SOMETIMES I RAN, SOMETIMES all I could do was walk. All I knew was that if the steward overtook me—and he with horse—I’d not survive for long.
With every step I took, and with every look back, I shed tears of grief. That the death of Father Quinel had to do with my mother and me, I didn’t doubt. I wondered if it was because the priest was helping me, or if it was because he was about to tell me about my father or something more about my mother.
I forced myself along, keeping to the road, though to speak of the muddy path I took as a road was a gross exaggeration. Though uneven as well as muddy, and barely half a rod across, it’s what I followed.
I had gone for but a short time when I realized I’d lost the sack of food Goodwife Peregrine had given me. I halted, even considered going back to find it, but knew that would be folly. I’d have to forage as I went.
I did touch the thong around my neck. The little pouch the old hag had given me—with the cross of lead—remained. Grateful to have that at least, I pushed on.
At first the road took me by open areas, but soon it led me into a forest of densely twisted trees that allowed neither moon nor starlight to seep through. After going a little more I halted, too exhausted to go on. I sank down, back propped against a tree.
Though worn out from my flight, my close escape, not to mention my churning emotions, I could not rest. I kept thinking of all that had happened, trying to make sense of what had occurred, of how I had become a wolf’s head. As for what would happen, I could see little but an early death in an unmarked grave—if I were lucky to have even that. What’s more, I knew that that if I died alone, without the benefit of sacred rites, I’d plunge straight to Hell, and my torments would go on forever.
Unable to sleep, I sat midst the swarming darkness, starting at every random rustling and crackling that came to ear. Then the wind began to moan, causing branches to stir and trees to creak and knock one upon one another. These sounds were lanced by the hooting of the Devil’s own bird, an owl. Far worse were the sudden silences that suggested something lurking near.
At length I flung myself upon my knees and prayed long and hard to Our Savior Jesus, to His Sainted Mother Mary, and most of all to my blessed Saint Giles, for mercy, guidance, comfort, and protection.
This putting myself in God’s merciful hands brought me a little relief, enough to allow me to fall into an irregular sleep, unsure what the next day would bring.