by Sara Crowe
Ash stood up. Coughs heaved up out of him. His eyes were raw with smoke.
The rooks flew back out of the fire. They hurtled towards each other, flocked into a single fluid shadow that darkened and deepened and shrank until there was only Bone Jack there, whole again, striding through swirling smoke with the wildfire rearing behind him and the wolf at his side.
Ash turned away.
Someone else, a little way up the slope, pale in the deepening darkness. The stag boy.
He was pacing, head down. Four quick strides out, sharp turn, four quick strides back. He stopped, watched Ash through his mask.
Bone Jack coming out of the shadows, moving fast, his gaze locked on the stag boy.
‘You’ve got to go now,’ said Ash to the stag boy. ‘Go on, run. Get away.’
The stag boy paced. One, two, three, four, turn. And now the wolf paced with him, shadowed him, matched him step for step.
‘Run!’ But it was too late. Bone Jack was already there, spinning out wild nets of bird and shadow.
The stag boy stopped pacing. He stared at Bone Jack. ‘Come on, lad,’ said Bone Jack.
The stag boy leaned into the wind, took a step forward.
‘Not him!’ yelled Ash to Bone Jack. ‘He saved my life! He’s not one of them!’
Another step. The stag boy was airy as a ghost.
‘Time to go home,’ said Bone Jack.
The stag boy already dissolving like mist, the dark land visible through him, the black wind howling through him. He reached out his hand towards Bone Jack and Bone Jack took it in his own, pulled the spectral stag boy to him, embraced him.
Then the boy was gone. No one there except Bone Jack, striding again towards Ash through the churning smoke, the wildfire furnace-bright behind him.
Ash sagged back to the ground. No strength, no hope, nothing. ‘What have you done?’ he whispered. ‘I don’t understand. What have you done?’
Bone Jack crouched in front of him. ‘Hush now, lad,’ he said.
‘He saved me,’ Ash said. ‘What have you done to him? Is he dead?’
‘He’s centuries dead, lad,’ said Bone Jack. ‘They all are. He had to go back. They’ve all to go back.’
‘You should have taken them back days ago. Then none of this would have happened.’
‘Ain’t that simple.’
‘Why not? Because Mark killed the rooks?’
‘Not that.’
‘What then?’
‘You ever tried catching mist with your bare hands? The hounds are like that. Most years they stay that way then, like mist, they fade to nowt in the morning sun. Death and drought made them strong this year. I waited until they were at their strongest, until they had weight and substance and they’d run you to ground. Sometimes you have to let things run their course before you make your move.’
‘You got them though, in the end.’
‘Aye, I did. Now hush, lad. You’ve got to get up, get moving. You’ve got to get help for your friend.’
‘Mark.’
‘Aye, Mark. Up then, lad, and on.’
Ash got to his feet, stood swaying in the storm.
‘The storm’s blowing the wildfire westwards,’ said Bone Jack. ‘So stay on this path, come down the eastern side of the Leap.’
‘How can there be rain and fire at the same time?’
‘Because the land’s so dry. Deep-down dry. Once wildfire’s got a hold, it’s hot as a thousand furnaces. Evaporates the rain before it even hits the ground. It’ll take more than a few hours of rain to stop a wildfire.’
‘OK then,’ said Ash.
He straightened. He looked round for Bone Jack but Bone Jack was gone again.
Ash took a step forward, then another.
THIRTY-TWO
Ash walked but nothing worked any more. His legs were stone-heavy. He could barely lift his feet clear of the rough ground. The land lurched sideways. He slumped down onto the wet grass and lay there, too exhausted to get up again. He could lie here, he could close his eyes, he could drift away, sleep or die. He had no strength to care any more.
Shouts below. A familiar voice.
Ash opened his eyes.
Dad, running out of the wind and rain.
‘Go back,’ Ash said. The words a whisper, sticking in his raw throat. ‘Go back down, Dad. There’s wildfire. There’s ghosts. It’s not safe.’
But Dad couldn’t hear and Ash knew he wouldn’t have turned back even if he could. He kept coming.
Blinding white glare of torchlight. Ash flinched, turned his face away. And all at once Dad was there with him, holding him so tight it hurt, Dad shaking as much as Ash was.
‘He was here,’ whispered Ash. ‘Bone Jack was here. And they’ve all burned and he’s gone into the night.’
‘Who’s burned? Who’s gone?’
‘The hound boys. They all burned in the wildfire. Dad, we need to get off the mountain. We need to get help.’
‘No one burned,’ said Dad. Voice taut as wire. ‘The hound boys all came back to Thornditch. Only you and Mark Cullen missing. And I’ve got you now. The wind’s blowing the wildfire westwards, so we can get down the eastern side, get behind it. It’s going to be all right.’
Then Callie was there too, running up to them. Her face pale and anxious.
‘What the hell?!’ said Dad. ‘Callie, I told you to wait with the others down in Thornditch. It’s too dangerous up here.’
Callie stared blankly at him, then switched her gaze to Ash. ‘Where’s Mark?’ she said. ‘He didn’t come down from the mountains. I asked everyone but no one’s seen him.’
‘We fell off the Leap,’ said Ash. ‘We landed on a ledge. Mark’s injured. I climbed up to get help.’
‘How badly injured?’
‘I don’t know. I think his arm is broken, and maybe he banged his head. He’s alive though. He talked to me.’
‘Where is he?’
Ash nodded his head towards where they’d fallen. Immediately, Callie took off.
Dad swore. ‘Callie! Get back here! We’ll work out what to do about Mark in a minute!’
But Callie didn’t answer and didn’t come back.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dad. ‘That’s all I need. One kid half dead with exhaustion, another one fallen off a cliff and now Callie’s gone walkabout.’
His voice jittery, full of panic.
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ said Ash. ‘She’ll be all right. She knows the mountains better than anyone. Even better than you.’
‘All right,’ said Dad. He drew a long, slow breath, squared his shoulders. ‘All right. First things first. Let’s get you sorted out.’
He shrugged out of his rucksack, opened it, pulled out a foil blanket and wrapped it around Ash.
Everything in fragments. Dad hugging him, stubble rough against his skin. The tension in Dad’s body, in his voice. Then hot sweet tea from a thermos flask. Chunks of flapjack. A little of Ash’s strength started to come back.
He looked at Dad. ‘Dad,’ he said. His voice shaking as much as his body. ‘We have to find the rescue team so they can get Mark off that ledge.’
‘The rescue team headed off towards Black Crag. They won’t be back yet, and getting around the wildfire will slow them down.’
‘Why didn’t you go with them? Why did you come up onto the Leap instead?’
Dad smiled uneasily. ‘Just a wild guess.’
‘It was a good guess.’
‘I went to Tom’s grave before I went to the start of the race,’ said Dad. ‘Like you did.’
‘Mum told you.’
‘Yeah. There was a photograph on the grave: me and Tom and Callie and you and Mark when you were little. We were up on the Leap.’
‘Yeah, I saw that too.’
‘When you didn’t come down from the mountains with the others, I knew something was wrong and I couldn’t get that photo out of my mind. It seemed like a message or something, a message from Tom. That picture of us all up on the Lea
p, then that day when I was the stag boy and Tom saved my life up here. Stag’s Leap. So I came, and here you are.’
‘Here we are.’
‘Feeling any better now?’
‘Yeah, a bit. But we have to help Mark, Dad.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll try calling Mountain Rescue, see if they’ll send another team out to us.’
He tried his mobile phone, frowned. ‘No signal.’
‘There’s never a signal out here,’ said Ash. ‘It’s a black spot.’
‘No phones then,’ said Dad. ‘Right. It’ll take us about an hour to get back down to the road. Maybe longer in these conditions and with you so exhausted. Could be two hours and the same again to get the team back up here. That’s minimum, and assuming the wind keeps the fire to the west of us. Mark’s injured. He’ll be exhausted and wet too. No kit with him. He might not last that long.’
Dad was talking too fast again, panicking again.
‘Dad,’ said Ash, ‘slow down. Please.’
‘You told Callie that Mark was conscious when you left him. Do you think he can hang on down there for a few hours while we get help?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ash. ‘He’s in a bad way. I don’t think so, no.’
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t think we can risk it. He’s injured and he’ll likely get hypothermic as well in this rain, with night setting in. We need to bring him up now, ourselves, then get him off the mountain and to hospital as quick as we can. I brought my climbing gear, just in case you’d fallen somewhere. We can do it.’
Of course. Dad, the army officer, the mountain man, the climber. He’d come to rescue Ash in the mountains so he’d come prepared. Still the same old Dad deep inside, in spite of everything. For a moment, Ash felt safe, as if Dad could do anything, save him, save Mark, save all of them.
Except he also knew Dad could lose it at any moment, freak out, run away, hide.
But he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘I need you to show me exactly where Mark is. Think you can manage that?’
Ash nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Dad helped him to his feet. He stood swaying, gathering himself. Then he looked around. ‘Callie,’ he said. He looked up at the Leap. ‘Where did she go? I can’t see her.’
They called her name.
The full moon burned through a gap in the clouds.
Then Ash saw her. She was standing at the edge of Stag’s Leap. A wild creature of moonlight and shadow, her dark hair flying in the wind. ‘She’s up there, Dad.’
Dad hauled him upright. They set off towards her. The wind in their faces. Ash half delirious with exhaustion, his body bruised and battered and aching all over. But none of that mattered. He just kept going.
‘Callie,’ said Dad, ‘get away from the edge before you fall down there too. Please.’
She didn’t answer, didn’t move. She kept her back to them, kept staring down over the edge.
‘That’s where Mark is,’ said Ash. ‘Right below where Callie’s standing. The ledge is about five metres down.’
Dad went and stood next to Callie. ‘It’s OK,’ he said to her. Gentle, the panic gone from his voice again. ‘I’m going to go down there and bring him back up. But I can’t do it on my own. You and Ash will have to help me. Are you up to doing that?’
Slowly she turned to look at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. Just tell me what to do.’
Dad lay down and stuck his head out over the edge. ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘A straight drop, about five metres, just like Ash said. The ledge looks pretty wide where Mark’s lying.’
Then Dad was on his feet again. The wind gusted and Ash swayed again, braced himself.
Dad stood in front of him. ‘Still feeling OK?’
‘Yeah. Just tired. Really tired.’
‘No wonder. Are you starting to warm up now?’
‘Yeah, a bit.’
‘How on earth did you climb up that rock face without a rope? It looks sheer from the top.’
Ash shrugged and looked down. ‘There’s handholds, toeholds. I just sort of did it, the way you taught me.’
‘Amazing,’ said Dad. ‘Really. You did brilliantly. I’m proud of you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Listen, Mark’s not moving. He’s either too weak or he’s unconscious. So I’m going to go down there and between us we’re going to get him up. I’ll take the spare harness for Mark and rig the ropes so you can help me by taking some of Mark’s weight as I bring him back up. OK? Do you think you can handle it?’
‘Yeah, I can handle it.’
‘Callie?’
‘Me too.’
‘All right then.’
‘Dad,’ said Ash, ‘suppose it’s like the other day when we went fishing and you thought there were snipers? Suppose you get flashbacks again?’
‘I’m OK,’ said Dad. ‘I’m keeping it together. I’ve got a list in my head, all the things we have to do. The ropes and the harnesses, abseil down, bring Mark back up with me, then get us all off this mountain without running straight into the wildfire. I can do it. OK?’ He smiled. ‘Besides, you and Callie can just haul me back up if I start flipping out.’
‘That your idea of a joke, Dad?’
‘Yeah. Don’t worry. It’s going to be OK.’
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Stay a couple of metres back from the edge. I’ll set up the ropes and I’ll need you to start pulling when I give the signal. Pull slow and steady, don’t yank the rope, OK?’
Ash nodded. Exhaustion washed through him again. His vision blurred and his eyelids slid shut. He forced them open, focused his eyes. Dad was already pulling his climbing gear from his rucksack. Ash watched as he fixed the anchors, clipped himself into his harness, rolled out ropes.
Dad handed him a pair of gloves and Ash took hold of the rope.
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘My rope is anchored so you don’t need to worry about that. The rope you’re holding will take some of Mark’s weight so you’ll need to be ready. I’ll give you a shout but pay attention to the rope in case you don’t hear me. When you feel it go taut, start pulling steadily like I told you. Ready?’
‘Ready.’
Then Dad went over the edge of the Leap.
THIRTY-THREE
It seemed to Ash that he fell asleep over and over, asleep on his feet, and that each time he woke everything was almost exactly the same. Hours passed, months, years, centuries, and nothing changed. The rope in his gloved hands, the rain still falling, and the wind in his face. There was no weight on the rope yet, but that would come.
The wildfire moving westwards away from them. Dad still over the edge, swinging down the rock face into a storm.
He was too tired to make sense of it any more. All he wanted was to sleep but he couldn’t, not yet. Not until all this was over.
He glanced back at Callie.
‘Mark’s still alive,’ said Callie. ‘Isn’t he?’
‘I think so. I’m sure he is.’
‘He is,’ she said.
It hit him then that Mark was all she had left in the world. Her parents dead. Grandpa Cullen in hospital, maybe going to pull through or maybe not. No one else. Just her and Mark. And Mark’s grief, the madness of it, had eclipsed hers, left her desolate on the sideline.
He heard Dad shout.
‘OK, pull,’ said Ash. ‘Slow and steady, like Dad said.’
He tilted his weight back, bracing against the rope, pulled hand over hand. Behind him, Callie took up the slack.
And everything hurt. His muscles taut with pain, his legs and arms trembling.
It seemed like an age passed before he saw Dad clamber up over the edge, turn and reach down, then haul Mark up and over. They sprawled onto the flat ground.
Ash let go of the rope and went to them.
Mark was conscious but loose as a rag doll, his face gaunt with pain. As carefully as they could, Ash and Callie dragged him away from the edge.
‘You’re
alive,’ said Callie. A whisper, like she was afraid to say it, couldn’t quite believe it.
And Dad unstrapping himself from the harness, pulling up the dangling ropes. Then fidgeting, pacing, all edgy now. ‘He’s in a bad way,’ he said. Talking too fast. ‘His shoulder’s smashed up and there could be any number of other problems. Head injury, spinal injury, internal bleeding, hypothermia. Anything. We should have a stretcher, a helicopter. We need a damn helicopter. Where the hell is the helicopter?’
‘They don’t know where we are, remember,’ said Ash. ‘They don’t know where we are and we’ve no way of telling them so we have to get him down the mountain ourselves. What do we do, Dad? You need to tell us what to do. You can do your freak-out thing after we’ve got him to hospital. All right?’
Dad stopped pacing. He drew a deep shaky breath. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m OK. You’re right. A stretcher. I need the rope and a bivi bag.’
Ash watched as Dad looped rope on the ground, lay a bivi bag on top of it, then another foil blanket.
Carefully they lifted Mark onto it. He sobbed with pain but didn’t scream, didn’t try to make them stop.
They wrapped him in the foil and then the bivi bag, then Dad laced the ropes around so Mark was cocooned.
‘No trees up here,’ said Dad. ‘It’s the best I can do without poles. How are you doing, Mark?’
‘I’m OK,’ said Mark. His voice barely a whisper.
‘We’ll get you down as quickly and safely as we can,’ said Dad. ‘I promise.’
Then Dad took hold of the front and Ash and Callie took the other end between them, slipping their hands under and through the looped rope, and they set off down the eastern slope of the Leap.
THIRTY-FOUR
Ash walked. He walked in the footsteps of long-dead shepherds and hunters, warriors and poets, pedlars and wanderers, lovers, wise women, outlaws, rebels. He felt them all around him, as if the centuries that separated him from them were vapour-thin.
The banshee wind screamed in his ears.
