It lowered its hands from its ears, and it stared around, its face twisted into a mad grimace. “Stop it!” it screamed. “Stop making all that noise!”
And the people in their pretty clothes beat their drums harder, and faster, and the noise filled Shadow’s head and chest.
The monster stepped into the center of the courtyard. It looked at Shadow. “You,” it said. “I told you. I told you about the noise,” and it howled, a deep throaty howl of hatred and challenge.
The creature edged closer to Shadow. It saw the knife, and stopped. “Fight me!” it shouted. “Fight me fair! Not with cold iron! Fight me!”
“I don’t want to fight you,” said Shadow. He dropped the knife on the grass, raised his hands to show them empty.
“Too late,” said the bald thing that was not a man. “Too late for that.”
And it launched itself at Shadow.
Later, when Shadow thought of that fight, he remembered only fragments: he remembered being slammed to the ground, and throwing himself out of the way. He remembered the pounding of the drums, and the expressions on the faces of the drummers as they stared, hungrily, between the bonfires, at the two men in the firelight.
They fought, wrestling and pounding each other.
Salt tears ran down the monster’s face as it wrestled with Shadow. They were equally matched, it seemed to Shadow.
The monster slammed its arm into Shadow’s face, and Shadow could taste his own blood. He could feel his own anger beginning to rise, like a red wall of hate.
He swung a leg out, hooking the monster behind the knee, and as it stumbled back Shadow’s fist crashed into its gut, making it cry out and roar with anger and pain.
A glance at the guests: Shadow saw the bloodlust on the faces of the drummers.
There was a cold wind, a sea wind, and it seemed to Shadow that there were huge shadows in the sky, vast figures that he had seen on a ship made of the fingernails of dead men, and that they were staring down at him, that this fight was what was keeping them frozen on their ship, unable to land, unable to leave.
This fight was old, Shadow thought, older than even Mr. Alice knew, and he was thinking that even as the creature’s talons raked his chest. It was the fight of man against monster, and it was old as time: it was Theseus battling the Minotaur, it was Beowulf and Grendel, it was the fight of every hero who had ever stood between the firelight and the darkness and wiped the blood of something inhuman from his sword.
The bonfires burned, and the drums pounded and throbbed and pulsed like the beating of a thousand hearts.
Shadow slipped on the damp grass, as the monster came at him, and he was down. The creature’s fingers were around Shadow’s neck, and it was squeezing; Shadow could feel everything starting to thin, to become distant.
He closed his hand around a patch of grass, and pulled at it, dug his fingers deep, grabbing a handful of grass and clammy earth, and he smashed the clod of dirt into the monster’s face, momentarily blinding it.
He pushed up, and was on top of the creature, now. He rammed his knee hard into its groin, and it doubled into a fetal position, and howled, and sobbed.
Shadow realized that the drumming had stopped, and he looked up.
The guests had put down their drums.
They were all approaching him, in a circle, men and women, still holding their drumsticks, but holding them like cudgels. They were not looking at Shadow, though: they were staring at the monster on the ground, and they raised their black sticks and moved toward it in the light of the twin fires.
Shadow said, “Stop!”
The first club blow came down on the creature’s head. It wailed and twisted, raising an arm to ward off the next blow.
Shadow threw himself in front of it, shielding it with his body. The dark-haired woman who had smiled at him before now brought down her club on his shoulder, dispassionately, and another club, from a man this time, hit him a numbing blow in the leg, and a third struck him on his side.
They’ll kill us both, he thought. Him first, then me. That’s what they do. That’s what they always do. And then, She said she would come. If I called her.
Shadow whispered, “Jennie?”
There was no reply. Everything was happening so slowly. Another club was coming down, this one aimed at his hand. Shadow rolled out of the way awkwardly, watched the heavy wood smash into the turf.
“Jennie,” he said, picturing her too-fair hair in his mind, her thin face, her smile. “I call you. Come now. Please.”
A gust of cold wind.
The dark-haired woman had raised her club high, and brought it down now, fast, hard, aiming for Shadow’s face.
The blow never landed. A small hand caught the heavy stick as if it were a twig.
Fair hair blew about her head, in the cold wind. He could not have told you what she was wearing.
She looked at him. Shadow thought that she looked disappointed.
One of the men aimed a cudgel blow at the back of her head. It never connected. She turned…
A rending sound, as if something was tearing itself apart…
And then the bonfires exploded. That was how it seemed. There was blazing wood all over the courtyard, even in the house. And the people were screaming in the bitter wind.
Shadow staggered to his feet.
The monster lay on the ground, bloodied and twisted. Shadow did not know if it was alive or not. He picked it up, hauled it over his shoulder, and staggered out of the courtyard with it.
He stumbled out onto the gravel forecourt, as the massive wooden doors slammed closed behind them. Nobody else would be coming out. Shadow kept moving down the slope, one step at a time, down toward the loch.
When he reached the water’s edge he stopped, and sank to his knees, and let the bald man down onto the grass as gently as he could.
He heard something crash, and looked back up the hill.
The house was burning.
“How is he?” said a woman’s voice.
Shadow turned. She was knee-deep in the water, the creature’s mother, wading toward the shore.
“I don’t know,” said Shadow. “He’s hurt.”
“You’re both hurt,” she said. “You’re all bluid and bruises.”
“Yes,” said Shadow.
“Still,” she said. “He’s not dead. And that makes a nice change.”
She had reached the shore now. She sat on the bank, with her son’s head in her lap. She took a packet of tissues from her handbag, and spat on a tissue, and began fiercely to scrub at her son’s face with it, rubbing away the blood.
The house on the hill was roaring now. Shadow had not imagined that a burning house would make so much noise.
The old woman looked up at the sky. She made a noise in the back of her throat, a clucking noise, and then she shook her head. “You know,” she said, “you’ve let them in. They’d been bound for so long, and you’ve let them in.”
“Is that a good thing?” asked Shadow.
“I don’t know, love,” said the little woman, and she shook her head again. She crooned to her son as if he were still her baby, and dabbed at his wounds with her spit.
Shadow was naked, at the edge of the loch, but the heat from the burning building kept him warm. He watched the reflected flames in the glassy water of the loch. A yellow moon was rising.
He was starting to hurt. Tomorrow, he knew, he would hurt much worse.
Footsteps on the grass behind him. He looked up.
