Tower of Thorns (36 page)

“I can't think, Mistress Blackthorn. If the creature's fey, maybe it doesn't need to eat.”

I had the sense of being toyed with, and I did not like it. “It's just . . . I thought I saw someone walking in the woods near the river. With a basket. It was very like that one.”

“When was this?” asked Senach from behind me.

Curse it, I'd made a trap for myself. “A few days before the ritual. I went out by myself for a little. I'm not accustomed to all these restrictions; they make me restless.”

“Was this someone a man or a woman? One of the monks? A farmworker?”

I regretted my half-lie already; nobody here was going to tell me what I needed to know. They were a practiced team of players in a game whose rules I did not understand. “A man. I didn't see him clearly—he was too far away.”

“It was probably Cronan,” said Senach. “He sometimes takes supplies to an old fellow who lives over the far side of the river. A hermit, more or less. On baking day we send fresh bread, if the water's low enough.”

I tried to remember if that had been a baking day. “An old fellow,” I echoed. “Maybe I should be going to talk to him, not to these folk who live an hour's ride away.”

“There would be no point,” Senach said. “The hermit is stone deaf and ill-tempered to boot. He wouldn't give you the time of day. Besides, with Midsummer Eve so close, I am certain Lady Geiléis would not want you to risk the ford. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and speak to Donncha . . .”

I returned to my own quarters. No sign of Geiléis; my idea about the curse making folk forget had upset her more than I'd expected, though it had seemed plausible to me. This entire household was deeply strange. Everyone behaved as if they had rehearsed their responses. There were only two exceptions I could think of—that brief episode with Caisín, when I'd caught her off guard, and the times when Geiléis lost control of her feelings, whether in anger, sorrow or frustration. At those times, and they were rare enough, I thought I got a glimpse of the woman she was underneath. A woman of passions and conflicts. A woman I thought I would like better than the Lady of Bann with her cool composure. That other woman felt far more real.

Grim

I
t's enough to start a man thinking of magic, and not a good kind of magic. Last bundle of reeds goes up, I knock in the last spar, and the next moment the weather starts playing tricks. Could've sworn it would stay dry. Know the signs like I know my right hand. But clouds come over, quick as quick, and rain starts falling, so it's up with the cover again, and no more work for us today.

Pretty soon it's bucketing down, soaking the garden. Paths turn to squelching mud. Still, job's more or less done. Only the ridge left to finish off, and the animals for on top. Don't need Tadhg anymore. All he'd be doing is passing things up to me. Those last jobs, they're fiddly. Take a while to learn.

One dry day, that's all I need. Maybe two, to be quite sure of finishing. If the rain stops for a bit I can take a bundle of reeds back down to Geiléis's now and start on the creatures there. Bring them back up after I do the ridge. Tie them on safe—that's the last job of all.

Tadhg goes off to the refectory for a meal. Says why don't I go too, and I say no thanks. I shelter in a dryish spot, where the new thatch sticks out above the door. Thinking that if it stops I'll go and get that bundle of reeds right away. If I work tonight too I can maybe get the creatures all done. Be fiddly by lamplight, though. Still, time's short and even if I never see it again, I want the roof looking the way it should, with a proper finish.

Rain's coming sideways now, sharp sort of wind behind it. Winter in summer. I hold an old sack up over my head. Doesn't keep much off. Think of those little folk in the woods, so finely made, like something in a dream. Sheltering where they can. Wonder where they live. Down under the oak roots? In hollow trees, like squirrels? Or are there wee houses hidden all through the forest? Maybe they can make things invisible to our kind. Themselves, even. Gives me a funny feeling, that. Means they could be watching us anytime they wanted, and we wouldn't know. Easy enough to believe. That little man knew things about Blackthorn and me that nobody could have told him. The one Blackthorn met, the healer, she knew things too. Something about true love's tears, that herb with the funny little flowers. The small folk are all tangled up in this, same as Geiléis and her servants. Can't make sense of it, though. Even Blackthorn can't.

I'm looking across at the infirmary, thinking of Flannan in there reading that manuscript. Maybe finding the answers to the puzzle right now. If I was a different man I'd go and knock on the door, ask to have a look, ask to hear the news right away so I could run back and tell Blackthorn. If I was a different man I'd be sitting in the refectory enjoying a hot brew instead of shivering out here. Wind's howling now, odd sound, like voices. Loud enough to drown out the monster. If I was a different man I'd maybe have a corner of my own here.

It comes crowding back, catching me by surprise. The blood, the screams, the suddenness of it, no time to make a plan, nothing. Heart beating like a big drum. Men coming from everywhere, men with axes and clubs and knives. Yelling, shouting, can't understand the words but no need for that; they're saying,
Death!
Monks running, trying to get away, trying to protect each other, falling. Can't be everywhere. Mochta falls, Padraic falls, Ronchu's head goes flying, blood spurts from what's left of him. A weapon, need a weapon—Ah! The iron bar
from the scriptorium door. Wrench it off. Want to rush out and fight all of them at once. My brothers are screaming, praying, dying. Go out there and I'm dead too, in an instant. Here, I can do some good.

Stand in the doorway, both hands gripping the iron bar, smashing one way, the other way. I fell one man, two men, three, more, more, and all the time, out in the courtyard, the brothers are falling, falling in their blood. Behind me the scriptorium door. In there the scholars, Brother Galen, the books, the precious books. Someone praying like his chest's on fire, like sobbing, the words over and over, hear them in my head now,
Deus, Deus meus, respice in me: quare me dereliquisti?
But God's not answering. Nobody is. The words break up and fall apart. The sound of men dying. Me shouting in time with the blows,
No! No! No!
Swing the iron bar, break an arm, break a head, put out a fellow's eye, and then I'm hit and I'm down and it all goes to black.

“Brother Conall?”

Christ!
I whirl around, thatching knife in my hand, knees bent, ready to strike. There's a heartbeat in it. In front of me, a stride away, two monks with faces the color of fresh cheese and their hands up, palms toward me. One's Brother Fergal. The other one's Brother Ríordán, the head archivist.

I suck in a breath. It hurts. Can't seem to move.

“Grim,” says Fergal in a voice like sun on an herb patch. “For the love of God, put the knife away.”

I fumble it back into my belt. Can't find words.

“You're safe here,” Fergal says. “You're among friends.”

“Can't . . .” I gasp. “Tried . . . They wouldn't stop . . .” Take another breath. Make myself straighten up. Aching all over. Then it sinks in; what Brother Ríordán just called me. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I'll go now. Take myself off. Sorry the job isn't finished.” I turn my back and head for the gate, walking first, then jogging, then running so fast I slip and skid in the puddles, and the rain's all over me, soaking my clothes, dribbling down my face, only that's tears too, tears for what I didn't do, tears for what I lost, tears of guilt for keeping quiet about
who I really am, tears because it looks as if these fellows know anyway and that makes me an outcast all over again. Tears for the creatures I was going to put on the roof, dove, salmon, raven, cat, that now won't get made anymore. Means the job's not properly done, and I like it properly done . . .

Make it halfway to the gate, more or less. Someone calling behind me, “Grim! Stop!” I slip and fall, sprawl flat in the mud, rain falling, can't make myself get up. Head on my arms, lying there like a fool, big lump of a man all tears. Sobbing, sobbing, can't seem to stop. Why won't it all go away? Why can't someone take it away?

The two brothers are here, crouching down in the rain, one on each side. Feel a hand on my shoulder. Under the roar of the rain, Brother Fergal's voice. “We've known who you were since early on, Grim. We sent a bird south to confirm it. Come inside; let's get you to shelter.”

But I can't move, can't stop crying, like that thing in the tower. Sorrow's rolled on top of me, won't let me up, won't let me out. I try to say something, comes out as just noise.

Then the archivist speaks, Brother Ríordán, the fellow with the cold face. “The lost hero of St. Erc's,” he says. “That's what they call you. Nobody knew where you went.”

“Until now,” puts in Brother Fergal. “Help me here, Grim. You're on the big side to tuck under my arm and carry. The vegetables love this weather. I am not quite so enthusiastic. We have a pot of soup on the boil inside, and dry clothes. Please, come out of the wet.”

I'm mumbling about vegetables and compost and when I get up on all fours I try to crawl to the gate in the mud. When Fergal helps me stand up I pull away from him. But I don't run. Feeling wobbly, not right in the head. Don't think I can get far without fainting. Big fellow like me. All I can think now is that I just waved a thatching knife at them, and they stayed with me and helped me. Doing what that fellow in the story did, the Good Samaritan. Doing what Jesus would have done. If he was real.

“Come,” says Fergal again. Now I've got one holding my left arm and one holding my right, not like guards, like friends. Leading me toward the refectory.

“Can't.” I stop in my tracks like a stubborn donkey. “Can't go in.” The blood. The brains. The broken men.

“Then we will sit on the doorstep.” Brother Ríordán's got the sort of voice that's good for giving orders. The kind you can't help listening to.

“You'll be wanting me to go,” I say, but I'm walking again, between the two of them. Through the rain, the sound of bells. “You'll be wanting to sing Sext.” Then something he said sinks in.
The lost hero of St. Erc's
. “Hero,” I say. “Someone else. Not me. Didn't save anyone. Not one. Even the cat was dead. Even the pigeons. Nothing left. Like a battlefield. Only not warriors. Men of peace. After that, couldn't believe in God. If God was real, he'd have been there.” And we're at the refectory. Covered area outside, benches set along the wall. Nice for the brothers to sit out on sunny days. Today, cold, wet and not where you'd want to be.

I sit down anyway. Legs don't want to carry me one more step. Sit there and watch my clothes dripping onto the paving stones, making a pool around my feet. Think of blood pooling under Brother Galen's head, his snowy hair turned sticky red. Hero, me? Not likely. Anyway, who was there to see anything? Nobody.

The fellows go inside for a bit; then Brother Ríordán's back, standing next to me. “It helps, sometimes, to take things one step at a time,” he says. “It's cold, you're wet through and you need to change your clothes. Do it out here and you'll get even colder. Or take one step inside and you'll be in a small chamber where you can put on these dry garments and wrap a blanket around your shoulders.” When I start to say I can't, he goes on. “I don't suppose it will help if I suggest you hand your burden over to God. Not at this moment. But the first step toward lightening the load is to take control. This is your first step.”

“Why would you want me here?” I say, not understanding. “Why don't you throw me out, after what happened?”

“Come in,” he says, as if I haven't said a word. “Come and warm yourself. Time for talk when you've got dry and had a bite to eat. There's nobody else in the refectory; they've all gone to the chapel. Just me and Brother Fergal, and he is the gentlest of souls.”

I take the step. Shivering, and not only from cold. I'm inside. Fergal helps me take off my wet things, put on a shirt and trousers, bit small but not bad. Blanket on top. Feels good. I was colder than I knew. Remember Blackthorn suddenly. What about her, if I'd wandered off and got led astray and died of cold?

Warm and dry. But trembling head to toe. If I can take the first step, the second might not be so hard. Into the refectory. Fire burning on a hearth. Long tables with benches. Clanking and clinking next door, that'll be the kitchen. I sit down. Ríordán sits next to me. Fergal's taking my wet things out, talking to someone, but nobody else comes in.

I'm thinking, what can I say? I'm thinking, what's he going to say? Holding myself together by a thread, but I'm here; I'm inside; I'm working hard not to see them lying in their blood, and everything ruined.

“Brother Galen was my mentor,” says Ríordán. “He taught me everything I know. I completed my novitiate at St. Erc's. Before your time, Brother Conall.”

Stray tear dribbles down. Can't speak for a bit. Then I ask, “How . . . ?” All I can get out.

“After I came to St. Olcan's, he and I corresponded for some years. Galen always loved to write. You'd know that. To write and to draw. He was fond of you. Said you had a great deal to give.”

Now I'm crying again. Different sort of tears. Don't wipe them away. Feels like I should let them fall. “But how . . . ?”

“How did we know who you were? No great mystery. Galen described you, a giant of a man with a gentle manner, who could turn his hand to anything around the place. Building, thatching, painting. A
man who loved stories. A man who would listen for hours as he read from the scripture or told tales of magic and wonder. A man who was kind to animals. A man who generally kept himself to himself, until he was sure he could trust. He mentioned the creatures you put up on the roof, after you'd finished thatching. Fergal told me you'd spoken of doing the same here.”

Fergal's back with a tray. Cups of mulled ale. Bread, butter. Smells good. Not sure if I can eat, though. “Dove, salmon, raven, cat,” I mumble, then clear my throat. They're being kind. They deserve better. “Still do it if you want. Four days left. Got time, if the rain stops.”