The Shapeshifter

The shriek of the wind was interrupted by a call. A brown owl, camouflaged among dead leaves, hooting at the night.

“What if Destiny and Death are the same being?” whispered Asal, the youngest of the three sisters. They were each wrapped in dark cotton cloaks, stealing through the cold of night, shoulder to shoulder.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” replied Bó, the eldest. “Destiny is a white horse and Death is every man, woman, and animal. Yes, they’re the same. But at the same time, not at all.”

“Death is a shapeshifter, then,” said the middle sister. Her name was unknown to anyone. “The High King sent a messenger to all the clans last winter, to warn of a shape-shifting fiend that had been spotted in all four provinces of the Kingdom.”

“You can’t spot a shapeshifter,” Asal said. “It would just look like something normal, like a rat or a pigeon.”

“No, you can tell,” said Bó knowingly. “You can tell by the eyes when a beast is wearing borrowed skin.”

“Then what’s the point of changing form if it can still be recognised?”

“You only ever ask stupid questions,” the middle sister said, and the discussion ended there. In any case, they had reached the Turphy cattle farm. They slipped into a comfortable silence and assumed each their role without need for conversation.

They were thieves, renowned across the province, though their names were not known. Cattle thieves, mainly. Sometimes dogs, cocks, weasels or pigs.

They were legendary, even. A trio of black phantom wanderers with magical powers. Powers of invisibility, mind-control, fire-starters, so said the stories. They had no such powers, of course. They were just stories, told by farmers too incredulous to believe anything more simple could be possible.

The owl hooted again, and far away a raven croaked.

John Turphy was the richest farmer in the parish, and by all accounts a despicable rascal. He beat his wife and children and haggled with poorer ranchers so as to never lose money on a deal. That was of no concern to the sisters, however. They stole indiscriminately and regularly. At the full moon, once a month. So of course, Turphy would be laying awake, on watch. His borrowed sword not far from his old red hands. All the farmers borrowed swords these days, for fear of the phantom trio.

Asal was the lookout. She watched their backs. The middle sister was the light, she led the way and guided Bó with soft whistled signals that only the sisters understood. She had the best eyes, that was why. Bó was nearly blind but she could coax any animal into following her, with careful words.

In this manner, Bó had, within minutes, a golden pony by the reins, sedated by compliments, as well as two long carrots and the promise of a third which Bó dangled before the pony’s long nose.

“He’ll fetch us a full pound and a quart of young whiskey,” Asal whispered excitedly as Bó returned from the Turphy’s paddocks with the stolen pony. Bó saw her younger sister trembling with her adrenaline.

“There’ll be no whiskey,” she hissed. “Where’s the middle sister?” she asked as if accusing Asal of hiding her in her blouse.

“She’s always slow to return. Always too careful. Very paranoid, I think.”

“Paranoia is no sin,” Bó said. “In times like these.”

A light shone suddenly from the farm, and owl and raven cackled in unison, in fear. It wasn’t the middle sister, it was a whole gang of farmers, hunters, peasants and priests. They held torches and swords and the illumination of a great bonfire flashed against the hate under their brows.

“RUN!” Bó screamed.

But it was useless. The two sisters were captured and bound in ropes and wires and thrashed and spit upon. They were dragged by their ankles across the green fields towards the Church. The golden pony was forgotten in the forest where Bó had released his reins.

When they arrived at the Church they were both drenched in each other’s blood and tears. Their wills were well and truly broken.

The crowd of furious parishioners roared and squealed all the way, the youngest and the oldest not forgetting to kick and scrape and hurl insults at the two demon sisters. A faction of the crowd broke away and directed itself towards the caves of Andúim.

Rumour had it that the middle sister had fled in that direction once she had seen the crowd waiting to ambush her and her sisters.

Bó and Asal heard two toddlers passing this rumour along to their mothers. The two sisters, who already had lost their wills, lost their souls in the maelstrom of betrayal. They hung their filthy heads and impatiently waited to be strung up by their ankles and stoned until dead.

They weren’t, however. They were thrown into a makeshift dungeon in the Church basement. It was little more than a wine cellar, though the blacksmith had installed bars and chains, thick as wrists, by the back wall. Their hands and feet were clasped and they accepted several more kicks to their broken ribs and noses, before silence returned to their worlds.

Three men stayed below with them, guards. They were the three strongest men in the parish, and the sisters had been friends with them once. Many years ago, when they were children. They didn’t speak.

Asal looked about the homemade prison cell. An effigy of the Horned God, Dortacarana, was nailed to the wooden paneling of the wall. It was a typical representation of their deity, a hodgepodge patchwork of dead animals, sewn together to create a monstrous body and face. Goat horns, cat eyes, sheep wool, hound fur, rat tail, cow hoof, snake skin. Beside the effigy was another prisoner. A man, ancient and frail, kneeling in prayer beside the Horned God.

“Look, Bó,” she said to her eldest sister. But Bó hadn’t the heart to lift her eyes any more.

Asal shifted herself across the dusty stone floor towards the man. The three guards bristled but didn’t speak. The old man didn’t react to her coming. He wasn’t in chains, he wore only the fetters of shame and old age.

“Old man,” Asal said, reaching out with her fingers towards his long grey beard. “Old man, why are you a prisoner? Speak to me.”

The shaggy head shivered and turned slowly. The twist of the old neck revealed two tiny eyes, silver as birch. They saw Asal and then saw through her. The man was ancient and his lips were thin scars below his bedraggled moustache.

“Asal,” said his voice. His voice was not old. It was out of time, out of everything. A voice like cider or ice-cold water. Asal let it wash over her and intoxicate her.

“You know my name?” she asked of him. His heavy head shook.

“I know your face, and I gave you your name. Is that Bó? My dear beautiful Bó?”

The eldest sister was revived partially by the voice, by the words. She remained in a daze but she pushed herself to her knees and slithered towards her sister and the old man. Her chains rattled and pulled at her hands and feet, drawing more blood. She could not get closer.

“Dad?” she said, seeing the eyes of the old man. The eyes that had smiled upon her as an infant. That had soothed her cries and whines for years and years. And then had disappeared. “Dad, you’re here.”

Asal looked perplexed. She had never known her father, she had not believed that she had a father.

“My girls,” said the heavenly voice. “Here we are, at last. Where is your mother? Where is my love?”

A moment of silence followed, a respectful, solemn pause.

“She fled into the mountains in a fit of madness, ten years ago. She never returned. The Rangers say she was eaten by the beasts of the High Peaks.”

They watched their father’s heart break in a slow shatter. It showed in his eyes and the tremble in his hands. It was a heart that had been broken before, and now the shards that remained were little larger than daisy petals.

“And your third daughter has betrayed us!” cried Asal. “She ran away rather than stay and fight with us. She has left us to die!”

The old man abandoned his broken heart and frowned. His frown was a dry waterfall upon his brow.

“I only have two daughters, my dear sweet child. And I know my love did not have another child with another man. She would have told me.”

Asal and Bó looked at each other properly for the first time since their infancy. They had only ever been two. They had been infected with memories of a third, a middle sister with no name. A phantom. A shapeshifter.

“But I love her,” Asal said and began to weep.

One of the three guards let out a cry of pain and fear and then another one of them grunted. The third guard had disappeared, replaced by a great buck with antlers as tall as the ceiling of the prison cell. The buck stole their swords and pierced their hearts, leaving the men to die on the dusty stone floor. Their red blood trickled into the crevices of the wine cellar, wandered towards the wine barrels.

The buck transformed into a great owl, then into a raven, then into a siren. The siren sat upon the floor, looking sad. Looking out of place.

“You are the shape-shifter,” Bó said.

The siren nodded. She transformed into a black bear and came to open their cage and took off their chains. She then became a wild cat and licked their wounds and washed all their faces, hands and feet. The feel of her tongue was soft and reassuring, full of heat. But the two sisters could not hide their revulsion and the old man would not leave his corner of the prison cell.

“Every person fears me so,” said the many-faced fiend. “I had to trick you to make you love me. Do you love me still?”

“No,” Bó said with vehemence and disgust. “You are unlovable.”

The old man didn’t answer for he had never loved the monster.

Asal used all her strength to move her broken bones and stand on her own two feet. She walked to the fiend, now a bear, and kissed it on its ears.

“I love you still, though you are not my sister. I love you for your beauty and the efforts you have made. I love you for your violence and the fury of your blade. I love you for your passion and I love you for your pain. I cannot stay with you, for you frighten me too much. But I love you, dear devil.”

The bear transformed and was now a buck again, with silver tears in its eyes. It walked from the prison cell with its head held high, its hooves clip-clopping on the stone floor as it went away.

The two sisters and their father never left their prison. They were accused of murder, theft, witchery, cowardice, and vanity. They were burned alive in the morning. A raven watched the flames from afar. An owl watched, too, from the top of the High Peaks.