by Amy Cross
"Becky!" Nate hisses from the edge of the clearing. "Are you okay?"
After pausing for a moment, I switch off the torch and head back to the door. By the time I'm outside, I'm able to smile as I spot Nate staring at me from behind one of the trees. Jesus Christ, that guy is a fucking coward; not only that, but he's clearly superstitious as all hell. I swear to God, I can't wait until he's given me the information I need about Darper Danver. Once that unexpected little matter is out of the way, I can carry on with the main part of the plan. I'm sure Sheriff Mulcahy will be very interested when I visit him in the next couple of days and tell him that Cassie Briggs' brother brought me to the cabin and assaulted me. Pretty damn soon, Cassie's whole family is going to be ruined, and that's only the start.
"Come on," I say as I get back to Nate. "I'll drive you home. We'll meet somewhere a little less loaded next time, okay? There's a motel a few miles to the east of town. We can hook up there tomorrow night. You can tell me what you know about Darper Danver, and I'll... thank you."
"Are you sure there was no-one in there?" he asks, still staring at the cabin.
"There's only one way in or out," I remind him. "Seriously, Nate. Try not to get totally carried away by all the bullshit, okay?"
"I saw someone," he says as we walk past the tree that has Darper Danver's name carved into its bark. "I don't care what you think. I saw someone in there!"
"I'm sure you did," I reply, grabbing the joint from him and taking another puff as we set off on the long walk back down to my car. To be fair to him, this weed is pretty strong. "I'm sure you did."
Cassie Briggs
When I wake up, I immediately realize that I feel worse. My room is pitch black and the house is quiet, but I'm drenched in sweat and I feel as if I'm burning up. Taking a deep breath, I roll over in bed, feeling the wet sheets beneath my body. I should get up and towel myself down, but frankly I don't think I've got the energy. I just want to stay here and wait for the fever to pass. Finally, I sit up and listen to the silence, feeling the sweat drip down my face, and I stare at the faint hint of moonlight outside the window.
I know I was having a nightmare, but I can't remember the details. Something about Bobby, I think, and the cabin. Taking a deep breath, I try to stay calm; when I touch my forehead, however, I realize that I'm boiling hot. Whatever's wrong with me, it's way more than just a case of flu.
Slowly, imperceptibly, I become aware of a presence. It seems like nothing at first, just an echo of an echo. With a few seconds, however, it's something more: I feel as if there's something, or someone, close to the bed. I keep telling myself that I'm imagining things, that this is all just in my head, but I can't get rid of that feeling that I'm being watched. I look around, but it's impossible to see a damn thing and I end up reaching over and switching on my bedside lamp. For a moment, I'm scared to look back across the room, but finally I turn and see that there's no-one nearby.
Still, I felt it.
She was here.
"Where are you?" I whisper with a dry throat.
Silence.
"I can feel you," I continue. "You're here, aren't you?"
I wait.
No reply.
This isn't like Darper. She's always been impatient, and I find it hard to believe that she could patiently sit back and taunt me like this. Then again, it's been five years since I was in Fort Powell, so maybe she's changed and matured? This could be a new Darper altogether.
Or I could be imagining the whole thing.
Taking a deep breath, I grab an old shirt from the chair by my bed and use it to wipe the sweat from my face and neck. I want to believe that I'm wrong, that there was no-one here, but I can't shake the uneasy sensation that I'm being watched. All I want to do is go back to sleep, but I force myself to get out of bed and wander over to the window. Looking out at the moonlit garden, I wait for some sign of movement, but there's nothing, and eventually I turn to look back across my room.
Silence.
Stillness.
I'm imagining it all. I must be. After all, Darper was banished five years ago, and there's no way she could have survived. Just as I managed to trick myself into believing that she was at the cabin, now I'm feverishly imagining that she's here with me. Walking over to the other side of the room, I get down onto my hands and knees and take a quick look at the space under my bed. She's not there. Of course she's not there. Trying to laugh at my paranoia, I get back up and walk over to the door, and then I head out into the corridor. I figure I need to cool myself down and find some fresh bedsheets, and maybe take my temperature. Whatever's wrong with me, it feels like more than such weakness. I'm sick, and I guess it's only natural that in my feverish state, I'm looking out for any sign that Darper might be here.
When I get to the bathroom, I turn on the light and immediately see my tired face in the mirror. God, I look awful. My t-shirt is stained with sweat and my skin looks pale and clammy. I lock the door before heading over to the mirror and getting a better look at my face. Even accounting for the harsh electric light in here, I look decidedly pasty and out of sorts, and I can't help wondering whether I might actually be seriously ill. I've had flu before, and this feels worse. It's as if my body is bubbling away with toxic heat, and my back in particular is stinging with a kind of sharp, sore pain.
I stare at my exhausted face and try to tell myself to calm down. I can't spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, constantly worried that Darper's going to show up again. We dealt with her all those years ago, and although the cost was huge, we closed the door on her. It's simply not possible that she could have returned, and the only danger here is that I'm going to drive myself crazy by interpreting every creak and knock as a sign that she's getting closer.
She's not here.
I have to keep reminding myself.
She's not here.
She's long gone.
Pulling my t-shirt over my head, I stand for a moment and stare at the sweat dripping down over my bare chest. I honestly don't think I've ever looked quite so awful. I set my t-shirt down next to the sink, but after a moment I notice that some of the sweat is mixed with blood. My back is still hurting like hell, and slowly I turn and try to get a better look. It's difficult to see properly at first, but finally I realize that there seem to be a series of cuts running through the flesh. Confused, I turn away from the mirror and then look back at the reflection, and for a moment I can't quite work out what I'm seeing. There are scores of cuts, as if someone has taken a razor blade to my back while I was asleep. It's as if there's a pattern, and suddenly I realize exactly what I'm looking at: reflected in the mirror, the letters and words are backwards, but I grab a small make-up mirror and use it to reflect the reflection, which finally allows me to see the words that have been scratched into the flesh of my back during my feverish sleep.
Two words, spread large from shoulder to shoulder, carved crudely into my ragged, sweaty skin:
Darper Danver.
Epilogue
Five years ago
"Mom!" Cassie calls out. "Mom, where are you?"
"Down here!" I shout, as I slide another red folder onto the shelf. Taking a step back, I admire the neatness of this little archive. It took me a while, but I eventually managed to gather together all the old stories I've written over the past few years. They're in order, printed out with their titles and even proper page numbers. I guess it's probably pretty silly of me to obsess like this, and I know no-one else gives a damn about all this crap, but I can't help but feel proud. Even if no-one ever reads them again, these stories are mine.
"What are you doing?" Cassie asks as she hurries down to join me in the basement. "When's dinner?"
"Your father and Nate are out," I reply, "so I was thinking we could get takeaway. Sorry, honey, I just got caught up down here. I've been tidying. Do you like it?"
"What's in the folders?" she asks.
"My stories," I say with a faint smile.
"For real?" She w
alks over and grabs one of the folders.
"Careful!" I say. "It took me hours to get everything in the right order!"
"It's cool," she replies. "I remember some of these." She pauses for a moment. "Have you got the Darper Danver stories?"
"Check the June 1997 folder," I say with a sigh. "God knows why you're so obsessed with those stories, though. They're some of the worst things I've ever written."
"No," she says, hurriedly grabbing the June 1997 folder. "They're the best. I used to love these."
As she starts leafing through the pages, it's somewhat gratifying to realize that she actually cares about the stories. It's been years since I read them to the kids at bedtime, and I assumed they'd both grown out of them. Cassie was always particularly keen on poor old Darper Danver, and she used to beg me to tell her not only about the stories themselves, but also about the legend that my grandfather taught me. Darper's one of the stories I wrote based on local legends, although to be honest, I can no longer remember which parts of the story are real and which parts are my own invention.
"I want to read these again," she says eventually. "I could draw some illustrations for them! Maybe you could try to get them published!"
"No-one's going to give a damn about the stories of a middle-aged woman," I say, hoping to save her from getting her hopes up. "It's enough that you like them, honey. Maybe one day you can read them to your own children. Honestly, that's more than the limit of my ambition. I wrote them for fun, and they wouldn't be fun anymore if everyone started taking them too seriously. Sometimes a hobby should just stay as a hobby."
"I'm still gonna read them again," she replies, closing the folder. "Don't worry. I'll look after them, and I'll put them back as soon as I'm done. Okay?"
"Of course," I say. "But do put them back, honey. You know how I like things to be nice and neat. It'd bug the hell out of me if there's a gap left on the shelf forever."
"Mom, I'm as O.C.D. as you are, okay?" Heading over to the stairs, she stops for a moment and looks back over at me. "It's a shame your stories are just left gathering dust down here. Some of them are pretty neat. I know they're yours, so it's not like I'm gonna try to guilt you into doing anything, but it'd be cool if you tried writing again some day."
"Not right now," I say. "Maybe when I'm a little old lady."
"It'd be a shame if you stopped completely," she replies.
"That's very sweet of you," I say. "I'll order a pizza in a minute. It should be here in half an hour. I know that's not very healthy, but it's not often that we get an evening to ourselves, is it?"
Once she's gone back upstairs, I stare at the red folders. I appreciate Cassie's enthusiasm, but I know that my stories aren't really worth anything. They were just a way for me to amuse myself in those precious moments of downtime that I got while the kids were growing up. Now that Cassie and Nate are too old for bedtime stories, however, I've pretty much given up on the writing. It was fun to dream, but I figure I've run out of inspiration. Wandering over to the stairs, I flick the light off and then head up to the kitchen. Cassie might enjoy re-reading the old Darper Danver stories that I wrote, but I think it's best if my work stays down there in the dark. There's no point keeping old dreams alive past their sell-by date. Life moves too fast.
"Do you know what you want on the pizza?" I call up to Cassie.
No reply. After a moment, however, I realize that I can hear a muffled, distant voice from upstairs. Walking through to the hallway, I realize that she's reading my stories out loud. I can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. I guess she's already engrossed in the stories, which means she'll be up there most of the evening and I'll be stuck down here by myself. It's strange, but even when she was very young, Cassie was almost obsessed with those particular pieces of mine, and she used to beg me to read them to her over and over. It's as if the Darper Danver legend really resonated with her. I gave up trying to understand the reason long ago. As interests go, it seems fairly healthy. She's a good girl, and so long as she's upstairs reading, I guess she can't be causing too much trouble.
And All Your Armies, Dust part I
Prologue One
1864
The windows rattle as a distant explosion shakes the farmhouse. Glancing at the window, the general sees that the horizon is now tinged with the faint orange glow of a distant fire. He knows this can only mean one thing: the enemy is advancing, and soon the whole area will be overcome. There will be heavy losses, and his only hope is to strengthen the garrison at the local town and hope that a sturdy defense can be mounted.
"It's happening!" shouts a voice nearby, and moments later Captain Hodges comes running in from the yard. "We've just received word," he says breathlessly. "The Confederates have taken Collinsville. They've cut our only supply route, Sir. We can't get any more reinforcements. No more men, no more food... It's doubtful that we can even get a message to General Washington."
"We'll find a new route," the general mutters, staring at the map and hoping that inspiration might strike. Closing his eyes for a moment, he waits for God to direct his next move. Why God has remained silent for so long, he does not know; however, he's certain that a message will arrive soon. He simply can't believe that God would allow thousands of good men to be slaughtered at the hands of a vicious and barbaric enemy. "Show me," he whispers. "Show me how to beat these barbarians back from our land."
"There's another development," Hodges says.
"Tell me," the general says, opening his eyes.
"There's talk of..." Hodges pauses for a moment, as if he's reluctant to say the words. "It's just, there's talk of a lone rider, picking off members of both the enemy's brigade and our own. They say bodies are falling all across the county, and no-one has been able to catch the attacker. All the victims have had the faces sliced from their bodies."
"He sounds like a lone mercenary," the general mutters. "Such individuals can be useful, if one is able to strike a fair price. Some of them learned their trade in the old world before coming here to start a new life. They're generally far more skillful and far more resourceful than the common stock of local towns. If you find this man, bring him to me. Tell him I have need of someone with such abilities, and tell him I'll pay him handsomely if he'll pledge his allegiance to our forces."
"That's the other thing," Hodges says. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but all the talk is that the lone rider is actually a..." His voice trails off, as if he can't get the words out.
"A what?" the general asks. "Let me guess. The men have convinced themselves that a demon is responsible."
"Not a demon," Hodges says. "A woman."
"A woman?" the general replies, raising an eyebrow. "Riding a horse at speed?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And killing men with a sword?"
"They say she's young, too," Hodges continues. "She's in her early twenties at most, and they say she's the daughter of a local farmer. Those who've seen her in action claim that she's an expert with a sword, and that she's already killed more than thirty of our enemy. However, she refuses to join with our own forces. One of the men managed to speak to her, and she told him she's unwilling to join any side. She said she merely means to defend her homeland against all soldiers, whether they wear blue uniforms or gray."
"A woman wielding a sword?" the general says, still unable to believe such a story. Moments later, the farmhouse is rocked by another distant explosion, and a fine layer of plaster falls from the ceiling. "The men must be mistaken," he continues after a moment. "They must be delirious. I'm by no means minded to think that women are simple, weak creatures, but that doesn't mean I can accept the existence of some kind of female warrior."
"I've seen her with my own eyes," Hodges says. "From a distance, mind, but I'm quite certain it was a woman. Later, we heard that three enemy soldiers had been found dead nearby. I made inquiries, and I believe I have identified the woman in question. She's the daughter of a farmer who owns the land around Fort Powell. According to rumor, she ri
des out every night and kills every soldier she finds, and she takes the skin of their faces home as trophies. They say she hangs them on the exterior wall of her cabin, piercing them through the eyes with a pair of rusty nails."
Walking over to the window, the general stares out at the glow on the horizon. "What is her name?" he asks eventually.
"They say she's called Darper Danver," Hodges replies. "Her father is Nathaniel Danver, the blacksmith, though I'm told he has little contact with her. She lives alone in the forest above the town, in a cabin she built with her own bare hands. Many of the townsfolk are scared of her. Rumors have already begun to spread about her abilities."
"She sounds remarkable," the general says. "Very industrious."
"She's deadly," Hodges points out.
"Potentially useful, though."
"How can you possibly think to use the services of a mad woman?"
"Bring her to me," the general says. "This place will be unsafe by morning, so I shall set out at once for Fort Powell. When I get there, I expect to have Darper Danver standing before me within hours. Is that understood? If she lives in a cabin above the town, she should be located easily enough"
"I'm not sure she -"
"Bring her to me," the general says firmly, before heading to the door and stepping out into the moonlit night. "You claim to know where she is to be found, so you must go and find her. If she rides by night, she must sleep by day. I will not have some foolish woman terrorizing my men. If she won't kneel before me, I shall ensure that she never again raises her blade in anger. If necessary, I will cut off her arms and legs and place her on a pedestal. Hopefully, however, it won't come to that and I'll be able to make her understand that we have a shared purpose."
