Midnight's Twins

by Holly Race

  I’ve seen it before, of course. In photos, postcards, online. Stonehenge. Except this isn’t some crumbling old monument. Every piece gleams white, every corner is a satisfyingly clean angle. Maybe this is what Stonehenge must have looked like when it was first built.

  I move away from the groups now pouring from the tunnel, keen to see this miracle more closely. I don’t understand how it’s so new in Annwn, when it’s thousands of years old in our world. As I get closer to the monument, though, I realise that it’s not smooth after all. In fact, I’m not even sure it’s made of stone. Pebbles, maybe? Shells? I might not be touchy-feely with people, but I’m a hugger when it comes to art. I run a hand over the surface. Then my brain resolves what it’s really seeing and I lurch backwards with a cry of shock.

  This Stonehenge is made of bones.

  They have been placed with such care that you can only see them close up. The ball of a hip bone rests on top of a jaw, and tiny joints – fingers? Toes? – fill in the gaps. Skulls are placed at equal intervals over the archways, supported by tibia. Vertebrae form zigzags around sternums. It’s gruesomely beautiful.

  ‘D’you like my handiwork, girl?’ a voice drawls in my ear.

  The old man has materialised so close to me that I can smell rancid meat on his breath. His shoulders have hunched right round his chest, and his skin is like a withered apple. From the waist down he wears a skirt made of wooden slats. From the waist up he is naked. He grins like a vulture sizing me up.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘My name is Merlin,’ he leers in a crumbly voice, ‘and this world belongs to me.’

  11

  He’s nothing like the Merlin I’ve read about in stories. This is no friendly old wizard. His stare makes me want to put on another layer of clothing. He’s standing at the head of one of the motliest groups I’ve ever seen. Andraste is amongst them, standing between two men: one has red hair that matches hers; the other has a permanent smirk and boney spikes running from his forehead right down his back. I am guessing, from what Andraste told me last night, that these people are Fay.

  A thane had pulled me away from Merlin before I could answer him and pushed me into a line along the inner circle of Stonehenge with the other squires. We stand opposite five thanes in uniform. I spot a dreadlocked woman dressed in a blue tunic embroidered with a sword. Ramesh has already told me that’s the knights’ uniform. So she’s the one I have to impress.

  Rachel points at a woman wearing a tunic that has an eye emblazoned on red fabric. ‘That’s Maisie. She’s the Captain of the harkers.’

  ‘I heard the veneurs are creepy,’ Ramesh replies. ‘I guess that’s why they wear black.’ I look across at the man in the black tunic, a white hawk embroidered across velvet. I’m inclined to agree with Ramesh, given Lord Allenby had ordered one of these guys to wipe my memory last night.

  ‘I haven’t met the Knight Captain yet,’ Ramesh continues. ‘Oh, I really, really, really hope he likes me.’

  ‘He?’ I ask, glancing over at the dreadlocked woman.

  ‘Oh, Emory there isn’t the Captain. Apparently the actual Captain’s been off duty for months now.’

  ‘Why?’ someone asks, leaning over.

  ‘No one knows,’ Ramesh says conspiratorially.

  ‘Or no one wanted to tell us,’ Ollie remarks.

  I look back at Emory. However interesting the Knight Captain’s absence might be, he’s not here. Emory is.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘I know that the ones in green with the golden quill are reeves, but who are those guys?’

  ‘The ones in white with the snake wound round a rod? They’re the apothecaries.’

  Rachel starts to say something but Lord Allenby gathers everyone’s attention and all of us fall silent.

  ‘Squires,’ Lord Allenby booms. ‘Welcome to Stonehenge.’

  ‘A little different from the pale replica you know in Ithr,’ Merlin sneers. ‘That one was only built by men. This was forged by me and my kind.’

  Merlin steps forward, and so does a woman who looks like a fairytale princess. Her bodice is stitched with real flowers and a long skirt falls to the ground in layers of silk and chiffon. A white slipper peeks from beneath the fabric. Her rose-gold hair is long and loose, offering the only covering to her arms. The woman opens her hand and inspyre pools inside it. The people around me gasp as the light sparks and dances and finally forms a harp.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ Ramesh whispers. Then the woman opens her mouth and steals my reply.

  Her lilting voice doesn’t seem to come only from her, but from the air around us, from the bones behind us, from within my own chest. The words are quiet but they weave into my thoughts.

  Here is the story, the voice says, of the Fay, of the first humans, of the thread that holds us together.

  It’s not exactly a song. There’s no discernible tune, no chorus or rousing key change. But it’s not a normal story either. As the woman speak-sings, images form inside my head, like a daydream.

  In the beginning, the woman says, we lurked in the shadows of your imaginations. We were creatures of inspyre alone, ephemeral in the youthful world of Annwn. Yet as you told your first stories, sat around fires or drawing on cave walls, you made us stronger. You walked in Annwn and we showed ourselves to you, dropped our lives into your minds, and when you woke you took our stories for your own and made us stronger still. Grand tales you told, of the hunt, of royalty, of courtship, love and betrayal. And thus we were made immortal. Part base human, part inspyre. We can never die while our stories are told.

  In the beginning we were five. First was the Father, who you know as Merlin. Yet he has other names also, like Odin, Zeus and Baba Yaga.

  Second was the trickster: Puck and Loki, Coyote and Anansi. Third and fourth the warrior twins yonder.

  The woman casts a hand towards Andraste and her red-haired companion, who bow their heads in acknowledgement.

  They are named Athena and Ares, Bast and Horus, Nirrti and Mangala, Boudicca and Spartacus. I am the fifth. I am muse and madonna and I have many names. You may call me Nimue, though others know me as Mujaji and Isis, Aphrodite and Ophelia. Our names grow as you add us to your stories, and each time you name us afresh, we become ever stronger, ever more immortal.

  As I look upon Andraste, I begin to see the different forms that she has taken over thousands of years. I don’t understand how it’s happening, or whether anyone else can see it, but she seems to morph in front of my eyes, like shadows on a riverbed. I see how she is one single person – a warrior woman of huge skill and intelligence – but how she is also made of layers of other warrior women: a merciless queen but also a slave girl teaching her sister to write in the dust at their chained feet. They are the same woman in their souls, even if their stories are very different. I look at the singing woman the same way, and I see at once a young girl pining for her lost lover and a proud woman, naked and pregnant, looking with scorn upon her devotees.

  The song-speech continues.

  Over time, we became gods and goddesses to you. You sacrificed yourselves on alters and offered us your souls for a sliver of our favour. It was not enough for you. You wished to break open the walls between this world and Ithr. For centuries, mankind laboured to build such a gateway, but it was not until we, the Fay, used our powers that the barriers could be broken. Many thousands of years later, when those who built these gateways were long returned to dust, a human came who could rule both worlds, and Arthur was his name. He it was who created the thanes, who begged us to pick from the multitude of humanity a handful who could protect mankind from their own imaginations. Though Arthur, the Traitor of Annwn, the Great Betrayer, would try to destroy us, we, the Fay, have remained true. So, every year when the pull of Annwn is at its greatest, we summon the best of your kind. And here we are. Now it is your turn to begin your story.

  The song-speech ends. At first I don’t even register that Nimue is no longer talking because the power of that mu
sic is still stirring inside me. The song folds into my body like the memory of a bedtime story, familiar and rich and full of hidden darkness. Ramesh gives himself a little shake and the girl on my other side can’t stop blinking. We are all waking up.

  ‘The Tournament is different for everyone,’ Lord Allenby is saying. ‘It can be a rough ride, but get your bearings quickly, trust your instinct and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ Rachel whispers.

  ‘One more thing,’ Lord Allenby says. ‘You won’t be able to see us, but we’ll be able to see you. Something to bear in mind.’

  ‘PG-rated swearing only then,’ Ollie mutters, eliciting a flurry of titters.

  ‘That’s right, Mr King,’ Lord Allenby continues, ‘but you know now that nightmares can kill. You’re about to face your worst nightmare. Something to think about while you’re making your jokes.’

  That wipes out Ollie’s cocky smile.

  ‘Ready your weapons,’ Lord Allenby says.

  Hang on, did I miss something? Was there a pile of muskets I was supposed to pick from on the way here? Then I see everyone else producing random items and realise he means the necklace. I pull the broken pendant from my pocket, filled with doubt. If I’m about to face a life or death situation, how am I supposed to defend myself with this?

  I sneak a glance at Ollie. I bet his is a lot more useful than a necklace. He’s clutching a pair of painted wooden circles; my artwork, given as a Christmas present years ago. I’d been learning about Regency history, and had been obsessed with profile portraits. Ollie and Dad had fidgeted all through their sittings. Ollie’s holding the results now; his outline in one hand and Dad’s – messy beard picked out in excruciating detail – in the other. I can’t believe he’s chosen something that I’ve not only touched but actually made. No, I decide, it’s because it’s Dad and him on those portraits. It’s nothing to do with me.

  The Fay position themselves around a white altar at the centre of Stonehenge. Andraste smiles at me as she passes.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘Sure. For as long as I can remember,’ I reply, trying to achieve an acceptable level of smugness.

  ‘Let Gorlois’s’ girl go first,’ Merlin sneers. ‘The one not chosen.’

  ‘What does he mean?’ someone whispers.

  ‘He means my sister,’ Ollie smirks.

  ‘Fern?’ Lord Allenby asks.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  Merlin waits for me beside the altar. I remember Nimue’s words about sacrifices and wonder whether I’m about to be lashed to the stone like a goat ready to have its throat slit. Mortifyingly, I’m shaking, and it only gets worse when Lord Allenby leans towards me. ‘It took guts to talk to me the way you did yesterday, Fern. That bodes well, okay?’

  Then he steps back, and I am on my own with the creepy old man.

  ‘Weapon, girl?’ Merlin asks.

  I show him the pendant. I can’t help but glance at Ollie. His gaze is fixed on the necklace. Good. If I’m killed in this Tournament because of this stupid present from my stupid brother, I hope he dies of guilt.

  Merlin lifts me with surprising strength onto the altar. The ivory surface is covered in streaks of red. Well, that’s blood then, I think, feeling a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat.

  The Fay that now surround me stretch out their arms and close their eyes, as though they’re entering a trance. It’s very pagan. Suddenly, the air feels charged with static.

  Merlin grabs my left hand and holds his free one out to the air. The inspyre around us swirls into a long, hiltless blade. I struggle away from him but his grip is unshakeable.

  ‘Never heard of a blood oath, girl?’ Merlin pats my fist with the knife to open my hand.

  ‘No way,’ I tell him. It’s not that I’m averse to pain – let’s be honest, I’ve faced worse – I’m just not stupid enough to volunteer for it.

  Lord Allenby steps in. ‘If you don’t do this then you can’t take the Tournament.’

  Ah crap. I open my hand wide. Well, it’s only a dream at the end of the day. Despite what Lord Allenby said, how much can a dream cut really hurt?

  There’s a spark of sun on metal as Merlin brings the blade down.

  It turns out that it does actually hurt quite a lot. The knife’s so sharp that it swipes into my palm like cheesewire. I overcome the urge to clench my hand. I don’t want to show any weakness. I examine the gash instead. Underneath the blood, I spot something white and realise that it must be bone. Bile rises.

  ‘That’s it, girl,’ I hear Merlin’s voice distantly. ‘Let it flow.’

  My ears are thumping. The blood is mesmerising. I tip my palm this way and that, watching scarlet syrup pool at the edges of the wound. Then it overflows, weaving thickly down my hand, winding around my wrist. A hesitation, then the first drop falls onto the altar.

  At first, I think I’ve been struck deaf. I hadn’t noticed the background noise – the murmurings of the squires, birdsong, the breeze – until it had gone. Merlin has disappeared too, though. In fact, I am suddenly completely alone. It’s as Allenby said it would be: I can’t see anyone but, apparently, they can see me. I get an urge to pull a face and flap my arms wildly. Then I cough experimentally and realise that I’m not deaf; the sound has simply been sucked from this temporary arena. It reminds me of that feeling I get when snow falls in London, when a kind of peaceful oppression fills the air.

  The blood from my hand drips stickily. It doesn’t pool on the altar but spreads out. I should step off, I suppose, but I’m frightened. I don’t know what might happen if I do. Then the blood seeps underneath my shoes. An instant later, perfumed smoke begins to billow around my trainers. Images swirl through it. A seven-year-old Ollie giving me the Flake from his ice cream. Clemmie hugging me a little too fiercely on our first meeting. Jenny studying me from across the playground. It is her face, and Ollie’s, that come to the fore again and again. Jenny, Ollie, Jenny, Ollie, Jenny– and then she’s standing in front of me, hung in midair, eyes close to mine.

  ‘Hello, witch,’ she sneers.

  12

  I fall back off the altar. As my hands hit the ground, I am no longer in bright sunlight on a carpet of grass. I am back in Wanstead Flats and it’s nighttime. The old panic rises inside my throat. I know exactly what will happen next. The ropes will pull me back to a tree, and then the fire will start. Frankly I’m furious with myself for coming up with something so predictable. I’m even more furious that I’m still petrified. The memory of the flames is still raw, even a year on.

  The ropes arrive. They whip around my arms, round my waist, round my legs, more than there were when this really happened. It is really happening, I think. If you die in this world you die in the real world too. And this time there’s no Andraste to help me.

  I can only move my hands, and they are trembling too much to be useful. The pendant slips through my grip. I almost lose it, hooking the chain onto a finger at the last minute. It’s supposed to be my weapon. How the hell am I going to wield a necklace against a bloody fire?

  Right on cue, Jenny flicks the match at my feet. Leaves appear around me from thin air only to be consumed by the flames. The heat presses against my shoes, probing for weak spots. I won’t scream. I won’t. Dozens of people are watching me endure this. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing how frightened I am.

  Think, Fern. The only chance I have of surviving this is by working out how to use the necklace. The fire keeps tearing at my concentration. It’s working its way through my trainers and up my legs. Somewhere nearby, someone is groaning in pain. A low uhhhhhh. Then I realise that it’s me. I wind the chain around my fingers until the silver moon cuts into my palm. That prickle helps me to focus. I think of the blade that Merlin conjured, and wonder whether I could do the same. I picture a sharp edge and a sturdy hilt. Something seems to slide in the back of my mind. An ache, a twinge in my brain that slips from my head, across my shou
lder and down my arm. My fingers spasm, and once again I almost lose hold of the pendant. Sparks leap from skin to metal.

  The chain erupts into scalding heat, worse than the fire consuming my legs. It jerks inside my fingers, like a cricket trying to escape. It grows and grows until instead of the pendant there is something soft in my hands. A bag. Not quite the handy knife I’d been hoping for. But it’s too heavy to be empty.

  The flame is up to my hips now. I can’t feel my legs any more. Whatever’s in the bag chimes like crystal. I have to move carefully, because I can’t afford to let the bag slip. Balancing the fabric in my palm and struggling against the stifling smoke, I reach one finger inside. It feels like marbles. I edge one gently up the side of the bag.

  There’s a shout from beyond the smoke, and I lose concentration. One of the marbles slips out of the bag, out of my grasp, and drops to the ground.

  A deadening boom, like a huge bass drum, flattens all other sound. The smoke around me thickens, but the heat crush eases. As it clears, I see that the fire has gone out. The dissipating smoke smells like newly cut grass. Whatever dropped out of that bag must have extinguished the flames.

  Before I can celebrate, the scorching heat bursts in my hand again. Something else is forming there, solid and cool. A hilt. It has to be the knife I asked for, formed at the perfect moment. With an awkward flick of my wrist, I manage to cut through the ropes that bind me. A few more swipes and I am free. I step out of the night and into bold sunlight. Wanstead Flats has disappeared and I am standing once more in a grass-covered circle, the altar sitting innocently a few metres away.

  I’ve passed the test. Instead of relying on Andraste, I’ve rescued myself. No more damsel in distress. This new, improved Fern’s got a blade and a fire-repelling marble, and she’s not afraid to use them.