The Caller (7 page)

‘I’ll help you.’

There were, it transpired, not only chickens to be fed but ducks as well, and a goat. I found the strength to follow her instructions. If she had the will to go on working, I must match her. The last in the row of decrepit outhouses proved a surprise. It looked empty save for a few garden tools and a pile of old sacks. But Silva shifted the sacks to reveal a trapdoor, which opened to a stone-lined cellar packed with stores, evidence of a busy, productive household: crocks of honey, preserved eggs, dried fruits, cloth-wrapped cheeses, plaits of garlic and onions, tubs of fish layered in oil. There were sacks of flour and beans and oats.

‘Maeva was worried about thieves,’ Silva said as she filled a pan with grain. ‘If folk came to the door we’d give them food, but we always kept our stores hidden.’

I followed her to the chicken coop, whose occupants were noisily informing the world they had been penned in all day, they were hungry and it was time someone did something about it.

‘Too late to let them out now,’ Silva said, tossing the grain over the wattle fence into the small enclosure. ‘Could you fill up the water trough, please?’

I did so from the bucket I’d carried from the well. I counted ten hens and one important-looking rooster, who eyed me suspiciously.

We attended to the five ducks, who came up from a stream at the bottom of the garden for their supper. We went to the goat in its walled field. Silva was calmer now; the company of the familiar creatures, the everyday tasks seemed to reassure her. She greeted the goat with a rub on the forehead and kind words.

‘Her name’s Snow,’ she told me as she threw some hastily gathered greens into the goat’s enclosure. ‘We’ve had her since she was tiny.’

‘She’s lovely, Silva.’ Snow was hungry; I imagined her, on a different day, feasting on the leftovers from the women’s table.

The animals were all fed; the job was done. ‘We’ll need to go back to the Beehives before it gets dark,’ I said. ‘It’ll be safer to camp close to the cairns.’

Silva was silent a while, watching as Snow crunched on the greens. ‘I need to be here,’ she said. It was a simple statement of fact. ‘Someone has to give them their breakfast. Someone has to keep things going.’

A child still, on her own, with the bodies of those she’d called her family lying ten strides away.
They come tae the Beehives
, the invisible presence had said of the wise women.
If no’ for that, I’d be a’ gone awa’.

‘Silva,’ I said, ‘I have a lot to explain to you. A story I don’t tell many people, but because you’re on your own here now, you need to hear it so you can make some choices. But right now, what we need is a wash and a meal and some sleep. Considering what’s happened, it would be safer if we didn’t spend the night here.’

‘They won’t come back.’ There was a core of strength in the uneven voice. ‘They came to kill, nothing else.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘I heard their leader calling them off. When it was done. When they thought they had everyone. He gave an order to stop, and they rode away. If he hadn’t done that, they’d probably have torched the outhouses too, and there would be nobody left to keep vigil tonight. But I’m here and that’s what Maeva would expect me to do.’

There was no arguing with this.

‘Tomorrow I’ll go down to the cairns and tell the Lady what happened, so she can help Maeva and the others walk through the last gateway.’

Her composure startled me almost as much as the implication that she knew the Lady was at the Beehives.

‘There’s a place to sleep in shelter here,’ Silva added. ‘Food and fresh water. You can stay if you want. And . . .’ She glanced toward the ruins of the main house, where Whisper could be seen waiting on a stretch of dry-stone wall, wise eyes, white feathers, red felt boots. ‘And your companion, of course. He is . . . mysterious,’ she added with an attempt at a smile.

‘Whisper comes from the north. He’s part of the story. Let’s go up and ask him what he thinks. Either way, you shouldn’t do this on your own.’

We washed in cold water from the well. We made a small fire and put together a meal from the wise women’s supplies, though we had little appetite for it. Then we lit three candles Silva found in store. Down by the burial mound Whisper and I stood silent while Silva spoke prayers, naming each of those who had died. Her young voice speaking that litany of loss made me want to weep. It brought back my own losses: mother, father, brother, grandmother, comrades. It made me think of Flint, and the empty place that existed in me when we were apart.

‘And Maeva, our leader, our mother, our sister. The Lady’s light shone brightest in her.’ Silva’s list was finished. But no: not quite. ‘And our faithful dog, Lucky, who died trying to protect us. Lucky, you were a good boy, right to the end.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I’ll miss you.’ For a moment, I saw the child she was as well as the composed, strong woman she would soon be. A tear rolled down her cheek, catching the light; she wiped it away.

We went back to our fire. After a while I asked Silva to tell us about the other women and the community – little stories about the good times – and she did. How Elen had been frightened of goats, and how Snow, most placid of creatures, had sensed this and gone out of her way to be gentle. How Maeva had told stories every night, tales from the old lore about the White Lady and the other Guardians, about battles and plagues, floods and fires, and how the people of Alban had stayed strong in times of challenge and hardship. About the Good Folk, who had once been easier to see than they were now. Brollachans, trows, selkies; wee folk of the woods and glens. Fox-friends, fish-friends, bird-friends.

‘How long have you been living here with the wise women, Silva?’ I asked.

‘Two years.’ She did not offer any information about her life before that.

‘Guid place, this,’ Whisper put in. ‘But you canna keep it up on your ain, lassie.’

‘I must. There’s nobody else.’

We fell silent for a while. Today had been a nightmare; what I had seen, smelled, touched would be forever imprinted on my mind. For Silva there had been last night as well – the screams, the smoke, the terror. She’d been as close to those women as a sister. How could I expect her, so soon afterward, to make wise decisions about the future? Besides, in a way she was right. Someone had to feed these animals. As for the ritual . . .

‘Silva, I need to explain to you why Whisper and I are here. Perhaps we can help you; perhaps you can help us.’

A nod. She sat hunched in her cloak, staring into the fire.

Information was dangerous; that was a lesson we rebels learned early. Anything we passed on could be repeated. The Enforcers would think nothing of torturing a child to extract what they wanted. So I did not talk about the rebellion, only told Silva there were other people in Alban who wanted to see change, so that folk like her could observe the old rituals without fear. I told her I had the ability to see and speak with the Good Folk. That Whisper and I had come to the east to find the White Lady so that I could spend the winter months with her, learning. And, though it felt risky, I told her about my conversation with the invisible presence in the beehive hut.

Silva listened wide-eyed. When I was done, she said, ‘Maeva said she was there. Maeva can – could – hear her voice sometimes.’

‘Did Maeva ever talk of seeing anything?’

‘Only the wee insects that fly around in that place. Like moths or grasshoppers, only brighter. Maeva said not to swat them away, because they were the Lady’s messengers.’ She fell silent for a little. ‘I thought it was only a fancy.’

‘No fancy, but simple truth,’ I said. ‘Silva, I need to be plain with you. If anyone discovers that I’m here, not only will I be in great danger, but so will a lot of other people. While Whisper and I are in this area, I’ll need to be down in the beehive hut every day. Even with Whisper keeping watch, it will be risky for you and me to keep going openly between the Beehives and this place. If I hadn’t seen you with the other women performing the ritual, I’d be suggesting Whisper takes you away to a place of safety we know.’ He could transport Silva to Shadowfell quickly, using his magic. I could not see the girl as a rebel fighter, but she could set her hand to helping Milla and Eva with the myriad tasks that went into running the base. She would be safe there. ‘I’d be saying set the animals loose to find their own food and shelter.’

‘No!’ Silva exclaimed. ‘I can’t go away! There’s the ritual –’

‘Yes. And that’s important; perhaps more important than even you realise. What she said – the Lady – was that the Beehives are the last place in the east, and perhaps in all Alban, where folk still perform the seasonal rites. If the practice comes to an end, nobody will be able to find the White Lady any longer.’

Silva made a little sound of shock and grief.

Whisper’s eyes grew still rounder. ‘You mean . . . you mean if the lassie stops doing this, the Lady will be
deid
?’

The wee fire sparked in the chill evening breeze. The smell of burning flesh hung close even now; I wondered if I would ever be clean of it. ‘She implied that the last of her is in those tiny glowing beings. And she needs the ritual to keep her there. I don’t know if she would die. But I believe the parts of her would be scattered so they could never be put together again. That is almost worse than death.’

The silence stretched out. After a while, Silva buried her head in her hands, her shoulders quivering. I put my arm around her.

‘We canna let that happen,’ Whisper said. ‘You canna let it happen, Neryn.’

‘I won’t,’ I said with more confidence than I felt. ‘Among the three of us, we need to make a plan. But not now. Silva, why don’t you try to sleep for a while? We’ll keep vigil for you.’

But Silva would not. Weary to the bone, her face still wet with tears, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. ‘I must stay awake. That’s what Maeva would expect. It’s what the Lady would expect.’

The next morning, the three of us returned to the place of the cairns. I waited with Silva while she spent some time in private, silent prayer. When she had finished, Whisper escorted her back to the ruined house. We hadn’t made much of a plan, but it was obvious we could not survive the winter here without Silva’s hospitality, and she in her turn would not consider leaving her duties of tending to the animals and maintaining the women’s rituals. Whisper and I would have to trust that the natural magic of this place would keep me safe. We were agreed that Silva should not be left on her own.

When they were gone, I crept into the beehive hut. No sooner had I seated myself on the earthen floor and begun the slow sequence of breathing than a host of tiny presences swarmed down from somewhere in the arched roof to settle on me, their little lights painting the ancient stones with a many-coloured glow.

‘Ye hae a sorrow on ye,’ came the voice, softer today. ‘What is it that’s happened?’

I told her, keeping to the facts, trying for a calm tone. ‘There’s only the one young girl left – Silva – but she’s sworn to keep the ritual going on her own,’ I said at the end.

‘The wee lassie, aye. She’ll be grievin’. ’Tis a sorry place, this Alban o’ yours, sad and sorry.’

‘And yours,’ I felt compelled to say. ‘It may be sad and sorry now, but it’s the same Alban where wise women once observed the high days openly; where they walked among their communities, teaching and healing, and were viewed with respect. My grandmother was one such. A herbalist.’

‘Oh, aye? And what became o’ her?’

‘An enthralment that went awry. She died less than a year later.’

‘Oh, aye.’ I heard compassion in her voice. ‘And ye’d hae been a lassie around this one’s age when it happened?’

‘I was, yes.’

‘’Twillna be easy for ye, if ye must care for this lass and keep her safe, and follow your ain path, both at the same time.’

I had not yet told Silva that as soon as my training was complete, we’d have to move on. ‘I know,’ I said.

‘Aye, weel, ye willna be headin’ off tomorrow. There’s time for ye tae think things through. I see ye ken the five steps o’ breathin’. Wha showed ye that?’