“Then you intended that demon should kill me,” I said coldly.
“Your death would have been useful to us, but dead or frightened away from Ulewic, either would have served our purpose. In the end, you served us better than we could have hoped for.”
“I served you?” I said, taken aback by his words. “I would never-”
“But you did. The Owlman is as much your creation as mine, Mistress. I called it back from the shadows of the gods, but the day you swore that your friend had fought it and vanquished it, you gave it power. You proclaimed to all that you believed the Owlman existed. When a priest says he has exorcised a demon, he has in that instant by his word created the demon. You, Mistress, gave the Owlman life because you made of him a demon to be feared and fought.”
I stared at the dark figure. With sickening dread, I knew that I had unwittingly played right into their hands. I had been so intent on turning this evil deed into good, in making them see Healing Martha as a victor, that I had acknowledged this creature before all the women. I was the one who’d told them of his great power and horror.
“If I made him, then it will be all the easier to destroy him,” I said. “And that I promise you I will do this night, even if I die in the attempt.”
“They told me you were clever, but you still haven’t understood, Mistress. In attempting to destroy the Owlman, you would only strengthen him.”
He laughed. The sound was more chilling coming from the hollow of the blank expressionless mask. “Isn’t that what your Church teaches? Your martyrs and your Christ-who would ever have heard of them if people with your zeal had not set out to kill them?
“Mark this, Mistress, and mark it well: The Owlman cannot be killed. We have unleashed a legend in this valley, you and I, and legend cannot be destroyed. You can slay a human, you can slaughter a beast, but you cannot kill a demon or a god. They are immortal because we make them so. To fight them is to give them ever greater power.”
He lifted his sword and pointed it at my heart. The steel blade glinted in the candlelight. “In the morning they will find you bound to this oak tree, dead. I cannot tell you how the Owlman will kill you. Maybe he will rip out your bowels, like poor foolish Aldith, or tear strips from your flesh and devour them while you live. Perhaps he will blind you first or tear out your tongue. But he will come before dawn and he will take his prey.
“I’m going to make a martyr of you, Mistress. It’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s why you’ve come here. You will be remembered. Whenever they talk about the Owlman, they will speak your name too. Then the villagers will remember the Old Ways, and turn back to them, back from the Church which cannot protect them, and back from the Christ who cannot protect you. Order will be restored. Your death will breathe life into the Owlman. That is the true resurrection, the one we have known since this land was formed from Anu’s blood and bones.”
I felt sick. He was going to stake me out for this demon. I thought of Healing Martha’s tortured face, the mutilated body of that village woman lying behind the fallen oak. Is that how they would find me? And what if he was right? What if my death only served to terrify the village into serving that creature? I would have damned the souls of innocent men and women and children, maybe for generations to come.
Beyond the oak the fog swirled, forming into miasmas and dreams, then just for an instant the mist curled up behind the Owl Master, so that it looked as if there was an old woman standing behind him.
As if the mist of a memory was gathering in my head, I heard the whisper of a dying voice. “They only have half the spell. You mustn’t be afeard, you have the strength of a woman…” For a moment the white phantasm raised its blank hollow face as if to look at me, then the shape melted back into the whiteness, like ice in water.
Anger swelled inside me. The Owl Master was right; he needed me to give this demon life, and I would not give him that. I had to get away. If the Owl Master was going to bind me, he would have to lay down the sword. If I rushed at him and struck him, I might be able to throw him off guard long enough to get past him. In this mist he would never find me.
I swallowed hard. “If you propose to kill me, at least have the courage to show yourself. Do I not have the right to see the face of my murderer?”
He laughed softly. “Curious, are you, Mistress, curious to see who has bested you? Yes, I think you should know me.”
He pulled off his owl mask and stepped back from the tree, so that the lantern light slanted on his face.
“Now do you remember me, Mistress? We’re not strangers, you and me. We met one day on the Green when you ordered me to release that child from the stocks. Back then, you thought you could command the whole of Ulewic.”
I gaped. “The blacksmith…John? You are the Aodh? But I thought D’Acaster or one of his men would-”
“Would be the Aodh. Robert D’Acaster, you mean? He’s a fool. Like all of the noble lords, the D’Acasters are descended from out-landers. They’re not part of this land. They don’t know how to use its power.” His grip on the sword had relaxed and now the weapon swung loosely at his side. “You disappoint me, Mistress; did the name not tell you?”
“Aodh-fire. I should have known.”
“Yes, Mistress, you should, but like Father Ulfrid and the D’Acasters you think those of lowly birth are simpletons. It’s a dangerous mistake. Blacksmiths have worked the alchemy of fire and iron and water since the earth was young. We are the horse whisperers and the blood charmers. Who else could keep the knowledge of the Old Ways? I have faced the ordeal of the hide and I-”
He had stepped far enough back from the tree for me to take my chance. I ran for the gap. Caught off guard, he only saw what I was doing when it was too late. He raised his sword as I rushed past him, but I grabbed the hanging skin and swung it into his eyes. I heard his muffled cry as the clinging hide enveloped his face, but I did not look back. I fled into the mist.
I’d been so intent on getting away that it took too long to comprehend the deafening roar, then I realised it must be the crashing water of the river. It sounded as if I was almost on top of it, but in the mist I couldn’t make out where the noise was coming from. I stopped, breathing hard, afraid to move in case I plunged into it in the dark. I could hear him crashing through the bushes behind me.
I groped for a tree in the mist and crouched against it, praying he would run straight past. The water was so loud that I could no longer hear where he was or even if he was still moving. He could be a yard away creeping up on me from out of the mist and I’d not know until I felt the sword in my back. I peered this way and that, trying desperately to see through the swirling white, but the ghostly outlines that loomed in and out of the mist might be trees or men-it was impossible to know.
“The mist will not shield you, Mistress.” John’s voice rang out over the water’s roar. “He will find you. He can smell you wherever you hide.”
The voice seemed to be coming from somewhere close by, but fog distorted the direction, so that I couldn’t hear if he was behind or in front of me. I crouched lower, clasping the leather scrip which held Andrew’s Host.
Then the blacksmith’s voice boomed out again, louder and deeper, reverberating through the silent trees. “In the names of Taranis, lord of destruction, Yandil of ice and darkness, Rantipole, spirit of rage: Owlman, come forthand take your prey.” He gave the same deep sonorous oohu-oohu-oohu that I had heard earlier that night.
As the echoes of the cry died away, there was a moment’s silence, then came an answering call. Oohu-oohu-oohu. But this call made the breath freeze in my throat. The cry seemed to cleave the night in two. Whatever made it was of monstrous size and power.
I felt the rush of silent wings overhead, beating down on the mist, sending it boiling round my head. I caught a glimpse of talons, sharp as daggers, the flash of a huge beak in the mist. Then I saw, blazing out of the mist, the twin fires ringing those terrible dark pupils. I was pulled deeper and deeper into their blackness, until the strength was dragged from my limbs. I was consumed in the despair of that icy flame. My legs collapsed beneath me and I lay in the dirt, shaking and sobbing, waiting to feel those giant claws rip into my back. There was nothing I could do to save myself.
God has ordained you. A young girl, a child, was crouching in prison waiting like me for the end, but she could have walked free. Osmanna did not have to die, but she would, because she was not looking for God in that cloud on the mountain. She did not demand an answer to her prayers for she knew He was the silence. And in that very silence lay the answer. God is in you.
I forced myself to my feet. I made my arms fall from my face to my side. I stood upright, taller than I had ever stood in my life, and I shouted into the forest, “I am the body. I am the blood. I am creation. Do you hear me, demon? In the name of the God who set His spirit within me I deny you life.”
There was rush of wind over me. Looking up, I saw the eyes of fire, circling, coming closer. I threw back my head, waiting for the talons to tear at my throat, but it did not strike.
There came a terrified cry, “No! No, get back! Not me! I am your master!”
Someone was crashing wildly through the bushes.
“I command you-” John roared, but the words broke off in a long, drawn-out scream. There was a heavy splash. Then nothing.
I stood, listening for a long time, terrified that the demon was still hovering above me, but all was still.
“John,” I called softly. “Where are you?”
But there was no reply. I fell to my hands and knees, crawling forward through the mist towards the sound of crashing water. I felt the ground disappear under my outstretched hand and knew I was kneeling on the riverbank. I crouched on all fours. The mist hovered about a foot above the water. Below it, the white foam boiled down over the rocks.
“John, are you hurt?” I called again, but my voice seemed to be smothered by the white blanket and I wasn’t even sure I would hear his answer over the sound of the water. Then the mist parted for an instant and I could see something moving in the river. A man’s head, the face turned towards me, his eyeballs glittering white in the darkness. He was clinging onto the rock in the centre of the river. The icy water was cascading over his fingers as if they had become stones in the riverbed.
“Hold on,” I yelled. I struggled off with my cloak, twisted it, and knotted it top and bottom. I threw one end, but it was not long enough. The knot splashed into the water.
I needed a long stick or branch; it was impossible to find one in the mist. I pulled the belt from my waist and buckled it through the knot of the cloak; it lengthened it only a little, but I prayed it would be enough. I lay flat on the bank.
“I’ll throw it again. This time you must reach out. Now,” I yelled, as the mist closed again.
The end of the cloak fell into the water, but no hand grasped it and I felt the cloth being dragged down the stream. Again I hauled it out.
The mist parted briefly once more. I could see his fingers, white with cold, were slipping from the rock.
“John, let go with one hand and catch this when I throw. You must trust me or you will be swept away. It’s your only chance.”
