“These Stones are their gifts to us,” Mackenzie said, placing a reverent hand upon the monolith beside him. In return, it flickered a warm vermilion, as if pleased. “They will hold back the monsters with the bright eyes and keep us together.”
“Why would they take such interest in us?” the settlers wondered.
“It is not for us to understand why,” Mackenzie declared. “Only to be thankful that they have, and to show them our gratitude.”
Somewhat appeased, the settlers returned to their homes, brimming with ideas of how to repay such benevolent wardens.
The council of ten remained at the Stones.
The man who wanted to find a way out of the accursed cove railed at Mackenzie, enraged he had not urged the beings to release their grip. He volunteered to go into the forest at first light and find them once more. He pledged to negotiate for their freedom.
The nine others listened with impassive faces but hearts full of grave concern. It would not do to present a divided front to the town. The council knew all too well how quickly whispers of dissent could grow.
So, when Tormond Mackenzie pulled a length of shimmering red beads around the man’s neck, they all watched in silent accord.
And when Tormond Mackenzie pushed the man into the gusts of wind that rose along the line of Stones, shoving and breaking him through the barrier, they watched still, wary wonder stirring within them.
Only when the bright-eyed beasts fell upon the man, tearing and biting and feasting and devouring, did they turn and watch no more.
9
The town ofMistaken wasted no time preparing for Reaping.
Farmers and merchants and millworkers alike stumbled out into the dark afternoon. Giant braziers were lit, illuminating the fields and orchards so that work could carry on throughout the night.
Greer remained with Martha, plucking the last of their garden’s vetchling peas, winter beans, and root vegetables. They piled the bounty on the kitchen table, sorting through every potato and carrot, checking for blemishes, however small. Greer examined each bushel of apples, picked earlier that week, setting aside the shiniest reds, the brightest greens, and packing them into crates with care. Only the best could be used for gratitudes. Especially now.
Neither of the women spoke. Reaping was normally a time of great joy. The kitchen ought to have been full of laughter, songs, and tales from the old country of Danu, Arawn, and the guid folk. Now they worked in silence, their eyes often slipping toward the side yard, where one of the Warding Stones had moved. It was on the far end of the meadow, a mere thousand paces away. It had never been visible from the house before and its wrongness was impossible to ignore.
Greer threw herself into the tasks with abandon, keeping her hands busy, fretting over each leaf of cabbage, every stalk of celery. Shehoped that, if she focused hard enough, it would drown out the conversations she overheard from nearby farms and fields. There was so much worry in the air, it turned her mouth sour and sick.
People were scared.
People were angry.
People were looking for someone to blame.
She finished filling her last crate of offerings as the sun rose over the Narrows, highlighting the world with pinks and yellows so lovely it seemed impossible to believe anything was wrong.
They’d need to prepare the pies next. Then the bread. Then cut the smoked meats.
Greer’s arms ached as she thought of all the work ahead of them. She hesitated, tracing a finger over a whorl in the table’s woodgrain. “Martha? Could I ask…the night your town was attacked…”
Martha briskly swept the remaining parsnips into a basket. “We need to start on the piecrusts if we ever hope to be done by this afternoon.” Shetsk-ed. “Weeks of work in only hours. I don’t know what the Stewards were thinking.”
She pulled down canisters of flour, salt, and sugar in quick succession, as if to banish Greer’s unfinished question with a flurry of activity.
“What do you remember about that night?”
Martha shook her head. “I’ve spent almost thirty years trying tonotremember. I’ve no desire to dredge it up now.”
“I just wondered if you saw them. Then. The Bright-Eyeds. Did you see the way it happened?”
Martha’s fingers tightened around the sugar. “I did.”
“You’ve never spoken about it.”
“No. And I won’t now. The world is scary enough without help from me.”
