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‘Come, greybeard,’ Goody crooned to the old hound who’d lain down near her. He drew nearer her outstretched hand, inching along the smooth wood of the floor on his belly. His lips were curled back slightly from his yellowed teeth, as if to smile at her invitation. And his tail thump-thumped in a glad and grateful way.
The old woman offered him the bowl of thick soup someone had placed near her earlier in the evening. ‘Won’t be needing this,’ she whispered to him, putting the cooled offering down in front of him. ‘This fire and the turning year has clean pulled the hunger from me, Master Hound,’ she went on as the old dog stood up stiffly and began to lap up the mishmash of meat and vegetable. ‘I feel as light and empty as the bleached bone of a sparrow’s wing. Made a meal of by some hungry cat, picked clean and left to dry in the turning seasons. Hollow . . . yes, that’s the word. And where I was once strong and unbending . . . now does time leach away the hardness bit by bit.’
She laughed as the hound paused and cocked his head, turning his muzzle up to her as if to seek the meaning of her words. ‘One strong gust of wind, you know, and what little as holds me together will fly apart. And oh then will I be scattered on the breezes and the airs.’ Goody poked the log with her charred stick and fed a few twigs of rowan and red-berried holly to the flames. ‘But not ‘til I’ve seen this one task through.’
Above her, she could just make out the muffled steps of the Halflings and Birger as they took their positions on the Inn’s roof. The younger hounds and the Bear had gone out of doors only a little while ago. In their dark eyes she thought she had seen the same timeless glimmerings of those hounds that had once run at the feet of The Huntsman’s horse. The quarry would be run to ground; brought down with a sure and savage vengeance; rent by tooth and claw. The fur would fly and in the ensuing melee only the howls and strangled yips of the vanquished wolves would be left. Scattered on the winds, too, she thought.
‘Now isn’t that just something,’ the old woman mused. She shifted her bony hips on the chair, easing herself into a more comfortable position. ‘Well, well, well . . .,’ she mused, chewing over the little epiphany like some piece of gristle with a few shreds of sweet meat still clinging to it. ‘Good and bad . . . and it all comes down to this . . . the ashes of old dried bones flung all willy-nilly to the farthest corners by the breath of winds . . . and who would know them then for ill or fair, I wonder?’
The old hound sat down on his haunches and snorted as she asked her question. He sneezed, an added emphasis, sending the dust and a small bit of ash from the fire wheeling up into the room.
Goody narrowed her eyes, looking askance at her companion’s comment and shook her head. ‘Nay, not even you, Master Hound, with your keen nose could say.’ He rose to his feet again and growled low as if to disagree with her.
‘Still, we know at this very moment the difference, don’t we? The choices are already made. The lines clearly drawn. The scent and shape of the foe sharp to eye and nose.’
From the corner of her eye, she could see the other in the room preparing for their part in this engagement. Soon the foe would be met. Goody shivered at the thought, a mixture of ancient dread and growing anticipation.
‘Well, then, what can we do, we old ones . . . too slow in thought and limb . . . more hindrance than help.’ She gathered the hound near to her; he leaned against her leg. ‘We’ll keep the Green Man’s fire burning, shall we? Keep watch against the rising dark.’
In the midst of the hubbub, at the heart of the inn, the two grey-haired companions sat wrapped in a deep silence. Their eyes glinted in the dance of the Yule log’s flames, flickering, flickering . . .
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