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Back The Whistling Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. EPIGRAPH
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. Part Two
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. Part Three
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. Acknowledgements
  52. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

‘It’s an instrument.’ I could feel the pleasure she took in disturbing me. ‘It’s made of bone with dried skin for a reed. The first was made in grief a long time ago.’

I looked at her questioningly.

‘A wife in mourning. A witch. She could not bear the pain of loss and called her husband back from the grave.’ I could only stare appalled. ‘For the best result, the skin and bone had to be human.’

I had heard enough now and burned to leave, but I could not move. I was transfixed by the curve of her voice. From the window, the falling darkness threw shadows between us.

‘He returned – a ghost and so triumphant was she in her success that she did not stop then; she called her lost children one by one.’ She placed her hands on the table and trapped me with her gaze. ‘A widows’ whistle is blown to summon the dead. That is what it is for, Miss Swansome.’

14

I had been unable to broach what I had learned at Ailsa’s with Miss Gillies as, when I had returned, she had been struck with stomach pain and taken to her bed.

In my room, I scoured the valley and observed the shivering treeline with distrust. Was it possible that William had been murdered? The island did not believe it, but I was more perturbed than I cared to admit. I told myself that the widows’ whistle could not perform the task for which it was made; the ability to draw the dead from their graves with a pipe could not exist.

That is what I told myself. But as I turned to grab my shawl, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and saw the thinness of my face, the lines of tension about my eyes, and I barely recognized myself.

It was with relief that I took the familiar path to the beach the next morning with Mary. The tide was out and the sea glittered in the scattered sun. Away from Iskar, some of my darker feelings were diffused, but from time to time, my thoughts snagged on what I now knew.

Mary walked further along the strand, leaning into a pool with her net. She looked back and waved and I found myself counting the weeks since my arrival and wondering what progress I had made. In spite of the warmth between us, she still would not speak and spent too many of her days clutching Bobbity, as if her life depended on it.