The Prince and Princess followed her finger and craned their necks to stare up at some gilded frieze work and ornate crown molding near the ceiling. “Where? What?” they both asked.
“That’s what I mean,” Grial said with a satisfied smile and dropped her hand.
The Prince and his royal consort stared at her in complete confusion.
“I know as much as all that,” replied Grial. “My point is, Your Highnesses, you can only comply with what Death seems to be demanding from you—indeed, from the whole world—in plain speech. He says he wants a Cobweb Bride. So, you must do all within your power to give him one.”
She paused, watching them meaningfully. “Think, what is within your power? Why, the ability to command your subjects. So, command away. Tell them all that Death wants a Cobweb Bride. Tell them that, since obviously a Bride is a woman, and as a common rule rather young, then all the young women of the Kingdom need to pay heed. Now, Death mentioned something about a Keep in the Northern Forests, didn’t he?”
“Why, yes, I believe he did!” Princess Lucia exclaimed.
“Well then, so we have at least that much. Death’s a gentleman, and indeed, since he takes all of us and all of what is ours in the end, he must have amassed quite a fortune—enough to buy a Keep or ten, not to mention a castle or a city or a whole realm, or all of them. Thus, we know where the Cobweb Bride must end up, after all is said and done. To the Keep she goes, lucky girl—well, not so much lucky, but you know what I mean,” Grial said.
“Yes, I follow you
. . .” said the Prince pensively.
“Don’t follow me, follow this track of thought, Your Highness,” Grial said. “And so, the next thing you must command of your people is that the young women—the ones who are
willing
, that is, for you are not one of those foreign despot beasts to insist things be done against the better will of their loyal subjects—those willing young women must all congregate to the Northern Forests and search for the Keep, so as to present themselves before the Deathly Gentleman as potential Brides.”
Grial smiled brightly and again started rubbing palms against the apron and the front of her dress, which probably explained why it was indeed so dirty and grease-stained.
“A fair solution, Grial,” Princess Lucia said softly. “But I am a little confused as to how any woman might be willing to do such a thing. . . . To go and face Death! For, whatever else could it entail, this being a Cobweb Bride, but being dead? Whoever would be convinced to willingly go to her death?”
“And a fair question you raise, Your Highness,” responded Grial. “The solution seems to be already at hand, and it’s Death’s own doing. No one can die. Neither Her Majesty the old dear, nor any soldier, nor beggar, nor anyone. And some desperately need to be dead, as you can see. Because to be dead is not such a bad thing when it is your time to be dead, to be relieved of pain and suffering. And so, there must be plenty of loving and kind-hearted young women in the Realm, who are willing to do this thing to help out those who are in need, those whom they dearly love.”
“But that’s not being willing!” Princess Lucia said. “How can you call that willing? It is a sacrifice of oneself.”
“And indeed it is. But it does require a will and a choice and a decision to proceed
. . . does it not, Highness?”
“Enough,” said the Prince suddenly. “I have decided. I know what must be done, and no, I am not a despot, but I do command my subjects.”
He looked at the humble yet not so humble woman before him. “I didn’t expect you to be of any use to me in this, but of all the others you alone gave me the reasoning I needed.”
“I am so glad!” Princess Lucia said, looking at her husband, then clasping her hands together in an odd combination of chronic neurosis and relief. “We must of course reward this good woman, do you not think, my dear—”
But Prince Roland Osenni was looking at the strange one, the wild witch with brittle hair and intense dark eyes that saw through him and to the other side. She, unlike everything else in this Realm, it seemed to him, looked in that moment so much
alive.
P
ercy watched in silence, huddled in a corner of the room farthest from her grandmother’s bedside, as the Last Rites were administered, prayers spoken, and the priest packed up and left in a hurry, carrying in his purse the added weight of Alann Ayren’s few coins in payment.
Father Dibue had been called away and his services were now required by several others in the village. It had always been thus, it seemed; the priest never lingered overlong in their poor household.
“She shouldn’t be long now, my son,” Father Dibue had said to Alann gently, as he headed out the door. “I will pray for her soul and for this house, you may be sure, tonight, and on the morrow. Now, be sure to let me know when her time comes. . . .”
“Yes,” Alann had replied in a wooden voice. He knew it was futile to point out to Father Dibue that nothing seemed to have changed. The priest was gone soon enough, and at least they’ve had the Last Rites for Bethesia—as though that merely involved packing a reticule for a long trip, and she was all ready to embark.
It was late afternoon, and after a brief meal of bread and onion barley pottage—the usual winter swill that no one seemed to properly taste, today in particular—the vigil continued.
Niobea rose in silence from her seat at the table and immediately returned to the old woman’s bedside, while Patty and Belle proceeded to clear the dishes and Percy carried the blackened pot with the remaining pottage back over to the fire.
Occasionally, past the grating sound of Bethesia’s harsh breathing, they could hear their neighbors outside. And now and then Alann, sitting in his chair, raised his head to stare at the closed shutters when their voices carried too loudly.
At one point, there were particularly loud squeals and then female screams coming from about three or four houses down. The squeals and screams continued for long moments, piercing to the ear and bizarre, until other noises came to the fore—those of closer neighbors opening their doors—and of course there was the deep bass of old uncle Roald from across the street as he roared “Blessed Saints in Heaven! What’s going on?”
Alann got up, his expression troubled. “That’s Mistress Marie Doneil’s daughter, I think? She’s got a squeaky voice. She must be hurt.”
Sitting near the stove Belle furrowed her brow and said, “Pa, I don’t think that’s Jenna Doneil. May the Lord forgive me, but it sounds like a real pig squealing. They’ve got two as of last month.”
“That’s right,” said Patty. “I’m sure that’s a pig voice, Pa. Though, Jenna could be a pig too, when she’s in a fierce mean mood—”
“Hush!” Niobea interrupted. “Don’t be rude, child, not now, not before your grandmother.”
But the screams, squeals, and general mayhem outside on the street continued.
“I’d best go look,” Alann said. “Maybe someone really is hurt and they need help.”
“I’ll go with you, Pa?” Percy said softly. Her tone of voice was tentative, as though she were afraid of her father’s reaction. What if he said no, rebuffed her now?
But Alann looked at her and nodded.
And so Percy and her father dressed in overcoats and wrapped themselves against the cold and went outside into the grey-white daylight of early evening.
The sky was slate, slowly going dark blue. There was no rough wind, only light snowfall, and yet, a peculiar menacing chill filled the cold air. Their footsteps crunched on the frozen ground over freshly fallen powder that managed to obscure the deep ruts made by army carts and heavy footprints of soldiers and hooves of cavalry horses that had passed here early in the morning.
Alann, with Percy in tow, joined a couple of neighbors as they were heading around the street bend.
“Good evening, Mister Ayren!” said a tall bundled man.
“Same to you, Mister Jaquard. Any notion what’s happening over at the Doneil house?”
“No idea, but it sounds bad.”
As they walked, the screams came stronger. Percy shuddered from the strange rending sensation she got every time the high-pitched squeal sounded. Someone was in agony. . . .
The Doneil house was a narrow two-story, with the bottom being the livestock room, while the family lived upstairs. They were a somewhat odd lot, the Doneils. There were always underfed chickens running around in their low-enclosed front yard, and often a sheep or goat pair or other livestock boarded inside, for lack of a barn. The Doneils sold eggs and tanned leather and sometimes, when there was a cow, they were the local dairy shop.
A small crowd of neighbors had gathered in front of the house, and there was animated talk, much gesticulation and several people making sings of the cross, while the screaming inside continued.
As Alann approached the closest one to ask, young Faith Groaden, who stood near her father began to cry, sobbing uncontrollably. “Poor pig!” she managed to get out, in-between shuddering sobs.
“Butchering didn’t go too well,” the neighbor from the crowd said to Alann. “Really strange, if you ask me, but that’s the pig squealing. Been squealing like that for a long time. Wouldn’t stop! We got here, and the Doneil girl came out, and she was all a mess, crying and stuttering. I say she’s daft, but she says the pig’s been cut, but it’s refusing to die. Her old man did the butchering and supposedly he’s still in there. Doing God knows what to that pig. Taking a horrible long time, if you ask me.”
In that moment a girl in a kerchief and woolen house-dress came running out of the front door of the Doneil house—the daughter, of no more than twelve years. Her face was contorted and red from weeping, covered with tears and snot and a general mess, and her sleeves were pulled up to her elbows, heedless of the cold, while she clutched her hands and wrung them, then beat her fists against her sides and periodically bent and straightened her knees as though straining to jump out of her own skin. Her apron was red and blood-splattered since she usually assisted her father. As she came out, Jenna Doneil started screaming again, shrill and insane, at the top of her voice.
“It ain’t dying! It ain’t! Oh God, Our Father, it ain’t!”
“Argh! Dammit! Get back in here, girl!” From the inside a male voice roared. Nicholas Doneil could be heard banging inside, heavy dull thuds against wood and metal, the sound of crashing, while the infernal squealing continued.
“Are you all right in there, Nick?” a neighbor yelled. “Need some help?”
“Damned pig! Cursed beast! Won’t shut up!” Nick replied. His voice was gruff and it was obvious that something was wrong indeed. Nick Doneil was usually a quiet solid man, did his butchering cleanly—if such a thing could be said—and yet never had he sounded so out of control as he did now.
Jenna Doneil wailed in reply, getting down on her knees and pounding her fists against the ground. There were smudges of pink where her blood-stained fingers touched the snow. “No, Pa! Please, no! No more, Pa! It ain’t dying, no! Don’t hurt it no more!”
“Shut up, idiot girl!” her father roared again. “Stay out and let me finish this!”
“I’m coming in, Nick,” again said the neighbor. But those standing closest put a hand on his sleeve to stop him, making silent “no” gestures.
Inside the house there was a heavy thud sound, as though a huge object was thrown.
The squealing suddenly stopped. “There!” Nick yelled triumphantly. “Bashed its head in, that should do it. Got no face now, pig. No face, no mouth to squeal, you stubborn damned beast.”
Jenna was still whimpering, panting and wiping snot from her cheeks. Shuddering, she turned her head to stare at the doorway of their house.
And then from the inside came another grunt and a loud stream of curses from Nick. “What the devil? Why are you still standing?” he was screaming. “What in all the unholy hell? Die, you goddamned—”
“Someone get the priest,” a woman neighbor muttered. She leaned forward to raise Jenna up and embrace her, leading her away from the front door. “Where’s your mother, child?” the woman asked. “Is Marie hiding as usual, upstairs when the butchering’s happening?”
“Yes, Ma’am . . .” Jenna sniffled.
“Well, I don’t blame her,” the woman said. “Don’t blame her one whit. And you should be up there with her. Your Pa shouldn’t force you to do the bloody work with him.”
“I don’t like it, Ma’am . . .” Jenna whispered.
In that moment there was a shadow at the doorway and Nicholas Doneil slowly came out of his house and just stopped. He seemed to stagger once, and his hands hung limp at his sides, powerless like rag-stuffed sleeves of a scarecrow. He was covered in blood up to his elbows, and all of his apron was red. His face, in contrast, except for the splattered droplets, was pale and drawn.
Everyone froze in silence and turned to stare.
“It won’t die
. . .” he whispered. Then, louder, “Pig . . . It won’t die!”
Signs of the cross travelled the crowd in waves.
Alann’s strong hand reached to clasp Percy’s small frozen one. It was shaking.
T
hings got worse as the evening wore on. Father Dibue was having a particularly hard time of it. By the time he got to the front yard of the Doneils’ place, he was hunched over, and he’d seemed to have lost or forgotten his shawls somewhere, so that his woolen hood slipped down constantly, revealing his scraggly head. He carried his bag with him as an afterthought.