The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

fresh milk.

One of the cupboards revealed some slightly stale bread, cheese and cold meats. They seemed completely edible. She made herself a meal then, drawing a large wooden chair with arms on it before the fire, sat there eating her frugal meal and staring into the flames. As she did so, she allowed her mind to consider the problem that confronted her.

What had happened to the occupants of the bothan?

She used the plural because she had discovered female items of clothing and toiletry as well as male. She presumed that they were husband and wife, existing in this lonely hill-farm. They had deserted the place for no more than a day or so before her arrival, leaving the cow to be milked and the animals unfed. Why? She could accept the idea that the man had gone off to look for one of his animals in the snowstorm and come to some grief. That was not impossible in these mountains. Perhaps his wife, in desperation, had gone to look for him.

There was only one thing that made her uncomfortable about that explanation. The dead guard dog; the terrier outside the door with his skull smashed in.

She moved forward and placed another log on the fire, watching it crackle a little with the sparks flying upwards into the chimney. She meditated on the problem for a while, listening to the whispering wail of the wind around the eaves of the cabin and, now and again, the lonely howl of the wolves.

Sleep crept up on her unawares.

When she awoke she felt suddenly cold and with that half-dreaming, half-waking sensation that there were other people in the room talking to her; a laugh, a cry, a strange thumping sound. She lay for a moment, that moment between sleep and waking when dreams seem as real as actuality. Then she stiffened. She was fully awake and she could hear people talking; again she could hear an odd thumping sound. Her eyes stared into the semi-gloom around her. The embers of the fire lighted the cabin for she had extinguished the oil lamp. She could see nothing. The interior of the cabin was as empty as when she had arrived.

Slowly she sat up, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, took the oil lamp and, igniting it from the embers of the fire, stood up holding it high, and peered round again.

She distinctly heard a laugh. It was far away but not outside the cabin. It seemed to come from under her very feet. It was harsh, without humour, almost … almost evil. Fidelma hardly ever applied that word to anything. Then there came two thuds, in quick succession, which seemed to cause the very cabin to shake. The floor seemed to vibrate. She waited, lamp in hand, every nerve tensed, her senses alert. But there was quiet now. An eternity seemed to pass and she could hear nothing more than the wailing of the wind. She moved quietly to the small window but it was blocked with snow. She hesitated a moment, placed the lamp on the table and went to the door, removing the wooden bar which fastened it.

Outside, the snow was still gusting in the wind but it remained dark. She could not tell how near dawn it was, only that there was no glimmer of light in the sky. The snow-clouds hid the moon as well as the stars. Then, near at hand, came the eerie howl of a wolf and, so it seemed, another animal close by answered the cry. She peered forward, suddenly nervous. The cry started again, and was answered again. It was clear that this was no lone wolf, weak and banished from the pack. These sounds were of hunting wolves, which meant perhaps as many as ten. She knew that country folk were liable to exaggerate the stories of wolf attacks on livestock and on people. Tradition painted the wolves as the incarnation of evil and malevolence, and, while Fidelma knew more than most about woodcraft, she admitted to having respect for ancient tales. She swiftly pushed the door shut again and put the bar back in place, making certain that it was secure.

She stood for a moment in uncertainty. Finally she turned, to build up the fire again before sitting down in the chair and pulling the blanket around her for more warmth. Somehow she had no inclination to go to lay down on the bed of the absent occupants.

There were only two possibilities for what had occurred. She had either imagined things or they had been real. And if they were real, then there must be an explanation. She had not been imagining things. Of that, she was absolutely sure. She had heard voices, and she had heard the thuds that shook the cabin.

Even before the coming of Christianity, her people had implicit belief in the Otherworld. Gods and mortals could pass freely between the Otherworld and this world. The old religion was based on the unchanging nature of the elements of this visible world as well as the invisible Otherworld. They were part of one entity. Both worlds were without barriers for, although parallel, they were not mutually exclusive. Fidelma did not reject the concept for it was still a living faith in many parts of the country in spite of the changes put in place by the advocates of the New Faith. When a soul died in this world, it was reborn in the other, and when a soul died in the Otherworld, it was reborn in this. A constant interchange of souls was taking place. And yet, it was said that at midnight on one special day of the year, the Otherworld could be both seen and heard. She shook her head. She had been raised with reason — taught that only facts counted, that everything could be explained by logic if one had sufficient information to do so. Just because she did not have the information to make an explanation, it did not mean to say that an explanation did not exist.

In trying to analyse the matter, sleep stole up on her again.

She woke feeling stiff and uncomfortable. She stretched and eased her limbs before rising to her feet. A faint light was filtering through the snow-covered widow and she could her the distant clucking of chickens. It was past dawn. She took some wood and placed it on the dying fire. Then she found the bowl of cold water, its edges showing where it had begun to freeze. She had used it on the previous night. She splashed her face — used the items from her ciobhog, her comb-bag, to freshen herself — dressed, and looked for something to eat. The milk was cold and still drinkable. Feeling thus refreshed, she went to the door, unbarred it and looked out.

The gusting winds of the night had blown away the snow-clouds and, amazingly, the sky was azure with the pale sun hanging above the eastern peaks. The snow carpeted the mountains, lit in bright white and, seemingly, undisturbed. Everything seemed calm and peaceful. She made her way to the barn to attend to the animals. While she was feeding them, she turned her attention yet again to the mystery, and what she should do next. There was no choice but to ride on to Beal Atha Gabhann although it meant abandoning the animals. Also, if the occupants had come to mishap on the mountains and survived the night, it meant abandoning them too. But what else could she do alone? She was not even sure exactly where she was except that she must be somewhere in the Sliabh Eibhline mountain range, an area she did not know except for the main route through them which, with the snows of last evening, she had managed to miss.

Outside the barn she stood and examined the shapes of the mountains but there was none she recognized. Not that she was expecting much, for she had only travelled this route a few times, but thought she might have retained some memory of the shape of the hills that were always an important guide to travellers.

She returned to the barn and saddled Aonbharr in readiness. The sooner she left, the sooner she might be able to find someone who could help either look after the animals or find the missing occupants.

She made her way back to the cabin to collect her sursaing-bholg, the girdle bag with her belongings. She opened the door and froze abruptly. In the chair before the fire — the chair where she had slept for a few uncomfortable hours — sat a man. He turned his head sharply in surprise at her entrance.

He was tall, thin and with a shock of white hair but without beard or moustache. His high-domed forehead accentuated a thin nose with strangely arched nostrils and high bridge. His pale skin stretched tightly over his sharply etched features. Indeed, there seemed no colour in his cheeks at all. He seemed a man who avoided the excesses of the weather but, in spite of his thin features, the pale hands that spread palm downward on his knees, bespoke strength.

Controlling his surprise, he rose from the chair and stood regarding her with pale, almost colourless eyes.

“Who are you?” Fidelma demanded, also recovering her poise.

“I should ask you that question first,” the man replied, with a thin smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you the owner of this farmstead?” she persisted, not put off by his counter question. Then she relented a little. “I am Fidelma of Cashel. I was on my way to Beal Atha Gabhann last night when I lost my way, saw this cabin and came here to seek shelter.”

At her name, the man showed some recognition.

“Fidelma the dalaigh?” he asked sharply. “The lawyer and sister to the King?”

“I am an advocate of the law courts,” she confirmed. “And now it is your turn to identify yourself.”