The Wolf of Allendale by Spencer Hannah

Author:Spencer, Hannah [Spencer, Hannah]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-01-17T05:00:00+00:00

25

Bert put his knife down, flexed his aching fingers a few times, then held up his handiwork. The savage visage of a wolf glared back at him.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at it without blinking. He sensed the twitch of the nostrils, the ripple of muscles as the lips slowly pulled upward, the stirring of fur in the breeze. He saw his vision of two days ago, crossing centuries of time to touch him on the shoulder.

He opened his eyes fully again and put the carving down. No life was really trapped within the wood.

Not yet.

As was his habit, he stained the creature’s eyes. A vivid blue, he decided. He’d never heard of a wolf with blue eyes, but for some reason it felt right. Trust your instincts. Then he wrapped it securely in a bundle of wool. It shouldn’t be touched or even looked upon until the ritual was in progress. Wool at least, he thought with an ironic smile, was something he was well equipped to provide.

Next thing, he had to prepare the drink. This was supposed to free his spirit and enable him to both see the beast and do battle with it. Rowan berries; they of course were just outside. It seemed right to use those from Janet’s tree, and he picked a basketful. They were slightly underripe, but hopefully that wouldn’t matter.

The other things—mugwort, wormwood, broom—were trickier. He tried to think where he’d seen them growing in the valleys in the summer. Most plants had died down for the winter, but he managed to find a few wilted stems. At least they weren’t covered by snow anymore.

It hadn’t occurred to him before, but there was nothing in the instructions about keeping a stock of the ingredients. Perhaps at one time—like he now kept yarrow—it was simply routine for whoever guarded the secret to keep stocks of useful plants.

He boiled the ingredients in spring water until they formed a gelatinous red liquid, interspersed with flecks of gray. It smelled awful. He stirred it a few times, his stomach already twisting at the thought of having to drink it, then set it aside to cool. Shep planted his paws on the bench and sniffed the pan.

“Get away, Shep!” Bert grabbed hold of him and pushed him down. The last thing he wanted was him upsetting it. Or drinking it.

The dog dropped down and went to lie by the stove, head on his paws in a sulk. Bert went to the door and looked out. The sun was around two hours from setting. He’d have to leave soon.

A nervous lump formed in his throat and he breathed in slowly and carefully, forcing his nerves away. The light-headedness and the pounding in his chest he attributed to the day’s fasting.

He’d decided on the location awhile ago. A natural spring down in the wood by the town. The Well of Saint Bride, it had been called in his youth. He was probably the only one who remembered that name now.

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