge of the sleeping niche and climbed down the ladder to the floor far below. From outside the sleeping galleries, he heard the sound of movement, lots of movement. Running footsteps. Raised voices. Urgent cries. The Deephomers were gathering in the store chamber.

  From behind him, he heard a familiar voice. ‘Fixing to stay, I see.’

  It was Eli.

  Micah turned. The cragclimber was climbing down from his own sleeping niche, his jaw set firmly. He was staring at the clothes Micah was wearing. There was ­disappointment in his eyes.

  ‘It’s … I mean … they were the first things that came to hand …’ Micah stopped.

  The cragclimber had stepped from the ladder and was eyeing him levelly.

  ‘And Cara?’ he said. ‘I reckon she must have played some part in your decision to stay.’

  Micah nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you, Eli. Discuss things. Things that had been troubling me. About ­Deephome. About Cara, and her father …’ He fell still. All that time he’d wanted to tell Eli what he had seen, yet now the cragclimber was in front of him and actually ­listening, he suddenly felt reticent and shy.

  ‘What things, Micah?’

  ‘I saw her – Cara …’ He took a deep breath, then suddenly he found himself babbling. ‘Kilian had cut her arm. He was collecting her blood in a bowl … Letting, Cara called it. But, but it was all right. I mean, she wasn’t being punished or nothing. All the Deephomers submit to such letting. In supplication and good grace,’ he added, echoing Cara’s words, ‘so that their restless spirits might be calmed. That’s what Cara told me. But then she asked me to decide – to decide whether I wanted to stay or not. And I wanted to talk to you, Eli …’

  ‘Calmed, eh?’ said Eli, his voice low and expressionless. ‘And the blood? What did Kilian do with it?’

  ‘I … I …’ Micah swallowed. He realized he did not know. Hadn’t thought to ask.

  Eli stared at him, his pale blue eyes boring into his.

  ‘But Eli!’ Micah exclaimed. ‘Why does it matter anyhow? Besides, it’s all right now. Cara’s fine. And … and I heard Kilian talking to the children … He’s a good man, Eli. All he wants to do is to look after them folks that have had enough of the trials and tribulations of the weald …’ He looked down, embarrassed by his outburst. ‘He’s … he’s like a farmer, Eli. Leastways, like a ­wyrmeherder looking after his herd …’

  ‘And taking their blood.’ Eli’s voice was harsh and scathing. There was anger in it. ‘Come on, Micah, lad,’ he said, brushing past him and striding off towards the store chamber. ‘Let’s see who the prophet is welcoming into his fold.’

  Forty

  Micah and Eli arrived in the store chamber to find Kilian the prophet standing in the middle of the stone floor, his arms folded, and eyes scanning those around him. Cara was standing beside her father. She was dressed in a crisp white bonnet and a freshly-pressed grey cloak, buttoned at the neck.

  ‘Deephomers,’ Kilian was saying in a calm but authoritative voice. ‘Busy yourselves around the chamber. Do not stare at whoever the sentinel is bringing. No loud cries or clatter …’ His tufted eyebrows rose. ‘For we don’t want to startle or overwhelm them. And Cara, make sure the route to the great chamber is kept clear, should we need to use it. Watch for my signal.’

  Cara nodded and turned toward the entrance to the tunnel, only to find Micah watching her.

  ‘Cara,’ he said simply.

  She smiled. ‘Micah,’ she said, and as her gaze fell upon the clothes he was wearing, her smile broadened. She reached out and took him by the hand. ‘So you have decided to become one of us,’ she said quietly, but her eyes were bright and there was an excited tremor in her voice. ‘Oh, Maker be praised!’

  Beside him, Micah sensed Eli stiffen. He didn’t want to look into the cragclimber’s face.

  ‘I thought a change of clothes would be good,’ he said, and felt Cara’s grip on his hand tighten.

  She leaned forward and her head brushed the brim of his hat as she whispered in his ear. ‘They suit you, Micah. I’ll tell you how much … tonight.’

  Micah blushed and glanced at Eli, but the cragclimber’s attention was focused on Kilian. The prophet had crossed the chamber to the entrance and was looking out at the stockade steps.

  It had stopped snowing, but the snow that had already fallen lay deep and even on the ground beneath the stockade. He adjusted his hat and was about to step out into the fullwinter cold, when all at once something round and ragged came hurtling through the air, high over the jagged spikes of the stockade wall.

  With a muffled thump, it landed at the top of the stockade steps and tumbled down the stairs, leaving a bloody trail in the white snow. At the bottom, it rolled to one side and came to rest at the prophet’s feet.

  It was a head. A human head, with a thick black beard and panic-filled eyes. A hank of hair had been ripped from the scalp. Blood dripped from the tattered skin at the severed neck.

  Micah gasped and wrapped his arm protectively around Cara. Neither of them could look away.

  ‘Brother Abel,’ Cara murmured, her voice trembling. Then she turned and buried her face in Micah’s chest, and Micah hugged her tightly, feeling her shoulders rise and fall as she sobbed.

  All round them the Deephomers were shrinking back. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes as best they could, but some had already seen and had started ­whimpering. One woman was wailing. Someone vomited.

  ‘Cara!’ Kilian turned, ashen-faced, and Micah felt Cara pull away from him. The prophet pointed, and his daughter nodded. When Kilian next spoke, his voice was soft but charged with urgency. ‘To the great chamber,’ he announced. ‘Everyone to the great chamber. Gather yourselves inside, seal the doors, then sing, brothers and sisters. Raise your voices to the glory of the Maker, for He shall protect us.’

  The air hummed as the Deephomers obeyed, turning and hurrying off to the great chamber, their voices already rising in song. And from every corner of ­Deephome came low murmuring chants as others did the same – abandoning pots on the kitchen stoves, leaping from the hot springs and grabbing linen towels, hurrying from the meeting chamber and the sleeping ­galleries.

&nb
sp; ‘That’s right, brother Leo,’ Cara was saying en­couragingly, ushering a grizzled old-timer with a walking stick across the floor of the store chamber. ‘Hurry now, sister Bethany …’

  As the Deephomers left the store chamber, Cara hung back at the entrance to the tunnel. She gave Micah a beseeching look.

  ‘Micah, come. And you, brother Eli. Let my father deal with this …’

  Trembling with shock, Micah turned to Eli. It was like he was trapped inside a nightmare, powerless to wake. Eli’s blue eyes met his.

  ‘Run if you want to, lad,’ he said, his hand reaching for the knife at his belt. ‘But I’d just as soon take my chances here.’

  Cara gave Micah a despairing look, then turned and hurried after the rest of the Deephomers. The store chamber filled with the sound of singing. It was coming from the great chamber. Then there came the scraping of wood on rock as heavy wooden doors were pulled shut, and the voices were muffled.

  Micah turned away to see Kilian striding towards him.

  ‘If you’d obeyed me and gone with the others, I could have protected you,’ he said regretfully as he strode past. ‘Now, Maker have mercy on your souls.’

  The prophet disappeared down the tunnel, leaving Micah and Eli alone in the store chamber.

  Just then, from the top of the stockade steps, there came a dull thud. Eli spun round to see a small round metal object, smoke hissing from one side as it rolled down the wooden stairs, gathering snow.

  ‘Get down!’ he bellowed. He threw himself to the stone floor and covered his head with his arms.

  Micah fell down beside him and curled up into a tight ball. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself ­desperately. Not here. Not in Deephome …

  The explosion was colossal. It ripped through the air, earsplit loud and destructive. It drove a hole through the stockade and reduced the wooden steps to splinters. Snow flew up in clods, hissing and steaming as flames erupted and melted it mid air.