Read Online The Water Devil by Judith Merkle Riley - Free Book Online
Authors: Judith Merkle Riley
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spine.
“They say there's a spirit here in the water,” said Sir Hubert, lifting his horn to call the rest of the hunt. “Some old nixie called Hretha, who grants wishes. But it also makes excellent beer.” From the forest behind them, the calling horns and baying hounds responded, and the first riders crashed out of the woods into the strange clearing.
“Where's Old Peter?”
“We've lost the scent.”
“Trust the beast to hide here, of all places,” said the Lord of Brokesford manor.
“New rags, new rags, in spite of all I tell them,” Sir Roger announced in a disgusted voice, riding his bay cob around the big rock.
“And just what is that?” asked Sir William, his curiosity aroused.
“When the blessed Saint Edburga rested here, this spring opened up in the ground at the very place her head lay. Do you see the ruins of that holy hermitage there? Look closely at the stones, and you will see the representation of her holy martyrdom.” Sir William noticed tumbled rocks, cut square, beyond the strange green, treecolumned hall. From one of the rocks, the badly worn image of a skull peered back at him. This was no holy hermitage, thought Sir William, taking a deep breath. Something ancient was here. Something pagan. He shuddered and crossed himself. “The hermitage was dedicated to the blessed head of Saint Edburga, but as you see, it has fallen into decay.”
“Yes, indeed, that I see. What a pity,” said Sir William.
“Only in church will prayers to God almighty and to Saint Edburga be answered, but they persist in making offerings here to some ridiculous pagan water devil, and deny the saint her candles. Folk superstition! Nothing good will come of it!” The hunting priest was indignant. The hounds were busy smelling the ground around the spring. The horses and riders milled about, waiting for the dogs to pick up the stag's trail again.
“What do they want?” asked the visitor. Lady Petronilla had pushed her gray mare closer to the conversation. She, too, knew little of local traditions, for her father's estates were in the south, and she used every excuse possible to avoid long residence at Brokesford.
“Wishes, vain wishes. The rock, they say, is alive. As for the spring, there's an evil spirit there that grants unholy desires. Barren women, especially, come here, though I have threatened them with excommunication. Walk three times around the spring sunwards, and make an offering.” Petronilla leaned forward for a better view of the green, boiling depths, her heavily ringed hand clutched deep into her mare's mane. Her breath was hard, and her blue eyes glittered like chips of ice.
“And in what way is the rock alive?” asked Sir William.
“Oh, once a year on Midsummer Night it is said to wade into the water to drink, though no one has ever seen it. Also, it weeps. If it's chipped, they say, it will bleed, but there's a curse on anyone who tries it, so they leave it alone. Those rags are offerings.”
“Why, it's nothing but an oversized wishing well. I've half a mind to try it out. Besides, a man can't have too much good luck,” said Sir William, half relieved by the explanation. “Sir Hubert, watch this.” He fished in the bag at his belt and came up with a quarter farthing.
“Find us that scent; I crave venison tonight,” he said, and flipped the shining quarter circle into the water. From the distance, Old Peter's horn sounded. The hounds that had crowded around the horses ran off, yelping, around the fallen stones and into the woods. The first to follow them was Petronilla, spurring her horse away from the water- side as if scalded. Sir Hubert paused only to signal any stragglers with his own horn, then followed the fast vanishing hunt into the forest.
It was not more than an hour before the “mort” was ringing in the afternoon air. One long, three shorts, pause, one long, three shorts again to mark the stag coughing blood from a mortal swordthrust. As the apprentice
“They say there's a spirit here in the water,” said Sir Hubert, lifting his horn to call the rest of the hunt. “Some old nixie called Hretha, who grants wishes. But it also makes excellent beer.” From the forest behind them, the calling horns and baying hounds responded, and the first riders crashed out of the woods into the strange clearing.
“Where's Old Peter?”
“We've lost the scent.”
“Trust the beast to hide here, of all places,” said the Lord of Brokesford manor.
“New rags, new rags, in spite of all I tell them,” Sir Roger announced in a disgusted voice, riding his bay cob around the big rock.
“And just what is that?” asked Sir William, his curiosity aroused.
“When the blessed Saint Edburga rested here, this spring opened up in the ground at the very place her head lay. Do you see the ruins of that holy hermitage there? Look closely at the stones, and you will see the representation of her holy martyrdom.” Sir William noticed tumbled rocks, cut square, beyond the strange green, treecolumned hall. From one of the rocks, the badly worn image of a skull peered back at him. This was no holy hermitage, thought Sir William, taking a deep breath. Something ancient was here. Something pagan. He shuddered and crossed himself. “The hermitage was dedicated to the blessed head of Saint Edburga, but as you see, it has fallen into decay.”
“Yes, indeed, that I see. What a pity,” said Sir William.
“Only in church will prayers to God almighty and to Saint Edburga be answered, but they persist in making offerings here to some ridiculous pagan water devil, and deny the saint her candles. Folk superstition! Nothing good will come of it!” The hunting priest was indignant. The hounds were busy smelling the ground around the spring. The horses and riders milled about, waiting for the dogs to pick up the stag's trail again.
“What do they want?” asked the visitor. Lady Petronilla had pushed her gray mare closer to the conversation. She, too, knew little of local traditions, for her father's estates were in the south, and she used every excuse possible to avoid long residence at Brokesford.
“Wishes, vain wishes. The rock, they say, is alive. As for the spring, there's an evil spirit there that grants unholy desires. Barren women, especially, come here, though I have threatened them with excommunication. Walk three times around the spring sunwards, and make an offering.” Petronilla leaned forward for a better view of the green, boiling depths, her heavily ringed hand clutched deep into her mare's mane. Her breath was hard, and her blue eyes glittered like chips of ice.
“And in what way is the rock alive?” asked Sir William.
“Oh, once a year on Midsummer Night it is said to wade into the water to drink, though no one has ever seen it. Also, it weeps. If it's chipped, they say, it will bleed, but there's a curse on anyone who tries it, so they leave it alone. Those rags are offerings.”
“Why, it's nothing but an oversized wishing well. I've half a mind to try it out. Besides, a man can't have too much good luck,” said Sir William, half relieved by the explanation. “Sir Hubert, watch this.” He fished in the bag at his belt and came up with a quarter farthing.
“Find us that scent; I crave venison tonight,” he said, and flipped the shining quarter circle into the water. From the distance, Old Peter's horn sounded. The hounds that had crowded around the horses ran off, yelping, around the fallen stones and into the woods. The first to follow them was Petronilla, spurring her horse away from the water- side as if scalded. Sir Hubert paused only to signal any stragglers with his own horn, then followed the fast vanishing hunt into the forest.
It was not more than an hour before the “mort” was ringing in the afternoon air. One long, three shorts, pause, one long, three shorts again to mark the stag coughing blood from a mortal swordthrust. As the apprentice
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