The Treachery of Beautiful Things

by Ruth Frances Long

  For a moment, she couldn’t move, could hardly force breath into her lungs. Then she reached for it. The air shimmered, a small, isolated heat-haze beneath her outstretched hand. As she disturbed the earth, something stirred underneath, the mud parting and closing as if it breathed. She jerked back her hand and the locket was sucked out of sight, into the dark warmth beneath the grass.

  “What—”

  A flute struck a cacophonous note.

  A voice swore.

  Jenny’s eyes snapped up to the trees. Every hair stood on end. She scrambled to her feet, her bag spilling onto the ground as it slid off her shoulder. It lay there, forgotten, her phone, lip gloss, and Mother’s pills she’d picked up from the doctor tumbling out of it.

  It had been a joke between them, that while he played Tom kept tempo with curses, that every phrase was punctuated by a profanity. It used to drive their mother crazy. That was before Tom became so good he could practically charm the birds from the sky. When he played, her heart sang in counterpoint. It was Tom’s voice now—Tom’s music.

  It was Tom.

  Jenny didn’t think, couldn’t allow herself a moment of doubt. With her breath dammed up in her tightening throat, she swallowed her terror and plunged into the shade of the trees.

  chapter two

  Heat struck her in a wave.

  Humidity sucked the air from her mouth. Jenny gasped as beads of sweat freckled her skin. It was hot, hotter than she could ever remember an English summer being. Her jeans and shirt seemed to contract around her body, suffocating her. The boiling breeze made her feel as if she stood before an open oven. It was like the wind that had surrounded her on the beach in the Fuerteventura last summer—the scorching wind that had raced across the Sahara and the sea as if to snatch her away from her parents’ latest failed attempt to imitate a normal family.

  Now the music of the flute came to life again, the same energetic jig she recognized as “Haste to the Wedding.”

  Her feet were already moving. She called his name again. Her heart beat the tune’s quick rhythm in her chest, and before she knew what she was doing, she had broken into a run.

  The path was narrow and twisted, treacherous with mud and overgrown weeds. She pursued the music, but it was as devious as the trail, dancing on ahead of her and then—impossibly—behind her. Jenny tried to stop, skidded, and went down in a tangled heap. Her hands sank into the mud, cool and slick, sucking at her fingers like a greedy child.

  She grunted her disgust and pushed herself back up, turning in a slow circle.

  The tune continued merrily, beckoning her to the left, off the path and through the trees. She plunged through undergrowth, forcing her way through bushes taller than she was, adding her own curses under her breath, and only pausing occasionally to shout her brother’s name.

  The piper struck a wrong note and spat out a word she didn’t recognize. It didn’t even sound like English, but something else, a language lyric and ancient. By its tone, though, unmistakably a curse. She pushed through two bushes, thorns scraping across her skin. It sounded as if he was on the other side, just a few feet away.

  “Tom!” she shouted, and stopped just before the drop.

  This time there was no music. The forest fell very still. No rustling of leaves, no fluttering of birds. Even the breeze had died down, and the heat had seeped away. She shivered. Beneath her feet, the ground fell away, a cliff of fifty feet that dropped into a depression, cut by a stream.

  Where had he gone? Tom wouldn’t just run off. Not her brother. He’d always been there for her. Right up until…until he wasn’t anymore. She turned around, searching the bushes with her eyes. Her heel skidded at the edge, but she caught the branch of the nearest tree, steadying herself. Nothing moved. It was like he’d vanished into thin air.

  Jenny shook her head as if trying to clear a fever. This was all wrong. Branley Copse wasn’t big enough to contain all this, and certainly no stream went in or out of it. Branley Village wasn’t even this big. The forest surrounding her now was ancient, and it showed no sign of having a far side. If she doubled back, she wondered, could she even find her way out?

  Then another, more worrying thought struck her. Which way was the way back? She had no idea. Carefully, she skirted the edge of the hollow, where a path more suited to mountain goats led her down the steep incline. She was forced to cling to overhanging branches, leaning out perilously to avoid the tangles of briars. At last, the slope grew gentler and the tree cover began to thin. Slender birches replaced the cruder thorn trees, their bark like slivers of tissue paper curling away from the trunks. Green tones stained the sunlight as it fell through their pale leaves and the earth greeted it with a sea of bluebells.

  Jenny wandered on, lost in the idyllic surroundings. Once she had watched a horror film someone had snuck into school, in which the main characters had gone astray in a forest, unable to find their way out. Along with the other girls, her sometimes friends, she had laughed at the simplicity of the solution the characters failed to see—to just find a stream and follow it out. She bowed to that advice now, picking her way along the bank. She tried to ignore the fact that she had been walking for much longer than it took to circle the copse, let alone cut through it. She tried to ignore the fact that the flora was different here, that overhead the sky was a clear and cloudless blue rather than the polluted slate-gray-striped-with-jet-trails she had left behind. There was no sign of airplanes, no traffic, no music. Nothing at all.

  The silence gnawed at her, an unnatural, dangerous silence, but after a while birdsong slowly returned, and she heard the clamor of various insects she could not hope to identify beyond a grasshopper or a bee. The breeze rustled the trees once more. But the piper, it seemed, was not coming back.

  “Looking for someone?” asked a voice.

  Jenny stifled a shout and jumped back, but there was no one there, and no heavy undergrowth around her now—nowhere anyone could be hiding. She turned in a circle, searching for the source of the voice amid the birches, and looking, at the same time, for a stick with which to beat off any attacker.

  The voice laughed, as surprised by her reaction as she was by its presence.

  “Who are you?” Her words came out in a rush. “Where are you?”

  “Look up once in a while.” A boy was sitting in the tree above her head, perched amid the slender braches. His skin was as pale as the birch bark, his eyes unnaturally green. He had golden hair and could be no more than six years old. His legs swung back and forth, heels tapping against the trunk. He went barefoot, his soles stained green, and he wore some kind of tunic, almost the same color as the bark of the tree, like strips of it wrapped around him. She stared, trying to work out what it was. “Are you lost?” he asked.

  Jenny blushed and looked up to his face. “I…I think I am,” she admitted. “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you’ve seen him. He was playing a flute. He must have come this way.”

  The boy raised pale eyebrows. “You’re looking for the piper? He was here, yes. But…Why are you looking for the piper?”

  The piper? It had to be Tom.

  “He’s my brother.” Was it her imagination, or did he draw his dangling legs up out of her reach? “Are you lost too? Or stuck up there? Do you know the way out?”

  “You only get one question,” the boy said. “He’s going back to her, to the castle. Like he always does. If he doesn’t, he’ll make her mad. And no one wants that. Now go away.”

  “What castle? What are you talking about?” The only castle nearby was the remains of Guildford Castle, and that was maybe ten miles away. Jenny strained her neck, trying to see the boy as he scrambled higher up his tree. “Come down here,” she said, trying to be firm. “I need your help.”

  “Help? I don’t give help. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. If you need help, ask the others. Ask the Folletti—they’re all over the place and see everything. Ask the air or the stream. Leave me alone.”

  “What are Follet
ti?” she called, but the boy was too high now. “Come down. Are you on your own? You shouldn’t be in the woods alone.” She tried to walk back, to get a better angle on the tree, but her foot snagged on something in the undergrowth and she went sprawling. The ground hit her heavily, driving the air from her lungs, and her head cracked off a stone hidden in the long grass.

  Jenny’s vision blurred and re-formed, leaving her stunned and aching. She shook her head, rolled onto her side awkwardly, and froze.

  A small figure was hovering over a nearby clump of rough grass, bright light suffusing the air around it. The creature had delicate, childish features, set in a curious expression. Tiny wings beat as fast as a hummingbird’s, a blur of blue behind its back. Even as she focused on it, it moved away, flitting back and forth, never staying still for more than a fractured moment.

  Jenny found a prayer on her lips, one she couldn’t quite voice.

  “Help me,” was all she managed to whisper.

  The creature—the boy had said Folletti, hadn’t he? Was that what these fairies were?—laughed, a trilling sound just on the edge of hearing that made her skin itch. From the corner of her eye, Jenny saw another one blink into existence, and then another. Bright and beautiful as butterflies made of light, they danced through the air around her, continually moving, their presence enchanting. Her fear melted into wonder.

  “Fairies?” she whispered. “I must have hit my head harder than I thought.”

  They all laughed at that, holding their sides and somersaulting through the air. One came right up to her amazed face, looking back at the others to make sure they saw its bravery. Jenny thought it perfect, the features of a tiny child, from huge brown eyes and long lashes, to a rosebud mouth. It pursed its lips and, quicker than light, it planted a kiss on the end of her nose.

  Then it twirled away from her, its companions cheering in the same musical tones.

  Fairies. Jenny smiled in bewilderment as they darted about her. Their wings made different colored lights as they fluttered, no more than a smudge or a glow behind them to the human eye. The only sound was a faint, high-pitched hum—the sound of the wings themselves—and the trill of their laughter.

  Crazy. The girls at school had always said she was crazy. She had half suspected as much for years. And here was proof—tiny, winged, glowing proof.

  Ask the Foletti, the boy had said.

  No going back now. Embrace the madness, Jenny.

  “I need to find my brother,” she said. “I heard him playing his flute in here. The boy said he’d gone to the castle. Called him the piper? Can you help me? Please?”

  They rolled through the air around her and then one darted forward again, tugging at her shirt. Following its directions, Jenny clambered to her feet and the Folletti tugged again, leading her forward. The others reeled around her, their actions an invitation. Jenny smiled, unable to do anything but let them lead the way. It was like magic. And if this was merely a hallucination, at least it was a beautiful one.

  The sense of magic didn’t last long. The Folletti set a punishing pace from the start. Soon Jenny found herself stumbling in their wake, disorientated and exhausted until, when she rounded a turn in the path, they were gone and she stood alone, panting for breath. In less than an hour, or so it seemed, she felt more lost than ever. She wished she had a watch or a phone. But her phone was in her bag. She let out a groan. She’d left her bag back there at the edge of the copse, its contents spilled all over the grass. What if someone found it? What would they think had happened? Her stomach clenched in on itself and bile rose in her throat. What would her parents think?

  Jenny stopped. The path twisted on ahead of her, back into the thicket of thorn trees. Where was she? Sure now that she had doubled back on herself, Jenny tried to get her bearings. What was she doing here? Dad would be sick with worry. Mother…Mother would freak. This was insane. The trees stooped over her, and she couldn’t tell the sun’s position through the dense foliage. Roots, thicker than her entire body, plunged in and out of the earth like a sea serpent’s coils. Moss grew everywhere, as heavy as a coat of fur. Ferns clung like exotic parasites to the fallen trunks of lost trees, some dead, but some still living. Rocks and stones broke through the surface of the forest like the bones of an ancient creature. In the shifting, green-gold light, she could sense movement, always hidden, always out of sight, but there. Definitely there. The breeze hissed through the leaves.

  Because of the sharp turns in the narrow dirt track, Jenny couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. And through the trees…through the breeze…she was sure she could hear laughter. And not a pleasant laughter this time. The bright trill of the Folletti vanished. This was a snickering, the sound of mockery, the laughter of people who enjoy the distress of others. She thought of the halls of St. Martha’s School for Young Ladies, where Hazel Tully and her cronies held sway. The sounds reminded her of their voices, the way they’d followed her down the dreary corridors, their taunts echoing off the high walls, and something in her chest tightened. Day by day, they’d punctuated her existence with misery. She’d tried to ignore them, but in the end how could she? They’d made sure everyone knew she was different. That she’d lost her brother and told the world the trees had taken him.

  But they had taken him. She knew for certain now that they had. That thing, it had been real. It was all real. The thought terrified her, and at the same time, it filled her with an unfamiliar rush, a surge of blood to her head, a pounding in her temples. How dare they? Whatever they were, how dare they?

  “You’re meant to help!” she shouted at the forest. “You’re meant to show me the way!” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  The snickering turned to tittering and Jenny started forward again. Brambles tore at her legs, tugging at her jeans, and her feet skidded in the mud. Her shoes were mud-slicked and saturated. She could hear her mother’s voice even now—that barbed lemon-bitter tone, the implication that she didn’t value anything, that she didn’t think.

  “This isn’t fair.” Her voice was a whisper. “Mother isn’t like that. She’s never been like that.”

  Not really. Not now. But then, Mother had never forgiven her either. Oh, she tried to make up for it with shopping expeditions and “girls’ days out.” But the memory of Tom, of Jenny coming home alone, it hung between them. That was the reason for St. Martha’s. Because having Jenny at home—so like Tom in looks, so different from him in nature—meant their mother could never really move on. She could never forgive her daughter. How could she, when Jenny could never forgive herself?

  Now Jenny forced a deep breath, ordered herself to be calm and still her racing thoughts. She’d seen the creature in the forest that evening seven years ago. She wondered suddenly if Tom’s music had called it. She’d seen it first. But it had taken him. Why?

  Something was messing with her thoughts, twisting her memories, pulling all her doubts to the fore and goading them into fury. Seven long years of whispers condensed to this—maybe she was mad, maybe she had imagined it, maybe it was all her fault—

  The trees rustled and she was sure she could see movement behind the screening thicket. She could hear laughter, the same strange and sinister laughter, and through the leaves she saw the glow of the Foletti. As she started forward again, she heard a distinct and alien hiss. Turning toward the sound, though her instincts screamed at her to escape, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

  “What’s going—?”

  Hiss. Sharp pain jabbed her in the hand.

  “Ow!”

  Hiss-hiss.

  Something stabbed at her neck, her cheek, her ankle, all within a second. She raised her hand to see a trickle of blood from a small cut. Protruding from the tiny wound was a splinter no longer than her little fingernail. She pulled it out and brought her hand to her mouth, tasting a bitter tang mixed into the blood.

  Small silver lines cut through the air around her, fissures in this unreal too-real world. Her consciousness lur
ched inside her skull and she dropped to her knees, all strength snatched from her legs.

  Hiss-hiss-hiss.

  Pain burst like raindrops over her exposed skin, little pinpricks that robbed her of her senses by heightening them beyond bearing.

  The mud felt smooth and slick, marvelously cool. Her jeans and shirt grazed her skin, coarse as old sacking. Her throat scratched with each breath and her straining lungs filled with fire.

  She stared at another dart in her hand. She could see it clearly. Too clearly. The end finished in feathers, tiny strands of thread tying them to the shaft in intricate knotwork. She reached out with her other hand—huge and fumbling—and tugged it out. It was topped with a tiny, perfectly formed flint arrowhead. Her own blood glistened on it, and on her skin a red pearl formed around the wound.

  Her hand shook violently and went numb, the miniature arrow falling from her grip into the grass.

  Hiss-hiss-hiss. Her body jerked convulsively with every tiny impact. She could do nothing to avoid them. One of the Foletti danced closer, its delicate wings a blur. It prodded her with the end of its miniature bow and laughed. Tears rolled from her eyes, fat and scalding on her cheeks and mouth.

  “Enough,” said a voice, a wonderfully human voice. “Be gone, you vicious little imps. Leave her be.”

  She felt herself lifted from the ground and a face merged from the blurs, a boy’s face, or a man’s, or someone just hovering between the two. In that moment he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, though his nose was not straight and his eyes were different colors—one green, one blue. Beautiful, but alien somehow. A fresh panic clutched her then. The Foletti had been beautiful and look where that had gotten her. Jenny struggled against his grip, but her body wouldn’t obey.

  “Hush,” he said, sounding almost annoyed. Jenny felt an answering prickle of irritation and tried again to struggle free of him. She hit the ground with a sudden thump and lay there, stunned.