I wasn’t too worried, at first, because the wards around my holding were intact. I’d checked them after being caught in that spiderweb of a trap, and I walked the boundary every few days to make sure they remained thus. So, nothing that wasn’t meant to be there could come to my threshold.
No, I wasn’t too worried until today and the appearance of a parcel wrapped in what looks like old shroud-cloth, greyed and not-quite crumbling.
I don’t bring it inside, but crouch at the stoop (knees protesting) and unwrap a corner, just enough to glimpse what lies within – smooth pale skin, neat cuts at the joints, no odour of decay or not yet at least. Or not detectable. And its inner wrapping of red wool.
‘Rhea!’ She comes when called. ‘Get the baskets from the cellar, quick as you can.’
I tap my pocket, make sure the tinderbox is there as ever. A hunter, perhaps, might leave something after an especially good hunt, a particularly large buck or bear, even one of the bigger wolves (though they are stringy and the food of the desperate). It’s springtime and animals are plentiful, largesse can be borne. But a hunter would be unlikely to wrap his giftin shroud-cloth and a red woollen cloak. Or an ordinary hunter at any rate.
Tenderly I rewrap the thing, but only after Rhea’s gasp tells me she’s seen the meat too – haunch? No, shoulder. I cannot bear to look any longer – then carry it to the far border of the eastern field, to the clear land between my holding and the tree line. I ignore Rhea’s questions and she stops asking. At the circle of cindery earth where I burn rubbish, we tumble the fruits and vegetables, the game, from the baskets, and on top I place the shroud-cloth-covered bundle. Break branches and twigs from a fallen tree and build the framework for a fire. When that’s done, I set it all alight. The blaze is good and hungry, the flames orange-blue.
Rhea pipes up again. ‘Was this why you wouldn’t eat anything that was left for us?’
I nod. ‘Imagine how we’d feel if we had, thenthisarrived? If, in our acceptance of the offering was an implicit acceptance of a bargain? Waiting made it show its hand.’
‘It was the child, yes? Ari?’
‘I think so. Unless another’s gone missing, wearing a red cloak.’
‘How will you tell her parents?’
I pause, considering. ‘I won’t.’
‘Why not? They deserve to know—’
‘I’ve already had to tell them their child is dead. To tell them now that part of her has been left on my doorstep? That she’s being proffered like a sweetmeat? To have them question why something felt it could do such a thing? Worse, to have them think it’s a gesture another thought I mightwelcome?’I shake my head. ‘Rhea, you’ll learn that sometimes it’s safer not to admit everything.’
‘But—’
‘What will it profit them to know their child was carved up? Bad enough they might imagine her torn by an animal, her bones lying in some lair or den, her flesh gone to feed young. But for me to appear and say, “Here she is, or part of her – look how tidy these cuts are!” That would be torture, Rhea, a torment.’ I push out a breath, exasperated. ‘I’ve lived here for twenty years and I can tell you that the villagers, my neighbours, still don’t trust me, not really. They come for aid, I’ve saved them and their children many times over, but there’s still a tiny doubt in the back of their minds; they still fear that I will someday turn and do them ill. Good witch, bad witch, it doesn’t matter. I remainwitchand that terrifies them.’
She’s silent, struggling. The girl will not survive if she doesn’t learn to lie or at least dissemble a little more readily. Finally, she says, ‘Why burn it all? Out here?’
‘This is an unequivocalno. No to the offering, no to the bargain, no to the trap laid in the guise of generosity. Showing that we’d rather turn it to ash than accept.’
I scan the trees, the shadows and shades between their trunks, the chinks in the undergrowth, looking for eyes that watch. A surge of rage – that feral, primal rage – takes hold once more and I shout ‘No!’ at the forest. Birds, disturbed, fly up from the branches, a storm of indignation speckling the bright sky. I stare a few more moments, daring whatever is out there to step forward, show itself in the light and declare its intentions.
Nothing happens, except some of the more stubborn birds resettle on their perches, reproachful caws and squawks ringing in the air. I wait until the fire burns down, until everything is glowing coals and wafting ash, then send Rhea for a bucket of water to dampen the last of the heat. The smell is terrible. Corrupted. Not a sweet savour at all. I gather up the emptied baskets, link my arm with Rhea’s and walk her back towards the cottage. I don’t hurry, don’t want to show any sign of weakness or panic or fear.
‘Be watchful and wary, Rhea. Don’t go anywhere on your own, or at least not without a weapon.’ I remember the girl’s fire at her fingertips, think she’ll probably be fine, but this evening I’ll make talismans for pockets, perhaps sew some dried sage and lavender into hems and collars. ‘If you see anything, hear anything, tell me immediately. And don’t mention what happened today, not to anyone.’
‘What if there are any more offerings?’
Slowly, I shake my head. ‘I don’t think there will be. Not after that.’
‘How will it know? Is it watching us?’
‘Might be. Or other things are and they’ll tellit.’
‘And what isit?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine at the moment.’ One last defiant look past the boundary, to the forest, and I think,I’ve faced worse. I’ve been worse.‘Come, inside now.’
But I don’t mention to Rhea that whatever it is has somehow come past my wards.
9
When I finally get to sleep that night, I think I’ve put the memory of the offering – carnivorous and cruel – away from me. Buried it. My dreams, however, show the lie of it.
