I would have changed places with Osmanna if I could. I would have faced death for Christ. I would even have embraced it. I was not afraid of losing my life. I was not afraid of pain or disfigurement. My sin was that I was not willing to sacrifice my mind and my reason for my Lord. “Go and look at Healing Martha,” Merchant Martha had said. “Ask yourself if you are really willing to risk that.” God had called Healing Martha to fight for Him that night, for she was willing to surrender everything and I was not, because I could not be certain that sacrifice would not be in vain. To give all and discover you had given it for nothing. To climb the holy mountain and find no God there-that is both the unforgivable sin and the eternal punishment.

I pulled on the reins and turned my horse onto the left-hand road. Not until that moment did I know for certain which I would choose-the hair or the feather, Osmanna or the demon.

The mist was rolling in behind me and by the time I came to the edge of the forest, it was already slinking in among the trees. I dismounted and tethered my horse to the branch of a tree, where I could be sure to find it again. I patted the leather scrip tied about my waist, where I had placed a crucifix and Andrew’s Host in a small wooden box. Then I lifted the lantern and cast about me into the trees.

I knew the Owlman was here. I could feel it. On that first night in May I had seen the Beltane fire glowing above the trees in the forest. Whatever evil had been hatched in the fire that night was the beginning of all this, and this is where I was determined it would end. There were no fires burning tonight and the forest was vast, but the demon had sent me his sign. He would find me as surely as he had found us that night in the storm and if he did not, I would call him forth.

I strode into the trees. The mist rubbed around the trunks and curled over the boulders. The feeble candle flame couldn’t penetrate the dense fog, and white trunks loomed out of it inches from my face. All the time I was listening, conscious of the snapping of twigs and crunching of dead leaves under my feet, wondering what hidden creatures in the forest were even now tracking my footfalls. The damp mist clung to my clothes and skin in tiny beads, soaking them faster than rain. Nothing was stirring. It seemed that I was the only thing moving out there in the darkness. All the beasts were still, listening and waiting.

Then I heard it, a deep echoing oohu-oohu-oohu, the call of the eagle owl hunting. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I glanced fearfully upwards but the mist was pawing around the branches, blocking out even the dark sky above. Perhaps it was only a harmless owl. I stood listening, trying to remember which direction the sound had come from. For a few minutes, I could hear nothing except the rasp of my own breathing.

Oohu-oohu-oohu. The call came again. This time I knew it was no ordinary bird. It was too strong, too deep, like a pack of bloodhounds baying across the sky. The cry was coming from ahead and to the left. I touched the leather scrip again to reassure myself and stumbled towards the cry.

Several times I crashed into trees or tripped over rocks and brambles, but I pushed on. Whenever I stopped to look around, the cry would echo again, as if it knew exactly where I was. It was leading me deeper and deeper into the forest. I was aware that I was climbing; the ground was sloping upwards and boulders became more numerous. To the left of me was the sound of crashing water. I must be somewhere near the river. I turned away from the water’s roar, afraid that in the dark and mist I might walk straight into it.

Suddenly a huge dark shape lumbered out of the mist towards me. I had just time to throw my arm up before my face was smothered in something wet which wrapped itself around me, clinging to my face. I screamed and fought out of its slimy grasp, crashing backwards onto the ground, and the lantern rolled out of my hand. I covered my face, certain the thing would pounce again, but nothing happened. Slowly, I edged my hand towards the lantern. It had fallen onto a great heap of old leaves, and thanks be to God had not smashed or extinguished. I pulled it towards me, tilting it upwards.

I was lying beneath a great oak, its hollow large enough for half a dozen men to stand inside. A tattered length of cloth dangled from one of the low bare branches. That must have been what I had walked into. Feeling foolish, I scrambled to my feet and reached to touch it. But it wasn’t cloth: It was a kind of leather, pale and soft, but as thin as parchment. The mist had wetted it, making it slimy. There were markings on it, crude symbols drawn in red. I held the lantern closer. Two long vertical lines with smaller horizontal lines bisecting them. Other symbols too, a spiral and-

“The flayed hide of a child, Mistress,” a voice rang out behind me. “An ancient spell to summon the gods.” Before I could turn, I felt the prick of a sword in my back.

“Hang the lantern from that branch and walk into the oak.”

My heart thumping, I did as I was told, careful not to make any sudden movements which might cause my captor to drive that blade home.

“Turn around.”

A burly man filled the gap in the entrance to the hollow oak, holding the sword ready to strike if I should attempt to push past him. In the pearly mist, the light of the lantern hanging from the branch behind him made a shimmering halo of his outline. At first I thought he was hooded, for I couldn’t make out his face; then, as he turned his head to the side, I saw his head was covered by a mask of the great horned eagle owl. The candlelight glinted on a hooked bronze beak.

“I knew you’d come to me.” The speaker’s voice was deep and distorted inside the mask. “Phillip was certain you’d choose to save the girl, but he always underestimates women, a foolish thing to do.”

“Phillip D’Acaster? Is he your leader?”

The man laughed. “You think a strutting cock like him would have the knowledge to bring the Owlman forth? No, Mistress, I am the Aodh. I am the fire.”

From somewhere deep inside my terror, I heard myself say, “Then it was you who unleashed that demon upon the village. And you who was responsible for the vicious attack on Healing Martha. She was an old woman and a skilled physician who had done nothing but good all her life. Your demon left her a cripple without speech or reason and now she is dead. God will punish you for that. But you failed miserably if you thought your demon would take her soul. All the demons of Hell cannot prevail against such faith as hers.”

Outside the hollow of the oak the mist prowled round the trees, stirring softly as if it breathed in the candlelight. But inside the hollow of the trunk, there was no mist at all, almost as if there was an invisible door keeping it out. It was very dark and still inside the tree.

“Poor foolish Aldith was sent to draw you out, but we did not expect the old one to come with you.” The man lowered his sword, but kept a firm grip on it. I knew it could flash upwards again faster than I could reach the entrance.

“Then you intended that demon should kill me,” I said coldly.

“Your death would have been useful to us, but dead or frightened away from Ulewic, either would have served our purpose. In the end, you served us better than we could have hoped for.”

“I served you?” I said, taken aback by his words. “I would never-”

“But you did. The Owlman is as much your creation as mine, Mistress. I called it back from the shadows of the gods, but the day you swore that your friend had fought it and vanquished it, you gave it power. You proclaimed to all that you believed the Owlman existed. When a priest says he has exorcised a demon, he has in that instant by his word created the demon. You, Mistress, gave the Owlman life because you made of him a demon to be feared and fought.”