Shadowsmith

by Ross Mackenzie

  Amelia smiled, let go of him and spun round the boat, her hazel wand aloft. The curtain of creatures collapsed into the water in a fizzing shower of sparks. Then she pointed the hazel towards the nest and began to speak.

  Kirby strained to listen, caught small snippets of what she was saying, but he did not understand. These were old words – somehow he knew that – words from the beginning of the world. And as Amelia spoke them – or was she singing? – Kirby remembered things long forgotten, saw secrets buried by time. But it was too much to hold in his head, too painful to know, and it slipped away…

  As Amelia continued to speak, the remaining spiders grew frantic. There was a creak from the roof of the cave as the nest began to swing. Strands of silk were fraying and snapping like rotten rope, spiders dropping into the water.

  The thing inside the nest screeched back, it’s eyes now glowing red with hatred.

  “Who let you in?” Amelia shouted out. “Who opened the door to this world?”

  The creature’s grating voice echoed around the cave. “We came when they let the others in,” it said. “We took our chance when the gap opened. We left the forever nothingness and found this world.”

  “Others?” said Amelia. “What others?”

  “Witches,” said the voice.

  The centre of the nest dropped with a jerk and swung wildly, hanging on by the thinnest of threads, then broke away from the rock ceiling. As it smashed through the surface of the water Kirby glimpsed one of the enormous hairy legs of the creature within, and gulped.

  The boat banged against the cave wall, throwing Kirby to the floor. He heard something then that scared him even more than the creature in the nest. He heard Amelia Pigeon, and there was fear in her voice.

  “No!” she was yelling. “No, no, no, no, NO!” She was leaning over the boat, reaching for something in the water. Kirby pulled himself up, strained to see what she was trying to get.

  It was the hazel twig. Their protection. A knife of panic stuck him in the gut.

  “Don’t you have another?”

  “I gave it to you yesterday! Didn’t you bring it?”

  “Erm… no.”

  Without the hazel keeping them at bay, the spiders began to rain down on the rowing boat, with a pitter-patter as they landed on the wood. They fell on Kirby, in his hair, on his face, in his clothes, and as they crawled all over him, he heard a terrified wail. It took him a moment to realise the sound was coming from him.

  The spiders were spinning silk around him, binding him in their web. He tried to shake the fear from his body. Remembering the torch in his pocket, he switched it on, shining the light on his own face, sending the spiders scurrying.

  On the other side of the boat Amelia was still trying to retrieve the hazel, but she stretched too far and went toppling into the water.

  Kirby reacted without thinking. He shrugged off the growing webs and clambered forward, reaching out over the water. “Grab my hand, Amelia!”

  She swam up and grasped it, and he dragged her aboard, coughing and choking. Then he turned back and reached for the twig. His fingertips touched it, and he strained against the boat, stretching further and further still, until at last his hand closed around it.

  One of the spiders landed on his hand then, and seemed to bite him. There was a flash of burning pain like nothing he’d ever experienced. He screamed out, but he did not let go of the stick. He dragged the tip of it through the water, and when the circle around the boat was complete, the spiders inside stopped, exploding in tiny flashes of flame, leaving behind nothing but scorch marks and ash.

  Amelia had recovered. She was back on her feet, soaked through, silhouetted against the glow from the nest. “Thank you Kirby,” she said gravely as she took the hazel, pointed it at the nest, and spoke her words again.

  The nest bobbed and shivered in the water, glowed brighter and brighter, so dazzling it hurt Kirby’s eyes. The creature inside shrieked and spat and the water around the nest sizzled and churned, until the thing was finally defeated and was swallowed by black water.

  Kirby watched over the edge of the boat as it sank to the bottom, its glow becoming fainter, until the cave was dark once more.

  Everything was still. The spiders were gone. Kirby could hear nothing but his own gasping breath. He picked up the torch, fumbled with it and switched it on, turning the light towards Amelia.

  Her wet hair was plastered to her head. She rubbed her hands together, a look of satisfaction on her freckled face. “Well now. That about takes care of that.”

  And then she collapsed.

  What Happened Next

  Kirby did as Amelia asked. He got her out of the cave.

  It wasn’t easy; he’d never rowed a boat in his life. A lot of the time the oars thrashed ineffectively in the water, or took him in the wrong direction or in circles. But he got there.

  When the boat floated out of the darkness into the warm morning sunshine, his chest swelled with relief and happiness.

  Amelia began to stir in the daylight. Kirby scrambled over and helped her onto the seat.

  “You OK?”

  Amelia nodded. “Ice cream,” she said. “I want ice cream.”

  Kirby rowed as fast as he could. His arms and chest burned, and even though the sea was calm it took him three times as long as Amelia to row the distance back to land. By the time they reached the red rocks at Ruby Cove, Amelia was sitting up, staring out at the water.

  Kirby hopped out of the boat, looped the rope over a piece of jutting rock, and helped Amelia ashore.

  “Can you walk?”

  She nodded. Kirby took her hand and led her slowly along the beach, back up the hill to the harbour and into Frankie’s Café.

  They shared a caramel-chocolate-brownie ice-cream sundae – cold ice cream, warm caramel and chunks of chocolate brownie swirling around in their mouths.

  “Better?” asked Kirby.

  Amelia managed a smile. Some of the colour had returned to her face.

  Warbling waltz music filled the café, accompanied by the sound of Frankie, the owner, singing as he cooked bacon and eggs on the grill for the workmen who were repairing the harbour wall.

  Amelia leaned her elbows on the table. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I promised you’d be safe.”

  Kirby chewed on another chunk of brownie. “I am safe.”

  “No thanks to me. I made a mistake. I was careless. If you hadn’t been so quick, fetching the wand, I’m not sure what would’ve happened.”

  Between the adrenaline from his adventure and the vast amounts of sugar he was shovelling into his face, Kirby was in no mood to be glum. In fact, this was the happiest he’d been since the storm. It wasn’t that he’d stopped worrying about Mum – the worry was always there, niggling and gnawing like toothache – but when Amelia was around it eased and faded.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I didn’t get eaten…”

  “But you could’ve been.”

  “Aye, but I didn’t! I’m here, eating ice cream. The monsters are gone…” He trailed off, watching her expression darken. “They are gone, aren’t they? No more black spidery things?”

  “No. None of those.”

  “See! Happy days!”

  Amelia did not crack a smile. “Creatures like the spiders are never supposed to come here in the first place, Kirby. They’re from… somewhere else. A dark place.” Amelia stared off into the distance, as if she was recalling far-off memories. “You heard that thing in the nest. Someone opened the door. The question is who?”

  “I’ll help you find out,” said Kirby cheerfully.

  “No, you will not. It’s far too dangerous. What you will do is go and wash the ice cream off your face. It’s in your eyebrows. How is that even possible?”

  Kirby stared across the table at her. “Are you a witch?”

  Amelia sat back in her seat, folded her arms. “I am precisely what I am, Kirby Simpson,” she said. “And th
at’s the end of it.”

  “But—”

  “Ice cream. Eyebrows. Now.”

  Kirby was going to argue, but fighting with Amelia was like fighting with an adult: always a losing battle, even if you were right. He huffed out of the booth, went to the toilet and cleaned his face. When he returned to the table, Amelia’s seat was empty.

  “Frankie,” he said, rushing to the counter, “what happened to the girl I was with?”

  Frankie flipped an egg over on the grill. He turned around and smiled. “Sweet girl. She paid the bill and left… Got yourself a girlfriend, Kirby?”

  The workmen at the nearest table chuckled. Kirby felt his face redden.

  “Nope!” he yelled as he ran for the door.

  The late-morning sun was baking the world. Kirby shaded his eyes as he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Amelia’s yellow raincoat. She was not across the street at the harbour. He ran down to Ruby Cove but couldn’t find her. He searched the maze of roads and alleyways that made up Craghaven, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  It seemed Amelia Pigeon had vanished.

  ***

  Back in the café, nobody noticed the two tall men dressed in black who sat in a booth by the far wall. Brother Swan and Brother Swift had been watching Amelia and Kirby with great interest.

  “She knows we’re here,” said Brother Swan, wiping his long fingers over his bald head.

  “She doesn’t,” said Brother Swift. “She suspects, is all.”

  “She’s getting rusty,” said Brother Swan. “I remember a time when she’d have sniffed us out and sent us back to the darkness before her friend had finished his sickly sundae.”

  “She’s not what she once was,” agreed Brother Swift, “I’ll grant you. But she’s still strong enough for what we need.”

  “I hope you’re right, dear brother.”

  They stood up, and walked to the door. On the way, Brother Swan reached over a workman’s shoulder, touching the bacon on his plate with a pale finger. Nobody noticed.

  “Couldn’t resist,” he said.

  “Stomach bug?” asked Brother Swift. “Oh, you’ve always been an artist when it comes to disorders of the digestive system.”

  “It’s good to be back.” Brother Swan smiled as he walked through the solid door, out towards the harbour.

  TWO

  The Woods

  The Scar

  Three days went by, and without Amelia Pigeon and her adventures to distract him, thoughts of Mum filled Kirby’s head once again. It seemed everything in the house, every room, every object was attached to a memory. The notches on the kitchen door where she’d marked his height every birthday. The broken branch on the apple tree in their narrow garden where she’d insisted on having a go on the rope swing. The hall mirror where they’d leave each other secret messages scrawled in foggy breath.

  Dad was doing his best; Kirby knew that. But no matter how they both tried, they could not escape the fact that the house was filled with Mum’s absence, the smell of Dad’s burnt toast and the sound of awkward silence.

  “What you reading?” Dad asked one warm Wednesday night, when the salty sea air breathed through the open windows.

  Kirby, lying on his belly on the living-room floor, said, “Coraline.”

  “Any good?”

  “Really good.”

  A pause.

  “Never been much of a reader myself.”

  “I know.”

  Another pause.

  “Maybe you could… I dunno… help me with that. We could read your book together. What is it… Caroline?”

  “Coraline.”

  “Right. So what do you think?”

  Yet another pause.

  “You don’t have to do this, Dad.”

  “Do what?”

  “Try so hard. It’s fine.”

  Dad sat up a little straighter. He frowned. “Well maybe I want to.”

  “You’ve never been interested before,” said Kirby. Anger was bubbling up in his chest, though he knew Dad wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  Dad looked sad and annoyed at the same time. “That’s not fair. I just want to help you.”

  Kirby stood up and closed his book. “I don’t need help, I need Mum.” And he stormed away up the stairs, slamming his door and collapsing on his bed.

  He knew he hadn’t been fair, knew Dad was only trying to be there for him. But Kirby was just so angry at everything, at Mum and Dad and Amelia and the world. He had to let it out or he felt he might explode.

  Sometime later, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour, Kirby heard the creak of his dad’s footsteps in the hallway outside. He waited for the knock on the door. But it didn’t come. Dad creaked away down the hall again, and Kirby lay on his bed and read his book until he fell asleep.

  ***

  He woke in the night with a searing pain in the palm of his hand. His pyjamas were soaked with sweat. He reached over, fumbling with the bedside lamp, and held his trembling hand out in the light.

  On the fleshy part of his palm, beneath the thumb, there was an angry red scar in the shape of a spider. Under the skin, something was skittering and pushing upward. Something was trying to get out.

  Kirby would have screamed, would have called for help, but he was so terrified that all he could do was clamp his free hand around his wrist and watch as his skin stretched outwards, the spider legs probing from inside.

  Somewhere in the fog of terror, a memory flashed in his mind: back in the darkness of the sea cave, as he had reached into the water for Amelia’s hazel wand, something had bitten him. A knife-sharp spider leg pierced his skin, and another, and a third. Kirby could feel the creature pushing harder, trying to squeeze out into the world. His blood was on fire. The room was moving around him, spinning, the walls closing in…

  Kirby fell backwards, and it seemed to him that he had fallen through his bed, through the world he knew, of light and dark and warmth and cold and flesh and blood, to a place with none of that. And there was something with him in the nothingness, something huge and hungry and smiling, something older than he could imagine. He felt it. It was inside his head, in his mind and memories, everywhere at once…

  And then there was a glimmer of light. As Kirby moved towards it he realised that he was no longer floating in the dark. He was standing in a field of corn under a night sky alive with blinking stars. Ahead was a crumbling old farmhouse, a place he had seen before. The glimmer of light was, in fact, a yellow raincoat, hanging on the outside of the door…

  ***

  In the morning when he woke up, back in his own bed, the first thing Kirby did was check his hand. He expected to find blood and a ragged, open wound where the spider had forced its way through his skin.

  But he found nothing. Not a scratch, not even a mark.

  He prodded the flesh beneath his thumb, watching for something beneath the skin to squirm.

  Nothing happened.

  Kirby lay back again, staring at the ceiling. He was sure it had not been a dream.

  Then he remembered the field, and the old farmhouse, and he became sure of something else.

  He knew where to find Amelia.

  The Farmhouse

  The farmhouse had been a ruin for many years, since well before Kirby was born. The Weir family, who owned the land, had built a new house on the other side of their spread, with views of the cold North Sea, and through time the old house had been vandalised and damaged. The farm itself was just outside of town, perched on rolling land that became the cliffs and then the sea.

  It didn’t take long for Kirby to walk there. He cut down a dirt lane until he found the place he was looking for, a field filled with corn taller than a man, on the edge of thick, dark woodland.

  The house sat at the far end of the field, bordering the woods. The yard was overgrown to the point of being a jungle, and thorns and nettles stung Kirby as he pushed through. Most of the windows were broken, and part of the old house was nothing more than a bla
ckened shell, burnt away by a fire at some point in the past. He looked through a window and saw nothing inside but empty darkness, dust and shadow. But the front door was still whole and solid. Kirby knocked.

  “Hello?” he said. “Amelia?”

  No reply.

  The door was not locked, but it was stiff. Kirby leaned against it, put his shoulder into it, pushed – and it suddenly gave way, sending him stumbling to the floor. He stood up and dusted himself off, then he looked around.

  What he saw was not the same bare darkness that he’d glimpsed through the window. He was standing in a comfortable, warm farmhouse kitchen, golden sunlight streaming through the windows, the smell of toasting bread in the air.

  Amelia Pigeon stood at the range, stirring the contents of a pot. She was wearing a flowery dress and a pair of Wellingtons, her yellow raincoat hanging on a hook by the door. She stared across the kitchen at Kirby.

  “You don’t give in easily, do you?”

  “Saw this place in a dream,” said Kirby. “Sort of guessed you’d be here.”

  She stirred the pot, still staring at him, almost through him. “Well, you’ve got a knack for this, that’s for sure. There’s not many folk could have found me here. And I suppose if I was to send you away and move somewhere else you’d only track me down again?”

  Kirby smiled. Then he looked at his hand, at the place the scar had been. “Back in the cave,” he said, “when I was getting the wand out the water… something happened. I think one of those spider things bit me.”

  Amelia stopped stirring the pot. She frowned, took a deep breath. “Come here. Let me see.”

  Kirby gave her his hand, and she took it in hers and raised it close to her face. She examined every part of it, fingernails to palms. Then she sniffed at it, her freckled nose twitching.

  “What’s that?” asked Kirby. “What you doing?”

  “Checking.” Amelia’s nose hovered over the place the scar had been, and she sniffed at it again, like a dog. Then, before he knew what was happening, she was dragging him towards the door and reaching into that yellow raincoat. She brought out a new hazel wand, pointed it at his hand and wiggled it about a bit.