Den of Wolves Read online

  I go over and sit down near him. He’s on one big block of stone and I’m on another. Make sure I can still see that path. Last thing I want is to get the poor bastard in trouble for talking to me about the wrong thing.

  ‘Old man’s hands, yes,’ I tell him. ‘But you’ve got no white hairs.’ His hair and beard are a filthy, tangled mess. Give them a good wash, they’d come up oak-brown. That’s my guess. ‘And you can stand up straight. Old men get that hunch in the back, you know?’ I think about what he said. ‘Away. Away where, Bardán?’ Shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t expect him to tell his tale when I don’t tell mine. ‘Forget that, it’s none of my business.’

  He stares into nothing, face like a sad dog’s. ‘Far away,’ he says after a while. ‘Another place. Building, building.’

  Things go quiet for a bit. I get back to work. He watches me. Ripple’s hunkered down in the shade, keeping an eye on both of us. I think about how it would feel if you couldn’t remember. I wouldn’t mind forgetting that place of Mathuin’s and the stuff that happened there. Be happy if I didn’t dream about it ever again. I bet there’s things Blackthorn would like to forget too. But then, if you forget what’s bad, cruel, unjust, you might not care anymore about setting things to rights. You might stop standing up against the folk who do evil deeds. And someone’s got to.

  Then Bardán says, ‘A hundred years.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Must’ve heard wrong.

  ‘Gone. Away. A hundred years.’ Bardán’s not looking at me, he’s staring off into nothing. Maybe waiting for me to say, What? A hundred years? You’re crazy.

  ‘Happens in the old tales,’ I say. ‘Heard one or two about folk wandering into mushroom circles or the like. Next moment they’re somewhere else. The Otherworld. And they can’t get back. Mostly the other way, though. Feels to them like they’re in that place for a day or two. But when they come back, to this world I mean, all the folk they knew are old or dead and there are strangers living in their house.’ I take a quick glance at Bardán. He’s looking at me hard, as if what I’m saying makes sense to him. Morrigan’s curse! Could it be . . .? I was going to say, Wife, children, all gone, but I don’t. ‘Could work the other way. Hundred years. Long time.’ I look at him again. ‘A man could learn a lot about building in a hundred years. And ruin his hands doing it.’ Thing is, Blackthorn and me have seen some strange old things; things most folk would say couldn’t be true. There’s Conmael. Take one look and you know he’s fey, even if he hadn’t got us out of Mathuin’s lockup with some sort of spell. There’s Dreamer’s Pool, where we saw a dog turn into a woman and a woman turn into a dog. And when we went to Bann there were tiny wee folk and a man-monster and a curse that kept people alive more than two hundred years. Which all means I don’t jump to the conclusion that Bardán’s crazy, even if he can act that way. Learned to build a heartwood house, didn’t he? And a heartwood house sounds to be as magical as a house can be. Where would he do that, if not in the Otherworld?

  But then, Bardán was the one building the heartwood house the first time. And that was before those years away. So the fey might have taught him how to do it better, but he already knew a lot about it.

  ‘Going to ask you something,’ I say, looking around again in case anyone’s near. ‘You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.’

  Bardán makes a sound that might mean, Go ahead, then.

  ‘Who taught you how to make a heartwood house?’

  He doesn’t answer. Which is fair enough. I get back to work, wondering. Would hearing some kind of old tale or rhyme be enough for a fellow like him, good at building already, to get the know-how of this? And where would he have heard it?

  Long while later, when I’m busy with pegs and string, checking that things are straight, Bardán speaks up. As if I’d only just asked that question.

  ‘My father. He showed me.’

  Have to think quick, get my head away from the build and back to what we were talking about before. From the look on Bardán’s face, I’m guessing that while I’ve been pacing around and measuring, he’s been remembering something he thought he’d forgotten. That sad face of his, mostly hidden behind the beard and the thatch of hair, has got a different look on it now. Surprise. Almost wonder.

  ‘Your dad, hmm?’ I keep it light. ‘He a builder too?’

  A quick smile. He’s got a few teeth missing in the front. ‘Dad,’ he says, sad and happy both. ‘A builder, yes.’

  ‘He taught you well.’ Bardán’s a wreck of a man, down on his luck and angry too, something simmering away inside him. But he knows his job. He knows it inside out. Makes my heart bleed for him. ‘Not just the building work,’ I say. ‘The . . .’ Can’t find the words for what I mean. ‘The knowing of it,’ I say. ‘The right doing of it.’ Want to ask where his father learned to build a heartwood house, but I don’t. He doesn’t owe me his story.

  Time passes. Spring moves on. Stone work’s all finished, frame standing nice and strong. Weather stays dry, only a light fall of rain here and there, easy enough to work in. Truth is, I’d like a few days off. Be good to stay home with Blackthorn for a bit. Maybe catch up with a few of the fellows from the settlement. But it’s warm and fine, flowers popping up everywhere, birds busy in the woods, new green on the trees. And the way I’ve agreed to things with Master Tóla, I’ll only get time off if it’s too wet for work.

  Lambing starts, meaning the farm lads will be too busy to give us a hand for a while. Gormán and Conn are busy too, doing their own work out in the forest. Which means most days it’s just Bardán and me. Blackthorn’s made up a salve for him. When I show him he doesn’t seem impressed, but he lets me rub it into his hands anyway.

  ‘She says it’ll ease the pain,’ I tell him. ‘But you have to remember. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. She says be patient.’

  Bardán just sits there staring at his hands. Got no faith in it, that’s plain.

  ‘Blackthorn knows what she’s talking about,’ I say. ‘Good at what she does. Doesn’t tell folk they’ll get better if she knows it can’t happen.’

  ‘Different,’ Bardán says. He holds up his hands, a sorry sight. ‘They wouldn’t help. How can she?’

  Feels like I’m holding my breath. ‘They?’

  ‘Them. In that place. Where I was. Where they kept me.’

  ‘The fey?’ Risky, saying that, maybe. Thing is, I’m pretty sure that’s what he means. Either he went there, to the Otherworld, or he thinks he went there. Funny about the hands, though. Seems like the kind of thing Conmael could fix in a click of the fingers if he wanted to. Those wee fey folk at Bann, they healed me quick as quick after Flannan stuck his knife in me. Quicker than any human healer ever could.

  Bardán shrugs. ‘Might have been a cure. Who knows? Nobody offered. And I didn’t ask. Couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not, Bardán?’

  ‘I couldn’t talk, in that place. I could understand all right. But . . . the words wouldn’t come out. Hard to get my tongue around them, even now.’

  Morrigan’s curse! All those years, silent. Among strangers. ‘Getting clearer every day,’ I tell him, which is the truth. ‘Just a matter of practice.’ Then I ask, ‘Was it a spell? A charm they put on you, to keep you quiet?’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of questions.’

  ‘No need to answer them. Not if you don’t want to. I’m interested, that’s all. Never met anyone who’s been to the Otherworld and come back again. Only –’ I shut my big mouth a bit too late.

  ‘Only who?’ Bardán’s peering at me with those strange eyes, looking inside my head.

  I take a risk. Pretty sure he’s not playing games with me. ‘Only the fey themselves.’ I think of those little folk up in Bann, kind folk they were, only as high as my knee. I think of Conmael, who’s more or less the opposite, though well-meaning in his own way.

  ‘Wher
e?’ Bardán asks straight out. ‘Where is the place, the crossing?’ Sounds worried. Sounds as if he’s hoping I’ll say I don’t know.

  ‘Crossing?’

  ‘To that other realm. The – the portal.’

  Getting in deep now. Deep enough to feel like trouble. ‘Don’t you know where it is?’ I look over my shoulder, hoping I won’t see Gormán or Conn coming. ‘Not long since you got back, if I’ve put the pieces together right. Don’t you remember where you came out?’

  ‘It was dark. Cold. Night time. I ran and ran. And hid away, buried myself deep. Hid from the moon. Hid from the truth. A sad, bad truth.’

  My cloak’s on the ground; Ripple’s lying on it. She shifts when I tell her to. I pick the cloak up, put it around Bardán’s shoulders. He’s shaking now. I should know not to do that. Wake up what a man wants to keep hidden. Should know better than most. ‘Sorry,’ I say. He’s put his face in his hands, bowed his head onto his knees. ‘Only trying to help. Big fool that I am.’

  Bardán mumbles something. Might be, ‘It’s all right.’ Then he says, ‘You’re a kind man, Grim. Only . . . I had a friend once. I thought he was a friend. But he . . . he . . .’

  ‘Tell me if you want. Or leave it if you want. Thing is,’ I go on, thinking maybe he does need to get it out, whatever it is, ‘I won’t pass it on. Not to Tóla, not to Gormán, not to anyone here. Promise. I’m a man who keeps his promises.’

  ‘What about back home?’ Bardán asks, clutching the blanket around himself. ‘Wife, family, would you tell them?’

  Makes me feel odd, this. Sadder than it should, don’t know why. ‘No wife,’ I tell him. ‘No family. Only Blackthorn. My friend. My trusted friend, who I live with. And yes, I might tell her. But that’s not the same. Telling her’s like telling the other part of me. She’ll keep your secrets, same as I will.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ Bardán grunts. ‘The master wouldn’t think much of that.’

  ‘Lot of secrets in this place,’ I say, thinking I’d better get back to work before the master has something else to be unhappy about. ‘More than a fair share. Pity about that. What the master needs is a team of five or six strong men, working on this job every fine day, and we could get it finished before midsummer, thatching and all.’

  Bardán watches while I get on to the next job, which is shaping the pegs and wedges that’ll hold the crossbeams in place. Not going to get the beams up without a proper team. Not unless Tóla fancies losing a worker when someone drops something heavy on someone else’s head. ‘Have to tell him,’ I say. ‘That it can’t be done without more men. There’s a few lads I know in Winterfalls who would lend a hand for a fair payment.’

  ‘Secret,’ says Bardán. ‘He’ll say no.’

  ‘Then he might not get his heartwood house finished. Can’t see us doing it on our own without a miracle. Take a look at this, will you? Are you sure holly’s all right for these pegs?’

  ‘Holly,’ Bardán says. ‘Strong for justice. In the rhyme. Every tree in the wood. That’s the way he wants it. Master Tóla.’ The way he says it, it’s as bitter as nettle tea. ‘Making his luck.’

  ‘Don’t like the man much, do you?’ I want to ask what happened, what made that hate fill him up. Seems to me Bardán’s a good man deep down, if a bit odd. We’re all odd in our own ways. But I don’t ask, because a woman’s coming up from the house with a tray. This time it’s not a serving woman but a lady, the master’s sister, Mistress Della. Seen her from a distance before, not close up. Like Tóla, she’s a shortish, squarish person. His hair’s mostly grey. Hers is mostly fair, and done up in plaits. Rosy cheeks, smiling mouth. Looks pleasant.

  ‘Good day, Mistress,’ I say, knowing Bardán won’t say it for me.

  ‘Good day,’ says the lady. ‘Grim, isn’t it?’ Puts her tray down on a flat stone, shoos Ripple away, gives me a good look over. ‘I brought you some provisions.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. The bread and cheese and onions look good; we get hungry, doing this job. Me more than Bardán, since I’m doing the lifting and cutting and shaping, and he’s mostly sitting there telling me how to do it all. My mind’s still on how foolish Tóla is not to hire a crew to get this done. Be all finished in two turnings of the moon, and no hurt backs or broken hands or crushed heads along the way. Why’s it all so secret?

  Mistress Della has said something and I’ve missed it. ‘Sorry, what was that? Must be tired; thoughts are far away.’

  ‘It’s a big job,’ she says. ‘But I can see the hall taking shape. You do excellent work, Grim.’ She glances at Bardán, then turns her eyes away quick. ‘And you,’ she adds. Odd. Is she scared of him? They did send Cara away.

  I give her a smile. Comely woman, in her own way. Feels good to get a sort of thank you. Tóla’s a miser with his praise, just looks the place over and nods, most times. ‘We’re working as hard as we can, Bardán and me.’ I give Bardán a smile too, but he’s staring at the ground, doesn’t see it.

  ‘My brother is grateful,’ Mistress Della says. ‘He may not be free with his thanks, but never doubt that he values your work.’

  ‘Be better if we had a few more helpers,’ I say, thinking she might be the one to convince Tóla, seeing as she’s his sister. ‘Be finished much sooner. Besides, won’t be safe getting the crossbeams up without a proper crew.’

  She goes a bit pink in the cheeks, and I’m sorry I said it. Not her fault if the master’s funny about letting folk know what he’s up to. ‘Nobody would want you to put yourself in danger, Grim. I understand my brother can call in the farm workers to help, and of course Gormán and Conn . . .’

  ‘Best way to go ahead, if you ask me, is to have the same team here every day. Five or six workers all day, every day, until it’s finished. Or at least until we start thatching; I can do that with just a couple of helpers.’ I glance at Bardán. ‘Two lads to pass things up and hold things in place and so on, and Bardán to tell me the tricks of the job.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ she starts, then look at Bardán again and stops. ‘May I speak to you in confidence?’

  I want to tell her anything she says to me can be said to him too, but that would be stupid when she might tell me something useful. I get up and follow her down the path a bit, out of Bardán’s earshot.

  ‘My brother wants no more outsiders here,’ Mistress Della says. ‘Only you, Grim. He . . . He has always set a great deal of faith in . . . in luck charms and the like. A heartwood house is an idea from an old rhyme. It is said to confer every blessing a person could possibly want for himself and his kin. He was devastated when . . . when the building could not be completed, the first time. Suanach – his wife – died soon after the work was abandoned. He believes that if the house had been finished, her life would have been saved. When the builder came back,’ she gives Bardán another glance, ‘my brother saw it as a second chance. A chance to do things properly. There can be no mending the past, of course. But he can secure the future.’

  I try to think what question to ask. Cara is the future. It doesn’t take a scholar to understand that. But Cara hasn’t got a mention, though this lady’s been more or less a mother to her, from what I’ve heard. ‘Doing it properly, doing it right, I understand that,’ I say. ‘But not the bit about no outsiders. Especially when getting in a crew would mean doing things quicker and safer. And I don’t understand why Master Tóla can’t treat his master builder more kindly.’ Hope that’s not too direct for her.

  ‘My brother loathes gossip. He is a very private man. As for the builder . . . there is a sad story attached to him. A story that would bring the strongest man to tears. It justifies my brother’s caution a hundredfold. His rules are made with good reason.’

  ‘What story, Mistress Della?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to share the tale.’ Her face tightens up; I see her wishing she hadn’t said so much. ‘Please don’t mention that we spoke of this. B
est that you just do the work, take your payment and keep quiet. It’s the way things are done here. Now, I’ve been keeping you from your meal. What bad manners!’

  The conversation’s over. No more answers to be had. We walk back to where Bardán and Ripple are waiting. ‘Thank you, Mistress,’ I say, and wait for her to move on. I’m not going to start eating with her watching me.

  She crouches down to pat the dog. Ripple rubs up against her hand as if the lady’s her best friend. ‘What a fine dog you are,’ says Mistress Della. ‘You remind me of my old Dancer, that I had when I was a girl. She was a beautiful thing, long limbs, fine soft coat . . . It broke my heart when I lost her. You get attached to them.’ She straightens, looking away from me, gazing over the part-built house to the many greens of the forest. ‘If he is sometimes a little demanding,’ she says, ‘if he seems harsh, remember his loss. It was grievous; he never recovered fully. Now I should go. Enjoy your meal.’

  When she’s gone I sit down, put the tray between Bardán and me, give Ripple her share. Don’t say a word. There’s a jug of ale as well as the food. I pour a cup for me, a cup for Bardán. I think about what Mistress Della’s told me.

  Doesn’t make a lot of sense. Tóla believed the heartwood house would bring all sorts of luck, good fortune and so on. Bardán ran off before he got it finished. Not long afterwards, Tóla’s wife died. And he blames Bardán. If Cara was a baby when Mistress Della came to Wolf Glen, it’s fifteen years or thereabouts that Bardán’s been away. Away in the Otherworld, or some place he thought was the Otherworld. Only, he’s got fey knowledge. And if he learned from his father, that could mean his father was there too. Where else would you learn how to build a heartwood house? It’s not only using the different woods. Bardán’s telling me all sorts of little things that matter, exactly how the pegs are made and where they go, how many wedges I’ll need, how deep to set the poles, what the pitch of the roof is going to be. There’ll be more, no doubt of that.