Wakenhyrst

by Michelle Paver

Cook was under strict orders never to serve fish or fowl from the fen, especially eels. Father said eels were unclean as they fed on dead things.

The tower had slitty eyes and there were monsters snarling from the gutters. Worst was the stone crow near the porch. It perched on the head of a howling man with its talons sunk in his eyeballs.

It might take weeks to gain his trust, but she relished the task. Her aim was not to tame him. She just wanted to bring his wildness closer.

As she lay in bed it occurred to her that between religion and superstition there was no difference, since both were based on unreason. To kill a man to redeem the sins of others was as irrational as tapping a hole in one’s eggshell to stop a witch using it as a boat.

‘I dun’t believe in bad luck, Miss.’ ‘That doesn’t matter. It believes in you.’

Shakespeare: ‘’tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.’

DEATH freezes everything. Whatever you did or didn’t do, whatever you said or left unsaid: none of that is ever going to change. You have no more chances to say sorry or make things right. No more chances for anything except regret.