by Darren Shan
Dad’s talking with Mum about a craft fair when I come home. She’s listening quietly, sitting by the piano. (It was in the house when we moved in—none of us can play.) She’s frowning.
“This is one of the biggest fairs in the country,” Dad says. “It’s held every year, and a few of the Paskinston artists always go, representing the village. They sell a lot of work at it and rack up loads of orders. It’s a real honour to be asked. It would be rude to refuse.”
“But can’t one of us go and one stay here?” Mum asks.
“Yes, but couples normally go together. It’s not just about selling. There are hundreds of artists and interesting people there. It’s a chance to meet, mingle, get to know other people. It’ll be fun.”
I hand Art to Mum and sit close to her, following the conversation. I learn a bit more about the fair, where it’s held, who’s going, how long they’ll be gone for. Dad’s proud to have been invited and keen to go, but Mum’s worried about Art and me. She doesn’t want to leave us alone. “Can’t we take them along?” she asks.
“It’s not the done thing,” Dad says patiently. “Nobody else brings their kids.”
Mum’s frown deepens. We haven’t been apart since we left the city, not for a single night. But if they go to the fair, they’ll be gone for at least a week.
“They won’t be by themselves,” Dad says. “We’ll leave them with one of the neighbours.”
“I know, but…”
“Kernel doesn’t mind. Do you, Kernel?” He smiles broadly at me, expecting my support. If this was yesterday, I’d have given it instantly. But Mrs. Egin’s threat is fresh in my thoughts. I don’t want to be left alone. So I just shrug in answer. “You OK, big guy?” Dad asks, surprised.
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t want us to go, just say. It’s not that important.”
“No. I mean, I don’t mind. Not really. It’s just…” I can’t explain without telling them the truth. So again I shrug.
“What about Art?” Mum says, kissing his head, looking up at Dad.
“Art will be fine too,” Dad says and he sounds a little impatient now.
“I’m not sure, Caspian.”
“Melena…” Dad sighs. “Look, if it’s going to be a big deal, we won’t go. But this is our home now. We’re safe here. I don’t think we’ve anything to fear in this place. Do you?”
“No,” Mum says quietly.
“So…?”
Mum pulls a face. “I just don’t like being apart from my darling babies!” she exclaims. We all laugh at that, and everything’s fine again. Mum bounces Art up and down on her knee. Dad smiles and hugs her. I feel happy and safe. I ask what’s for dinner, and forget about the witch and all the bad thoughts of the day.
The morning of their departure. Dad gets the car ready while Mum takes Art and me over to Sally’s house. Sally is one of the villagers who lives alone. A bit older than Mum. Fat. A great singer. She has two children of her own, but they’ve grown up and left.
“We’re going to have a great time,” Sally says as we set our bags down in the room where Art and I are staying.
“I wish there was a phone, so we could call and check that everything is all right,” Mum grumbles. There aren’t many phones in the village and Sally doesn’t own one.
“Relax!” Sally laughs. “These boys can get along fine without you for a few days. Can’t you, Kernel?”
“Sure,” I smile. Mum smiles back, but shakily.
Dad calls us and we head out. He’s standing by the car. The back seat and boot are filled with musical instruments and paintings. Two other couples have already left in a caravan with the majority of the pieces which they hope to sell. Dad hugs Art, then me.
“Look after your brother,” Mum says, kissing my cheek.
“Of course he will,” Dad says. “Kernel’s the best brother in the world. He’ll take care of Art better than you or I could.”
Dad gets in and starts the engine. Mum hugs us one last time, then sits in beside him. And they’re off. Art, Sally and I wave after them. Mum rolls down her window, leans out and waves back, until they turn a corner. Although Sally’s right beside us, I can’t help but think as they roll out of sight—we’re alone now. Just Art and me. In a remote village. With a witch.
The day passes smoothly. School, playing with Art during lunch, dinner with Sally and some others. The villagers like to share meals. Here it’s not polite to eat by yourself all the time. We often have guests over to eat with us, or go to a neighbour’s house.
Art doesn’t miss Mum and Dad. He eats, drinks, plays and behaves the same as always. Doesn’t cry when Sally gives him a bath. He does give her a sharp nip on her left forearm at one stage, leaving deep marks, but that’s normal for Art.
“We should stitch his lips together when he’s not eating,” Sally says, rubbing her arm. But she’s only joking. Sally loves kids. Of course, she’d rather not be bitten, but the whole village knows about Art’s biting habits. Sally knew what she was letting herself in for when she offered to have us.
It’s strange not having Mum and Dad around. Things were different when we lived in the city. They often went out at night, leaving me with a babysitter. And they’d go for holidays by themselves occasionally. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed staying with other people—I always got loads of treats.
But for the last year we’ve been together all the time. I’ve got used to them being at home every night. I feel like I did when I lost my favourite teddy bear a few years ago. It was a scruffy grey bear, nothing special, but I’d had it since I was a baby. It had been my constant companion, even when I’d outgrown my other teddies. I took it to bed, on holiday, even to the cinema. I felt like a friend had died when I lost it.
This is almost the same. Not as bad because I know Mum and Dad will come back. But strange. Like something’s wrong with the world.
I’m uneasy when it’s time for bed. Sally’s spare bed is soft, but it smells damp, like my socks when they’re wet. Art goes to sleep immediately, delighted to be sharing a bed with me. But I can’t drop off. I’m tired—I woke early, knowing Mum and Dad were leaving—but my eyelids won’t stay closed.
I think about Mrs. Egin. I haven’t seen her since that morning when she witched out on me. I’ve taken the long way to school and back every day since. I’ve tried to laugh it off, make like it was no big deal. Told myself I imagined the curses and her stroking the patch of light.
But I know what I saw. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And although I’m not as scared as I was that first night, I’m still shaken, afraid to close my eyes in case she’s there when I open them, standing over me, cackling, a knife to my throat.
I turn from my left side to my right, then back again. I try lying flat on my back, then on my stomach. Nothing works.
Annoyed, I stop trying to sleep, hoping I’ll drift off by accident. I look round the small, cosy room, then focus on the patches of light. They look the same as ever, various shapes and shades. I count triangles, quadrangles, pentagons, sextants… No, that’s an instrument. Sextuplet? I’m not sure. I think that’s right, but I’m not… maybe it’s a…
I wake suddenly. Hexagon! Of course. Can’t believe I had trouble remembering that. The brain can play funny tricks when you’re tired. I turn, yawning, looking for Art.
He isn’t there.
At first, I think he’s just slipped further down beneath the covers, but when I lift them there’s no sign of him.
I sit up swiftly, sensing danger, recalling Mum’s last words to me—“Look after your brother.” Flash on an image of Mrs. Egin sneaking in, stealing Art, putting him in a big black pot and boiling him alive.
My world is never truly dark. The patches of light mean I can see pretty well even on the blackest night. Mum and Dad used to try to convince me that the lights weren’t real, but if they’re imaginary, why do I have such fantastic night vision?
I get out of bed and hurry to the door, so certain Art isn’
t in the room that my gaze glides right over him and I almost crash into him. Then my senses click in and I stop. Blink a couple of times to properly clear my eyes.
Art’s in the middle of the room. There’s a large patch of orange light pulsing just over his head. He’s playing with marbles which Sally gave to me earlier. He’s holding two of them up over his eyes. They’re orange-coloured, like the light.
Art sees me and smiles, looking at me through the orange marbles. For a brief second I’m positive that somebody or something is in the room with us. I think I hear a soft growling noise. My head snaps left, then right—nothing. I look back at Art. In the strange orange light, with the marbles covering his eyes, he doesn’t look like my brother. I start to think that it’s not Art, that he’s been replaced by some evil spirit, that the witch has been here. I feel afraid. I back up to the bed.
“Art?” I say, very softly. “Is that you? Are you OK?”
A giggle breaks the spell. Art lowers the marbles. And I see that of course it’s him.
“Idiot!” I laugh weakly at myself. I go pick Art up and take the marbles away. Sally said not to let him have them in case he swallowed one. Art grumbles and tries to grab them back, but I tell him they’re dangerous. He understands that and snuggles into me, nuzzling my shoulder with his teeth, but gently, not like when he bites somebody.
I stand there with Art, feeling cold but happy, smiling at how silly I was. Art falls asleep in my arms. I carry him back to bed, tuck him in, then climb in beside him. Lying on my side, I stare at the orange light, still pulsing. It seems to have grown bigger, but that’s not unusual—the patches often change size.
I don’t like this orange light. There’s something creepy about it. It reminds me of the pink light which Mrs. Egin stroked. I turn my back on it and shut my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again. But I can still sense it there, hanging in the cold night air, lighting up the room with its ominous orange glow. Pulsing.
DING DONG
Two dabs later. The orange light is still pulsing and changing size. Although I can call it closer like the other patches, I can’t send it away more than twenty or twenty-five feet. It’s started to bug me, like an insect which keeps buzzing in front of my face. An uneasiness chews away at me every time I catch sight of it. I know it’s crazy, worrying about a light, but I can’t help myself. I have a bad feeling about this.
It’s a lovely sunny day. Our teacher, Logan Rile, decided not to waste the weather, so we’re having lessons outside, in one of the fields around Paskinston. There are thirty-four of us, a variety of classes and ages, sitting in a semi-circle around Logan. He’s telling us about tectonic plates. Logan’s not the best teacher. He sometimes forgets he’s talking to children and gets too technical. Very few of us understand everything he says. But he’s interesting, and the bits that make sense are fascinating. It’s also fun when you do understand him—it makes you feel clever.
Some of the younger children from the crèche have come with us. Their normal minder has gone to the fair and her replacement’s finding it hard to cope with so many little ones. She was delighted when Logan offered to take a few off her hands for the day.
Art’s playing with the orange marbles beside me. I shouldn’t let him have them, but he really likes them. Anyway, he hasn’t put them in his mouth yet. I keep a close eye on him, checking every couple of minutes to make sure both marbles are in sight—not in his stomach.
“So these plates are moving all the time?” Bryan Colbert asks. Bryan’s one of the eldest children, nearly seventeen.
“Yes,” Logan says.
“Then why don’t countries move?”
“They do,” Logan says. “The continents are drifting all the time. It’s very slow, but it’s happening. One day Australia will collide with America or Africa—I can never remember which—and the effects will be catastrophic. New mountains will be thrust upwards. There’ll be tidal waves. Dust will clog the air. Billions of people and animals will die. It might be the end of all life on this planet.”
“All life?” Dave English—a kid a year younger than me—asks.
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t think that could happen. Everybody… everything… can’t just die. Won’t God keep some of us alive?”
“No god can prevent the end of life on this planet,” Logan says in his usual serious way. “Or the end of life in this universe. Everything has an end. That’s the way life is. But maybe there’ll be a new beginning when our world ends. New life, new creatures, new means of existence.”
“That’s scary,” Dave mutters. “I don’t want everything to die.”
“Nor me,” Logan smiles. “But our wants are irrelevant. This is the way things are. We can accept the truth and deal with it, or live in ignorance. Death is nothing to be afraid of. Once you think it through and get it into perspective, it’s not so bad. In fact, many people—”
“Now!” a woman screams, cutting Logan off. All our heads turn at once, as if our necks were connected. I see Mrs. Egin lumbering up behind us, fingers twitching, frothing at the mouth. “Now it happens! Up the throat, past the gums, look out world, here it comes!”
The pink light which I saw her stroking a few days ago has grown much bigger and now seems to be touching her just behind her head. It’s pulsing quickly. Other patches of light around it are pulsing too, and moving towards it, as though magnetically drawn to it.
“Mrs. Egin?” Logan says, rising, signalling for the rest of us to stay seated. “Are you all right?”
“They said I couldn’t do it! Thought I wasn’t strong enough to summon them!” She laughs her witch’s laugh, then sings, “Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Now! Now! Now!”
“Mrs. Egin, I think you should—”
“You will see me die!” she shouts and her eyes scan the group, fixing on me. “Find the thief! Who’s the thief? Find him!”
Fear comes shooting back. I’m not as afraid as when I was alone with her, but I’m pretty petrified. The others are too. We huddle close together, shuffling into a tighter group for protection.
Logan steps forward. “Let me take you home, Mrs. Egin. We’ll get you to bed, I’ll call for a doctor, and you’ll be right as rain in—”
Mrs. Egin roars a word I don’t know. Her lips are moving fast now, in that strange language she was speaking before. Logan stops short and hesitates. That scares me even more—it’s bad news when your teacher is as frightened as you are.
The pulsing patches of light are moving faster, drawn towards the pink light. They merge with it, then flow into Mrs. Egin. Now she’s glowing from within, the lights beneath her flesh, spreading through her body.
I stumble to my feet. “The lights!” I gasp.
Logan looks back at me. “Calm down, Kernel.”
“But the lights! Can’t you see them?”
“What lights?”
“Inside her! She’s swallowing the lights!”
Mrs. Egin cackles while Logan stares at me dumbly. I glance around. Everyone’s looking at me oddly. They can’t see the lights. There’s nothing any of them can do to stop this happening.
I focus on Mrs. Egin. A bulging, pulsing bubble of light has formed behind and above her, patches melting together, colours mixing, flowing into her. Her eyes are bowls of light. I can’t see her lips—multicoloured froth hides them. Her skin appears to be rippling.
“Mrs. Egin,” Logan tries again, facing her. “You have to—”
The witch shrieks triumphantly. A piercing note of wickedness and victory. I cover my ears with my hands. Logan covers his too. My eyes scrunch shut, but I quickly force them open a crack. I see Mrs. Egin stagger backwards. She goes stiff, arms wide at her sides, head cocked to the left. A gentle, tender smile crosses her lips.
Then the lights explode through her. And she explodes. Scraps fly everywhere—flesh, bone, guts, blood. Logan and the kids at the front are splattered by the spray. They squeal with disgust and terror. A chunk of bone hits Logan hard in the face
and he drops, grunting with pain.
I cover my eyes and drag Art in close, turning him away from the carnage. I’m screaming. Everybody is. But I can still hear Mrs. Egin’s scream over the sound of all the others, even though she can’t be making any noise now.
For an uncountable number of seconds the witch’s scream holds, mingling with ours. Then it stops. All the screaming stops in the space of a second or two. Eerie, unnatural silence.
I don’t want to take my arm away, but I must. I have to look. Others are peeping too, although most are still covering their eyes or looking away from where the witch was standing.
Mrs. Egin is gone. Nothing of her remains, except a circle of blood and grisly carnage, covering the grass, Logan and many of the children. And at the centre of the circle—a panel of greyness.
The large grey patch of light hangs motionless a foot or two above the ground. It’s three or four feet wide, maybe six or seven high. Jagged round the edges.
I’m not the only one who can see this light. Others are pointing at it, gasping, murmuring, “What the hell is that?” This is a different type of light from the ones I usually see.
Logan rises, rubbing his head. Stares in disbelief at the gory mess, then at the grey wall of light. He’s an educated, experienced man. But he’s seen nothing like this before.
“She exploded!” a boy yells, excited. “Did you see her? It was amazing!”
“Is she dead?” a girl asks, voice trembling.
“What’s that light?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Yeah.”
Logan walks round the panel of light. I can only see his feet when he’s behind it. Then he comes back into view. He’s more bewildered than afraid, like most of the kids around me. The light has made more of an impression than Mrs. Egin exploding! Perhaps they’re in shock, not ready to deal with the explosion—and her death—yet.
“We have to get away from here.”
I hadn’t meant to speak, but now that the words have popped out, I know I’m right. Everybody gawps at me. “This is bad!” I shout. “That light’s dangerous. We have to run.”
