The Devil's Mistress David Barclay (books to read this summer .TXT) 📖

Isabella tried to swim with one arm and found herself powerless against the tide. Her body began to move downstream, weaving up and down as the current carried her from the shore. The water strangled her at intervals, pulling her beneath the surface and then floating her to the top. Try as she might, she could not suck in enough air to scream.

Before she was carried round the bend, she thrust herself upward, catching one final glimpse of the shoreline. The last thing she saw was her servant boy, turning purple as he was hoisted high into the air and left to dangle like a broken marionette.

Chapter 19

She awoke on the shore of some distant place, surrounded by driftwood and a clutter of seaweed which had washed in with the tide. Before her lay the vast expanse of an unknown forest. Behind her was the empty sea, which disappeared into a low and rolling mist as it stretched toward the horizon.

It was nearly dark.

The wind, which had earlier been chased by the bright light of the sun, had returned in force, howling across the beach in a low, mournful wail. She held no protection against its bite. Her meager rags had been swallowed by the deep, ripped from her body at some point during her journey.

Nevertheless, the waters had been cleansing. The dirt, the grime, the blood and filth that had so painted her were gone. Even her bleeding tongue, which had been a ragged and heinous thing upon the morn, had been staunched by the coarse salt of the bay.

What was left was a hollow shell, a collection of skin and hair that had once been a girl named Isabella, and was now Nothing. All the things which had come before—her family, her home, her friends—they were part of a life she could no longer reach. Her father was gone. Her home was gone. Her servant boy… He was gone, too. Without these things, she could not even feel herself.

And so she stood upon the beach, watching the sun slip from the sky and the orange orb of the moon rise in its place, having no thought to guide her, nor instinct to satisfy.

A measure of time passed—minutes, or hours; it was impossible to say—and then a low, gray shape appeared at the tree line. It found a log at the edge of the forest and sat, observing this odd human who had come within its territory. The Isabella of old might have recognized the creature, might have remembered its sharp teeth, its vicious snarl, the blood of her father’s livestock matted upon its fur. But the Nothing saw only a shape which may or may not have been a wolf, and whose ability to rend flesh concerned her not at all.

The beast stared at her for several long minutes, then turned and left. It returned a short time later with something dangling from its mouth. It dropped the gift twenty paces from where she stood, then ran back to the forest and disappeared.

The Nothing regarded the object: red upon one side, matted with fur upon the other. Without knowing why, she began to walk toward it. The smell of a fresh kill came wafting toward her, and she found herself growing hungry even though she had no particular desire to eat.

She picked the offering off the ground. It was tattered and torn. A leg of some sort, perhaps from a doe or a small elk. After a moment’s consideration, she pushed the meat past her missing teeth and took a tentative bite. And then she was not just tasting it, but devouring it, ripping it, swallowing hair and skin and meat alike. The juices ran down her chin, and she scooped them up with her hands and sucked her fingers.

When the leg was but strings upon the bone, the wolf reappeared. It came as far as the log and turned to face the forest. She understood she was to follow, and having no particular prejudice against such an action, dropped the remains of the leg and began to walk in its footsteps.

She followed it into the line of trees, where the canopy blocked the moon. The creature was barely visible in the dark. It began to stop every twenty paces or so to let her catch up.

The night grew thicker, and the beast began to disappear for longer and longer periods of time. Then it disappeared for good, and she found herself wandering alone in a vast and empty darkness. There was no light, no direction, no purpose. Even the wind had all but quieted, broken upon the backs of the knotted pines which twisted and rose into the sky.

At last, there came something. A sound. A thrumming, steady beat, like the timber of a hollow drum. A small orange dot appeared on the horizon and began to flicker. The fire of an encampment, some miles ahead.

Both grew in intensity with each passing step. Soon, there were whispers and laughter. The fire projected upon a circle of moving figures whose shadows twirled about the flames. Ten, or perhaps a dozen people, danced to that steady drum which thumped and thundered like the ticking of an ancient clock. Naked they were, heedless of the dark, the cold, and the dangers of the forest.

The beat began to build toward climax. The figures twisted and writhed in ever-increasing patterns, their arms and legs spinning in some frenzied and unknowable dance.

She approached the light, now mere steps from its edge. There was no sense of hurry, only the constant, inevitable pull toward the flames.

The figures reached to the ground, pulled up animal skins which had been laid at their feet, then drew them over their bodies as capes. There was one final shout, a great joining of rhythm and voice, and then they dropped to the ground like stones. All was still.

The girl who had once been Isabella stepped into the circle.

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