by Helen Slavin
“Strength.” Emz stated.
Charlie gave a deep sigh and Emz did not back down.
“I’m right, Charlie, we’re wasting time trotting over to Keep Rows and Mum’s house if Anna isn’t there.”
“Keep Rows is a good shout,” Charlie was holding onto the car keys as if they might help. “Seren is there. She might have gone to Seren.”
“She might have gone anywhere. We need to know.” Emz was exasperated. “Why can’t you just use your Strength?”
Emz could be so reasonable when it didn’t involve her having to find someone and be completely responsible. The jar of green lentils seemed to look particularly muddy and green as it sat on the table.
“Charlie!” Emz was wild-eyed. “You just DID it. You found Ailith. Now find Anna.”
“Oh… for Pete’s sake.” Charlie slammed down the car keys and snatched up the jar. Her fingers struggled with the metal catch, the snap mechanism unwilling to let her in. A whisper, very deep inside her, became as annoying and as reasoned as Emz. She let go of the green lentils. Instead she walked to Anna’s jacket which was hanging on the wall in the corridor.
“Charlie, why are you wasting time?” Emz was fizzing. Charlie reached into the pockets. Inside was some loose change, a couple of receipts, a small length of kitchen string, and, for who knew what chef-type reason, some black peppercorns. Charlie turned to Emz, her fist raised.
Ailith and Emz watched as Charlie strewed the items on the table. The coins rolled off the edge, Ailith stooping to pick them up. The receipts were scrunched paper. The kitchen string, however, was a snaking map of Woodcastle, showing Top Lane and the little streets and roads that ran off it, but the black peppercorns had formed themselves into a little square just stepped back from the Moot Hall. Where was that? Charlie felt the map slipping under the cloak of her own doubts. Get a grip. Pull back. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment and looked again. She could see at once where Dark Gate Street curled away down the string and, at once, she knew where her sister was.
“You…” Charlie pointed at Ailith. “Stay here.” She heard the severity in her tone and qualified it at once, “The cottage will keep you safe,” and she was rewarded with Ailith’s grateful smile. Emz was already opening the cottage door.
When, a little later, Ailith thought she might step out onto the porch it appeared Cob Cottage would not let her: the door stayed shut. Ailith, remembering something Grandam Orla had told her once, thought that that was a good thing and feeling safe, perhaps for the first time in her entire life, she curled up on the floor and fell asleep.
27
Sap
Apple Day. Quaint, traditional, and perfect, rather like Mrs Fyfe. Her exterior might be sleek and contemporary, black was her colour after all, but her interior was antique, genuine ancient monument stuff. Those round glasses gave the perfect looking glass view of the world, a little distortion here and there to keep things interesting. She had wandered through the Apple Day stalls and drunk it all in.
All the bad energy, all the darkness from within, all the hurts and resentments, all the sorrows and griefs, pride and arrogance, all the words bitten into tongues, insults, bitching, fighting, squabbles, oh The Gods, was there anything more perfect and delicious than a squabble? Squabbles and pettiness, the carrot and onion in the stockpot of slow poison.
She had felt invigorated as a result of all the surly minded argy-bargy and a closer inspection of town revealed several small treats.
“Penny for them?” she asked the black-haired young woman who was biting into a pastry that she, Mrs Fyfe, had watched her buy at the bakery stall.
“Mm?” the young woman turned sharp eyes upon her. “I was just looking at the quality. Usually there’s better fare on offer. This is greasy.”
Mrs Fyfe rootled around in the woman’s head for a few moments and found white robes, a crown made of skulls, rituals at a stone circle. Mrs Fyfe wanted to squeak with glee. She would mark this young woman well. A young woman who liked meddling in magic of which they had no true knowledge was always useful. Oh, Woodcastle was filled with treasures.
“Isn’t that the trouble with these kinds of market? Everything looks so good except they put the best ones at the front and pick the bad ones from the back… see…” Mrs Fyfe’s voice was almost musical, but a kind of dissonant music that got inside your head. As Roz turned, the woman at the bakery stall reached into a basket on a trestle table at the rear and filled out the order that had just been shouted to her. Roz looked outraged, she looked into the grim and greasy bag and then up at Mrs Fyfe.
“Allow me…” Mrs Fyfe reached for a pastry. It was more golden, more crisp than any other pastry Roz Woodhill had ever seen. “You should get what you have paid for.” Mrs Fyfe smiled and moved on.
Her marker was set in the young woman. If all went well she might need a familiar later and that young woman would be the perfect conduit. Ah. What a day. With that small magical task completed she moved on towards her more pressing magical priorities. She stepped through the crowd, unnoticed.
She had needed some short time to replenish her strength. There had been no point in seeking out the raggedy girl and her precious cargo before this. This morning she was ready and began her hunt in earnest. She was starting to feel a low thrum in her head and as she neared the castle it became more penetrating. It felt as if the ancient source was close, was not cloaked in the leaves and bark of Havoc Wood at all. Could she be this fortunate? What had that messenger girl couriered here? It could not be this simple. Mrs Fyfe’s rusted heart gave a creaking patter. If she could only hunt it down, whatever it was, take the measure of it, use it. She had a revenge list written in blood in her head. She’d see Havoc Wood burn.
As she moved onwards she drew in the silted black energy of the Apple Day crowd, letting it soak in to her, electrified with the power surge that was slow poison.
Oh my stars, this was fun. There was a delicious self-pitying gravy just oozing off this young woman. Penny for them.
“I’m thirty this year you know…” the young woman was pleading with a disinterested looking young man who was sucking at a cider bottle as if it was a cow teat. “Thirty. We need to get married. I want a baby. I want triplets.”
Mrs Fyfe was grateful for the knowledge and set ideas of biological clocks ticking in the poor woman’s head. And remember the damp patch in the front bedroom and don’t forget the little mushrooms growing in the toilet under the cistern where it dripped and of course the paint peeling off the windows and that guttering that leaked. Mrs Fyfe liked the small domestic worries best because they were very easy to maintain, an endless supply of snacks. She looked hard to see what else might be inside this woman; a crust of self-pity always thickened the general emotional stew. Mrs Fyfe rootled around a little, drew out more shadows with which to sustain herself.
At last, she turned her gaze to the castle. The building loomed, casting a strong shadow in the bright morning sun and Mrs Fyfe noted that it was exactly the shape and shade it should be, it was not affected by her slow poison of the town. This, she knew, was the hiding place.
She walked around the castle walls, looking up at the fortress, for despite its venerable age it still was such. She found her way around the entire boundary, heading up the banking at Bend Lane and walking along the earthworks. The stones ground against her so it was clear that they had seen her kind before. Never mind, she liked a challenge, so she finished her circuit of the walls and headed back to the main gate.
Mrs Fyfe trudged up Barbican Steep and found that it lived up to its name, the cobbles that greeted you after the car park ought to have been renamed hobbles after she turned first this ankle and then that. She paused for a moment. Hmm. These stones really didn’t like her.
Having fought her way footstep by footstep to the edge of the wooden walkway she paused for several moments to drink in the energy from the woman in the kiosk who was quaffing apple juice from a jug. Her shadows were rich
in all the disappointments, the hurts, the self-pity, a delicious bourguignon of bitterness, and it was just the pick-me-up required. Mrs Fyfe felt ready to brave the old magic. There was no mistaking its presence, the castle was alive with it. The sensation sank far deeper than the blood and battle and toil soaked into the stones. These Way women were very careless to leave a power like this just waiting to be taken. Mrs Fyfe took a step into the castle. The air bristled. The old magic did not care for her.
Neither did Mrs Bentley. Throwing aside her poisoned drink, she exited the ticket office at some speed, snatching up a halberd from the display as she did so. She had the tinny glazed eyes that showed Mrs Fyfe she was slow poisoned.
“Halt… who goes there? Friend or foe?” Mrs Bentley menaced Mrs Fyfe with the halberd, the unwieldy weapon looking deadly in the skilled hands of the castle’s custodian.
“Why, Friend, of course.” Mrs Fyfe was amused. Mrs Bentley was unyielding. She lunged forward; the spiked blade of the halberd sliced through the air in front of Mrs Fyfe’s face and halted just shy of her skin.
“Halt. Foe.” Mrs Bentley’s tin glazed eyes glinted with fierce anger. To Mrs Fyfe it was like a glass of single malt but in a large measure, too much to be consumed at a sitting.
“Friend,” Mrs Fyfe reiterated, her voice commanding, trying to push a little at Mrs Bentley’s edges.
Mrs Bentley raised the tip of the pikestaff until it jabbed, very delicately, into the underneath of Mrs Fyfe’s chin.
“Why then do the stones shriek Foe?”
Hah, that challenge stepped matters up a gear. Mrs Fyfe licked her lips and sipped a little of the single malt of this woman’s fury. Then she had a rootle about in Mrs Bentley’s head to find what she needed.
“Is it possible to buy a season ticket? As I said, I’d like to be a Friend of Woodcastle Castle…” Mrs Fyfe’s smile was small and ingratiating. Mrs Bentley stood the halberd down.
“Come Friend…” and she set off towards the kiosk.
Mrs Fyfe put her season ticket and her Friends of Woodcastle Castle membership into her pocket. These times were interesting; the people inhabiting them had different magic. Armed with her talismans she continued up through the drawbridge arch and out into the wide greensward of the castle yard.
The old magic trailed like smoke. Wood smoke and… Mrs Fyfe drew in a deep breath, honey. Oh. It had been so very long since that particular perfume had breathed its life into her. It reached out, bringing golden memories of home and long ago and once upon a time. It wound itself around her, a wisp of old smoke smudged across a long forgotten blue sky. She had found all that she had lost. For just a moment, fleeting and poignant, Mrs Fyfe thought she might cry. It was only a moment; as her throat constricted with the charm of it she stepped back. No. You don’t trick me. She pushed back, lengthened the shadows around her, a dark protective circle in which to walk.
She hunted, tracking and sniffing for the old magic, for whatever talisman or weapon that raggedy girl had hidden here, a talisman or a weapon that she could steal and make her own.
28
On the Ridge
It was a dream, Anna understood that, because she was blurred at the edges but after the tight feelings of grief that had bound her lately, the wind here at Yarl Hill was very soothing. The breeze ruffled at her hair and rustled through the long grass making a sighing sound that matched her own.
“Hey.” The familiar voice made Anna turn. Emz, eight and wearing that favourite white sweater and the shoes she’d had with the lights in them. “Race you.” Charlie, nearly fifteen, running, her sweatshirt hood flapping behind her and Emz, her legs pounding. “Waaaaaaaait.” Her small eight-year-old voice echoing. Anna turned; Grandma Hettie, her black waxed raincoat cracking slightly in the breeze, smiled and started up the slope.
It was a winding path that zig-zagged up to the ridge at Yarl Hill. They had walked this route many times. The sunlight was soft and warm and very comforting, and the wind was at their backs whichever direction they turned so that their steps were light. From here Anna could look down on Woodcastle, the castle in the distance, the towers rising up, the curtain walls curving around, protective, and beyond them the spill of buildings and gardens, streets and junctions that made up her home. She liked the way the houses jaggered and straddled the valley sides, thinning out gradually until there were just the few bigger properties peeking out from the curtain of trees. At Hartfield Hall the sunlight winked on the windows, so they looked like gold. There was Leap Wood, the soldier formations of the planted pines guarding the more deciduous heart of the place. The river wound like a metal ribbon through the valley and on the opposite bank was the edge of Havoc Wood, rising and sweeping up the other ridges and hilltops, only clearing a space for Pike Lake. From here, in this lovely dream, Anna thought Pike Lake looked like a round shield, laid down on the soft earth after a battle.
“Southern.” Grandma Hettie turning in a circle as the girls raced off, Emz in the wrong direction, Anna tugging her back, laughing, Charlie ahead, Charlie winning but before they reached the southern edge, Grandma Hettie’s voice sang out.
“Northern.” The sisters running screaming and breathless to the back edge, nearest to Havoc, the edge with the barrows, but before they could reach the barrows Grandma Hettie’s voice called out once more.
“Eastern.” Grandma Hettie standing in the centre of the earthwork, her arms waving, the Way sisters running, racing to the raised banking, and just before they crested the summit Grandma Hettie turning into the wind, her arms stretched wide.
“Western.” They were giddy with effort now, rosy cheeked, Charlie hanging back because Emz was getting tired but not letting Emz know it. Anna strolling, letting the breeze cool her skin. At the western gate they sank into the grass and Grandma Hettie pulled out her red-spotted handkerchief, unfolded the picnic of sausage rolls and hard-boiled eggs. Anna let herself sink into the earth. The grass whispered, “stay”.
Anna thought she would. Forever. A shadow fell across her, cooling and soothing. Grandma Hettie’s hand reaching for her, helping her to her feet.
“You’ve work to do.”
The wind got up, snatched at Grandma’s black raincoat so that it cracked like lightning and as it did, Anna woke up.
Adrenalin was not the best wake-up call but it surged through Anna as she sat up in a strange bed. Stranger than strange, it wasn’t a bed at all. It was an odd little sofa, in a tiny tiny room filled with sewing and needles.
“Hey,” Seren’s voice was soft and wary. “How’re you feeling?” Seren leaned down offering a mug and a nervous smile. A second helping of adrenalin washed through Anna along with something darker, a sense of loss, a sliding of the earth from under her accompanied by a vision of Calum and Ethan, waiting for her on the bridge. She lurched upwards, her head swimming.
“I have to go to the bridge…” She heard the words coming out of her mouth as if they were spoken by a stranger and somewhere deep inside her there was a very tiny warning voice shouting something to her.
“No. You don’t.” Seren Lake blocked her way to the small door. “You need to drink some tea.”
“I have to go to the bridge.” Anna took a stride forwards; Seren blocked her. It was such a little door. She must go through. She pushed past Seren. The door was locked. She rattled at it. She had things to do.
“The bridge. Go to the bridge.”
Seren pushed in front of her, one hand reaching to push her gently back towards the sofa, the other offering a mug of tea.
“Yes. Yes, we will go. But first we need to drink some tea. Okay? It’s cold on the bridge. A mug of tea will bolster you up a bit. Okay? Okay.”
Anna dashed the mug from her hands, pushed Seren out of the way. The key. There.
“No.” Seren made a grab for it, the door opening just a crack, revealing the shop beyond. The darkness outside. Anna shoved Seren once more but Seren bounded back, threw her body weight against the door.
“N
o. Anna, you are staying here.” Seren’s smile was edgy, sad. Anna tugged at the door but no matter how hard she tugged at it, it would not open. She felt her anger subside into a terrible seething sadness; it filled every part of her. It was just so hopeless. Her life was a wasteland, a desert of loss. She leaned her head against the surface of the door. Seren reached a hand to her shoulder. At her touch she slumped further forward, crushing herself against the grain of the wood. Oh, it just wasn’t bearable. The grief washed like a tide, it pushed at her, it pulled her down. She shrugged Seren’s hand away, squirmed against the door.
“Let me out…” Her hand flapped feebly at the old grain and her voice was a whisper. “Let me out.” Anna slumped again with a moan. At once there was a knocking at the back door. Seren looked up through the kitchen door. Emz was banging on the window.
“Key!” Seren gestured. “Under the gnome!” She did not dare to leave Anna’s side. In a few seconds Emz and Charlie were with her.
“What happened?” Charlie asked as she dropped to the floor beside her sister.
“She was on the bridge. Going to jump.” Seren felt the tension in her start to give a little and shift towards shock. “The phones were dead. No signal… couldn’t call you... she was going to…”
Without warning Anna rose from the floor, lurching towards the open back door. Charlie, Emz, and Seren all made a grab for her, the three of them struggling to halt her progress.
“LET ME GO.” Her voice was harsh, little ballbearings of spittle landing on Emz’s face, Emz’s feet sliding across the floor behind the relentless push of her eldest sister.“No. It’s me… It’s Emz, Anna… what is wrong with you?”
Charlie was being kicked, the blows severe and the expression on Anna’s face so sorrowful and harsh that it was distressing Emz.
“Let me go.” The wail from Anna was heartrending. Seren was struggling with Anna’s writhing form as Charlie took hold of Anna, very firmly, by the wrist.
