Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Isn’t it weird that we never see them?” she said, suddenly consumed by a sense of mystery.

  “I have,” Matthew said loftily. “A few times, swishing around in massive cars. The father’s abroad a lot.”

  “How d’you know?” said Lucas.

  Matthew shrugged. “I know everything.”

  Rosie studied the Manor, shivering to think of it standing empty, haunted. “Are they like us? Old blood?”

  “So Dad says.” Matthew looked at the sky. “It’s going to piss down. Let’s go back.”

  He jumped off his rock, hitting the ground with a flat-footed thud. Rosie and Lucas struggled to keep up with his long strides. She grabbed her little brother’s hand and pulled him along. “Matthew! Wait for us!”

  Suddenly he was out of sight and the footpath was unclear. There were vague tracks forking through the bracken, some young birch trees in front, more rocks to their right. She started to feel nervous. Which way had he gone?

  Don’t cross the stream, she heard her father saying. Our neighbors are very private and it may not be safe.

  Two shadows appeared, drifting towards her through the birches. They seemed to come in slow motion. Rosie was paralyzed. Two skinny figures in dark clothes, with bright hair blowing behind them. At first she thought they were ghosts or elementals from the Dusklands, menacing; then—she didn’t know.

  Lucas clung tight to her hand. The figures came on, confident, threatening. Two boys. One was close to her age but the other looked as old as Matthew, a lithe teenager with a harsh face and bright sea-green eyes.

  “Where d’you think you’re going?” said the older one. The smile that played on his face chilled her. Mocking, probing.

  “Nowhere. Home,” said Rosie.

  “You’re on our father’s land, you know,” said the younger boy, in a precise tone. He hung back, not glaring at her as the older boy did. His eyes were brown, his face softer, more aloof than aggressive.

  “Yes, you’re trespassing,” said the green-eyed one. “You want to know what we do to trespassers on the Wilder estate?”

  Rosie pushed Lucas behind her. “No,” she said, trying to sound brave. “We don’t mean any harm. We got lost.”

  “That was careless. There’s a price to pay.” The cold eyes glinted with cruelty and she knew a terrifying game was being played that could only end in pain and humiliation. The boy slipped a fingertip under her beloved new pendant. Tears of rage oozed onto her lashes, but she daren’t breathe or speak. “This is nice,” he purred.

  “HEY!” The shout came from a few yards away. Matthew appeared over the shoulder of the hill near the rocks. He came charging at them like an enraged ram and his voice was as gruff as a man’s. “You get away from them!”

  The taller boy legged it. He barged past Rosie and as he went, he grabbed the silver chain and jerked it so hard it burned into her neck as it broke. She yelled in pain. He was gone, running madly along the slope of the heath with her precious crystal heart in his hand. She heard his mocking laughter.

  Through her tears, Rosie saw her brother come rushing up and knock the younger boy onto his backside. “You little shit!” he yelled. Then, after the thief, “You! I’ll get you for this!”

  The answer came as a fading echo. “You and whose fucking army?”

  The younger boy staggered to his feet. For a moment, he caught Rosie’s eye and something passed between them like a physical shock. Recognition, unspoken apology? He coughed, so shocked by Matthew’s violence that Rosie felt sorry for him. He started to back quickly away, saying, “You don’t want to upset my brother. He’ll kill you.”

  Matthew laughed out loud. The boy turned and fled after the older one, who’d circled up the hill to wait for him. Rosie heard her attacker growl “Jon!” as he caught the smaller one by the shoulders; then both boys stood for a moment like a pair of wraiths, coats flapping, so eerily hostile that even Matthew lost the nerve to pursue them.

  He put his arm around Rosie and pulled her away. “Wankers,” he growled.

  “He took my pendant,” was all she could say through her sobs.

  “Come on, let’s get you home.”

  The way back seemed endless, drizzle turning the paths to glass. When Rosie’s tears subsided, Matthew said, “Don’t tell Mum and Dad.”

  “Why not?” said Lucas.

  “Because we shouldn’t have been up there. If Dad finds out, he’ll go mental.”

  Rosie felt aggrieved with Matthew for leading them into danger; but she’d known, and joined in with the adventure regardless. “Who are those awful boys, anyway?”

  “Samuel and Jonathan Wilder. The young one is Jon. The thieving bully is Sam.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “No, but I’ve heard stuff. They go to some posh boarding school miles away. They say the older one’s off his head. He’s always in trouble.”

  Rosie shivered. Her neck was sore. She touched the place and felt a raw weal. She licked her fingertips and tasted blood. “Mum’s going to notice.”

  “Put a polo neck on. Tell her the heart’s safe in your jewelry box.”

  She struggled not to cry again. It was true, she couldn’t possibly admit she’d lost the heart through being plainly disobedient.

  “Why don’t they go to our school?” Lucas asked.

  “‘Why, why, why?’” Matthew parroted. “The Wilders are so high-and-mighty that they look down on everyone else, human or old blood alike. They’re massive snobs. Dad hates that sort of thing.”

  Rosie thought of how they’d come drifting through the trees, two menacing specters. “Dad’s not scared of them, is he?” She shook her head vigorously, thinking of her father’s broad frame, his strength. “No, he’s not frightened of anything.”

  “Look.” Matthew turned and gripped her shoulders. “We cannot tell Dad about this because he’s going to blame me. Anyway, all Mr. Wilder would do is deny his sons are thieves. There’s no way you’d get your necklace back.”

  “I know,” she said miserably.

  “So we have to sort it out ourselves. I’ll get it for you. Next time I see Sam, I’m going to beat the living crap out of him.”

  “What?” Rosie’s stomach turned cold. A resolute anger rose in her. “No, you mustn’t! I’ll get it back myself.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll sneak into Stonegate Manor and find it. Lucas will go with me, won’t you?”

  He nodded eagerly, but Matthew looked furious. “No way. That’s the most stupid idea I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re scared,” Rosie taunted, roused enough to defy him.

  “Am not.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I’m not scared of the stupid Wilders!” Matthew paused and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. “All right. But there’s no way you’re going in without me, Rosie.”

  “And you’re not going without me,” she retorted, folding her arms. “Three musketeers?”

  Matthew looked back at the rugged shoulder of the hill. The house was a bare grey shadow in the mist. “Two and a half musketeers,” he said. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

  In those days, they did everything together. However burdensome Matthew found his younger siblings, he needed an army to lead, an admiring audience.

  The next morning brought the sun pouring golden into their garden. Rosie hadn’t slept, and bitterly resented the Wilder boys for ruining what should have been an idyllic day. Yet she was madly excited. Nothing now would stop them entering the forbidden realm, Stonegate Manor.

  As they trod the paths through the woods, Rosie couldn’t sense the Dusklands. The world was plainly three-dimensional, closed and solid. She kept thinking about the younger boy, Jonathan. She’d never seen anyone like him before. He’d been so pretty, like a cupid in a painting. She wondered what he’d meant when he looked at her. That he was sorry about his older brother’s behavior? That he secretly wanted to be friends? Would they meet him again in the house? Would they meet Sam?
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br />   The thought spun her into knots of terror. The theft—although devastating—was only a symptom of the jeering malevolence she’d sensed when Sam had slid a cold fingertip onto her breastbone, to sever her from a beloved gift. As they climbed the hill, the sunlight wavered. Mist hung up here as if rolling from the house itself, turning every rock and tree into a ghost. Stonegate Manor loomed like a fortress with prison windows. She imagined hostile eyes watching, crossbows or rifles trained on the intruders.

  At nine, she suspected that she knew very little about Aetherials. Her mind latched on to the idea that the Wilders were rarefied Aetheric lords, glaring icily down upon their subjects. A family of unearthly aristocrats, dwelling in a castle, so forbidding that even her father dared not approach them.

  Around the rear of the house lay an informal garden with broad lawns, rhododendron bushes spilling over natural rock. There was no fence. She wished with all her might to turn into a fox—her namesake, an earth elemental—so that she could sneak into the house fearless and unseen; but it was only a wish.

  A dog barked. Matthew grabbed her and Lucas by the arm, pressing them back into a waxy-leaved rhododendron. “If there’s a guard dog, we can’t do it,” he whispered. Rosie saw he was anxious, and that unnerved her completely. Looking up at the heavy slate and granite bulk of the house, she felt overwhelmed.

  No dogs appeared. When the bark came again, it sounded far away. A lawn lay silver-green between them and their destination. There were French windows in the center of the building and, near the left-hand corner, a back door.

  “This is it,” said Matthew. “Crouch down and run. Now!”

  They sprinted across the uneven grass, skirting rocks, finally slamming into the stone wall of the fortress. Rosie couldn’t get her breath, and her mouth was dry, sticky.

  No one saw them. The place felt desolate. Only the house itself kept watch.

  She’d imagined Matthew prizing open a window or breaking glass, but the door was unlocked. He pushed it open and they all walked in; as easy as that.

  As they entered, she had the tangible feeling of crossing a threshold into a different realm. Everything felt cold and sharp. The sensation was so strong it made her dizzy. Behind her, Lucas kept treading on her heels. They entered a narrow hall with coats and boots; then a kitchen with old-fashioned units and a big oblong sink. Rosie was shocked at how shabby it looked compared with their warm and friendly kitchen at home. Leading from the kitchen was a corridor with stone walls and a bare lightbulb. They crept along the wall, as if that could make them magically invisible.

  The corridor brought them into a great baronial hall, a frigid space so cavernous that they stopped in awe. Anxiously they scanned the galleries for hostile eyes. There was dark wood, grey stone, a huge dusty fireplace with crests carved above it, chilly daylight winking through leaded windows. Her hopes fell; they’d never find her treasure in this vast place.

  “Where now?” she whispered.

  Matthew answered at the top of his voice, “No need to whisper. There’s no one home.”

  “Shush!” she gasped, horrified. “How do you know?”

  “Can’t you feel it? There’d be music or the TV on, or people talking. Nothing.”

  His voice echoed. “Shut up!” she hissed. “It’ll be in his bedroom. That’s where I’d hide it.”

  “Stairs,” said Lucas, pointing.

  The broad wooden flight creaked under them. Rosie felt the frosty whisper of the hostile realm all around them, like the Dusklands but cruel and cold. From the corner of her eye she saw a four-legged shadow pacing beside them; the impression was so clear that she turned in shock to look—and saw nothing there.

  “What was that?” whispered Matthew, his bravado vanishing.

  Upstairs, the house seemed all corridors, all arctic light on stone walls. How would they ever find the thief’s bedroom? They’d be trapped here until they died. This was a terrible house and it hated them.

  They turned a corner into another passage stretching to infinity before them. Rosie’s dread of meeting Sam here became agonizing. The fear was out of all proportion, as if they might meet some horrifying spectral essence rather than an actual person. Again she glimpsed the half-seen shadow beasts around them. Lucas grabbed her hand. His was icy.

  “Oh, shit,” Matthew gasped, sounding completely terrified. “I don’t like this. We have to get out.”

  She’d never seen him scared like that before. His terror was infectious. There was a faint noise from above, like claws scraping and a thin, animal moan. Then, from along the corridor, someone coughing or crying. They froze in their tracks as a figure stepped out of a doorway and stood glaring at them. Lucas let out a short, high yelp of shock.

  It was a woman. A madwoman, Rosie realized a second later as she began to advance. Her face was pallid, her eyes terrible with menace and rage. Thick wavy black hair flowed around her shoulders. She wore black; a long skirt under an enveloping coat. In one hand she carried a suitcase that itself seemed full of menace, as if it contained a torturer’s instruments.

  As the apparition reached them, the case dropped from her hand and landed with a sharp thud. She must have seen their terror. She seemed to be drinking it in, Rosie thought, relishing it. She would have been beautiful, but for the terrible cold light in her face.

  “Do you know where you are, child?” she said, staring at Rosie. “Is it the Spiral, Elfland, the land of Faerie? Or the dream realm, the Crystal Ring? Or Dumannios, realm of demons? All those circles overlap here. I used to call it home.” Her gaze swept around the gallery. “See how cold this kingdom is. That isn’t dust falling down from the rafters, it’s ice. Leave while you can. Don’t let him suck you in, or he’ll keep you here until the blood freezes in your veins.”

  Rosie clearly saw four translucent black shapes around her; great dogs, gryphons, lions? There was no detail to them; they were simply dark hulks, ghostly and threatening. The moment stretched on, like a path into a realm of incomprehensible madness. This woman of pale skin and black hair was a sorceress who would lure children with candies and kindness . . . until the pretense evaporated, and her true ferocity blazed.

  The sorceress stared from Rosie to Matthew to Lucas. She looked demented. Her green eyes shone bright and glassy. Rosie felt Lucas shaking, hanging onto her.

  Then the woman gave a shake of her head and said, “Have you come to see my boys?” Her voice sounded hoarse. “I’m sorry, they’re not here. They’ve gone back to school.”

  When they only stared, she said, “Did you hear me? You’re Jessica’s lot, aren’t you?” None of them dared answer. “I haven’t got time for this,” she hissed. “You’ve had a wasted visit. Go home.”

  She stooped gracefully to pick up her case, starting towards them in the same movement. The spell broke and they fled. Matthew was gone first, oblivious of Rosie’s and Luc’s desperate efforts to catch up. The madwoman’s quick sure footsteps echoed behind them all the way, and the four dark guardians flowed after them, herding them out. Along the frigid corridors they ran, down the creaking slope of the stairs, across the haunted cavernous hall, the passageway, the drab kitchen . . . down through the chill spectral heathland, empty-handed.

  At home that evening, Rosie sat close to the fire crackling in the marble fireplace, but she couldn’t get warm. The welt on her neck stung. Everything was ordinary: cooking scents wafting from the kitchen; her father browsing a newspaper, his feet stretched out and a glass of red wine in one hand; six o’clock news chattering on the television. Matthew was frowning over his homework, Lucas reading a book. Rosie sat shivering on the rug, clutching her knees to her chest until heat burned the back of her hands.

  What a relief to be in her own home. She’d never appreciated it so intensely before.

  The most frightening thing of all had been Matthew’s plain fear. He was supposed to be the brave leader, yet he’d fallen apart. Afterwards, to cover his embarrassment, he’d been abrupt and dismissive, preten
ding nothing had happened.

  She longed to tell her father everything, but words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t bear to admit she’d lost his gift. It had meant the world to her. She’d wanted to wear it to show her father how pleased she was; now he might think she didn’t care, and that was so far from the truth it nearly broke her heart.

  Auberon was the center of their world. He owned a house-building company, Fox Homes, as befitted his deep connection to the elements of earth and rock. No one who worked for him would suspect he was not human. His customers, however, found walking into one of his houses like coming home—as if they sensed the age-old roots of the earth itself through the house. They couldn’t leave, but had to buy. That was Auberon’s magic. It had made him very wealthy.

  Their mother Jessica was a musician, teaching harp, guitar and piano. Once she had been lead singer of a folk-rock band, Green Spiral. Rosie had heard all her CDs, but the group was long disbanded. Apart from the odd few notes while teaching, Jessica didn’t sing anymore. No one could persuade her to sing a complete song. Nevertheless, Rosie’s school friends regarded Jessica as fantastically glamorous.

  Although they were of ancient blood, they lived as humans on the surface world. We must not put on airs and graces, Auberon insisted. Special, but not superior—a contradiction, but Rosie could only accept it.

  They called themselves Aetherial, and sometimes Vaethyr—meaning the ones who lived on Vaeth, the ancient name for Earth—and she’d heard whispers of a much older name, Estalyr. There were others in Cloudcroft, although none of her own age—unless she counted Jon Wilder, which she couldn’t, since she didn’t know him. Other Aetherial families sometimes came to the house for private meetings with her parents. It was only when she saw them in groups that Rosie glimpsed an aura that she didn’t normally see in her own family. An indefinable glow; a knowing, feline shine in the eyes. Whatever they did or talked about, Aetherial children were not party to it. Rosie could wait. She didn’t feel ready to explore these brooding, unfathomable layers of secrecy.