by Lyn Gardner
‘Just a little taste,’ pleaded Storm. ‘I’m so hungry.’
‘No,’ whispered Aurora sternly, and she pulled the door firmly shut.‘It’s dangerous here. This place is enchanted. I can feel it.’ She shivered.‘We mustn’t linger here. We certainly shouldn’t eat the food.’ She pushed Storm down the street.
The silence was oppressive. Passing another house, Storm stumbled over an empty milk bottle that nestled close to the front step. It fell onto its side with the clank of glass on stone and rolled noisily across the street, creating a terrifying cacophony in the silence. The children clutched each other and held their breath. Nothing stirred. But against Storm’s breast, the pipe glowed and throbbed as if it recognized where it was and was trying to sing out.
Walking almost on tiptoe now, they reached the end of the street, which opened out onto a small pretty square. A sudden creaking noise made Storm’s heart thump. Across the square, the sign for the Hanged Man inn swung back and forth in a gust of wind. Somewhere an unlatched door was banging. Storm crept over to the pub and peered through the window. All was silent. She walked to the door and tried the handle. It opened easily. Holding her breath, she pushed it gently open. The hinges squeaked painfully through lack of use.
‘Storm,’ whispered Aurora urgently, ‘what are you doing? Don’t you ever listen to a word I say?’ But Storm had already slipped inside. Very reluctantly Aurora followed her sister. They were in a room with a low-beamed roof.
Halfdrunk mugs of beer stood on the bar. A game of cribbage had obviously been in full swing. Everything was covered in dust. It was quieter than the grave. Aurora shuddered.
‘Come on,’ she urged, nervously. ‘Let’s go.’
But as she stepped back into the square again, the sky turned black and cracked open. Huge hailstones fell, hitting the ground like bullets and tearing painfully into her skin. It was like being peppered with shot. Hastily, she retreated back inside.
‘Let’s stay until it clears,’ said Storm, and she felt the pipe tingle as if in excitement.
Aurora looked aghast. If you think that I am going to stay here among all this … all this … all this … dust …’ she spluttered.
‘What else do you suggest? At least it’s sheltered and warm,’ said Storm irritably, pointing to the hail falling from the furious sky.
All right, we’ll stay. But only for as long as absolutely necessary. I’ll tidy up a bit and get rid of the worst of the dirt.’ She took out her handkerchief and polished the nearest table. Storm smiled to herself. Aurora looked the happiest she had seen her for days.
A Game of Bones
Storm wandered beyond the bar, the pipe pulsating and burning under her dress. In a narrow corridor beyond she found a small door with a key in its lock. She tried the handle. It didn’t budge. She turned the key, and with a teethwincing squeak it clicked open.
Pushing back the door, Storm found herself at the top of a small flight of steps leading down into a large, dark cellar that ran under the entire ground floor of the inn. Feeling in her pocket for the box of matches that Any had given her, her heart stuttering at a sudden, intense memory of her lost baby sister, she struck a match and cautiously started down the steps. The cellar smelled musty. A cobweb feathered her face and she squinted and brushed it aside, peering into the dark shadows. Squat barrels, once full, Storm guessed, of beer and cider, lined the edges of the room. A stub of candle in a holder sat on top of one of the barrels and Storm used another match to light it. Candle in hand, she crept over to the far corner of the cellar. Her eye was caught by something half hidden by one of the barrels. She peered behind the barrel and gave a little cry: curled in a corner was a small skeleton, a child’s skeleton. She gave a tiny gasp, but there was something so fragile and tender about this little pile of bones that she was not in the least frightened. Her heart racing, Storm knelt beside it. Around the child’s white wrist bone was a small silver bracelet. Tenderly and very carefully, Storm twisted the bracelet. The underside was engraved with a name: HOPE GOODCHILD. Storm stood up and, taking a tattered sheet that was draped over one of the barrels, she laid it gently down to cover the little skeleton.‘Rest in peace, Hope Goodchild,’ she whispered softly. ‘Rest in peace.’
As she turned to leave, her eye was drawn to an open barrel. It was filled to the brim with pomegranates, and the golden-orange fruits on the top had been cut open, revealing the seedy red pulp glistening like drops of precious blood within. They were bewitchingly beautiful, like priceless rubies. Storm hesitated. She just couldn’t resist. She leaned over to touch one, her mouth already watering as she imagined sucking up the sweet, juicy flesh. She raised the fruit to her lips to eat, and at that moment the candle guttered and went out.
Still holding the fruit, longing to sink her teeth into its crimson flesh, Storm struck another match. It sizzled, burst into a tiny swell of light and then died. She fumbled to light another but her fingers were cold and awkward and the tip broke off. Never mind, the fruit would taste just as delicious in the half-darkness. She raised it to her mouth.
As the flesh brushed her lips, the door at the top of stairs slammed suddenly shut – plunging the cellar into a thick oily slick of darkness.
Storm gasped: never before had she been in such total blackness. It was darker than the darkest starless night. It was so dark it was as if someone had thrown a thick blanket over her head.
She held her breath, and in the screaming silence all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Something slimy touched her face and mouth and she shivered and gagged. She needed something to take away the horrible taste in her mouth. She raised the pomegranate to her lips again, and as she did so she felt rather than heard a horrifying sound and something leaped by her face, screeching and wailing like a banshee and knocking the pomegranate from her hand. Storm opened her mouth and nothing came out. She sucked at the darkness and screamed, the noise filling the void in her head and the terrible cold clammy darkness, joining in unison with the shrieking of whatever terrible thing she had unleashed in the cellar.
Blind, still screaming, feeling as though her bones were turning to dust, Storm fell to the ground and curled into a small quivering ball of fear. Her entire body was filled with pain, as if the screaming was stabbing at her head and guts. She was oblivious to the door flying open at the top of the cellar stairs, to Aurora’s frightened gasp as something streaked past her and into the hallway, the clatter on the steps and then her sister’s firm, gentle arms wrapped around her sweat-soaked body. She lay sobbing like a baby against Aurora, who held her tight and rocked her. ‘It’s all right, Storm,’ she crooned. ‘It’s all right, sweetie.’
Eventually Storm dared to open her eyes, blinking in the light thrown by the small lantern at Aurora’s side. She sat up slowly and looked around. The lamplight had chased away the demons and wraiths. All she could see were the ropes and twine and tools hanging on hooks from the low ceiling, cobwebs and boxes and barrels around the edges. Storm blinked.
‘There was something horrible here …’ She shuddered at the memory of the squalling, shrieking spectre. Then she looked into Aurora’s face. A tender smile was playing around her sister’s lips.
‘It was a cat, Storm, only a cat,’ she said gently.
‘But the door! It slammed shut on its own as if the room was haunted.’
‘The wind, Storm, nothing but the wind. I opened the front and back doors of the pub to get a good blow through and it created a draught, that’s all.’
Storm burst into tears afresh. ‘I was so frightened,’ she sobbed. ‘I thought I was going to die.’
‘I’m not surprised. It must have been pitch black down here,’ said Aurora soothingly. ‘Come on, let’s go up.’ She helped Storm to her feet.
‘The pomegranates,’ whispered Storm suddenly. She looked inside the barrel. Instead of the luscious ripe fruit that had so attracted her, the barrel was full of small wizened balls like little lumpy grey skulls. Tentatively, Storm put o
ut her hand to touch one and it crumbled to dust.
Aurora was watching her carefully.‘You weren’t thinking of eating one of those, were you, Storm?’ she asked, horrified.
‘They looked so tempting. As if they had just been picked.’
‘Well,’ Aurora said tartly, ‘it’s lucky you didn’t eat them or who knows what might have happened to you. Most unhygienic. You have that cat to thank for a lucky escape.’
Storm looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe it was trying to warn me; maybe it knew.’
Back in the front parlour of the inn, a small tabby cat with hazel eyes was sitting on the bar, washing itself with a complete lack of concern. It stretched languidly, jumped onto the floor and rubbed itself against Storm’s legs as if trying to push her towards the door.
‘This cat is definitely telling us it’s time to leave,’ said Storm. ‘And I think we should take its advice.’
‘So do I,’ Aurora said briskly, and she opened the door and the two of them walked out, arm in arm, into the hail and thunder.
They hurried through the silent village past more shuttered houses towards the church and graveyard. As they drew nearer the churchyard, with its gravestones like upturned bookends, they heard a noise. Storm clutched at Aurora’s sleeve and put a finger to her mouth. There it was again: a child’s voice – pure and unearthly – carried on the breeze. The air she was singing was beautiful, a tune to make you both shudder and exclaim in delight. But when the girl got to a certain point in the tune, she broke off and began over again. This happened several times: the child never sang all the way through to the end.
She wasn’t quite sure how, but Storm recognized the ghostly melody instantly, and knew exactly how it finished. And so, it seemed, did the pipe. She’d almost forgotten she was wearing it, but now the instrument glowed and tingled around her neck as if over-excited. She peered over the wall and, on a distant tumbledown grave, saw a small solitary figure sitting with her back to them. It was a little girl, aged about six or seven.
Clambering over the dry stone wall, Storm picked her way through the lichen-covered gravestones. Aurora followed.
The child was engaged in a game, her dark head bent low and her brow knitted in fierce concentration. All the time she sang, always halting at that very same point. The girl was playing dabs, and as Storm drew nearer she realized with a prickle of horror that she wasn’t using stones, but small bones – human bones. The little figure looked up. Aurora bent and took the child’s hand in hers. It was icy.
‘Goodness,’ she said,‘you’re frozen through. You need a long, hot bath. My name’s Aurora, and this is Storm. What’s your name?’
The child screwed up her face as if trying to remember something. ‘I’ve forgotten. I did have a name but I lost it. I look for it every night on the gravestones.’ Her expression was earnest. ‘I look hard, reading all the names, even the difficult ones, but I never find it. It’s not here.’
‘Where are your parents?’ asked Aurora.
‘I’ve lost them.’
‘Well, we’ll find them for you; they can’t be far. Maybe they’ve just wandered behind one of the mausoleums.’ She whispered to Storm: ‘It’s very negligent of them, to leave her all alone in this weather.’
‘Where do you live?’ asked Storm.
The girl looked puzzled. ‘Here, of course. I live here.’
‘In a graveyard?’ asked Aurora, looking shocked.
‘On your own?’ chipped in Storm.
‘Of course not, silly. I live with my baby twin sisters. We’re together here.’ The child gazed at Storm and Aurora. ‘Have you come to live here too?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Aurora. ‘We live in a house.’
The child looked thoughtful. ‘A house. I think I lived in a house once.’ She frowned. ‘It was like a house. It was an inn. But now I live here. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I like to be near my family.’ She stood up and skipped off the grave singing her song again, and Storm could see the faded writing carved in the stone.
The date was several centuries previously.
Storm’s spine felt as if someone was running a finger down it.
‘Where are the rest of your family?’ asked Storm gently. The girl looked stricken. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for them for so long now. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep until they come, until we’re all together again. If I knew how the song ended, I think they might come.’
‘How do you know that song?’
‘I heard it. In the inn. My brother and I were playing hide and seek and I’d gone into the cellar to hide. There was laughter in the bar overhead. Suddenly it went quiet; it always went quiet when a stranger walked in. Then I heard the music. Pipe music.’ The girl’s eyes shone. ‘It was so beautiful. I heard such wonderful things in that music. But I’d only caught a snatch when it began to fade, as if the player was moving further away. I heard the feet of the people in the bar following after the tune and I wanted to follow it too. I ran up the cellar steps, but I couldn’t get the door open. I think my brother must have guessed I was hiding there and locked me in for a joke.’ Tears rolled down the little girl’s cheeks. ‘I banged and shouted and I waited and waited. But nobody ever came. Something must have stopped them. I know they would never have abandoned me willingly. They loved me.’ The girl broke into song again, stopping in exactly the same place. Against Storm’s chest the pipe was buzzing and humming. But Storm was oblivious. She was staring at the child, her mouth dry and her hands clammy. She realized that she knew this little girl’s name.
The girl didn’t notice Storm’s consternation. She said brightly, ‘Will you play a game with me?’
‘Of course we will,’ said Aurora, feeling terribly sorry for the lonely little girl, and wondering why Storm was looking so pale. ‘We’ll play with you until your parents return.’
‘We’ll have prizes,’ said the child excitedly. ‘I try to make my baby sisters’ home nice, but it’s hard: there are no pretty flowers in the churchyard, only weeds. If I win, you give me that daisy chain round your neck as a garland for the grave, and if you win I’ll give you …’ She thought hard. ‘I’ll give you a surprise.’
So for the next hour the three children sat on the grave in the drizzle playing dabs with bones until they were wet through and frozen.
‘Enough,’ said Aurora after they had played ten games and the little girl had won six.
‘I win! I win!’ cried the girl.
‘Yes, you win,’ smiled Storm, and she carefully lifted the daisy chain over her neck and gave it to the child, who draped it with enormous care over the twins’ grave. She stood back to admire her work.
‘You played well. So you’ll get a prize too.’ She skipped happily behind one of the gravestones and emerged smiling with something held behind her back.
‘Shut your eyes. Now open them.’
The sisters did so, and there in the girl’s outstretched arms was Ted Bear. Aurora gave a little miaow of surprise. The child noticed their startled expressions and a look of hurt stole over her face.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Aurora recovered herself. ‘I love it. It’s the best prize I’ve ever won. Thank you so much. Where did you get a marvellous prize like that?’
‘From the wagon. It passes this way every few days, always at night, always on the blackest nights. They stop at the pump by the gate for water. I heard them talking once. They said the children were plump enough to survive the journey without food, but they must have water. I hide so they don’t see me. Nasty men.’ She surveyed the sky. ‘They won’t come tonight, the moon is too bright.’
‘Who gave you this teddy?’ asked Storm urgently.
‘Nobody. I found it. On the road by the gate, after the wagon had gone.’
‘Do you know where the wagon goes?’
The child shook her head. ‘No.’ She paused. ‘But I know who does.’
‘Who?’ cried Storm and Aurora together.
; ‘Netta Truelove. She knows everything.’
Storm’s heart leaped with excitement. Netta Truelove! The young woman whom she had met at the town hall in Piper’s Town that day that now seemed so long ago, and who had helped her get back to Eden End. Netta Truelove, who had said to her that if she ever needed a friend, she was there and would help. Storm felt like kissing the girl.
‘Where? Where do we find her?’
‘Oh, up there,’ said the child, waving an arm up the hillside with its rows of tumbledown gravestones and ravaged angels with sad disfigured faces. ‘She’s up there.’
Storm’s mouth went dry again.‘You mean she’s in one of those graves?’ she whispered, hardly daring to hear the answer.
‘No, silly,’ laughed the child. ‘She doesn’t live in the graveyard. She lives in the clearing in the woods, up beyond the village.’
Aurora bent down to the child. ‘We would like it very much if you came with us.’
The little girl smiled a dazzling, sweet smile. ‘But I can’t leave. This is where I belong. I’ve got to wait for my family. I know that this is where they will come, because this is where my baby sisters are.’ She pointed at the words on the gravestone, ‘Look! For ever together.’ The child sang again.
Aurora pulled at Storm’s sleeve. ‘We can’t just leave her here. She’ll catch her death of cold in this weather.’
‘Aurora,’ whispered Storm gently, ‘I think she’s already dead. Many centuries dead. I know who she is. I found her skeleton in the cellar of the Hanged Man. Her name is Hope. Hope Goodchild. And she’s a ghost.’
Aurora turned almost as pale as Hope. ‘Surely not?’ she whispered, watching the child as she resumed her solitary game of dabs.
‘I’ll prove it to you,’ said Storm, and she called out to the girl: ‘Hope. Hope Goodchild.’
The child spun around, her face a beam of joy and delight. ‘That’s my name,’ she said wonderingly, and she ran forward and clasped Storm’s warm hands in her icy ones and said: ‘You gave me back my name. Thank you.’ Hope pulled hard at Aurora’s arm, stood on tiptoe and planted a frozen kiss on Aurora’s cheek. Aurora looked as if she was going to faint.
