by Leo Hunt
“Luke!” Elza shouts. I raise a hand, trying to make an I’m fine gesture, but I can’t. Sweat pours from my forehead.
Holiday’s eyes are flickering. She breathes raggedly.
“Are you OK?” Elza asks me.
The sigil pulses with power, not with cold, like normal, but with golden heat. It doesn’t hurt anymore; it feels good. Bea whines, looking at us anxiously.
“You’ve gone pale,” Kirk says dubiously.
“Yeah,” Holiday says. “God. I could see stars.”
I stretch my hand out, and with a flick of my wrist send a blast of golden fire arcing into the air. Kirk flinches away from the flames. I laugh. Elza and Holiday look at me, astonished. Warm shimmering flames play around my sigil ring.
“That,” I say to Holiday, “was a brilliant idea.”
Elza and Kirk become members of my Host as well, to give me as much power as possible. Kirk says the words and becomes my new Vassal, Elza my Heretic. With each binding, the sigil ring glows with brighter heat on my finger, and I feel more confident. I can’t believe this worked, but it seems that it has. Sometimes you need somebody without any specialist knowledge to innovate. Three spirits isn’t the strongest Host you can make, not even by half, but I only had one ghost to my name when I went into Deadside to face the Ahlgrens, and I came out of that in one piece. We have a chance.
Elza hasn’t gotten up from the chair since the binding. She sits with her eyes closed, fingers tapping on the armrests.
“This feels so weird,” she says quietly.
“Are you really all right to travel?” I ask. She’s insisted she’ll come with me.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll have to be.”
I bend down and kiss her. Her lips are soft.
“What about Mark?” Holiday asks us.
“How do you mean?”
“He can’t come with us,” she says.
“Oh yeah,” I say. I hadn’t even thought about that. Mark’s still asleep, and there’s clearly no way he’s going anywhere on that leg. He’ll have to stay here.
“I don’t like leaving him,” Elza says, “but I don’t see what choice we have. This is about as safe as anywhere in Dunbarrow at the moment.”
“You just said they could find a way to get in here,” Holiday says. “There are hundreds of ghosts and who knows what else outside Luke’s house.”
Elza smiles thinly. “I’m hoping we’ll give those things out there more important issues to worry about. We’re going back to the Devil’s Footsteps, and we’re sending them home.”
“So we just leave him here?” Holiday asks.
“Me and Luke need to sort this out,” Elza says. “You can do what you like.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Kirk says.
“What?” I ask.
“I mean, I’ll stay. I don’t . . .” Kirk trails off.
“You all right, mate?”
“I’m not cut out for this,” he says. “No way. I don’t . . . I don’t think I can. I can’t go out again. Too many monsters, man. It’s screwed up. I’ll stay with Mark.”
“All right, mate,” I say. “That’s OK.”
He stares at me, gripping the sword, daring us to laugh at him.
“You’ve done more than anyone could ask,” Elza says quietly. “Someone does need to look after Mark. That’s brave, too. You’ll be on your own here with him. I’d be afraid of that. Nobody thinks worse of you.”
“That’s right,” Holiday says, putting an arm on his shoulder.
“You’ll have Bea with you,” I say. “There’s food in the fridge. Give Mark some of those painkillers every twelve hours. . . . Well, that won’t work. No clocks. I suppose whenever he’s in pain.”
“What about you?” Elza asks Holiday.
“I’m coming with you,” she says grimly.
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t see how I can do anything else,” Holiday replies. “And you’re going to need help.”
“That’s fine with me,” I say.
Elza nods. She rises from her chair with a lurch and starts to head for the kitchen.
“We’ll need food,” she says. “I don’t know how long this’ll take. Weapons too. You say we’ve got another witch blade now?”
“The one Margaux was using.”
We gather our supplies. Warm clothes, backpacks with food and cans of soda. Sigil, Book of Eight, two witch blades, Holiday’s wyrdstone on a string. Rope, a hammer, first-aid supplies. The standing stone — I can’t quite believe that’s what it — but I still carry it in my mouth. Elza hasn’t explained to me yet how we’re going to get them out of our gums, but I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
We’re gathered in the hallway, Kirk holding a candle in one of the candlesticks Mum uses at Christmas dinner. Nobody seems sure of what to say.
“Well,” I say at last, “we’ll see you in the morning, I guess?”
“Yeah,” Kirk says. He doesn’t sound convinced.
“You know where stuff is, right?”
“Haven’t been here since we were thirteen.”
“It hasn’t changed much.” Has it really been that long? I suppose Mum got worse after that, so I kept people away from the house. I never once had Mark over, I remember that.
Holiday hugs Kirk tightly. “It’s going to be fine,” she says to him. “I’ll find Alice.”
“Be safe,” he says.
Elza and Kirk shake hands. There’s a silence.
“Sorry about calling you a lesbian that one time,” he says.
“It was more than one time,” Elza replies.
“I dunno what’s wrong with me,” Kirk says, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry, man.”
“That’s OK,” Elza says. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m sorry I busted your nose that time. For what it’s worth.”
Elza turns and unlatches the door. Cold air blows into the hallway. Kirk’s candle goes out. Elza steps out, followed by Holiday. I stay where I am.
“She’ll come around,” I say. “Elza’s really cool, honestly.”
Kirk laughs bitterly. “Mate, I’m never gonna see you guys again.”
“We’ll be back,” I say. “Trust me.”
“Yeah,” he says, not sounding convinced. “Look, I wanted you to have this.”
He hands me his sword.
“Authentically forged in Japan,” he says. “Got a certificate with it and all. You see them horse things —”
“You sure?” I ask. I raise my sigil ring. “You’ve already given me power, Kirk. You gave me your spirit. You can keep the sword.”
“Nah,” he says. “You might need a weapon, man, no matter what magic you got in that ring there. Maybe you’ll find a sword’s exactly what you need. You’re gonna be in more trouble than me. I’m just the lad sitting on his arse inside ’cause he’s scared.”
“Don’t be like that, man,” I say. “You’ve done really well.”
“Your girl’s braver than I am,” he says.
“Elza’s braver than most people,” I say. “And she’s been living with all this way longer than you have. Don’t feel so bad.”
“Yeah, well. I’m sorry for making fun of you both and stuff. Dunno why I do half the stuff I do half the time. If I get out of this —”
“It’s all right, man.”
We hug. Kirk’s stubbly head rubs against my neck. He smells of cigarettes.
“Go do it,” he says. “Kick this tree-thing’s head in. And you see them horse monsters, you know what to do. Carve them up good. Tell them I sent you.”
“I will,” I say. “I’ll see you and Mark soon.”
He smiles properly and claps me on the shoulder.
“You’ve always been positive like that,” he says. “It’s good. I always liked it. Now get that door shut, man. I’m freezing my balls off here.”
I laugh and step out into the snow, sword still held in my right hand. The front door clicks shut behind me. I im
agine Kirk standing there, hand on the door. I wonder what his face looks like now. Does he really believe we’ll come back? What will he and Mark do if we don’t?
I shove the sword through my belt. It’s pretty awkward, but it’ll have to do. I tie my scarf up around my face for warmth, and then I set off, with the strength of three living souls burning inside my sigil ring, ready to face the dead.
Holiday and Elza are waiting for me by the front gate. Just beyond them, the fog of Deadside beckons us. Ranks of the Tree’s servants surround the house, twisted gray bodies in the grayness. Elza looks at the crowd with a worried frown. They stare back, chanting in a whisper.
“Seven trees of living stone . . .”
“So how do we get through this?” Elza asks me. “They’ve got us pretty well trapped.”
“Elza!” Ryan calls from the dimness beyond the garden gate. “Luke! Great to see you! Let us in.”
He lurches closer to the boundary of the hazel charm’s protection, close enough for us to see him properly. Holiday gasps. Ryan’s body is a mass of roots, some now thick as my fingers, trailing down to the ground. The Tree really is eating them, bit by bit.
“I don’t think so,” Elza says.
“The eighth is cast of ice and bone . . .”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” someone says in the crowd.
“Yes,” I say, raising my sigil, “there is.”
I draw power from my new Host, draw from the living spirits of Elza and Holiday and Kirk, and a warm golden light blossoms from my sigil ring, like someone attached the sun to my hand. The light cuts through the fog, dissolving it away. The crowd screams, revealed in the light, covering their glowing eyes with their root-gnarled hands. They’re forced away from us, cowering into the fog. Holiday raises her wyrdstone, and white light shines from it, matching the radiance of my sigil.
“Follow me,” I tell Holiday and Elza, and they do, holding their witch blades ready for an attack. My heart pounds as I step outside the garden gate, into the fog, but the crowd of worshippers does nothing to hurt me. They can’t even look at me, as long as the light from my sigil shines.
We walk back to back, pushing our way through the throng. They’re a terrible sight: skin gray and cracked, losing their hair, gray roots pushing through their flesh. It’s no longer possible to recognize my neighbors, to pick out who each figure used to be before the Tree came here. One brave worshipper makes an attempt to grab at us, one hand covering its eyes, but its skin starts to smoke as it comes closer to my sigil, and the creature backs off, howling.
There’s a commotion behind us, and the sound of a dog barking. A black shape slips between a pair of gray legs and jumps into the ring of light around us. Bea.
“What are you doing out here?” I yell. “Go inside!”
“She got out!” Elza says, keeping her eyes fixed on the creatures around us. “You spent so long with Kirk . . .”
“Seven trees of living stone . . .” the crowd mumbles.
“Bea! Go home! It’s not safe!”
“You can’t send her back through this!” Holiday shouts at me, pushing the shining wyrdstone into a worshipper’s root-furred face. “They’ll grab her!”
She’s not wrong. I had hoped we’d have broken free of the crowd by now, but they’re still packed as tightly as possible around us, shielding their eyes with their hands.
“I don’t . . . I already lost Ham! It’s too dangerous! She can’t come with us!” I say.
“We don’t have a choice now,” Elza snaps. “She’s here! Now how are we getting out of this?”
“The eighth is cast of ice and bone . . .”
The light from my sigil is still shining, but it’s starting to feel uncomfortably hot on my hand. I can see Holiday’s wyrdstone is starting to fade. How long can I keep this alight? When it goes out, they’ll surround us and tear us to pieces. Bea runs around me in a circle, barking furiously at the worshippers. I can’t tell where we are anymore, how far or near we are to my house. All I can see is fog, hands covering gray faces, dark bodies.
“We need to break free!” I shout. “We can’t do this forever!”
“Can we jump?” Holiday asks me.
“What?”
“Can we go somewhere else? Like we did crossing the bridge?”
“I don’t know how to make that happen!” I reply.
“We ought to try,” Elza says. “We’ll never get free of the crowd like this.”
“Grab Bea,” I tell her. “Think of somewhere else in Dunbarrow! The school, maybe? I don’t know!”
The creatures around us howl.
“Seven trees of living stone!”
My hand feels like I’m holding it in a furnace. I don’t think I can stand this much longer.
“The eighth is —”
I squeeze my eyes shut, think as hard as I can of the high school, imagine us walking across the playing fields, gray mist swirling around us.
“— cast —”
There’s a rush of coldness, and when I open my eyes, we’re not on Wormwood Drive anymore. We’re in a snowy field, with leafless trees visible in the fog. The creatures around us are gone. Holiday takes a deep breath. I let the burning light fade from my sigil, a welcome relief.
“Well, that’s not where I was thinking of,” I say. “But it’s a start.”
“Where is this?” Elza asks. “I was thinking of Dunbarrow.”
“Uh,” Holiday says, pointing to a street sign sticking out of the gray grass, “I think this might be it.”
“You’re kidding.” Elza whistles, looking at the bleak grassland around us. “Is this the main road?”
We walk farther and come across the shells of buildings I recognize: the bank by the roundabout, the pet shop. Dunbarrow is coming apart, unraveling like an old worn-out rag. There are trees where houses used to be, enormous gray trees with scaly bark and icicles hanging like vicious fruit from their branches. When there are buildings, they look a hundred years old or more, ruins clouded with ice. Time runs strangely here, I know that. Perhaps some of these buildings really have stood for a hundred years now, slowly collapsing under the weight of the snow. I don’t know. We pass Dunbarrow’s clock tower, the clock stuck at exactly midnight. Nobody seems to be around; I assume Margaux sent them all up to guard my house. I’m on alert for any sign of the Knights, but I can’t hear any snatches of their voices or the telltale clank of their armor. We move quickly through what remains of the streets, Bea following us like an extra shadow.
We pass the pub, doors still open, with snow blanketing the tiled floor inside. They must’ve been doing good business when midnight struck. We cut across the bus station, double-deckers standing abandoned and dark in their bays. There are thorny gray trees growing through the blacktop in the parking lot opposite, splitting through the earth.
“It’s like it’s all turning back into forest,” Elza says as we pass by.
“England’s memory of itself,” I say.
“What?” she asks.
“I dunno. Something the Shepherd told me about Deadside, I think.”
We pass along a snowy road surrounded by trees. This is the route we used to walk to school in the mornings, when I went to Dunbarrow High. I think this is the tree where we threw Nick Alsip’s sports bag as a joke, and it got stuck in the highest branches; and bizarrely, of all the things in Dunbarrow that have remained, that bag is still caught up there, a ragged shape in the dimness. Our feet crunch in the snow. Bea takes the lead, crossing back and forth across the road in a zigzag pattern, as if she’s scenting for something.
“Why did you stop talking to me?” Elza asks Holiday after a period of silence.
“What do you mean?” Holiday replies.
“I mean —” Elza sighs. “God! Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. We were best friends. Remember going to Devon? Do you remember your dad finding that crab in the rock pool and picking it up to show us, and it pinched his thumb so hard it bled? We were
screaming. I know you remember that.”
“Yeah,” Holiday says. “He still has a scar there.”
“Do you remember the Pony Castle?”
“Of course,” Holiday says. “The tower is still in our garage.”
“I think Queen Goldenmane is in our attic,” Elza says.
There’s another of those green flashes in the sky, brighter I think now that we’re closer to the passing place. Bea is trotting along next to me, apparently no longer worried about me grabbing her collar and making her go back home.
“Just checking, anyway,” Elza continues. “I mean, we’ve barely spoken for, like, five years. I wasn’t sure if you remembered any of that or if it was just me.”
“Of course I remember,” Holiday says quietly. “But we were little girls, Elza.”
“Of course,” Elza says. “People change.”
“I mean, like . . .” Holiday grasps for words. “School’s tough. You think it was fun for me? Half those girls are horrible. Everyone smiles at you, and then when you’re not in the room, they all start talking about you. It’s a nightmare. I couldn’t have done it and kept things how they were with us when we were little. You kind of freaked them out. I mean, I didn’t mind how you’d look at stuff that wasn’t there —”
“Hey, there was stuff there,” Elza says. “You know that now.”
“All right, I know now that you weren’t just talking to nothing but I didn’t back then. I mean . . . you’re kind of intense, Elza. I’m sorry. It wasn’t always easy to be friends with you.”
“I’m intense,” Elza says.
“You are a little intense,” I say gently.
“Plus you were kind of bossy,” Holiday says quickly.
“I’m bossy?” Elza asks, looking at us hard.
“You’re, like . . . you have strong opinions,” I say.
“I mean, I don’t know,” Holiday says. “I wanted people to like me. You didn’t seem like you cared. That’s fine for you; it’s not great for people who . . . I mean, I dunno. You’re so brave, Elza. I thought you’d be all right.”
