Borrowed Moonlight

by Helen Slavin

Charlie shook her head, and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “So. Hyped up on Poacher, eh?” Charlie swerved their discussion sideways.

  “Aren’t you?” Emz asked. Charlie shook her head.

  “No. I’m still wondering about the Horse.”

  They looked out of the window. Charlie had put out a string of hay earlier, donated by Carrie. The Great Grey was disinterested in the offered feast, head raised as if listening, looking out across Pike Lake.

  “Now that the Borrower situation is solved, we can focus,” Charlie said.

  “Find the Rider,” Emz finished the plan. Anna felt an odd shiver, recalled the Flickerbook of images she’d seen from the Horse, mixed with something else, something nearby, a reminder in her head. What was that?

  She was restless, cleared away her dishes, the sound of cutlery and crockery jarring instead of comforting. Charlie and Emz followed suit.

  “What time do you finish?” Charlie asked.

  “Not late,” Anna said. “We’re closed this evening. Private function and caterers.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Emz, need a lift again? I’m going your way.” And Emz agreed, yes, because it was understood that her sister needed the company.

  Anna watched them drive away. As she did, she focused on the nagging feeling, like a whispering inside herself, like someone trying to catch her attention. It was odd, but also not unfamiliar, and so she trusted it.

  She looked out at the Great Grey. He was still watchful, intent, showing no sign of being interested in either the hay or the residents of Cob Cottage.

  She pulled on her jacket. As she did so, the whispering intensified. It was a second’s thought before she unzipped the inside pocket and took out the Paper Prophets.

  They felt warm in her hand and the whispering stopped. She slid off the elastic band, and the cards felt jumpy, as if, should she loosen her grip, they would fly from her hands. She turned to the table and, after a single shuffle, put three cards face down.

  The first was the Black Blank. The paper framing the dense emptiness, except that, somewhere in her head, Anna felt starlight. It was so intense a sensation she had to look up, check the roof was still on, that it was still daylight.

  She turned the next card. No. That couldn’t be right. The Black Blank? With urgency she turned the third. The Black Blank. Not right. The room grew colder. Had Charlie and Emz left the door open?

  Anna felt the tug of the other cards in her hand. She turned the next. And the next. Slapping them down in any order on the table. Each one. The Black Blank. Fear cast its cold shadow. Ha. It did not matter how many times they chastised Borrower, how many Poachers they caught, how many Warriors they Bone Rested, or Mrs Fyfes they thwarted, there was always, always, more.

  Fear. She knew where she was with fear. Her heart raced as she picked up the cards and shuffled them once again. She recalled the riffle shuffle Mrs Massey had done and thought that might take practice. Holding her breath, she dealt the cards onto the table, face up, in two rows: one of seven, one of six.

  They were all Black Blanks, but, in a breath, they began to alter. The sense of starlight filled Anna, and, as she watched, it filled the blackness of the top row of seven cards. A night sky, starlit and no longer black; rather, it shimmered with ghostly green light.

  The bottom row of the black cards turned white, a wide expanse of ice that she recognised as a lake. She looked to the right, to the furthest edge of the ice, to where a black wolf walked towards her.

  The cards flickered and fluttered, the old images. Hearth and Heart, Maps and Trees rewrote themselves. The starlight faded, and the whispering stopped.

  Anna, hand shaking, gathered the cards, pulled the elastic around them, and zipped them back into her pocket.

  She stepped out onto the porch and breathed in deep, still shaking. As she stepped down to the shore, the horse turned, watched her progress, and, when he saw her hand reach out, he moved into her, his shoulder against hers, his breath on her neck as the Flickerbook opened.

  A white ice lake, a black wolf. A heart pumping. This seemed so familiar. Not just here. Not just in the cards. In her dreams, all her life, her dreams of her father, a lone black wolf walking across a frozen lake. What did it mean? With another breath, the horse halted the Flickerbook.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What is it?”

  The horse gave only a low nicker in reply.

  Anna threw herself into her shift at the Castle Inn in an effort to push the images of the cards and the Horse’s flickered message into the edges of her mind.

  “I need lunch for four in the Knight’s Hall,” Lella commanded. She was overdressed, heavily made-up, her hair scraped and gelled into a tight chignon that gave her face a gaunt and pinched look.

  “For four?” Anna confirmed.

  “Yes. I’ve got a guest coming at 1:30, and if Casey can serve champagne cocktails at about 3:45.” Lella was looking at her watch. She was carrying a leather document wallet and a gold pen in a gift box. She swung out through the doors without another word.

  “Dodgy.” Casey frowned at the space Lella had occupied.

  “Dodgy? How?” Anna felt prickled at.

  “She’s up to something.” Casey cleared down the countertop.

  “Like what?” Anna’s mind reeled, skidded over an ice-white lake.

  “Like selling this place.”

  Lunch came and went, Anna plating up the special Lella lunch and coping with a tourist party from Castlebury. Their bright purple minibus pulled in at 1:30, and the tour operator wondered if they were too late for lunch.

  The dining room buzzed. Anna chopped herbs and poached salmon, and wine scented the kitchen, and all of this everyday stuff kept the black wolf at bay.

  “I said it was off.” Casey was wired as she slammed into the kitchen. “We’ve got to join them. Bring champagne for the big announcement.”

  Casey was fetching glasses. Anna took the champagne from the chiller and followed her into the Knight’s Hall.

  It was called “hall”, but it was long and thin and low beamed. The titular Knight had been found buried under the hearthstone in the seventeenth century. Today, it was bare of all tables, save the one Casey had set. The tablecloth was crisp white damask, so white in the late afternoon light that it caught Anna’s breath.

  Lella, pink with wine, was overly bright as she introduced: “Ivan Herald, the new owner of the Castle Inn.”

  Casey and Anna were united in silence as the two other guests, accountant and lawyer, gave a brief round of applause.

  Lella smiled so far Anna feared her face would split in two.

  “I’d like to assure you both that, other than the change of ownership, everything about the Inn will remain the same.” Ivan made his statement and smiled, in particular, it seemed, at Anna. There was a silence.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Lella looked wild eyed, her lipstick smudged by food and wine. There was a sound like a sail cracking in a high wind as Anna peeled off her pinny.

  “I quit.” And she was out of the door before she had time to breathe in.

  At Drawbridge Brewery, Charlie Way had immersed herself in perfecting a new brew. It was deep ruby red, so that poured into a glass it would look like jewelled blood. She’d begun the wort yesterday and now poured some off, scenting for what might be missing. Nothing. It held all the flavours she required of it, the barley roasted, the hops a special batch from the far side of Castlebury at Tucker’s Stretch Organics. There were other things in there, bits and branches she’d snipped from the garden at Cob Cottage last night, too wired from witchcraft to sleep. It had been boiling and brewing all day.

  Ryan entered the workshop.

  “Mike says he’s off to Keelham, and he won’t be back till late so will you lock up?” It was a game of “Mike says” in the last few days, she noticed.

  “Yeh. Not a problem.” She poured Ryan a glass from the wort. “Have a quick swill of this.�
�� He took the small glass and sniffed.

  “Is it new?” he asked, sipping at it. Charlie nodded, and his eyes widened.

  “Christ on a bike,” he said.

  “Bad?” Charlie wrinkled her brow. Ryan shook his head.

  “Lush. Or it will be when you’ve brewed it up in the big one.” He finished the cupful. “Keeps going, du’nt it?” He licked his lips. “You got a name for’t yet?” Ryan was keen for Charlie to name a beer after him.

  “Drown Your Sorrows,” Charlie said.

  “You did what?” Charlie had come home feeling less hyper but keen to head out and fulfil their quest for the Rider. Emz was waiting on the porch for them both, ready to go. However, one minute of conversation with Anna concerning her day had had a mood-altering effect.

  “It seemed right.” Anna looked edgy. Charlie took in a deep breath and then hugged her.

  “You did not have to do that. Not for me.” Charlie held her sister tight. Held the tears in tighter.

  “I did it for me too.”

  “Selfish,” Charlie teased, secretly touched by her sister’s gesture of solidarity. “How’s it feel now?” She knew without asking.

  “Terrifying.” She gave a squeaky cheer. “But freeing.” She looked at Emz and Charlie. “And something will turn up.”

  “Or pop up,” said Emz.

  “You could go back to Popjoy’s,” Charlie joked.

  “No, I mean pop-up. Remember? Winn and the Orangery?” Emz said. Anna gasped.

  “Oh, yes. Perfect timing.”

  “Go and have a chat,” Emz suggested, Anna already nodding and looking enthusiastic. Charlie shook her head.

  “Maybe not tonight, though. Tonight we need to do a proper full Strengths search for whoever this Great Grey is awaiting.”

  “Let’s go.” Anna was fired up and positive.

  They were lighting up their lanterns. The November twilight had cloaked Pike Lake in a soft grey, blurring at the edge of Woodcastle, so that it disappeared. The Great Grey was restless as the Witch Ways walked down to the shore.

  “Hey boy,” Charlie said, the horse nickering in low urgent tones.

  “Something’s spooked him.” Emz was at once watchful, looking into the densest trees behind Cob Cottage for any sign of incoming trouble. Charlie was scanning the trees to the West.

  “Someone is coming,” Anna spoke. The sisters turned.

  A woman was walking along the shore of Pike Lake. She was wearing a long dress and what looked like a cloak. Her long hair trailed in the breeze, and she was carrying a basket.

  “Mum?” Emz stepped forward. “It’s Mum.”

  The sisters walked down the shore to greet her.

  Vanessa Way looked more beautiful than they had ever seen her. Her skin was pale and had a luminescent quality to it beneath the stark, rich black of her hair.

  “Your hair looks amazing,” Emz said. “You never wear it down.”

  Vanessa reached to hug Emz, putting the basket down at the feet of the Great Grey as he trotted towards her.

  “You’re not in the car,” Charlie stated the obvious.

  “I am the Wolf’s Heart.” Her voice was off, with a hollow tone to it that struck all the sisters at once.

  “Wait. What?” Charlie, flustered, her face pinched.

  “Mum? What did you say?” Anna, pale as the moon. Emz did not speak. She was looking, without thinking, for her mother’s real face, but it was only this; nothing was hidden from Emz, and, as her mother turned to hug Anna and her hair fell back over her shoulder, Emz saw the black markings inked into her neck. She gasped at the memory of parents’ evening back in October, the glimpse of her mother’s real face. As their mother pulled out of the hug, Anna saw the markings too.

  “Wait… wait… you got a tattoo?” She reached a hand to her mother’s neck. Vanessa tossed back her hair and laughed. It was a sound chinkling with ice.

  “I am the Wolf’s Heart.” Vanessa’s eyes widened in pleasure and delight. There was a twist in the air. The sisters felt it as though Havoc Wood skewed into sharper focus.

  “What?” Charlie looked around. The edge of Pike Lake was there and also elsewhere. Was this Pike Lake? It made her nauseous.

  “I am the Wolf’s Heart.” Vanessa seemed light, bright with the idea of it. Anna felt the ice bite into her.

  “No. No, not that. No.” Anna clutched at her mother’s arm. Vanessa’s hand folded around hers.

  “Yes. I am the Wolf’s Heart, and he sends for me,” Vanessa was eager, “because it is now, and there is no time.”

  “No. No.” Anna stepped forward to the edge of the lake, her hand raised in protest. “This was in the cards. The Prophets. No.” The starlight above began to cloud over. Vanessa took her hand.

  “I am the Wolf’s Heart, and he needs me.” She kissed Anna’s hand. “Your father needs me. They are coming for him. They will take me. There is no time.” She turned to tie the basket to the saddle of the Great Grey. Anna was frozen with fear, her breath coming in sharp, stabbing pains.

  “Wait. Wait. What?” Charlie had lost all her other words. Emz stood rigid.

  “This was always how it was to be.” Vanessa took all their hands, Charlie pulling away.

  “Wait.” Charlie’s tears spilling over. Vanessa held her tight.

  “I didn’t know when. It was always that there was no time.”

  “No. No.” Anna reached for her mother’s skirt as the Great Grey stooped a little to let Vanessa mount to the saddle.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” Charlie grabbed the reins. Anna could not let go of the handful of handwoven dress. Emz stood in front of the horse.

  “There is no time,” Vanessa said, as Pike Lake began to crack and groan. Their breath was frosted, glittering sparks that broke against the air.

  “Far North.” Charlie saw the frozen lake, the compass spinning before her. The dark velvet path stretching in only one direction. Anna turned, saw the black wolf waiting in the far distance. A mournful sound fell from her, animal and wild.

  The Great Grey moved, unbidden, with his burden, his hooves clodding at the shore and then crisp against the ice. The Ways could not move, Emz’s face blurring with tears, Anna reaching her hand forward, Charlie panting hard as if she’d been running, small angry sounds punching the air in front of her mouth.

  The sky widened and stretched away from them as the Great Grey broke into a canter, a gallop, his hooves kicking up the ice. As Vanessa moved further across the lake, the cracks and chasms chased through the ice, shattering the surface, as Pike Lake, black deep, blue cold, took over.

  The world weighed heavily into place, the Way sisters at the water’s edge unsure, uncertain, bereft.

  Behind Cob Cottage, headlights showed through the trees. PC Williamson bumped off the tarmac onto the gravel and finally the dirt track. He thought of his Grandma Violet, and he wanted to have brought a basket of stone scones, a brick of fruitcake, anything, anything except the message he carried, the news he must now break.

  1

  The Path Through the Wood

  In Woodcastle you could hear the primary school bell dinging brightly at hometime. The cool, clear sound would roll off the curtain wall of the castle and ping itself at the bell in the church tower to alert the senses of busy parents and grumpy pensioners. Some hurried to the larder for milk and the oven for biscuits, others rushed to stand at their property boundary ready to wave a curmudgeonly stick at the apple-cheeked happiness that hurtled by.

  The schoolchildren would flit out of the school gates and funnel themselves into the small, low-beamed shop “Sweetie’s” — a brown and sticky emporium on Dark Gate Street, lit by very little daylight through the original dimpled glass windows. The rows of tall clear jars with their bounty of crackling, crunching, chewy delights appealed to every child in the town. To most of the junior population of Woodcastle, the instruction to “Eat Your Greens” could be twisted into meaning you must munch your way through a bag of sherbet limes
or gooseberry sours.

  Only one child resisted the jewel-bright, boiled confections. She didn’t like them. They were too sticky, too sickly. They had a metallicky aftertaste that was unpleasant because, as she had been told by Mrs Walters, the housekeeper, they were extruded through a machine in a factory outside Castlebury.

  “It’s a big tall place with big tall towers, and big tall plumes of smoke chug out of it every day.” Mrs Walters was rubbing her gnarled fingers through a mixing bowl of flour and butter. There was a Kilner jar of caster sugar awaiting its turn along with two speckled-brown eggs that Mrs Walters had asked Winn to fetch from the hencoops. There was cream, too. “Revolting stuff for revolting children. They have rats running up and down the belts in that place. My brother knows that for a fact.”

  “Because your brother is a rat-catcher.” Winn recalled earlier, more bloodthirsty conversations and the afternoon when Mrs Walters’ brother had come to Hartfield with his little dog, Whip. She had been allowed to witness the hunt, had admired the skill and speed of the little dog pitted against the rats. Winn harboured a desire to be a rat-catcher when she grew up just so that she might have a little dog exactly like Whip.

  The scones, when they were baked, were left to cool on the rack by the windowsill. There was a pot of jam being sourced from the big pantry, and Winn was wrapping a wedge of cheese from the dairy. Mrs Walters made the cheese at Hartfield, and the resulting rich and complex flavour of Hartfield Hard was renowned at the market in town. Mrs Walters made more money from selling cheeses than she did from her actual job as a housekeeper.

  This was just as well, because Winn’s father, Sir Henry Hartley-Hartfield, was miserly. He was miserly with his staff, the entire of Hartfield being run by Mrs Walters. There was a gardener once or twice a week, Mr Vasey. He smoked his pipe in the potting shed as Mrs Walters double-dug trenches for climbing beans. The bulk of the domestic tasks were also assigned to Mrs Walters, who, aside from the cooking and child-rearing, was often to be found pointing walls, replacing ridge tiles, and glazing the orangery. In addition, she could strip down and repair any of the cars and motorbikes in Sir Henry’s extensive collection.