Very Superstitious Read online

  Andrew sighs out an exasperated breath and looks away, letting the talk return to folk tales and fancies. But his face turns toward home and his horse dances beneath him.

  “What of the rooster that was possessed and only crowed at night?”

  “That would be a devil I'd be most eager to dispatch,” Andrew says with a grimace. “I am quite fond of my sleep.”

  “If I were you, I'd have a care for my beasts,” Roderick warns. “This time of year the Devil gets itchy,” he adds, looking up to the colorful canopy of the autumn tree leaves. “And an itchy devil is a creative devil.”

  Andrew blinks. “You all sound as superstitious as the old women. Everything is demonic possession or spirits or —”

  “— the fae,” Roderick adds.

  “Just because the old wives say a thing, it does not make a thing less true,” Lord Hubert mutters. “Best learn that fact now, lad, well before your wife is numbered among those old wives.”

  Andrew shakes his head. “Does the Devil truly have so little on his mind that he wastes precious hours possessing livestock? Do the fae truly switch out our creatures and children for theirs — do the fae even exist? I have yet to see one.”

  The men cross themselves, staring at him wide-eyed.

  “The proof, dear lad, is in the results,” Lord Hubert says with a snort. “The priests tell us such things exist, and we see the havoc these monsters wreak. That not only proves the priests, but keeps me and mine attending mass and —”

  “— confessional,” Andrew adds with a wry grin.

  Lord Hubert snorts. “That as well. The priests know of what they speak. And this is the time of year when the veil between our worlds is thinnest. I say have the priests come and bless all your people and possessions and lock them up tight — especially on Samhain.”

  A chill blows through the woods, and leaves tremble free of branches, falling in colorful spirals of golds and browns.

  Andrew nudges his horse, turning its head toward home. “And I say this talk of superstition and religion has got me feeling no more like the hunter but rather some fool's prey. There is nothing else to be had in these woods this day. May the morrow prove more profitable for us all!” He kicks his horse forward, not stopping or slowing until home is in view.

  ***

  The house is as unnaturally quiet as the woods, and Andrew's arms prickle, the hairs on them rising. A strange sensation of dread rumbles in his gut, and his brow lowers. A crisp breeze pushes through the house, and he puts his face to it, finding the back door standing wide open. For a moment he peers out at the edge of the woods not far beyond the door's threshold. Trunks and branches stand like silent warriors with nothing but darkness stretching between them. He cannot blame Kate for wanting to be elsewhere, not when that is all you see at your back.

  He closes the door tight. Someone has tracked in mud, and Andrew makes a mental note to have either Sarah or Brighid clean the floor.

  Unsettled by something he cannot quite name, he heads upstairs to see the things that so easily brighten his darkest of moods — his son and his dog, Annie, his rescue.

  The door to his bedchamber stands open and he pauses, realizing here too there is silence. He bounds across his bedchamber's broad floor and through the other open door and into his son's nursery.

  Annie swings around at him, growling, her face streaked with color. Then she blinks, the growl dies in her throat and she sits quivering on the floor by his son’s overturned cradle. Every bit of her from her nose to the knees of her long front legs is sticky with red.

  He crosses himself, the words of his men fresh in his ears.

  Her eyes bright, she wags her tail, the tips of its hairs brushing across a pool of red …

  He gags. The wet nurse is on the floor, pale as the first snow now falling outside the windows, her eyes stuck wide open in horror-filled death, her hand thrust toward the overturned cradle and the baby's bedding lying there limp and wicking up the blood spilled from the massive gash in her throat.

  His breathing shallow, Andrew rests his hand on the pommel of his sword, his eyes only leaving Annie long enough to search the room for any sign of his son — his bright-eyed baby boy.

  The bedchamber has become a battleground, his once favorite dog the gore-slicked victor. His wife's bed sheets are torn free of her mattress, fabric ripped and splashed with red. The breath catches in his throat, and he strangles at the thought.

  His wife … Thank God she was not home when the dog went mad …

  Small consolation faced with the loss of his first son.

  His eyes so wide and unblinking they burn, Lord Andrew does the only thing a righteous man can. He pulls his sword free of its scabbard with the whisper of steel on leather and raises the weapon, determined to give the Hellhound before him a quicker death than she gave the nurse and his boy.

  He draws the blade back over his shoulder to make the cut clean and fast, remembering Lord Hubert's warning. “They must be dispatched properly. Cut off the heads and burn the bodies.”

  Annie looks up at him and whines, tilting her head, her red ears in need of a good scratch. Her tail beats faster, painting the floor red with broad strokes.

  Andrew steels himself and sucks down a deep breath.

  The sword clatters to the ground when he hears the baby's wail of righteous indignation, and he pushes past the dog, his brow furrowed as his shaking hands right the cradle.

  Geoffrey looks up at his father, blinking against the sudden light, and yowls again, his mouth huge in his chubby face. Huge in his unmarked, completely clean, and chubby face.

  Andrew clutches him to his chest, then holds him out before him, turning him around in his hands and seeking any wounds. The boy is as perfect as when he left him. Holding him near once more, his broad hand over the back of the baby's head, Andrew watches Annie rise.

  She whines again, wanting his touch, and pads forward a step. Andrew answers by taking a step back, hating himself for dropping his sword. She may not have killed his boy, but the nurse — there is no argument that can be made on Annie's behalf.

  She steps forward and he steps back, his eyes darting for some new weapon.

  Her tail wags at this new game of his, and she steps forward again, chasing him back yet another pace.

  His hand snakes out and snares the heavy iron candle stand. It will be messy, that much he can guess, but now he has his son, has the nurse's murderer, and a weapon with which to end the Hellhound's existence.

  Annie takes another step forward before he can adjust his grip on the weapon and get the balance right for a swing. His legs bump into the bed, and he sprawls across it with a shout, his head hanging off its far side, his boy wrapped in his arm, the candle stand useless as Annie lunges, and he squeezes his eyes closed and turns his head away against the dreadful end.

  A hot wet tongue streaks against his face again and again, and Annie whines for his attention.

  His son giggles at the snuffling attentions of the hound.

  Andrew opens his eyes and meets the glassy eyes of — he bolts upright, the candle stand falling off the edge of the bed with a clank, Annie leaping backwards to land on the floor with a grunt.

  Andrew spins around on the bed, staring, his mouth hanging wide open at the sight.

  In the wide space between the bed and the wall lies the corpse of a bear, its throat torn wide open, its claws bloody as its paws are muddy.

  Annie barks from behind him, her tail wagging even faster.

  It is suddenly clear … the open doors, the muddy tracks, the nurse's throat torn so wide apart, the overturned crib, the dead bear and the dog …

  … the faithful, blood-crusted warrior of a dog who stood between a babe and a beast.

  Annie. Both rescue and rescuer.

  Author's Note

  This story is a variation of a traditional tale found in many cultures. In Western European tradition, the dog dies at the end — moments before the baby cries and reveals the rescue
(my son wouldn’t allow that, so Annie defies tradition and lives). In more Eastern cultures, the dog is replaced by a mongoose, a tiger, or a bear, but as this story supports the SPCA and I have no tiger, bear, or mongoose, but my dogs have all been rescues, I felt using the Western dog was fitting. Special thanks to my beta readers: Christi Alley, Patty Locatelli, and Karl Gee, and to the ever-awesome staff at Month9Books!

  Sambethe watched the Black Rider die.

  It wasn’t a bad death, as those things went. Sambethe was certain that her father’s chickens felt more pain when they were killed; the hens, freshly beheaded, would run around the coop as if they could still escape the ax, and when they finally realized they were quite dead, they would stop running and bleed out, fitfully and messily, until the ground was sticky with crimson. The Black Rider hadn’t run and hadn’t even bled; her kohl-covered body crumpled as soon as the large sword parted her head from her neck. A quick death, thought Sambethe, nodding, and that had to be a good thing.

  The Red Rider stood over the body and laughed as she sheathed her massive sword. When she spoke, her voice cracked the skies.

  How do your taunts serve you now, Black? Do they nourish you, now that you are dead and cold? Who is starved for attention now?

  Unseen, Sambethe frowned as she watched the Red Rider gloat. It was a poor thing, she thought, to dance over the body of the dead.

  Do not hold it against her, a man’s voice said. She is a creature of passion.

  She looked over her shoulder to see the Pale Rider in his faded robe, a cowl shadowing his face, save for two pinpoints of blue fire. He nodded at her, once—a slight incline of his head, as if he and Sambethe were equals—then he turned to watch the Red Rider’s victory.

  “I’ve seen you before,” Sambethe said.

  Everyone has seen me before, said the Pale Rider. Few remember it, even in dreams.

  “Is this a dream?”

  Yes.

  Sambethe tapped her teeth. She knew from listening to her grandmother that dreams were the wings that bore messages from the gods. But if there was a message here, she didn’t know what it was. Well, she was having this dream for a reason. Therefore, she decided, the people in the dream were important; they served a purpose.

  A new Black Rider will come, said the Pale Rider. Perhaps this time, Red will learn.

  “Learn what?”

  Just because truth can be painful, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be spoken.

  Sambethe appreciated his wisdom. She understood the importance of speaking the truth. The problem, however, was that the people in her village always dismissed her truth as stories. It was very annoying.

  The Red Rider kicked the Black Rider’s corpse.

  Sambethe asked, “Why did the woman in red kill the woman in black?”

  Because it is in the Red Rider’s nature to be violent, just as it is in the Black Rider’s nature to speak truths that eat at the Red Rider’s soul, one bite at a time.

  “And what is in my nature?”

  You, Sambethe? Though she couldn’t see the smile on the Pale Rider’s face, Sambethe could hear the amusement in his voice. You thirst for knowledge, so I would hazard that it is in your nature to be thirsty. But mind the water, lest you drown before your thirst is quenched.

  She frowned. Water. Wasn’t she supposed to do something with water?

  Just as the realization struck her, she felt a sting upon her bottom.

  “Up, up, up!” cried a woman’s voice. “Lazy girl, up with you! There’s water that needs to be collected!”

  Sambethe gasped and opened her eyes. She was lying on her belly, on her sleeping pallet, her blankets askew and her bottom suspiciously sore. She rolled onto her side and looked up at her mother, who was scowling. Her mother always scowled when Sambethe overslept. She was also holding a sandal, ready to swat gadflies and slow-moving children.

  “Finally awake,” her mother huffed. “And look, there is even still morning light. Wonder of wonders!”

  “I had the dream again, about the pale man,” Sambethe said, scrambling to her feet. “But this time, there were two women as well, dressed in red and black.”

  “Dreaming doesn’t get your chores done.” Her mother shook her sandal menacingly, then shoved a bucket into Sambethe’s arms. “The water, Sabba, before your father comes looking for a reason why the animals are thirsty.”

  Sambethe bowed her head deeply. “Yes, Mama. Sorry, Mama.”

  Her mother sighed, then gently brushed Sambethe’s hair away from her face. “You’re a good girl, my Sabba, when you’re not distracted by strange dreams and wild stories. Now go; there’s work to be done.”

  Sambethe quickly dressed. She would go to the river and fill the large bucket, then return and dump the water into the animals’ trough, then return to the river and refill the bucket, and so on, until the trough was all but overflowing with clean water. It would take seven trips, and each trip would take four thousand and six steps. She knew because she always counted. She would do it quickly and carefully, and she would absolutely not get distracted.

  Resolute, Sambethe began the long walk to the river.

  ***

  The water was rising.

  Sambethe sat on a large rock, frowning as she watched the river. She shivered as the morning breeze chilled her damp skin—her linen gown, soaked and filthy, slowly plastered to her body while droplets of water dripped steadily from her hair—but it didn’t occur to her that she should go home and change her clothing. She was too concerned about the river to think of her own comfort.

  At this end of the ridge, the river’s surface should have been no less than two cubits down from the rocks where she sat. Sambethe had gone to the very edge and leaned down to measure for herself, stretching first her left arm from the crook of her elbow to the tips of her fingers and then her right. Just before she’d slipped, she’d noted how her right hand had broken the surface of the water all the way up to her wrist. That was half a cubit’s difference.

  Then she’d tumbled into the river.

  Spluttering, she’d scrambled to her feet. When she stood, the water skimmed her chin. It should have come only to her shoulders.

  The water was definitely rising.

  Sambethe had climbed out of the river and pulled herself up to the rocky ledge that overlooked the water. Now she sat, and she shivered, and she wondered what to do. Her empty bucket sat next to her, all but forgotten.

  She longed to tell her grandmother, but her mother’s mother had been dead for six months and six days, and though Sambethe spent many an hour speaking to her grandmother’s grave, the conversation tended to be one-sided. She would get no answers there.

  She considered telling Ham and his brothers that the river was rising, but what was the point? They wouldn’t believe her. They never believed her, especially when she spoke the obvious—and then they inexplicably grew angry when they finally realized she was right. While she had come to appreciate that boys were strange, it always bothered her when Ham teased her. No, she shouldn’t say anything to them.

  Telling her parents would result in a swatting for “dreaming when there is work to be done.” And her mother, as she knew all too well, was quick with her sandal.

  Sambethe had no brothers or sisters to impress with her knowledge, and she had no one she considered a friend (other than Ham, maybe, and he didn’t count because he was a boy).

  So she said the words aloud, to herself, because she knew that she was right and that it was important for her to tell someone. “The water is rising.”

  And to her surprise, someone answered. “It is.”

  She turned to see a tall man seated to her right. He didn’t wear a tufted skirt, as the men of her village did, nor was he bald and bearded, like her father. Instead, he sat covered in a brown robe, and atop his head was a magnificent crown of golden hair, long and windswept. His blue eyes shone like her father’s amulet of lapis lazuli. She couldn’t help but stare; never before had she seen
a person with eyes other than brown. She decided she liked the color; it made her think of autumn skies, just before harvest.

  “I know you,” she said slowly, then she shook her head. That was foolish; she had never seen the man before. She could not have known him—and yet she had never been more certain that she knew who he was, and that he, in turn, knew everything about her.

  “You do,” the man replied. “Everyone knows me, Sambethe, just as I know everyone. And you’re correct: the water is rising. At this rate, it will overflow its borders within forty days. Sooner, should the rains come.”

  Sambethe frowned at the water. Every spring, the river overflowed. Because it happened every year, and because the village itself was a fifteen-minute walk from the riverbank (seven minutes, if Ham were racing her) no one worried. But it wasn’t springtime now. It was the heart of summer, when the river overflowed only with trading barges and other ships.

  “The river is rising before its time,” she said. “That’s bad.”

  “Good or bad depends on your point of view,” said the man. “But it is rising before its time. That is true, no matter what the result.”

  “Why is it rising?”

  “I could tell you stories of ice flows melting and of seas meeting rivers, but that answer wouldn’t help you.” His eyes sparkled like mischief. “If you are going to ask me a question, Sambethe, make it a good one. I don’t always give answers.”

  Sambethe tapped her teeth as she considered her words. “Is the village in danger from the river overflowing?”

  “Yes.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh and slammed her fist against her leg. “I want to tell them,” she said, meaning her parents or Ham or anyone in her village, “but it won’t matter. They won’t listen. They never listen.”

  The man smiled. It was a good smile, filled with sympathy and knowledge and mirth. “One thing I’ve learned in my time here is that people can be surprising. You never quite know what they are going to do. And what will you do, Sambethe? Will you speak the truth?”