The walls were railed instead of completely open. Three long tables formed a U in the center of the room around a large fire pit full of ash-seething embers. On the other side of the tables, more than a dozen cots were arranged in rows.
Above the fire pit, hanging from two hooks, was a severed arm. It was large—crudely torn off at the shoulder—gray, and muscled. The fingers were contorted. A hooked bone spike, sharp and pointed like a giant talon, was strapped to the back of the wrist.
“Welcome to my heriot,” Mrs. Wisdom said. “Complete with a Grendel’s arm, as distasteful as it is. Once, when I was your little Molly’s age, courageous men and womenlaughed and feasted here. Now …” She sighed. “You ever read
Beowulf
, love?”
Charlie stared at the arm’s painfully bent fingers, at the naked sinews jutting out of the shoulder. He shook his head.
“Cotton probably has,” Charlie said. “Why do you have that arm?”
“Charlie, honey, that is the weapon and the arm of the Gren that struck you three days ago. Without it, I could not begin to stem the poison it planted in your flesh. The darkness that lashed your ankle would even now be swallowing up the last sparks of your fire.”
Charlie shivered. The gash in his right ankle felt suddenly very …
open
.
“But how?” He looked at Mrs. Wisdom. “Who?”
She smiled slightly. “Bless Lio for his courage and his blade.” She walked between the tables and stopped at the edge of the fire pit, sniffed in the arm’s direction, and then turned back around. “The stench of every Gren is a little different, just as their soul rot is a little different. The Gren feel only hate and envy and rage—every other part of their human souls has been devoured. They are their own poison, and they are woven into everything they might care to make—most usually crude and cruel weapons. Their touch, even their stench with enough time, plants their particular curse in the soul—where no doctor could eversee it. A wound from their hands is much, much worse. When they draw blood, the victim has very little time.”
Charlie moved between the tables beside the old woman until heat rippled up against his face from the fire. Up close, the arm wasn’t really gray, it was just coated with dirt, dried to dust above the fire.
“You still had the Gren’s stink on you when I pulled you from the water. Lio’s panther got the scent and tracked him. Poor soul. I’m glad I didn’t see his face before Lio gave his body to the water. I prefer not to recognize them.”
She nodded her white head at the arm. “Take it down for me, doll. It’s not a trophy, and its usefulness has passed.”
Mrs. Wisdom picked up a long bent cane off the table behind her and handed it to Charlie. When Charlie hesitated, she said, “It can’t hurt you now, love. Every bit of danger has been washed and burned away.”
Charlie took the bent cane, leaned out over the heat of the fire pit, and hooked the arm around the wrist, pulling it toward him. When it was close enough, he grabbed the hot forearm and handed the cane back to Mrs. Wisdom. He lifted.
The chains swung free above the fire pit. The hot, dry limb dropped into his arms. He swallowed hard and looked at the old woman.
“Hold no bitterness,” Mrs. Wisdom said. “Forgive as you would like to be forgiven.” Her clear eyes were full of pity, and she stared hard at Charlie, waiting for an answer.
He nodded.
“Good,” Mrs. Wisdom said. “Now throw it in the fire.”
A cloud of sparks swirled all the way up to the live beams in the ceiling when the arm hit the embers. Charlie was suddenly dizzy as he staggered back. Waves of dream memory pushed forward in his mind and for a moment the whole world seemed to be made of sparks. He slammed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the sparks were gone.
Charlie turned, a little dizzy, and hurried after Mrs. Wisdom, supporting himself with the tables as he did. Cotton was at the
Above the fire pit, hanging from two hooks, was a severed arm. It was large—crudely torn off at the shoulder—gray, and muscled. The fingers were contorted. A hooked bone spike, sharp and pointed like a giant talon, was strapped to the back of the wrist.
“Welcome to my heriot,” Mrs. Wisdom said. “Complete with a Grendel’s arm, as distasteful as it is. Once, when I was your little Molly’s age, courageous men and womenlaughed and feasted here. Now …” She sighed. “You ever read
Beowulf
, love?”
Charlie stared at the arm’s painfully bent fingers, at the naked sinews jutting out of the shoulder. He shook his head.
“Cotton probably has,” Charlie said. “Why do you have that arm?”
“Charlie, honey, that is the weapon and the arm of the Gren that struck you three days ago. Without it, I could not begin to stem the poison it planted in your flesh. The darkness that lashed your ankle would even now be swallowing up the last sparks of your fire.”
Charlie shivered. The gash in his right ankle felt suddenly very …
open
.
“But how?” He looked at Mrs. Wisdom. “Who?”
She smiled slightly. “Bless Lio for his courage and his blade.” She walked between the tables and stopped at the edge of the fire pit, sniffed in the arm’s direction, and then turned back around. “The stench of every Gren is a little different, just as their soul rot is a little different. The Gren feel only hate and envy and rage—every other part of their human souls has been devoured. They are their own poison, and they are woven into everything they might care to make—most usually crude and cruel weapons. Their touch, even their stench with enough time, plants their particular curse in the soul—where no doctor could eversee it. A wound from their hands is much, much worse. When they draw blood, the victim has very little time.”
Charlie moved between the tables beside the old woman until heat rippled up against his face from the fire. Up close, the arm wasn’t really gray, it was just coated with dirt, dried to dust above the fire.
“You still had the Gren’s stink on you when I pulled you from the water. Lio’s panther got the scent and tracked him. Poor soul. I’m glad I didn’t see his face before Lio gave his body to the water. I prefer not to recognize them.”
She nodded her white head at the arm. “Take it down for me, doll. It’s not a trophy, and its usefulness has passed.”
Mrs. Wisdom picked up a long bent cane off the table behind her and handed it to Charlie. When Charlie hesitated, she said, “It can’t hurt you now, love. Every bit of danger has been washed and burned away.”
Charlie took the bent cane, leaned out over the heat of the fire pit, and hooked the arm around the wrist, pulling it toward him. When it was close enough, he grabbed the hot forearm and handed the cane back to Mrs. Wisdom. He lifted.
The chains swung free above the fire pit. The hot, dry limb dropped into his arms. He swallowed hard and looked at the old woman.
“Hold no bitterness,” Mrs. Wisdom said. “Forgive as you would like to be forgiven.” Her clear eyes were full of pity, and she stared hard at Charlie, waiting for an answer.
He nodded.
“Good,” Mrs. Wisdom said. “Now throw it in the fire.”
A cloud of sparks swirled all the way up to the live beams in the ceiling when the arm hit the embers. Charlie was suddenly dizzy as he staggered back. Waves of dream memory pushed forward in his mind and for a moment the whole world seemed to be made of sparks. He slammed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the sparks were gone.
Charlie turned, a little dizzy, and hurried after Mrs. Wisdom, supporting himself with the tables as he did. Cotton was at the
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