by Simon Kewin
Cait closed her left eye and opened the right. All was darkness under the trees again except for the guttering light of the candle. She toward the cars whizzing by, drivers invisible inside their vehicles. She switched back to her left eye and then she could see them, person-shaped lights glowing orange and purple and green. The vehicles, meanwhile, were dim and hard to discern. It was like watching sitting people flying through the air.
“Here comes a rider,” said her gran. “Look at him.”
Cait peered through the stone, but only the dimmest fleck of light drifted past.
“It's as if he isn't alive,” she said.
“Very good,” said her gran. “The stone helps you see. See the important things if you like. Use your own eyes, too, but the stone may help if danger threatens.”
“Thank you.”
Something still troubled Cait. She couldn't leave without asking. “Gran, it's magic though isn't it? And you said that magic corrupted that sorcerer. Yet you made that werelight for us. How was that any better?” She didn't mention the guilty thought that really concerned her. That she, too, had worked magic, without really knowing how. Had she done something wrong, forbidden? Was she tainted now?
“That's a question with a long answer, love. Tell me, have you ever made something happen you couldn't explain?”
She wanted to take the easy way out, say no. But she might not get another chance. “I … yes. The guy in the tunnel. I kind of sent him flying without touching him. And before that, when we were crossing the canal, I seemed to fly out of my body for a time.”
“I thought as much. When you struck at your attacker. Did you notice any effect on yourself?”
“My shoulder. There was a sharp pain as if I'd been stabbed. It was really sore. I think it's bruised.”
“Ah. And tell me, knowing it would hurt you this way, would you do the same again?”
“If I had to.”
“And if you knew a way to work the magic without it hurting you?”
“That would be cool,” said Danny enthusiastically. “Think what you could do. I mean it could be anything.”
Cait thought about it for a moment. “It would be tempting, of course. But I think … I think it would be dangerous. Where would I stop?”
“That's it, love. That's it exactly. There's the difference between the magic we work and the magic of the undain. Magic should never be used lightly. It is a wonderful and terrible gift. And there is always a cost. What you send out comes back to you threefold. It's the way of nature, the way it should be. And we accept, welcome even, the price paid.
“But sorcery cheats. It wields power without paying the price. Alchemists who try to wring magic from the elements. Summoners who leech it from magical beings. And the undain. Their necromancy has its price just like ours. They just don't pay it themselves. Knowing that using magic will hurt you keeps you human, stops you becoming like them.”
“So it hurts for you, too? When you worked that werelight?”
“The light was easy. It took concentration but no great strength. It was a bit uncomfortable. Mind you, sustaining it for so long … I'm glad I had my flask of tea with me.”
“And it will always hurt?”
“Always. In fact, you're lucky to feel simple, physical pain. It's a constant reminder not to work magic lightly. That's often how it is for the strong ones. For others it's a slow-creeping depression fogging their minds, or apparent bad luck for years to come. I had a friend, Ada her name was, who aged each time she used the magic. You could tell she'd done something big; she looked suddenly older and weaker. As if years had passed rather than days. She's dead, now. But she never used magic lightly, you can be sure.”
“But I could harm others, couldn't I?” said Cait. “Just because it hurts doesn't stop me doing bad things.”
“That's true. And plenty of witches have done bad things. We're just people, love, trying to get by. But if you ignore the suffering of others, well, you're not far from the sorcerers are you?”
“So, what I did, was that wrong?”
“It's not really for me to say. But if it helps, I'd have done the same.”
Cait nodded in the dark and said no more. It was a relief to hear her gran's words. There was much more she wanted to ask, but for now that was enough. She needed time to think, to try and understand everything that had happened.
“I'll show you that culvert,” said her gran.
They circled a few metres around the edge of the grove, always keeping in the shadows of the trees. The riders cruised past among the cars. They obviously knew she and Danny were there.
“Here it is,” said her gran.
Down a steep slope strewn with twigs and tree-roots, a round stone entrance led under the road. In the light from the candle, Cait could see a trickle of water running through it, sinking into the ground through a grid.
“This runs underground for some way,” said her gran. “It takes you in the right direction. I think you'll be safe in there. Follow it as far as you can.”
“Thanks, gran.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Danny, peering into the tunnel.
Her gran gave her one final hug, holding her tight for a second, then shook Danny by the hand.
“Take care of yourselves,” she whispered.
“And you.”
This tunnel was perfectly round: a large, concrete pipe that carried the stream under the road. Cait led the way, holding a small torch that her gran had taken off her key-ring. Danny carried the book.
They had to crouch as they walked, making Cait's back ache. Thin, pallid stalactites, little bigger than fish-bones, grew where two of the pipe's sections met. Cait ducked rather than snap them off. The pain in her back became sharper. Fortunately, there was only the slightest trickle of water underfoot. For a time the sound of the traffic on the road above rumbled through the walls. But that faded until she could hear only their own footsteps echoing and the soft rush of their breathing.
She felt safe at first, knowing her gran was behind them in the darkness, a place they could retreat to. But with each step she became more uneasy. The tunnel snaked around several corners as it led away from the wood.
“You OK, Danny?” she said. He didn't like enclosed spaces, she knew. They'd been at the front of a concert a few months ago, the crowd pressing tightly around them, and it got to him after a while. They'd fought their way through the throng to watch the rest of the gig from the back.
“I'm fine,” he replied, although a note of tension coloured his voice.
“I think I can see the end. It's not far.”
The tunnel ended between two low, grassy banks, the stream's natural course. It was all-but dried up, strewn with cans and scraps of newspaper. A road ran nearby. From somewhere an alarm sounded, its morose tones rising and falling slowly as if its power was running down.
Cait peered out carefully, wary of ambush, ready to dart inside. But there was no one about. “Come on.”
They scrambled up the bank to stand on a square of rough ground between a garage and a low, red-brick office block. There had clearly once been a building here; half-bricks and shards of glass carpeted the ground.
They made sure no motorcycles were in sight then walked onto the road. The garage was open, its garish neon lights bright after the darkness of the tunnel. Across the road, a high fence made from sheets of corrugated iron lined the pavement.
“The tower blocks are through here,” said Danny. “Let's find a way in before we're seen.”
“OK.”
They hurried along the pavement next to the fence. Cars zoomed past and each time Cait's stomach fluttered. But none slowed. After a few yards they found a place where a corner of one of the sheets had been bent. There was enough room to squeeze through. They took turns holding the triangular flap of metal open but, even so, Cait gashed her shin on one of the sharp edges.
They crept toward the two tower blocks, great square bulks reaching into the night sky. They were
identical and unlit save for a red light placed atop each to warn aircraft. Cait shivered and clutched her arms around herself. The ground underfoot was a patchwork of broken paving slabs, uneven, some cracked into pieces in shallow depressions, some heaving up in slight mounds.
The moon rose in the east, nearly full, looking huge as it drifted above the roofs of the city. Its features were crisp and clear, casting a white light across the whole scene, a light that brought more shadow than illumination. She could see where there'd once been a children's playground. A single remaining swing swayed in the wind, squeaking slightly. A gate stood at the playground's entrance but the iron railings had been flattened to the ground as if in some great stampede.
As they approached the towers, she saw the windows on the lowest three floors were boarded up. Great padlocked chains secured the doors. There was no one living there. She stopped for a moment, the towers looming over her, wondering about the people who had lived in those flats. What had become of them? Danny strode on ahead of her.
She thought she caught a glimpse, then, of something in the deeper darkness beside the nearer tower, a shifting in the shadows. She peered at it but it eluded her, staying in the shadows, reluctant.
She was imagining things. A cat or something. The place had spooked her. Everything that had happened today spooked her. She set off to catch up with Danny. She was between the two towers now. One of the windows remained miraculously unbroken. She glanced into it to see, in a field of black, her own, faint reflection. Then, quite clearly, something moved behind her, a flash of grey in the shadows.
She gasped and wheeled around. This time the shadow lingered. She could make it out against the black bulk of the building. It wasn't a cat. Too big. The shape flickered, its edges disappearing and reappearing. She stepped toward it, moving slowly, feeling that whatever it was, she didn't want to frighten it. She had the clear impression it wasn't anything dangerous. She sensed a tumult of different emotions, each very brief: bewilderment, curiosity, confusion, reticence. Who or what was this?
She held her hand in front of her, seeking the touch of the indistinct being. There were more flickers in the darkness, mere lines of grey, like pencil sketches on slate, drawn and disappearing rapidly. She saw the line of a shoulder, an arm, a face, never a complete body. Then there was a blur of many arms, many faces, like a crowd jostling for her attention.
“Cait, I think there's someone coming,” called Danny from behind her. “We have to go now.”
Ignoring him, she clutched the necklace her gran had given her and held the green stone to her eye.
There were so many of them. A crowd of children stood in a quiet circle around her, watching, etched there onto the night in grey lines, faintly glowing orange or amber as they moved. Their clothes were strange, like something from a history book. Many wore just tatters and it was impossible to tell what were strips of clothing and what were bandages. Standing nearest to her was a girl nearly Cait's own height, clutching a tatty rag doll to her chest. She edged closer toward Cait's outstretched hand.
Cait sat down on the ground, not wanting to tower over them. Were these ghosts? Actual ghosts? How long had they been here? What had happened to them, whenever it was they'd lived? And was this what Manchester was built on? Buried under the ground, concreted over, deep down below the smart office-blocks and houses? Was this what she'd been walking on all her life?
She hadn't really paid attention in history lessons, but she knew about the mills and the industrial revolution, of course. It had always seemed distant, a different world. Now it felt very close. This could have been her if she'd been born a century or two earlier. What must their lives have been like?
The girl touched Cait's hand with the tip of one of her fingers. It was a breath of frosty air, gentle but cold as stone. Cait smiled. Other wraiths edged closer too, reaching out to touch her, seeking her warmth. Soon they thronged around her, gently stroking her back, her hair, her face. They made no sound. Some, she could see now, were badly hurt. Missing fingers or limbs. One young boy, seven or eight perhaps, stick-thin, had lost an eye and some of his face.
Things were better these days. She thought about Bling Thing, the shabby office at the back. That was better wasn't it? She thought about her dad and what had happened to him. That didn't happen to children any more, at least. Yet she felt such an affinity for these faint, fading creatures. Felt the strong urge to help them, to make amends.
“Cait, what are you doing?” shouted Danny. He sounded far away, now, but frightened for some reason.
She let the ghosts continue to touch her. It was the least she could do. She wanted to find out who was responsible for what had been done to them. Make them pay. But how? It was all so long ago. She smiled at the lost faces. One day, she promised, she would help them. How, she had no idea, but she would.
“Cait! Look out!”
She heard the panic in Danny's voice even as she was grabbed from behind. A strong hand on her shoulder pulled her over, sent her sprawling backward. The green stone fell from her eye and the night closed in. She was on the floor, a leather boot next to her face. One of the riders.
The rider grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet, the pain of having her shoulder wrenched making her cry out. He was huge, nearly twice her size. He still wore his motorcycle helmet. He said nothing but stomped back to the fence, dragging Cait with him.
She could kick him, slow him down while she worked some magic, knock him flat as she had the mugger in the tunnel.
She lifted her foot but the rider stopped, released her unexpectedly. He spun around, his arms flailing as if he were being attacked by a swarm of night-time bees.
Cait found the green stone and returned it to her eye. The ghosts, the echoes, whatever they were, were a whirlwind whipping around the rider. They'd changed, become something altogether different to the fragile waifs she'd seen. Now they glowed with fury, lines of red rather than grey. They swarmed over the rider, clawing at his body, burying him under the weight of their numbers. He tried to fight, lashing out with his fists, but couldn't connect. They became a blur, flying around his head, flying through his head, the helmet no barrier. What were they doing? He yelled as he fell to one knee, arms up to protect himself. The fear was clear in his voice.
One of the figures didn't take part in the attack. The girl with the doll stood apart, looking on. She turned to Cait with a sad smile. She stretched her arm out toward Cait's face, hesitated once, then touched Cait lightly on the forehead. The sensation was different this time. The contact was as cold as before but this time the chill spread rapidly over her face, down her neck and into her stomach, as if frost crept through her veins.
For a moment she was alarmed. Was she being attacked, too? But the cold didn't harm her. Her body welcomed it. It wasn't the ice of the frozen ground. It was the cool of an evening after a day of heat. It was the cold of snow when the world is transformed into something beautiful.
A presence was there within her. An echo of the dead girl, like a patina of frost on a window. A form. A spirit. A power, too. The girl's strength added to Cait's own, given as a gift. Power as cold as ice. Power she could use.
Distantly, Cait heard the rider scream once more.
She held the girl's hand for a moment, bewildered, thanking her silently. Who was she? Would she have been a witch too if she'd been allowed to grow up? She looked less solid now, the edges of the tower block visible through her, as if the effort of what she'd done had diminished her.
“Come on. Let's get out of here.” Danny appeared beside her. All the children were fading away, their fury subsiding. They were a crowd of tattered scraps, just lines slowly dissipating. The girl with the doll was the last to go, a smile on her face. Then there was only the rider, lying on the ground behind them, unmoving.
Cait turned away from the scene, walking then jogging alongside Danny.
“What just happened?” he asked.
“They attacked him. Turned on him. Su
ch fury.”
“Who did? There was no one there. He just stopped and went mental.”
“The children. There were so many of them. They hated him, really hated him, I could feel it. But they wouldn't have harmed us.”
They stopped. They were near the other fence. The factory stood on the other side. In the distant shadows, back between the tower-blocks, the floored rider lay still.
“I didn't see anything,” said Danny.
“Come on,” said Cait. “Let's do what we came to do.”
There were no gaps in this fence but it was lower than the other. They climbed over and onto the pavement of another road. Opposite them, a few metres away, was the factory where her dad had worked. She knew it well; she'd waited outside often enough and he'd taken her in once to show her what he did all day. She could recall only great noise and heat, the huge machines crowding around her.
A high fence of metal spikes protected the long, low building. With its blazing windows and bright security lights it resembled some great ship moored in the middle of the city. A chimney stack reached into the night, its top lost except for another red beacon, flashing high in the sky. A deep rumbling filled the air. She tasted the tang of smoke as she breathed.
She was ready. She could do this.
“OK,” said Danny. “Let's try and blag our way in.”
A figure stepped from the shadows of the factory gatehouse. “Cait Weerd. I believe you have a book of mine.”
Nox grinned, as if he were an old friend.
16. Returning
The handsome man in the black leather jacket stood in the middle of the road, his hand held out for the book. Four riders stood behind him, not moving.
Without a word to each other, Cait and Danny ran. It was useless, she knew. They had no chance of escaping. Where would they run to? They raced along the pavement anyway, away from the man. But it was playing for time. They had to turn and fight. They were out in the open, caught in the light, the chase over.
Footsteps pursued them. The riders. She slowed down. Enough running. She reached for the magic lying coiled and cold within her.
