by Helen Slavin
Vanessa looked at the jagged and abandoned readouts and felt her own mixture of excitement and unease.
“You’re thinking,” Eleanor observed. “Share those thoughts.”
“I’m thinking perhaps, this time, this isn’t all one way. This isn’t just about me going there, it might be about others trying to come here.”
Eleanor paused in her own thoughts and adjusted them to this new theory.
“Okay. Is that a good thing?” Eleanor looked uncertain.
Vanessa shrugged.
“It was always a good thing…” she hesitated. “Now, I’m unsure.”
Eleanor nodded.
“This is a strain on you. I don’t want to end up destroying all the work we’ve done so far.” Eleanor was calm and reasoned, except for her eyes. They were a beautiful walnut brown and were, Vanessa saw, wild and bright with worry. “Perhaps we should call a halt for a week or so? You should rest.”
“There is no rest,” Vanessa confessed. “Every time I shut my eyes…” Her eyes dropped to the handover data, the spikes and etchings of activity. “There is no stopping,” Vanessa said. “This is a build-up of energy. This is a bigger connection than that simply generated when I’m here. This could be a linkage or a loop that we might be able to use.”
Eleanor relaxed a little.
“A lifeline. A rope thrown at us,” she nodded.
“What about the surges and outages? Did you get timings?”
The two women looked over all available data.
“This time…” Vanessa pointed to a range of spikes on the most recent session. “What coffee did Rufus have?” Vanessa asked.
“What?” Eleanor said.
“It was a mocha, one of the big ones with chocolate and cinnamon.”
Rufus spoke from the doorway. Vanessa and Eleanor turned. He was carrying a cardboard tray from the canteen, and the scent of cinnamon wafted over them. Each member of the project had learned the importance of scents in recreating the optimum sleep state. Cinnamon and ginger, chocolate, allspice, were good, washing powder and commercial perfumes too synthetic, interfering with Vanessa’s sensory landscape.
Eleanor rigged Vanessa to the various machines. It was engineering of their own devising, and Rufus had christened the main contraption “Mr Mesmer”. Through pressure points and low frequency sound, it helped to induce a sleep state. Since her first Arctic incident as a student, Vanessa had found sleep difficult. The various sedatives and soporifics were of little use and proved less so during her experimentations. The machines were a different approach, using the senses and inducing a hypnotic state. The central machine was also the beacon, ready to signal the way home should the unconscious Vanessa wander too far.
Never far enough. That was Vanessa’s thought. Over the years, always, something wrenched her back. Or perhaps, she now thought, it pushed her away.
Tonight. It was different at once. She closed her eyes and the simple darkness was filled with filigree shadows. She was deep in the trees, branches clustered and gripped at her. It felt like a cage, and her heart bolted a few beats. The icy rime on bark and branch held her breath in ghosts as she turned, this way, that. She was hyper aware of the creak of branches. Of ice. It was not a cage. She understood in an instant, the lacework light, the twigs and whips and limbs were a hiding place. Hiding her from what?
In the near distance a call, and the branches before her snapped open, revealing a path, glittering with frost. Vanessa did not think. Her feet carried her quickly into the dappled shadow that littered the floor.
She was broken up, disguised by the shadows along the track. Leaves, mouldy and frozen, muffled her footsteps as she sped onward. She looked ahead to where the forest ended at the lake’s white edge.
The ice creaked as she ran, the sound like hushed breath. A glance over her shoulder revealed the cohort of Riders, the horses snaffling, the metallic chinks and pings of bridle and bit echoed out across the crusted lake.
She was running as fast as her heart could carry her, the hooves in pursuit, a dissonant arrhythmia, threatening. Her lungs clutched at the bitter air, and, above, the aurora lit the sky a leafy acidic green. Inside her chest, the thunder vibrated, rumbled through her into the ice, the sheet of white trembling with its force. Vanessa felt her hair crackle with static as the thunder cracked once more, the horses unafraid, Riders on the storm. She could hardly breathe, the breath crystallising in her lungs, the breath from her lips making fragile, lucent formations that shattered before her.
The lightning tore at the sky, the aurora flaring against it. Vanessa felt her feet slide, uncertain. The lightning forked, and, as it reached down, she reached up towards it.
“Alive.” The word cracked through her with the glare of the Dark Lab lighting. An alarmed sound, a siren here, a warning there, the scent of heated metal, of sweat, of anxious faces crowding in.
Eleanor, ashen-faced once more, was shaking.
“You don’t understand. Professor Way…”
“I was technically dead.” Vanessa was matter of fact. “I understand.”
“For five minutes,” Rufus interjected. “You were dead.”
Eleanor could no longer speak. Her shaking hands wiped at her face.
“You don’t seem to understand,” she managed at last.
“Alright. I was properly, physically, totally dead for five minutes.” Inside, Vanessa felt illuminated, a consequence, she thought, of the lightning strike. Eleanor and Rufus exchanged a worried look, and Vanessa was aware she was not reacting rationally.
“I’ve decided that this is not the route we should take.” Eleanor’s voice was stony. Rufus remained silent. Vanessa thought of a white lake, of the ice kicking up beneath her running feet. She knew the direction, the route to take.
“I’m not sure, if this happened again,” Eleanor was struggling to hold it together, “whether we would be able to bring you back.” Her voice cracked. Rufus was still silent, observing Vanessa.
“It was a bit iffy,” Rufus confessed. “This time.”
Vanessa did not respond; she was looking at the array of printout, the lines jutting and jagging above the white paper.
“Vanessa?” Eleanor could see she was distracted. “Vanessa, I think we need to call a halt. A temporary halt.”
Vanessa reached out a finger, began to trace the line of the first encephalograph.
“Vanessa? A temporary halt? Yes?”
Vanessa Way took in a relaxed breath.
“This…” she traced onwards, “this is Far North.”
Eleanor watched for a moment, then gasped. A ragged, epic landscape written into their equipment. Not data. Skyline.
36
Spooked by a Paper Bag
Judith Killen was surly with her replies. She was not going to cooperate. She was furious with her mother for calling the police. PC Williamson was staring at the blank page of his notebook, trying to order his thoughts.
She looked bad. She knew that much from the mirror; the terrible cut above her eye had required a butterfly stitch, and her face was bruised. She could not hide that, though her heavy Caracole Stables sweatshirt was covering over the heavy bruising on her right arm. It felt painful to move it, but the shoulder was not dislocated, they’d said as much at the A&E.
“You’re rather bruised,” PC Williamson downplayed her injuries. “How did that happen?” he asked.
“Fell off Whistledown yesterday afternoon. He got spooked by a paper bag at High Foxes.” It was a genius of a lie, utterly plausible. She felt better.
“This is bollocks,” her mother cut in. “I’m telling you, she didn’t come home. She was three hours late, and we were out on the lookout for her gone nine.” Mrs Killen was clearly distraught. “Found her up at that back road going to Rook Ridge.”
“I got off the bus at the wrong stop,” Judith insisted. “I was walking home. End of.” She glared at her mother.
“This is that bloody Boyle lad, this is.” Her mother was hy
sterical. “He’s the one as did it, bloody perv.” A little bit of spit landed on the table between them.
“It was not Logan Boyle.” Judith shot her mother a look and then turned to PC Williamson. “This is nothing at all to with ‘the Boyle lad’. I never saw him. He’s got nothing to do with it.”
PC Williamson nodded.
“Can you describe the person who attacked you?” At the question, Judith realised she’d been caught out in her defence of Logan Boyle. Judith shook her head.
“Nothing?” PC Williamson was kind and careful. “Tall? Short? Thin? Fat?”
Judith shook her head.
“No. Nothing. I’m sorry. But I am telling you straight, it wasn’t Logan Boyle.” She banged her hand on the table for emphasis.
PC Williamson took his cue and, as he was leaving, handed Judith a card.
“When you’re ready to talk about this, just ring me.” He gave her a sympathetic smile, and Judith relented. After all, she was angry at her mother for bothering him.
“Well? What was that?” Her mother was like a yapping chihuahua after she closed the door behind him. “What were you playing at? You proper showed me up, that’s all I can say.”
Judith grabbed her jacket.
“No, Mum. You showed me up,” she barked. “I told you. I said straight. I didn’t want police. It was nothing to do with the police. I told you.”
She left to a chorus of complaints, her mother’s indignant screeches following her to the very end of the garden path and only being drowned out by the rusty squeak of the gate.
It was a long walk to Old Castle Road, Judith’s breath catching in her chest, tightened with anger. Why couldn’t her mum just let her deal with it? The sooner she could move out of there the better. She was going to harass Marlow Whitburn next week for a raise. The snooty cow knew she was worth it, and she was going to get first dibs on that flat she was doing up over the stables, too.
Judith could hear her anger in every step, every grunt of physical effort until she turned in at the tarmac road that was swallowed, almost immediately, by the crowding trees.
Today, they did not scare her. Havoc Wood scared most people because they were generally afraid of anything that wasn’t brick-built or offering free wi-fi. Aunt Peg had taught her better. Aunt Peg knew what was what. How many times had she been down this path with Aunt Peg and her trolley shopper, filled with bread from the wood oven? The new bakery was a bit shit since her aunt died; but then, if Judith thought about it, most things were a bit shit since then.
The ground beneath her feet shifted to gravel and then the proper raggedy dirt track, at the foot of which sat Cob Cottage.
You could go to the back door. Aunt Peg always had done. But Hettie Way wasn’t here anymore, and Judith knew her manners. She’d been a couple of classes above Emily Way at secondary school, so she didn’t know her. She was a stranger.
Judith took a deep breath as she rounded the house and saw the Great Grey cropping the grass. It was, by far and away, the most magnificent, the most beautiful horse she had ever seen. The sight shook her. She felt her heart fluttering, and, at the sight, it was hard to tamp down all the emotion she felt. The Horse lifted his head, gave her the nod, and, at his signal, she stepped onto the porch. It was clear that no one was home, but she knocked anyway. The horse watched her. She could see his reflection in the round window.
She knocked once again, more quietly, and then turned away. She was properly shaking now. The pain in her arm was a low-level thrum. The horse whiffled down his nose, and she approached. He stepped between the tree branches, ranged around it like a half-finished fence, and muzzled at her hair.
The tears rose. She wiped at her face, the salt of the tears stinging at the cuts and soreness. The horse’s huge and stately head nodded at her once again, stepping forward to loom over her, so that her face was set against the strong-scented coat. Was there a better scent in the universe? Judith Killen doubted it. Her hand reached up to fasten itself in the mane, to slide down and pat the lustrous grey. The tears slid with it. She stood, the horse’s neck arched around her as she sobbed her heart out.
Judith sat on the porch for a good hour. She didn’t mind the wait. She felt cooler and lighter. The door opened behind her.
“Oh, can I help?” asked Charlie Way.
37
Proper Hands Inside My Head
The Great Grey had watched them all head off into the woods. Judith was giving instruction but not leading: that role fell to Charlie.
They paused at a clearing. There seemed several ways forward and the Witch Ways were patient with Judith.
“This way.” She indicated a twisting path that led deeper into Havoc and was not well trodden, even by Hettie Way.
“Charlie?” Anna checked in with her sister. Charlie nodded and dropped onto her haunches.
“Yep. Trail’s burned, same as before.” She reached her hand deep into the leaf litter and it came up smirched with ash. She sniffed. “Definite.” She stepped forward. “Put me right if I seem to be going wrong, Judith,” she said. Judith nodded. She had, Anna noticed, become much quieter the farther they ventured into the wood. They walked for some minutes, Emz gazing around the wood as if she’d never seen it before.
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“I’m not sure,” Emz said. “I think I dreamt I was here.” She looked disturbed by the thought.
“He carried you this far?” Anna asked Judith. She was thinking of the distance between the bus stop on Castle Hill Road and was working out the physical strength of such a feat.
“I wouldn’t go with him. I tried to run but… It was weird… He kept cutting me off. Every time I turned, he was there.” Judith shivered. “He only put me down when the horse appeared.” Judith looked around and stepped forward towards a scratched-over bit of ground.
“Wait.” Charlie, who had been scouting ahead, came tripping back. “What horse?”
“The horse.” Judith looked at them. “The one by the cottage just now. The grey.”
The Way sisters exchanged a look.
“Tell us what happened with you and him and the horse,” Charlie asked.
“The horse came up from the lake, and the man threw me down here.” Her voice was cracking.
“But…?” Charlie began. Anna shook her head. Judith took in a ragged breath.
“He wanted the horse. He kept… he wanted… I don’t know what he did.”
Emz handed her an almost-clean tissue to wipe her eyes.
“Tell us anything. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense,” Anna said.
“Nothing in Havoc makes sense.” Charlie rolled her eyes.
“I was… it was like he was rummaging through my memories, like proper hands inside my head. I couldn’t keep track, like he was jumbling stuff about, looking for something, and he couldn’t find it.” She was feeling stronger, angrier. “Like being drunk. Or like the time I fell off Horatio and dislocated my shoulder, and they gave me gas and air. Disconnected. Like that.”
Around the scrape, the Witch Ways had, in the manner of breathing, assumed their triangle. As they did so, the trail lit up for them. The embered path the assailant had tried to scorch out showed up visible, and the incident with it, a blurred maelstrom of movement like a video edited at hyperspeed. The Ways watched.
“Any ideas?” Charlie was asking herself as much as her sisters. The trapped memory of the incident flittered on, the assailant, angry, throwing Judith down as the horse strode towards him.
“What next, Judith?”
“The horse kicked him. Then it stooped so I could get on its back and took me up to Hackett, so I could get out of the wood.”
“That is the fastest way out from here,” Charlie confirmed.
“The horse let you ride him?” Emz asked. Judith nodded. The Way sisters made a note of this new information.
“You alright going to Hackett? Only we’d like to trace where the horse went after he dropped you off.”
The trail was clear. Both the embered path the assailant had tried to obliterate and the one the horse had trodden, a frosted black shadow track that glittered. It was, Charlie thought, a thing of beauty. It had nothing to hide, and from Hackett they were unsurprised to find the horse heading back towards Pike Lake and the cottage.
As they emerged from the trees, the Horse looked up from its makeshift, and clearly useless, magical corral and once again nodded, with what could only be described as wisdom.
“He saved me,” Judith whispered. “He saved me.”
As they moved down to the shore, the Horse strode over to meet them. He snorted, pushing past Emz to sniff and nuzzle at Judith’s face and hair, and, as it did so, Anna had a blast of thought.
“You’re the horse Whisperer,” she said. The horse snorted at her. Judith shook her head.
“I’m good with horses.”
“Grandma Hettie called you a Whisperer,” Anna smiled. “Trust me.”
“I came here a lot when I was little. With my Aunt Peg.” There was a moment of silence. “She was old school. She knew about Havoc. Which is why, when it happened…” She faltered.
“Come inside.” Anna gestured to the cottage. “Have a cup of something and a bite to eat.”
As they wandered in through the door, Emz paused on the porch to look down at the horse. Something was tugging hard at the edge of her mind, but she could not pull it free.
38
A Borrower Be
Borrower was tired in his very bones. There was almost nowhere that was open to him. The Gamekeepers had staved him out of Frog Pond and, now, the deserted cottage too. He had scorched over his tracks, but the Map had found them and put her hand in them, so those paths were dead ground.
It was slow torture, the like of which Hettie Way would not have countenanced. Except, as he held himself steady in the tall elm, he recalled Hettie’s countenance very clearly and the wrath it visited upon him for venturing to fetch himself a wife under her watch.
