“I won’t be controlled by that man!” my mother seethes with passion as we stand in the kitchen of our home, the early evening summer sun streaking through the glass, irritated mots dancing in the warmth.
“None of us will be, Celeste,” Jack says, the anger in his voice strong.
“We have to stop them,” Nathaniel adds, his jaws clenched.
“Perhaps we should leave?” I suggest, fear grinding at me as I remember his threat to visit us and teach us his version of obedience.
“No, we were here first,” Nathaniel states, “this is our home, not theirs.”
“We need to drive them out then,” I say, determined.
“Yes,” Conrad agrees, turning to me, “we’ll have to get rid of them. It won’t be easy though.”
My father sits, listening to our talk, but finally speaks up.
“The Primitives, or whatever this quasi-religious sect call themselves, are a real threat to our freedom,” he looks to my mother and puts an arm around her legs, “and our happiness,” he offers a tight, grim smile to her. “I thought we’d escaped them, coming here out into the moors, I thought it’d be far enough away, but obviously I was wrong. When we were in the towns the word was that they were pushing to gain territory and it looks like they’re set on making Bale part of that territory,” he says frowning.
A grim and brooding silence fills the small kitchen as my father’s words are understood.
“Well whatever their motives are for coming here we can’t stand by and let them take over this village and impose their rule over us,” Conrad urges.
“What do you suggest?” Jack asks, his face clouded with anger.
“We need to stand up against them. If we work together we can make them understand that we are not going to be a part of their sect,” my mother replies. “I can’t see them leaving, and we’re not strong enough to make them.”
“But they have to go!” I say, unable to stop the hatred I feel for Malachi and his guards spilling over. “They’re the men who killed the boy and took the girls in the town. They killed him right in front of me. Stabbed him through the heart. They were trying to run away from them,” I blurt, my emotions riding high, ready to burst over into tears.
My mother’s hand rests on my shoulder. “It’s OK, Edie. Calm down.”
“But it was them, Mum.”
“Yes, Edie,” my father responds softly. “We know. We know how dangerous they are, but they’re not going to leave just because we tell them to. They’re making it very obvious that they’re here to stay.”
Jack steps forwards. “We need to call the others together and stand up against them.”
“Yes,” replies my father, “but we must do it carefully. There are some in the village who already follow them and the newcomers, well, they seem already broken.”
A murmur of agreement in the room and a quiet falls among us.
“Who can be trusted?” I ask, thinking of the School Room and the villagers and the rapture on their faces as they listened to Malachi.
“Who do we know can’t be trus-” My father stops talking and frowns as he looks up towards the kitchen window; the sound of thudding large in the distance.
“What’s th-”
“Shh!” I hiss to Pascha, desperate to understand what is making the noise.
My father leans across the stone sink and peers out of the window, down the lane. The frown on his face deepens.
“Guards! About ten of them marching this way,” Jack exclaims pushing next to my father.
With Jack and my father at the window, I open the front door, anxious to see what the noise brings, and stand on the stone step looking down to where a brick of black-clad men strides forwards. Leading them is Malachi, malevolence oozing from each determined stride, walking stick gripped firm in his clenched fist. The harsh crunch of gravel beneath their boots scratches in the air.
“Meriall! Pascha! Come back. Close the door,” my mother shouts from behind, dread strong in her voice.
“I want to see where they’re going,” I say, resisting.
“I think they’re coming here,” Pascha returns.
“No! Get away from the door!” My mother is panicked now. “Quick. Close it. Lock it,” she orders.
I stand, eyes wide in disbelief, as Malachi makes a slight turn and leads the marching gang closer to our house. Shouts sound from the kitchen. I slam the door closed as Malachi turns to walk up the path, the guards stamping close behind him. I fumble for the bolt.
“The bottom one. Get the bottom bolt,” my mother shouts and I crouch down to slot the iron bar across as she slams the top bolt into place. The stamping of feet gets louder and then the door shakes under the force of banging, too hard to be the rap of knuckles. I dart back into the kitchen.
“Jack, take them out the back, keep them safe,” my father orders running to the door to hold it back. Jack herds Pascha and my mother along the hallway towards the back door.
The banging at the front grows more insistent.
“I’m not leaving you,” I shout out, unable to bear the thought of the guards grabbing him again.
“Edie, you have to be safe. Go with your brother,” he insists. I stand still, refusing to move. The sound of splintering wood cracks the air. “Go now!” he shouts, the edge of anger on his face.
I turn as the bolts finally give and run down the hallway to the back of the house. The heavy front door falls open behind me with a crash, splitting its hinges. As I push forward, reaching for the open back door, a dark shadow falls across the path outside. The harsh grip of fear digs its nails into my heart and I crash my shoulder into the wall, jarring my body to a halt. A figure in black steps forwards, blocks the doorway, and raises his leg to step inside the house. I’m trapped.
Chapter Eighteen
Hands grab my shoulders and fingers dig down into soft flesh as I’m yanked back into the hall. The figure outside, another guard, face set grim, steps up through the open doorway.
“Take her to the kitchen,” Malachi orders from the broken front door, his voice hard.
The vice on my shoulders makes me wince and the pain is unbearable, so I let the guard walk me into the kitchen without resisting.
“Dad!” I scream as I get to the doorway and see a guard pull his leg back to kick at my father as he lies on the ground. A foot slams into my father’s stomach. “No!” I shout as he goes to kick at him gain.
I drop as a deadweight, slip from the guard’s grip, lurch and fling myself forward, a barrier between the heavy boot and my father’s stomach. The pain in my scalp is immediate as the guard grasps for me, catches my long ponytail, pulls me back and hurls me across the room. Shoulder then cheek crash onto a cupboard and, as I slide down to the tiled floor winded and broken, the guard kicks my father onto the iron range. His body thuds, then drops to the floor and he lies unconscious, sprawled and defenceless. Black boots stand inches from his head as the guard watches for signs of movement. Satisfied when there is none, he turns and walks out into the hall.
“Stand at the door,” Malachi orders, “keep them in there whilst we do our job.”
The ricochet of pain in my head subsides and I crawl over to my father, watching for the rise and fall of his chest. He’s silent, but breathing. The knot in my stomach unwinds a little. He’s alive!
“Dad,” I whisper. “Dad! Can you hear me?”
Silence.
Crouching next to him, I stroke my hand across his cheek and thumb the fine ridges where lines are deepening around his eyes. “Dad!” I whisper again, still nothing.
Above me the floorboards creak and the kitchen lights judder with the vibrations of boots stamping across the upper floors. They’re in the bedrooms and it sounds like they’re pulling at the draws and dropping them to the floor. They must be searching through our stuff! Bewildered I sit and listen to the clumsy stamping and watch the light fittings shake. When the thudding starts in the hallway I have to see what they’re doing. I stroke my fat
her’s hair and bend to kiss him before making my way to the other side of the room. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I promise.
At the kitchen door, the guard has his back to me, but seems distracted with the activity in the hallway. Quietly, I step up behind him and crouch down, face pressed to the door jamb, to peer into the hallway. Books! They’re throwing books down the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase is a growing pile, spines splayed and broken. Another guard walks out of the living room, arms full. At the top of his pile sits one of my mother’s few treasures, a brightly painted wooden icon of Saint Catherine of Sienna. She keeps it on the mantelpiece in and it was the first thing she’d unpacked when we chose this house to live in. The painting is small, but precious, and I know it gives her strength. They can’t have it!
“No!” I shout in defiance. “You can’t take that.” He looks at me in surprise as I push out into the hallway, reach up and grab the icon. “This belongs to my mother. She needs it. You can’t have it,” I shout at him, my heart pounding, adrenaline fuelling my outburst of anger and resistance. I clutch the wooden plaque to my chest as a disbelieving frown creases his brows. He remains silent and then a smirk flickers across his face. My flesh creeps as I realise that he is smiling at something behind me. As I turn to look the warmth of sour breath brushes my right cheek and then a blur of black cotton reaches over and covers my shoulder as a body presses up against mine.
“I’ll take that,” Malachi rasps, his hands clasping the painted rectangle.
I grip it tighter.
“You want to do this the hard way do you?” he asks, his voice thick with malevolence.
“It’s my mother’s,” I insist.
“It was your mother’s,” he corrects. “Now it is ours. It is a forbidden object and one that must be destroyed,” he says as he grips my plaited hair.
“Forbidden!” I shout. “How can it be forbidden? Who are you to say that? You don’t have the right,” I insist, my anger overwhelming me, burying my fear.
“Now, now,” he returns, patronising, “we’re here to protect you, Edie. To save you from the harm that is outside. From the dissent and the terror that brought The Downfall.”
“Yes, but,” my resolve begins to stall as the dread of the wars that helped destroy us flicks at me, “but you can’t have this. She gives my mother hope. She prays to-”
“Ahh, now therein lies the rub, dearest. These beliefs that were held, they are the very sins that brought us all to our knees. It is time to wipe the slate clean. To learn afresh.”
“What has that got to do with a picture?” I ask, struggling against his grasp, not understanding his words. He coils my plait tighter about his hand. I flinch.
“The Primitives hold God’s knowledge. He has told us to spread his word. He has told us to wipe out all other knowledge so that Man can start again. Man must unlearn all the evil that brought him to his knees and be reborn. We are God’s chosen ones. The Elect are his elite. We’re here to teach you everything that you must know, to protect you from the evil that is inside you, and in the world outside. You are very lucky that I found you all here.”
“Pah!” I retort. The plait is coiled one more time about his hand. “Aagh! You’re hurting,” I shout as the pain shoots through my scalp.
He leans closer. “We must be obeyed, dear girl,” he whispers and snatches the icon from my hand. “Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect,” he says, vociferous, then pushes me forward onto the guard.
“Get the wretch back in the kitchen with Fletcher,” he says, scathing. “This time, make sure they don’t leave,” he orders as he strides down the hallway, “and get this lot to The Green.” He kicks at the books strewn there. “I’ll put this rubbish on the fire myself,” he says, looking at St. Catherine as he walks out of the back door, the gold leaf of the icon glinting in his hand as it catches the sun.
The light is fading as my father sits head in hands at our kitchen table. I pass him a cold cloth to press against the rising lump on his head and the swelling around his eye. We both tense to the sound of the back door opening then listen as the scuff of gritty shoes on tiles echoes in the quiet of the hall. Footsteps creep further into the house. I hold my breath and look about the kitchen for something heavy, something to protect us with. A large flat-based pan, black with use sits on top of the stove. I reach over and grab the metal handle. My fingers grip securely in its ridges. The pan scrapes across the metal hot-plate as I lift it, its heaviness straining at my wrist. Footsteps shuffle behind the kitchen door. The heavy pan is raised high above my head waiting.
“Edie,” my father whispers, standing at the corner of the table, kitchen knife clutched low at his side, “stand back a little or the door won’t open.”
Whispers in the hallway then the squeal of metal as the door knob is turned. A glint of reflected sun flickers as my father twists the knife, readying for the confrontation. I inch the heavy pan a little higher, the throb of my pulse loud in my head, my heart thudding in my chest. The door judders a little as it is pushed open, tight in its frame, the hinges creaking with disuse. My father raises the knife. Stops. Steps forward, and wraps his arms around my brother, the knife flat against Pascha’s back as he hugs him close.
“Tristan!” my mother sobs from the hallway. “Is Edie there too?”
“Yes, she’s here. About to crash a pan on your head, but she’s here,” he says, wry with relief.
I drop the pan onto the table and pull open the stiff kitchen door. My mother stands there, dishevelled, blonde hair wild about her face, shining pale in the gathering dusk. She looks to me. The remnants of horror flicker there for a moment then disappear as tears glisten then drop from her lashes. She pushes from behind Pascha, still held in my father’s embrace, and locks her arms around me too, squeezing her love and relief into me. She feels small and strangely fragile to me now and a pang of hurt sits in my heart.
“Flick the switch, son,” my father orders, relief mixed with anguish, giving Pascha a final squeeze about his shoulders. “The panels should have collected plenty of juice today and the batteries should be full.”
My brother pulls forwards and reaches for the light switch. Nothing. He flicks it up and down. Still nothing. My father frowns.
“I’ll check the boxes,” he says, his face serious. “There should be plenty of power.”
“Perhaps it’s a loose connection, love,” my mother suggests as he walks into the hallway.
“It’s not been loose since I rigged it all up,” he calls back then disappears out the back door and into the haze of summer’s twilight.
I follow him out to the garage where the bank of tall, glass-fronted black boxes sit hoarding the captured energy from the sun. The shining black glass of each one has been shattered and lies strewn in shards, mixed with their innards of wires, across the rough concrete floor. Each one has been gutted. My father stands rigid, the shards snapping beneath his boots, his face grim.
“They’ve destroyed it all,” he says, his voice rough. “They’ve ripped out every damned wire. They’ve trashed the lot.”
“You can fix it Dad,” I say hopeful, as I step into the garage, glass crunching beneath my shoes. “You put it all together, you can fix it too.”
“When I hooked them up, Edie,” he says turning to me, his eyes serious, “they weren’t broken. I rigged up the systems to give us more power, but the boxes-”
“Oh no!” my mother’s voice rasps behind me. “What have they done?”
“They’ve taken the light, Celeste. That’s what they’ve done,” he replies, his voice ominous. “They want us to live in the dark.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Have they emptied all the houses then?” my mother asks as Jack and my father return to the the kitchen the following morning.
“It looks that way,” replies my father, grim after his morning’s checking.
“They’ve destroyed every solar inverter too and all the storage systems?”
�
�All of them!” I blurt, despair nudging at me again.
“Does that mean we don’t have electric no more?” asks Pascha.
“That’s right lad. No more lights for us,” Jack replies.
“No more fridge or freezer neither,” adds my mother, “we won’t be able to keep the meat fresh.”
“We’ll just have to get it in the smoker, once it’s thawed,” my father responds, practical even in the face of disaster.
“How are the others?” my mother asks. “I saw Esther this morning. She came for my help. Nathaniel took it on himself to fight back and they knocked him about pretty bad.”
My stomach lurches at the mention of his name. “He’s hurt?” I blurt out and regret it immediately? My father looks at me with a curious eye and I can feel the sting of embarrassment smearing my cheek. Pascha sniggers. I glare at him. “Did anyone else get hurt?” I ask, trying to deflect attention from my outburst though desperate to leave the room and run to him.
“Yeah,” Jack replies, “there’s a lot of anger, but-”
My father nudges Jack and nods towards me and my brother. I have to know what he’s not telling us.
“But what Jack?” I blurt again.
“Edie! Mind your manners please,” my mother reprimands.
“Yes, Edie,” Pascha mocks. “We may be living tough, but we don’t need to talk rough,” he says, parroting her usual response to any rudeness.
“Kids! This is not the time,” my father scolds.
“I’m sorry Dad,” I say, “but I’m old enough to help now with whatever it is that you’re planning.”
“If we are planning anything Edie, you are far too young to be a part of it,” he replies with certainty.
“I’m seventeen, Dad!” I say with feeling. “I’m old enough to help. I want to get rid of Malachi and his men from the village. I want life to go back to the way it was before they turned up.”
Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1) Page 11
