Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Hah! Yes, it was a farm higher up on the hill,” she says, her face brightening with memories. “Well, that’s where we’re going. To stay with friends,” she says emphatically, smiling as though we’re going out for a pleasant trip.

  Footsteps, thudding, and voices grow increasingly loud as we finish our breakfast and my father readies himself to go out.

  “It’s time we went,” he says looking out of the smeared kitchen window to the lightening sky.

  Outside a huddle of men, women and children, stiff from layers of clothing zipped beneath their coats, stand muffled against the morning cold next to a pile of stuffed rucksacks. I feel excited but fearful too. Robin is nowhere to be seen.

  “Is this it?” my father asks.

  There are at least three families missing.

  “I think so,” replies Conrad, his face pinched with tiredness. “I knocked on all doors this morning. The Cartwright’s, Farndale’s and Lawson’s have decided not to come.”

  Robin’s not coming!

  “Robin Lawson? Are you sure you checked? He said he was coming.” Last night, the thought of him not coming had made me ache, but to know he really isn’t coming is unbearable.

  “I’m sorry, Edie,” Conrad says, looking at me with compassion, “but his mother said they’re staying.”

  I can’t believe it. I can’t lose him. Not when I feel this way about him. “But it’s not safe! Dad, tell them. Please. Talk to his mother. Tell them it’s not safe.”

  “Edie love,” he says looking down at me, “if they don’t want to come, it’s not to me to force them.”

  I look down the row of houses that makes up our compound, towards Robin’s closed front door. I have to say goodbye! Dumping my rucksack on the gravel at my father’s feet, I turn and run towards the house, ignoring his shouts for me to come back as I hammer on the door. The knock is muffled beneath my glove. I wait tense seconds then hammer again, peering through the glass panel for signs of movement, all thoughts of patience and good manners gone. A shape moves in the hallway and moves towards me. Margret pulls the door open, her brow furrowed with annoyance, her eyes puffed and red-rimmed with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” I say suddenly awkward. “But I need to see Robin. I have to say goodbye.”

  “He’s not coming,” she says looking at me with defiance.

  “I know,” I reply looking past her. “Robin!” I call ignoring her in my need to see him, to hold him again. “Robin!”

  He’s there! At the end of the hallway.

  “I need to say goodbye,” I call to him, emotion making my voice tremble, sadness wrapping itself around my heart.

  “I’m here,” he says holding my gaze, “I’m coming.” Margret doesn’t move. Her arm bars the door. He walks calmly up to her and firmly pulls her arm from the door frame and gently pushes her to the side as he steps down onto the concrete path and opens his arms to me. I fall into them and wrap myself around his chest, feeling his strength. The hurt of leaving him forever overwhelms me.

  “Look at me Edie,” he says, his voice hoarse. I want to bury my head in the soft comfort of his embrace, breath in his smell, forever, but force myself to look up, knowing that seeing him will break my heart. His face is a blur through my tear-filled eyes and I can’t control myself any longer. “This can’t be the last time Robin. Not the last.” He’s silent as he looks at me then holds my cheek against his hand. Tears spill over my lashes as he tips my chin up and bends towards me. I close my eyes and welcome the gentle pressure of his lips and the loving warmth he gives to me there. I want to fall into it and never surface.

  “Edie, come on!” Pascha shouts.

  “I have to go,” I say, barely able to breath. Unable to look at him again, I turn away and run back to the others.

  “Edie-” my mother says, the hurt of my heart echoed on her face.

  “I’m ok,” I lie as she puts out her arm to comfort me,

  “Yes, yes, I know you are,” she replies putting her arms across my shoulder and pulling me to her.

  “Here’s your bag, love,” my father says, handing me the khaki rucksack. “Robin’s a strong boy. He knows how to take care of himself,” he adds by way of comfort before moving towards the gates and talking to Patrick and Conrad.

  “I’ll lead if you take the rear,” he says to Patrick as I step out of the compound and onto the broken gravel of the lane. Behind me metal grates against metal as the bolt locks us out forever.

  “Wait!”

  The iron scraping stops.

  I turn. Running towards the gate, padded fat with layers of clothing, rucksacks full and bouncing heavily on their backs, are Robin and his mother.

  Chapter Eight

  We turn up the hill, our backs to the town, and make our way quietly along the road, passing overgrown hedges and walking up towards the bleakness of the moors. A grim push forward away from the disease and violence of the towns and the terror that is unfolding there. A straggle of refugees desperate to survive in a broken world.

  Leaving our home, our safe place for the last two years, fills me with unease as I walk along the grey road towards the unknown. The gravel crunches beneath my feet; years of neglect and the unforgiving crystals of harsh winters have broken up the tarmac, making it crumble freely.

  As we trudge higher, a thin drizzle begins to fall and I pull up my hood against the wet, glad of the knitted scarf wound around my neck and woollen hat low on my head. Cocooned against the moors, Pascha at my side, I’m left with my own thoughts. Nervous chatter has settled into a steadfast silence. My father has taken the lead and Conrad walks at the back making sure that no one is left behind.

  “I’m tired, Mummy!”

  Essabel’s voice breaks through the warm layers of hat and hood.

  “Bella, please!” her mother begs. She looks worn, as though her very self is fraying at the edges, the wad of padding about her no disguise for her thinness. Her cheeks are tinged red from the bite of the cold and her blonde hair lays straggled, curls flattened against her forehead and cheeks. The pleading of the child’s face pricks at my despair. She’s slight, face pinched with cold, gloved fingers reaching for the arms of her already exhausted mother.

  “I’m tired, Mummy,” she wails again, slows down and begins to cry.

  The child’s cry and her mother’s desperation are more than I can bear.

  “Bella!” I say, catching her attention. “Do you want a piggyback?”

  She stops immediately, eyes wide, the smallest hint of a smile on her lips as she nods, wetted yellow curls bobbing at her shoulders beneath the petals of her flowered hat.

  “Are you sure?” Agnes asks, the relief obvious in her sigh, as I call to Robin to take my rucksack.

  I crouch down. Tiny hands link across my neck as she lays her head against my back, my arms hook through her legs and I lean a little forward, securing her there. She’s lighter than I imagined, lighter than my rucksack, and I carry her easily for the next few miles as we climb higher along the road that will take us into the moors.

  “Hey, Robin, your turn!” I say eventually, knowing that my rucksack is a far greater burden for him than Bella is for me. He looks at me with thanks and I smile my appreciation in return. He hasn’t complained once about the heaviness of the two rucksacks he’s had to carry.

  “Are you sure Edie?” he asks. “I’m ok. I can keep going.”

  “No, it’s my turn now,” I reply, knowing that the next miles are going to be much tougher, but not wanting to make the child walk again. As she stands on the road, waiting for us to pick her up, she looks ashen, her eyelids heavy. It won’t be long before she’s asleep. Ahead of us, beyond the empty fields and their boundary hedges, lies an area of dense woodland where the road seems to narrow as it passes through.

  “We’ll be on the moors soon,” Robin says, his voice flat, apprehensive as he nods towards the thick bank of trees, “once we get through them,” he adds, grim.

  I’m not sure which I dread
more: the looming dinge of the forest or the moors’ bleak vastness. In one, things can be hidden and on the other nothing can hide.

  The sun sits shrouded behind an enveloping fog and dread sits heavy in me as we approach the trees ahead. Light shifts to grey as we finally step beneath the tangled canopy. Patchy fog sifts through the gathered trees and trunks of peeling bark seem to float, disembodied from the woodland floor. The heads of winter-browned bracken creeping through on long woody stalks, fronds curled against the cold.

  A crack rings out to my left! I look into the dark between the thickness of the trees and the browning fronds. No tell-tale judders. All is still.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask Robin.

  “No! What was it?”

  “I dunno. It was a crack, like someone standing on an old branch.”

  “Well, it could just have been an animal or a branch falling off a tree.”

  “How could a branch just fall off a tree?” I ask, unbelieving.

  “They do. If you go into the woods, you’ll see. There are loads of dead trees in there and when the branch gets too heavy it falls. That or the whole tree falls over. When we go out to set the traps we have to watch for the trees too, especially if the wind is up.”

  “Oh,” I say quietly, resentment creeping in that he gets to go out with my dad and the other men trapping.

  A crack again, and this time a rustle.

  “There, did you hear that?” I ask looking to him.

  “Yeah,” he says, hitching Bella up, looking into the trees. “It’s nothing,” he adds although a frown pulls at his forehead. “Just an animal I’d say. I can’t see anything.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” I agree, although my heart is thumping a little quicker and my throat is suddenly dry.

  “Look. The best thing we can do is get through this wood and then take a rest. Feels like Bella’s going to slip off. Bet she’s falling asleep.”

  “She is,” I confirm. “Take my bag and I’ll carry her, at least until we’re out of here.”

  As I step beyond the last tree, Bella tucked onto my hip, my heart sinks. Ahead sit the moors, undulating, massive, empty, the grey road written through them barely legible in the lowering mist. I have to stop, even just for a short time, and walk quickly to the front.

  “Dad, I think we’ll need to stop soon,” I say.

  “We can’t stop yet love, we need to keep going. We’ve got a good few miles to go before we can stop for the night.” The thought of being out here, open to the wind and the rain, makes me wince. “We’ll reach Hawdale tomorrow if we press on,” he assures me, “and only have to spend one night on the moors.”

  “I understand, Dad. It’s just … the little ones are tired.”

  Compassion softens him as he realises Bella is slung across my shoulder, her tiny fingers taffled in my hair and face pressed to my chest.

  “Ok,” he sighs, gently brushing away the golden hairs irritating Bella’s sleeping eyes. “We can stop for half an hour, but that’s all.”

  The company stops with relief and we sit on the driest part of the road, backs against our rucksacks. Agnes sits exhausted, head tipped back, semi-conscious as Bella lays across her knee, oblivious to the cold and damp, her skin drained of colour except where the cold has bitten her cheeks. Dark lashes brush against waxy pale skin and she lies beautiful, but fragile in her sleep. I watch closely, waiting for the rise and fall of her chest. The white mist of breath escapes her brushed pink lips and dances about her face. Relieved, I look away.

  It’s too cold to sit for long and within half an hour we’re on our feet again and climbing the hilly road into the moors. As the fog thickens, and the sun begins to lower, we stop for the final time this day and make camp at the side of the road; an array of slubbed green and drab brown domes pegged among the clearings between the sprawling bracken that covers these lower moorlands. As dark falls, I squeeze into a tent with my mother and sit listening to the squall of wind blowing in from the higher moors. It buffets the fabric and rounded depressions jump on and off the canvas like a huge gloved fist pounding down on us. The knife in its sheath has irritated my leg and I’m relieved to take it off and place it next to me as I squirm down into my sleeping bag, thankful again that my father had the foresight to make sure we were prepared if we ever had to leave our home. ‘‘Be prepared’, that was my school motto’. I’d heard him say more than once and raised my eyebrows too, but lying here, feeling the warmth grow softly around me, his words are a sweet comfort. Cocooned inside the warm bag, exhaustion quickly overcomes me, and I fall into a deep sleep despite the cold outside, the buffeting fist of the wind, and the fear of what will come tomorrow.

  The scream wakes me first.

  I open my eyes with shock to blackness and my mother desperately struggling with the zipper of her sleeping bag.

  “Edie! Wake up. Wake up,” she hisses.

  “I’m awake. I heard it,” I say as the screams continue.

  There’s shouting now too. I try to stand but the tent is too small so I bend over, frantically pulling at the zipper to open the bag and let me free. Oh God! Let me out. My fingers are clumsy in my panic and the zipper sticks. Calm down. Frustrated, I push the sleeping bag off my legs, wobble and knock into my mother as she pulls at the zipper of the tent flaps.

  “Ouch! Edie, steady on. I’m trying to get out of this blasted tent!” she whispers.

  “Careful Mum! We don’t know what’s out there.”

  “No, but I have to see what’s going o-”

  The words catch in her throat as she’s hauled out of the tent and then screams amid the thud of some unseen struggle. I stop for a second, my mind stuttering, unable to comprehend what is happening. She screams again and with it comes clarity. I grasp for the hunting knife strapped to my leg. It’s gone! I took it off. Stupid! I fumble again next to the sleeping bag, patting my hand about the cold ground sheet, desperate. Where is it? Another scream! Overcome with rage I scramble through the unzipped opening, lurching into the night.

  The moon casts enough light for me to see the greyed-out scene. A man has my mother by the hair and is pulling her to the ground. The thin scream of a child sounds high, grunts and shouts whirl in the darkness beyond. All that matters to me in this second is my mother. Her arms strike wildly at the unknown attacker. In the chaos a determined calm spreads through me. Squatting down, not taking my eyes from the man bearing down on her, I feel for the guide rope that anchors our tent into the ground. I slide my hand down to the wet soil. My fingers find the metal tent peg hammered there and I grasp the cold hook under my fingers, pulling it out of the soil and its nylon loop. Dagger in my fist, anger overwhelms me and I launch myself at the oblivious man, clutching at the wadded collar of his jacket, scraping my nails down the soft skin of his warm neck. He jerks with pain. I am unrelenting and stab at his shoulders. His upper body twists, one arm flailing back at me, the other still holding my mother down. The jacket is thick and my tent peg makes no impression. I grit my teeth, growling in my anger, clench the spiked rod hard and stab at the back of his head. He screams in pain, jerks with such force that I’m thrown to the floor, and snaps around to face me, my mother released from his grip. His face is thin, eyes slits and full of hatred as he clamps his hand over the back of his head. He raises his hands towards me; ten deadly fingers that want to snap my neck. I take a step back, wanting to turn and run, not wanting to leave this man with my mother. A knotted stump of bracken catches the heel of my boot and I fall back, slamming down onto the earth.

  “Edie, no!” my mother screams as he bears down on me.

  Hands grip the collar of my jacket and my back lifts from the ground. His face, a grimace of hate, sneers close as he pulls me to him. His breath heavy, his growl harsh. I flail, swinging my arms, battering them against his, making no impact against the thick wadding. He releases one hand from my collar and raises it. There is nothing but wracking pain as an iron fist crashes into the side of my head. As he
raises his fist to smash into me again, a dark mass, a blur of black, rushes in from the left. The mass crashes in, knocks us to the floor, and my collar is ripped from the man’s grip.

  Robin picks himself up and kicks out, his boot smashing into the man’s side. The man scrambles to his knees, steps back from Robin, raises his fists, and catches him across the jaw. He staggers then launches himself at the man. They’re locked in a tangle of fists and grasping hands, moving away from the camp, onto the moors and into the dark.

  The screams and the shouting seem less now and I look about, desperate to understand what is happening. All I can see are blurred figures moving about in the dark. Robin is lost to me. Following the shouts and thuds of their struggle, I stumble through the bracken. I have to help him. The noises stop and a figure stands, rising out of the bracken, ten feet away to my right. I squat low, waiting to see which of them it is. A voice, one I don’t recognise, shouts and the figure turns, listens for a moment, then runs like a shadow across the moors towards the voice. It’s not Robin.

  “Robin!” I call, my voice low, still wary. “Robin where are you?” Silence. I scour the bracken, calling his name, looking for anything that will give me a clue. Perhaps he passed me in the dark and he’s back with the others?

  “Edie!” my father calls. “Edie!”

  “I’m here. I’m over h-”

  I stumble, my boot caught beneath a mound and I fall, hands outstretched, into the scratching bracken. The mound is soft under my legs. Robin! I push off from the ground, forcing myself to crouch and feel across his body, trying to understand in this chaos which way he lies. I follow the zipper of his coat with my fingers up his chest and then to his shoulders and head. His face is deathly pale in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the black of the rough and scrubby bushes he lies in and the dark of his clothes. The black lashes of his sleeping eyes, laid against his pallid skin, look like hollows. He doesn’t move. I crouch down, put my hand to his cheek and stroke it. He’s warm, but unconscious.