The Glass Casket (14 page)

At the tavern, the men were fuming, caught up in the preparations, the thrill of the hunt infecting them all. Jude slunk in, trying to remain unnoticed. The last thing he wanted was to be given a weapon and dragged out into the wilds to fight a bloodthirsty beast, but he needed to know what was being planned.

“We’ll do what has to be done,” said Goi Tate, clearly relishing the chance to release some of his well-honed aggression. “We’ll band together and hunt the thing down. Then we’ll drag it through the center of the village and hang it up for all to see.”

The rest of the men grunted in assent.

“Safety must be a consideration, of course,” Wilhelm spoke up, his voice soft in comparison to the younger man’s. “We’ll need to go in pairs. We’ll need to stay on our guard.”

“We move tonight,” Goi Tate said, pulling the focus back to himself.

Jude cleared his throat and got the other men’s attention. “I don’t think it wise that we should hunt this creature at night,” he said.

“Don’t be silly, boy,” rasped Goi Tate. “It struck at night.”

“That’s my point exactly,” Jude answered. “It hunts and kills at night, and if we send ourselves out into the darkness when it is at its most potent, we put too much at risk. It would be wiser to move at dawn, to catch the creature unaware, perhaps even while it sleeps.”

“What does the boy know?” Goi Tate scowled. “He speaks from fear.”

Paer Jorgen nodded. “He is right to be afraid. The creature we hunt, whether it be a common wolf or something … more, no man here is a match for it. Our best chance to kill it is to use our wits. We go at dawn.”

Goi Tate raised his thumb. “Respectfully, I disagree. We need to slay the wolf before it can kill again.”

“It was no wolf,” a raspy voice said from the stairs, and Jude looked up to find his brother looking even worse than when he’d left him. The room fell silent, and the men waited for Tom to continue. “I was not twenty yards from it, and though I didn’t see it with my eyes, I am certain it was no wolf. It was larger, I am sure of it—larger than any man, larger than any animal known to these woods.”

“What are you saying, Tom?” his father asked.

He shrugged and leaned against the wall, a new kind of hollowness to his eyes. “I’m saying that anyone who goes out to find this thing is going to die.”

The men laughed, rolling their eyes at Tom’s dramatics, but Jude stared at his brother with utter seriousness, and when he stood, the men fell silent again. Their father cleared his throat and looked out the window as if to fully disassociate from his boys. Jude went to his brother, and taking him by the arm, he motioned to the door.

“We’ll see you on the morrow for the hunt,” Jude said as they left the inn.

Out in the snow, Tom pulled his collar close to block out the chill and gave his brother a wary look. “I hope you know I’ll do no such thing. I’m never going into those woods again.”

“You’re not fit to hunt a squirrel. You’ll stay home and rest. You were supposed to be resting now,” he said, but Tom kept on trudging through the snow, his stolid face graying and blank.

“It was no wolf,” Tom whispered.

“Then what was it?” Jude asked, growing impatient with his brother. “You must have seen it. You were twenty yards away. You said so yourself. And the moon was full that night. Surely you must have seen something.”

But again Tom shook his head. “There was nothing to see. It was as if it was there all around me, but I couldn’t see a thing. It was as if the forest itself came alive for just an instant, just long enough to destroy her, and then it disappeared
back into itself, only trees and dirt, like it was never there.”

When he spoke, Tom dropped the ends of his words, as if he didn’t have the energy to finish his thoughts, and for the first time something awful occurred to Jude: Was it possible that Tom had done more than just bear witness to the girl’s death? Was that any less possible than his account of the forest coming to life and swallowing her up? Unconsciously, Jude found himself edging away from his brother, just a touch farther down the path, a hair out of arm’s reach, but then he caught himself and realized how ridiculous the thought of Tom harming anyone was. His brother was gentle. He was quiet and kind. He cared for the sick and for injured animals. He did good deeds every chance he got. There was no way he’d momentarily lost his mind and killed a girl with his bare hands. Still, Jude began to wonder if other people might start to find it suspicious that Tom had been the one to find her body, to report it back to the village elders. He’d withheld the fact that he’d been with her at the time of her death from all except his immediate family.

It had been at their father’s insistence that Tom declined to tell that part of the story. The elders were already looking for malice beneath their roof. Connecting Tom any more closely with Fiona Eira’s death would certainly feed their alarm, and so his father had begged him to twist the truth that he might not cast further suspicion on their family. Tom, who was never given to deceit, had had a difficult time with it, but had eventually come round to his father’s point of view. And then there had been their mother’s subtle push.

“Think of Fiona Eira,” she’d said. “Think of what people would say if they knew she’d lured a boy into the woods like an enchantress. Dead or not, think of her reputation.”

When the glassblower’s cottage came into view, they were shocked to see a solitary creature standing outside.

“Is that Rowan?” Jude asked, wonder in his voice.

Tom nodded. “She’s going to be difficult.”

“Of course she’s going to be difficult,” Jude laughed. “She’s Rowan.”

As they reached the glassblower’s cottage, Rowan held out a hand to stop them. And because Tom was given to doing what she said, a simple hand signal went a long way. The boys stopped in their tracks.

“Tom Parstle,” she said. “You are not setting foot on this property.”

“Step aside, Ro,” he said, but she planted her palm firm against his chest.

“I’ve just spoken with Natty Whitt. He tells me Goi Flint’s gone crazy. They say the man’s gone mad—that he’s dangerous. There’s nothing we can do but hope he has a change of heart.”

“If there’s nothing we can do, then what are you doing here?” he asked.

Rowan furrowed her brow. “I don’t know exactly. I just can’t bring myself to leave.”

“I need to talk to him,” Tom said, distracted. “I need to convince him of the gravity of his decision.”

“But, Tom,” she said. “Natty told me that you were the one who found her, and that Goi Flint already thinks you
ran off together. It sounds like he’s this close to accusing you of her murder.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Jude, alarmed that someone else had considered the possibility.

Tom scowled. “They think I did this? I could never …”

“I know, Tom, but I’m begging you to go home. That man is dangerous—that house is dangerous.”

“Rowan has a point,” Jude said.

“But all of this … it’s just insanity,” Tom said, gripping his head.

“Exactly, Tom,” she answered. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s gone mad. Onsie said he’s been in his studio working all day, and when he does emerge, he babbles, says insane things. And his wife, she hasn’t set foot outside all day. Some think she left—fled into the woods to hide from her beastly husband.”

Tom’s gaze shifted to the cottage. He stared, undeterred, and Jude placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder as if to steady him. “Give the man until nightfall, and we’ll see what he does.”

“I won’t abide it,” Tom said, striding into the yard with such force that Jude and Rowan knew better than to stand in his way.

With a storm raging in Tom’s head, and only emptiness where his heart should have been, he stalked through the snow toward the old oak door. For a moment, he had the oddest memory eclipse his thoughts—his grandmother serving him hot juniper tea and cinnamon cookies. She sat opposite him, smiling at him, and he remembered the scent
of her skin, how sweet it was, how welcoming. She had died when he was only five, and he had no idea how he could have retained such a clear memory of her, much less why it was surfacing now as he walked up to Goi Flint’s door.

He couldn’t help but pause a moment and smile, standing there in the snow like a fool. And he realized he was fighting back tears.

“Tom?” he heard Rowan call. “Are you okay?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Jude said.

But Tom was a million miles away, and he knew with a hardened certainty that he did need to do this. It was his duty.

Tom stomped up the steps and pounded on the front door. There was a moment before anything happened, but as soon as the door opened, the man flew at him with all his bulk, and together they toppled over and collapsed into the snow. In an instant the man was astride him, the cold steel of a blade pressed flush against Tom’s neck.

Tom gasped for air, and suddenly he started laughing, hysterical. Rowan and Jude moved in to help him, but Goi Flint shouted that they’d best back away if they didn’t want him to slit Tom’s throat.

It must have looked a horrific scene, and Tom knew that, but from where he lay in the cold snow, this monster threatening to kill him, he suddenly felt that the entire situation was completely and utterly absurd.

“I don’t want to kill you, boy,” the man growled, but Tom continued to laugh, unable to stop himself.

“Stop laughing, Tom!” Rowan cried. “You’ll only make him angrier.”

“Leave us alone, you hear me, boy?” Seamus Flint demanded.

But Tom couldn’t stop laughing even as his mind’s eye was beset by horrific images—the moon in the night wood, Fiona Eira laid out in the snow, bathed in her own blood.

“For the love of all that is holy, will you shut up!” he heard his brother yell.

Goi Flint pressed the knife harder against his neck, and then Tom saw Jude above, holding a large plank of wood. Then he saw him bring it down hard on Goi Flint’s head. The beast of a man flinched and sprang off Tom, turning all of his aggression on Jude, who took off running, disappearing into the darkness.

Tom, free now, scrambled to his feet, and Rowan grabbed his hand. The two of them ran off, following Jude. The glassblower stood in his yard, the snow tumbling down around him, and long after the three had reached the safety of the tavern, he still stood there, holding his knife aloft, wailing into the night.

A
RLENE
B
LESSING WAS
the first to see it. As usual, she was up before dawn, and dressed in her warmest winter cloak, she set off for her morning stroll around the village. The snow was falling in gentle flurries. She walked her normal route, along the line of row houses, near the bakery, where, she could smell, they had already begun their day’s work. She walked past the inn, and down by the glassblower’s cottage—where that young girl had died.

At first she didn’t understand what it could be—a sculpture of some kind, but no, that couldn’t be right. The man was an artisan, and he worked with glass, but surely he would not spend the evening of the girl’s death creating a
massive sculpture to display in his front yard. Arlene’s feet carried her forward, her curiosity forcing her to press on and gain a better look—but all the while her heart was twisting within her chest, urging her to turn around.

Slowly, she approached, snow crunching beneath her boots. Whatever it was, it was longer than it was tall, and made of crystal clear glass, peaked at the top into a harsh angle. It was up on a wooden stand, and there appeared to be something inside.

She stood at the edge of the glassblower’s property, unable to believe what she was seeing. A step closer, and there was no mistaking it.

It was a coffin. A glass coffin, intricately carved, and set out in the yard for all to see. Inside it was the girl, her black hair splayed out around her, her lips like rotting cherries set against a newly ashen complexion.

Her body had been swaddled in white mourning cloth, but it was possible to see that she was no longer a full person. Flowers of blood bloomed where her chest should have been, and there was a dip to the torso that intimated she’d been all but hollowed.

Arlene’s hand flew to her mouth.

And then the world seemed to spin, and a deafening cry rose up in Arlene’s ears, surrounding her, threatening to swallow her up, and she lost her balance, her feet faltering in the snow. It was only when she caught herself that she realized that the scream had been her own.

Fighting back tears, she turned and hurried out of the yard.

By the time Rowan awoke, the news was all over the village. The grieving glassblower had done the unthinkable. By then the hunt had been called off—there were more pressing matters at home—and everyone had seen her, laid out in the snow like a memento mori. It was beautiful work, some of the younger people whispered amongst themselves. The glassblower had produced a piece of art unlike anything the villagers had ever seen. Too bad, Billy Bribey had chuckled to Onsie Best, that he was only able to access that talent in the wake of a tragedy, and wasn’t it a pity there weren’t more upon him that he might build them a magnificent glass cathedral. Rowan had been standing behind the boys, her face pinched with sorrow, and she had slapped Billy Bribey’s hand so hard that red swelled forth.