by Amy Wilson
‘I . . .’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘No, this is my time for talking, Owl. You’re special, we both know that. And we don’t know what that will bring, in time. But for now you are my girl, and I will keep you safe for as long as I can.’ She hesitates, then sighs. ‘You’re grounded.’
‘Mum!’
‘What did you expect?’ she demands. ‘There are consequences, Owl, to everything. This is the consequence. You’re grounded for one week, at least.’
I’ve never been grounded before. I never thought I would be.
I suppose lots of things have happened in the last week that I never expected.
‘It just . . . doesn’t seem fair,’ I sigh to the owl on the bedpost later as I open my bag and haul the books out.
‘Fair, fair,’ comes a whisper through the room, making my ears ring. I look at the wooden owl, and around at all the others up on the walls. They’re silent, not a flutter between them, and I almost wish they would come alive and talk to me, because I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so alone.
I try to get a grip on my maths homework but the loops and whirls of algebra suddenly look like Jack’s frost patterns on the windows, and I get lost again, thinking about last night and the plot against him. I’ll have to tell him. Not tonight, but soon. I picture him out there, stalking the streets and covering them with silver-white ice. Then I imagine myself out there with him, and I know I won’t be able to wait for long.
FABLES & EARTH SPIRITS
The Earl of October
It was a flurry and a riot, in that place, and for a moment she hardly knew which was up, which was down. Golden leaves spun in the air, rustled underfoot and drifted every which way, carried on a mild wind. She ran like a child, kicking into the chaos – she could not help herself. But she should have, for the Earl of October is zealous in his rule.
‘What do you do here?’ he screamed at her, stalking down a long, tree-lined avenue, the leaves turning red as he passed. ‘What do you seek? Humanity has no place in my kingdom!’
He was an awesome sight: half as tall as the tallest tree, his skin like bark; his limbs were knobbly, his hair like nothing more than the curling, twisted roots that crept beneath their feet.
The girl turned and ran.
It was the first, the only time she had ever done so. She had faced far more spiteful creatures, even far more dangerous, but there are few in the world who bear the rage of the Earl of October. And there are few who look so monstrous.
I wake to the sound of glass being clawed at, a horrible, thin, tortured sound that makes my ears ache. My breath plumes as I turn my head and look towards the window, a small cloud of ice particles forming in the air.
What is that?
The sound comes again, and then there’s a tap. Small, but insistent. I shuffle out of bed and lift the curtain to peek out, little prickles of fear running up my spine.
There’s an owl drawn in ice on the window: intricate and beautiful, its wings outspread, eyes fierce and determined as it looks groundward. It reflects the moonlight, and glints, so real-looking I can’t help but reach out a hand to touch it.
And then Jack looms out of the darkness, a wicked smile on his face as he leans out from the silver birch that stands in the garden. He beckons. I shake my head, though I can already feel the adrenalin building in my blood. He frowns and reaches out, knocks against the glass a little harder, a little louder. I shake my head more vigorously but he just raises his eyebrows and knocks again.
‘Stop it!’ I hiss, terrified that Mum might hear and come in. I mean, what would that be like? Apart from her discovering that I’ve lied to her far more than she realizes, she’d be face to face with Jack Frost for the first time in over thirteen years. I have no idea how that would go. She’s always been so accepting of what happened, the fact that she would never see him again, but if she did see him that would change, wouldn’t it? And then what? There’s a part of me, a small, selfish part, that wants to keep him to myself, just for now.
Jack begins to fling small pellets of ice at the window, just below the owl.
‘What do you want?’ I mouth at him, another cloud of ice forming in front of my face.
He grins. ‘Come out,’ he mouths back. ‘I want to show you something.’
I grab my boots and my hat, and creep down the hall to the front door. All’s in darkness; Mum’s not working tonight. I feel a horrible twinge of guilt grip me, deep in my belly, and I loiter for a moment in the tiny hall, looking at Mum’s paintings of stags and wolves hanging on the walls. Animals of winter, their stance wary, eyes defiant, as they roam in frozen wilderness. She saw those creatures when she was with my father, I realize suddenly. They were in the stories. It’s time. Time for me to know him for myself.
I grab my keys from the shelf and shut the door behind me, pulling on my boots and treading down the steps to the main door as softly as I can. I take my time to unbolt it and venture, coatless, into the cold November night, my father landing lightly on his feet as he jumps from the tree to meet me.
‘Come, little pretender,’ he says, whisking me out of the gate and leading me down the silent, dark road. ‘You say you like to sketch. Let’s see how well you do with my tricks—’
‘Jack, wait,’ I interrupt, looking around for the pale shadowy figure who’s been spying on me. The road is still, nothing moves. ‘Something’s been spying on me. There’s a plot against you.’
‘A plot?’ He spins around, searching the shadows, little flurries of ice dancing in the air around him, sparking golden beneath the streetlight. ‘Tell me more!’ He looks delighted.
‘The Queen of May and someone else, I don’t know who. They’re trying to be rid of you . . .’
‘Be rid of me! What a delightful notion! I am Jack Frost, little Owl, they cannot be rid of me so easily as that!’
‘But they’ve been watching me, they—’
‘Now, little Owl,’ he says. ‘This is the night. This is the time for magic. Come away from all these petty concerns. They do not worry me in the slightest! Come – I will show you how to make this home of yours a more beautiful place!’
And he does. He changes the world with every step he takes: with every gesture, the winter wonderland Mum spoke of seems to come alive around us, so that every house becomes a sparkling palace, every street a sweep of dazzling white that catches the starlight and glistens. Jack bounds from pavement to lamp post, over fences and up the narrow, skeletal trees, and at his every touch magic spreads. He’s wide-eyed and intent on his work, a dart of silver throwing spears of mirror-bright ice up into the eaves of every building, spirals that wink and glitter. My feet fly after his, my blood pumping faster, colder through my veins until I am as lost to it as he is, freezing ponds with a touch of my finger, lacing windows in a fine pale crystal fur. I don’t know how far we go, I lose track of the real world after a while, so that the streets that I have trodden all my life are a million miles away. This is his domain, and it is my domain, and it is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.
The night gets deeper, more silent around us as we work, never speaking but connected with every action, and I am wired with this magic, a flutter of pride going through me every time he looks approvingly at what I’ve done . . . but gradually exhaustion begins to creep in. We skirt the school and head through some allotments, and for a while I’m caught up making tiny fern patterns on the greenhouses, but when I turn around, Jack is leaning down, his fingers reaching through the gaps in the protective plastic the gardeners have put over the ground, a fine bloom of ice instantly taking the life out of the vegetables nestled underneath. Something catches within me, the memory of my argument with Mallory stings, and the spell is broken.
‘No!’ I protest. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘It’s nature,’ he says, looking up with a smile. ‘It’s part of the cycle of the world, little Owl.’
‘But it’s cruel! Is it really necessary?’
‘How else does the world know that it is time to shelter from the winter?’
But I see the light in his eyes as he does it: he enjoys it. It’s like a little act of rebellion, or spite. When Mum talked about him, she always made him sound so wise and gentle, in spite of his strangeness and the treachery of winter. I hadn’t imagined that he could be like this here. My footsteps are heavy as I follow him from the allotments to the adjoining gardens, rushing along the spikes of a wooden fence, frost cascading from his touch down to the ground.
Suddenly there’s a commotion in the darkness at the edge of the garden. Trees rustle wildly, and a tall, broad figure appears, stretching up to his full height. He’s nearly as tall as the tip of the garden shed, I see with shock as he unfolds himself – he must be at least seven feet.
‘Jack!’ he barks, his voice hard as granite.
I recognize that voice. I take a step back, trying to hide my shock, and Jack leaps down from the fence.
‘Ah, bother,’ Jack says, rising to his full height, still dwarfed by the other man. ‘What is it now, you old curmudgeon?’ He stands straight and square, and beckons for me to join him. I swallow a niggle of fear and edge up, standing slightly behind him, looking up into the stern face of a man more peculiar by far even than my father; the man who spoke with the Queen last night. I try to find my voice, try to warn Jack, but nothing will come. The man has pale, mottled skin like the bark of a silver birch. His eyes are wide and brown, and they would be beautiful but the expression in them is so hard they only remind me of the knots in wood. His body is long and lean, his limbs gnarled, his hair a riot of oranges and reds and copper-browns.
‘Who is this?’ he asks, stooping with a creak to inspect me. His sharp teeth are grey, his breath bittersweet, like rotting fruit. I shudder despite myself, and his hollow eyes gleam. ‘Who is this creature, Jack, that you share your antics with?’
‘She is of no concern to you!’ Jack snaps. ‘Only a sprite, that’s all.’
‘A sprite, you say? Do you think me stupid? That is no sprite, Jack.’
‘Why are you here?’ Jack demands, squaring up to the man. ‘This is not your domain.’
‘Autumn stretches far longer than you have ever acknowledged,’ the man says with a tight smile. ‘As long as you dance through the fallen amber leaves of my doing I may remain abroad, Jack. It is you who must account for things.’
‘I need not explain myself to you,’ Jack says firmly, folding his arms.
‘Very well,’ says the man. ‘Then you may come to court. On the twenty-first, Jack, two days from now. Midnight.’ He reaches out and touches Jack on the forehead with a long, gnarled finger. ‘You have been summoned.’
Jack leaps back, outraged, shoving me backwards. I fall easily, all my strength giving out at the appearance of this new figure. Jack curses and reaches out a hand, and I notice it shakes as it grips mine. ‘Up!’ he says. ‘Do not fall before these creatures . . .’
But when we look around, the man has gone.
‘And there was the Earl of October,’ Jack says in a dry tone. ‘Embittered by lack of power and prestige, far too concerned with human notions of respect.’
‘But it was him, Jack! He was the one plotting against you, with the Queen. And now he’s seen us together, won’t that be bad? I should have said something when he was here . . . Are you in trouble because of me?’
He looks surprised.
‘Well. That is interesting. I wonder what he thinks he has over me.’ He looks in the direction the Earl left, and gives a shrug. ‘Ah, I am in trouble several times a year. It is nothing I cannot deal with. Now, come, little Owl, ’tis nearly time for your human day to start.’
Whatever he may say, the encounter has shifted something in him. He’s silent as we walk home, keeping to the shadows as a leaden dawn begins to break. He salutes me goodbye at the door as I step inside, and when I look back to watch him walk away, his head is lowered, his footsteps barely more than a mist on the ground.
At least something is going my way; I manage to get myself back into the flat and into bed without alerting Mum. There seems a lot to worry about, but each little thing is like a darting minnow: I can’t get hold of anything to consider it properly.
I’ve never known before quite what it meant to be bone tired.
It means you’re bone tired.
As in: every bone.
Tired.
When I wake it’s gone eleven. Mum’s put a cup of tea down by the bed and when I reach out it’s still warm. I sit up, pulling the curtains aside and huddling into the quilt, drinking my tea, watching the sun make the frost sparkle on the rooftops opposite. The owl on the window is no longer there, I realize with a little pang. Everything Jack does is so temporary.
I drag my laptop down from the desk and look up sprites. Of all the things that have happened, it’s the bit that sticks with me. Jack said it so dismissively; she’s ‘only a sprite’.
Mostly the word has been hijacked by the soft drink. I scroll down impatiently and find this definition:
A small, otherworldly figure mentioned in folklore; part of the ‘fay’ or ‘fairy’ domain.
I suppose that’s not such an insult. And I know he was only saying it to cover his tracks. But why was the Earl of October so pleased to have caught him out? What can they do to him, for being found with a half-human?
A half-human.
I look down at myself.
A human with extras. That’s what I am.
Mum takes me out for a walk. I feel like a dog called to heel; she watches me closely the whole time, as we trudge through the browning snow, heading for the canal. All too clearly I can see the traces of my father’s antics last night, and in some of the patterns in the river I can even see my own. Mum tries to start a conversation several times but I’m too tired and distracted, and eventually she gives up, putting her arm through mine instead. I let it stay there, then we call at Mallory’s on the way home, so she can catch up with her mum, which is a bit awkward, since Mallory and I are not exactly on speaking terms. She stares at me across the hallway for a moment, while our mothers head to the kitchen, and I stare back, folding my arms. I know I made mistakes, not telling her things sooner, but she was the one who threw me out.
Eventually she sighs and gestures to the stairs.
‘You look even more tired than yesterday,’ she hisses as I trail behind her. She manages to look concerned and furious at the same time when she glances back. ‘You should slow down a bit.’ She reaches out and pulls me up the last few stairs. ‘I mean, I’m sorry if it sounds harsh, Owl, I’m just trying to look out for you!’
‘I know you are,’ I answer, closing her bedroom door behind us, hearing the soft murmur of our mothers talking downstairs. ‘I get it. I just don’t know what I can do about it. I mean, do you want to know stuff, or not? I can’t have another row, I’m too tired.’
‘I can see that,’ she says, sitting with me on the bed, her fingers absently playing with the hem of her T-shirt. ‘No more rows. What have you been up to this time?’
I tell her about the Earl of October and the plot against Jack, and the summons to court. Her eyes get brighter as I talk, and I don’t know whether she truly believes it all but she’s always loved a good adventure, in spite of her more sensible self, and suddenly I know just how to fix everything between us.
‘So this court thing, that’s tomorrow night?’ she asks when I’ve finished.
‘Yup.’ I take a deep breath and plunge. ‘Do you want to come? I need to go, just in case I can help Jack. I might be the only one who knows about this plot . . . Alberic told me they meet in the Old Druid Wood. I don’t know quite where, but I’ll get Alberic to tell me and then we can go together.’
‘With Alberic?’
Sheesh.
‘I don’t know, that’s not the point! Do you want to come, or not?’
‘Yes, definitely,’ she says, biting her lip.
‘What’s the problem then?’
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‘It’s just . . . it’s hard for me to imagine it all! Is this really happening, Owl? If you’re really Jack Frost’s daughter, what does that actually mean?’
I close my eyes and think of last night, out with Jack, how the power builds inside and then unfurls slowly. I focus on the tingling in my arms and legs, feel it sweep out all around me.
When I open my eyes Mallory is open-mouthed with shock, and the bed is a moon-bright ship on a sea of frost, great jagged shards of ice sweeping up all around us almost to the ceiling. The duvet is a deck of pale, frozen flowers that gleam beneath the bedroom light, which has been transformed into a shimmering chandelier. Tier after tier of clear, sparkling ice scatters the light in a myriad of rainbow reflections, and glittering crystals hang down, tinkling gently.
‘Owl!’ Mallory chokes eventually, after what seems like hours.
‘You wanted to see!’ I whisper, as the feeling gets stronger and the ceiling begins to creak, icicles forming over our heads.
‘Yes, but . . . but . . .’ She reaches forward and picks up one of the flowers, her eyes like saucers as she holds it in her hand. ‘But look at this! Look at you!’
‘It’s only me,’ I say, tears stinging in my eyes before spilling into my lap. ‘I mean, I thought you knew . . .’
‘Yes! I know, it’s just . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you . . . It’s brilliant! Can you stop it?’ she asks, her voice breathless, wiping her hand on her leg as the flower melts. ‘I mean –’ she looks up at the twisting, spear-like icicles – ‘maybe before they fall?’
I have to concentrate really hard to let the feeling go. It feels like I’m winding in a web of needle-sharp silver, trying to contain something that doesn’t want to be contained at all. It takes more effort than it did to show her in the first place. The frost doesn’t disappear for a while either, and I feel this strange mixture of pride and desperation, because that feeling, when I’m doing it, that feeling is like pure joy and now I’m without it; now I’m just sitting here being stared at by my best friend while ice melts around us.
