by Tanith Lee
It was as sudden as the throwing of a switch, as shocking as an electrocution. The image will stay with me forever.
They are in an embrace, Ione and Leah, when I open the door to the front room and see them. This should not be surprising, for my daughter is a loving, physically affectionate child, and despite her usual reserve, Ione was never reluctant to hug and kiss her grandchild. But I see immediately there is something wrong with this clinch. Their postures are awkward, their connection unnaturally rigid and strained. Ione is sitting in a chair and Leah bending over her, and I have the impression that the old woman has grabbed hold and pulled her down against her will. I see the iron grip of pale, mottled, claw-like hands on tender flesh, and in the arch of the girl’s back and the tension in her neck is a desperate yearning to be free.
The moment stretches on and on – too long – surely no more than a second has passed since I opened the door, but in memory the time slows, allowing my senses to become saturated with detail: the curious, static silence of the room, the intensity of their fearful stillness, a smell like burning hair. Then the old woman’s hands drop away, limp, and the girl springs up and back, spins around, and, as she rushes past towards the door, her eyes so fixed and blank that I know I am invisible to her, I am shocked by the unfamiliar expression on her face. But she’s gone before I can make sense of it, leaving me to stare at the old woman in the chair.
At first I don’t recognize her. This cannot be the same woman who sat beside me at the kitchen table eating porridge only a few hours earlier, and then insisted on doing the washing-up. And yet she wears the same clothes: plain white blouse beneath a lavender cashmere cardigan, the brooch, a sprig of heather in amethyst and silver, pinned on her left breast. Every detail is familiar, yet they don’t add up. Her face is so empty, the eyes staring, mouth sagging – then I think: she’s had a stroke.
I speak to her gently, touch her shoulders, rub her cold hands, and eventually consciousness returns and a living intelligence shines out of the clear blue eyes, remarkably still young despite the wrinkled skin around them. She sees me, and, with recognition, the fear in her expression recedes, overtaken by hope, the foolish, nearly instinctive, belief that I’m the one person in the world who will manage to make everything be all right again. Her fingers seize hold of mine and she hangs on for dear life, whispering, “Mum! Oh, Mummy, what’s happened to me?”
No one who had not seen what I saw could believe it; even Paul would think I’m mad if I tried to explain.
He is hurt by how Leah has changed, especially by her volte face concerning her grandmother. She won’t go near the old woman, refuses to kiss or hug her, and has begun a campaign to have us put her into a care-home – the farther away, the better. Yet he sees nothing unnatural in this; he considers it a normal, if unpleasant, sign that our daughter is growing up. He speaks as if she were a teen in the grip of hormonal changes, not a ten-year-old girl transformed in one shocking moment from a loving, happy child into a cruel and chilly person who only looks like the girl we love.
He doesn’t understand my new devotion to his mother, although the undeniable affection that flows between us naturally makes him happy. She is not easy to take care of; sometimes she acts like a small child, screaming and flailing about, then trying to escape us with the strength and cleverness of a desperate adult – our struggles are frequent, hard and painful. But there are many good times, when she knows me, and is sweet and loving. I am the only one who can console her when she cries; I am the only one who shares her sorrow, understanding what she has lost. I have taken compassionate leave from work in order to be with her for as long as fate allows. If I can’t save her, I won’t easily let her go.
Home
Emma Coleman
I was standing on a bridge looking out across open fields and blue sky. I was at peace. The stream below was busy; the water tumbling and hurrying over rocks; the insects buzzed and two tiny birds chased each other back and forth over the stream.
“Pretty as a picture, in’t it?”
The man appeared out of nowhere. He was at my side, pressing softly against my arm, before I was even aware of another person nearby.
“I could look at this view all day,” he said, sighing.
I edged away as discreetly as I could but the man sidled up to me; his bony shoulder nestling by my own.
“The only problem is finding someone to share this with, someone who appreciates what I mean.” He sighed again.
I tried to forget his presence and concentrated on the tranquillity before me; the sunlight soaking into the fields and the vivid green was inviting.
“Yep, I could happily have this view forever. That grass looks so vibrant doesn’t it? Fair makes me want to roll about on it, naked.”
I slid across once more. The man did the same. Silence followed but my concentration had gone; I couldn’t enjoy the scenery anymore and so began to inspect the stranger instead.
He was younger than I expected; his skin was smooth and his hair was a thick, mahogany mane. He wore a dark brown coat and a skinny tweed scarf hung from his neck. He didn’t look at me while I blatantly stared at him; he simply smiled at what was in front of us. I was beginning to wonder if the man was blind; his mind’s eye painting the beauty he described, when I noticed something poking out of his pocket. It was a bag of mint humbugs.
“Would you care for a sweet?” The man asked, fumbling for the bag, “They’re crunchy.”
He offered the humbugs and I put my hand in; I felt about in the packet, enjoying the texture and sound, then pulled out one shining sweet. I was puzzled.
“This is no mint humbug.” I whispered.
“I never said they were mint humbugs.” The man said, popping one of the sweets into his mouth. He sucked on it hard; swallowing and grunting quietly.
I peered at the thing held between my thumb and finger; it was struggling to get free, the little thorny legs wriggling about and the antennae straining.
The stranger started crunching loudly and I dropped the June bug out of fright. It fell like a pebble and clattered on the wooden planks. The man stamped on it, grinding the beetle into the bridge.
“Past its best that one, try another.” He shook the bag; he still hadn’t looked my way and he was smiling broadly.
I looked back to the view of fields and sky; clouds were gathering to cast dark blue shadows on the bright green pastures. I ignored the stranger’s attempts to entice me with his bag of hideous treats; he shoved it towards my face and scrunched the bag as if the action would make me take another one.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and launched the packet into the stream. I watched it sweep back towards me on the current, bobbing along, and a couple of June bugs clambered out. I was saddened to see the bag get overwhelmed with water and sink slowly down.
“What did you do that for?” I asked quietly.
“They weren’t as good as I remember them and I don’t handle disappointment very well.”
I looked to the fields again; the clouds had gathered together menacingly, dark grey and blue with tinges of violet, and I felt a cool breeze. My teeth chattered.
“Oh dear, that doesn’t look too promising, we might be getting a spot of rain. Shouldn’t be out here when a storm’s raging, we’d better get going.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me along the bridge. His grip was rigid and cold – as if his hand had been left in a refrigerator all night – and I tried to wrench myself free but the stranger simply tugged sharply.
“Don’t be silly, I told you, you don’t want to be out here when there’s a storm. Too dangerous.” And he led me on.
My arm went limp and I lost all sense of direction; the cold had suddenly given way to humidity; the thick air clouded my head and I felt dizzy but the stranger dragged me on. I was conscious of the hedges; tall, dark and spiky, and I was caught on the cheek, the deep scratch causing me to cry out.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Home,�
� was the simple reply.
“Home?”
“Can’t be out here, not now. Home’s the best place to be.” He tugged sharply again and I tripped on the uneven earth; the ground was hard and embedded with large stones; the sickness in my head was making me faint.
“Come on, no lagging behind.” The strange man spoke softly, his thumb stroking my hand.
“But I don’t want to go home.”
“I’ve told you, home’s the best place for you now.”
And then the rain started. The brooding sky had completely smothered us and huge, cold drops fell tentatively. Seconds later the heavens opened and the rain fell harder and with urgency; my head was dripping wet and the sickness vanished.
“I said I don’t want to go home!” I shouted at the stranger’s back. We were under trees now; the flapping leaves were sodden and struck me in the face. My eyes scrunched up and I struggled to see the blackened overcoat ahead or, for that matter, the cold hand that was wrapped around my own. I was alone; the stranger had disappeared but somehow I was still being pulled along and couldn’t free myself. The bones in my wrist hurt; I could feel his fingers almost gouging into them and I struggled to twist my arm loose.
“I’m taking you home,” the wind seemed to say through the branches.
“Let me go! You’re hurting! Let go!” I screamed, wrenching my arm this way and that. I gave up. I was scared; the fear was bewitching and my wrist throbbed.
The trees began to thin out and the gloom of early evening rain clouds was metallic. But I still hadn’t heard a rumble of thunder or seen a lightning strike.
“You’re a liar! There is no storm! Liar!” I screamed out again, but I was pulled onwards.
Once out of the trees I saw, thirty feet ahead, a fence with a stile. Sitting on the stile was a beautiful girl; her legs were long and naked, her hair was long and black and she was staring up at the sky, letting the rain pour down upon her. She was dressed in a cotton smock and red shorts, her feet were bare and she held a bottle of wine. As I approached, I watched her drink; a dribble of red juice dripped onto her white top.
I forgot my agony and didn’t even notice the invisible grip; I felt as if I were floating, drawn to the girl on a hovering carpet.
She didn’t look at me when I reached her. I gazed at her face, still offered up to the bursting clouds, and saw such beauty – creamy skin, cornflower-blue eyes and long dark lashes that twinkled with rain drops.
“She’s magical,” I whispered.
The girl lowered her face and looked at me dreamily.
“Hello,” she said, with a voice like a summer breeze.
“Hello,” I said, mesmerised by the mouth that smiled shyly.
She returned her gaze upwards; taking another drink of wine. The rain was easing; the clouds lighter and a creeping coolness enveloped me.
“Oh no,” the girl said sadly, “it’s stopping.”
“I’m happy about that,” I said, “I don’t like rain.”
The girl’s face was melancholy.
“I’m sorry, I have to go.”
She got up; her muddy feet slapped onto the wooden stile and she turned, fixing me with frightened eyes.
“You’re going home too, aren’t you?”
“Yes but I don’t want to,” I stammered.
“Neither do I.” She spoke quietly, looking away.
Suddenly she exclaimed, “Let’s run away. Let’s walk and walk and never go home.”
My heart nearly burst with excitement and I nodded.
“Come on then, give me your hand.”
I held her delicate fingers as she climbed over the stile; I followed in a daze of ecstasy. On the other side, she slipped her hand round mine and we hurried across the field. It seemed to go on forever as though it were the only thing on Earth. But I didn’t mind; I was with the loveliest girl I’d ever seen and would happily have run with her for all time.
“We’re going the wrong way, we must go back,” she said, slowing down and pulling me to a standstill.
“No,” I said, “we can’t go back.”
“We have to.”
“No, we’re not! We’re not!”
I was screaming at the girl; the most beautiful girl ever born, and I panicked. I watched her eyes darken like the clouds – cornflower to steel – and she gripped my hand hard.
“Yes we are.” Her mouth tightened like her fingers; what I once thought were delicate had become thin and pointy, the tips arrowheads piercing my flesh. My heart pumped quickly but my mind was motionless and, before I knew what had happened, I was back at the fence with the stile.
“He’ll find me; we shouldn’t be here,” I said, fearfully.
I looked at the hand clutching my own; blood trickled from the wounds.
“Let go of me, you’re hurting.”
“Have some of this and the pain will go away.”
The girl offered me the bottle and I took hold of it; I looked at her but the face was hidden; her hair was swirling like tendrils under water and obscured the beauty I wanted to see.
A gloom was creeping over me and I felt darkness inside. I stared at the wine, the pain was getting stronger, so I put the bottle to my mouth and drank and drank until the liquid spilled over my lips. Warmth seeped from my throat to my belly and I was delirious.
“How are you feeling?” I heard the girl say, as if in a dream.
“I want more.”
“There is no more; that was the blood of Jesus and you’ve drunk him dry!” She laughed; a high-pitched jangling of bells and I saw her throw her head back in slow motion, the tendrils of hair snaking about her face hypnotically.
“That’s not true,” I said, trying to fend off the sickness that jabbed at my stomach.
The girl’s hair wrapped around my head and pulled me in. Through hot eyes I saw her beautiful face; tears like claret slid down her cheeks and she said sickly, “Maybe it wasn’t Jesus’ blood.”
I dropped the bottle to the ground and clutched my head.
“Oh, are you tired?” Her voice was distant and she’d let go of my hand. “Home’s the best place for you now, time to go, it’s time to go home.”
Something flapped against my knuckles and I peered through my fingers. It was the tweed scarf, dangling from the young man’s neck and blowing softly in the wind. He leaned in close.
“Ready?”
I was shaking uncontrollably; I closed my eyes tight, begging silently for the man to vanish. The wind blew harder and the scent of damp earth was sweet to me.
‘Go away! Go away! Go away!’ I said over and over again in my mind. ‘Go away!’
The wind died and there was complete quiet; I dared not open my eyes.
‘Has he gone?’ Has it worked?’
When I gained courage to look, I saw night. The dark had descended in seconds and I was all alone. My breath came in bursts; my heart hurt with terror of everything. Where was I to go? I didn’t know where to turn for safety but running was all I could think of doing; just run and get away from this place. I started to lope across the inky grass as quickly as I could.
The small wood I’d been dragged through was barely visible but the black of the dense trees was my focal point and I ran towards that. I stumbled and fell. I ran on again, my legs shaking. I tripped on a mound of earth and sprawled on the cold grass; I whimpered pathetically as I picked myself up once more. My eyes strained to see the wood but I could only see darkness; the ground, the sky and everything between had merged into one shade.
“Where am I?!” I screamed. My voice seemed stunted and to me sounded like a whisper. I tried to run again but couldn’t; tears seeped down my face and I wanted to collapse; my body ravaged and unable to stay upright. I crashed to the ground.
In an instant, I woke from my unconsciousness. There was a huge full moon lighting up the countryside. I could see the boundaries and the sky and the small wood. And someone, a man perhaps, standing in the middle of the field. He was stock-still; like
a scarecrow. I blinked and looked again; the scarecrow was moving. I clambered to my feet, preparing to flee, when a voice said, “He’ll get you.”
Pressing against my thigh was a big fox; he was warm and musky.
“Who is he? What does he want?”
“You. Quick, run!”
The fox bristled and made a dart for the wood; I grabbed hold of his brush and was pulled along, bent down and unstable. The fox was strong and I held on for dear life; he made me feel protected.
“Not far now!” The fox panted.
The wood was bearing down on us. My hand was damp with sweat and the brush was slipping from my grasp. If I tried to get a better grip, I’d have to let go and the fox was too quick; I’d lose him and I didn’t want to.
“Nearly there.” He barked, but his tail slithered from my hand. I saw him sprint low, onwards, and I couldn’t keep up. My heart wanted to burst; the pain stabbed and I stopped running.
I was at the edge of the trees, the black trunks like guards, and I didn’t know what to do.
Something made me turn around; a prickling on my neck and, to my horror, I saw the scarecrow, stock-still, not far behind me.
Indeed he was a scarecrow, sprouting with straw and covered in sackcloth. He had no face except for a slash in the cloth; straw poked out like teeth and I thought I saw him smile.
“Between the devil and the deep, dark trees,” the scarecrow whispered.
He stepped forward, his limbs jerking as though an electric current had passed through him, and his teeth lengthened.
“Come here.” He spoke soothingly.
He stretched out both arms spasmodically and took another step.
“Keep away!” I shouted, backing up to the trees.
“But I like you; I want you to know how much I like you.”
He jerked forward again.
“I don’t want to know! Leave me alone!”
He stretched the slash wider and let his arms fall to his side.
