The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  Rachel stops, listening for any other telltale sound, while Dougal walks on.

  The almost imperceptible rustling of foliage, like an immense weight slowly pressing down on dead leaves, releases a small amount of adrenaline into her system. She spins around, searching for the stalking presence.

  A shapeless shadow flits across her line of sight, moving from one tree to the other. Shadows shouldn’t scare people, but this one doesn’t act like a normal shadow. It seems almost intelligent, calculating—a hunter incognito.

  Rachel’s flight or fight response kicks in; the former being the more rational choice. She turns around and sprints to catch up with her companion, dodging branches and jumping over roots. Brambles scratch at her bare legs. The rustling behind her becomes louder, more persistent, following her move for move.

  “Run!” Rachel shouts as she comes up behind Dougal, hurdling over another high tree root to overtake him.

  She hears his initial confused outrage, followed by an almost girlish shriek. Rachel doesn’t look back. She forces her legs to pump faster, unable to relinquish her grip on the umbrella—her only weapon if things turn dire—and continues to dodge, jump, and duck nature’s obstacles. Dougal’s footfalls quickly join hers, his backpack slapping against his body with his movements. Soon, he’s ahead of her, glancing over his shoulder from time to time.

  “Crisscross,” he shouts.

  “What?”

  Instead of repeating himself, Dougal crosses in front of her, heads farther into the woods, keeping his pace. She does the same, heading to the other side and narrowly avoids running straight into a tree.

  “Again!” The way his voice echoes through the forest, like they’re in an outdoor amphitheater with magnificent acoustics, doesn’t make sense.

  Rachel does as she’s told and crosses back to his side, this time ahead of him.

  “We need to try and double back,” she shouts in passing.

  “Good luck wi—” Dougal’s sentence is cut off by a crash behind them. The ground shakes, leaves rustle, air rushes. He glimpses over his shoulder again, and the blood drains from his face. “Dinnae look back.” Panic laces his words as he speeds up.

  Rachel pushes her body harder, ignoring the burning muscles in her legs, to try and keep up with him. Her labored breathing is quietened by a second crash, louder and closer than the previous one. It takes every ounce of her willpower not to look back.

  “Split up?” Dougal shouts the question as they crisscross paths again.

  “No!” Rachel’s response is fast and thick with justified fear. “Just run.”

  They keep running through the awakening forest, blindly making their way deeper toward its dark heart. Violent cracks and hollow crashes boom throughout the area. The earth continues to shake, the air churns and grows heavy. Whatever is chasing after them is remorseless in its destruction, chaos personified.

  Eventually, the sounds become fainter before the unsettling quiet descends over the forest once more. Not wanting to tempt fate, Dougal encourages her to keep on running with a: “Ye can do it,” or a, “C’mon, Rach, jist a wee bit longer.” Rachel goes on, but her speed falters and her energy reserves deplete. She settles into a jog, gasping for oxygen.

  “I can’t,” she says, stopping. Rachel rests her free hand on her knee, greedily sucking air into her lungs, and plants the umbrella’s tip into the ground. Cuts and bruises mar her exposed arms and legs. Her legs are covered in angry, red welts in some places while tiny beads of blood well up where her skin is broken. A thin film of sweat coats her body. “I can’t,” she repeats, shaking her head.

  “Drink up.”

  A water bottle comes into view and she realizes she’s lost her own somewhere along the way.

  Rachel casts a look up at Dougal, who doesn’t look to be in much better shape. “What about you?”

  “I’ve gottae extra bottle in mah backpack,” he says, offering the bottle again with a small shake.

  She accepts the bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes a sip. The water wets her swollen tongue and coats her dry throat, slowly soothing away the pounding headache forming behind her eyes. Rachel takes another gulp of the water, then another, managing to thank him in between her desperate breaths and swigs. Meanwhile, she wonders how long they had been running, and what they had been running from in the first place. She has no answers to those questions.

  Dougal moves toward a nearby red maple tree, removes his patched-up backpack, and leans against the trunk. He rummages around inside and takes out a second water bottle.

  “What was that?” she asks, using the back of her arm to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “What did you see?”

  Dougal unscrews the bottle. “There are naw words fer whit I saw, but if I had tae describe it ... We were bein’ chased by Death.” He closes his eyes and drinks deeply, chest rising and falling in quick repetition. When he pulls the bottle away, Dougal sighs. “Somethin’ close tae Death. I dinnae ken, but it felt that way.”

  Rachel grimaces, walking around in a circle to survey their surroundings. They’ve stopped in what looks like every other part of the forest. All that stands out is the rotting tree trunk overgrown with moss and the strange formation of trees beyond it. There, hidden behind another red maple, four birch trees have grown together, trunks and branches twisting around one another to create a thick, natural arch. She steps across the rotting tree trunk, head tilting as she studies the odd feature encircled in a variety of mushroom species.

  “Dougal,” she says, walking closer to the arch. “You need to come check this out.”

  If Dougal hears her, she doesn’t catch his response.

  Rachel takes another step closer, mesmerized by the bone-white birch trees against the green backdrop. Another step forward brings her to the edge of the mushroom circle. She’s almost certain the overgrown grass is greener within the circle, just one shade darker, just a bit lusher than on the outside. She crosses the mushroom barrier and is greeted by a now-familiar sensation that runs across her skin. The electricity is more intense, crackling instead of tingling like before. This time, Rachel doesn’t give it too much thought. The birch arch seems to act like a magnet, pulling her closer and closer, and for reasons she can’t comprehend, she yields to the silent call and places one foot in front of the other.

  A single word is etched into the bark of the twisted arch, the letters irregularly spaced across the middle: Harrowsgate.

  She stares at the word and raises a hand, reaching out to touch nothing.

  But it feels right to reach out, as illogical as it might be, and touch the nothingness.

  She’s certain the air ripples as her middle finger presses against the area located between those trees. Rachel withdraws her hand slightly. Curious, she unfolds her fingers and places her whole palm against the air. Along with the indistinct ripples comes a faint resistance. Rachel pushes harder against the unseen obstacle, struggling against midair.

  “What the hell?” she whispers, pressing as hard as she can with one hand.

  The air doesn’t budge.

  Rachel pulls away, her frown deepening with confusion as she looks at the empty space between the birch trees.

  “Fine, let’s do this the hard way.” She hooks the umbrella over her wrist and places both hands up against the stubborn area. “Come on,” she says through gritted teeth as she leans up against the invisible blockade, pushing at it with all her might. Muffled, distant yelling comes from behind her as the air finally shifts beneath her hands, moving away almost like bricks without concrete keeping them fixed together. Then there’s a heaviness, like something’s holding onto her shirt and pulling her back.

  Rachel looks over her shoulder as the barrier evaporates beneath her touch, far too quickly for her brain to send the correct signals to her body, and she meets Dougal’s fear-filled blue eyes as they fall forward together.

  Five

  Reckless, Ruthless, Relentless

  An audible pop is followed b
y white-hot pain shooting through Rachel’s body as she lands shoulder-first on a hard surface. Before she can come to grips with the throbbing in her bruised shoulder, the numbness running down her arm, or even the unfamiliar surroundings, fingers dig into the soft flesh of her upper arms and manhandle her back onto her feet. A cry of agony rips from her throat, the sound bouncing off stark walls and uneven floors. Tears fill her eyes as those fingers grip her tightly, brutally. A solid figure shoves her forward and Rachel almost trips over her own feet. Those hands keep her upright and push her onward, forcing her forward.

  The roughhewn floor is pockmarked from neglect. Liquid festers within the cracks and holes like pus-filled sores. It stinks of mildew and old blood. The stone walls seem to shine as water trickles down from the arched ceiling, gathering in the angles between the floor and wall. There are no windows to allow fresh air and light inside, only a yellow glow coming from a narrow corridor leading out of the chamber.

  “Let go o’ me!” Dougal’s voice rebounds, thick with dread and hoarse from screaming. “Rachel!”

  Rachel struggles against her captor, trying to twist around and out of the hands—more like forceps—keeping her subdued. Her abductor squeezes her shoulder. Stars blind her, and she sucks air through her teeth to counter the pain. A chorus of unfamiliar voices joins in with Dougal’s echoing shouts. Laughter and catcalls, taunts and jeers. It’s an overwhelming uproar that sounds like the inside of a prison, but the dimly lit, dank surroundings give the stone room the appearance of a medieval dungeon. The incomprehensible circumstances make it difficult for Rachel to focus on anything other than her confusion and pain. Her survival instincts begin to kick in, forcing her to fight back instead of being a benevolent, reasonable human being.

  She pulls her good arm forward, bends it upward, and drives her elbow into the body behind her with as much power as she can muster. The oomph comes first, before the hands lose their grip on her arms. Rachel spins around, kicks out at her attacker’s shin, and throws an almighty punch without aiming. Her fist collides with a chin, making the bones in her hand vibrate. The guy goes down. Not wanting to lose her chance at escape, she sidesteps the lanky man who’s thankfully still stunned, and finds Dougal putting some distance between himself and the much larger specimen attempting to restrain him.

  She scans the chamber. Her umbrella lies a few feet away, within reach. She rushes toward it.

  “Run, Rachel,” Dougal shouts from the scuffle with his oversized opponent.

  Instead of running, Rachel picks up her umbrella, swallows hard as she walks up behind the man overpowering Dougal, and pulls back her weapon. A satisfying, hollow thwack resounds through the stone room as her umbrella connects with the man’s temple. It’s enough to make the attacker go limp. She watches him crumple into a heap on the unhygienic floor and kicks him once in his ribs for good measure. Rachel looks up at her red-faced companion, who’s now busy catching his breath.

  “Where on God’s green Earth are we?” Rachel asks as her attacker runs away, most likely to raise the alarm. She doesn’t expect Dougal to answer, but he raises a finger, indicating that she wait.

  “Fair folk lands,” he says.

  “That means absolutely nothing to me,” she says. When he doesn’t answer, Rachel says, “Dougal, can you please elabor—?”

  “Fae. Faeries. Fair folk,” he explains as he walks past her to pick up his discarded baseball bat, which had rolled across the chamber and stopped against the farthest wall. “We’re in th’ Fae Realm, Rachel.”

  The nervous titter she involuntarily releases earns her a reproachful look. “That’s absurd,” she says in a high-pitched, panic-filled voice. “That’s completely ludicrous.”

  “Aye, it is,” Dougal says, making his way toward the semi-conscious attacker. He pushes the end of the bat against the guy’s shoulder. The man’s eyes flutter open, his determination and disdain plain as day. “How do we get back tae our world?”

  Rachel walks closer to look at the man. Dressed in an official-looking uniform of some kind, he stares at Dougal. She can’t make out the exact colors of his attire or see much of his face in the gloom either, but he doesn’t appear to be the type of person who goes around assaulting kids for fun. His gaze moves to meet Rachel’s as she comes up beside her companion.

  “How do we get back tae our world?” Dougal repeats in a threatening tone.

  “I don’t know,” he says, turning his attention back to Dougal. “We were just making our last rounds before the next rotation starts when we heard rolling thunder coming from in here, and there you were. Two kids sneaking around in a forgotten part of His Majesty’s dungeons.”

  Rachel shakes her head, blinking a few times to try and snap out of this crazy dream.

  Urgent footfalls belonging to multiple people resonate from somewhere beyond the chamber. “Where are we exactly?” Dougal asks, ignoring the approaching commotion.

  “Telfore, Orthega.” The man turns his gaze to meet Rachel’s once more. “I thought we’d gotten rid of your kind.”

  “Excuse me?” she asks, specifically offended by your kind, which could’ve been directed to any number of things: her Irish ancestry, her gender, the insane belief that somewhere in her lineage women made pacts with the devil and had been convicted of witchcraft and heresy. The list went on.

  Dougal wraps a hand around her wrist before she can lose her temper, and he leads her through the opening in the wall, into the narrow corridor she’d noticed earlier. Rachel lengthens her strides to match his walk, but she soon finds jogging easier to keep up with him.

  Situated every ten feet apart, wrought iron sconces are mounted against the walls, holding lit torches. Flames flicker and their shadows dance as they hurry down the corridor, which stretches on for a good while before it suddenly curves and ends in a steep, winding staircase carved from rock. There is no railing. No precautions had been made during the building of this place to keep people from falling to their deaths. Dougal, who’s clearly not concerned over the architectural defects, walks to the staircase at a brisk pace. Every now and then he glimpses over his shoulder, looking past Rachel to see if anyone’s following them.

  “We shouldn’t go up,” she says before Dougal can begin his ascent.

  “But—”

  “Did you see those guys’ uniforms?” she interrupts him as she looks down the dark spiraling staircase, where a void waits to devour anyone who dares enter. “There are more where they came from. I’m pretty sure if we go up, we’ll be caught, but if we go down...”

  “Sewers,” he finishes her train of thought and nods before beginning his descent into the pit.

  She hurries after him, ignoring the heavy footfalls and the authoritative shouts growing louder behind them, focusing on her own footing in the pitch-black darkness. With one hand pressed against the wall—a false sense of security if ever there was one—she feels her way to safety.

  They accelerate as the footsteps become a distant, bad memory.

  Down ...

  Down ...

  Down ...

  It grows colder the farther they travel. Dampness coats the walls and covers the palm of her hand. The stench of sewage becomes more obvious; the sound of rushing water promises freedom. Perhaps, if their luck holds out, there is a slim chance of getting out of this mess alive.

  Her mess.

  They’re done for unless they find a place to hide or find a way back to the forest soon. Adrenaline is the only reason their exhaustion hasn’t caught up with them yet, and hers is already depleting.

  She reaches solid ground as Dougal raises his bat and slams it down against a metal gate—a metal gate that hinders their escape to safety. The loud clang, clang, clang as he rhythmically beats down on a rusty lock can barely be heard over the roar of the stream beyond, but the mere idea of someone hearing the clamor and coming after them doesn’t sit well with her.

  She looks back, the darkness obscuring any sign of their pursuers. How long do they
have? Impatient, she turns back to Dougal as he sorts out the obstacle with brute strength.

  Clang, clang, clang.

  “Come on,” she says, anxious to get out and away. “Come on, Dougal. Put your weight into your swings.”

  “Yer welcome tae take over,” he snaps back. Annoyance, or fear, twists his features and colors his skin red. Dougal raises the bat and slams the rusted lock again.

  A final clang rings before the gate squeaks open. Relief washes over her. She says a little prayer of thanks as they escape into the underground tunnel, where a speck of light is visible in the distance. Apart from the platform, which is hardly wide enough to fit them both comfortably, the rest of the journey is a treacherous one. Water laps at a rocky ledge—broad enough for a single person to carefully walk upon—and kisses the eroding walls.

  Rachel follows the hesitant Dougal through the tunnel. Sludge squishes underfoot, sticking against the soles of her shoes, squelching so loudly her stomach churns in disgust.

  Time seems to pass slower than usual, like it’s working against them, but the speck of light becomes larger and brightens up their surroundings.

  “Halt!” a voice booms over the rushing water.

  The command is quickly followed by a barrage of arrows being released, arrows that fly every which way and narrowly avoid hitting their intended targets. Warning shots, no doubt.

  “Are you crazy?” Rachel shouts at them, heart pounding hard as she speeds up. Their response is to let loose another few arrows, which cut through the air and pin into the walls around them. “We’re just kids, you morons!”

  Dougal stops, cautiously turns to rest his back against the wall, and bites his lower lip as he studies the stream below. “Can ye swim?” he asks when she closes in.

  “Yes,” she says without deliberating on her answer for long. Only afterward do the consequences of his question dawn on her. “Oh, no, Dougal.”

  “Deep breath,” he says, taking her hand.