by Ariel Dodson
The hand held itself above the water for a few moments, as it awaiting something, and then it began to rise, a wrist emerging, followed by the length of a long, white arm. And suddenly Arlen sprang.
The fish forgotten, she flew down the old Beach Road towards home, carrying nothing but the charm held tightly against her breast. There was a beating of wings behind her as she mounted the steps, and she slammed the door in the face of a cluster of squalling, crying seagulls.
“Where’s the fish?” was her aunt’s first question, her back turned to the girl as she sliced some greens on the kitchen table.
“I – I left it on the rock – ”
“Left it on the rock?” her aunt repeated, wiping her hands on her apron, her temper flaring. “Well, you’ll have to go back and get it before someone takes it.”
“I – I can’t – ” Arlen replied, in a choked whisper.
“What do you mean, you can’t?” her aunt shouted angrily. “You will and I’ll say – ”
But her voice was silenced by a small thud as Arlen slid to the floor, her face whiter than death on the cold flagstones. And, as she bent to help her, her aunt did not notice the tight fist of Arlen’s hand, curled protectively around her mother’s golden charm.
Chapter Three
Alice gazed out of the window, her eyes barely registering what she saw. Had she been looking closely, she would have witnessed blackness, and only blackness. But she had more to concentrate on than the landscape – or lack of it – before her eyes.
It didn’t seem real to her. Nothing had seemed real since that afternoon, when her father had informed her that she was going to reside, for an indefinite period, with her unknown mother’s aunt in a little Cornish fishing village. It had seemed even less real when he had dumped her on the train at Paddington and left her – just like that – without even so much as a wave.
And now she was going to actually live with someone she didn’t even know – an old, unknown relative, probably ancient – and who, she had a grave suspicion, didn’t even know she was coming. And how would that look? To turn up – a complete stranger – on the doorstep, and face the possibility of being turned away. And then where would she go? She had no idea where her father even was.
The whole thing was like a dream – a bad dream – and only the anxious churning of her insides could convince her that she was awake. She sighed, and rubbed the grimy glass furiously with her hand, pressing her forehead against it and focusing suddenly. Her reflection faced her in the mirror, her pale face seeming even whiter in the black window, enhancing the worry in her dark grey eyes.
And out there. Well, all she could see out there was the blackness – a thick, suffocating blackness so intense that it seemed to reach out for her, even behind the protection of the smudged window glass, so that when the train finally pulled into the rickety, desolate little station, she had an overwhelming desire to stay on board – anything but to face that eternity of darkness and the unknown horrors it could contain.
But there was no other stop – this was the last one on the route, and here the ancient little train would sleep until the following afternoon, when it geared up again for its return journey to London. And how she fervently wished she were on it, travelling back to the world she knew.
Alice thought quickly. She couldn’t stay on the train all night. For one thing it was freezing – rail budget cuts seemed to have included the heating this year. And, as a strange, long mist suddenly stole into the carriage, she hurriedly packed up her baggage, found an exit, and descended the steps.
It was as if something besides herself was willing her out into the night. Only it was something that she couldn’t see for the dark veil surrounding her. Her chest felt tight suddenly, and she gasped for breath. The blackness seemed to pulsate and writhe and fill the air. It was a blackness that continued forever – pools of dark cavities welled before her eyes and seemed to close in on her. She had never felt anything like it before, and she shivered violently, uncontrollably, in the damp, groping air.
Suddenly, from behind her, she heard a chuckle, a low, rasping, triumphant sound which seemed to freeze her to the core of her being. And then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Whipping around, her fingers ready to strike, she found herself face to face with a tall young man, standing by a horse and cart. He must have been waiting for some time, as Alice had not heard him drive up, and the slight touch of his hand on her shoulder had been as cold as ice. He seemed to be wearing a type of dark uniform, and his eyes were piercingly blue. He said nothing, but continued to stare straight before him. Alice almost had the feeling that he was looking right through her. She shivered, and took a step back.
“Are – are there any taxis around here?” she asked, nervously.
The young man made no effort to answer her, but gestured towards the cart, as if for her to climb inside. He turned then, and swung himself into the driver’s seat, waiting patiently.
Alice didn’t know what to do. All her life she had been told not to accept rides from strangers – and she couldn’t really be faced with anything much stranger than this. After a few moments’ thought, she quietly picked up her case and walked round to the station entrance, just to see if there were any taxis, or signposts even, so that she could walk. But there was no sign of life on the dark road before her. Even the driver of the train seemed to have disappeared, and she was left alone on the station with her strange, silent companion. It seemed she had little choice.
Her insides knotting into a tight ball, she walked slowly back towards the cart. The driver did not seem to have moved since she had left him. He was still staring straight ahead, as if he had not even noticed that she had left.
“Do – do you – go anywhere near the Penmorven house?” She finished the question in a rush, as if afraid that her voice would suddenly disappear.
The driver, predictably, made no answer, but again motioned for her to step inside.
Alice forced down a lump in her throat and, with a grim determination, lifted her bag onto the worn cloth seat. The driver clicked the reins as soon as she climbed in beside it, and Alice leant back, her heart pounding fiercely as the horse mounted the steep climb.
Why was everything so open here? she wondered. There were no cars to be seen, no tall, cramped buildings thick with lives. No factories chugged the excretions of their polluted manufacture into the air, no TVs or stereos could be heard blasting into the night.
All was silent and sharp and watchful, as if something was on the prowl and the rest of the world was hiding from it. It was a frightening sensation. She shuddered. All that could be heard were the continuous cries of the seagulls. Strange, purposeful cries, as if the birds were calling each other. It was very weird. Alice was aware of their circling overhead, their constant watching. These seemed to be no ordinary gulls. Perhaps it was the strangeness of it all, but Alice couldn’t help feeling that they were watching her.
“Aye, the birds know,” a voice sounded from somewhere, although whether it came from the cart driver or something else, she didn’t know. She clutched tightly to the side of the vehicle, barely able to distinguish the bumps in the road from the fearsome shaking of her own body.
And then, suddenly, the horse drew to a stop and the top of the hill was reached and Alice gasped. It was the night of the full moon, and the sky was ablaze with the shimmering glow of stars. All the constellations were out and visible, and they illuminated the little village below them as if it were a fairy scene.
To her surprise, the birds swooping and darting over the crest of the hill screamed in pain at the starlight, and covered their eyes in a furious batting of wings, and were suddenly and strangely gone. Alice hadn’t realised how many there were, for once the tumultuous retreat had occurred in a blind and angry flapping, the air seemed very light and clear, and even the heavy seaweed smell of the ocean seemed fainter.
Then, as the cart rounded a corner, Alice found herself gasping again at the wondrous sight which m
et her eyes. For there, outlined in the silvery moonglow, was the shape of a castle, grand and glorious against the starlit backdrop. She stared in amazement as the cart driver actually turned the horse towards the landmark, glancing quickly at him for some sign of confirmation that this was indeed their destination, but his face remained turned from hers, his back still and straight. Although she may have imagined it, she thought for a minute that she could see the outline of the castle through him. She looked away quickly, and concentrated on the horse’s path.
To her excitement, the driver did indeed turn into the tall castle gates, drawing the horse to a standstill outside two heavy oak doors, adorned by the worn and crumbling image of a dragon. Without a word, he leapt lightly from his seat and lifted down Alice’s case, then extended his hand as if to assist her. Remembering the icy gush of his touch on her shoulder, Alice shook her head, gently, so as not to hurt his feelings, and swung herself down. She felt very forlorn, standing by her small case, as he went to pound on the thick, arched entrance.
No lights appeared. Alice stood nervously on the step, clearing her throat and racking her brain in vain for the impressive opening sentence which seemed to elude her. She heard footsteps, and a tiny peephole that she hadn’t noticed slid open, the light of a candle making her squint as two pale eyes stared out at her.
“What d’you want?”
“I – I – ” she had hardly time to think of an ending for the sentence when the door suddenly opened wide, and an old, greyish looking lady appeared. She was dressed in a thick flannel nightgown which had probably once been white, but was now yellowed with age, the lace trim at the collar and sleeves cracked and crusty. Her ancient matching bedcap slipped to reveal her thin, grey hair as she threw open the heavy door and angrily pulled Alice inside.
“Why, Arlen, what are you doing out of bed? I told you, you need rest! You’ll catch your death of cold.” The old woman was fussing round Alice crossly, smoothing out her dishevelled elflocks and smothering her cold frame in a thick, musty patchwork quilt.
“But I – ” Alice began, confused, when the woman stopped and seemed to gaze at her with a puzzled, half fearful expression.
“Arlen?” she asked, almost timidly.
“My name is Alice,” Alice explained, feeling more unreal than ever. “I’ve – ”
“Alice?” the woman whispered, incredulously. “Margaret’s Alice?”
“My mother’s name was Margaret,” Alice replied helpfully, feeling as though she were in a dream. She brushed her hair away from her damp forehead. “But I don’t – ”
“Oh my, my dear! Look at you, after all these years!” She seemed genuinely pleased to see her, and Alice found herself able to breathe a little.
“Aunt – Aunt Maud?” she asked, feeling a great need to be sure of something.
“Of course, child. But what are you doing here – and in the middle of the night, too?”
And Alice explained, shortly and bluntly, that her father had tired of her company and decided that his twelve years of responsibility now demanded some show of care from her mother’s side of the family. With those thoughts, he had placed her on a train to Cornwall that very afternoon, and was planning to go abroad the following evening.
“Why, the – ” Aunt Maud began furiously, pulling herself up short as she remembered that Alice was standing beside her. “You poor child,” she finished, in a gentle tone that would have thoroughly surprised Arlen had she been present. “But I told your mother from the beginning that he was no good,” she continued, unable to help herself. “I knew it. I told her so. Men.” She humphed, then paused, something seeming to strike her as strange. “But how did you know to find us at the castle?”
“A young man – he drove me here on his cart,” Alice replied, feeling somehow that the words sounded very foolish in the cold, dark hall.
“A cart?” Aunt Maud repeated, sounding as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or worry.
“Well, yes,” Alice answered. “He didn’t say anything much – just something about the birds knowing. They were very strange, though. Flapping and fluttering all around us. They seemed to be following us. Why, Aunt Maud,” she touched the old lady’s sleeve timidly, “is anything the matter?”
“Well, dear, it’s just that – well – nobody around here has used a horse and cart for years. I can’t imagine who gave you a lift.”
“Or what,” Alice muttered under her breath, and shuddered. She hardly had time to dwell on the strange worry of who had brought her to the castle when Aunt Maud jumped quickly towards another problem – of where to put her for the night.
“Come, dear, you must get to bed,” she insisted, after confirming that no one who lived in the village fitted Alice’s description of the mysterious stranger. “I’ll just have to put you in the tower room with Arlen. It’s rather cold and bare, but it’s one of the few liveable rooms in the place. The castle may be large, but it’s sadly in need of repair.”
This struck Alice as very strange. It had seemed glorious to her upon arrival.
After a long, winding, tiring trip up a dark, musty, crumbling spiral staircase, Aunt Maud threw open a heavy wooden door. It was adorned with a large iron ring and several huge bolts and hinges, and looked to Alice just the sort of door she had read about in fairy tales when she was younger. Curiously, she found herself holding her breath as she peered inside.
The room was indeed cold. There appeared to be no glass in the narrow stone windows, and the furniture, consisting of a wooden chair, a small chest and a large mattress, was sparsely arranged in the tiny round area. The sea could be plainly heard, knocking against the rocks on the shore below the window.
Aunt Maud, who had vanished, suddenly reappeared behind her dragging another mattress, upon which she placed the thick patchwork quilt. She positioned it a little across the way from the other one, and Alice started suddenly as she realised that this meagre bed contained a small figure, which was curled on its side beneath a worn, dark blanket, and was breathing heavily with the drugged sound of fatigue.
She hadn’t realised just how tired she was until she lay down. The poor excuse for a bed wasn’t what she was used to, but she found that she didn’t have the strength to complain, and almost welcomed the thin pillow Aunt Maud had provided. As the starlight faded from her eyes and she drifted into a helpless, possessive sleep, she heard the cry of a lone gull, and barely noticed the shadow of a wing beat over her white face and that of the girl on the other mattress, as the stars sank slowly into oblivion.
Arlen awoke early that morning. She felt refreshed after her deep slumber, so much so, in fact, that she began to wonder if the events of the day before had been nothing more than a very strange, very terrifying dream.
As she rolled over, her breath clouding like puffs of smoke in the cold mist of morning that bled through the paneless window, she saw, to her surprise, another mattress in the room, occupied by a small sleeping form. As if to answer her confusion, the being yawned and stretched from beneath the patchwork quilt that Aunt Maud had fashioned as a teenager (many years ago, Arlen had always thought), and Arlen found herself staring into her own face.
Chapter Four
“Now, now,” Aunt Maud fussed around, the tension in the small, cold room drawing her like a moth. She seemed almost to be enjoying herself, the growing sparks of hostility bouncing off her like electricity and animating her dull, grey eyes with a curious red gleam.
At first Arlen had sat staring, her mouth a little agape, her eyes growing wider and wider. Alice, as she gazed back, could not help wondering whether she had missed seeing a mirror in the darkness of the room. But something was different. She could see – actually feel it. Those eyes weren’t hers. Her eyes didn’t know the fear encompassed in the wide, dark pupils, so like her own, that were directly opposite.
Arlen was terrified. Was it the girl - ? The drowned girl she had seen on the beach? But this girl was younger, around her own age, and her face, glowi
ng with health and life, was exactly the same – What trick were they playing? Fear and hostility snapped within her in the same breath, and she faced her double, hands clenched, the nails biting into her palms like crescent shaped teeth. “Who are you?” she whispered savagely. “What do you want from me?”
They were bristling like aggressive cats when Aunt Maud found them, having suddenly remembered Alice’s arrival the night before, and dashing upstairs to “see to sorts”, as she put it.
“Arlen,” she said, the hint of a smile taunting her face. “Arlen?” But Arlen tore herself away and hurled herself into a corner of the room, retching. Embarrassed, Alice knelt down and retrieved an old telescope from the floor. She was angry – why should the other girl think that she wanted a live reflection?
Aunt Maud was grinning now, and she somehow marched them downstairs to the kitchen, where she laid out their cold, greasy breakfasts, and proceeded to explain the situation. Reaching for a high cupboard, she removed a picture and turned it face towards the two girls.
“Your parents,” she explained bluntly. “You’re twins – separated by two people who think more of themselves than is decent for any living person to think.” She paused, and nodded to the twin on the left. “Alice, meet Arlen, your older sister by ten minutes.” She jerked her head from Alice to Arlen. “Arlen, Alice. You’re not alone any longer.” And with those few words, she lay the picture of the girls’ parents face down on the table and left the room.
It was a strained few minutes. Both girls sat in silence, looking anywhere possible but at each other. It was a very strange sensation – coming face to face with your own face – but not yourself. Like some science fiction work, Alice thought. Of course, if you were used to it –
Arlen had been waiting to speak. To say something – anything – that might convince her that this was real and that she wasn’t having some strange nightmare. But the girl was real. Aunt Maud had said so – she had seen her touch her arm and it was firm and solid. Then who had she seen on the beach? She had been so tired lately, watching and waiting, and the gaze of the phantom dancer bored like fear into the pit of her stomach. Yet the question faded suddenly as the realisation hit her.
