‘Holy shit, you’re Aristaeus!’
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until he said, ‘So?’
Without pausing he disappeared inside the hut and she could see him hanging the rabbits on a hook on the wall. Shit! If she’d known the local huntsman was also the man who collected spiders’ webs and was also the man who abducted children, she’d never have shown her hand.
The queasiness in her stomach made her search for some kind of makeshift weapon, and it came as something of a relief to note that he’d divested himself of his bow and arrows. On the other hand, she was able to see the dagger in his belt more clearly. Oddly enough, she didn’t remember seeing it there before…
Claudia sidled over towards a pile of logs. There was a handy looking chopper embedded in that wood.
‘So…’ she began, ‘tell me. Is that a statue of Diana over there?’
He was supposed to turn his head, she was supposed to yank out the axe, he was supposed to say ‘Why?’ and she was supposed to clonk him over the head.
Instead he said, ‘Yep.’ It made sense, Diana being patron of the hunt and all that, she was bound to protect her own. Now what?
‘Ooh! Is that a figpecker I can hear?’
Figpecker? Figpecker? Up here? Claudia, are you nuts?
‘I shouldn’t think so, no.’
He was giving her a damned funny look, so she smiled. Show lots and lots of teeth, Claudia. Put the man at ease. He’s frowning, so come on, more teeth. Dammit, she had no more left to show and he was still frowning. It was probably his special child-molester frown.
‘What on earth’s your dog doing?’
That did the trick. The second his back was turned she was yanking on the axe, trying to work it loose.
‘Let me do that.’
A broad, brown hand closed over the handle and out it came, like a hot knife through honey. Aristaeus pushed his face towards hers. His eyes narrowed as they bored into her own, and Claudia shivered involuntarily. A cold sweat broke out on her back as she realized she was powerless under his glare. Mesmerized. Paralysed. Suddenly he swung the axe in the air and let out a gigantic bellow.
Claudia’s eyelids snapped shut. Her senses were in sharp relief now. She could smell the woods on his tunic. Sharp. Bitter. The tang of leather, the sickly smell of blood. Rabbit’s? Child’s? She heard the swish of the axe, felt the whoosh of parted air. Time stood still. The blade crashed down. Crunch! She felt a sharp pain in her cheek. Terrified, her eyes opened. A pungent smell of sawdust hit her nostrils.
Aristaeus shot her another strange look as his thumb flicked off the splinter which had embedded itself in her cheek. Then he picked up one of the split logs and chopped that in two, before reaching for the other half. He repeated the process twice more before piling them into Claudia’s shaking arms.
‘You best put them on the fire.’
Claudia opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out.
‘There’s a pheasant in the pot, just needs warming up.’ He shoved her not ungently towards the hut. ‘Go on.’
She ought to refuse, she ought to confront him-but with a dagger in his belt and an axe in his hand, Claudia knew this wasn’t the time. She had the belladonna. She could afford to humour him.
The fire sprang into life almost immediately, the pot sending out tantalizing clues to its contents. Pheasant, salt bacon, beans, onions-what the hell. So what if Aristaeus dies with a full belly?
The fire was blazing majestically but, despite the warmth of the day, Claudia couldn’t help hunkering down right in front of it, rubbing her arms and her legs. She was cold to her marrow, as though, like the nymph Arethusa in Syracuse, she had been turned into icy cold water. The flames crackled and spat. The two dogs came up, panting and wagging their tails, and she absently tugged on their ears. They were strange creatures, long-haired, big-jowled, flop-eared, a type she’d never encountered before.
‘Celtish, them.’ His frame filled the doorway, blocking out much of the daylight. ‘I calls ’em Chieftain and Druid and they helps me hunt boar.’ He rolled up his sleeves before adding, ‘Ugly buggers, aren’t they?’
The smile transformed his craggy features and suddenly Claudia couldn’t quite picture this man raping and murdering little girls for want of anything better to do. Still, who’s to say what goes through a child molester’s head? She watched him dish the stew into the bowls, pour beer into two cheap but attractive goblets. There were two of everything, she noticed, including beds, stacked one on top of the other like army cots. The woodsmoke was distracting. Cherrywood, unless she missed her guess. He beckoned her to eat. She could hardly refuse…
‘Are you Celtish?’ she asked, forcing her vocal chords to perform normally.
‘Me?’ He didn’t look up. ‘Never been off the island.’
‘But you do…collect spiders’ webs?’
‘Yep.’
Claudia remembered Sabina’s funeral. Hecamede being dragged away, her body limp and unprotesting but her eyes imploring justice. Justice against the man who collected spiders’ webs. Justice against the man who killed her five-year-old daughter. Justice against the man Aristaeus. Who now sat across the table from Claudia, wiping his beard with his sleeve, pushing away his empty plate. Watching him top up his beer, Claudia didn’t trust herself to speak. However, she had ample time to tip the belladonna into his goblet when he turned to prod the fragrant logs.
Had she wanted to.
‘Why do you collect them?’
He shrugged as he sat down. ‘I bottles ’em in vinegar.’
Well, you would, wouldn’t you?
‘Drink your beer,’ he urged. ‘I brewed it myself, so I knows it’s good.’
Claudia wanted to say she didn’t touch beer, it was a thin, unwholesome drink brewed by Egyptians in the east and Celts in the west. (Hence her earlier question.) But there was an intensity in his eyes which was impossible to ignore and she took a tentative sip. It was bitter, as she expected. Perhaps he was trying to poison her? Codswallop. Snap out of it. But she couldn’t. Nothing seemed real. Time had no meaning. The experience was weird, dreamlike, as though she was in a different, alien world and to her surprise, she found herself drinking deeply. And at that moment Claudia knew that, as strong as she was, her destiny lay in this man’s hands. She would not, could not, fight it…and the feeling was as intoxicating as the beer.
‘Why do you bottle spiders’ webs?’ she asked.
‘They stops up small nicks.’
‘Like shaving, you mean?’
‘Yep.’ He reached for the jug. ‘I ships ’em to Syracuse. There’s a good market when the fleet’s in.’
She glanced at the two beds. ‘Do you live alone?’
The jug came down on the wood so hard she thought it would crack. ‘Why?’
It required considerably less mental agility than Aristaeus possessed to make the leap from this question (and he’d seen her eying up the cots) to her earlier remark about missing girls.
‘Idle curiosity,’ she said blandly. But somehow it sounded like an objectionable vice.
It was getting late. She had to be leaving if she was going to catch the boat. She rose, relieved he made no effort to stop her. From the corner of her eye she noted the square jaw, the set of his chin. Handsome? Not exactly. But confidence oozed out of every pore. The slow deliberation in his movements, the strength, the rugged magnetism. She realized suddenly that she was drawn towards this man, this recluse. This child molester?
But then everything today was topsy-turvy.
Maybe Hecamede was mad after all. Claudia visualized a love affair, its passion long spent. A woman spurned by the man she thought had loved her. Who left her pregnant. Years later, as her wits evaporated, every slight had become intensified until Aristaeus represented a walking personification of all things evil, a scapegoat for the worst crime she could imagine when her darling Kyana had gone missing.