Never give one of the folk a yes or no answer, he had told her.Words are binding. And they can sense untruths. They have no sense of cruelty—but nor do they understand mercy.
Which was why Branwen set snares, marked her home’s doorway with iron, and kept her afanc knife at her belt. Thus far, her snares had only caught squirrels, a hare, and a few grouse.
On this morning, there were two rabbits. She knelt and unboundthe snares. The rabbits would fetch a fair price at the tavern, where their meat would go into the cawl and their fur fashioned into the lining of a cloak. The coin she earned would go to the village healer, who sold small bundles of herbs. Those herbs did little for remembrances, but they would ease Mam’s sleep.
Palug darted through the tall grasses, chasing after something. He preferred live prey, hunting rabbits and mice and birds and taunting them with their own powerlessness.
All cats, Branwen thought, had a bit of monster to them. Perhaps that was why cats gleamed gold when she looked at them with her magicked eye. But they also purred and cuddled and kept vermin from granaries, so they were well-loved and well-fed little monsters.
The next snare was empty, and the last was… gone. Branwen knelt beside the fence post where she had hidden the snare, her fingers brushing over the torn earth. Something had ripped it free, stake and all. Perhaps a sheep had blundered into it and was now trailing the snare with every step.
Branwen grimaced; she would speak to Rhain this afternoon. If one of his animals had stumbled into the snare, he would have a few sharp words for her.
Another hunt gone awry, she thought sourly.
By the time Branwen reached the village of Argoed, the sun had risen. Preparations for Nos Calan Gaeaf were in full force. Space had been cleared in the square for bonfires; a traveling merchantopened his stall to sell wreaths and ribbons; children had been sent out to find sticks for the fires. Branwen stepped around the children, their arms brimming with tangled branches. Two broke away from the others, dropping their bundles to engage in a mock sword fight.
“Careful,” said Branwen, ducking as one of the girls thrust her branch with a little too much enthusiasm. The children whirled around, worried they would be scolded. “Don’t aim for the face,” Branwen said, nudging one of the girls with her hip. “Not unless you want to lose an eye. Go for the wrist. Knock your enemy’s weapon away.”
The girls’ faces brightened, and they began enthusiastically whacking each other’s arms. Branwen winced.
One of the young lads eyed the rabbits at Branwen’s shoulder. “Did you use the bow to kill them?” he asked eagerly. “My da says he’s going to take me hunting next year, when I’m older.”
“I bet the cat did the hunting,” said another young boy, kneeling down and offering his hand to Palug. “Mine dragged a mouse into my mam’s cloak last week.”
Palug sniffed the proffered hand, then gently rubbed his cheek against the lad’s fingers. “He prefers fish to rabbits,” said Branwen.
Seeing their friend petting the cat, a few others surrounded Palug. The cat flicked his tail in mild irritation but allowed the adoration.
“He’s so soft,” said one of the girls. She chanced on the spot where Palug loved to be scratched—where his neck fur fluffed out against his chest. As though against his will, Palug leaned into her hand and purred. “Where did you find him?”
“On a hunt,” Branwen replied.
The children gazed at her with hopeful, upturned faces. Even Palug seemed to be waiting.
“I went to Ynys Môn,” she said. She lowered her voice, as though confiding a secret. The children clustered more tightly around her, and she knelt so she could meet their eyes. “There were rumors of a monster prowling the shores. It carried off sheep and goats and left enormous tracks alongside the sea. A hundred knights were sent after the monster, but none returned. Desperate, a noble set a bounty—if anyone could slay the beast, he would pay a fortune.”
One of the boys leaned forward, his eyes alight. “Did you hunt the beast?”
Branwen nodded solemnly. “I did. I spent a week tracking it, following tangled paths and bits of the livestock it had slain. And finally, on the seventh night, I ventured into a sea cave. There was a scratching noise, like enormous claws against the rock.” She dragged her nails across her bow, and one of the girls shuddered. “I kept quiet, arrow at the ready, and crept through the cave. The air stank of dead things, and the only light came from my lantern. As I went, I saw the bodies of those that had hunted the creature—there was old armor, swords, and one shield. I followed the sound of raking claws… until suddenly, all went silent.”
The children all drew in sharp breaths.
“I tried to be as quiet as possible, but the monster must have heard my heartbeat.” Branwen shifted, her fingers wrapping around the knife at her belt. “Something rushed past me so swiftly I could not see it, but it knocked me sideways. The lantern tumbled from my hand. I grabbed a shield from a fallen knight.”
All the children, and even some of the wreath-makers, were enraptured by her tale. “The shield was well polished, and it caught the glimmer of my lantern. I heard the sound of paws and then a skitter. No matter where I turned, the sound followed me. Then I lowered the shield and saw…”
She dragged the words out, enjoying the way her small audience seemed to be holding their breath. “A large black-and-white cat. It was chasing the reflected light from my shield, the way it might have hunted a mouse. I gave him some dried meat, and he purred and crawled into my lap. I took him home.” She held out her arm, and Palug wriggled free of the children. He leapt atop Branwen’s shoulder and head-butted her cheek fondly.
“So there was no monster?” asked a lad, sounding disappointed. “Just the cat?”
Branwen stroked between Palug’s ears. “Well, something killed all those knights. I suppose the creature might have run before I arrived. But ever since I took Palug from that cave, there were no more vanished livestock. And no more knights were slain.”
One of the girls looked skeptical. “You think your cat was the monster?”
“I think he was hungry and alone,” said Branwen. “And hunger can make monsters of us all.”
The children seemed satisfied by this answer.
