17
On the afternoon of the third day out of Bellsholm, I reach a crossroads, a major one with a signpost at its centre bristling with so many wooden arrows that it looks like an elongated hedgehog. There are the four compass points at the apex, placenames cascade down beneath. I examine each board with its neat black writing – Cwen’s Reach, Bitterwood, Tally’s Tarn, Silverton, Gevern’s Mount, St Allard’s Way, Heloise’s Grove, Foxfire Ridge, St Sinwin’s Harbour, Lodellan, Seaton St Mary, Able’s Croft, even Breakwater – yet not a one says “Blackwater”. I chew my lip, trying to decide: North of Bellsholm. But what if I make my way northwards, more or less, and find myself lost and none the wiser? I might head towards Lodellan, the cathedral city, and perhaps improve my chances of finding someone who has heard of my destination. More taverns, more coffee shops and tea houses where folk of all manner gather and talk, exchange information and stories. Somewhere I might find a hint of what I need? Perhaps it would throw Aidan off the trail, should he somehow divine my direction.
While I’m hesitating, staring at the black lines until they cease to make sense, the horse shifts nervously beneath me and whinnies. I glance around: the sky has become grey and is getting darker as clouds scud above us and the wind picks up. Not just a sun shower then. Casting about for shelter, I spot what looks like a cottage atop the slight hill before me. I urge my steed towards it, and as we get closer it becomes clear that there’s another structure nearby.
A gallows, occupied.
Three bodies, all dancing energetically in the breath of the oncoming storm. The horse is reluctant to get any closer to the gibbet, stamping even when I tell him to stand still. I don’t know how long they’ve been dead, these gallowscrows; not so long, I think. I’ve seen corpses before, not just my grandparents, but tenants’ and those washed ashore by Hob’s Hallow, so they hold no fear for me. One’s barely a youth, there’s the merest hint of a beard on his cheeks, thirteen no more, wearing green and red plaid trews. The flesh hasn’t started to melt from their bones yet, but the birds have begun to have their way: eyes are gone, and mouths hang open to show only the stubs of tongues, sweet meat and a treat for the ravens and smaller birds. And there are flies buzzing loudly where other scavengers have made tender entry. One raven sits on the head of the man I take to be the oldest, and pecks to open a wound on the cheek, then tears a long strip that comes away easily. The man’s black leather waistcoat is open and flaps in the breeze, and the one in the middle twirls on his noose, bright blue jacket too vivid given his circumstances.
Maura used to tell me that every brigand worth her or his salt sent a prayer to Galagatyr either before a job or on the scaffold. Never before a trial, for that would be a waste of breath: if you’ve been fool enough to get caught, the Gallows God won’t listen to you. But perhaps when you’re awaiting the long drop and the short stop you might squeeze a little pity from the hanging deity’s cold, cold heart. Looking at these three something tells me they weren’t the praying sort.
Beneath the scaffold are lush and glossy gallowberries. They are a rich purple and look enticing, but Maura always said they’re not to be eaten. Required for the darkest of magics, you shouldn’t even pick them unless you’re prepared to use them; what good might come of a plant that grows in a place of death? I’m not in the least bit tempted.
A drop of water, hard and slick, hits me on the forehead. At first I think it’s blood from the raven’s meal, but then realise the storm is breaking. The droplets come down harder now and the horse is unhappy. He moves swiftly away from the dead men and towards the cottage.
I dismount and hammer at the door. No answer. The place has an air of neglect, but it never hurts to be polite. I lead the horse to the left side where there’s a small lean-to, closed in enough for shelter but not so much that the beastie will feel hemmed in. I steer him into the space and, to my surprise, see there’s a bale of hay waiting there as if left especially for us. I remove his saddle and blanket, find a bucket in a corner and fill it from the well in the garden, all while getting pelted with hard rain. I give him one last pat on his velvety nose, then scurry to the front (only) door of the building.
The handle turns and the wind almost pushes me inside as I call ‘Hello?’ Again, no answer. The interior’s dark and I use my tinderbox to scratch up a quick flame on a piece of charcloth. In the flare of light, I see a lantern on a table just in front of me; there’s the swirl of fuel in its reservoir as I shake it. It sputters for a moment when I touch the cloth to the wick, catches and floods the cottage. It’s just one room, a hearth against one wall, three narrow beds, the table and four rough wooden chairs, all but one broken. There is a little kindling in the fireplace, which I use. I feed the small blaze with the fragments of furniture.
There are two windows, the glass cracked, but still in situ. Through them I can see the storm clouds growing ever darker, the droplets thudding against the panes, hitting the ground and churning the dirt into mud. The sound of the rain on the roof is dulled by the
