“Edie. It’s time. Let’s go.”
I gasp for breath and nod, unable to speak, grief blocking my throat.
Nathaniel squeezes my hand. I feel the outline of his grip, the smoothness and firmness of his skin, and his comfort.
“Let’s walk,” he urges.
I follow, walking as he does, eyes to the ground, seeing only the black tarmac rolling out before me. We near the corner of the School House wall and a tremble of weakness shifts through my legs. I stumble.
“It’s ok, Edie,” Nathaniel soothes, “I’m here.”
He knows. He knows I need him to be this way—here for me, his soul in tune with mine. I take a deep breath, pushing down the fear that is building within me, making my innards queasy. Nathaniel squeezes my hand as we walk past the School House gate and I hear him repeat ‘I’m here. It’s ok. I’m here’ though his voice is distant, muffled, as I stare blankly towards the threshold of the town and the huge ash tree that grows there.
With each step I take, my heart bangs with great, desolate thumps. I want them to crush me, take me into their darkness and obliterate the pain. The tree in the distance grows larger with each step I take, its leaves greener, until I can see the tracks of its bark along the climbing trunk, dark honeycombs edged with green. I look up into the overhanging branches as I stop beneath. They reach out, divide, and search blindly for the sun, their crooked silhouettes twisting and tapering into a thousand brittle twigs littered with flittering green leaves. A gust of wind, whipped in from the sunburned moors, strokes at my cheek. The tree rustles. Its heavy burden creaks and swings dark above me. The square base of the iron cage held there by chains wrapped around the overhanging branch. Dust, white and ashen, twirls and falls then disappears into the browning grass. Unbearable loss burns in my heart. I’m overwhelmed by its pain and weakness again quakes through me. I stagger then fall to my knees, bending over myself, hugging myself tight, my cheek against the warm grass and the scratching trunk. The pain that grips itself about my heart thuds and tightens.
“Daddy,” I whisper, “Daddy, come home. Come back to me.”
A surge of pain fractures my heart and the tears that were locked inside fill my eyes and tip over my lashes, wetting my face, wetting my hair. I cling to the tree, its roughness scratching at my soft skin and feel the hollows in the bark. Creamy hollows, stark against the greened trunk. Fresh hollows of etched graffiti carved deep into its bark. I wipe the tears from my eyes to see clearly what my fingers are stroking. Arrows—some straight and feathered some circles with arrowhead and fletching in never ending flight. Symbols of anger and undying love, of hope and resistance pledged in its wood.
I turn to Nathaniel crouched beside me, and smile.
“He’s here,” I say, stroking the tattooed bark, “here in the wood—forever. And he’s here,” I add, pressing my hand to Nathaniel’s heart, “in all of us, forever.”
The clack of hooves breaks into my awareness.
“Stand up girl!” Malachi’s harsh voice cuts through to me, shunting me back to reality, his face contorted with disgust. “This is the daughter of their leader,” he says, turning to the grim figure next to him, “Tristan Fletcher. He got what he deserved. He’s there now,” he adds with spite, pointing to the cage swinging in the boughs above.
“Ah! Fletcher, yes, the dissident,” the man replies, his black stallion shifting under him.
“A dissident!” I shout, unable to control my anger. “He was my father. He was protecting us from monsters, he wa-”
“Shut up girl and listen to me,” the man, starched white collar tight beneath his chin, scowls down at me. I clench my fists as his voice cuts into me.
“Your father deserved what he got.”
The red haze of anger overcomes me and I reach down and grasp the branch lying next to my feet. Its rough bark digs into my skin as I tighten my grip.
“He led a rebellion and was justly execut-”
I strike at him with the full force of my rage. Barbs of fractured wood tear through the softness of his cheek. He screams as the horse rears. I revel in his pain and watch as blood seeps through his gloved fingers. Malachi grabs hold of the horse’s reigns as it skitters. The injured man writhes in agony in his saddle. As he comes back to awareness he scowls at me through his pain.
“This one needs breaking, Brother Malachi,” he seethes. “See to it that happens, “he says, voice loaded with threat. “The Fletchers will learn to obey.”
“They certainly will, Watcher Craslow. They certainly will,” is Malachi’s ominous reply as he turns the horses back to face the village.
The story continues in Book 2 of the Dark Powers Rising series, PRIMITIVE
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rebecca Fernfield is the author of the Primitive series. You can find her online home at www.rebeccafernfield.com. You can connect with Rebecca on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/rebeccafernfield. She loves getting to know her readers and you should send her an email at [email protected] if the mood strikes you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With enormous thanks to my amazing beta readers and launch team:
Su Zu Abd Rahman, Hannah Allwright, Juli Baldwin, Belinda Bekker, Viky Berry, Gaynor Bowen, Zoe Campbell, Amy Caswell, Sunayana Clark, Cathy Clowes, Gemma Davies, Julie Docherty, Jodie Duncan, Emma Fitzgerald, Kirsti Ford, Sarah Fengler, Lucy Fox, Katie Gannon, Charlotte Gregory, Melissa Hart, Sarah Hopper, Zoe Huteson, Catherine Jackson, Michaela Knight, Kay Lacey, Victoria Lofthouse, Christine Mackay, Claire Melvin, Margaret Ann Merrick, Andrea Moorcroft, Julie Neilson, Laura Nicol, Jayne Patricia, Deborah Price, Diane Purdy, Sarah Robinson, Michele Church Ridland, Mhairi Roberts, Carolyn Savage, Rachel Squire, Debbie Shaw, Sarah Jane Stewart, Debbie Storey, Kitty Florentia Schwichiski, Jenna Symons, Carrie Taylor, Emma Thorpe, Fiona Ward, Sue Wilsea, Jo Wilson.
COPYRIGHT
A Redbegga ebook.
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by REDBEGGA LIMITED
Ebook first published in 2017 by REDBEGGA LIMITED
Copyright REDBEGGA LIMITED
Cover design by Bukovero
The moral right of Rebecca Fernfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patens Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1) Page 13
