The Flame in the Mist

by Kit Grindstaff

  Something rustled behind her. She wheeled around. Nothing. But there was a dip in the ground at the rim of the web, forming a hole that looked big enough for her to crawl through. She peered out of it. An enormous fanged jaw moved into view, and eight jet-black eyes peered back.

  “Aaagh!” Jemma recoiled. “Keep away! If you come any closer, I’ll … I’ll …”

  The spider remained motionless. Then Noodle scrambled onto Jemma’s feet, clambered up to her shoulder, and took a flying leap out of the hole.

  “Noodle—stop! It’ll eat you alive!”

  Noodle snuffled at the spider’s jaws, then hopped back onto Jemma’s shoulder and squeaked softly in her ear.

  Friend. Because of yesterday. Feo’s Offering.

  Jemma remembered the pain she had felt for Feo’s eight-legged victims. “You mean … somehow it knows what happened?”

  The black eyes moved closer. Calm washed over her. And then came the same sense of wordless words she had felt earlier from Noodle and Pie, only this time, they came from the giant arachnid bathing her in its gaze: Safe here. Rest. Storm will pass.

  Just like the bats, they had been protecting her.

  She blinked, and the spider was gone.

  Rest, it had said. Suddenly, she realized how badly she needed to. Fight and flight drained from her; she sank to her knees and crawled to where the cloak lay next to her shawl pouch and the book. Just as they had done earlier, the book and cloak had worked their magic: they, and the leaves around them, were dry. So was her pouch. She curled up under the cloak, Noodle and Pie nesting in beside her.

  In seconds, she too was dry and warm. For a moment, she looked up at the white canopy above her, marveling at how shiny it was. Then, to block its brightness, she pulled the cloak over her head and closed her eyes. Thoughts of Marsh and Digby sputtered through her mind, before fading, with everything else, into sleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thirteen

  She was flying like the wind down the crag, the skirts of her dress trailing in silken threads behind her. Voices screamed from the castle, calling her name in a strange, muddled way—“Ma-Jemmajemjamem!” The bell began its fiendish toll, once, twice, thrice, and on and on. Something was chasing her through the Mist—a monster, attacking—its jaws about to snap her in two.… She grasped her Stone, and an immense force filled her, propelling the monster backward in a blaze of aqua just as the bell sounded out for the ninth time. Nine o’clock. Nine … nine …

  Jemma woke with a gasp and heard the last toll fading into the distance. Was it real, or had she just dreamed it? Nine … her birth time … Her body tingled, her head swam with murky images from her dream. Blue-green light surrounded her—or was that, too, in her head? And where was she? The hollow. The spiders. The forest, Mist, and gray shadows. She wanted to run from them, run from it all—the nightmare she was waking from, and the one she was waking to. But where would she run? To her family? She didn’t even know who she was, let alone who they were. Jemma, I’m Jemma! I must go … far, far from the castle, from the Mist.… The blue-green pulsed like a gentle heartbeat, lulling her. Weariness washed through her bones. Everything blurred into oblivion, and sleep folded her back into its heavy arms.

  * * *

  Jemma peered out from under the cloak. Colors sparkled in front of her: blue, red, golden and green pindots, which shimmered across her vision, and then merged into two golden shapes, with four red dots shining out of two small, furry faces.

  “Hello, Rattusses. What time is it?”

  Hello. Afternoon.

  “Afternoon! I’ve slept for hours.” Jemma pulled the cloak around her. For a split second, the rats’ faces seemed to separate again into myriad colors before reconfiguring into snouts and whiskers. Puzzled by her shifting vision, she sat up. Her stomach growled. “Ouff, I’m hungry. That must be why I’m seeing things. Thank goodness for Drudge’s food packages!”

  She reached for her pouch and unwrapped it. The two crystals lay on top, their grayness almost completely gone today. She set them aside. The scent of bread and cheese made her mouth water, and she, Noodle, and Pie tore into their meal. The bread, flattened from her falling on it, was deliciously stale, and the cheese was perfect—runny with age and reeking of feet. Only after she and the rats had devoured most of it did she think to ration their supplies.

  “Oh, well,” she sighed, taking a more restrained swig of sour milk from the wineskin. “Let’s call it my birthday treat. We’ll have to be more careful, though, and make the rest last. Now, I suppose we’d better think about moving on.” But although the thought of the castle still being so close chilled through her, the idea of having to face the forest again, and the storm, sank like mud into her bones. “Some birthday,” she muttered.

  Thirteen.

  With every passing year, Jemma’s birthday had become less fun and more pompous. But the one person who had always celebrated it with enthusiasm was Marsh. She would hug Jemma, smuggle treats for her from the kitchen, and tell her some special new story. Marsh’s absence seared through her now. To think of her, cast into the forest with all its dangers … How would she survive? I got ways of protectin’ myself, she’d said. With all her heart, Jemma hoped so. And she still had those dangers to face herself.

  Noodle and Pie wriggled onto her lap.

  “I’m scared, Rattusses,” she said. “I don’t know what these Powers are that Marsh said would come out at my birth time, but that was hours ago now, and I don’t feel any different.” Powers. The hour she was born. All at once, Jemma’s dream came back to her. Being chased. The voices, calling. But something about it had felt odd. What was it? Then she realized: the person in her dream had been wearing a long silk dress, nothing like her shorter, woolen one.

  “It was almost as if I was someone else,” she murmured. “Someone from long ago. She was being attacked, then she felt this jolt of energy—I felt it—just as the clock struck nine.…” And the jolt she’d felt—was that her Powers coming into her? If so, what form were they supposed to take? The book had Power, and her Stone; but her? She felt weak and afraid. Perhaps being Initiated was a way of sealing Powers in, and would have given her courage. But it was too late for that now. Even if dreaming strange dreams and thinking she heard rats and spiders speaking to her counted as Powers, they were surely no defense against Mist and monsters.

  Jemma sighed, then forced herself to her feet and went to the opening to look outside.

  Pale gray, everywhere. The Mist, swirling over rocks and tufts of grass. Daylight dwindling. But at least the storm was over, and a fine pins-and-needles sensation spattered her face: freezing drizzle. That was better than ice pellets, but still cold and miserable. It was so tempting to stay in the warmth of the hollow. Even if the Agromonds were still searching for her, she’d be well hidden. But would they even bother, now that it was too late for them to steal her Powers?

  “How about it, Rattusses?” she said, settling next to them again. “One more night in here, nice and snug? Then I can read more of this.” She picked up the book and opened it at the front. “Written by Majem Solvay … Was that a man or a woman, do you think?”

  A woman. Noodle and Pie hopped onto her knees and peered at the pages.

  “I think so too, for some reason. ‘Solvay …’ Why does that sound so familiar?” She squinted at the name again. “Wait a minute—‘Majem’ is an anagram … of Jemma!”

  The rats looked at her, cocking their heads to one side as if to say We knew that.

  “Sprites, Rattusses! In all the years I’ve heard Marsh saying ‘Mother of Majem,’ it never occurred to me!” Jemma thought of the way Majem’s book had dried her. The cloak had, as well. Had it, too, been Majem’s? If so, how did Drudge come to have it? Mystery thickened. There was some connection between her and Majem that went deeper than names; she could feel it, like a secret path winding from some ancient, dark place. And somehow Drudge was tied into it too—

  Pie nipped her knuckles. �
�Ouch, Rattus! What is it?”

  The rats flattened their ears against their heads. Jemma held her breath and listened. Outside, a branch cracked in the distance. Then another. Then the sound of sticks beating the undergrowth, and voices—a lot of them—heading toward the hollow.

  Panic ripping through her, Jemma wriggled under the cloak. Soon the voices became distinguishable, and she could make out their words between the blood pounding in her ears.

  “Anything over there?”

  “Naaa. You wannus to keep looking, m’lady?”

  Then a voice that struck horror in Jemma’s heart—

  “Yes, keep looking!”

  —Shade!

  “But it’s almos’ dark—”

  “You’ll cease when I say so, and not a moment sooner, else we’ll not pay you a single groat! D’you hear me, you pack of lily-livers?”

  Muttering, and cursing. The search party was getting closer. Footsteps, firm on the ground nearby. Jemma bit into her forearm, hard, to stop herself from trembling, so that the rustle of leaves underneath wouldn’t give away her whereabouts.

  “I don’t know why we’re still looking.” Feo’s voice. “The time for the Ceremony is long gone.” They were practically at the rim of the hollow. Either he or Shade was sure to see the web, so pale against the dark ground! The footsteps stopped.

  “Why?” Shade said. “Because I say so, idiot! And because Mama says so.”

  “Sh … ugh … gnnn …” Jemma heard choking from above, then gasping. “You didn’t have to strangle me like that, Shade!” Feo croaked. “Whose side do you think I’m on, for Mord’s sake?”

  “The side of the addle-headed, evidently! If you’d been listening when Mama explained, instead of gazing out of the window, you’d know. We still have until nine next Mord-day morning to carry out the Ceremony and take Jemma’s Powers. But she also has until then to get Initiated by her blood parents, and Mord help us if that was to happen! You know the consequences.”

  Feo snorted. “And how could she possibly find her parents? She doesn’t even know who she is, let alone them!”

  “Oh, do stop wittering, Feo!” A foot stamped on the earth, its impact juddering through Jemma’s bones. “Obviously, that Marsh woman told her! Why else would Jemma have taken the two crystals as well as her Stone? With the crystals in her possession, Mord forbid her parents start to guide her!”

  The two crystals? What did her parents have to do with them? Jemma peeked from under her cloak, and saw them glinting at her.

  “So like it or not, brother dear, we’re going to search every day, and we shall find her. Alive, if we can, but dead, if needs be. Anything to stop her. She must not leave the forest!”

  The footsteps resumed. At any second now, Feo and Shade would fall through and find her! Jemma bit harder into her arm. Leaves shushed; the ground shuddered. The twins walked within inches of the web, then passed by. Her nerves unwound with relief. She was safe!

  “Wait!” said Shade. “What’s that smell?”

  Two sets of ankles, clad in heavy-looking leather boots, stopped just outside the opening. Jemma held her breath.

  “What smell?” Sounds of sniffing. “Mmm, yes—sort of … sharp, like old socks.”

  Oh, no—the cheese packet was still lying open! Jemma’s teeth were about to break skin.

  “Really, Feo,” said Shade, “you might wash your feet once in a while. You know that cleanliness is next to Mordliness.”

  “I washed them yesterday, if you must know. As I do every Mord-day—”

  “Hrmph. So you say. Well, darkness is almost upon us. Call off the search. Your voice is more of a foghorn than mine.”

  “Better that than a banshee scream,” Feo retorted. Then he yelled, “All in for the night!”

  The two pairs of ankles turned and walked away.

  “Of course, you can keep looking if you want, Shade,” said Feo, his voice fading with the snapping underfoot, “since you’re evidently so unfraid of being out here in the dark.”

  “Ha! I need my beauty sleep,” came the reply. “Besides, Jemma won’t get far. She doesn’t know her destination, so she’ll just keep going in circles. The Mist will see to that.”

  Jemma counted each rapid thump of her heart as the sounds of voices, breaking twigs, and stick-beaters passed by again. By the time she’d reached three hundred and fifty, the thumps had slowed and the last voice had gone.

  She sat up and wrapped the remains of bread and cheese in the shawl with the book and crystals. It had never occurred to her that it was not just the Agromonds she had to fear, but others they would recruit to look for her. But whoever those others were—Mord allies, or merely Agromond underlings—they were evidently afraid to be in the forest at night. Which meant night was the safest time for her to travel. And whatever Shade had said about the Mist making her go in circles if she didn’t know her destination, she did know it: Hazebury. As long as she kept heading downhill, she reasoned, she’d get there sooner or later. No Mist would stop her. For something was pulling at her even more strongly than the village. Something Shade had said: We have until nine next Mord-day morning … but she also has until then to get Initiated into her Powers by her blood parents.…

  She could still be Initiated. She had six more days. Why, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. But her Initiation was something the Agromonds feared. And that suddenly made it important to her. No, vital. Although Feo was right, she didn’t know who or where her real parents were, she was determined to find them. Once she got to Hazebury, she would look. Perhaps Digby would help her. The crystals might, too; from what Shade had said, there was some connection between them and her mother and father.

  “I’ll look at them more closely tomorrow, when we find our next hiding place, Rattusses,” she said, plopping Noodle and Pie into her pockets and tying her shawl pouch around her waist. “And the book. I want to know more about this Majem Solvay too. Right. Let’s go.”

  Whatever the night was to hold, Jemma felt a new sense of purpose. It lit in her mind like the tiniest lantern, giving her a flicker of hope as she bid goodbye to her brief haven and braced herself to face the drizzling darkness of Agromond Forest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wild Woman

  Monday night/Tuesday, early hours

  Jemma picked herself up from the wet ground. From the outside, the hole through which she’d just crawled looked like nothing more than the entrance to some small creature’s home—a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox. The web was covered in leaves and debris, with no sign of the bright hollow beneath it. Smiling at the spiders’ ingenuity—and grateful to them for saving her life—she pulled up her hood and set off down the slope.

  “Hazebury,” she muttered, holding the name in her mind like a signpost. “Here we come.”

  As before, roots rose up from the ground to trip her, but by walking at an even pace, Jemma was able to anticipate and avoid most of them. Eight o’clock came and went. Now that she was rested, any dangers the forest might throw at her didn’t feel nearly as daunting as before. Even the prospect of the ghost children finding her again didn’t seem so scary: she could simply walk through them. With no search parties out at night, the only thing she really had to be wary of was the Mist, and her Stone would help with that. A wave of optimism spread through her. This was going to be easier than she’d expected.

  Eight-thirty clanged from on top of the crag. Just ahead, Jemma saw movement through the trees. She ducked behind a bramble bush and peered over it. The madwoman she had seen that morning was creeping up the hill, her stick raised over one shoulder, its front end whittled like a spear. Suddenly, the woman thrust her arm forward. The stick shot from her hand, impaling a rabbit not three paces from Jemma and pinning it to the ground. Horrified, Jemma looked on as the poor creature thrashed about, squealing, then, with a final thump of its hind legs, lay still.

  The woman stepped up to the rabbit and yanked it off her stick.

  “Come, me bonny bun
ny. Come to Rue.” Her voice grated like a knife on a whetstone. Then she began to sing, rocking the slain rabbit in her arms.

  “Rue, rue, rue the day

  They took me bonny babe away …”

  Despite her worn features, the woman was not nearly as old as Jemma had at first thought—around Nocturna’s age, possibly younger—and her face was really quite pretty when she wasn’t grimacing. She lilted on, her voice becoming soft with sorrow.

  “They took me babe, so fair and red,

  I loved me laddie, but now he’s dead.

  His sea-green eyes will see no more,

  Like so many babes before.…”

  Chills fingered Jemma’s spine.

  “Ah, me pretty, me fluffy one.” The woman cradled her bob-tailed victim. “Rue is sorry fer killin’ yer, truly she is, but she and her son has to eat.” She slung the rabbit over one shoulder and continued her way up the hill, crooning as she went.

  “She really is barking mad,” Jemma whispered as Noodle and Pie crawled from her pockets up to her neck and nestled into the folds of her hood. She turned down the hill. In what seemed like no time, nine o’clock pealed out from the castle. But the bell sounded no farther away than it had half an hour earlier. A trick of the Mist, Jemma thought, looking up the crag. It must be. We left the hollow an hour ago.

  She padded on. The drizzle had almost stopped, but the night was getting colder. To her right, she saw a faint orange glow between the trees. Firelight. Someone was limping toward it—a small boy, slightly stooped, a blanket wrapped around him. Was he the son the madwoman had referred to? Perhaps they were the ones who lived in the hut, and it was his stuffed toy that had unsettled her so much.

  On she walked, roots and rocks barely bothering her now. Her footsteps were hypnotic, and she fell into a rhythm, chanting “Hazebury” in time with it. Minutes melted into hours. Through the trees to her left, she saw fireglow again. Eleven o’clock struck. The bell sounded as close as ever. Must be the Mist, Jemma thought, trying to fool me. Eleven-thirty. More fireglow, with the smell of something roasting.