Wychetts

by William Holley

7 Voices in the Garden

  Sleeping in the garden wasn’t actually half as dumb as it sounded. That’s where Bryony’s bed was, after all; along with the rest of the furniture.

  Edwin was sleeping upstairs with Jane. Dad had hunkered down in the study (or dining room, or whatever it was going to be), so there was nowhere else for her to go in any case.

  It was a chilly night, but Bryony had her coat on over her night clothes, plus a woolly hat and mittens, two scarves, and three pairs of socks, so she didn’t feel too cold. She snuggled down in her sleeping bag and curled into a ball, listening to the hiss of the wind and the repetitive chirping of insects.

  She had almost nodded off when something woke her with a start.

  Crraaaa-aaawwwwkkkkk!

  Bryony forced her head up out of her nylon cocoon and glimpsed a ragged, bird-shaped silhouette flitting across the sky. There was a rustling sound, and then she heard voices.

  “Has it happened?” asked the first, deep and throaty. “Is it them?”

  The second voice was female, soft and purring. “It is as foretold. The Full Moon of Magister is in adjunction with the Seventh Sign of the House of Mordoran. The unsuspecting children have come, and awoken the power.”

  Bryony craned her neck, but saw only murky shadows.

  “So what is to be done?” asked another voice, this one hoarse and croaky. “Shall we make our move now, whilst they sleep?”

  “We need not be hasty,” came the purred reply. “They are fools, and do not understand the nature of the power they possess. We shall proceed as planned, and make our move tomorrow.”

  There was rustling, and Bryony saw a pale shape slinking off through the undergrowth. She wondered if it might be that horrid cat that scratched her. But cats didn’t talk. So who had been out here, whispering in the bushes?

  Of course, it might all be a dream. Perhaps the whole day had been one big nightmare. Perhaps she was really asleep, lying in her bed in Mossy Glade Close. Perhaps Mum had never left, and Dad hadn’t married Jane. Perhaps Mum would walk into her room and wake her up any second, and everything would be back the way it was…

  “Mum?” Bryony opened her eyes and smiled at the face that hovered over her.

  “Good morning,” said Jane. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

  Bryony’s smile twisted into a grimace. “You? What are you doing in my room? Where’s Mum?”

  “Your mother’s in America. And you’re not in your room, remember?”

  Bryony sat up and looked around. For a moment she thought she must still be dreaming, but then everything came flooding back.

  Jane was right. Bryony wasn’t in her room; she was in a garden. It was morning, and the bright sun shone on the pointy, hole riddled roof of a dilapidated old cottage.

  “Oh no.” Bryony groaned, and dragged a hand across her face. “It’s real.”

  Bill emerged from the cottage, waving at Bryony as he negotiated his way through a maze of abandoned furniture.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Jane, catching her husband’s arm before he slipped past.

  “Got to get renovations started,” explained Bill. “So I’m off to town to buy some materials.” He waved a piece of paper in front of Jane’s face. “I’ve made a list. I need six sheets of plywood, a saw, a hammer, two boxes of nails, and sticky tape.”

  “What do you need the sticky tape for?” asked Jane.

  “Purely precautionary,” said Bill. “It’s just that nailing stuff isn’t my strong point.”

  “But do you have to go now, darling?”

  “No time to lose. Sooner I start work, the better.”

  “But what about breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry, thanks.”

  Jane looked crestfallen. “But as it’s our first morning here, I thought it would be nice if we ate together. As a family.”

  “We’re not a family,” cut in Bryony. “And we never will be.”

  “But I’ve prepared everything,” said Jane. “I’ve laid the table. Well, the floor, at any rate.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie-pops.” Bill wriggled free of Jane’s grasp and hurried off down the garden. “I shouldn’t be too long. Oh, and by the way, there’s still no sign of Edwin. You might like to check on him. Bye!”

  Jane turned pale, and scampered back into the cottage. Bryony flopped back on the bed and breathed a deep sigh. Life wasn’t fair. Why should she have to be stuck in this hovel with smiley Jane and her horrible son? Why couldn’t she have gone to America with Mum?

  She had asked. She had pleaded. Mum hadn’t said ‘no’, exactly. Just that she was too busy, and that when things settled down in a couple of months, there might be a chance for Bryony to join her.

  But that had been three and a half years ago (three years, six months and thirteen days, Bryony corrected herself). Surely things must have settled down by now?

  A creaky noise interrupted her sad reflections, and Bryony looked up to see that dead tree looming over her. She examined it for a while, once again struck by the twisted trunk’s eerie similarity to an old man’s face.

  Then Bryony realised something.

  The tree shouldn’t have been there. It had been down the other end of the garden when she’d seen it yesterday.

  Bryony sat up and peered down the garden. Dad had cut a lot of the weeds back to accommodate the furniture, so she could see right down to the lane; but there was no other tree in sight.

  She turned back and studied the tree more closely. There was no doubt it was the same one. There couldn’t be two trees that ugly.

  But how had it got here? Trees didn’t move.

  Guessing her memory must be playing tricks on her, Bryony slipped from the bed and walked into the cottage, removing her hat, scarf and coat as she went. She traipsed down the hallway (holding her nose to block out the mushroom smell) and headed into the dining room where plates, cups and saucers had been neatly laid out on the floor.

  Bryony helped herself to some cereal (not her favourite brand, but some horrible healthy muesli-muck Jane had chosen), but as there was no fridge the milk was lukewarm, so she ended up leaving most of it.

  Jane had made a pot of tea, and Bryony poured herself a cup as she listened to muffled voices from upstairs. She could hear Jane talking, and Edwin whining in response. Then she heard the stairs creaking, and moments later Jane came into the dining room. She was alone.

  “What’s up with dimwit?” asked Bryony, taking a sip of tea.

  She instantly regretted it. That’s taking a sip, not calling Jane’s son a dimwit.

  “This is rank,” she gurgled, spitting what she hadn’t swallowed back into the cup. “Tastes like gnat’s wee. My mum’s tea was much nicer than this.”

  If Jane was offended, she didn’t show it. “It’s herbal tea. Edwin likes it, and so does your father.”

  “No he doesn’t,” countered Bryony. “You don’t know what he likes. You hardly know him at all.”

  Jane’s jaw clenched. “As you asked about Edwin, you might like to know that he isn’t feeling very well.”

  Bryony laughed. “Aw, diddums.”

  An awkward silence followed. Then, just as Bryony was about to make good her escape, Jane spoke again. “Here, I have a present for you.”

  “A present?” Bryony tried hard to sound uninterested. “But it’s not my birthday.”

  Jane’s smile returned. “It isn’t a birthday present. It’s just a little something to celebrate us moving in together.”

  Bryony didn’t think that was anything to celebrate, but wasn’t one to turn down a present, whatever the reason. “So where is it?”

  Jane’s smile broadened as she produced a plastic bag from behind her back. “I haven’t finished it yet, mind. I just want to know what you think before I get too far.”

  Bryony’s hopes crashed as she saw the hideous knitted monstrosity that Jane pulled out of the bag.

  “What’s that?” she gasped, unable to hide her re
vulsion.

  “A cardigan,” said Jane, proudly holding the garment aloft. “Do you like it?”

  There was another long, drawn out silence before Bryony voiced her opinion.

  “It’s orange,” she murmured, trying hard to keep her muesli down.

  Jane nodded, seemingly oblivious to her stepdaughter’s disgust. “I’m thinking of adding some flowers.”

  “Flowers?” Bryony repeated the word in a husky whisper. She never, ever, wore anything with flowers on it.

  “So what do you think?” asked Jane, caressing her woolly creation. “If it’s not your style, just say…”

  “Style?” Bryony spluttered the word. “What do you know about style? You dress like a dummy in a charity shop window. My Mum wouldn’t be seen dead in rags like that.”

  Jane’s smile flickered. “I’ll change the colour if you want. Would you prefer turquoise?”

  “Turquoise?” Bryony’s entire faced creased with disdain. “Who wears anything turquoise?”

  “I’m sorry.” Jane stuffed the cardigan back into the bag. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  “I wouldn’t bother,” snarled Bryony. “We’ll never be friends.”

  Jane chewed her bottom lip, then smiled again. “Do you have any plans for today?”

  Bryony didn’t have any plans, but she had a horrible feeling Jane did.

  “I’m busy. Got a letter to finish. To my mum. My real mum.”

  “I see.” Jane had somehow managed to manoeuvre herself between Bryony and the door. “But it won’t take all day to write a letter, will it?”

  “So?” Here it comes, thought Bryony.

  Jane cleared her throat. “I wondered if you might like to help me this morning? There are lots of jobs that need doing around the house. I thought if we worked together it might help us bond. Get to know each other better. How does that sound?”

  Marginally worse than rabies, as far as Bryony was concerned. But before she could think of an excuse, Jane had handed her a dustpan and brush.

  “It’s going to be fun. I thought we could start with the bathroom.”