Beneath Read Free

floorboards or the wolf’s head.
    The real truth was, though, Arnor never refused Freya anything. Her mother had died when she was three, and Freya was all that Arnor had left of her.
    They strolled past the smithy and the carpenter’s shop and dodged a bucket of slops being thrown out the back door of the inn. When they reached the arched bridge where the river flowed through town they stopped and sat on the parapet. The water was low at this time of year, and sluggish. As she watched it, Jess remembered the conversation with her grandmother the day before.
    “Have you heard anything about Donald?” she asked Freya.
    “Only that the search has been called off. Why?”
    “You haven’t heard anything about him drowning, then?”
    “
Drowning
? Donald? He could swim like an otter.”
    “Mmnn… That’s what I thought. It was something my gran said, but she must have been confused.”
    “Hah! That’ll be the day. Your gran’s got a sharper brain than most people in Kirriemuir.”
    “I know. That’s why I wondered. She said something about footprints at Roseroot Pool.”
    Freya shrugged. “Footprints all look the same. I don’t see how they could know if they were Donald’s.” She tossed a pebble into the river. “Will your father go on the wolf hunt?”
    “I think so. I bet Arnor will.”
    Freya flashed a smile. “He can’t wait. He still hopes he might find another one like the Summer Wolf. There are meant tobe black wolves over by Dundee, but I’ve not heard of them round here, though Lachlan says he’s heard stories.” She rolled her eyes.
    “Come on. It should be safe to go back now.” Freya hopped down from the parapet.
    Arnor had already packed the order on to the cart for Jess when they arrived, and she set off soon afterwards. This time, lost in her own thoughts, Jess forgot to think of eyes that might be watching from the shadows under the birch trees as she neared home.
    Bathed in summer sun, Westgarth Farm was a welcoming sight: the farmhouse with its thick stone walls, and deep eaves to help the snow slide off and to shelter the woodpiles in winter. Around the farm buildings were the fields and little orchard and pastures that fed the family and provided their income, and beyond that the forest and the hills began – the summits of Glas Maol and Cairn Bannoch lost in cloud even on a fine day like this.
    “I’m back,” Jess called as she drove into the farmyard. Ashe came running from the stable on the off-chance that there was a surprise for him, and found himself lugging a sack of flour into the larder instead. Martha and Jess finished unloading then sent Ashe to unharness the horse.
    While her mother put things away, Jess went to talk to Ellen.
    “Gran?”
    “Yes, child?”
    “Yesterday, when you were talking about Donald drowning, you were going to say something else when Mother came in.”
    Ellen looked up from her knitting, with an innocent look.
    “Was I, dear? I don’t remember. Perhaps you imagined it.”
    Jess knew she hadn’t. She looked hard at her grandmother, but the old woman returned her gaze calmly.
    “At my age I’m bound to forget things sometimes,” she said, and went back to her knitting.
    ***
    Mist hung above the sea of grass, the sun no more than a suggestion of light beyond it. The land breathed quietly, waking.
    There was a sound, a mutter that grew to a drumming: hooves. A half-grown horse emerged from the mist, black coat streaked with sweat, running desperately. It pounded across the grass without slackening pace. Behind it, gaining with every second, ran three black wolves, yellow fangs bared, bloodlust in their eyes.
    As the grass gave way to trees the horse had to slow a little and the wolves closed the gap still further.
    The path between the trunks was blocked by huge briar bushes. The horse swerved and turned, but there was no way through. It stopped at last, at bay, flanks heaving, trembling with exhaustion.
    The wolves walked forward slowly.