puppet, someone from a dream, or rather
a dark night’s sending which had no end. In one hand the girl clasped, so tightly
that even its time-smoothed ridges drove deep into her flesh, her one talisman, Gunnora’s
amulet. Hertha did not pray—not now.Would any petition to one of the Old Ones be heard arising from this abbey dedicated
to another power?
Setting her teeth, Hertha lurched away from the window, took one step, then two, before,
once more, grinding pain sent her staggering. She was on the bed, her body arching.
Dank sweat plastered her hair to her forehead.
“Gunnora!” Had she screamed aloud or had the name only rung in her mind? A last thrust
of pain was a spear within her, twisting agony. Then—
The peace, end of all pain. She drifted.
In the dark which enfolded her she heard a throaty, gurgling laughter, a laughter
which was evil, a threat. In that same dark she saw—
There was a circle of stones and to these clung—no, they did not cling—only the deformity
of their bloated bodies made it seem so. Rather they sat, their monstrous heads all
turned, their bulbous eyes watching her with malicious joy and triumph. Hertha remembered.
Now she cried out, not any petition to a Power of the Old Ones, rather with a fear
she thought safely gone, buried in time.
She wanted to run, even to raise her hands as a barrier between those eyes and hers.
Though the girl knew that even if she so veiled her own sight, she could not escape.
The Toads of Grimmerdale! She had recklessly, wrongly sought them once, cheated them,
fought them, and now they were here!
“My lady.”
The words were faint, far off, had nothing to do with present horror and fear. Still
it would seem that somehow they acted as a charm against the Toad things, for those
faded. Hertha, shivering, spent, opened her eyes.
Inghela, the stout Dame, wise in herb lore and nursing, stood in the light of two
lamps. That wan day Hertha had watched so endlessly through the distorted thick glass
of the window must have ended. Dame Inghela’s grasp held the girl’s limp wrist. There
was an intent searching in hereyes, so dark and clear under the line of her folded linen headdress.
Hertha summoned strength. Her mouth was parched, dry, as if she had fed on ashes.
“The child?” In her own hearing her voice was very thin and hoarse.
“You have a daughter, my lady.”
A daughter! For one moment of pure joy Hertha’s heart moved with a quicker beat. She
willed her arms to rise, even though it felt that each was braceleted with lead. Gunnora’s
promise—a child who would have nothing in it of the ravisher who had forced its birth.
Hertha’s own, her own!
“Give me,” her voice was still weak, yet life, and now will, were fast returning to
her, “give me my daughter!”
The Dame did not move. There was no bundle of warm wrappings in her arms. It seemed
to the girl that the woman’s measuring glance was stronger, an emotion in it which
Hertha could not read.
She tried to raise herself higher on the bed.
“Is the child dead?” She believed that she had managed to ask that without betraying
the surge of emotion which tore her as sharply as had the pains earlier.
“No.” Now Dame Inghela did move. Hertha watched as the Dame stooped to lift from a
box-like bed a bundle that gave a sudden, ear-piercing squall, struggled against the
confinement of the blanket about it.
Not dead—then what? There was ill fortune in the way the Dame had met her question,
Hertha was sure. She held out her arms, willing them not to tremble, setting herself
to bear any evil.
The baby must be far from death. Its battling against the swaddling was vigorous.
Hertha grasped the bundle, resolutely turned back the coverings to look upon what
Gunnora had promised, a child to be wholly and only hers.
She looked down upon a small wrinkled, reddenedbody of the newborn, and she knew! Revulsion, for only a
a dark night’s sending which had no end. In one hand the girl clasped, so tightly
that even its time-smoothed ridges drove deep into her flesh, her one talisman, Gunnora’s
amulet. Hertha did not pray—not now.Would any petition to one of the Old Ones be heard arising from this abbey dedicated
to another power?
Setting her teeth, Hertha lurched away from the window, took one step, then two, before,
once more, grinding pain sent her staggering. She was on the bed, her body arching.
Dank sweat plastered her hair to her forehead.
“Gunnora!” Had she screamed aloud or had the name only rung in her mind? A last thrust
of pain was a spear within her, twisting agony. Then—
The peace, end of all pain. She drifted.
In the dark which enfolded her she heard a throaty, gurgling laughter, a laughter
which was evil, a threat. In that same dark she saw—
There was a circle of stones and to these clung—no, they did not cling—only the deformity
of their bloated bodies made it seem so. Rather they sat, their monstrous heads all
turned, their bulbous eyes watching her with malicious joy and triumph. Hertha remembered.
Now she cried out, not any petition to a Power of the Old Ones, rather with a fear
she thought safely gone, buried in time.
She wanted to run, even to raise her hands as a barrier between those eyes and hers.
Though the girl knew that even if she so veiled her own sight, she could not escape.
The Toads of Grimmerdale! She had recklessly, wrongly sought them once, cheated them,
fought them, and now they were here!
“My lady.”
The words were faint, far off, had nothing to do with present horror and fear. Still
it would seem that somehow they acted as a charm against the Toad things, for those
faded. Hertha, shivering, spent, opened her eyes.
Inghela, the stout Dame, wise in herb lore and nursing, stood in the light of two
lamps. That wan day Hertha had watched so endlessly through the distorted thick glass
of the window must have ended. Dame Inghela’s grasp held the girl’s limp wrist. There
was an intent searching in hereyes, so dark and clear under the line of her folded linen headdress.
Hertha summoned strength. Her mouth was parched, dry, as if she had fed on ashes.
“The child?” In her own hearing her voice was very thin and hoarse.
“You have a daughter, my lady.”
A daughter! For one moment of pure joy Hertha’s heart moved with a quicker beat. She
willed her arms to rise, even though it felt that each was braceleted with lead. Gunnora’s
promise—a child who would have nothing in it of the ravisher who had forced its birth.
Hertha’s own, her own!
“Give me,” her voice was still weak, yet life, and now will, were fast returning to
her, “give me my daughter!”
The Dame did not move. There was no bundle of warm wrappings in her arms. It seemed
to the girl that the woman’s measuring glance was stronger, an emotion in it which
Hertha could not read.
She tried to raise herself higher on the bed.
“Is the child dead?” She believed that she had managed to ask that without betraying
the surge of emotion which tore her as sharply as had the pains earlier.
“No.” Now Dame Inghela did move. Hertha watched as the Dame stooped to lift from a
box-like bed a bundle that gave a sudden, ear-piercing squall, struggled against the
confinement of the blanket about it.
Not dead—then what? There was ill fortune in the way the Dame had met her question,
Hertha was sure. She held out her arms, willing them not to tremble, setting herself
to bear any evil.
The baby must be far from death. Its battling against the swaddling was vigorous.
Hertha grasped the bundle, resolutely turned back the coverings to look upon what
Gunnora had promised, a child to be wholly and only hers.
She looked down upon a small wrinkled, reddenedbody of the newborn, and she knew! Revulsion, for only a
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