St. Dymphna's School for Poison Girls / Pale Street.

by Angela Slatter

  ‘What can I do?’

  He stands suddenly and pulls his shirt over his head. He turns his back to me and points at the base of his neck, where there is a lump bigger than a vertebra. I put down the case and step over to him. I run my fingers over the knots, then down his spine, finding more bumps than should be there; my hand trembles to touch him so. I squint in the dim light and examine the line of bone more carefully, fingertips delicately moulding and shaping what lies there, unrelenting and stubbornly… fibrous.

  ‘It’s mistletoe,’ Gwern says, his voice vibrating. ‘It binds me here. I can’t remove it myself, can’t leave the grounds of the school to seek out a physick, have never trusted any of the little chits who come here to learn the art of slaughter. And dearly though I would love to have killed the Misses, I would still not be free for this thing in me binds me to Alder’s Well.’ He laughs. ‘Until you, little sneak-thief. Take my knife and cut this out of me.’

  ‘How can I do that? What if I cripple you?’ I know enough to know that cutting into the body, the spine, with no idea of what to do is not a good thing—that there will be no miraculous regeneration, for mortal magic has its limits.

  ‘Do not fear. Once it’s gone, what I am will reassert itself. I will heal quickly, little one, in my true shape.’ He turns and smiles; kisses me and when he draws away I find he has pressed his hunting knife into my hand.

  ‘I will need more light,’ I say, my voice quivering.

  He lies, facedown, on the bed, not troubling to put a cloth over the coverlet. I pull on the brown kid gloves from the kit and take up the weapon. The blade is hideously sharp and when I slit him, the skin opens willingly. I cut from the base of the skull down almost to the arse, then tenderly tease his hide back as if flensing him. He lies still, breathing heavily, making tiny hiccups of pain. I take up one of the recently-lit candles and lean over him again and peer closely at what I’ve done.

  There it is, green and healthy, throbbing, wrapped around the porcelain column of his spine, as if a snake has entwined itself, embroidered itself, in and out and around, tightly weaving through the white bones. Gwern’s blood seeps sluggishly; I slide the skean through the most exposed piece of mistletoe I can see, careful not to slice through him as well. Dropping the knife, I grasp the free end of the vine, which thrashes about, distressed at being sundered; green sticky fluid coats my gloves as I pull. I cannot say if it comes loose easily or otherwise—I have, truly, nothing with which to compare it—but Gwern howls like a wolf torn asunder, although in between his shouts he exhorts me not to stop, to finish what I’ve started.

  And finally it is done. The mistletoe lying in pieces, withering and dying beside us on the bloodstained bed, while I wash Gwern down, then look around for a needle and strand of silk with which to stitch him up. Never mind, he says, and I peer closely at his ruined back once more. Already the skin is beginning to knit itself together; in places there is only a fine raised line, tinged with pink to show where he was cut. He will take nothing for the pain, says he will be well soon enough. He says I should prepare to leave, to pack whatever I cannot live without and meet him at the alder well. He says I must hurry for the doorway will stay open only so long.

  I will take my notebook, the quills and inkpots Mater Friðuswith gave me, and the pounce pot Delling and Halle gifted when I entered the Citadel. I lean down, kiss him on his cool cheek, which seems somehow less substantial but is still firm beneath my lips and fingers.

  The manor is empty of Alys and the girls, and the Misses have locked themselves away in the library to mull over Mother Magnus’s refusal, to work through a list of suitable names that might be invited—begged—to come and teach us poisons. I shall sneak through the kitchen, tiptoe past the library door, snatch up my few possessions and be well on my way before anyone knows I am gone.

  All the things I thought I wanted have fallen away. The Compendium, the Citadel, the Murcianii, none of that matters anymore. There is only Gwern, and the ache he causes, and whatever mysteries he might offer me. There is only that.

  All well and good, but as I step out from the kitchen passage into the entry hall, I find Orla and Fidelma standing on the landing of the main staircase. They turn and stare at me as if I am at once a ghost, a demon, an enemy. Time slows as they take in the green ichor on my white apron—more than enough to tell a tale—then speeds up again as they begin to scream. They spin and whirl, pulling weapons from the walls and coming towards me, faces cracked and feral.

  ‘What have you done?’ screeches the one—Fidelma carries a battleaxe. Orla wields a mace—how interesting to see what is chosen in fear and anger, for slashing and smashing. None of the subtlety we’ve been taught these past months. Not such Quiet Women now. Angry warriors with their blood up.

  I turn tail and hare away, back along the passageway, through the kitchen and breaking out into the kitchen garden. I could turn and face them. I still have Gwern’s knife in my pocket, its blade so sharp and shiny, wiped all clean. I could put into practice the fighting skills they’ve taught me these past months. But how many have they put beneath the ground and fed to the worms? I am but a scribe and a thief. And besides: in all they’ve done—to this moment—they’ve been kind, teaching me their art, and I’ve repaid them with deception, no matter what I think of the way they’ve treated Gwern. I would rather flee than hurt them for they have been my friends.

  I cross the lawn and launch myself into the woods, ducking around trees, hurdling low bushes and fallen branches, twigs slashing my face. At last, I stumble into the clearing and see the well—and the alder, which is now different in its entirety. The ropes and ribs of mistletoe have withered and shrunk, fallen to the ground, and the tree shines bright as angel wings, its trunk split wide like a dark doorway. And before it stands… before it stands…

  Gwern, transformed.

  Man-shaped as before, but almost twice as tall as he was. A crown of stripped whistle-wood branches, each finial topped with rich black alder-buckthorn berries, encircles his head. His pitch-hued cloak circles like smoke and his ebony-dark hair moves with a life of its own. His features shift as if made from soot vapour and dust and ash—one moment I recognise him, the next he is a stranger. Then he sees me and smiles, reaching forth a hand tipped with sharp, coal-black nails.

  I forget my pursuers. I forget everything. And in the moment where I hesitate to take what Gwern is offering me—what the Erl-King is offering me—in that moment I lose.

  I am knocked down by a blow to the back—not weapon-strike, thankfully, but one of the Misses, tackling me, ensuring I don’t have a fast, clean death. That I will be alive while they inflict whatever revenge they choose. I roll over and Fidelma is on me, straddling my waist, hoisting the battleaxe above her head, holding it so the base of the handle will come down on me. I fumble in my pocket, desperate, and as she brings her arms down, I jam Gwern’s knife upwards, into her stomach. I am horrified by how easily the flesh parts, sickened by the doing of something that until now has been an academic concern. There is the terror of blood and guts and fear and mortality.

  Fidelma’s shock is apparent—has no one ever managed to wound her in all her long years? She falls off me and rolls into a ball. Orla, slower on her feet, shoots out of the trees and makes her way to her sister. The mace and chain swings from one hand as she helps Fidelma to stand.

  I look upwards at the pair of them, past them to the cloudless blue sky.

  Fidelma spits her words through blood, ‘Bitch.’

  Orla raises the mace with determination.

  I am conscious, so conscious of the feel of the grass beneath me, the twigs poking through the torn fabric of my grey blouse and into the bruised flesh of my back. I turn my head towards the alder tree, to the where the split in the trunk has closed; to the empty spot where Gwern no longer stands. I watch as the trunk seems to turn in on itself, then pulse out, one two three, then in again and out—and out and out and out until finally it explodes in a hail of brigh
t black light, wood, branches, and deadly splinters sure as arrows.

  When my ears stop ringing and my vision clears I sit up slowly. The clearing is littered with alder and mistletoe shards, all shattered and torn. The well’s roof has been destroyed, the stones have been fractured, some turned into gravel, some blocks fallen into the water. The next Murcianii pilgrim will have difficulty drinking from this source. I look around, searching for Fidelma and Orla.

  Oh, Fidelma and Orla.

  My heart stops. They have been my teachers, friends, mentors. I came to them with lies and stole from them; they would have killed me, no question, and perhaps I deserved it. They stole from Gwern long before I came, yes, kept him against his will; yet I would not have had them end like this.

  Fidelma and Orla are pinned against the trees opposite the ruined alder, impaled like butterflies or bugs in a collection. Look! Their limbs so tidily arranged, arms and legs stretched out, displayed and splayed; heads lolling, lips slack, tongues peeking between carmined lips, eyes rolling slowly, slowly until they come to a complete stop and begin to whiten as true age creeps upon them.

  I look back at the broken alder; there is only a smoking stump left to say that once there was a tree, a shadow tree, a doorway for the Erl-King himself.

  He is gone, but he saved me. And in saving me, he has lost me. I cannot travel through this gate; it is closed to all who might recognise it.

  I will go back to the house.

  I will go back to St Dymphna’s and swiftly pack my satchel before Alys finds her poor dead girls. I will take the Compendium from its place in the library—it can be returned to the Citadel now the Meyricks will not pursue it. In the stables I will saddle one of the fine long-necked Arabian mares the Misses keep and be on the road before Alys’s wails reach my ears.

  Shadow trees. Surely there are more—there must be more, for how else might the Erl-King travel the land? In the Citadel’s Archives there will be mention of them, surely. There will be tales and hints, if not maps; there will be a trail I can follow. I shall seek and search and I shall find another.

  I will find one and let the shadow tree open itself to me. I will venture down to the kingdom of under-earth. I will find him and I will sleep in his arms at last.

  Pale Street

  Linda Brucesmith

  While Ella slept upstairs, Sophie scraped a chair from the dining room across the kitchen tiles, pushed it against the sink and climbed onto it.

  ‘We’ll get into trouble,’ Lily said. She handed up the mugs, then a tea towel. Sophie emptied the mud-coloured paint water, rinsed and dried.

  ‘The surf lifesavers don’t get into trouble, do they? Or poor people? I’ve told you and told you. If we have cups with our names on we’ll be proper collectors.’ She jumped to the floor, pulled the chair back into its slot at the dining table. When she returned, her sister was standing, arms folded, hands tucked under her armpits.

  ‘We can fix things,’ Sophie pushed Lily’s mug at her. ‘Come on Lilsie, Mum will have finished her nap, soon.’ They made their way down the hall and opened the laundry door to the double garages where Ella’s little car sat alone. Sophie pressed a button; the doors slid open. The driveway was lined with agapanthus—Lily ran her fingers through the clustered lavender flowers as they walked; the tall stems rippled behind them. At the end of the driveway they turned, stopped on the grass verge. A dog sniffed at the lawn. It looked up as they emerged, tucked its tail between its legs, scampered quickly away. On their mailbox the copper numbers gleamed. Fifty-five.

  The girls gazed across the street. The house at number fifty-four seemed undecided about what to do with itself—not quite anchored to the ground, not quite separated from the sky. Its slate-tiled roof, ornate chimneys, iron-laced verandah and antique-white walls blurred and fuzzed.

  ‘Like looking in a mirror with jelly on it,’ said Lily.

  ‘I told you,’ said Sophie.

  They joined hands, crossed the road.

  At the home in question, Tobias Bassingthwaite cultivated pomegranates, kept a cat and played the cello he had purchased immediately after his wife’s death, into the night. He scowled at passers-by, frowned at the neighbours, and wore his cranky reputation like a hair shirt.

  ‘Fifty years of hell,’ he told Agnes’ portrait every morning. ‘Pfft,’ he said, each time he passed the likeness watching him from its burnished gold frame.

  Agnes had hung the picture in the vestibule. Before arrivals decided whether they would turn left into the sewing chamber, right into the morning area, or proceed to the dining and drawing rooms through the doors either side of the painting, they would be obliged to acknowledge her presence. Appreciate her. Not that she expected anyone to arrive. Not anymore.

  ‘Will you be asking people to tug their forelocks as they come in, Agnes?’ Tobias had said as she tapped a nail through butter-coloured paint.

  ‘People don’t visit cranky old men,’ Agnes answered. She had lifted the picture into place then stepped back, pleased with the way the painting fit between the colours thrown by the stained glass sidelights framing the front door.

  Tobias peered at the blush the artist had painted into her cheeks, the decades-old ruby drop earrings at her ears, and the vintage, diamond-and-ruby brooch at her lace-collared throat. She wore a dress printed with minute, pink roses and tiny, coffee-coloured leaves. A special occasion dress. A delicate thing with handkerchief sleeves. Something tickled at his memory then disappeared as he squinted and scrutinised. After a time, he decided the representation’s upswept white hair, wide-open blue eyes and I’ve got a secret expression were affected nonsense.

  She had died a month later. One year ago.

  Every day since, Tobias had inspected the things she had left behind.

  Every night before retiring, he paused before their wardrobe to reproach the chemises, shifts, pleat skirts and tea gowns which hung with his shirts and trousers. Each time he did so, memories seeped from the folds and gathered around him like smoke. He swiped and brushed at them—they parted then hovered, ephemeral images of days.

  Yesterday—shortly after 2pm—he decided enough was enough. He took down the portrait and carried it to the garage where he pulled old suitcases and a collection of cardboard boxes from a cavernous cupboard. He swept his way through the spider webs inside and set Agnes on the floor, face to the wall. He replaced the luggage. He combed the house for her trinkets, filled the boxes then stacked them in the guest room for donation to St Vinnie’s the next day. Then he went to his bedroom, removed the silks and satins, the cottons and linens. He took the lot to the guest room and piled the clothing onto the bed; the wooden coathangers clacked together—the fabrics sighed and settled into each other. He returned to his bedroom, spread his shirts and trousers at equal intervals through the newly available space.

  That night he was headachy and feverish.

  In the early morning he woke, his skin prickling as the wardrobe doors slid open. The cavity where Agnes’ clothes had hung looked back at him, black and empty.

  Tobias threw back the sheets. He pulled his ebony walking cane from where it balanced against the bedside table and raised it like a sword.

  ‘Who’s there?’ His voice quivered in the woolly dark. A coolness brushed his cheek—a caress like the touch of moths’ wings. He twitched away then stood, the cane’s chrome handle clenched in his raised fist, the stick flung back, the shaft resting on his shoulder. He stepped across the carpet, brought the cane down hard into the wardrobe. At once there was resistance—he felt he was pushing through water.

  Then, Agnes’ voice, sitting like a high collar behind his neck. ‘Everything in its place, Tobias,’ it said.

  Tobias staggered, his heart leaping. ‘My God, woman,’ he croaked. ‘Let me be.’He backed away and sank onto the bed. After a time, he pushed himself to his feet, returned Agnes’ clothes to the wardrobe. Then he retreated to the lounge room, settled himself on the sofa with the cat on his lap, sat like stone
until the first tendrils of dawn reached in through the windows. He dressed and ate breakfast.

  Early that afternoon, there was a tap on his front door. The sound scratched at him. He shook his head and cursed. Don’t be absurd. He shuffled to the door, opened it and stared down at two little girls looking up at him through rain-cloud eyes set in pale, identical faces. Tobias felt cold, flushed hot. He wondered whether he was quite well. He pushed the children aside with his cane. The cat emerged from the shadowed indoors, sat by his feet and regarded their visitors serenely.

  ‘Agnes?’ He peered along the verandah then squinted at the girls. Like a mirror, he thought. Five, perhaps six years old. They wore pink cotton sundresses. One had white ankle socks, the other buttercup yellow. Their patent leather sandals were the same. They were carrying fat, white china mugs with thick handles.

  ‘Twins, eh? What do you want? Where are your parents?’ he said.

  ‘We’re collecting…’ one of the girls said.

  ‘Don’t whisper at me!’ Tobias cupped a hand to his ear.

  The child blanched, the other clutched at her sister’s dress. ‘Sophie, please can we go now?’

  Tobias lifted his cane, rapped it on the floorboards. ‘Come on then, speak up!’

  Sophie squared her shoulders. ‘We’re collecting…’ she glanced at her sister, ‘we’re collecting money…’ she said.

  ‘Money? Children don’t collect money!’ Tobias’s words grabbed at the girls, pulled the air from their lungs. ‘Do your parents know about this?’

  Sophie’s face was white. She looked into Tobias’s eyes, up at the snowy hair combed back from his creased forehead.

  ‘We want to get our mother a birthday present,’ she said. ‘We’re collecting, please.’ She pushed her chin, then her cup at Tobias and waited. Her sister looked at her in alarm. She stepped forward. Lily, said the letters on her cup.