Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
The Ransom of Dond
Author’s Note
About the Author and Illustrator
Also by Siobhan Dowd
Copyright
The London Eye Mystery
A Swift Pure Cry
Solace of the Road
Bog Child
A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness, illustrated by Jim Kay
www.siobhandowdtrust.com
For
Dave Shelton
and Ness Wood
with thanks for their help and support
and in memory of
Siobhan Dowd
who gifted us this beautiful story
‘AS WE HAULED in the creels, Dond came in from the sea, disguised as a black fog. He brought into our hearts the fear of dying and the desire for more. More fish, land, houses. More weapons, arguments, lies. In every man, woman, child, the lust for power was born. He decreed that Inniscaul would be washed away by a great storm if we did not pay his ransom . . .’
Darra read aloud the words of the sacred elders from where they were engraved on the standing stone at the tip of the headland. She’d recited them a thousand times before, but today she faltered at the last part:
‘. . . namely, the thirteenth child to a woman born. Any such child should be sacrificed to Dond at age thirteen and thirteen years of good fortune would follow. Otherwise Inniscaul would be no more.’
The words were too close to the bone. Dond – the dark god of the underworld – had both chosen and cursed her. She was the dreadful ransom mentioned in the testament. She was a thirteenth child and tomorrow she would turn thirteen. The fishers would gather at the cove below, and Cail would row her off to sea in a curragh. In full view of the villagers, she would leap overboard with a rock tied to her ankle. She would plunge to the depths of the ocean bed. She would die.
She could think of no worse birthday present.
In living memory, no woman in her village had given birth to a thirteenth child. The mothers knew too well what its fate would be. If they produced as many as twelve babies, they went to Olca, the mountain witch, who sold them a charm so that no more children would arrive.
Darra’s mother, Meb, had had eleven children, all girls, who married among the neighbouring families. When she was expecting her twelfth, she prayed for a son. The gods listened – to a point. As the old witch Olca reported, Bawn came first, white and wriggling. His little toes and fingers were perfect, his cries piercing and his hair red, the sign of a lucky life. But two minutes later the twin that nobody wanted or expected was born. She was wrinkled, dark and silent. Her mother pushed her away in horror. Olca named her Darra, meaning ‘second’.
Cail, the village elder, had taken her in. He raised her in the great stone keep on the headland, apart from the other islanders, and taught her the elders’ words: those engraved on the standing stone and others, passed down over generations.
She’d known from the day she learned to talk what destiny awaited her. Cail had prepared her. He assured her that her fate was not a bad one. Do not be afraid, he often said. Drowning is a pleasant death. A slow walk under the water and then a sudden soaring up into the light. You will be reborn as a fish, a gull or a star, or maybe as all three. You’ll be free of human form and no longer cursed. The great sky god, Lug, will smile as you pass from this world into Sidé.
Darra walked to the edge of the headland. The sea below her was bright and sparkling. Her black hair whipped around her face. She didn’t want to be a fish. Or a gull. Or a star. She wanted to go on being herself, Darra. She wanted to live.
The curse of Dond unfurled inside her. She became afraid to die. She sat on the edge of the cliff and hugged her belly, trying to press the fear back from where it came. She prayed to the gods, especially to Lug. But the sea crashed against the rocks and the sun glided west. She watched its rays lengthen. A path of molten red shimmered on the water. Her last day on earth was nearly over. She wept.
The sun sank in a purple flourish.
‘Darra,’ came a low voice nearby.