Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (46 page)

I could hear them calling.

I snuggled into the bedclothes and blew out my candle.

oOo

We found out early that Tate was dead. Died in a fall, the
men at the barn said. In a frenzy to be free, he had climbed into the loft to
try and force the hay doors, and had fallen through an open hay chute. Papa
told Momma that he had broken his neck, and Momma said it was a blessing,
though she cried when she said it.

“How many sons will die?” she murmured as she passed, but
she did not speak to me.

There wasn’t anything to say. I was wondering the same
thing.

oOo

Vintage moved into Fog, and Fog into Frost. Harvest was
past; Momma brewed her solstice beer. Still a silver cross hung above our door.
The men had no luck catching any of the remaining werewolves, but they
discovered a chilling thing . . . the werewolves were not bound
to the full moon.

“Sometimes it happens, Allie,” Papa explained when I asked.
“Especially when the person doesn’t choose to be a werewolf.”

“You can choose to be one?” I could tell by the amused
expression on his face that my eyes were getting big, so I tried to squint.

“Those who deal with witchy people can,” Papa answered,
tapping his pipe with his finger. “Legends say that witches could use magic so
a person would be a werewolf during a full moon, yet retain a grip on sanity.
Only silver could kill one of those creatures. Turns out that when it’s passed
like a disease, there are many ways to rid yourself of werewolves — ash wood, and
burning, and such.”

I handed him his tobacco pouch so he’d keep talking. As he
paused to relight his pipe, I whispered, “What binds them, if not their own
will?”

“The phases of the moon, Allie. They start to change
whenever the hunger comes upon them. The closer to the full moon, the more
wolf-like they become. We must be as kind as we can, daughter, even if we must
kill, for this is not of their making.”

We sat in silence for a time, just Papa and me. Momma
doesn’t sit by the fire like she used to — I think she’s afraid something will
come down the chimney, although I hung garlic over the mantel. She’s always
giving me funny looks lately. And Papa doesn’t call me “child” anymore. I often
wonder if they hear the wolves calling on the night breeze . . .
if they hear what I hear.

I had a terrible nightmare that night. It was about Dolph’s
friends, the couple who got married last spring. They were in their bed; it was
dark outside, yet I could see them in their bed. Only the quilt was black, as
if soaked with blood, as if someone had died a-birthing. Her throat and chest
were bloody, but only his arms, I could see only his black arms —

It was Momma holding me when I woke up, trying to soothe me,
but I couldn’t be calmed. My heart was pounding and my breath coming quick,
like when Idelia and I raced from the schoolhouse to the well. It was so real,
as if I had been in the room. I kept telling her that, kept trying to tell her
about the dream, but she kept putting her fingers over my mouth so I couldn’t
talk.

“Enough, Garda.” Papa was there, by my door. “You can’t keep
her young forever, and you knew it might come to her.”

“No! No, I won’t allow it! Why do you think I had her
baptized? Eldon —”

“But if it is truly a gift, woman, then God should value it
as much as we do.” I heard the rustle of thatch, and knew Papa was sitting on
the end of my bed. “It’s all right, Allie. Tell me what you saw.”

So I told them. Both of them — Momma stayed for the whole
thing, her body hard as wood against mine. When I finished, I heard Papa stand
once more.

“I should go get Faxon.”

Momma threw herself away from me, leaping to her feet. “Not
until morning! The moon lit the room for her dreaming, and it’s already low.
Eldon, he’s already killed her —”

“And Stannes is still part wolf, Garda. Have pity. Better he
die now, than come to his senses over her body. I will take both ash and
silver.”

Something in his words must have calmed her, because Momma
finally let him leave, though she clung to him a time. Then she gently tucked
me in, like when I was little, and told me to sleep myself out, she’d see to
the chickens. It seemed a long time before I finally heard her walk back down
the narrow hall to the stairs. Sleep was forever coming, because I had lots to
think about. Strange dreams, strange words, strange looks. . . .
For the first time, I realized that Momma was afraid for me. But I didn’t
understand why.

I could still hear them calling.

By the time I woke the next morning, there were only two
werewolves left. Something else had also changed. . . . Papa wasn’t going hunting
anymore. None of the other men seemed upset with him or anything — he was just no
longer expected to hunt werewolves. I heard one of them say, “You’re needed to
guard what’s under your roof,” but it didn’t make any sense.

oOo

Nerves grew tighter as the full moon loomed near. Papa and
the older boys set up the trap line, and I learned to prepare beaver skins and
stretch them properly. It was hard, messy work, but Momma made it look easy, so
I knew I could learn it, too, if I kept trying.

Our root cellar and egg bin were full to bursting, so we
stuck close to home when the morning finally came upon us. Up before sunrise, I
found the family already busy with chores. Papa was out checking traps while
Josh worked by the fireplace, tightening the snowshoes. It was in the air, the
snow. It would make tracking the werewolves easier . . . .

“Take your brother some fever tea, Allie,” Momma called from
the front room where she was bathing the younglings before the fire. “He’s out
in the cold storage.”

Still yawning, I filled a stone crock with whatever Momma
had brewed and rushed it out to the shed. Dolph was there, all right, knee-deep
in beaver and mink, covered with blood from the skinning. He looked white and
pasty in the dim morning light, and suddenly I was worried. Idelia had the
fever, and I couldn’t bear it if Dolph had it, too.

“Here.” I thrust the pot at him. “Momma says have some tea.”
Sometimes I’m so stupid; Momma must have noticed how he looked last night.

He moved the lid aside and took a few gulps, and then
twisted away as his stomach turned over.

“Dolph?” I knew he heard the fear in my voice.

“I’m all right!” It was almost belligerent. His eyes already
had the touch of fever in them. Bad, real bad — a full moon was on the rise, and
no doctor would come to the house during the full moon, maybe not even during
the day.

“You should rest, you’ve probably got what Idelia has,” I
started, noticing how sloppily he was taking pelts. More like me or Josh than
his usual skill. I’d have to tell Papa.

“Git, Allie. I can finish my work.”

I knew that tone. I got. I took the side trek, around the
house, since the path was windward, and as I shuffled through the gloom, I saw
a curious thing. Green shoots peeping up from the loose dirt by the house,
barely showing, already withered. I bent to examine the sprouts. Almost in
response, a fantastic trill of notes floated from the woods beyond.

Garlic.
Thank you,
little bird.
Frowning, I examined the entire side, the full length of the
stillroom that doubled as Dolph’s sleeping area. Momma would’ve told me if she
had planted garlic over here; we would’ve made more of a shelter than this. I
looked up, and realized what it must be. The garlic above Dolph’s window had
fallen. Some time ago, to judge by the length of the shoots. Carefully
uprooting the sprouts, I hid them under my shawl and continued around to the
door. No sense telling Momma, she’d only get upset. Plenty of time to hang more
garlic before evening.

oOo

They got the third werewolf in the act of transformation. I
hadn’t known him well — Mr. Casimir was a widower, his children grown, and he
lived the far side of the settlement. But he must have sensed what he was, or
he wouldn’t have lingered at the tavern until sundown. The men there tried to
get him into the storeroom, to lock him up, but he was too crazy, and they had
to kill him so he wouldn’t bite no — anyone. They came straight to tell Papa,
and to ask him if I’d figured out anything else.

Papa cut them off at that, and drew them away, motioning for
Momma to take me into the kitchen. We left them in the front room and moved
around to the other side of the firewall. Josh had hidden himself upstairs, and
the little ones were asleep.

“Momma, what did they mean by —”

“Don’t worry yourself, Alfreda,” she said in her mother
voice. “It’s nothing to fear.”

“Hadn’t you better tell me about it? Momma . . .
am I a werewolf or something?” I asked solemnly. After all, I
could
hear the critters when no one else
could.

She actually started laughing, although I could hear
hysteria behind it. “Dear God, no, daughter. Quite the opposite.”

And then she told me. Seems the folks in our family often
have what they call “the Gift” — of knowing things no one has told them, and
dreaming true dreams. Momma’s grandmother was the wizard of the village, once,
and everyone had depended on her advice. “They’re hoping you’re growing up the
same way, what with your dream about the other night.”

“But you’re hoping I’m not.” I wasn’t sure she’d understand
what I meant, but she did. Her slender face grew still, and she reached
absently to tuck a long strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“I have some of it, daughter. It is a great burden. I fear
the burden, which is why, I think, it comes rarely to me. I do not envy you . . .
I tried to protect you.” This was very low. “I thought that if you didn’t learn
about the Wise Arts, they would never trouble you. I thought you’d be happier . . .
not knowing.” She sat studying the fire, almost unaware of me, as the voices of
the men in the main room rose and fell like a bellowing trumpet of geese.

“Don’t worry, Momma. I’ll protect you.” I said it with a
smile, to try and coax one from her, but I meant it — I’m stronger than my
mother, you see, in so many ways.

She sighed and reached for the kettle. “Drink some angelica
tea, child. It’s good for almost any ailment. I left some more next to Dolph’s
bed, before he threw me out.” Shaking her head, she rose. “Just like his father;
he has no use for nursing when he’s sick. I shut the door to the stillroom.
We’ll just leave him be, and call the doctor come morning if he’s no better.”

I realized I hadn’t told Momma about Dolph throwing up the
tea, but then Papa came in to speak to her, so I bent my head to my mug.

Somehow, somewhen, between a long draught of tea and a
glance at the fire, something changed. The taste of crushed seeds lingered on
my tongue, as if trying to tell me something. Tell me. . . .

Angelica. The one herb that is proof against all forms of
evil. Stray shards of thought came together in my mind to form a coherent
whole. Angelica. Garlic. Thirst . . . . My hands began to shake.

“Alfreda?” It was Papa. He hardly ever called me that; I
turned slowly toward the sound of his voice, trying to see through a blur of
tears. Bending one knee, he lowered himself to my level.

I waited for him to speak, but he did not. Finally my eyes
cleared, and I met his steady gaze. It gave me the crawlies, that gaze, because
it wasn’t quite like it had ever been before. It was still my father looking
out at me, but it was no longer a parent talking to a child. It was a man
talking with his grown daughter.

Only a moment, and all things change forever. . . .

“Alfreda, I must go with the others. To stop the last
werewolf. The madness has set in, we think — he’s been attacking wild animals,
and that might spread the disease.” Papa’s eyes held mine, as if begging
something from me. “I need you to take care of your momma and the little boys.
Will you do that for me?”

He knew. And he knew I knew. He was so strong, I was ashamed
at my weakness.

“Of course, Papa. I will take care of everything. Be
careful.” I reached to touch his arm, memorizing his face, afraid that
something even worse might yet happen that night. “Don’t let him suffer . . . anymore.”

His hand was warm against my cheek as he rose. “I’ll be back
soon, Garda. Wait up for me, please.” He reached to touch her lips lightly
before turning to leave. Momma followed, to bar the door and drape the boughs
of garlic securely.

I stood slowly, feeling the weight of my father’s pain.
Downing the rest of my tea, I set the cup aside and reached for the garlic
braid I had made earlier. “Momma,” I called. “I’m going to check the rest of
the garlic and mustard seed.”

“Thank you, Alfreda. I’ll take care of the upstairs.” She
went past me and up the back stairs without comment, so swiftly that I wondered
momentarily if she knew. But no — Momma feared the burden, so I would know for
both of us now.

Checking the tightness of my weaving, I gave the braid a
final tug and then reached for my father’s chair. Not too heavy, fortunately,
but heavy enough, so it was an effort to carry, not drag, it to the door
between the kitchen and the makeshift back bedroom.

Standing on the chair, I listened a moment, scarcely
breathing. But no . . . he had already left through the window.

I hung the bough of garlic over the stillroom door.