Shadowfell (28 page)

I had risen to my feet, shading my eyes against the cloud-veiled sun. Flint came to stand beside me.

‘I see nothing.’

‘We should go and look,’ I said.

‘If you say so.’ Clearly he thought me deluded, but when we had packed up our meagre repast we headed that way, side by side on the pebbly slope. We passed the lone pine and there before us was an outcrop that had been quite invisible from our vantage point under the trees.

‘Odd,’ Flint observed. ‘I’d have sworn there was nothing here but bare hillside. I don’t see any entry.’

‘It might be concealed,’ I said, remembering Howling Rock and wondering if I had stumbled on another of the Good Folk’s secret meeting places. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, and tried to sense the way. To the left, maybe, and lower down.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Shh.’ I opened my eyes to meet his bemused gaze. ‘Let’s try around that side.’

And there it was, an opening partly screened by the withered fronds of a creeping plant that had surrendered to the cold, and marked by a pair of white stones. Flint eyed these, perhaps recognising, as I did, that the stones were an ancient sign. ‘How could you know this was here?’ he asked, then added, ‘No need to answer that. It’s ideal. I’ll make a fire for you, then I’d best be on my way.’

‘Is that wise? A fire, I mean?’

‘Weighing the fact that someone might see it against the likelihood of your getting so cold you’ll be ill again, I think we’ll chance it.’

Inside, the cave was dim, dry and inhabited by nothing bigger than a bat or fieldmouse. Its shadowy depths seemed to stretch deep into the hillside. I unpacked what we would need while Flint went back up to the band of trees to fetch firewood. When it was stacked to his satisfaction, he headed off on his solitary mission, assuring me he would return by nightfall.

I tended to the fire, draped garments and blankets to dry, assembled the makings of a hot meal. Only then did I go to stand by the lone tree and look out to the north.

The land lay before me in folds of grey, purple and blue, under a sky heavy with cloud. Not so far ahead arose the foothills of a snow-capped mountain range. I wondered where among those peaks lay Shadowfell. Scanning the terrain, I felt my heart still. There, jutting from a rocky hillside, stood a rough column of stone. Atop its considerable height was a formation resembling the clenched fingers of a huge hand. Giant’s Fist. It was just as Grandmother had described it.
Find Giant’s Fist
, she had said,
and you will find Shadowfell
.

Flint had been right, then: from here, it was at most two days’ walk. All of a sudden, two days seemed endless. How could I wait so long? I wanted to leap, to gallop, to fly, to be there today, right now, between one breath and the next.

But those hills looked so bare and bleak. Could people really live there? Where could they grow food? Where could they shelter? When the snows came in earnest, there would be no way in or out. I shivered, imagining myself reaching Shadowfell only to find that the rebel movement did not exist, that Flint had been mistaken, that it was nothing but a wild story born out of desperate, impossible hope.

The ridge we had been following did not lead to those hills; we’d need to descend into the valley and walk some distance along it before we climbed again. The valley floor looked empty of human settlement. This was mountain country, inhabited by wolf and eagle. Folk did not run sheep or cattle in such terrain. Stands of pine softened the hillsides here and there, but there was little fodder for grazing animals. Surely the Enforcers would not come so far along the valley. Not unless they were heading for Shadowfell.

I must put that possibility from my mind. Let myself dwell on everything that could go wrong and the dream might start to slip away. As I returned to the cave I wondered where Silver and Daw and their band were now. With Flint gone, I half-expected a clan of northern Good Folk to emerge from the shadows of this uncanny place. But nobody came.

The fire was lit. The water skins were full. The clothes were drying and the bedding was unpacked. There was nothing for me to do but sit and wait. I had promised to stay inside the cave, out of sight. I had already broken that promise by going out to look along the valley. I should lie down and rest awhile. But the knowledge that Shadowfell was so close filled me with the need for action, and it was hard to be still.

I stared into the flames of my little fire, remembering all those who had helped me, all who had shared their wisdom. I thought of the ghost warriors by Hiddenwater, lifting their voices in the old song. We all wanted Alban to be free. We all wanted justice and peace. But I had so much to learn. From what the Good Folk had told me, I had barely begun my journey.

I thought of Flint. Let him be safe. Let him come back before dark.

The day seemed endless. I sat, I stood, I paced. Once or twice I went out to the tree again to gaze toward Giant’s Fist. I was almost there; Shadowfell was almost within my reach. But all I felt was doubt. What if I reached the rebel headquarters, offered to help and then could not learn how to harness my canny gift? What if there was nobody who could teach me to be a Caller? I had called the stanie mon, no doubt of that. But that had been a fluke. I had guessed at how to summon his help, and it was just lucky for me that my verses had worked. I might not be so fortunate next time. And what of the mysterious virtues? Perhaps I was doomed never to learn the wise use of my gift. Perhaps I would never be a Caller.

Eventually I lay down and closed my eyes. I did not want to sleep. I feared my dreams. But the cave felt empty without Flint; it felt wrong. Stupid to think thus, as if his presence alone could bring sound sleep and peace of mind. An Enforcer. A rebel. How could a man be both and stay in his right mind?

Something moved outside, close to the cave mouth. I sat bolt upright, my skin prickling. A shifting. A subtle change in the light. I rose silently to my feet, heart pounding, gaze fixed on that patch of brightness. Nothing to be seen beyond the ragged strands of foliage that screened the entry. But someone was there; I felt it.

Flint had left me a knife. I had not thought I would need it. It lay next to my bag in the sheath I had made long ago for another weapon. One step toward it; another step, praying that I could reach it without making any sound. A shadow passed the cave entry, then as quickly was gone. Whoever was out there, he was swift and silent.

I backed further into the cave, the knife held up before me, its point not quite steady. I had never killed anyone. I did not know if I could. I waited.

Time passed and nothing stirred. Perhaps I’d imagined the whole thing; perhaps I had been closer to sleep than I’d realised, half-dreaming. Still I did not move. In my mind I counted slowly up to fifty. I could hear nothing out there, see nothing. I slipped the knife into my belt, feeling rather foolish, and crept back to the fireside.

A crash outside, and an oath. I froze. The voice came again. ‘Poxy good-for-nothing cur!’ I could hear someone breathing hard. ‘Now look what you’ve done! I spent all day gathering that wood.’ Then a moan of pain. ‘Ah! My back!’

The voice was an old man’s, unsteady, a little querulous. It sounded as if he was just beyond the cave mouth. He must know someone was here: the smoke from my fire would be obvious. I edged to one side, and now I could make out the figure of a man, bent double with a hand pressed to the small of his back.

A little dog raced into the cave and came to an abrupt halt a few paces from me. The old man straightened, groaning. Through a gap in the screening foliage I saw his face clearly. His eyes had the milky colour of the sightless.

The dog – curiously patterned, as if one side had been painted black and the other white – had begun a shrill, furious barking. As for me, my heart was racing and my palms were sweaty, but I hung on to my common sense. This old man was not the Enforcer I had dreaded. He seemed too infirm to be any threat to me – I could easily outrun him if it came to that. I drew a steadying breath and spoke above the dog’s fanfare of challenge.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ I moved forward, keeping one hand on the knife in my belt. The dog planted its short legs wide, quivering. Its voice rose to a shriek. ‘Do you need help?’

The old man was as gnarled as an ancient juniper, with a tangle of dirty white hair to his shoulders. He was dressed in shapeless garments of indeterminate colour, clothing that looked as if it was a natural part of him, as bark is of a tree. He stood crooked, weathered to that shape by his years. I was reminded, piercingly, of my grandmother.

‘Tripped over the dog, lost my wretched firewood. Hurt my poxy back again. Stick a stopper in your mouth, dog!’ The old man’s gaze was unnerving. What was a blind man doing coming all the way up here for wood? Was this a trap to lure me out from my safe shelter? ‘Stop that!’ he rapped out.

The little dog fell silent, though when I took another step forward it growled deep in its throat. ‘Are you injured?’ I asked the old man.

‘A girl,’ he said. ‘I did not expect to find a lassie hiding in Odd’s Hole.’

‘That’s the name of this place? Odd’s Hole?’

‘You’re not from these parts, then?’

I did not think he would expect an answer to this, and I did not offer one. He had indeed been carrying a huge bundle of firewood. The sticks lay scattered all around the cave opening, along with the cord that had tied them.

‘Wretched dog keeps getting underfoot,’ the man muttered. ‘It’s her way of being helpful.’

‘Perhaps you should leave her at home next time.’

He chuckled, then winced with pain. ‘Can’t do that, lassie. She’s my eyes.’

So he was blind, or so nearly blind that he could not get about on his own. I glanced to left and to right and down the hill. There was nobody else in sight. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll gather these up again for you?’ I said. ‘Have you far to walk?’

‘Far enough.’ He lowered himself onto a rock, cursing under his breath, and sat there as I picked up his fallen cargo and tied it back into its bundle. The dog had vanished inside the cave; I hoped it was not eating the last of the provisions. ‘A brew would go down well,’ the old man said. ‘Got a good wee fire there. I can smell it.’

There was plenty I could have said to this, but I held my tongue. He was old and tired. Best that I treat him with courtesy and go along with what he wanted, provided it was reasonable. With luck he would leave and not think to tell anyone he had met me. His presence here, so far from any settlement, was surprising. I did not ask him where he lived. Asking questions meant you had to answer questions in return, and I had no answers to give.

When the bundle of wood was secure, I went back into the cave, filled the pot from my water skin and set it on the fire. The two-coloured dog had curled up on the blankets, but it was not asleep: one eye was open a crack, keeping careful watch on me. The old man came in after me. He settled on the ground with somewhat more ease than he had shown earlier, then extended knotty hands to the fire’s warmth and sighed.

I made a brew. The supply of dried herbs was almost exhausted. Just as well Shadowfell was only a couple of days away. Neither of us spoke again until I had put his cup into his hands and settled with my own. I looked at my companion through the rising steam and hoped I had not made a terrible mistake.

‘You’ll be going four ways, then,’ the old man said.

My skin prickled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘North, south, east and west.’ This was delivered with exaggerated patience, as if he thought me rather slow. ‘You’ll be visiting each in its turn.’

Perhaps his great age had addled his wits. Or perhaps this was something much more devious. ‘I would hardly visit them all at the same time,’ I said mildly. If he thought I would tell him where I was going, he was a fool.

The old man roared with laughter, startling the dog, which leapt to its feet. ‘Indeed not,’ the fellow said when he had recovered his breath. ‘But you’ll be making a wee journey.’

I said nothing.

‘When I say
wee
,’ he elaborated, ‘I don’t mean short, you ken? In miles, it’ll be long. In other ways, even longer. I hope you make a better fist of it than Odd did of his travels.’

What was he talking about? Did he know something about me, or was this just an old man’s rambling? I grabbed at the only part of it that seemed safe. ‘Odd – you mean the man this cave was named after? What was his story?’

‘Got any food with you?’

I suppressed a sigh. ‘I may have some cheese,’ I said, fishing in the bag of supplies Flint had left. ‘And a little dried fruit.’

‘That should fill the spot.’

As soon as I produced the cheese, the dog fixed its attention on me with unnerving intensity, reminding me of Hollow’s pookie. The animal’s markings were indeed odd; I had never before seen a creature so neatly divided into sun and shadow, day and night. I gave the man what I thought we could spare, then offered the little hound a scrap of cheese, expecting it to snatch the morsel greedily from my fingers. But it accepted the gift with some delicacy and, when it was done, settled again on the blankets.

‘That fellow, Odd,’ said the old man considerably later, when he had finished dusting crumbs from his ragged garments. ‘Long story. Not explored the back of the Hole yet, have you?’ He appeared to be looking over my shoulder to the inner parts of the cave.

‘No.’ I wanted to hear the story, but I also wanted my unexpected visitor to leave. It seemed important that he be gone before Flint returned.

‘Ah. Not much of an adventurer, then.’

I said nothing.

‘It goes a long way down. A long way in. A long, long way. Folk have told tales about this place for more years than a lass like you could imagine. The cave had a different name once, a name that’s forgotten now. Odd had a certain talent, and he heard the stories. His tale’s simple enough. He came here to have a look. He went in. He went down. He didn’t go properly prepared, and he never came back.’

‘That’s hardly a long story.’