Lady Macbeth's Daughter by Lisa Klein Read Free Book Online Page A

terrible horse burns everything in its path.”
    My heart is thumping as if I have been running hard. “Can anyone stop him?”
    “He is afraid of nothing except—which is strange—fresh water.”
    “I’ve never heard of this monster,” says Colum. “Could it have been a goblin instead?”
    Caora does not reply, only draws back the long sleeve from her right arm. From shoulder to wrist the skin is scarred red and white, as if it has been burned away and grown back.
    Staring at Caora’s disfigured arm, my first thought is that we are alike: crippled once and now healed. Then a colder certainty grips me, that one day I will meet such a monster.
    Caora lays her thin hand on my knee. It is as weightless as a stack of feathers.
    “Don’t be afraid, Albia. See, I survived Nocklavey.”
    A swan glides out of the reeds at the edge of the water. The movement silences the grunting, gurgling frogs. I gaze at her whiteness and slowly let out my breath.

    At the summer’s end I say good-bye to Caora and return to the smoky roundhouse in the woods. Once I am home, I realize how much I have missed my mother. I want to tell her everything about my new friend. But she seems wary of me and sad. She does not try to embrace me. I wonder, doesn’t she love me anymore? Then I realize that I am the one who has put the distance between us. I try to make it up to her by hard work. I help her carry peat from the moor and spread it out to dry for the winter’s fires. I collect the water lily roots that make Helwain’s best black dye, digging in the shallow water until my hands grow numb with cold. During the winter we make clay pots and weave baskets from reeds and grass to sell in the village. We dye wool in a cauldron and the roundhouse reeks of the urine that sets the colors so they will not fade. I do my best not to complain.
    By day Colum pastures our sheep in his father’s fields, and at night we bring them into the roundhouse for warmth. The winds from the northern seas sweep in like airy sheets of ice. Snow falls, deep and thick, and Colum must wait out the storm at our house. He and I tell stories around the fire while the noises and smells of sheep surround us.
    That night I dream of Nocklavey, his huge hanging head, his skinless arms and fiery eye. I wake myself with a cry and find Helwain standing over me.
    “Did you call out? What did you see?” she demands.
    “I don’t know. Nothing,” I reply, avoiding her eyes.
    “I heard you cry out ‘Nocklavey!’ ” says Colum. “You woke me, too.”
    “I thought so!” says Helwain, her eyes gleaming. “That monster has not been heard of since the strife-filled days of King Giric. It portends a powerful scourge upon the land.”
    “I only dreamt it because I was too warm by the fire,” I protest, showing her my arms damp with sweat.
    Colum’s wary gaze shifts between me and Helwain. As soon as the sun rises he leaves, even though the snow is still deep. He says his father needs him, but I think he is afraid of Helwain.
    In his absence, the winter’s gloom is even greater. It seems unnatural for me to be living in a remote wood with my mother and the foul-tempered Helwain. I long for the winter to end and welcome the trickles of snowmelt and the shoots of green that announce the spring.
    Finally it is the feast of Beltane and I can go to the shieling again. I am fourteen and I can build a small bothy and kindle a fire almost as well as Colum. He has taught me to tan hides and to make strong cords from the stems of stinging nettles. I know every sheep in Colum’s flock as well as mine, and they follow me as ducklings follow their mother. I can even find my way at night using the stars.
    Caora finds us again, and from time to time we join up with other shepherds. The summer is full of singing, wrestling, and games. The sheep grow fat and woolly. All too quickly, however, the eve of August arrives, the flowers fall from the heather, and the green begins to fade from the