Was that part lost forever? Did it die? Without that grasping, roaring, snarling, greedy component of itself, was it too soft to survive? What had the green woman said?There’s the story that, injured but not quite dead, he rose and returned to the heart of the woodland to recover – but he was always a broken thing after that.
Two broken things.
And did that remainder that was neither dark nor violent, or not irrationally and passionately so, did it seek out its darkest part? Or did it forget what it had been? Does it too sleep in another barrow, hibernating, waiting and unaware? Where might it be found?
Did both parts make the choice to stand alone?
What parts of ourselves would we leave behind if we could, slicing them out without consequence? Would the better self root out the dark, the dire, the shameful? Or would the worse self leave behind its conscience and empathy, anything that interfered with enjoyment of the very worst sort? Ordinary folk like to think of themselves as “good”, they don’t like to admit there might be a part of them that isn’t so wonderful, and in refusing to admit it, in refusing to look into their own darkness, they become blind to it, cannot see spite in their own actions. They make of themselves monsters, great and small.
Even gods might do the same. Especially gods.
***
Nearly halfway to Night’s Barrow, I hear sobbing and rein Rosie in. Ahead of me, a light covering of frost that’s not quite melted, speckled with blood. The trail leads off the path. I urge Rosie forward, but don’t dismount in case a quick getaway is required. Several yards later, I spy a naked foot protruding from behind a bush. The foot leads to a still-booted foot, and two legs in torn and bloodied trews, all of the foregoing being attached to a weeping, bleeding Orin Alderson. In his lap, the grey head of the lurcher, its side ripped open. Long gone, poor beastie. Still, I don’t dismount, just stare.
He looks up at me, cries even harder, and howls: ‘Help me.’
‘Nopleaseabout it?’ Rosie paws the ground, unhappy at the noises the lad’s making. From here, I can see cuts and bruises on both legs, and the ankle of the bare foot lies at an awkward angle.
‘Please,’ he cries, lifting a hand from the dog’s head to plead; the other is clamped over what looks like a rip in his torso, red oozing between his fingers, two of which are skewed. All in all, Orin Alderson is in a lot of pain and I can’t help but rejoice a little in that. Not happy about the dog, though. ‘Please help me, Mistress Mehrab.’
‘Where’s the baby?’
‘What—’
‘My fosterling’s baby. Small, slightly green, flowers in her hair. You went into my cottage – no, wait, it’s worse. You were invited into my cottage by a friend, you betrayed her and stole away a child like some fairy-tale goblin. At the very least, you offended against the laws of hospitality. You definitely offended against the laws of intelligence because you stolefrom a witch’s home. So, young Master Alderson, you’ll earn whatever help you want. Where is the child?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I swear I’ll leave you here. I’ll abandon you as soon as take my next breath and not lose a moment of sleep over it.’
His mouth thins, the lips tightening to keep his secrets in. I click my tongue to urge Rosie onward.
‘Wait!’ he sobs. ‘Help me.’ I’m not cruel enough to say that’s not convincing, but Rosie keeps moving.
‘Please, I’m begging. It hurts.’
I throw over my shoulder: ‘Where’s the baby?’
‘Night’s Barrow.’
‘Where you took her.’
‘No. Not me. I—’
Now, I wheel my horse about, dismount. I crouch in front of the boy and say: ‘Orin? You’re clearly afraid of someone or something. I’m willing to bet it’s the huntsman, but please be assured that at this very moment, the only person you should be afraid of isme.’
His pupils are very large and dark, he’s in shock; close up I notice his right ear has almost been torn from his head. He looks even younger, face stripped back by pain; he looks very like his father at this moment. I reach out, touch the dangling lump of flesh gently. The lad winces. ‘Did the wish-hounds do this?’
He nods, tears welling again. ‘They killed my dog. My Merry-girl.’
Poor pup.
I rest a hand on the lurcher’s motionless form – she’s stillwarm. Beneath my palm I feel the slightest rise and fall of breath. My own breath catches. She’s so far gone, but…
A quick cut on my forearm to pay the red price, then I lay both hands on her, gentle as I can, and feel my way through her flesh and bones and all the broken places, into the warmth and the dear heart of her that loves this idiot boy so, and I begin to knit her back together. It hurts her, I know, I expect to be bitten, but she’s quiet, stoic, only giving a yelp at the end, then she sits up slowly – I’ve never seen a person do that so soon! – and licks her master’s bloodied face.
While they have their reunion, I dig around in the satchel for the hunks of bread and cheese and dried meat, tearing into it to get my own strength back because the boy will need mending too. When he’s quiet, the lurcher leaning against him, her eyes closed in bliss and his uninjured hand scratching that spot between her ears, I throw questions at him between mouthfuls.
