When her mother found her, Lowen was sitting on the rough-edged balcony running alongside her family’s home, cross-legged on a bench with a book balanced on her knees.
“Why are you hiding out here?”
“I’m not hiding. I’m reading.”
“Well, you’re not reading now, are you?” Her mother eyed the closed book on Lowen’s lap. “Why don’t you go and help Cade clean the fish? He brought in quite a haul this morning.”
Lowen placed the book beside her on the bench. It was a weighty novel with a garish purple cover—about a prince carved from ancient ice. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on the convoluted story, but she wasn’t about to tell her mother that.
The Wild Scrat recited their legends and histories from memory, often sharing them with the entire village beneath the branches of the Scrat-Heart. The reading of books brought back from Armoria was a new trend amongst the younger Scrat. They passed the volumes between each other like contraband, to the extreme disapproval of their elders. Lowen’s mother often chided her daughter for losing whole afternoons in the pages of a foreign culture, traversing city streets she had never seen and swimming in seas she had never heard of. Lowen braced herself, expecting Kerra to launch into the familiar diatribe. Instead, the older woman sat down beside her.
“You have been quieter than usual these last days,” she said. “Is something troubling you, Lowen?”
Lowen longed to fall into her mother’s arms. She longed to tell her the truth about Nicanor, to have her stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be all right. But she knew that would not happen. If she did tell her mother her secrets, the Chieftain would be heartbroken and horrified.
Instead, Lowen lifted her chin and said, “I fought with Jenifer again.”
“I know. I heard about the spectacle you made of yourselves.”
“It got out of hand.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” her mother pressed.
“Yes, I’m sure.” The lie coiled like a snake in her stomach, cold and thick and nauseating.
“I think Jenifer was upset, too. That is why she’s been out hunting these past two days.”
The Chieftain’s expression was pinched, but Lowen saw she was willing to let the matter drop. For the moment at least.
“I was thinking of paying grandmother a visit,” Lowen said, surprising herself.
Koth Conwen had been conspicuously absent since the Changing of the Moons, but the thin, blue smoke seen snaking from the roof of her hut meant she was brewing bitterblue. The seer’s brew. Wondering what visions her grandmother might have seen in its inky depths filled Lowen with foreboding.
“That’s a good idea. And tell your grandmother if she’s not at dinner tonight, I’ll come to fetch her myself. An old woman cannot live on herbs and rainwater alone.”
Lowen nodded, uncurled herself from the bench. “I’ll tell her.”
She made her way down the steps at the side of the balcony and along the walkway beneath. The morning air was damp with chill. She had been sitting on the bench so long, the stiff cotton strips of the skirt she wore over her tan-coloured breeches were beaded with dew, glinting in the early sunlight like tiny stars. For all the crushing weight of her secrets and the cold fear that her grandmother would let them slip, Lowen was yearning to see Nicanor. She wondered if he was thinking about her, if he was also afraid. Maybe he was angry with her. The thought made her blanch and she pushed it away.
To distract herself, Lowen looked out over the small village, awake now and beginning to thrum with the day’s activities. The walkway circled the wide clearing at the village centre, hugging the tree trunks ten metres above the forest floor. Behind her, the house of the Scrat Chieftain rose to meet the low-hanging branches of the great beech tree against whose trunk it was tightly pressed, flush with spring leaves that brushed the roof with brilliant green. Lowen passed steps leading to other lodgings, crafted from the logs of fallen trees and coppiced branches. Each one was unique, their sloping roofs overgrown with moss and trailing ivy. In the clearing, the remains of the giant pyre were still gently smouldering, overshadowed by the Scrat-Heart which towered above all. Yet more huts were crowded together on the ground, moulded from river clay and dried summer grass.
Skipping down a sloping gangway and onto the soft mulch of the forest floor, Lowen ducked beneath a sagging shelter overgrown with bindweed. Several leather workers were hunched over a large, scarred table, cutting and sewing the tanned hides the Scrat bartered wine and dyes for in Amoria. They had become an industrious people in the two decades since a tentative trade was re-established with Armoria—a place once spoken about in hushed, fearful tones. Lord Dewer would always be a threat, but the Scrat had long decided that friendly co-operation with his people was the best way of keeping a wary eye on him.
One of the workers waved Lowen over. “What do you think, Lowen?” he said, holding up the soft boot he’d been sewing. “Will your grandmother like them?”
“I’m sure she will, Gryff.”
The ruddiness in Gryff’s cheeks deepened. “I noticed her old shoes were looking worn. Making these is the least I can do after she helped my Mya.”
“How is Mya feeling now?”
A week previously, Gryff’s little girl had been suffering from a terrible fever. Conwen was sent for in the early hours of the morning and arrived armed with a steaming concoction in a thick, scarlet bottle that smelt like ashes but soon had the child up on her feet again.
“It’s as if she never took ill,” Gryff said. “She’s already back at her lessons.”
“That is good.”
Gryff turned back to his work and Lowen made her way across the clearing, past the elders who were working to clear away the remains of breakfast. The Scrat were happiest outside during the warmer months. They lived and worked in the open air and only ventured into their huts to sleep. Even the tribe’s babies lived the majority of their lives outdoors, tied to their mothers’ chests with leather and long strips of fur, then left to discover the forest floor for themselves once they could crawl. Their toys were acorns and leaves, their pets fat, hairy caterpillars and snails with shells the colour of jewels.
Lowen turned away from the village centre to follow the narrow path that eventually led to her grandmother’s home. The hut had been built by her grandfather many years before beneath a sycamore tree, the walls so expertly entwined with the trunk, you could not see where the tree ended and the house began. Branches grew over the roof and twisted themselves around the door. Beside the hut, Koth Conwen cultivated a garden filled with neat rows of herbs and sprawling rose bushes thick with blushing pink blooms.
Lowen paused before her grandmother’s hut, still nervous and unsure. She thought about turning on her heel and walking away. She could keep walking until the forest petered out, until the plains swept in and gave way to farmland, until Armoria came into view and beyond that the boundless blue of the ocean. The thought was horribly comforting.
“Come on in, Lowen,” her grandmother called from inside the hut, “before your feet turn to stone.”
Bracing herself, Lowen swept back the curtain of feathers and beads from the entrance and stepped inside. Her grandmother was sitting on a stool, slowly stirring an inky blue liquid in a blackened cauldron. It was strung above the fire pit at the centre of the hut and smoke was tumbling up and out into a clear sky from a hole cut into the sloping roof. Although it comprised a single round room, Grandmother’s hut always seemed far larger inside than it did from the outside. Bundles of dried herbs hung from boughs overlaid across the high ceiling and despite the brightness of the morning, thick beeswax candles flickered on every available surface. Hanging from the roughly hewn window frames were tiny skulls of shrews, rats, and mice, strung with beads and stones washed smooth in the river to create delicate little totems that shivered in the spring breeze.
“Good morning, Grandmother.”
Lowen hovered at the doorway. It felt unnatural to be so nervous in her grandmother’s presence.
“Come in, come in. I’ve made tea.”
Lowen glanced at the blue liquid swirling in the pot and Conwen rose from the stool, stifling a groan as she straightened her aching back.
“Does that look like any tea you’ve ever drunk?” she said. “Don’t be so silly.”
Lowen followed her grandmother to the back of the hut where two cups of gently steaming rosehip tea were cooling on a table worn smooth with age. There were two rocking chairs nearby, facing each other in a congenial manner. Their long, curved legs—carved into bulbous swirls and leaf shapes—were almost touching. Lowen picked up her tea and sat in one of the chairs, padded with woollen cushions fraying at the edges. Grandmother nodded her approval and sat in the opposite chair, her own cup of tea cradled in her hands.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
“Now,” Conwen said, “can we please talk about why you have been avoiding me?”
“I thought you were avoiding us.” Lowen fixed her eyes on her lap, studied the fine stitchwork edging the strips of her skirt. “Mother says she hasn’t seen you since the Changing of the Moons.”
“You know no lies are to be told beneath this roof. You usually come and visit with me every day, rain or shine, whether I’ve busied myself away or not. You, my dear, have been avoiding me.”
“I wish I could avoid everyone,” Lowen whispered into her tea.
Before her grandmother could reply, a flurry of wings startled them both. They looked up to see Odelin perched on the windowsill, his head cocked to one side as he regarded them with bright, black eyes.
“Ah, your little familiar is here,” Conwen said. “I was wondering where he was hiding himself.”
“Please don’t call him that. Only witches have familiars.”
“There’s no shame to be found in witchcraft.” Conwen drained her teacup and set it down on the table.
“No, but I’m no witch, Grandmother.”
“Yet that bird is loyal to none but you.”
“That’s only because I rescued him. He would have died when he broke his wing in that storm if I hadn’t brought him to you.” Lowen paused as a thought occurred to her.
“Odelin owes his life to you, not me. Maybe it is you he should be loyal to.” She turned and reached behind the rocking chair to stroke the bird’s head with the tip of one finger. “Did you hear that, Odelin? You are friends with the wrong Scrat.” The bird looked down his sharp beak at her, unblinking. Lowen turned back to her grandmother.
“It was also you who told me how to bind his leg with hair, so he might track the owner. That has come in useful more than once when Jenifer has strayed in the forest too long and Mother has begun to worry, though my sister is starting to wonder why I keep stealing hair from her comb. Perhaps you are a witch, Grandmother, to know such things.”
“I only know what the bird has told me himself. Some creatures are more sensitive than others. They have a thread of magick running through them. The bird is the one with the gifts, he just likes you well enough to share them.”
It was peaceful in Koth Conwen’s hut. The world on the other side of the door felt less pressing when she was there. For the briefest of moments, Lowen forgot the troubles that kept her from sleeping and allowed herself to relax.
“Sometimes I wish I was a witch,” she mused, half to herself.
Conwen watched her carefully, prompting her to continue.
“If I was a witch, I would at least be useful.”
“What is that supposed to mean, child?”
Lowen took a shuddering breath. “I don’t have a place here, not really. Certainly not now.”
She felt her head lowering as it became harder to hold her grandmother’s piercing gaze. For the first time, Lowen let herself imagine the future. In her mind’s eye, she could see a toddling infant with a satyr’s horns and glossy hooves, running to keep up with the other children who would surely shun her. Chieftain’s daughter or not, Lowen was under no illusion that the Wild Scrat would be accepting of an abomination in their midst.
“What nonsense,” her grandmother said.
“But I have no purpose here. Everyone else has a talent or an occupation. Jenifer leads hunting parties. Cade spends all day waist-high in the river, catching fish. Talwyn helps my mother, Arran brews mead, and his sister, Nalla, journeys to Armoria once a month to trade our goods. What do I do? I get in the way, or I hide and read books.”
“More nonsense. For a clever girl, you can be fool-blind sometimes, Lowen. You come here every day and help me with my work. You know all the herbs and medicine plants that grow in this forest. You know how to prepare them, how to keep and store them. Why do you think I show you these things? You were to carry on my work when I pass. The village was to look to you for wisdom and healing. You should have more confidence in yourself.”
Lowen had not failed to note her grandmother’s use of the past tense. “You no longer believe I will continue your work?”
“I think we both know your path has altered somewhat.” Her grandmother stared at her, as if trying to read her thoughts. Finally, she flung her hands up with an agitated sigh.
“For Goddess’s sake, Lowen. Let’s stop pussyfooting around the subject, shall we? Talk to me, child. Spit it out before it poisons you from the inside out.”
“I’m in trouble, Grandmother,” Lowen finally relented. A strange relief washed over her, prickling the small hairs at the nape of her neck. “I’m in trouble and no one can help me.”
Koth Conwen paused for a long time, sharp little eyes considering her granddaughter. Lowen lifted her shaking, still full teacup and set it back on the table in an attempt to soften the tension with some small action.
“There are ways to make your problem disappear,” she finally said, her words clipped.
Lowen knew what her grandmother was implying. There were certain herbs and concoctions that, if taken, would allow her to pretend the pregnancy had never been. She knew Scrat who did this. Women who were unwilling to leave their hard-earned places amongst the hunting or scouting parties for a season to care for an infant. It would be so simple.
The thought of it made Lowen want to wretch. She shook her head slowly, lips pressed tightly together. “I won’t do that.”
Conwen sat back in her rocking chair. “I understand. But, my girl, you must know the path you are choosing will be a hard one. Almost certainly a treacherous and lonely one.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? This will be no ordinary child, Lowen. Do you understand precisely why the Scrat and the satyr are forbidden to lie together? Have you read that in any of your fancy books?”
Lowen gaped at her grandmother for a moment. She was quite sure she had not told her that Nicanor was a satyr. She wondered what else the bitterblue had whispered to the old woman, her gaze wandering to the gently simmering cauldron in the centre of the room. Silky, indigo smoke wound up towards the ceiling. It smelt sweet, edged with something thick and dark.
“I believe it stems from distrust, not from outright hatred for the satyr,” she said, speaking slowly, turning her thoughts over before she spoke them aloud. “My mother has always spoken highly of them. She has great respect for their leader, Pyros. I asked her once why we were forbidden to enter satyr territory unannounced, why we were discouraged from befriending them. She said it was in order to maintain our delicate peace. Nymed was almost ripped apart by the satyr’s betrayal after the Waste Wars and that could never be allowed to happen again.”
“What a lot of horse manure.”
“Grandmother?” Lowen had never heard Koth Conwen speak so harshly before. Grandmother’s face was drawn, her eyes unfamiliar and glassy. It gave Lowen the cold, unsettling feeling of being trapped with a dangerous stranger.
“You have never been told the truth of the Waste Wars, none of you have. Only the Scrat Chieftain is ever made aware of the facts and they are sworn to keep that secret through all the days of their lives. I only know because I was to be Chieftain once.”
Lowen stiffened. This too was new knowledge. She’d never suspected her solitary, herb-tending grandmother had once harboured a desire to lead.
“It’s true,” Koth Conwen said, noting Lowen’s reaction. “I retracted my claim mere hours before the Passing Over ceremony, but not before the old Chieftain recounted her secrets to me. Maybe it was those secrets that changed my mind. It was so long ago, I’m no longer sure. I just know I came to the very firm decision that I didn’t actually want to lead our people. I no longer had the stomach for such a responsibility. Don’t look at me like that, child. Do you believe I was a coward? Sometimes accepting our own weaknesses is the strongest thing we can do.”
Lowen shook her head, prompting her grandmother to continue.
“The Scrat are told as babes that the great Waste Wars ended in victory against the might of Armoria. We spin tales about that deathless old goat, Lord Dewer; how he sought to crush Nymed and take it for himself, just as he crushed Kudann beneath the bricks of his black city. As with much of history, this is only partly correct.
“It is true the Scrat and the Satyr Nation joined together in order to overcome Lord Dewer’s army. It is true that we prevailed and eventually pressed him back behind the walls of Armoria—something I doubt we would be able to accomplish today, not now that his druids have become so powerful. What is not true, however, is the reason why Lord Dewer attacked us. He had no interest in our ancient forest. He had already stolen all the magick he could ever want from the ruins of Kudann. No, he wanted something far more precious. He wanted our children.”
Koth Conwen paused, began to cough. Her eyes watered and a single ink-edged tear ran across the planes of her softly lined face. The cough deepened, sounding as if it was coming from the deepest part of her. The old woman doubled over in her chair, one hand balled into a fist at her mouth.
“Are you well?” Lowen reached to pat her grandmother’s back. The action only served to make the coughing worse. “Should I get some water?”
Koth Conwen shook her head fiercely, shrugging away Lowen’s hand. The coughing fit finally subsided and her grandmother straightened against the back of her chair. Lowen tried to stifle a sharp intake of breath. Koth Conwen’s eyes were bulbous, ringed with swimming indigo. A dribble of inky bitterblue escaped the side of her blue-stained lips. Lowen found it hard not to stare as it made a slow trail down her grandmother’s soft white chin. The old woman no longer appeared to have the presence of mind to wipe it away.
“Grandmother,” Lowen whispered, “how much bitterblue have you drunk?”
“It had so much to show me.” Her rasping voice was horribly unfamiliar. “The more I took, the more it revealed. I had to know more. I had to know. I had to warn Lowen, I had to protect her.”
Lowen fought down the instinct to bolt from the hut and run to fetch her mother, longing for Kerra’s strength, her quiet confidence. Instead, she grasped her grandmother’s hands tightly in her own and forced herself to look into the ghoulish, blue-tinged mask of her face.
“It is Lowen, Grandmother. I’m here. Come back to me.”
“The Gift of the Moon.” Conwen’s voice rose as the liquid pooling in her mouth began to froth. “We denied our Gifts. We denied Joria.”
“I don’t understand, Grandmother.” Lowen reached for a delicately embroidered cloth folded neatly on the table. She dabbed clumsily at the blue-rinsed spittle running from her grandmother’s mouth, staining the tiny pink flowers stitched into the corners of the cloth a dark, slick blue.
“The Gift of the Moon,” Conwen cried again. “Children born of Scrat and Satyr. We could not save them. We could not let Lord Dewer take them. We wiped them from existence, even as their mothers wept. We took them from this life and we made it law that such a child could never be born again. They are too powerful, too tempting a prize for Lord Dewer.”
Lowen failed to suppress a shudder as her grandmother’s glassy eyes focused sharply on her. She grabbed at the front of Lowen’s tunic with thin, brittle-boned hands, bringing her face down close to hers. When she spoke again, flecks of blue flew from her mouth and landed on Lowen’s cheek.
“Lowen,” she rasped. “You must protect your Gift, the first to be born in a hundred years. The moons have turned, Aikana watches over you now, child. Silver-eyed kittens are mewling in the gutters. Music is dancing with the shadows. The beasts have escaped their dungeons and now they turn their faces to the light of a world they should never have set eyes upon. You must find Gwyrdmet. Find the Green King. Protect the Gift.”
With a long, twitching spasm, Koth Conwen fell back against the chair and fainted clean away. Lowen clamped both hands over her mouth to keep from crying out.
