Into the Woods

by Lyn Gardner

  ‘I believe we are,’ said Storm, taking Aurora’s hand. Then, with the baby held between them, the sisters spontaneously wrapped their arms around each other and pressed tight together, so that all three heads – the fair, the red and the dark – were touching.

  ‘We may have lost our parents, but we have each other,’ said Storm fiercely. ‘And we’ll get through this, the three of us alone, the three of us together. For ever and for always.’ As she raised her head from the circle, once again she thought she heard a distant howl and her eye caught the calendar. It was only a few months until Aurora’s sixteenth birthday.

  The Boy with the Emerald Eye

  In the weeks after Captain Eden’s disappearance the sisters settled into a routine. In the early mornings Storm tried unsuccessfully to teach Aurora to climb trees and abseil while Any lay watching, propped up in the pram. Mid-morning Storm would retire to the shed in the walled rose garden, often with Any in tow, to continue her experiments with fireworks while Aurora did housework. She deliberately didn’t tell Aurora what she was doing and Aurora deliberately didn’t ask. Since Captain Eden’s disappearance Aurora had relaxed her educational regime considerably and had started letting Storm help her cook. On the days that Storm made fireworks and cooked, the broccoli soup would often have the smoky tang of gunpowder, which would bring a puzzled look to Aurora’s face when she tasted it. In the evenings the sisters would play make-believe games together, which would often involve Storm rifling the old wardrobes for their dressing-up box, transforming herself into a valiant prince and rescuing the princesses Aurora and Anything from a fearsome dragon.

  But making the fireworks was what she enjoyed most.

  Bang! Crackle! Bang!

  A huge fountain of gold and green sparks blazed, rose several metres into the air, popped and then faded to nothing in a shimmer of falling blue stars. Storm grinned at Any, who was bouncing up and down on her bottom with delight, clutching both Ted Bear and her starry blanket in her arms, and at Tabitha and Desdemona, who were watching wideeyed too. A curl of vivid blue and green smoke rose out of the hole in the roof of the vast, dilapidated garden shed that stood amid a tangle of weeds in the old walled rose garden, hidden away from the house. Only the wall divided the overgrown garden from the woods beyond, and it was as if the latter were trying to ravage the garden and claim it back. Huge branches had crept over the wall and entangled themselves with the heavy red blooms; forest creepers were choking delicate white buds.

  The final stars from the firework fell to earth. ‘I can do much better than that,’ boasted Storm, reaching into her pocket for another twist of gunpowder. She busied herself for a few minutes filling two roughly constructed cardboard tubes with pinches of jewel-coloured grains taken from an old wooden box with tiny secret drawers. Satisfied, she picked up one of several boxes of matches that were lying around, struck a match and lit the fuses. A blizzard of purple, orange and silver sparks erupted out of the tubes and miraculously formed themselves into little dragons that seemed to chase each other’s fiery tails in whirling circles. Any’s eyes blazed with mischief and pleasure and she gazed admiringly at Storm.

  ‘Again?’ asked Storm indulgently. Any squealed in delight and bounced vigorously up and down again on her bottom, which Storm took as a yes. She bent with fierce concentration over her tubes and containers, and so Any was unobserved as she furtively stretched out a little hand and pocketed one of the boxes of matches.

  ‘This one,’ said Storm conspiratorially, ‘is going to be huge. Prepare yourself.’ Any covered her ears with her hands. ‘Ready, steady, go!’ The match flared, the fuse caught and there was a series of increasingly loud pops and bangs. Storm and Any were laughing with such pleasure at the great crackling rafts of red and blue sparks that danced their way merrily towards the hole in the roof that they didn’t notice the thin, pale boy with odd eyes – one green and one blue – creep past the shed towards the house.

  Aurora was all alone indoors making the beds. Storm couldn’t understand why she insisted on making the beds every day when they only got unmade as soon as you got back into them. Storm thought it was a complete waste of time, but if it made Aurora happy, she wasn’t going to stop her.

  In fact, making beds was doing very little for Aurora’s happiness at that particular moment. Generally, housework kept Aurora’s mind off all the things that worried her, and so many things worried Aurora that she kept a list in her pocket.

  Not even turning out the linen cupboard, her favourite occupation, could stop Aurora worrying about numbers one, three, six and ten on her list. She was used to making do on very little. Her parents had believed they could live on love alone, and Aurora had become skilled at making meagre ends meet. She had once made Zella purr with laughter when she had declared very solemnly, ‘If the wolf ever turns up at our door, he’ll have to bring his own sandwiches.’ Now, thought Aurora sadly, he’d have to bring an entire picnic. Supplies in the house were dwindling fast even though she had imposed strict rationing. The indigestible thought occurred to her that they might have to get through the winter on pickled onions alone.

  Tears trickled down Aurora’s cheek as she trailed down the stairs towards the kitchen. She was rooting through the almost empty larder when there was a knock at the door. Aurora stared uncertainly at the closed door. Eden End was as far from everywhere as it was from anywhere. Apart from a few angry suppliers demanding to be paid, nobody had called since their mother’s funeral.

  Cautiously, Aurora opened the door. For a moment she was blinded, not by the sun, but by the beauty of the thin boy, dressed in a grey jerkin and soft brown trousers, who stood on the step in front of her. His left eye was emerald and his right eye sapphire, and there was something about the line of his mouth – achingly soft and vulnerable – that made Aurora yearn to touch his lips with her fingertips. Aurora, although she didn’t yet know it, was a great beauty, like her mother. She had skin as plush as pale pink velvet, eyelashes as long and dark as spiders’ legs, and a graceful swan’s neck, but this boy was so exquisite that he made her feel plain and awkward. He smiled at her and it was like catching a glimpse of daffodils on a cold, grey day. She smiled back shyly and flushed a delicate pink, like a rosebud that had opened a day too early.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A look of surprise passed over the boy’s face, the look of someone who has just caught a glimpse of astonishing beauty. He recovered himself.

  ‘I think I can help you,’ he said softly, in a voice that made Aurora think of brambles and autumn mists. She self-consciously raised her hand and brushed away the tear that still glistened on her cheek.

  ‘Times are hard,’ said the boy. It was a statement, not a question. Aurora nodded.

  ‘I’m here to help,’ he said, with a flash of dazzling smile. ‘I am here to buy whatever you’ve got to sell.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to sell,’ said Aurora sadly.

  ‘Oh, everybody has something to sell,’ he murmured.

  Aurora wasn’t listening. She felt a little dizzy and light-headed. Perhaps it was lack of food. Over the last week she had eaten hardly anything, so that Storm and Any would not go without. She tried to pull herself together.

  ‘What sort of things do you buy?’ she enquired, wondering if she might be able to off-load some old furniture.

  ‘Musical instruments,’ said the boy smoothly. ‘A house like this must have musical instruments. I pay a good price. You won’t get better.’

  Aurora’s heart soared for a second as she thought of the grand piano in the ballroom, then plummeted like a stone as she thought of the four missing ivories, one missing pedal and the family of shrews who had taken up residence inside and were happily chomping their way through the interior.

  ‘We’re not a very musical family,’ said Aurora miserably, and the boy looked so disappointed that she felt a need to try and please him.

  ‘You must have something,’ he insisted.

  ‘I’m afraid I have
nothing for you, nothing at all,’ sighed Aurora.

  ‘But I am sure you do,’ replied the boy. ‘What about a flute or a pipe? You must have something like that? I am particularly interested in pipes. It’s my special interest. I’ll pay over the odds for a pipe.’

  Aurora shook her head and just then a vision of the pickled onion shelf in the pantry popped into her brain. The other day when she had been counting the jars she had noticed a small tin pipe on a chain that she had never seen before, lurking behind one of the bottles. She had been about to tidy it away when Any’s anguished cry had made her hurry back into the kitchen. She was sure it would still be there.

  ‘I might just have something that would interest you,’ said Aurora, and she slipped back into the pantry and found the pipe nestling amongst the jars. It felt unpleasantly hot to the touch. She stared at the pipe in her hand and wondered where it had come from. Perhaps it was a trinket that Storm had found. Her pockets were always full of rubbish. Aurora couldn’t imagine such a tawdry old thing being worth anything at all, but the boy had said he was particularly interested in pipes so maybe he would pay her something for it.

  ‘Here,’ she said, smiling. She held out her hand to the boy, with the pipe nestling flat in her palm. A flash of hunger flickered in his ice-blue eye and he leaned forward eagerly. Aurora felt his fingers brush her palm and the pipe, and then just as quickly he withdrew them as if they had been scalded. He looked down into her upturned face and smiled, and fleetingly Aurora was reminded of Zella, who whenever she wanted something badly would unashamedly use the full force of her beauty and personality to make sure she got it. It was a look that made Aurora feel quite giddy. She wondered if she was coming down with flu.

  ‘Give it to me,’ said the boy winningly. He held open a small black velvet bag and Aurora made to drop the pipe in, but as she did so she hesitated. She felt torn. She longed to please the boy. If she pleased him perhaps he would accept her invitation to step into the cool kitchen and drink lemonade, and she could tell him about all her troubles. They were in desperate need of money, and the boy had promised her a good price in return for the useless old pipe. But strictly speaking, the pipe wasn’t hers to sell. She should at least ask Storm before giving it to the boy. Reluctantly she withdrew the hand that hovered over the open neck of the bag. A strange look flashed across the boy’s face, a conflicting mixture of anger and relief.

  ‘It’s not mine. I think it belongs to my sister. I must ask her first,’ Aurora said firmly. ‘Can you come back later?’

  ‘I regret that may not be possible,’ said the boy. He took Aurora’s other hand in his, holding it for just a fraction of a second too long, and said, ‘I am sorry I could not be of service.’ He turned to leave. Aurora felt a surge of disappointment. She was just wondering whether to call him back when there was a violent explosion.

  Crack! Pop! Whiz! Bang! Bang! Bang! A series of mighty blasts rent the air. Huge plumes of black, red and purple smoke rose from beyond the walls of the rose garden. Staccato cracks, each louder than the last, rocked the earth. The air was filled with the sound of rockets whizzing into the atmosphere. A massive bang made the ground tremble. An arc of stars rose into the sky. Aurora gasped, dropped the pipe, and ran towards the rose garden. The boy looked sadly after her, then, with a regretful shrug of his thin shoulders, bent down to where the pipe lay. His green eye was troubled. He touched the pipe, withdrew his fingers quickly as if they had been burned, and then picked up a small twig, which he used to scoop the pipe into the black velvet bag. Looking around furtively, he ran towards the driveway.

  At that moment Storm, closely followed by a rueful and very sooty Desdemona and Tabitha, rounded the corner of the house holding a whimpering Any in one arm and the little wooden firework box in the other. Storm’s last attempt at making a Catherine wheel display using a timing device had ended badly. The sparks had set off some firecrackers, which in turn had sent some primed rockets shooting upwards with a loud whoosh, making Any scream with fright and bury her head under her blanket. The garden shed had filled with dense, acrid fumes as its contents caught alight and began to explode. What was left of the shed roof had been lifted into the air with a sound like a mighty rushing wind. Storm, Any and Ted Bear were black with smoke, Any was weeping in terror and Storm’s legs felt wobbly, as if they were made of half-set blancmange. She was frightened by the realization of how close she had come to blowing up herself and Any.

  ‘What have you been doing, Storm Eden?’ snapped Aurora, peering anxiously at Storm and Any’s soot-covered faces and grabbing the tearful baby out of Storm’s arms. Storm ignored Aurora’s question; she was staring at the disappearing back of the boy.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she demanded. Aurora, relieved that Storm and Any were clearly unhurt, was eager to discuss the beautiful visitor. She felt strangely intoxicated by her encounter with him and wanted nothing more than to tell the world.

  ‘He’s a musical instrument trader. He said he’d pay good money for an old tin pipe that I found in the larder on the pickled onion shelf.’

  Storm’s stomach did a backflip. She suddenly felt very sick. She had forgotten all about the pipe that her mother had given her. No … that wasn’t true. She had always meant to go and retrieve the pipe from where she had left it, but every time she had set off for the larder she had become distracted. Guilt fuelled her anger now, and she rounded on Aurora furiously. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you sell something that didn’t belong to you. That pipe was mine. Mother gave it to me, not you. You had no right. It wasn’t yours to sell.’

  Aurora, her nerves already shredded by worry, her encounter with the boy and the explosions, burst into tears. ‘Storm, please listen, I didn’t sell it. I guessed it was yours and thought I had better ask you first.’

  ‘Where is it, then?’ demanded Storm. Aurora felt in her pockets and then looked wildly around on the ground.

  ‘I think I dropped it,’ she whispered. ‘When I heard the first explosion … the boy must have—’

  Storm wasn’t there to hear the end of the sentence. She had leaped on a rusty old bicycle that leaned against the wall and was pedalling like a demon down the drive. She streaked out of the gates at breakneck speed and caught a glimpse of the boy’s retreating back. Redoubling her efforts, her face crimson with exertion, she set off in pursuit. The boy did not turn round, but he evidently realized he was being chased for he suddenly upped his pace.

  ‘Stop! Stop thief !’ screamed Storm.

  The boy ran. But although he was quick on his feet, he was no match for the furiously pedalling girl, and Storm was so fired by anger that she had absolutely no intention of stopping until she had mown him down. Which she might well have done, had the boy not abruptly swung left and scrambled over a five-bar gate into a field of brown and white cows, and had Storm’s bike not hit a large pothole at exactly the same moment. She was propelled over the handlebars with such momentum that she sailed clear over the gate and landed right on top of the boy.

  The two of them collapsed into a giant cowpat, which had the consistency of curdled cream. Still Storm did not let up. She pummelled the boy’s back with her fists, yelling,‘Give it back! Give me back my pipe!’ Then she grabbed the hair at the back of his head and pushed him face down into the cowpat.

  The boy struggled briefly, then reached into his pocket and flung the black velvet bag containing the pipe away from him. It fell in another fresh and very runny cowpat but Storm didn’t care. She scrambled off the boy’s back, grabbed the bag and tipped the pipe into her hand. It felt deliciously warm nestled in her palm. She slipped its chain over her head and the pipe lay against her chest like a comforting tin hot-water bottle. Then, without even a backward glance at the floundering boy, she set off for home.

  Later that evening, after Aurora had finally scrubbed the last of the soot and cowpat off Storm and her clothes, Storm told Aurora all about the pipe.

  ‘What power can a pipe have?’ asked Aur
ora, puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Storm. ‘But I rather suspect that that boy did. I don’t think he came here by accident. He didn’t want any pipe. He wanted this particular pipe. Although he gave it up surprisingly easily.’

  ‘He was very beautiful,’ said Aurora wistfully. ‘He had the most extraordinary eyes.’

  ‘His beauty is beside the point,’ said Storm. ‘Anyway, I didn’t see his face.’ She took the pipe from around her neck and fingered it.

  ‘Have you tried blowing it?’ asked Aurora.

  ‘Of course,’ said Storm.

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. But it’s as if you hear in the music everything you’ve ever wanted – your heart’s desire. It made me feel all shivery inside.’

  ‘You mean like when you’ve eaten too much chocolate cake?’

  ‘No,’ said Storm.‘More like that moment when you feel totally lonely, as if you are the only person left in the whole wide world, or that moment that happens just before you know something really bad might be about to happen.’

  ‘Blow it,’ Aurora urged her.

  Storm blew and the exquisite tune curled around the room. It hung on the air, making her feel nauseous and desolate.

  The girls sat expectantly for a moment; nothing happened but for the clucking of Desdemona the hen and the purring of Tabitha the cat. Both had sneaked in and taken up residence by the fire. Aurora yawned. ‘Time for bed.’

  The pipe’s tune was still echoing around the room. ‘I won’t be able to sleep,’ said Storm. ‘I’m too hungry. You know what I’d really like … ?’ She looked hopefully at Desdemona.‘A boiled egg.’

  ‘Tough,’ her sister replied.‘There aren’t any, and tomorrow isn’t one of her laying days.’

  As the melody died away, the two girls climbed the stairs to bed, arm in arm. On the way up, Storm asked casually: ‘That boy, Aurora. What was so extraordinary about his eyes?’