The sky was still dark when the grim procession reached Fort Holland. The great iron gate opened for them at the hands of servants whose heads hung in woe, though Carrefour sensed their relief in the hushed whispers they exchanged as he passed. The planter stood sadly on the porch above them, with his arms around the healer-woman. Though the healer’s wrenching sobs were genuine, he sensed that the planter’s grief was as false as that of his servants.
The healer then wiped away her own tears with a small chequered handkerchief and began to watch the fishermen closely, with fascination, almost as if she intended later to paint a portrait of the scene. Her stare faltered only from time to time when she daubed the corners of her eyes with the moist cloth.
The healer, he thought, she is strong. She will go North and tell this story, so that others will come to believe . . .
The group of fishermen laid the planter’s brother gently onto the cool flat stones of the courtyard. Carrefour did the same with the limp form of the planter’s wife, her robes spilling out beside her. The villagers then turned and, after respectfully placing one of their torches upright near the two limp bodies, they made their way back out through the gate.
Carrefour shuffled slowly over to the courtyard’s fountain, whose water trickled like bitter tears. From the waist of his rough sackcloth trousers, he drew the single arrow which the rum-soaked man had taken from here. Carrefour placed its tip back into the small hole in the centre of the big wooden saint’s chest. He pushed forcefully. The arrow sank deeply into the aperture, protruding upright.
It would stay.
As Carrefour passed through the gate, lightning flickered in the distance. It was followed by a low, faraway roll of thunder.
The rain comes, he thought.
The loa are pleased . . .
The cane crop will be saved.
From the distance he heard the call of the ocean, the foamy waves breaking rhythmically on the shore.
I shall join them now . . .
* * *
The beach glistened like fine jewels as moonlight reflected off the wave-washed sand. Salty spray burst from the rocky outcroppings, lingering ghost-like in the air after each mighty crash of the surf against the beach.
Carrefour shuffled purposefully into the wet sand. His huge brown feet sank down into the soft smooth grains, each step leaving massive divots in the beach which filled up quickly with warm saltwater and were erased by the next pass of the waves. The ocean crashed around his knees and then, as it drew itself back from the shore, began to pull him along with it, beckoning him toward its depths.
He continued to walk.
The water wrapped itself around his waist like the arms of his long-ago lover, tugging him forward, deeper. Ocean salt teased his nostrils, re-awakening long dormant memories of his life before, returning him to the long-ago time when he was alive, when he was human, when he had foolishly believed that his own death, however it might come, would be final and would bring an end to his time on Earth.
And now, he thought, at last it shall be . . .
Men in far lands will hear of what happened here, of this island and its mysteries. They will speak of the white healer from the North, of how she travelled to join us and learn of our ways.
The warm seawater reached Carrefour’s chin, wave caps surrounding and embracing his neck. He continued to walk forward, his mouth filling with its intensely salty sting, the salt seeming to explode like gunpowder, sending images flashing through his mind in time with the flashes of lightning from the great tropical storm brewing overhead.
Men will tell her story many times, he thought. They will whisper it by firelight, and they will write it in their books. They will draw and paint its strange scenes as they grasp hopelessly to understand them. They will retell tales of the white healer in their poems and their songs . . . their troubadours will sing of how she walked these shores accompanied by one of our own living dead . . .
Yes, so shall they sing . . . but none shall sing for me . . .
The water covered Carrefour’s unblinking eyes, salt burning them until they could see no more. The ocean closed over his head and roughly plunged him down even deeper, forcing him undersea by the roots of his woolly scalp.
In the distance he heard the shouts and cries of his ancestors, the wails of his long-ago mothers and long-ago fathers when the iron shackles of the Brillante dragged them under the sea, joined by the howls of terror-stuck slaves aboard the Estrella as its wooden hull shattered against the knife-like ridges of a hidden reef.
Their wailing slowly eased into softer calls, faraway echoes of contentment and peace, of tribal drums around crackling fires, of the hooves of zebra and wildebeest thundering in the distance across hard-packed yellow earth, of the laughter of small brown children watching, of happy group-chanting as the orange sun descended slowly on the warmth of the African plains, and of the gentle whispers of love from the lips of his brother’s wife . . .
For the first time in as long as he could effectively remember, something resembling a smile curled at the edges of Carrefour’s dead black lips.
Until, finally, it all went dark.
ALISON LITTLEWOOD
About the Dark
ALISON LITTLEWOOD LIVES WITH her partner Fergus in West Yorkshire, where she dreams dreams, writes fiction and hoards a growing collection of books with the word “dark” in the title.
Her short fiction has appeared in such magazines as Black Static, Shadows and Tall Trees, Crimewave, Not One of Us and the British Fantasy Society’s Dark Horizons. Anthology appearances include Where Are We Going?, Read by Dawn Volume 3, Midnight Lullabies, Full Fathom Forty, Best Horror of the Year 4 and the charity anthology Never Again.
New stories are due to appear in the anthologies Magic, Resurrection Engines, Alt.Zombie, Terror Tales of the Cotswolds and The Screaming Book of Horror. Another story set in caves, this time the flooded cenotes of Mexico, is available as a chapbook from Spectral Press.
The author’s first novel, A Cold Season, was published in January 2012 by Jo Fletcher Books and was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club in the UK. Path of Needles, a twisted fairy tale meets crime story, is forthcoming from the same imprint early in 2013.
“‘About the Dark’ is really a meditation on the source of evil,” Littlewood explains. “We associate bad things with dark places: they happen in secret, away from view and the relief of daylight. And the dark never seems to be quite empty – at least, not when you start to stare into it.
“This story takes things a step further. What if evil didn’t just happen in the dark – what if the evil was the dark? And what happens when that darkness finds an answering echo inside ourselves?”
DARK CAVE DIDN’T sound the most promising place to hang out, but it was the driest place Adam could think of away from the town centre. Adam didn’t want to be in the town centre, mainly because his latest school had an “attendance optimiser”, otherwise known as a truant officer. The truant officer knew what Adam looked like, partly because of the number of times he’d hauled him back to classes, and partly because of the way Adam had tried to deck him the last time he’d tried.
He’d nearly been expelled for that one, and it was only because they decided to blame his mother that expulsion had been commuted to a three day suspension; a punishment that seemed to more than fit the crime, although not in the way they’d intended. Adam grinned at the thought, then grimaced. Blaming his mother was what everyone did. No one seemed to expect anything from his dad, least of all Adam himself.
He turned now to see Sasha flick wet hair out of her face, rubbing at her black-rimmed eyes. Adam decided not to tell her she’d smudged her make-up. No doubt she’d find out later, on her own. He exchanged looks with Fuzz, so named for his shaved head rather than any liking for the police. Fuzz nodded back. He didn’t tell Sash about the smudge on her cheek, either.
There was a wall of rain behind Sash, the muted grey-green of trees beyond that. She already
had a cigarette clamped between her lips and she flicked her lighter, emitting a brief flame that fizzled before it could begin.
“Get under, shit-fer,” Adam said. Shit-fer brains: his favourite mode of address. Adam stood just beneath the cave mouth, not quite far enough that the dangling ferns couldn’t drip down the back of his neck. Fuzz edged onto the rock behind him, feet slipping, sending loose pebbles down to clip Adam’s feet. Adam stared at them.
“Soz,” said Fuzz.
Adam didn’t say anything. Sometimes he didn’t have to, and that was best. That was when he knew it had worked; the face he put on, the tough words, the fists. No one messed with him anymore. Now he skived off classes because it made him look hard. That wasn’t why he’d done it at his last school.
Sash started giggling, trying to get the cig to light. She couldn’t. Adam rolled his eyes, snatched it away, felt damp paper under his fingers and flicked it, one-handed, out into the rain. He ignored Sash’s squeal of protest. Instead he turned and looked into the cave mouth, the way its misshapen walls faded into the dark.
“You going in?” He looked at Fuzz. He didn’t look at Fuzz because he wanted Fuzz to lead the way: he didn’t want Fuzz to lead anything. That was Adam’s job. He said it as a challenge.
“Course.”
Adam didn’t ask Sash. He knew she’d follow. He knew that because of the way he’d told her, once, to take off her top; the way, after a moment’s hesitation, she had.
Sash had full tits, for a skinny lass. Adam remembered them now, thought of how they would feel under his hands in the rain, the way her top would stick to them. He felt a flush of warmth beneath the cool air that rose from the cave. There was a smell, too; dank stone, mingling with the scent of rain. He wrinkled his nose. “Come on,” he said, and stepped forward. He flicked on his own lighter as he went.
It was more difficult than Adam had expected. The lighter emitted a circular glow, highlighting each finger in glowing blood red, but not illuminating much else. It was hot and he kept switching hands, pulling a face he knew no one could see. He felt the irregular rock through his shoes. He heard the others following, their footsteps seeming more sure than his own. That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t show weakness; something he’d learned the hard way. Weakness painted a target on your back.
Now he was the one who punched and spat and made boasts and smoked, the one who led. He had assumed his new role when he started his new school. It had been like slipping on a new skin, but sometimes he could still feel it moving over his old one, loose and ill-fitting.
He switched hands again, jumped as Sash behind him flicked her own lighter. It lit the wall at Adam’s side and he saw old lettering there, as though this place had been better used, once; the remnants of old names, old lives. Now they were little more than fragments; he couldn’t make out the words. He wondered who had been here, whether they smoked or drank or fucked in the dark. He grinned as he stepped forward and, not watching his feet, slipped. He almost went down.
There came a light giggle behind him.
Adam straightened his back, started to turn. Such things couldn’t be allowed to go on or they only got bigger. He knew this in ways the others didn’t. As he turned, though, Sash swore and Adam heard her lighter drop, the sharp sound of plastic shattering. A moment later there came an acrid smell.
“Fucker burned me,” she said. She sounded upset.
Adam knew Sash couldn’t afford another lighter, couldn’t afford much of anything. He opened his mouth to tell her she could use his whenever she wanted, then closed it again. “Stop pissing about,” he said.
The ground beneath his feet started to slope downward. Adam lowered the light, trying to make out the way, but could see nothing. He started down anyway; realised, after a few strides, that he couldn’t hear the others. He turned and saw two dark shapes against the glow from the entrance, their faces outlined by the light of his flame. “What’s up?” he said.
“I’m not going down there,” said Sash. She sounded close to panic. “I don’t like this, Ad. It’s opening out; how we gonna find our way? We could get lost.”
Fuzz didn’t say anything. He didn’t follow Adam, either.
“There are stories,” Sash said, “about Dark Cave.”
Adam snorted. “Stories are for kids.” He took another few steps as if to demonstrate, but when he glanced around he saw that Sash was right. The cave had broadened out; he could no longer see the walls. He looked back at Sash and Fuzz. They hadn’t moved. They were still dark shapes, but their faces had gone. For a while he didn’t say anything, and neither did they. It struck him that they might not speak, that it might not even be Sash and Fuzz standing there. His mates had turned tail and fled into the sunlight, leaving only these shadows behind.
Then Sash did speak, and Adam took a breath. “I don’t want to,” she said. “Why don’t we go and have a cig, instead? I could try and find my lighter.”
“Just a bit further,” Adam said. “Then we’ll sit down and you can tell us all about Dark Cave.” He paused, deepened his voice. “Tell us ze ghost stories, mwa ha ha . . .”
Sash didn’t laugh, but she did get moving. Adam turned and went on. Their footsteps echoed around him, a confusion of sound, but he knew that Fuzz would be following too. Sometimes Adam thought that kid was sweet on Sasha. Then he remembered the way Fuzz had been when Sash took off her top: the way he’d kept his eyes on Adam all the time, not saying a word. Fuzz had never even looked at Sash, at all.
“Here,” Adam said, bending low and scanning the floor. A low outcrop of rocks glowed almost yellow in the flame; he sat down on the nearest. The others sat too. Fuzz made a “tch” sound and pulled something from his pocket. Another light sprung to life in the boy’s hands, and Adam cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. It was Fuzz’s mobile phone. After a few seconds the light winked out and Fuzz pressed a button to light it up again. Adam wasn’t sure he liked it. It made the dark draw back a little, but the bluish glow made everything cold.
Fuzz crossed one boot over the other. “Nice ere, innit,” he said.
Adam cleared his throat. “So, Sash,” he said. “Tell us about the ghosts.”
She turned her head. Her face looked pale. “Aren’t no ghosts in Dark Cave.”
“But you said . . .”
“I didn’t say there were ghosts. I said there were stories.” She wrapped her arms around her skinny body.
“Same difference.”
Sash glanced over her shoulder, into the dark. Adam looked too, but there was nothing there. There was nothing around them at all; it was like they were floating. He shivered. It’s not me, he thought, it’s them, and he didn’t know why: only that the words were in his mind, playing over like an echo.
It’s not me. It’s them.
“So what are the stories, Sash?” Fuzz’s voice was gentle.
“They’re about old stuff. My Nan told me. About when people used to come here, and what they used to do.”
Adam wanted to snort, but he did not.
“What stories, Sash?” Fuzz prompted.
“They’re about what’s in here.” Sash glanced around again.
“So tell us.”
But Sash didn’t. She got to her feet, so abruptly she knocked Fuzz’s phone out of his hands. There was a splay of light and a gritting sound, and then the dark ate it.
“Sash.”
She didn’t answer.
Fuzz got up, feeling about for his phone.
“Wait,” said Adam. It came out louder than he’d intended and he expected to hear his own voice coming back from the walls – wait – wait – wait – but there was nothing. He didn’t know which was worse, hearing an echo or not hearing it. “I’ll make a bit of light.”
He stood, reached for his bag, rummaged through the contents. He pulled out some exercise books, flicked to the back of one, steadied it with the fist holding his lighter and ripped out the blank pages. He crumpled them, placed them where he’d been si
tting. He could feel the dark at his back, and he didn’t like it. He’d felt better when he was inside the circle. He bent and put the flame to the paper. It flared, and he saw what lay around them.
Their shadows rose and danced on the walls. The cavern was roughly circular. There were no other tunnels that he could see. There was more writing on the walls, though: names, dates. Adam glanced at the fire and saw the last ball of paper catch. It flared but the blackness flooded back anyway, as though the dark had grown, was reclaiming its territory. Then the fire went out.
“I’m getting out of here,” said Sash. She took a couple of steps into the dark then stopped. Adam almost – not quite – reached out to pull her back.
“Wait,” said Fuzz. His voice was oddly high, and it struck Adam that fear was catching, that it had leapt from one of them to the next just as the flame had spread from paper to paper. Fuzz pressed a switch and the cold blue light was back again: he had found his phone. He went after Sash and became a black shape.
Adam’s own lighter flickered and went out.
He didn’t curse, didn’t say anything at all. He was in the dark and he could feel its cold fingers on his skin, touching his clothes, his face, his eyes. He didn’t want to move; all he wanted was for it to stop. His hands shook around the lighter. Then the flame sprang up and the shadows shrank from him.
He could no longer see Sash and Fuzz. Adam kept his eyes on the flame he held, feeling the darkness massing at his back as he started after them.
“The stories are about the dark,” said Sash. She held a cigarette to her lips and it shook in her hands. She was sitting on the low, twisted branch of a tree. Adam looked away, down at the woodland floor. It was covered in fallen leaves; another year dying.
“My Nan says they used to think the dark lived in the cave. So they’d send people in, you know – to test them. To see if they could handle it. Sometimes they came out and sometimes they didn’t. The ones who didn’t, who got fed to the dark, they had their names written on the walls, see? And then the dark would go away for another year, like they were sacrifices or something. It kept it away, right?” She paused. “I thought it was stupid. But—”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 23 (Mammoth Books) Page 22
