Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “We all do, Edie,” he replies with understanding, “but they are ruthless. They want to control us all and will stop at nothing to do just that.”

  “But there has to be a way of fighting back!” I shout, fear and frustration getting the better of me.

  “Shh!” Jack hisses at me. “Keep your voice down lass,” he says stepping towards the kitchen window, checking to see if there is anyone who could have overheard me.

  I frown.

  “I’m not going to be controlled by them,” I blurt out.

  “Edie! Jack’s right. This isn’t a game. We’re going to have to be careful what we say from now on and I don’t just mean around them.”

  “We don’t know who we can trust, Edie,” my mother adds.

  “I know,” I say, despondent, “but Esther and Nathaniel, they’re OK aren’t they?”

  “Yes, love, Esther and Nathaniel are on our side,” she says with a speck of softness about her eyes, “but don’t talk to anyone else about Malachi and his guards, or the Primitives.’

  “Pah!” Jack almost spits. “The Primitives! Who the heck are they anyway? No religion I’ve ever heard of.”

  “I dunno, Jack,” my father responds. “Some bizarre quasi-religious sect that’s grown up out of the chaos. It doesn’t matter what they are, the problem is what they’re willing to do to get their own way. It seems they’ll trample on anyone who gets in their way.”

  “They’re in my way!” Jack retorts. “And they’d better move because I won’t be trampled by anyone,” he says with passion.

  “No,” my father agrees looking at my mother, “neither will I.”

  “Edie, love,” she breaks her gaze from my father and turns to me, “Annie needs milking. Pascha, go on and help your sister.”

  There’s little point in trying to stay and listen, they won’t talk in front of us, so I take Pascha and head for the field at the end of the garden where Annie is tethered and impatient, waiting to be relieved of her daily burden.

  The afternoon sun is hot on my neck as I kneel forward to pick weeds from the soil between the rows of carrots my mother is nurturing. Tiny green leaves and delicate flowers crush beneath my hand as I grab and pull them from the earth and throw them onto the growing heap of dying tendrils beside me.

  “You can eat them.”

  My heart thuds and tiny shocks scorch along my veins and into my fingers, the white petals trembling suddenly in my shaking hand.

  “Eat what?” I ask, nonchalant, trying to hide my confusion as I turn to Nathaniel, shielding my eyes from the brightness of the sun behind him. He stands in silhouette.

  “Those weeds—the ones you’re pulling up—you can eat them. It’s stellaria media.”

  “Sterlary what?”

  “Stellaria media. It’s the Latin name,” he laughs. “Chickweed. You can put the leaves in a salad and eat the flowers too.

  “Oh! I see,” I say, still flustered, opening my grip and looking down at the broken stems and crushed petals that lay there.

  He kneels down and picks up a handful of chickweed from the growing pile.

  “It’ll be OK if you wash it. You can have it for your tea,” he says with a smile, holding the clump of weed out to me.

  I hold my breath, the flutter of excitement I feel at his closeness making me heady. I reach out to take the weed, trying not to let my fingers touch his skin.

  “I’ll try that,” I say lamely, wishing I could think of something amusing in return. He smiles back at me and that’s when I notice it. A darkening bruise smeared across his cheek and the black stitches across his left brow. He notices my stare and puts his hand to his forehead.

  “Your mum—she patched me back up,” he says with a lopsided smile.

  “My mum did that? She never said,” I say, taken aback, realising how much she has hidden from me about what they suffered.

  “The Enforcers came to our house to take our books,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. “I couldn’t let them. My mother reads to us, at night, trying to make everything more normal, I guess. She says that there might not be any schools but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t learn.”

  “The Latin?”

  “Yeah, she even teaches us Latin. Well, tries to, from an old book of herbs. She teaches us everything she can remember and then we have—had—the books. There’s stuff in them about the world: kings and queens from centuries ago, cooking, philosophy, religions, wars, fairy tales, stories to just lose yourself in and … get away from this,” he says looking about him, his face dour.

  “Where’d she get them from?”

  “From the empty houses,” he replies, “We’ve all lost so much and she says reading helps keep her sane. I couldn’t let them take that joy from her,” he says, dabbing gently at his temple above the wound.

  “She made a neat job of it,” I say peering at the stitches.

  “Yes, she did. Listen, I came to see if you wanted to come foraging with me,” he says standing tall beside me. I can’t help but feel a tingle of excitement at his strength and its closeness beside me. “My mum said that this year everything is early so there may be some chartreus mushrooms ready.”

  “Something else I’ve never heard of!” I laugh. “What’s a chartreus mushroom when it’s at home.”

  “You’ll see,” he adds mysteriously.

  “You can’t do that!” I say laughing. “You can’t leave me hanging like that. I have to know.”

  “Come and find out then. Where’s Pascha?” he asks, and my heart sinks instantly.

  I thought it was just me you wanted. I suddenly feel foolish and tingles begin to prick at my cheeks.

  “He’s over there,” I point towards the field behind us, disconsolate.

  “Great! I’ll go tell him we’re off to the forest then go and get Meriall and Jey. Ok?” he asks, smiling down at me.

  “Yes, sure,” I reply, trying to hide my disappointment, cross with myself for being so stupid.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sound of shouting wakes me from my sleep as the first light of day pushes back the charcoal shadows in my bedroom. I lay quiet, my eyes searching the gloom, listening to the noise. It’s coming from outside, down the lane. I swing my legs over the bed, the cool of the wooden floor smooth against my bare feet, and stand confused. The noise doesn’t stop and there’s banging like metal on wood and stone. I grab my jeans from the pile of clothes dropped on the floor last night and pull them on, fumbling with the zipper and the button as fear begins to scratch at me. I run out to the landing just as my mother opens the front door and steps out into the dark of the morning.

  “Mum!” I shout down the stairs, “Mum, what’s going on?”

  “Stay there Edie. Watch Pascha,” she nods towards me, raising her brows, gesturing to my brother on the landing.

  “What’s going on, sis?” Pascha asks, rubbing his eyes.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Wait here,” I order.

  “But, that’s not fair,” he whines, taking another step towards me.

  “Just stay put, ok!” I insist as I run down the stairs and pull on my boots, “I’ll find out what’s going on, then I’ll be back,” I promise before I turn and run out of the door.

  The lane outside is empty, but a crowd has gathered further down the hill. The lights from the School House shine across the grass at its front, illuminating the figures standing there, the black-clad guards of the Primitives. Another group bars the gate. On the grass, half in the shadow, lie five men, pushed to the ground, hands being tied behind their backs. I push between the villagers, working my way to the front, closer to the grey stones of the wall. As I watch, the men are yanked roughly to their feet, kicked when they try to resist. I look on with dread as I recognise Jack, then Conrad, Clement, and Patrick. The fifth remains in the shadows, but as he steps forwards an unbearable horror falls over me. The fifth man is my father.

  “Dad!” I scream, unable to control myself.

&nbs
p; I push out into the space between the villagers and the guards, my heart pounding, desperate to reach him. A guard moves towards me, black club raised to force me back. The crowd is growing noisy and a surge pushes me further towards him. His stick crashes down catching my shoulder. I stagger under its force, the pain heavy and sharp. My anger rises. You will not stop me. Darting away from him, I miss the blow aimed at my head. It catches my boot, too late to damage me and I push forward, powering my thighs as I run to the garden wall, and grab hold of the rough stone toppers there. The first one loosens and falls as a dead weight to my feet, hitting my thigh as it tumbles. I ignore the pain and grab again for the top stone and dig my foot into the gaps between the stones. In one powerful, swift movement I am over the wall and thud onto the dew-wet grass. Ahead of me stands my father, arched backwards by the guard behind him, holding down his tied wrists. Nothing matters to me now but reaching him. I run through the low haze of morning fog, and launch myself at the guard, powering all of my energy into my calves and thighs. He looks up just as I am upon him, arms raised, fists clenched. Yes, see me. I am here. I land heavily with all my weight, all my life force, and knock him to the floor. He pulls my father down with him.

  At the edge of my awareness I hear a woman screaming my name, but there is nothing other than the guard and his hands clutching at the rope that binds my father’s wrists. I dig my nails into the soft flesh of his hand, feeling the bones there, but his grip remains firm. He moves under my weight, trying to push me off and I pummel my fists at his head and scratch and claw at his face. I have no voice only rage. His hands turn to me now.

  “Run, Dad! Run!” I shout, desperate for his freedom.

  The guard grabs my arms, his grip strong, painful as he squeezes the muscles of my forearms. I try to push against him but he is too strong. Kicking at him, I stamp at his body with every ounce of power I have. He buckles and pushes me away with such force that I crash backwards, smashing my shoulder and back to the stone slabs that circuit the house. A hand reaches down and grabs my hair, excruciating pain across my scalp forces me to follow the grip and stand tall to relieve the pain. My father is on his knees, face to the grass, A guard kicks at him.

  “Take them to the cellar,” Malachi’s voice sounds out behind me, thick with malevolence, “and the girl—take her down too.”

  A hand pulls me forward, tight around my hair. I clasp my hands to my head to stop the pulling of my scalp and the ripping of my hair and bend, following the black boots. Light shines on the black and white tiled floor of the hallway of the School House. As I try to stand, the grip on my hair tightens and my head is pushed further towards the floor. I can see nothing but the black of the guards’ boots and the scuffed leather of Jack’s. Where is he? Head locked down, I scan the floor, searching for him. The School Room door slams shut behind me and the grip on my hair releases a fraction, just enough for me to move my head, just enough to see the familiar scuffed and over-worn brown boots of my father.

  A clank of metal, a latch clicked upwards, and the door sitting inside the wooden panels under the staircase opens to show a single wooden step. The stench of earthy decay seeps into my nostrils as I’m pulled across the hallway to the edge of the hole. A click. Light fills the void, revealing steps, worn to soft roundness at their edges, and damp-ridden, white-washed walls. Hair gripped firm, I’m forced to step in time behind my guard. The steps are littered white where paint has flaked in the damp. The earthy dankness greases my cooling skin.

  As I take the last steps to the uneven bricks of the cellar floor, I’m pulled and turned to face the wall. A rag of thick cotton is strapped across my nose and mouth. Struggling, I push at the cloth, frantically shaking my head, desperate to keep my nose and mouth uncovered, terrified they will suffocate me. The cloth is pulled tighter. I open my mouth to scream my defiance and the cloth is yanked between my teeth and tied tight. I can breathe again and fill my lungs with huge gasps. The panic subsides, but fear churns inside me and I sit holding myself tight. Facing the wall, I can only hear the muffled struggles of the others. Terror strips through me as a rough bag is slipped over my head and a vice of fingers squeezes my shoulder, pressing me to the ground. I obey this silent command and crouch down then slide to the floor, sitting cross-legged as the cold of the bricks makes me shiver.

  Black becomes grey as my eyes adjust, but the fabric of the bag is too closely knit to let me see. Minutes then hours pass in darkness and the grey of my vision turns black as night descends. Sleep is fitful, consciousness ebbs and flows until oblivion claims me and I sleep in a film of cold sweat that is dank on my skin. I wake to the thud of boots on the steps into the cellar and the sour stench of fear. In the distance, comes the sound of scraping and knocking, and the clank of metal.

  Outside, still hooded, the warmth of the sun sits on my back as I’m pushed forward down the steps of the School Room’s garden gate onto the gravel of the lane, then forced to turn left. Voices mumble low ahead of me and feet shuffle behind me. Where it was black, my world is grey again, but without sight the world seems louder. The muffled voices grow in discontent as I’m guided forward by a steel grip on my upper arm and I realise we must be walking out of the village. I recognise the slope of the lane as it approaches the great ash, and imagine its thick bough stretching out across it. We stop and I’m shunted into another body. Conrad, my father, Patrick, Clement? I can’t tell.

  “No. Not there. Pull her back. She can watch.”

  “Walk back, girl,” my guard orders, pulling at my arm again. I step back and stand with him, shoulders taught, head low, fear making me stiff, ripping at my belly.

  The sound of steps on wood and the murmur of voices quiets, there’s a moment of silence and then Malachi speaks.

  “Our world has been destroyed,” he pauses for effect, “but God has delivered a new message of hope.”

  “Yes!” a woman’s ecstatic voice cries out behind me.

  Malachi continues. “The Primitives are the bearers of this new message and it is their duty to ensure that all the people of England bow to His will.” Discontented mumbling mixes with consenting voices. “I know that you struggle, for I have struggled too, but God showed me the right path.” Another pause. “Now your struggle is at an end, for God, in his mercy, has brought me to you so that I can teach you His Rule as shown to the Founding Fathers. If we are to live again in peace, we must all accept responsibility for The Downfall and we must all bow down to God’s new Rule.” Again the crowd is restless, but then grows silent.

  “As is written in the Rule, all the people of England must submit to the Primitive Way and, as such, the village of Bale is now under the rightful jurisdiction of the Primitive Elect.” Questioning murmurs, uneasy voices, but no resistance. “As part of the Primitive territory, Bale is subject to it laws.” Another pause. “These men,” he raises his voice, “have committed a crime. They have plotted rebellion against us and are therefore traitors. As such they must be punished.” A cheer from the crowd mixed with a dark rumbling. He continues. “You may look upon these men as your leaders, but I am here to tell you that they are dissenters, rebels who have no place in our new England.”

  “Hang them!” a lone voice shouts from the crowd.

  “They are the very people who brought about The Downfall and so must be eradicated.”

  “No!” a woman’s voice. My mother.

  “All must bow to the Rule.” Malachi shouts back, anger rising. “Dissent will not be tolerated. Praise be to the Elect.”

  “Praise be to the Elect,” is the fervent response.

  “Sentence has been passed.”

  The hood is pulled from my head. I screw my eyes shut against the sun, then look out to the scene before me. Desperate to see my father, I search him out first. He stands, head uncovered, hands bound, gag fixed firmly between his teeth. Even now he stands tall, shoulders back as though untouchable by fear. I follow his gaze to the crowd where my mother stands ashen, her arms wrapped around Pascha
, holding him tight, his face hidden in the soft wool of her jumper. Jack, Clement, Patrick and Conrad all stand with him.

  Hate spreads through every cell in my body as I see Malachi under the tree’s spreading canopy, elevated above the crowd on a makeshift podium, but next to him is a sight that fills me with gut-wrenching horror; four ropes hang from the tree’s massive bough and in the middle of the road, raised on a wooden stand, thick with cut branches and twigs beneath, is a metal cage.

  “Bring the traitors forward.”

  My legs tremble, then buckle and I scream in rage as my father is pushed forward and forced up the steps of the makeshift stand, the doors of the cage locked behind him. I collapse to the ground. The acrid stench of burning cloth hits me before I see the guard carrying the lit torch. I begin to drown in the waves of intense cold crashing over my body. My father looks to me from the bars of the cage and nods, the lines of age crinkling around his eyes, even now giving me his strength. Intense and blinding light fills my vision then the world becomes black.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Are you ready?” Nathaniel asks, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. I nod, quiet, head dumbed and blank with pain, unthinking. The leaf-green wool of his sleeve snags as he pulls back a little, the snap of yarn loud to my ears, yet his voice distant, muffled. I walk towards him vacant. He takes my hand in his and pulls very gently forward, guiding me through the door and out into the bright afternoon sun. A villager, hands dirty with labour, back bowed with the weight of the logs slung across his back, walks past the garden gate, oblivious to my anger. How can the sun shine when the darkness in my heart is so strong? When my pain is so raw? All I can think to do is claw at the earth and the sky with my rage and dig my nails deep into Malachi, scorch his flesh with the fire and pain of my hatred. The villager tramps further down the road as I stare past him, beyond the School House, beyond the lane, beyond, to … to the blur of scorched tarmac and the tree overhanging there. My heart breaks again as agony rips at it. My ribs stiffen with the pain until my breath stops.