In the deeps of sbalem Wood be bowls.
—THE LEGEND OF THE SHRIKER
HANNA ADDED BOILING WATER TO THE COLD WATER IN the basin, dipped a bowl in, and started to scrub. The water was too hot, but she dropped in the spoons with a clatter, working the suds to wash another bowl.
“Look now,” said Da, scooting his chair closer to Miles. “My son’s becoming a man.”
“Whatever do you mean?” said Mother.
“Show her your neck, son.” ordered Da.
“Ah,” said Mother. “A beard’s beginning. Come see, Hanna.”
“Me first,” shouted Tymm, leaping from his chair. He put his hand up to his brother’s neck.
“Get back,” warned Miles, slapping his hand away.
“Oh, let him see,” said Mother. “It’s not every day a boy gets a beard.”
Hanna wiped her wet, raw hands on her apron and peered at Miles.
“Strange color,” said Mother. “It’s almost gray. And it’s growing right over that cut you got a few weeks back.”
“It’s very thick for a starter,” said Da proudly.
Hanna agreed with Mother. A strange-looking beard. Not dark brown like Miles’s hair, or even red brown as she’d seen on many a farmer and fisherman. It didn’t look so much like a man’s beard as their sheepdog Koogan’s thick fur. She frowned to herself, then catching Miles’s wary eyes, lifted her lips to smile.
Tymm was dancing round the table. Chanting, “It’s not every day a boy gets a beard!” over and over until Mother made him sit again.
“Give my son some ale,” said Da.
“Oh, he’s much too young for that,” Mother said.
“I say it’s time.” Da poured a tall mug for himself and a small one for Miles. “Take up your mug of tea, Mother,” said Da. “And yours, too. Tymm and Hanna.” They all raised their cups.
“To my son,” said Da. “Soon to be a man!”
He plucked his fiddle from the wall. “Bring out your flute, son, and we’ll play us a tune.”
Miles shook his head. “Not tonight, Da.”
Da replaced the fiddle, sat again and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Hanna stirred the fire. The cottage seemed all too silent without the evening’s music for she’d been used to Miles and her da playing most nights.
If Granda were still alive, he’d tell them all a story, whichever one they asked for but the Shriker’s tale, and she’d never ask for that. She kneaded the memory of the Shriker’s tale in her mind, pressing it down as she would press against rising bread dough, until it was well tucked in.
Mother patted Tymm’s head. “Bedtime, little man.”
Da yawned and stretched. “I’m all done in myself.”
Hanna hung up the drying towel, kissed Mother and Da, and left the kitchen.
In her room she lit the candle and changed into her sleeping gown. The wool blanket felt heavy across her body; still, she shivered in her cot remembering the paddy paws that had followed Rory Sheen. And how his own dog, turned monster by the man’s betrayal, had devoured him at last.
Miles had spent the last hours with Granda before he died. Had he told Miles more about the Shriker then? Were there some who heard his call, like the Falconer said? She wanted to ask Miles, but he’d gone strangely silent since the wolf attacked them on the byway. She knew it wasn’t his fault, only that he was late to fetch her, but she hadn’t been able to convince him of that. If she went to him with her questions now, he wouldn’t speak with her, she knew that, too. So she pulled the blanket up to her chin, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.
Over the next few nights, as the moon waxed from gibbous to full, Hanna began to notice a far-off sound. The wolves are calling in the woods, she thought. They’re howling at the moon, and that is all. She did not go in search of the Falconer, as she’d been told, but kept the sound secret. It was only a wolf pack, after all.
Night on night she felt the call come louder. And soon there was another reason she kept the calling secret. There was music in the howl. A sad song that fingered down her throat, moving toward her heart. Soon it was the beauty of the song that made her keep it to herself, for she didn’t want the tune to leave her.
As the moon swelled to fullness in the sky, the nocturnal song grew louder, deeper, richer, laying an enchantment on her. At last she fell under its magic spell. The song drew her from her bed. She slid outside her window and wandered through the garden gate.
Wrapped only in her sleeping gown, Hanna left the cottage for the trees.