The Stickman's Legacy

by Benjamin Appleby-Dean

  by

  Benjamin Appleby-Dean

  A Wild Wolf Publication

  Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2018

  Copyright © 2018 Benjamin Appleby-Dean

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  www.wildwolfpublishing.com

  To Becky, the heroine of my own story

  Chapter One

  It started with a letter.

  Mary woke to the snap of the letterbox and the thud of falling paper. She lay in bed a minute, watching the shadows drift across the ceiling, then heard another sound that made her kick free of her blankets and run downstairs.

  Mary's mother sat weeping on the doormat.

  The sight was so strange, so unexpected, that it caught Mary in her tracks and froze her. It felt like a piece of the world had broken off.

  Diana's hands were wrapped around her knees, the letter crumpled between them.

  Mary crouched beside her mother, and put her bare arm around her mother's shoulders; felt Diana shiver under thin cotton. Both of them stayed there a long moment, then Diana breathed out hard, wiping her face with one hand and presenting the letter to Mary with the other.

  It had no return address or sender. The signature at the bottom was an illegible squiggle, and the text didn't name the man concerned in full. Despite these things, it was brisk and businesslike, and ultimately convincing.

  Mary picked her mother up, took her through to the kitchen and made her a cup of tea, but the letter stared at them from the kitchen table -

  - the words leaping from the paper in thin dry voices, saying take us in, be empty but for us, you are a mourning shell and no other feeling is permitted -

  - the room stretching around her, air taut and thin -

  - nails digging into her palms -

  - until Mary could bear it no longer, and snatched the letter up and tore it to pieces.

  "Mary!" Her mother half-rose, staggered.

  "Mum, I - " Mary hesitated. The clarity of what she'd done was egg-fragile, and words would shatter it.

  So she ran. Ran from her mother's face and paper fragments, out into the grubby greenness of the summer morning.

  Mary's father, the man she'd never known, was dead.

  The wind caught Mary, almost carried her down the lane. Below her was the village, grey roofs and long shadows. Above her flowed bare hillside, erupting at the crest into the tall spidery trees of Saxby Wood.

  She stood on the edge between, shivering in her pyjamas. Her head hurt, like there was a pressure growing in her skull. Mary looked at the village, and thought of neighbours and shocked looks and sympathy. Faced the wind and pushed herself uphill.

  Despite her bare feet the wood held no fears for Mary - every scuff and scar on her knees had come from those banks and brambles - and she threw herself among the trees. Twigs and branches fought her, stung her face and snagged her clothes, but Mary carried on uncaring. She wanted stillness.

  Her head throbbed. Pain made her eyes go funny, took her off-balance.

  Mary's breath went, and she came to a clearing and collapsed. Leaned against a trunk, trying to forget about torn paper and accusing eyes. Still pressure kept on building building in her head.

  Mary reached up, ran her fingers over her temples. Felt rough unfamiliar skin on the left -

  - something clicked in her like a door-catch -

  - and the pain was gone.

  Shadows wheeled above her. Fragments of sunlight broke through the canopy. Mary breathed in-out, began to take hold of herself when -

  - one shadow detached itself from the dance, growing larger and larger until it covered her completely.

  A man had stepped out from behind a tree. Despite the size of his shadow, he was small, nearly child-size - but no child would have been as thick-built or sharp-faced, or possessed the black beard that bristled from his chin.

  He took another step forward and Mary sat up, pushing back against the trunk as she struggled to stand. The man smiled, but only with his mouth, and his teeth were as yellow as old wax.

  "Yer don't look like him. Skinny red-topped thing, yer are."

  "Don't look like who?" Mary's legs wouldn't listen to her, and she leaned on the tree for support.

  "Don't you play games wi'me, girl." A hand came out from behind his back, holding a knobbled stick that was as tall as its owner. "You're Stickman's child, sure as I'm standing here."

  As Mary opened her mouth he carried on, laughing. "And with all of 'em looking for yer, it's me who finds yer first."

  Mary finally found her feet, looking down on him, trying to regain herself. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The small man growled and swung his stick at the nearest tree. Bark cracked, wood shattered so loud that Mary's ears rang, and splinters flew in all directions.

  "It don't matter to me. I know who you are, and what yer father did, and I don't plan on forgetting." He smacked the stick across his palm, stepping forward.

  Mary's breath was coming fast inside her when she only wanted to be still. Her ears hurt, and her voice and knees wouldn't stay steady, but she wasn't afraid somehow.

  She needed to keep this man distracted. "What did he do?"

  Anger flashed in his face and Mary should have been scared - anyone normal would be - but there was something horribly comical about the little man. "What did he do?" He slammed his foot into the ground. "How can yer not know? You're full of his blood, yer stink of it!"

  "I never knew him." Truth came out of Mary, harder than she'd meant. This wasn't fair.

  He leaned on his club and squinted at her. "False words and nonsense, I reckon."

  "It's true." Anger brought itself into her voice. "Hit me if you want, I still won't know why."

  Her gut spoke through her and she didn't understand. Why couldn't she be scared? Why was her body disobeying her and wanting to laugh, to mock, to fight? Adrenalin was thumping in her and she could hardly breathe.

  The little man hesitated, shoulders slumped. "Kindly offered, but it ain't right. Yer should know what kind of blood runs in them veins of yours. What kind it is I'll be spilling - " Here he patted his stick again, and spat - "an' that's the blood of a miserable little sneakthief, a backstabber and a blaggart."

  "Go on." Mary squashed the bubbling anger down inside herself, keeping it caged. Here was opportunity. All she had of her father were dim childhood impressions - he'd left no belongings behind him, and relatives on his side had been just as absent. Right this moment, any survival was overridden by her need to know more.

  "Stole my power," said the man, grinding the words between his teeth, "is what yer father did."

  His eyes went distant, and Mary let him talk.

  "On a Lugh's day like today, man like me's minding his own business, trying to make ends meet an' all. Man like your father comes upon me, quiet like he was afraid of himself, and snatches the cap from my head!"

/>   His fists knotted at the memory of it. Mary shifted position, ready to move when she needed.

  "Man like him accuses me - me! - of stealing, and there's him with my hat in his hand. Man like him throws that hat into the fire before a man like me can grab it back, then pegs it before I could thrash the skin off him."

  His gaze came back to the present, back to her, and Mary cut in quickly. "Why did he do that? I don't get it."

  "Cause he was Stickman." The man twisted his club-point into the soil. "He was the most underhand, conniving piece of mischief ever walked in either world, an' he never did to yer face what he could do behind yer back. Even when the bastard died, he did it before I could get there."

  Mary was ready by now, letting the anger back. She could see the little man's fingers tightening, but still had to ask: "So what does this have to do with me?"

  He swung his stick again, ripping a clod of earth up and sending it rattling all over. "I ain't going unsatisfied. You'll be bleeding in his place!"

  When he moved, Mary was faster. He swung at empty air, and she ran sideways past him -

  - don't look, head down -

  - she reached a tree, flattened herself against it. Froze statue-still.

  She could hear him moving. Stamping, swearing.

  "Where are you, girly?"

  Wood cracked as he hit out again. Mary held her breath. A branch jabbed into her back, as if the tree wanted her to be found.

  "There's no use hiding," sang the little man. "I'll beat you all the harder when I catch yer."

  She couldn't stay here.

  Mary tried to calm the thud-thud in her chest, to breathe slower. The man coming for her was strong and angry but he didn't think much. He could turn wood to matchsticks but he wasn't as quick as she was -

  - why wasn't she scared yet? This pulse she felt was adrenalin, no more -

  She stepped out, forcing a smile.

  The little man turned and roared in triumph. Stick held high, he charged at her and Mary felt the tree behind, waited a heart-knotting second and flung herself to the right -

  Crunch. Head-top collided with bark and the man flailed and yelled.

  Mary's hand caught the ground, kept her balanced. Something tore her palm, but she pushed down, came upright.

  For a precious moment she was up and he was not, and so Mary ran.

  Something guided her. Act without thought. She worried at her own reactions and yet her body felt so sure of what it was doing, and she was a stranger watching as it ran and jumped and grabbed -

  - hands round this branch, pulling her a foot off the ground. Swinging, all her weight behind her feet. As the man came spluttering upright Mary aimed at his back and let go.

  She flew, and both of them went down.

  Her chest roared with pain, but Mary had caught her opponent between the shoulder-blades and she breathed before he did. She grabbed - not at the wriggling figure but at his weapon - and locked both hands and held.

  When he erupted, throwing her across the clearing, the stick came with her.

  They both found their feet, and Mary looked into fury-filled eyes. Wind roared in her ears, and she struggled for air and balance.

  "Yer miserable brat!" He was coming at her, fingers curled into claws.

  Mary bit her tongue.

  Blood flared and brought her back. She lifted the thing in her hands and swung, putting every sliver of muscle and gasp of air behind it.

  Something clicked. He cried with pain and she swung once more and felt it connect and connect hard.

  The man fell on his back, pale fluid spurting from his shattered nose. When Mary raised the stick again he scrabbled backwards, and the glare he gave her was sharp enough to cut glass.

  "Should've known you'd not come easy, being yer father's daughter and all. Next time I'll take your pretty skin fer a new cap!"

  It was too much, and Mary began to laugh.

  She giggled at the man, at his beard, at his sulks and silly flailing limbs. She howled at herself, her fearlessness and violence and alien movements. She laughed to feel like herself again.

  He roared at her mockery, fists thrashing at the air and feet stamping on the soil; but it only made her laugh all the harder, and she waved the stick teasing at him.

  "You LOUSE!" He was screaming now. "As sure as my name's Nimbleknock, WE AIN'T DONE!"

  With that last yell and stamp he vanished all at once, like a lightbulb going out.

  She was close to the stream, and Mary headed downhill to the thickest part of the trees. Brambles lashed her arms and bushes tangled her feet, but her body was her own again and she reached the banks of the Hurdy Gurdy with no more than scratches.

  The club was reassuringly heavy, worn smooth by years of use. Mary looked at it for a moment, then sent it into the stream where it wallowed and half-sank. Water laughed at her.

  Her mother was back in the kitchen, standing at the sink, and she looked past Mary at the window. Mary stared at the wall. The silence stretched, long and awful, until Diana broke it. "Some solicitors from London rang."

  "What did they say?" A strange thought came to Mary, hard on the heels of what she'd seen in the wood. "Do they know how he died?"

  "No, they just said that he put me down as executor. They're sending me a copy of the will in the next few days." Diana finally looked at her, frail and nervous . "I spoke to the family, too, and we've sorted out the funeral for the day after tomorrow. They're all coming up for it, you know, even your grandmother."

  "That soon?" Mary was more surprised by the second thing. "Grandmother's coming? What about–"

  "Just for the day. She says she's arranged for someone to watch grandfather."

  Mary pictured the family when she'd seen them all last, the one of her uncles looming over the bedside while the other hovered in the background; the sharp tones of Grandmother Lucy hushing everyone in case they disturbed her husband. They never had.

  She felt acid rush into the back of her throat. Diana had turned away and was setting the table for lunch, as if the day were normal again.

  Mary went out again that afternoon. Neither of them had spoken during the meal, and her mother had served and eaten and washed up with a little too much force to each movement, as if she were one syllable away from screaming.

  She rang Dan and Lily on the way down and told them about the letter, and found both of them waiting by the Green. Dan half-smiled as she approached, but Lily rushed forward and hugged her. "Mary, Mary, I'm so sorry." Her arms were tight and fierce, and Mary let herself be held.

  Lily pulled back. Dan shuffled his feet and coughed. "Um, sorry too. Are you - are you okay?"

  "Of course she isn't. Would you be?" Lily turned on him, hair flying wild.

  Mary didn't want to see fighting so soon. The afterimages from before were still with her, violent shapes lurking when she closed her eyes. "I'm alright." She tried it again, softer and more convincing. "I'm alright. It's hard to miss someone who wasn't there, you know?"

  "Are you sure?" Lily came back to her, put her hand on Mary's shoulder. "You don't have to hide anything. We're here for you." The last words seemed directed at Dan as well, and he nodded along with them.

  It was strange how they seemed more upset than she did, as if they were showing her how to behave.

  "Can we talk about something else?"

  They relaxed. Lily said, "Of course we can," and fiddled with the strap of her bag. Dan scuffed his shoes on the grass.

  Mary wanted noise, distraction. The morning was on her mind like a full stop.

  "So." She turned to Dan. "Er, how's the band?"

  "Oh, you know." Dan brushed hair out of his eyes. "There was a bloke meant to be getting back about recording, but he said he'd call by today and yeah. Same old."

  Lily looked impatient.

  "He's still not applied to any universities, you know." She spoke as if this was public knowledge, and Mary felt a flicker of resentment.

  "I haven't either."
She nodded at Dan.

  "Oh, both of you!" Lily raised her fists, dropped them. "You're as bad as each other, this is your lives –" The spectre of Mary's father must have come to mind, as she suddenly broke off and looked guilty.

  Mary didn't feel great about it either. For all she'd hated school it took part of her with it, and now she was swimming in fog. Why pick a future when the present made no sense?

  "Mary?"

  "Look, I'm okay. Really." Despite the sun, Mary was shivering.

  Lily rested a hand on her shoulder. "You should sit down," she said, and Mary took a step away. "Maybe I should go home."

  Lily looked a little thrown, then smiled. "We'll see you back, then, won't we, Dan?"

  Mary couldn't find the words to stop them walking with her, escorting her up the lane to the garden gate. She felt like boxed china, padded and packaged and not allowed to break.

  Rain fell thin and grey next morning. Mary found her mother in the front room, staring at a book and forgetting to turn the pages.

  "Mum," Mary said. She sat opposite and watched Diana's head come up, slow and mechanical.

  "What is it?" Her mother's voice was still distracted, but her eyes came into focus.

  "Mum, what was he like? Really like?" The words came out quicker than she'd meant them.

  Diana shrank into herself, holding the book like a shield. "Mary, must we?" she asked, and there was an edge of pleading to it.

  "I want to know." Mary stood up.

  Her mother looked outside. When she turned back it was with disappointment, as if she'd hoped Mary would leave.

  "He was –" she broke off. "Do you remember what he looked like?" Mary shook her head.

  "It's - it's hard, now I try. Isn't that strange? He was thin, I suppose. His hair was going grey, and whenever I teased him he took it far too seriously. Oh, and he had the bluest eyes, Mary - do you remember?"

  She looked at the book as if it told her what to say.