“Robin! Robin wake up. It’s me.”
No response. I gently pass my hand over his hair and a warm stickiness seeps onto my fingers. I look down horrified at the black mess on my fingers. Blood!
“Robin,” I whisper.
He lies completely still. No! You can’t be. I lean forward, my ear to his face, waiting for the sound of his breath, desperate for its soft warmth on my cheek. Nothing. No sound, no warmth, no breath. He has gone. I reach for his hand and rub its cooling skin against my cheek then let the pain overwhelm me. Rest in peace beloved.
Chapter Nine
A low fog hangs just above the rough grass and dying bracken of the moorlands as I sit on my re-filled rucksack. I’m hunched, hood pulled forward and damp with the clinging mist, holding myself tight. The ache in my chest each time I breathe brings with it a pain that I have never felt before. Robin is gone. My eyes burn with the tears cried through the night and a heavy ache sits tight across the back of my head, a steady, but intense pressure that dulls my senses.
The sound of scraping sits at the edge of my consciousness. It has been there for hours, sounding out across the moors, loud in the silence of despair as the darkness of night fades to morning. The men moving rhythmically forwards then backwards are grim figures in the hanging mist as they dig out the shallow grave. The thought of leaving Robin here is unbearable so I block it out and tighten my arms around my knees, pushing my face down onto their bones so that all is black.
“Edie,” a hand sits heavy on my shoulder. “It’s time,” my father says, his voice hoarse, his face strained with emotion and smeared with soil.
A sob rises up from deep within in me as he pulls me into his arms and holds me tightly to his chest. “We have to stay strong, Edie. Robin would want you to be strong now, to help us all get to safety.”
I squeeze him then take a deep breath, settling myself. “I know,” I say quietly and begin the short walk to the pit where Robin lies silent. His mother kneels quiet at his side, ashen and motionless, locked into her grief. As we gather together my father speaks of Robin, of his goodness and his loyalty, of his strength and his kindness. My mother crouches, reaches across his silent body and pulls his hat down low, covering his eyes and then his lips. We all take a handful of earth and scatter it across his body. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
As we pack up our remaining belongings snow begins to fall. I look to the sky and let the crystals fall onto my face. They burn with cold against the soreness of my cheeks, but I welcome the pain. Moving away from the moor to the road, I take one last look into the bracken where the dark soil has been overlaid with its browning, withering fronds and say my last goodbye. I don’t want my last view of Robin to be a sad one so I think back to the first tender kiss we shared and remember its warm pressure against my lips. Goodbye, my love. Tears well in my eyes, but I breath deep, push the emotion down, step away from the moor and onto the road. Ahead of me Margret, Robin’s mother, walks hand in hand with my own. Pascha loops his arm through mine and leans into me. Robin’s death has been hard for us all.
The hills become steeper as we trek into the heart of the moors, the sky opaque above us and the winding road speckled white as the snow begins to lay.
“The snow’s coming in from the north,” my father calls, looking to the sky. “We need to cut across the moors.”
“Cut across?”
“But, we’ll get lost!”
“We need to cut across. The snow’s coming in and have we to get to Hawdale as quick as we can. Cutting across is the quickest route. We’ll take the high tracks. The old drove paths that people used to walk are still there. We can follow those,” he replies.
With a mumble of agreement, we move off the road, onto the rough grass of the moors and head for the higher land where the old paths wind through the hills. Hours pass as we climb higher and the snow falls gently, sitting in gathering layers across the top of my boots, and clinging to the band of my woollen hat. As we reach the peak, the trail becomes lost to the thickening snow. Ahead there is woodland on the steep hillside and beyond that, a solitary farmhouse, a plume of grey smoke rising from its chimney.
“You see that house?” my father calls back to us. “Below that is Hawdale. It’s hidden by the trees, but it’s there.”
“Did you hear that Bella? We’re nearly there!” Agnes says to her daughter as the child clings to Conrad’s back, his turn now to carry the burden.
She smiles at her mother through her snow covered hood and points to the house in the distance. “Yes, that’s right, over there. We’ll be warm soon.”
We push on, energy renewed by hope, and follow my father into the woodlands that hides Hawdale from us, thankful for its cover as the snow begins to whirl. The trees stretch up into the hill as we climb higher and the sound of rushing water becomes louder. Water, clear and icy cold, slips over black rocks and crashes down into the river below that divides the hills. We follow its banks, until the trees give way to open fields, and before us sits a horseshoe of five houses, gardens backing into the steep hills that surround them, smoke curling up from the chimney of each home. They sit like tightly closed boxes partially hidden, white where the snow has blown against their grey blocks. A tiny flame of hope kindles in my heart as I look to the black windows sat square in the stones of the houses. They stare back, blank.
As we make our way down the steep slope towards the cottages the wind picks up and snow begins to swirl wildly. The wind spits snow at my face and snowflakes blot my view as they land on my lashes and a crust of white builds on my coat as frozen crystal locks together. I take one last look at the houses before putting my head down against the wind. A figure, pale against the dark of the room, framed by the heavy grey blocks, stands at the window of the second house.
“Look!” I call to Pascha, stopping to wait for him to reach me, “there’s someone at the window.”
“Looks like two,” he replies peering out into the snow.
“You’re right. They’re girls aren’t they?” I say, wiping at the snow falling over my eyes. “And they’re waving!” A smile rises to my numbed lips and I raise my arm, stiff with snow and cold, to wave back. They turn suddenly, looking back into the room and then disappear as the curtain is drawn across the window. My heart sinks and the hope I’m clinging to, that we’ll be welcome here, begins to fade. If they’re closing their curtains against us, what hope do we have of their doors being open?
“Why did they do that?” Pascha asks, the dismay evident in his voice.
“I dunno,” answers Agnes despondent, “I guess they don’t want us here.”
“Hey no! It doesn’t mean that. They’re afraid, that’s all. Wouldn’t you be if you saw a whole load of people coming at you through a blizzard from the middle of nowhere?” I say, desperate to cling onto the thoughts of blazing fires and warm drinks that have kept me company until now.
“I hope so, Edie,” Pascha returns.
“Well, whatever happens we’ve got to try,” I say trying to boost him. My hope may be sinking fast, but I won’t let him know that and I don’t want Pascha to worry any more than he already is. As we work our way down the steep hill towards the stone walls that mark the boundaries of each back garden, I check at the windows for other, friendlier, faces. They all remain empty.
To get inside the village we have to walk behind the houses and their stonework garden walls. The place where the field and the road meet is marked by a rusting, barbed wire fence. My father and Conrad are the first to reach it and stamp the harsh wire down with their heavy boots until it snaps and we can step easily over it and onto the road. We trudge, numb with cold and exhaustion to the first house. Our journey is over. We’re here, but the doors remain closed.
“What now?” Conrad asks my father as they stand shoulder to shoulder, eyes searching the stillness of the village.
“We wait a moment, let them come to us,” he states, “we may scare them otherwise.”
We stand and wait
as the wind sweeps in from the steep hills, pushing between the cold stone walls, spitting the snow in wild swirls. A curtain twitches and a pale face peers half-hidden from the ground floor window of the first house then disappears. My hope sinks a little lower and I turn to Pascha.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turn back to the house, expecting to see a child peering out, unable to resist their curiosity. It’s a woman and she’s smiling!
Tap. Tap. Tap. Again. Insistent.
She’s at the window of the second house, tapping at the glass and waving frantically. I stare at her, joy surging through me, and raise my arm to wave back just as the door is flung open. A man, his face mostly hidden by long dark hair and a full black beard, leans out, eyes wide in disbelief. “Tristan! Tristan, is that you?” he shouts through the swirling snow.
“Hah!” my father exclaims in relief. “Yes, it is.”
“Get them in Benet! They must be frozen.” The woman at the window is behind the man at the door now, standing on tiptoes to see over his shoulder. She pushes past as he blocks the doorway, stuffing her feet into the thick walking boots she’s carrying. The ponytail of her long brown hair swings about her face as she bends down to pull them and then she steps out into the snow, laces untied, to greet us. Snow clings to her leaf green jumper instantly.
“Sara!” my mother exclaims stepping forward and into her open arms.
“Oh my goodness. Celeste! Come on in. Let’s get you warm,” she says, with concern. “All of you. Come in,” she shouts across to the others. As I stand knocking as much snow off my coat and boots as I can, the doors of the other cottages begin to open. Some stand and gawp, but a few villagers step out into the snow and walk across to us.
Inside the cottage, I stand at the doorway to the living room, tentative, not wanting to step inside with my snow-wet boots onto the carpet.
“It’s alright, lovey, we’ll take your coat and boots,” Sara says gently. “Don’t worry about the snow. The carpet will clean. Go on in and get warm,” she urges close to my ear.
With a gentle shove I’m pushed over the threshold and move towards the fire pulling Pascha with me. I look back to Sara, to smile my thanks, but she disappears behind the group gathered there, all desperate to feel the warmth. A happy relief begins to fill the room as I pull off my gloves and stretch my frozen fingers out towards the heat of the flames dancing in the fire. Tingles shoot through my fingers as they begin to thaw and my face flushes with the heat. Other children are pushed forward too and I step back a little to let them feel its warmth and watch as Agnes pulls off Bella’s tiny gloves and pushes her hands, palms up, towards the fire. Her face is red from the cold, but glowing now with the heat and she smiles, mesmerized by the dancing flames.
“Where are we going to stay? This village is full already,” I hear one of the others say.
“I’m sure Tristan will know,” another answers.
“How can he know? He’s in the same state as we are: homeless and hopeless,” the man replies scathing. “We could have died!”
“But we didn’t. Tristan got us here!”
“Yeah, but nearly half dead!”
I can’t listen anymore and turn on the man. “If we’d stayed, those gangs would have robbed us of everything we had. Maybe killed us too.”
“We could have died, out there on those moors,” he repeats, the look of defiant shame creeping onto his face.
My anger rises, furious at him. “My dad got us here. We survived. That’s what matters. Robin’s dead because those men attacked us and that’s what’s waiting for us back home. We can be safe here, safe because my dad brought us.”
“Hey!” my father’s voice sounds out behind me. “Calm down, Edie,” he says putting his arm around my shoulder. “We’re all tired. People are scared, but we’re all going to be OK.”
“But he’s right, Dad,” I say quietly, calmer for his reassurance, but still anxious. “Where are we going to stay? There’s only a few houses here and people are living in them already.”
“Don’t worry love,” he says gently. “I’ve been talking with Benet. There’s a village about five miles away. It’s mostly deserted—just a few families there—there’ll be plenty of space.”
“Five miles away!” I say crestfallen. “We’re all too tired to walk another five miles in the snow.”
“We’re going to stay here tonight. Set off tomorrow.”
“Did I hear that right?” asks Agnes a look of disbelief on her worn face. “We’re walking another five miles.”
The babble of voices in the room grows silent and all eyes turn to my father. He stands tall, confident, and I marvel at how, after everything we’ve been through he still looks so strong and unbeaten.
“We’ve had a tough journey so far, I know. We’ve all had to struggle to get here. Some of us have suffered more than others,” he says with compassion as he looks to Margret, “but we still have further to go.”
A murmur begins to rise across the room. “Where? Where are we supposed to go?” demands Margret, belligerent, angry.
“Bale. It’s a village five miles down the road. There are empty houses and woodland round about. Winter will be hard, but it’s our only choice.”
“We can’t go now. We’re all exhausted.”
“No, not now. We’re all too tired and it’ll be dark soon. Thankfully, villagers have agreed that we can stay here tonight. We’ll head for Bale in the morning.”
Chapter Ten
Morning comes after a night of sleep interrupted by dreams of Robin reaching to me from the darkness, fingers stretching through the bracken. I wake to a cold sweat of fear. Across the room, curled in their shared bed are Joie and Ellin, the daughters of Sara and Benet. Clinking and low voices sound from downstairs. I pull back the layers of sheets and the thin, pink-chequered duvet and sit for a moment on the edge of the mattress, my legs pulled up to keep them from the floor. The girls lie quite still, their lips pink and lashes dark against pale skin, curling blonde hair entangled, spreading free across pillowslips. I watch for their breath. It comes steady and effortless as they sleep. Satisfied, I reach for my jeans, slipping them over my legs and thighs, the fabric cold on my warm skin. The belt pulls in another notch over my hip bones and the fabric hangs loose, in folds across my stomach.
A creak from the other bedroom. I stop to listen, to know who else is awake. A noise from the corner. Across the greyed-out room, Bella and her mother lie curled together, the tiny child cocooned there. I pull on a roll-neck over the t-shirt I wore to bed and then another layer before treading carefully across the room to the landing. Through the open door of Isacke’s room Pascha’s brown-blonde tousled hair peeks from beneath a dark star-sprinkled duvet of rockets and moons. At the other end of the bed, Isacke lies in sleep, rockets pulled up around his chin. I tread past, bootless, each step light, each step pressing on bare floorboards and down the stairs.
Voices speak softly from within the kitchen, mixed with the sound of movement, of pans and plates, knives and forks. I stand outside the closed door, listening. The voices are quiet, but I recognise them; my father and mother and perhaps Sara and Benet too.
“Magnus was concerned enough to leave.” My father.
“Magnus isn’t one to overreact.” Benet.
“No,” my father’s voice is dour. “We’ve been tracking them for a while, keeping in touch with the other groups with Magnus and Coulter too. The stories were the same. This gang is ruthless and they’re greedy, pushing in from the South Peaks, further into the towns, and taking control of the few poor sods left there.”
“Edie and Robin-,” my mother’s voice catches, “Edie and Robin saw them kill a boy. They stabbed him in cold blood and left him to die. They dragged the girl away. The strange thing was that the boy and girl were tattooed, like the gang members. Edie said the tattoos looked fresh, still had red around them, where the skin hadn’t settled.”
“They must have been trying to escape then,” adds Sara.<
br />
“They’re different from the others. They’re not just after provisions like the scavengers—they want to take control. The last time I talked to Magnus he said they had a base in the South Peaks and were recruiting for soldiers,” my father adds.
“Soldiers! Are there enough people left to fight?” Benet asks.
“There are pockets left but not much fight left in anybody. We’re all the same as you—struggling to get through each day, find enough to eat and keep ourselves safe.”
“Yes, it’s a struggle, but at least the only thing we have to worry about round here is the foxes getting at the chickens,” Sara adds.
“Roast fox sounds good!”
“Yes,” my mother sighs. I imagine her smiling at Benet’s quip. “It was a risk coming up here. We didn’t know if you’d still be here, or what state we’d find you in, but it was a risk we had to take. The towns were dangerous enough, but this new crew, well, they add another dimension entirely. When we realised our camp had been discovered, we just couldn’t risk staying there any longer.”
“What about the other groups?” Benet asks. “Coulter and Magnus? Did they leave.”
“I only know that they were planning on it. The last time I saw them they were getting ready and talking about going north, up to the Dales.”
“What’s up in the Dales?”
“Lenix Carstowe. The last I heard he’d taken control up there. They thought he could offer them safety.”
“Why didn’t you head up that way then?”
“For one thing it was only talk. They didn’t know for sure if Clarstowe was up there. For another, it’s a hell of a long way to the Dales on foot in the winter. We stood a better chance of surviving coming here.”
A chair scrapes across the floor.
“We need to get up to Bale. I’d best go and wake the others, now the kettles on.”
Footsteps towards the door and I quickly run a few steps up the stairs and turn as the kitchen door is opened.
Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1) Page 6
