Catching Teller Crow
Page 10
His fingers rip my flesh.
He digs for my soul.
It’s harder for him to find colours.
He’s taken so many.
He has to go deeper.
His hand brushes my spine. Grabs hold of a colour. Yanks it out.
A scream tears through my body.
No sound comes out of my mouth.
It’s all locked inside.
With everything else.
The pain is too much.
My brain shuts down.
When it turns back on I’m in my room.
I try to move my fingers.
They twitch. The drug’s worn off.
My hand is all grey.
My arm too.
I’m turning into Crow.
‘Why do you keep fighting?’ she asks. ‘You should be a dead girl!’
Makes sense.
If I’m dead inside, I’m free.
No.
If I’m dead inside I’m dead inside.
I say the words:
‘Granny …’ Trudy Catching.
‘Nanna …’ Sadie Catching.
‘Grandma …’ Leslie Catching.
‘Mum …’ Rhonda.
‘Me.’
Crow joins in. But she adds new words now.
‘Isobel’s Granny. Crow’s Granny.’
‘Isobel’s Nanna. Crow’s dad.’
‘Isobel’s Grandma. Crow’s friend.’
‘Isobel’s mum. Crow’s mum.’
‘Me. You. Us.’
Her people and mine carry me into sleep.
The door scrapes.
I wake.
Fetchers. Bread.
I eat.
But my arms drop to my side.
My legs give way.
No! It’s never twice so close together.
Then I realise what was different about the Feed.
His eyes weren’t mirrors.
They were chips of brown stone.
There’s not one Feed.
There’s two.
I’ve got no way to track time.
No sun.
No moon.
No ticking clocks.
Just the grey that eats my skin.
Have days gone by? Weeks? Years?
I’m on the bed.
Something splashes my pillow.
A tear.
Not mine. Crow’s. She’s hovering above me.
She’s never cried for me before.
‘Your colour’s almost all gone,’ she whispers. ‘When there’s no more, there’s no more.’
I close my eyes.
Shut out the sight of my body.
‘Say the words, Crow.’
‘Granny … Nanna … Grandma …’
We say words together until I fall asleep.
I’m walking on a hill.
The hill’s green.
The sky’s blue.
The wildflowers are red and yellow and orange and purple and black.
Somebody’s laughing.
I follow the sound.
Girls are sitting in a circle.
One looks at me. She has freckles on her nose.
‘Are you here?’ she asks. ‘We thought you were with Crow.’
‘You know Crow?’
They all laugh.
‘Of course we do,’ says another. ‘She’s fighting the wrong fight.’
‘She’s not!’ I snap.
They speak together: ‘You can’t fight feeling with not-feeling!’
I know who they are.
The girls who died.
‘Am I dead?’
‘Not yet,’ Freckles says. ‘But nearly.’
I don’t want to be dead.
Except…
These girls are happy. This place is pretty.
I’m not sure why I’m still fighting.
Wind tears across the hillside.
Slams into my chest.
Lifts me off my feet.
Spins me through the sky.
Freckles looks up as I fly over her.
‘If you can name it, you can catch it,’ she calls. ‘If you can catch it, you can fight it. Everything has its opposite. Remember!’
The dream shatters.
Crow is screaming: ‘Isobel-the-Catching! Isobel-the-Catching! Isobel-the-Catching!’
I sit up. Clap my hands over my ears. ‘Stop shouting!’
She stops.
My hands fall.
My arms weigh nothing.
Not dead yet. But nearly.
I’m slipping away.
Crow slams her hand against her head.
‘I am stupid! You refuse to be a not-feeling dead girl. But you were almost a real dead girl! Why did I wake you up?’
She slaps her head again. ‘Stupid Crow!’
She’s been telling me from the start to be dead.
She just saved my life.
I giggle.
‘Not funny!’ she snaps.
But it is.
I laugh and laugh.
Crow stands under the light. Glares.
My laughter stops.
‘Crow, your hair!’
‘What about it? It is hair.’
I point. My finger trembles. ‘It’s black.’
Not all black. But strands of darkness flow through the grey.
Crow finds one and holds it up. ‘My colours are gone. My colours are taken.’
My head spins. I lurch to my feet. ‘Colours can come back!’
I smile. She doesn’t. She’s scared.
‘I do not want colours! I do not want to feel!’
She pulls at the black. Ripping it out. ‘Dead girl, grey girl, dead girl, grey girl …’
‘Crow, stop!’
I charge at her.
She dances away.
‘You have done this, Isobel-the-Catching! Words have done this. You have made me a not-grey girl!’
I lunge again. Crow’s hand flashes down. Nails rake my arm.
I yelp.
Crow lets go of her hair.
‘I hurt you?’ Her voice is small.
I inspect the cuts. Red blood leaks over my grey skin.
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘But I cannot hurt you. Cannot hurt, cannot touch, cannot feel …’
‘You’ve got a colour now! You’re changing. Getting stronger.’
She holds up both her hands.
Stares at them as if she’s only just realised what hands can do.
What hands are for.
‘Is there any colour in my hair?’ I ask.
‘No. You are all grey.’
Crow goes back to looking at her hands.
I slump on the bed.
Whatever’s worked for her hasn’t worked for me.
Everyone’s grey is their own.
Maybe everybody’s got their own way to get colours back.
I need to find mine.
If you can name it, you can catch it.
The girl in the dream said that. Freckles.
The sentence hammers my brain.
If you can name it, you can catch it.
If you can name it, you can catch it.
If you can name it…
Freckles could’ve meant the grey.
Except it’s already got a name. It’s the grey.
Another name?
You can’t fight feeling with not-feeling.
I look down to my wrist.
The start of my grey.
I take a breath.
Close my eyes.
Remember that first time.
My stomach heaves.
My skin crawls.
But I know the name.
I open my eyes. Stare at my wrist. Say it.
‘You are despair.’
The grey gets lighter.
It makes the shape of long fingers.
This piece of grey is caught.
What I can catch, I can fight.
Everything has its opposite.
The o
pposite of despair?
Easy. Hope.
But I’ve got none.
That can’t be right.
I’ve got to have some.
Colours can come back. That’s hopeful.
But inside where hope should live, there’s something smashed.
Something broken.
Despair rises.
The fingerprints sink back into the rest of the grey.
A tear slides down my cheek.
A name shines in my mind.
Granny Trudy Catching.
My great-great-grandmother.
Mum’s voice speaks:
Your old Granny was born into the frontier times when white men first came to our homeland. Terrible things happened to her. There was nothing she could do about it. All her choices got taken away. But she drew strength from her homeland. Her family. Her people. She never forgot how to laugh. She never forgot how to love.
Your Granny knew how to hold on to who she was.
Connections light up across time and space.
Granny Trudy Catching.
Nanna Sadie Catching.
Grandma Leslie Catching.
Mum.
Me.
I find my way to myself.
To my strength.
Hope flickers.
I stand.
The flicker grows into flames.
I walk to where the light glows from the ceiling.
Flames build to fire.
I hold my arm to the light.
Fire blazes out from my heart, up into my wrist.
There is a whooshing sound.
The mark of fingers disappears.
I stare at the part of me I’ve got back.
My soft skin.
The blue vein beneath.
The little freckle on the side.
It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful.
Crow hops over.
Takes my wrist in a gentle grip.
‘Not a dead girl.’
She reaches up with her other hand, to pull her hair.
‘Not a grey girl.’
Finally: ‘No one comes?’
I get it. All this time Crow believed three things:
The only way to stand your colours being taken is to be dead inside.
Once you’re grey, you’re grey forever.
No one’s coming to stop the Feed.
Now she’s asking …
What happens when the first two things are lies?
I tell her. ‘First we catch the grey. Then we stop the Feed.’
Crow’s in her corner.
I can’t see her.
Only hear her.
‘You must become a dead girl. A not-feeling girl.’
She giggles.
‘We have no claws or wings or bite.’
More giggling.
‘No one gets away!’
She laughs so hard she falls onto the floor.
Laughing off lies.
I wish I could get rid of my grey that way.
I can’t. I’ve got to name.
Catch.
Fight.
My grey fights back.
But people can time travel inside their heads.
I catch a piece of grey: fear. And I remember.
The playground at school.
That bully Billy King, stalking towards little Josie Lewis.
Me, stepping into his way.
Courage eats fear.
The Feed’s handprint on my stomach disappears.
I move to the next stain on my skin.
This time I go forward.
Crow and me on the beach.
She pushes me into the surf.
I grab hold of her. We tumble, laughing, into the waves.
Joy eats sadness.
Trails made by tears on my face and neck fade to nothing.
There’s no way to know how long this is taking.
We’ve got no sun.
No moon.
No ticking clocks.
Just choices.
They measure the distance between who we are and who we’re turning into.
Except it’s the same choice, made again and again.
Choose the opposite of grey.
It takes forever.
It takes a moment.
Footsteps echo outside.
The door rattles.
Fetchers come in.
They stand. Loom.
They think they’re bigger and stronger than us.
Not anymore.
Crow leaves her corner.
Her skin and eyes are brown.
Her hair and dress are black.
Her shadow on the wall is a thing of wing and claw and bite.
Crow’s hair sweeps across the ground to smash against the
Fetchers’ ankles.
First gets knocked flat.
Second staggers. Crow darts in and slashes.
The top half of Second’s mask falls off.
There’s nothing beneath.
Second screeches and dives for his missing eyes.
I pounce on First’s chest. Grip the edge of his mask.
He lurches up to his full height.
I hold on and swing, pulling with all my strength.
The mask comes free.
I fly across the room.
Hit the ground.
Roll.
Get to my feet with First’s false face in my hand.
The empty space where his head should be screams.
‘Give it back give it back give it back!’
I throw the mask against the wall.
It shatters.
First howls.
Heavy feet pound in the distance.
There’s no more time for Fetchers.
‘Crow! A Feed’s coming!’
We charge out the door.
The Feed thuds down the tunnel.
His mirror-eyes widen when he sees us.
He roars.
I turn to run away.
Crow grabs my arm. Spins me back around. ‘We stop the
Feed.’
She’s right. My mind knows it.
But my body wants to flee.
I haven’t got all my grey.
There’s still a piece buried inside.
A grey that makes me want to hide from the Feed.
Choose the opposite of grey.
I face the Feed.
Straighten my shoulders.
Lift my head.
Stare into his eyes.
Name my last grey. ‘You’re shame.’
The Feed flinches. He thinks I’m naming him.
I am naming him.
‘This grey’s yours,’ I say. ‘My colours are mine. I’m not carrying your shame for what you did. Only my pride. For surviving you.’
The last grey disappears.
Like it never existed.
It never should’ve.
Not inside me.
I’m not the one who should be running from him.
He should be running from me.
From us.
Crow sings:
‘No more for the Feed.
No more in need.
Colours shine bright.
Today catchers fight.
Dead Feed, dead Feed… dead!’
The Feed runs.
We chase.
We follow the thump, thump, thump of footsteps.
The tunnels go everywhere and nowhere.
The thump stops.
He’s run out of tunnel.
There’s only a wall ahead.
The Feed punches the ceiling.
Blood drips down his arm.
He squeals in pain. Pulls himself up through the hole.
We tear after him, leaping up into …
The world.
The taste of fresh air in my mouth.
The feel of soft dirt under my feet.
The glow of the moon and stars above.
I stagger. Throw out my hand. Catch myself against a tree.
Crow tips back her head. Stretches out her arms like she can hug the sky.
‘We are rainbow girls, Isobel-the-Catching! We will bathe in the clouds and sing in the sun and let the world paint our souls and our souls paint the world!’
‘We will.’ I point. There’s a light in the distance. ‘But not yet.’
We go. We find a cage.
Light shines out from gaps between white wooden bars.
Birds of all colours huddle at the top.
The Feed stands at the bottom.
There’s only one door.
It’s shut. Locked.
The Feed smiles.
The birds call out: ‘Free us! Free us! Free us!’
Crow’s hair rises to either side of her like wings.
Strands of black beat the air.
Wind gusts. The door rattles.
The Feed stops smiling.
The birds flutter in excitement.
Crow beats harder. The wind gets stronger.
The door rips from its hinges.
It spins into the night. Smashes into a tree.
Birds fly out in a rush, singing their thanks.
Tiny feathers float in the air.
We walk into the cage.
The Feed falls to his knees.
We circle him.
We’re a loop that begins with me and ends with Crow.
Or begins with Crow and ends with me.
He cowers.
He changes.
His tall frame gets shorter.
His arms and legs shrink.
His eyes aren’t mirrors.
He’s lost his glasses in the chase.
The Feed is a man.
The man’s head turns from side to side.
Tracking our movements.
His skin is sweaty. His lips tremble.
He’s terrified. But it doesn’t make me happy.
It doesn’t make me anything.
Crow and I don’t have to do this for ourselves.
Not anymore.
We have to do it because the Feed must be stopped.
Only we can stop him.
Only we will.
I put my face close to his. I can see into his brain.
‘You’d like to think you’re important to us. But you’re not. When this is done, all you’ll be to us is a bad man we once knew.’
I step back.
‘We won’t think of you again.’
Crow dances.
The world explodes.
As Catching’s voice stopped, so did the wind.
The dust that had been swirling outside drifted back to the earth, letting the light back in. Except it was the soft light of morning instead of the bright light of the early afternoon.
‘It’s the next day?’ I gasped. ‘How can it be the next day?’
Catching shrugged. ‘Like I said. Not a small ending.’
She’d also said she didn’t know where the end of her story would take us. I felt like it had carried me across an ocean to an unfamiliar land. Except I knew the world hadn’t changed; the way I saw it had. Something fundamental had shifted in my head, and things were different now in ways I was struggling to define.