Bec (12 page)

“No,” Drust says shortly. “She’s seeing with her heart now, not her eyes. No magic I know can combat a self-powered spell like that.”

“I could shoot one of them with an arrow,” Ronan says, squinting as he takes careful aim.

Orna growls like a wild animal. “You’ll die on that spot if you do!”

“Let her go.” Connla laughs cruelly. “If she’s so desperate to mother demons, who are we to stop her?”

“Bricriu!”
Goll roars, the foul curse for a meddler. Connla only smiles.

“Please, Orna,” I mutter, trying another approach. “I need you. You’re like a mother to me. Let
me
be your daughter. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”

Orna’s eyes soften and she smiles. “You’re a good girl, Bec. And I love you, almost as much as I loved...
love
my little lost ones.” She shakes her head ever so slightly. “But you’re not mine. They are. And they’re calling me.”

“But —”

I get no further. In an instant, taking us all by surprise, she leaps away and is racing down the hill towards the three undead children, who raise their arms and croon with delight.

Fiachna starts after her but Goll trips him. As he rises angrily, turning on Goll, the old warrior sticks his hands out, palms upward, the sign for peace, then says softly, “Macha help her.”

The fury fades from Fiachna and he turns to watch, along with the rest of us. “You should have let me go,” he murmurs. “I might have caught her.”

“No,” Goll replies. “She was too far ahead and too desperate.”

Orna reaches the children and stops. I expect them to attack but they just stand there, staring at her, arms out-stretched, waiting for her to hug them. For a moment I wonder if we were mistaken, if these
are
her children and mean her no harm. But then Drust nudges me and points to the right, farther down the hill. I spot the outline of Lord Loss, inhuman eyes fixed on the woman and children, wicked smile visible even from here.

Ronan fires an arrow at the demon master, then another, but both stop short of their target, as though they’d struck an invisible wall. Lord Loss doesn’t even glance in our direction.

Orna kneels, extends her arms, and draws the children in close. I see their faces, alight with evil glee. The eldest boy gently, lovingly brushes the soft flesh of her neck — then sinks his teeth into it. Orna stiffens but doesn’t cry out. The girl latches on to the warrior’s upper arm, chewing at it like a dog with a bone. The youngest boy’s head sinks beneath Orna’s shoulders. He rips her tunic open. I can’t see from here, but I know he’s suckling, drawing blood instead of milk.

Orna’s arms tighten around the children, hugging them closer. She hums a tune women sing to send their young to sleep. I gasp with horror when I hear that and turn away from the awful sight of the undead boys and girl feasting on the living flesh of their
mother.

Fiachna squats beside me and grabs me tight, letting me bury my face in his chest. “There, there, Little One,” he coos. “She’s happy. She thinks she’s back with her children. We should all be lucky to die so willingly.”

“But they’re not!” I cry. “They’re not her —”

“I know,” he whispers, stroking the back of my head. “But she thinks they are. That’s all that matters.”

Although I’ve turned my back on the carnage, I can’t block out the sounds of ripping flesh and the occasional painful hiss from Orna or moan of satisfaction from the un-dead beasts. Even when I cover my ears with my hands, I hear them, or imagine I do.

After a while the others turn away from the sickening sight, one by one, ashen-faced, eyes filled with regret, stomachs turning. Even cruel Connla, who gave up on her before anybody else.

The only one who doesn’t turn away is Bran. The boy remains sitting where he awoke, watching silently, head tilted to one side, frowning curiously, as if he’s not entirely sure what’s happening and is waiting to see if this is a game with an unexpected, amusing finale.

Eventually, since I can’t bear it, I walk over, turn him around, and sit beside him. I lean against the simple boy and keep him facing away from Orna, allowing her the humble dignity of dying in private.

Family

W
E leave first thing in the morning, pausing only for
Drust to set Orna’s remains aflame so she can’t return to life as one of the
undead. Often demons take the bodies of their victims with them. I think Lord
Loss made the children leave Orna so her bones and last few scraps of flesh
could further unnerve us.

We march in silence, all thoughts on Orna and
how she went willingly to her monstrous death. Is her spirit with her children
now in the Otherworld, or is it doomed to wander this land for all time, lost
and damned?

Even Drust is somber, leaving the lessons for later, proof
that in spite of his stern appearance, he too is human, with the same emotions
as the rest of us.

The ground has been getting rockier the
farther west we proceed. Fewer trees, no fields of crops, not many animals, no
raths or crannogs. But people live here, or did at one time, since there are
remains of many dolmens and wedge tombs. Most of the dolmens have been knocked
over, the stones scattered, the bones they housed burned to ash. And the seals
of the wedge tombs have been broken, either by demons or humans. If we were to
go into the tombs, we’d find charred ash or the sleeping undead. I don’t think
any of the dead in this land lie whole and in peace anymore.

In the afternoon we come to a small village of beehive-shaped stone
huts. It’s an old settlement, with only a crumbling short wall surrounding the
perimeter. The huts are in poor condition, some fallen in on themselves. At
first I think it’s a ghost village, all the people dead or fled. But then I spot
smoke coming from a few of the huts and hear a woman shouting at a child. We
look around at each other, surprised to find life in such a hostile, vulnerable
environment.

“Humans or demons?” Fiachna asks.

“I’m not sure.” Drust
sniffs the air. “There’s a scent of something inhuman, but . . .” He smells the
air again, eyes narrow slits. “There are humans too. Peculiar.”

“Should we
avoid it?” Goll asks.

Drust thinks awhile, then shakes his head. “We need
to rest. We’ve had little sleep recently. We must seek shelter.”

“But if
there are demons . . .” Goll mutters.

Drust glances up at the sky. “It’s a
long time until sunset. We should be safe. And I’m curious. I want to know what
these people are doing here — and how they’ve avoided being butchered by the
Demonata.”

There’s a narrow gateway into the village but we
climb over the wall in case the entrance is set with traps. There are animals
within, scraggly sheep and goats. They scatter when they see us, bleating
loudly.

A boy sticks his head out of a hut, a slingshot in one hand. He
starts to shout — he thinks some animal has entered the village and scared the
sheep and goats. Then he sees us and his shout changes from one of anger to one
of alarm.
“Strangers!”

Within seconds two men, three women, and
three children — two girls and the boy — are in front of the huts, spears and
crude swords in hand, facing us. We hold our ground, weapons raised defensively.
Then Goll gives the order for us to lower our arms. He steps forward, right hand
held palm up, and shouts a greeting.

One of the men meets Goll halfway,
face creased with suspicion, eyeing us beadily. The pair have a quick, hushed
conversation. At the end, Goll turns and nods us forward, while the man returns
to his place among the others.

When we’re all together, Goll makes our
introductions. The man who met him then tells us they’re the MacGrigor. His name
is Torin. The other man’s Ert. The women are Aideen, Dara, and Fand. We aren’t
told the names of the children.

“They’re on a quest,” Torin says. He’s a
short, muscular man, dark-skinned. “They want to stop the demons.”

One of
the women — Fand — laughs. “Just the eight of them?”

“One is all it
takes,” Drust responds.

“We don’t have much respect for druids here,” Ert
says, spitting into the dirt at Drust’s feet. “Your kind aren’t as powerful as
you pretend to be. We had dealings with your lot before and they failed
us.”

“Failed you in what way?” Drust asks with cold
politeness.

“We’ll talk of that later,” Torin says, frowning at Ert. “For
now you’re welcome. We won’t turn you away. However, we can’t feed you, so if
you want to eat, you’ll have to hunt.” He squints at the sun. “I wouldn’t wait
too long.”

The woman called Aideen points to a pair of huts near the wall,
both in poor condition. “You can stay there,” she says. “You’ll be safe if you
don’t wander.”

“We’ll call for you later,” the third woman — Dara —
adds.

“Thank you,” I mutter when the men don’t respond.

“Our
pleasure,” Aideen replies. She starts to turn away, then stops and stares at me.
“Girl,” she commands, “come here.”

I step forward cautiously. Aideen
reaches for me sharply and I draw back from her cracked nails, readying myself
to bark a spell. She spreads her fingers to show she means no harm, then smiles
crookedly. I stand still while she cups my chin and tilts my head
back.

“What is it?” Torin asks.

“Her face . . .” Aideen murmurs,
turning my chin towards Torin.

The man frowns. “She looks like... but she
can’t . . . Girl! What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Bec,” I tell
him. “I’m from the rath of the MacConn.”

“Are you of them?” Torin asks.
“Is your mother of the clan?”

“My mother’s dead,” I answer softly. “Nobody
knows who she was or where she came from. She died not long after I was
born.”

“Aednat’s child!” Aideen gasps, her fingers tightening on my chin.
“She must be!” I tingle with shock when she says that. The face of my mother
forms quickly in my mind, and for the first time ever I have a name to go with
it.

“You knew my mother!” I cry.

“She was my sister,” Aideen
croaks.

“Then this is where I’m from? This was where my mother lived?”
When Aideen nods wonderingly, my head spins and my heart leaps. “Why did she
leave?” I yell. “What happened? Who was my father? Is he still alive? Do you
—”

“Enough!” Torin interrupts. He’s glaring at me — the news that I’m of
his people hasn’t pleased him. “We must think on this. We’ll talk about it
tonight.”

Then he heads back inside the large stone hut, waving at the
others to follow, leaving us to stare at one another uncertainly and make our
way to the smaller huts to set up camp for the night.

My
head’s still spinning. I’d almost forgotten about the spirit of my mother
beckoning me west, and the notion that maybe she wanted to help me unlock the
secrets of my past. Inside I never really believed I’d discover the truth about
my family — it was a childish dream. Yet here I am, in the most unlikely of
places, suddenly confronted with her name and the promise of my
history.

Aednat.
As soon as Aideen said it I
knew
it was
my mother. Maybe it’s the magic that makes me sure, but I think I would have
known even if it had happened before my new power blossomed. But her name is all
I know. Who was she? Why did she live in this wilderness with the others? And
why leave her family to bear me in loneliness and die so far from home?

I
want to ask the questions
now,
find out the answers immediately. I want
to rush to the large hut and demand the truth from Aideen and Torin. But this is
their home, meager as it is, and it would be disrespectful to speak out of turn.
If their wish is for me to wait, then wait I must — no matter how frustrating
that is.

Ronan and Lorcan hunt for food in the hours before
sunset. Game is scarce in this rocky wilderness but the twins return with two
hares, a crow, and a fox cub. Fiachna, Bran, and I pick berries and wild roots
while they’re gone. It makes for a fine meal. There’s even some left over, which
we offer to Fand when she comes to fetch us shortly after sunset.

“We have
our own food,” she says curtly.

As we’re walking to the largest building,
there’s a ferocious howl from one of the huts in poor repair. The warriors in
our group draw their weapons immediately but Fand waves away their concerns.
“It’s nothing,” she says.

“That was a demon,” Goll growls, not lowering
his sword.

“No,” Fand says. “It was my brother.”

We stare at her
with disbelief. She sighs, then strides towards the hut where the howl came
from. We follow cautiously. At the entrance, Fand crouches and points within. We
bend down beside her. Dim evening light shines through holes in the roof. In the
weak glow we see an animal tied by a short length of rope to a rock in the
middle of the hut. It’s human-shaped but covered in long, thick hair, with claws
and dark yellow eyes. It snarls when it sees us and tries to attack, but is held
back by the rope.

“
That’s
your brother?” Goll asks
suspiciously.

“His name is — was — Fintan,” Fand says.

“What
happened to him?” I ask, staring uncomfortably at the yellow eyes. Disfigured as
they are, they look disturbingly similar to mine. “Is he undead?”

“No.”
Fand stands. “We’ll tell you in the main hut. Come.” When we hesitate, she
manages a thin smile. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. Fintan and the others are
tied up tight.”

“There are more like this?” Ronan says.

“Four.” Fand
pauses and her expression darkens. “For now.”

She goes to the largest hut
and ducks inside. One last glance at the creature chained to the rock — it looks
like a cross between a wolf and a man — then we follow, gripping our weapons
tight, watching the shadows for any sign of other, unchained beasts.

It’s crowded inside the hut, with all five adults, the three
children we saw earlier, two younger kids — one just a babe — and us. The
MacGrigor are poorly dressed — most of the children are naked — and scrawny.
Dirty hair, rough tattoos, cracked nails, bloodshot eyes.