Beastkeeper (12 page)

“I said away,” Alan continued, patient and amused. “Come now, there's a good boy. She's no good for eating. A stringy thing. You go catch this instead.” There was a whistling noise, followed by a thump; the beast turned its head and, after a second's thought, raced away.

“There goes my supper, then,” said Alan, standing barefoot in the snow, still wearing a sweater with no shirt underneath and dirty trousers. He'd added a long green-and-blue scarf to the mix, and it trailed behind him, the ends soggy and dark. With a sweeping movement, he held out one hand. “Seems our forests have met,” he said. “Or you took a wrong turning.”

Sarah's shoulders loosened. She took another deep breath just to reassure herself that she could still, in fact, breathe, and turned her head slightly.

The beast was growling and hunched over, worrying at something on the ground.

“How—”

“Rabbit,” said Alan.

She kept looking, unable to drag her gaze away. This creature was smaller than the beast below the castle walls, she was sure of it, and its fur was thicker. On its legs were no marks, no broken chains.
Not Grandfather, not him at all.

Another thought was worming into her head, and she pushed it down and away.

“Come along.” Alan's voice was soft, but not whispery or scared, just the sort of firm voice that some people have, people who work with frightened things—animals or people. “Best move on before your friend there is done with his meal.”

Sarah nodded. Her feet wouldn't move. She was half certain that if she took a step, the spell the rabbit held on the beast would break, and it would come charging for her again.
The longer you stand here, the more likely that is. So move.
With another quick huff of breath, Sarah slid her toes through the snow. After the first few shuffles, the rope of fear hobbling her snapped, and she was able to move again. She walked toward where Alan stood, watching the beast feed.

Alan glanced at her once and nodded sharply. “Well done,” he said as he took a step back. “Keep your eyes on it always, until it's gone from sight. Don't turn your back on it.”

Together they went into the forest, into the protection of its trunks and deep, still places. They didn't say anything. The seconds tapped out in heartbeats, until finally there was no sign of the river clearing between the trees, or any faint rushing call of the water. The beast was out of sight.

Sarah wasn't sure if she should speak or if the sound of her voice would bring the beast after them again, so she kept close to Alan, following the small commands he gave with his fingers—a flick to turn here, a palm held up to stop—until finally he brought them out to a pathway between the trees. It wasn't the road that led to her grandmother's castle, but it was wider than the deer tracks that the raven had led her down.

“We should be safe here,” said Alan. “The beasts don't like the old roads, so they tend to stay clear of them. Too open. And besides, you could meet anything on an old road.”

“Thanks,” Sarah said. “For saving me back there. And I'm really sorry you lost your supper.”

Alan blinked. “Maybe I didn't save you at all,” he said. “You never know what beasts want.”

“Okay, well, thanks anyway, you know.”

“Now,” said Alan, as they stepped into the clear space. The trees were changing again; white-limbed birches appeared, and small sharp-leaved bushes, and spindly alders, last season's catkins crumbling on the ground. “Why would you be so far from your home, and so close to the Within?”

Sarah tripped over a hidden root and stumbled against him. “I—how do you know about the Within?”

Alan frowned. “How do you?” He helped her upright, and dusted her hair. “Twigs,” he said.

“I hate it when people do this,” Sarah said. Now that her heartbeat had gone back to normal, the meeting with the beast was beginning to feel like a nightmare, something unreal.

It didn't help much that Alan was patting at her head. It made her feel like someone's grubby cousin. It was humiliating.

“Do what?” he said.

“Answer all my questions with questions.”

“Do I?”

“Argh.” Sarah loosened her scarf a little; it was beginning to feel like it was strangling her. Her skin was prickly and sweaty with heat, even though her feet were frozen lumps.
Great. Please don't let me be getting sick
. “You're”—she huffed—“improbable. And I'm far from home because my father brought me here to this
place
.”

“And why would any father do that to a daughter?” Alan said. He was walking alongside her now, no need for him to lead the way.

“Exactly. Why?” Sarah sniffed. “It's going to sound like I'm making this up, but the truth is—well, I don't know.”
And just how much would Alan believe?
If she told him what she really thought, he'd probably think she'd gone mad. Or that she was just a little kid, playing at make-believe. Then again, he was rather odd himself.
And he knew about the Within, so maybe he believes all this stuff about witches.
“I think my father brought me here because he's cursed, and he's scared. I think.”

Alan stopped and turned to look at her. He was chewing at one corner of his upper lip, and his brow was furrowed in concentration. “Cursed?”

“I know. It sounds so stupid if I say it out loud.” Sarah shoved her hands into her pockets. “But there's nothing else that explains it all. Unless I'm going mad or something.”

“If he was cursed, why would you be going to the Within?”

“Oh.” She scuffed the loamy earth of the track, shifting the dirt around in an arc. “Well, I had this idea that, if it's all real, if there's really a curse, then maybe I could … ask for it to be taken off.” She felt the tips of her ears now, they'd gone from freezing-burning to just plain burning. Any minute now he was going to burst out laughing, start mocking her for being a stupid little kid.

“The witches are gone,” Alan said after a while. “And no one can get into the Within.”

It wasn't exactly the reaction she'd been expecting, and he sounded so serious, like he'd given a lot of thought to this kind of thing before. “If no one can get in, then how can you be so sure they're gone?” Sarah snapped. “Anyway, the raven never said anything about not being able to get into the Within, it just said not to try.”

Alan narrowed his eyes. “You've been talking to ravens, have you?”

“Just one. I don't make a habit of it.”

“A white one.” He sounded angry and amused at the same time, like he couldn't decide exactly how to react. Like he was putting the final pieces in place on a huge, complicated puzzle, only to find the picture was of an unmade puzzle.

“Yes, it's my grandmother's or something. I don't really know.”

Alan blinked. “Your grandmother—” He laughed. “Oh. I suppose that makes us mortal enemies.”

“What?” Sarah took a step away from him, ducking a little as if he was going to grab her by the scruff of her neck and haul her off to be tortured. He didn't do anything of the sort, of course, which left her feeling more than a little foolish. “What are you talking about—mortal enemies? You mean we're supposed to be facing off against each other with swords or something?”

He laughed again, and shook his head. “We need to talk,” he said. “And I need a brandy.” Alan walked away, the tails of his scarf flapping against his back, his bare feet as silent as cat paws. “Come along if you're going to come along, or go to your left, and if you strike true you'll find your castle, princess.”

There was no denying the feeling that tugged at her. Of course she wanted to know more. And she would far rather follow Alan into the forest just to get a glimpse of the truth than set off back to the castle and all its complicated lies.

“I'm not a princess,” Sarah said. And she set off after him.

 

10

IN WHICH MOST OF THE TRUTH IS TOLD

THE DIRT ROAD
led them to a cottage set in a small open clearing. The aspens fell away to reveal a simple A-frame house with a wide front porch shadowed by a drooping shingle roof. The wood planks were black, streaked with the violent green of moss. Even the roof was covered with its own miniature forest of bracken and red ferns.

Stumps spattered the clearing, and a covered lean-to against one side of the cottage was stacked with amber rounds of new-cut wood. Dead grouse hung from one stunted tree, their feathers fluttering stiffly in the wind.

To one side of the cottage, a small vegetable garden was kept tended. The white ribs of winter kale were bright against the dark, dark green of their leaves.

A streamer of smoke trailed from a thin, crooked chimney into the crisp air.

“Is this yours?” Sarah asked.

“It is and it isn't.” Alan opened the door and mock-bowed, ushering her in. “Beauty before age.”

“It's the other way around, you ninny,” Sarah said as she stepped into the cottage. It was warm. The air smelled of sage and woodsmoke and cat fur. She peeled off her gloves and shoved them into her pocket.

Behind her, Alan closed the door. “Apologies for the lack of light,” he said. “You get used to it soon enough.”

“It's not that dark.” Sarah took in the kitchen table, cluttered with bowls and bundles of herbs; the collection of glass carboys in a corner, filled with pale gold liquid; and a ratty couch that looked like it had been dragged straight out of the occasional dumping ground of the Not-a-Forest. Alan had covered it up with a crocheted blanket in rainbow zigzags, like something someone's granny had made. The colors glowed. Berry reds and deep sea blues and pine greens and daisy yellows. “It's not dark at all.”

Alan frowned. “Suit yourself.” He pointed at the couch. “Sit. Tea, and then we talk.”

Sarah didn't mind the idea of sitting, especially as it was toasty and comfortable in the little cottage. It shouldn't have been—after all, it was little more than a run-down hut in the woods—but it
felt
comfortable. It felt safe. She toed off her sneakers and curled up on the couch.

Alan hummed as he set out cups and gave the saucers a final quick wipe with a dishcloth. He was frowning in concentration again.

Watching someone make tea shouldn't be this interesting.
Sarah leaned an arm on the back of the couch and kept studying him anyway. She felt she almost understood the breathless glee of her classmates as they passed around pictures of their idols and whispered stuff about
amazing arms
and
cutest smile.
Not that Alan was like those cheesy-grinned mannequins. He was different.

“How do you like your tea?” Alan asked without looking up.

“Um, milk, please, and two sugars.”

He paused. “I've no milk and no sugar.”

Sarah grinned. “You don't often have guests, I suppose.”

“I once did.” Alan switched the cups around. “And now I don't.” He ducked down and rattled about in the cupboard. “Ah.” He came back up with a dusty bottle of honey-amber liquid.

Sarah supposed that was the brandy. “None for me.”

“I wasn't offering, you daft child.” He slugged a generous helping into one cup, just as the kettle on the hob began to scream a fine jet of steam from its spout. “I've some condensed milk,” he said. “How about that?”

It sounded reasonable enough, Sarah thought, like premixed milk and sugar. “Why not?”

“Yes. One would think it would be more popular, really.” Alan poured the tea, then poked holes in his tin of condensed milk and poured a fine trickle into Sarah's cup.

A moment later, Sarah was holding her condensed-milk tea in her hands. He had served it in a very fine china set, of the type that elderly aunts used when important visitors sat in the front room and talked about weather.

“So.” Alan took a seat in the rocking chair, and perched there like an angular pelican. “You're Inga's grandchild.” He put one foot to the floor and gently set the chair rocking. “Inga's grandchild, of all people.”

“Yes. How is that important? I mean, you said we're mortal enemies.” Sarah took a hesitant sip of her tea. It tasted like a toothache. “Are you trying to poison me with the condensed milk?”

“No,” said Alan absently. He took a gulp of his brandy-laced concoction and shuddered. “With the tea, actually.”

Sarah looked down in horror. The tea in question
was
unbearably sweet, but that was about it. She wasn't really sure what poison was supposed to taste like, though.
Maybe he put the condensed milk in to hide the taste of arsenic. Or something.

“I'm kidding,” Alan said. “Drink the tea.”

“Er,” said Sarah. “Maybe later. First, tell me why we're mortal enemies.”

“Because.” Alan hurriedly took another swallow. This time the shudder seemed to travel right down his legs. “The witch who cursed your grandparents—I'm her boy.”

Sarah set her cup down on the low table in front of her.
Of course
. He hadn't seemed the least surprised by her mention of the Within. He knew how to calm the beasts of the forest, and he could walk between all the different broken-apart woods as if they were all one vast green world. “You're her son.”

“I didn't say that. You need to listen to what people say. I'm her boy. I worked for her. I'm her beastkeeper.”

“Oh,” said Sarah after a while, because she couldn't think of anything else. “Did she keep a lot of beasts?”

Alan snorted. “Cats, mostly. But they saw to themselves. I took care of the hens and the geese. Geese are worse than goats, I'll have you know. And I'm good with herb lore, so if she found any broken animals in the woods, it was up to me to fix them.”