by Helen Slavin
Anna leaned forwards into the wind and Seren felt her muscles strain in holding her.
“Where are you going?” Seren asked the mad question, the dangerous option, the catalyst.
“Down.” Anna’s voice tumbled down like a stone, her gaze falling with it and Seren took her cue.
“Yes.” Seren said and with a sudden lunge pushed Anna backwards onto the deck of the bridge.
They landed heavily, and Anna was limp and lifeless. Seren checked her pulse. It was there, a slow drumbeat, and as Seren tried to shift her body Anna gave a sorrowful moan. No one had stopped. The few cars rolling towards Woodcastle seemed not to care. Seren looked back at her car. She could do this. With all her strength she pushed herself under Anna’s arm and with an inelegant but effective clean and jerk move she lifted her to her feet. Their progress was rapid, Seren using the momentum of Anna falling to drag her quickly towards the car. She folded her into the back seat and strapped the seatbelt around her prone body just in case.
There was only one place to take her and Seren knew the way. She was burning with adrenalin as they pulled along Bridge Road into town. With the window open Seren heard the wails of discordant music over a public-address system and remembered it was the Apple Day event.
There was no traffic; instead the road was blocked by barriers and by the crowd that swirled the length of Dark Gate Street. On a flatbed truck drawn across the junction at Barbican Steep men were struggling with speakers, the speakers screeling with feedback with a sound like wild beasts. Around them the town seemed to be arranged into groups like a military tattoo. There were scruffy flags and banners and flaming torches and lots of singing. Apple Day looked like the French Revolution.
Seren turned at the castle towards Long Gate Street trying to get to Old Castle Road by the longer route. The light was fading now. As Seren ground through her gears, pushing the car up the steep hill, an empty bottle dinged off the bonnet. Seren glanced at the group of women running into the path of the car, hurling abuse and more empty bottles: one cracked the windscreen, another clipped the wing mirror. Ahead of them a car burst into flame. There was no way through town, no way she could get Anna to Cob Cottage. Seren turned the wheel, bounced up onto the pavement, aware of the women in the rear view gaining on them; another bottle whirled through the air as she gunned the engine, the little car squealing along its escape route.
26
Hell and a Handbasket
Charlie had never seen Woodcastle in this light; that is, firelight. A dramatic haze of black smoke drifted through town.
It appeared that this year’s Apple Day finale was a re-enactment of the English Civil War and the 1815 Woodcastle Sausage Riot. Flickering beacons guarded the barricades and fiery torches were held aloft by various cohorts and battalions of Woodcastle residents. The castle walls were glimmering with the reflected light of the torches of the massed band of Roundheads, their helmets plundered from the castle before Mrs Bentley had time to lockdown. Residents had upcycled the rags and remnants of the disastrous Apple Day fire into motley costumes and banners and were singing and marching their way along Dark Gate Street.
Beyond them, at the traffic lights by the junction with Long Gate Street, was, well, what was that? This crowd had piled up a barricade of Apple Day stalls and were waving vast flags, looking for all the world as if they were defending the castle. A cannon was being rolled down Barbican Steep with some difficulty, the wheels sending it careering in different directions and at lumbering speed.
There was that song again. It was familiar to Charlie from earlier in the day. The voices grew and clashed, each singing off against the other. Loudspeakers mounted on a flatbed truck were ranged around like Stonehenge and with an intense whistle they burst into life. Drums, violins, and brass. The drunken residents’ chorus and banners battled it out.
“What the…?” Charlie could only stare at the spectacle. The cannon was being rolled into position.
“‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’ Isn’t that from Les Mis?” Emz asked; Charlie nodded. As they stood at the edge of Old Castle Road looking down Emz could see the shiny apple-cheeked faces.
“I am Jean Valjean!” it was a defiant cry from the butcher, Owen Greene, as he clambered up onto the nearest barricade, the tattered flag cracking behind him.
“He’s got a… is it a sword?” Charlie and Emz stared at the weapon he was waving. It was wooden. Beside him several women were banging other wooden swords on small wooden shields bearing the Woodcastle Castle arms.
“It’s from the Castle shop.” Charlie looked out over the crowd; other swords were being waved. Some, she could see, were metal and being wielded by the opposite faction; clearly Mrs Bentley hadn’t managed to lockdown the armoury exhibition fast enough. From this group the local plumber, Rich Hardiman, jumped forward with a roar.
“NO! I am Jean Valjean!” The two tribes were rumbling and roiling behind their leaders, swords waving, the weight of bodies pressing forward with shouts and whistles. The song was rising, throats scratching with the effort of singing louder, louder. Drums rattled from nearby just as PC Williamson leapt up onto the bus shelter.
“I AM SPARTACUS,” and with that all hell broke loose. There was a sudden clatter of hooves from behind them, Charlie and Emz stepping aside as the riding school, swords waving above their heads, made a cavalry charge, disappearing with a roar down High Market Place towards the Moot Hall, and the Spartacus vs Valjean melee surged and seethed like a tide.
“We need to find Anna,” Charlie said, and the sisters began to move into the fray.
They dodged peashooters, catapults, the debris of apple cores and bits of doughnut, of shards of crackling that were flying through the air, a pig’s head shot from the cannon and all the time, scarier than anything else, the vast wave of choral sound carried on a tide of drums, rattling out of the speakers and into the combatants.
The Ways moved quickly, keeping together. In the tension of the situation Emz’s real face instinct kicked in and she was surprised at what was revealed. While people sang their lungs out, mouths wide, throats wobbling, cheeks red with firelight and energy, their real faces seemed asleep. Emz could not work it out and as the crowd moved and seethed around them she was distracted as she tried to keep her feet.
She followed Charlie to the smoking remnants of the Castle Inn marquee. There were twisted and melted poles and struts, charred and ashen textile, chairs and tables were like abstract sculptures of themselves. In a corner several of the residents warmed themselves by the remains of the hog roast, flames licking weakly, splashing hot fat.
Where was Anna?
The Castle Inn itself was dark and locked up and although Charlie hammered on the door there was no reply.
“We could go round the back, to the kitchen door,” Emz suggested and the two climbed over the side gate and dodged through into the beer garden.
“Hoi… You’re trespassing!” a voice screamed from the depths of the long fish pond. Emz turned to see Lella skinny dipping in the water. She was standing now, the water only coming up to her waist and Emz could see she was shivering, her skin turning blue.
“Charlie,” Emz gave a short bark and her sister stopped, clocked Lella.
“Let’s get her out of there…” Charlie said, as she and Emz backtracked to the pond. Lella was stock still, her chin juddering with cold.
“Lovely… water… water… lovely…” She reached and with graceful movements draped herself in more cold water.
“Lella, come on, time to get out,” Emz reached. Lella remained, her face now framed with blue as it encroached from her neck. Her skin was hard with goose pimples so that she looked almost amphibian.
“Time to swim…” she slid beneath the surface. Charlie was straight into the water after her, her arms under Lella’s arms and dragging her onto the side as Emz found her clothing, abandoned by the picnic tables, and wrapped her soft blue waterfall cardigan around her.
Charlie kicked the door
in as Emz supported Lella. There was no electricity, so they stumbled and fumbled their way into the lounge. Lella was shivering and as Emz half dragged her to a couch Charlie went into the dining room and pulled the cloths off the table. Glasses shattered, cutlery scattered with a sound like clashing swords.
“Should I get some tinfoil?” Emz suggested. “You know, like runners after a marathon?”
Charlie was smoothing back Lella’s weed draggled hair. Lella appeared to be snoring softly.
“No. No, I think she’s okay.”
Lella did not look too bad, swaddled in tablecloths.
“She looks like a silver service mummy,” Charlie commented as she wedged a cushion behind Lella’s now definitely snoring head.
“Anna isn’t here,” Emz said. Charlie shook her head.
“Probably waiting back at home. Probably missed each other…” Charlie hoped. When they were certain that Lella was warming and asleep they left.
Outside, the Apple Day party was winding down. The fires were mostly out, and people were rolling homewards with a few sharp words and the odd scuffle and a sword-fighting duel. One or two traipsing down from the Moot Hall shouted lairy and incomprehensible slogans, waved their flag with a defiant yawn. Dark Gate Street looked like a war zone, the air stringent with the scent of burnt tyres and melted gazebo. At Long Gate Street the riding school horses, abandoned, snickered and grouped, restless, their hooves churning up the grass banking below the castle wall.
Back at Cob Cottage there was still no Anna. The Way sisters waited in silence, neither taking up a seat, both taking up a sentinel post at the window to Pike Lake. Their thoughts were scurrying.
“You think something bad has happened to them?” Emz asked in a small voice. Charlie had to take a moment to answer.
“I don’t know. If we’ve done something wrong maybe. If Ailith’s tricked us into making a weapon out of that head, releasing power. Maybe she’s got Anna hostage. Maybe she needs her for something.” Charlie’s mind was churning. She needed Anna to be here, for Anna to talk sense.
“Or maybe they’re out there, together, trying to sort it out.” Emz sounded determined.
Charlie considered this, her face was hard and pinched.
“That’s a possibility. Yes. Okay. That could be it.” She was mentally crossing her fingers. Let it be that. Did their branch of witchcraft run to three wishes? I wish. I wish. I wish.
“Can’t you find them?” Emz asked.
“What?” Charlie was sharp.
“Can’t you look for them?”
“Oh great. Push it on me.” Charlie snapped. Emz flinched at Charlie’s flinty look but she continued with her own theory.
“I mean use your Strength, maybe it will show you where they are?
* * *
The jar of green lentils proved tricky to open, Charlie’s fingers fumbling at it. She stepped back from the jar, the table and took a deep breath.
“Are you alright?” Emz asked.
“No,” Charlie snarled. “It’s too much,” Charlie’s voice had a crack in it; Emz blenched at the sound of it, “and I don’t know what to do.” Charlie was crushing down her emotion, her voice thin and tight. Emz folded deeper into silence, her lips pressed together so she wouldn’t cry.
“But Charlie, we have to…”
Charlie gave an impassioned grunt as she struggled with the jar.
“What? What do we have to do?” She was tugging at the wire fastening on the lid, her fingers whitening as she tried to pull the loop upwards. She knocked against the table sending Ailith’s breakfast cup and plate crashing to the ground.
“NO.” Charlie slammed the lentils down on the table, her hands resting on the table top, her head bowed. “For Pete’s sake.”
“You alright?” Emz’s voice was small and uncertain. Charlie shook her head. Then, glancing down at the smashed crockery, she nodded her head.
“Charlie?”
Charlie held up her hand for Emz to be quiet and then took in a deep breath. She could do this. It was, she knew, like riding a very old and rusty bike.
The map was pieced out in bits of china. Where was that path? There was no path? And yet lots of paths? And a border? What the…? She saw at once that it was Cob Cottage, the back garden, the criss-crossed meanderings of the permaculture that was Grandma Hettie’s veg patch. She shot to the door, Emz following.
Ailith was in the farthest corner of Grandma Hettie’s shed and when Charlie pulled back the tarpaulin she shot across the space like a cornered rat.
“Where’s Anna?” Charlie burst out. “Why isn’t she here? What have you done with Anna?” Charlie demanded.
“Charlie…?” Emz’s voice was small, she was hovering nearer the doorway.
“Stay by the door so she can’t get out.” Charlie snarled. Ailith was flattening herself against the old cedar lap of the wall as if she could press herself out into the night and flee.
“Ailith… what have you done with our sister?” Charlie demanded, her voice really loud in the confined wooden space.
“Charlie. No.” Emz took a step forward, touched Charlie’s elbow. Charlie shrugged it off but Emz pushed forwards. “You’re wrong, Charlie. Look at her.” She dragged Charlie backwards, out of the way. “I mean it.” Emz stepped forward.
“Ailith. Come with us. It will be alright.” Her voice was very small and soft like a mouse. Ailith flinched again, her fingers scrabbling at the wood, her mouth letting out the most pitiful whimper either Way sister had ever heard. Emz picked her way through the gardening tools and bric-a-brac; there seemed to be a vast collection of small brown earthenware teapots and galvanised watering cans.
“Ailith…” Emz’s voice was even smaller, the velvet twitch of a mouse whisker and, at its sound, Charlie felt her anger and her fear wind themselves onto a small bobbin in her head so she could control them. She took a deep breath as Emz reached a hand to Ailith’s shoulder; Charlie tensed, anticipating Ailith’s flight, but at Emz’s touch she seemed to rise up, as if letting go of wings, before she turned, folded away from the shed wall towards Emz who took her hand, held her elbow as she negotiated her way out from behind the wheelbarrow.
Charlie gasped to see her face in the light from Cob Cottage, her face a mass of bruises, her nose bloodied, her thin hair matted with dirt.
Inside the cottage Emz was already running a bath as Charlie cleaned up Ailith’s wounds. She said nothing until there was a small pile of grubby cotton wool and she was fixing a small plaster to the cut on Ailith’s cheekbone.
“What happened?”
Ailith shook her head.
“The people… they were drunk. The meat was turned. Everything went to the bad.”
Charlie looked into Ailith’s face.
“This isn’t our doing? You didn’t trick us?” Charlie sounded more certain than she felt, but she could not hold onto the suspicion. Ailith was firm.
“I did not trick you.”
She didn’t have Emz’s skill at seeing real faces but now, she felt, she was being shown Ailith’s true face and it was kind and concerned and frightened and, she understood, loyal.
“I’m convinced it’s the head,” Charlie said. “What else is there?”
“It could be by accident,” Emz offered. “You know, if we haven’t rested it properly. Maybe it’s set something off, like an alarm?”
Charlie considered and nodded.
“The charged feeling in the air. The resonance.” Charlie was thinking aloud. “I wonder if it’s linked to the way the castle was sounding out?”
“Yes. This time whatever was working was stronger, more current in the circuit.”
“Could be. That day at the castle Ailith had only just arrived. The head was still inside Havoc Wood.” Charlie’s mind had stopped seething with sound and tinny prickling sensations and confusion. Instead the thoughts began to separate and clarify themselves. “That could be the difference. Anna said it before, it’s the difference between what walks i
nto Havoc Wood and what walks out.”
Ailith sat in silence.
“No offence Ailith,” Charlie looked at her. Emz was chewing her lip.
“Maybe we’ve switched it on by mistake?” Emz suggested. Ailith looked uncertain but Charlie was willing to take anything.
“I can run with that.” Charlie took in a deep breath. It seemed plausible. This incident was proving to be a steep learning curve; nothing was simple. Charlie had a sudden vision of the future where nothing was simple ever again. Guess. Second guess. Still get it wrong.
“We can work out the details later. First. Ailith, when did you last see Anna?” Charlie asked. That was top of their to-do list. “She was still at the hog roast? You were clearing up?” Charlie was chief interrogator, she was reaching into the drawer for a pencil: there was always an old pencil in the top sink drawer.
“Everywhere. Everyone. It was all turned and bad. I tried to stop it, to clear away the bad meat, but there was too much. People were fighting. Then the man punched her.”
Charlie stopped scribbling her notes.
“What?” Emz looked wobbly. “Someone punched Anna?”
“In the fighting. The man punched your sister.”
The two sisters let this sink in. Neither could look at the other for fear of giving away their own vulnerability.
“Punched her.” Charlie and Emz held their breath. Charlie could not speak.
“She fell,” Ailith said. “They overpowered me. I could see her, where she got up and walked away. But I could not break free of them in time to catch her.” Ailith’s head dropped forward, contrite.
Charlie and Emz were at a loss. Anna’s workplace was not on their search list today; they’d been to the Castle Inn. Her old home at Keep Rows was now occupied by Seren Lake.
“She could be at Keep Rows,” Emz reasoned. “Maybe. Possibly?”
“Mum’s maybe,” Charlie said and grabbed her keys. Emz looked at her.
