Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales Book 1) Page 2

  I try to hide my reflexive shiver. Fear snaps at me, but I kick it away and stand my ground. The fact that we’re communicating at all is a good sign since a true monster would attack without hesitation. “Be that as it may, I am no burglar. The way was open.”

  “You split hairs because you’re afraid of what will happen when we stop talking.”

  “Perhaps,” I admit. “That’s surely reasonable.”

  “You still haven’t answered. What are you doing here?”

  Some imp of mischief prods me to be recalcitrant, like the mules who refused to climb farther. “I’m eating. Would you like some soup?”

  “You’re stealing supplies.” That grim tone sends sheer terror spiraling through me.

  It’s unnerving to converse with someone I can’t see, and I can’t sense where he is. All the candles I’ve lit work against me, creating a sea of shadows just beyond the light. He could be quite close, and I’d never spot him until it’s too late. The beast is probably quick. Surprisingly, he’s also better spoken than I’d imagined. As a child, I pictured him as a snarling monster, unable to communicate in the human tongue.

  Swiftly, I address the charge. “Hardly. Stealing implies that I intend to remove the food from the premises and flee. Do I not seem comfortable?” That’s an exaggeration, but the point stands. “The town of Bitterburn has sent me as tribute. We can spare nothing from our larders, so I have come to work. I can cook well, and I’ve learned some of the brewing art from my father. My ale is passable, at least. From what I’ve seen so far, I could work my fingers to the bone and still not set this place to rights before I die of old age.”

  “Oh hell.” He sounds shocked, if such is truly possible.

  Briefly I take pleasure in startling the monster. “Then I’ll take it that you have no objections. Please have some soup and bread. I’ll be fine in the room off the kitchen. I think it must’ve been the cook’s before, and I suppose that’s my job now.”

  Along with everything else.

  “Get out,” he says, too quietly.

  “I’ve nowhere to go. My family can’t afford to feed me for another winter, and my beau died.” I plant my hands on my hips and feign a boldness I don’t feel. “See here, sir, you’ll let me work or kill me where I stand, for I won’t go of my own volition. Now which will it be?”

  2.

  In the deepest corner of my heart, I can’t believe I’m challenging the beast like this, but it’s true that I cannot go home. And there’s nowhere else for me, a half-trained brewer’s assistant. It’s not as though I can travel hundreds of miles alone to Kerkhof and find employment. The other towns between here and there are too poor for me to make a living, and it’s unlikely they’d hire a single woman anyway. With Owen gone, I’m unwilling to barter myself in marriage, assuming anyone else would wed me. Most likely, considering my reputation in the village, I’d be given to some old man.

  The silence builds, tightening my skin over my bones, until I fear I might snap like lute strings adjusted by unskilled hands. Finally, the raspy voice speaks again, “You will avoid the east wing entirely. Do not even approach. If it pleases you to tend to the rest of the keep, so be it.”

  “Then I can stay?” I ask cautiously.

  “Your kinfolk must be dreadful indeed if you prefer to bide here.”

  It’s a personal admission to someone I just met, but maybe it will make him feel sorry for me if I tell the truth. “Not dreadful, just . . . indifferent.”

  Perhaps that is worse, though, because I could hate Da if he’d ever truly mistreated me instead of morosely stealing my childhood. He imbued me with the sense that he loves me a little, only . . . not enough. Not enough to see me instead of my dead mother.

  “I see.”

  “What should I call you?” I ask.

  “We won’t interact enough for that to become an issue.”

  “That’s most discourteous. I’ve given you my name politely. You can’t do the same? If you choose not to, I’ll resolve the matter, and I promise you don’t want that. I named our pet rat Brave Sir Reginald.”

  Pathetic amount of good that did me too. My stepmother found the little animal and promptly broke its neck, shrieking all the while about disease. I got a whipping because I upset my stepmother and cried silently for two days, not just for the rat.

  “Njål,” the beast says finally. “In another life, I was known as Njål.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sir Njål.”

  “Just Njål. I am owed no honorifics.”

  “I see,” I say, although I truly don’t.

  It seems too intimate to go straight to first names, though he doesn’t seem to own a second. How long has the monster lived here alone in darkness? A memory scrabbles at the back of my mind, some scrap left from the stories I heard on some old grandmam’s knee as a little one. “Njål means ‘giant,’ doesn’t it?”

  But there’s no answer. Instead, I hear quiet footfalls moving off, scrapes of soft soles on stone. Oddly, it’s a comforting noise; I’m not hearing cloven hooves or the scrabble of inhuman claws. He’s deft at staying in the shadows because I didn’t get a glimpse of him, not even an outline.

  After that strange encounter, it seems so prosaic, but there’s work to be done. I store the soup in the pantry, which is cold enough to prevent spoilage. The entire keep radiates an unnatural chill, barely beaten back by the fire crackling in the hearth, and I pause before it to warm up before I set about scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom. In time, I’ll tackle a few other rooms, but for now, for the first day, this is where I’ll focus my efforts.

  The mysterious Njål didn’t tell me anything about the premises so I investigate on my own, eventually finding a well in a small courtyard that must tap the spring that feeds the lake below. The water appears to be frozen solid, though, so strange. I’ve never known that to happen, no matter how fierce the winter. Sighing, I haul some snow and ice from outside and melt it in a pot. Some of it, I use to clean the kitchen and what’s to be my room. The rest I save for a quick bath. It should still be warm enough when I finish work and I’d love to go to sleep clean. It’s been ages since I could strip down and wash up properly. Such luxuries were reserved for my stepmother and little sisters, though I usually got stuck doing the hauling.

  This room shows no sign that anyone has cooked a meal for years, so how has Njål been subsisting here? For all I know he eats live vermin like Brave Sir Reginald. A shiver works through me as I pass from the kitchen into the cozy room at the back, already warmed by the double-sided fireplace, cunningly designed to heat both the cooking area and the private living quarters. The mattress needs a good airing, however, so I haul it out back and whack it until a cloud of dust billows out. Right now, I don’t sense the acute observation that dogged my steps earlier. Njål must have been watching me from the moment I stepped inside.

  With effort, I drape the mattress across a desiccated hedge. Will I be expected to tame the garden as well? Probably not, as all the plants are dead and the ground is frozen. The keep is far too large for one person to look after, but at least my days will be full. Likewise, all the linens need to be washed properly. By some miracle, the cloth hasn’t been devoured by moths, despite a lack of proper care. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any signs of pests inside the walls, no tracks in the dust or dead insects. That seems . . . strange, but no odder than anything else in this eldritch place.

  I accept there’s little more I can do today and finally take a bath in the kitchen with the water I saved earlier. There’s no one to bother me, and it’s quite nice in front of the fire.

  Afterward, I head to my cozy room and roll up in the blanket I brought from home in front of the hearth. From here, I can see through the double-sided fireplace into the shadowed kitchen. The rug is a bit musty, but not enough to keep exhaustion from taking me.

  My little room has no windows, so an internal clock wakes me countless hours later, instead of my chattering sisters or the crowing
of a rooster. Stiff to the bone, I roll out of my pallet and tame my hair into a simple plait, then don my work dress. I have exactly two, one for work and one for good, though I hate wearing the second one, because I used to glow whenever I put it on to meet Owen.

  I can remember better times when I had a new coat every year and shiny shoes, but as the winters got worse, people bought less and less ale, until our family was barely scraping by, and our best went to Tillie and Millie. I tell myself firmly not to think of them and head to the courtyard to retrieve the bedding. It takes me most of the morning to put the room to rights, but I’ll sleep in a proper bed this evening.

  Pleased with myself, I put the kettle on and heat the soup I made the day before. Soon the kitchen simmers with a delicious scent, and I hear soft footfalls approaching.

  “Good day,” I call out. “There’s enough for two. Will you eat with me?”

  “I handle my own meals,” comes the terse rejoinder.

  I shrug. “Suit yourself. What can I do for you then?”

  Knowing it might be impolite, I can’t help but tuck into my meal because I haven’t eaten since the day before, and I’ve worked more than enough to earn these beans. Njål is near, but damned if I can tell exactly where.

  “Amarrah Brewer, was it?”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “You said you can make a passable ale, is that right?”

  I blink. Of all things, I never imagined that the Beast of Bitterburn might actually be interested in my ability to turn grains into alcohol. Cautiously, I answer, “I can, yes. Mind, it won’t be ready straightaway. It needs time to ferment and for the best results, it could take up to a year. The minimum is—”

  “I’ve a surfeit of patience. ‘When’ matters little while you stare into infinity. Take stock of our supplies and see if you can brew some ale. The prospect of sampling it unexpectedly offers some savor.”

  I wonder if it’s a good idea to give liquor to somebody who hasn’t had any for a while. It seems odd that there’s no liquor in the keep, but maybe he drank all the ale and lager, leaving only fancy spirits and fine wine? This is all he’s asked of me so far, and it benefits me to appease the beast. I could do worse in terms of a landlord’s demands.

  “Right away.” I put my spoon down to check the pantry.

  “No hurry,” he cuts in. “Finish your meal, little one. Whatever we have will still be there when you’re done.”

  “Thank you.”

  At home, nobody thinks twice about sending me on errands and it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. How ironic, I went all the way to the Keep at the End of the World to meet someone other than Owen who cares if I finish my food. Or maybe Njål has been forced to learn patience over these long solitary years, so it’s less about me and more about his state of mind. Either way, I devour my bean and barley soup with great alacrity.

  “You’re truly content to work here and bear me company?” he asks at length.

  “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I have nowhere else to go. And winter is coming,” I add.

  His tone is somber. “Winter never leaves this place. You’ll find the ice never melts. The snow never goes either.”

  “How is that possible?” I breathe. But even before he replies, I feel the answer in the prickle of unease that lingers on my skin.

  “You must have sensed the fell magic? This place is cursed, me along with it.”

  “That’s what they say in the village,” I whisper. “But it’s hard to know what’s true amid so many old stories.”

  “Do they still speak of me? I imagined the world would have long since forgotten.”

  “You know they haven’t!” I shouldn’t snap—it’s most unwise—but I can’t staunch the outpouring of angry words. “Our village sends you provisions every winter to entreat your mercy. To keep you from sweeping down on us and—”

  A laugh booms out, interrupting whatever else I might have said. “Is that why? Oh, that’s rich.”

  “Are you laughing at us? People are starving because of you!”

  “Those poor fools. They’re starving because of their own ignorance, aren’t they? I’ve never demanded anything. The truth of the matter is this: I cannot leave this place, so your village was always safe from me. I had no idea why your people were bringing me things, year after year. It’s not as if anyone ever inquired how I felt about it or if I wanted any of this nonsense. I would’ve traded all that grain for a bottle of ale if I’d been asked.”

  I could howl with the injustice of it. Fear has left the village of Bitterburn ravaged and for no reason. People have tried to loot the keep, but they never returned. Once every generation, someone decides they’ll creep in and emerge with untold riches, but then they’re just gone forever, and townsfolk worried that we had incurred the beast’s wrath. The Burgher says that’s why we started the tributes. There’s been no communication between village and keep, however, no attempt to leave a note or wait for a response.

  I bow my head because I believe him. If he could leave, why hasn’t he? Whoever Njål was before, he’s cursed and powerless beyond these walls. If there had been more food, if Owen had eaten better, maybe he wouldn’t have died of fever. If he’d been stronger.

  “If you had left the supplies outside . . .” No, that’s wrong. Once the shipment is dropped off, we don’t return for another year, so we couldn’t have collected them to use. Though if he’d left them, perhaps we would’ve found the rotten remains and stopped sending tribute long ago. “Why do you bring them in, if not to use?”

  “It seemed disrespectful not to,” he says.

  I swallow my scream, clenching my fists so tight that my ragged nails bite into my palms. I wish I could blame Njål, hate him, but how was he supposed to tell us when he cannot leave and there are no messengers in this desolate place? Leaving a note outside, exposed to the elements, would have ruined paper and ink, long before anyone read it.

  Superstition would have killed our town through privation, had I not come, out of abject despair. Those fools indeed.

  I let out a breath instead of a cry and quietly clean my dishes. Finally, I can speak. “One day I may ask about the curse, but not today. I’m in no frame of mind to listen with the attention your tale deserves.”

  “One day I might answer,” he returns.

  He’s gone then.

  I still haven’t seen Njål’s face, but it doesn’t matter if I’m working for a mountain troll or a bipedal wolf. As long as he leaves me be, we can scrape along together until I die of old age and go to Owen.

  With that admittedly morbid thought, I check the pantry. We have most of what I need for a batch of ale, and I can improvise the rest. The bigger issue is finding the supplies for brewing, as they’re a bit specialized. I suppose I could go back down the mountain to trade, but that would open the door to questions I’m not ready to answer. Just as well that I find odds and ends to turn to my purpose. If I come and go freely, the villagers will decide Njål isn’t as terrible as we’ve always believed, and they might come for him.

  In my own way, I’m protecting everyone as best I can.

  3.

  A person can get used to anything.

  The following week proves that. After I assemble the promised batch of ale and leave it to ferment, I spend my days cleaning and trying to restore some semblance of order to the keep, but the task is daunting. As I scrub and straighten, I also explore.

  The courtyard has multiple doors, but I enter the keep through the kitchen, which connects to a long corridor dotted with doorways, leading to dim rooms with narrow bunks and wooden partitions; the servants must have been quartered here. Sconces line the walls at regular intervals, but I don’t light them. Wide doors open to the great hall. Here, the floor is tiled in white, black, and red, creating a pattern that disturbs me. I don’t want to step on the red part of the mosaic, so like a child I exaggerate my strides as I cross the floor. It’s probably my imagination. I spend too much time alone, sensing dange
r when there is none.

  I pass through the great hall into the gallery, a vast space full of exquisite paintings in gilt frames. Some are landscapes while others are portraits, elegant people with serious faces dressed in clothing that went out of style hundreds of years ago. Neck ruffs and velvet coats, tight pantaloons and tiny lap dogs. One by one I study their faces, seeking some reflection of Njål, but what do I know of him, really? Mostly the sound of his voice, but I admit my secret interest is gaining traction.

  There’s a tale in the storybooks about a woman whose work was always undone in the night by angry pixies, so each morning, she had to start fresh while knowing she’d never finish. It’s a sort of morality play, I think, emphasizing the value of hard work, but even as a little girl, I wondered why the woman didn’t simply apologize to the pixies and see if that made any difference.

  Ceasing my ruminations, I explore onward. From the gallery, more hallways lead to multiple towers, each housing a different sort of room—one for gaming, another for embroidery, and the other two appear to have been used for more . . . intimate purposes. There are state rooms as well, appointed in old-fashioned style. The heavy, sumptuous fabrics would sell for a hefty price, even now. Precious gems spill out of jewel boxes, cast aside like mere baubles.

  I find no trace of the mysterious Njål.

  Keeping to the pattern, he visits me once a day, offering a few words, and then he vanishes, maybe into the forbidden portion of the citadel. I don’t want to be curious because of how the story goes about the cat, but the longer I live here in relative peace, the more I wonder about Njål’s secrets. I still haven’t gotten a single glimpse of him, but I force myself to seal away that interest. Surely it’s not good for me to care too much.

  The long silences give me far too much time to fret about my family, however. I wonder if Tillie and Millie are eating enough, if my stepmother is warmer to them without me there to witness it. She’s a strange woman, my stepmother, frosty and pragmatic to a fault. I always thought sheer loneliness must have driven my father to her, and perhaps that’s something else I can blame myself for, because if I had been better or brighter or more somehow, maybe—