13 Curses

by Michelle Harrison

  “No,” he said. “They never knew a thing until recently. I hid it all. Then my son discovered everything.”

  “What about your wife? Surely he couldn’t manage to keep it a secret from his own mother?”

  A look of anguish crossed Stitch’s face. “No. Evelyn never knew. I’m sure Fabian would have told her, if he’d had the chance. But by the time he found out about the fairies, his mother had been dead for seven years.”

  He looked at her with damp, bloodshot eyes. “If she’d known, she might still be alive. It was the not knowing that got her killed.”

  Stitch’s words hung between them like cobwebs. He lowered his head, his expression haunted, and sank his fingers into the mane of his horse, combing through the coarse strands of hair. Red waited for him to continue. Already, she sensed that this was a matter he had not spoken of in some time—if at all.

  “Actually,” he said hoarsely, “that’s not completely true. The fact that she knew nothing of fairies… it was a factor in her death. But the truth is that she wouldn’t have needed to know about them if I hadn’t been involved. The fairies would never have come near her if it hadn’t been for me.” He disentangled his fingers from the horse’s mane and took hold of the rein once more. “So the real truth is that I’m to blame. She died because of me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Red said softly.

  Stitch smiled grimly. “I’ve had seven years to think about it. It is true, no matter which way I look at it. I’ve always known. I’ve just never said it… out loud before. I thought I could protect her. I was wrong.”

  “What happened?” Red asked.

  Stitch paused to swig some water from his flask.

  “It was made to look like an accident,” he said. “Evelyn loved music. She was a talented musician. She played piano every day. Fabian loved to listen to her.

  “I’d been hunting fairies for about six years by then. I knew a lot more about them by that time, and leading a double life had become second nature. Even so, Evelyn sometimes asked questions that I couldn’t answer: Why I spent so much time in the woods. How I ended up with so many cuts and bruises that I couldn’t explain. Why I had to keep my knife so perfectly sharp when I never seemed to use it. I soon learned how to cover my tracks, occasionally bringing home a dead rabbit to keep up the pretense that I was hunting. In reality I’ve never hunted for sport—never will. I knew it was something Evelyn disapproved of. But I needed her to believe it, even though it killed me to know she thought less of me.

  “One day, I found a rabbit in the woods. One of its legs had been taken off by a poacher’s air rifle. It was bleeding to death. As I approached, two other rabbits that had been nearby ran off. I wrung the creature’s neck to put it out of its misery, then took it back to the manor.

  “Evelyn was in the garden with Fabian when I got back. Fabian saw the rabbit and burst into tears. Evelyn said nothing. She just looked at me with her mouth pinched and took Fabian inside.

  “That evening Florence was out, so Evelyn and I ate alone with Fabian. It was a meal of few words. She was still angry with me. To make amends I was playing some silly game with Fabian to try to make him laugh. It wasn’t working. When someone knocked on the back door, he’d just tipped his food everywhere, so I asked Evelyn to answer it while I cleaned up.

  “On the doorstep stood a woman and a child of about Fabian’s age. They were peddlers; the woman carried a basket containing what I thought at first were bundles of firewood. But then Evelyn exclaimed that they were in fact little flutes, hand-carved from wood. She went out of the room to fetch her purse, leaving Fabian and me alone.

  “ ‘Take good care of your son,’ the woman at the door said suddenly. I looked up to find that she was staring at me with the utmost hatred. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and the child at her side was also crying, burying her face into her mother’s skirt.

  “ ‘Take very good care of him,’ she repeated. ‘For today my son was lost to me.’

  “For the first time I noticed what she and her daughter were wearing: long coats of thick, brown fur. Rabbit fur. Only then did I realize what I’d done… that the rabbit I’d killed earlier that day wasn’t really a rabbit.

  “Just then, Evelyn called to ask if I’d seen her purse anywhere. I snapped back at her that I hadn’t, and in my panic I used her name. The fairy woman heard it, and she smiled.

  “ ‘You have taken something dear to me,’ she said. ‘Now I shall take something that is dear to you.’

  “I held on to Fabian tightly, terrified she was going to steal him away. He must have picked up on my fear because he started to cry. Evelyn came back at that moment. She’d found her purse and was rummaging for some coins. I wanted to slam the door on the fairy woman then and there, but the shock of what I’d done had left me frozen. All I could do was mumble to Evelyn not to buy anything from the woman—but she just frowned at me, assuming I was being rude to the woman because she was a peddler. She handed over the money and accepted a thin wooden flute in return. The fairy woman smiled, and then turned and made her way back through the garden toward the woods.

  “I was shaking when I bolted the door, but if Evelyn noticed, she never commented. I watched her put the flute down on the mantelpiece, then she took Fabian upstairs, trying to placate him. As soon as she’d left the room, I threw the flute into the fire, and stood watching as it burned away to nothing. Afterward I collected the dead ‘rabbit’ from the compost and looked it over. At first there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. Then I found it: a tiny button, almost like a waistcoat button, on the underside of the dead creature. I didn’t dare to unfasten it. I couldn’t bear to see what was really underneath the glamour. I went out to my den, and stayed there for the rest of the evening, waiting for Florence to arrive so I could warn her about what had happened in case the fairy came back. When I heard the car pull in later that evening, I went back into the house.

  “I heard it the moment I stepped through the door—the flute was playing in the kitchen. I ran to the room. Evelyn was playing and laughing, showing the flute to Florence—the same flute I’d thrown into the fire earlier that evening. She stopped smiling when she saw my face. I asked her where she’d found it. She looked puzzled, and told me it was on the mantelpiece where she’d left it.

  “I knew then that the flute was enchanted, and that it could not be destroyed by normal means. I waited until Evelyn had gone to bed, and then I hid it in my den, wondering if perhaps it could remain hidden as long as I didn’t try to destroy it. I told Florence what had happened, and she told me to go and ask the old gypsy woman’s advice in the morning.

  “That night I lay awake for hours, too afraid to sleep. Eventually though, I must have dozed off, because I awoke with a start. The room was still dark, and beside me the bed was empty. Evelyn was gone. I reached over and touched the space where she’d lain—it was still warm, so I knew she hadn’t been gone long. I lay back, thinking that maybe she had gone to check on Fabian. Then I heard the faintest strains of a flute playing.

  “I was up and dressed in seconds, out of the room and shouting to Florence to check on Fabian. I ran through the house, calling Evelyn’s name and running into every room. It started a complete commotion—Fabian was crying, and upstairs my father was upset too. I had no time to comfort either of them. I raced downstairs. The kitchen door was open slightly. That’s when I knew she’d gone outside. I ran around to the front of the house, unlocked my den, and went in. The flute was where I’d left it, yet still I could hear faint notes being played from an eerie melody behind the house. I ran back through and into the garden, calling her name. Through the gate I saw a figure in the distance, walking toward the woods, as though in a trance. It was Evelyn, still in her white nightgown, lit by the moon.

  “I chased after her, calling her name, but she never turned back. It was as though she couldn’t hear me. Then she vanished—one minute she was there, and the next she was gone. I ran toward where I’d seen
her last, just about to cross the brook on the stepping stones. I arrived no more than two minutes after she’d stood there, yet there was no sign of her. I didn’t know what to do. I yelled until I was hoarse. I crossed the water and ran into the woods, and out again, twice. And all the while that flute was playing its awful, cursed melody.

  “By then the sun had started to come up. I forced myself to think, then I remembered something about running water breaking enchantments. I suddenly had a strong feeling that she wouldn’t have crossed the brook. Taking a chance, I started to jog to the right, following the brook. For the next few minutes I saw nothing. I was about to give up and go back to the manor to call for more help. Then I saw her.”

  Stitch’s voice broke then. Red said nothing, knowing that he had come to the most painful part of his past.

  “She was facedown in the water, tangled in the weeds. I jumped in and pulled her out. She wasn’t breathing. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. Her skin was blue and icy cold from the water. I tried to resuscitate her—but it was too late. She was gone. Only then did I realize that the wretched music had stopped… with her heart, so it would seem.

  “I carried her back to the manor and called for help. Soon after, an ambulance arrived, along with the police. I told Florence to stay out of the room and to keep Fabian away. When they took her away, I knew they thought I was responsible. Why was she out in the night like that? Why was she in her nightgown? Why hadn’t I called for help as soon as I knew she was missing? They just kept firing questions at me.

  “To make matters worse, there was a wound on the back of her head. And then later, as the brook was searched for clues, traces of her blood were found on one of the stepping stones. She’d tried to cross, slipped and hit her head. She was unconscious when she drowned.”

  “How did they find out you weren’t responsible?” Red whispered.

  Stitch wiped his hand across his face and sighed.

  “From Evelyn’s medical history. Records proved she was prone to sleepwalking, something she’d been doing since she was a teenager. I remembered her talking about it but had never known her to do it in the time we’d been married—apparently it was something that was triggered by stress. But I knew she hadn’t been sleepwalking, and I knew what I’d heard. That ghostly tune, echoing out over the fields. It lured her to her death. When I went back to my den the following day, the flute was gone. I never saw it again.

  “After that I asked Florence to lock the music room. I never went into it again, and I didn’t want Fabian in there either. Soon he gave up asking. I promised myself that I’d explain it all to him one day… that I’d tell him the truth about how his mother had died. That it wasn’t the accident he’d grown up believing. I told myself that once he was old enough to handle it, I’d tell him about the fairies. In the end he found out on his own.”

  “About how his mother died?” Red asked.

  Stitch shook his head slowly.

  “About the fairies. I’m still searching for the right words to tell him the rest. Somehow I never seem to be able to find them.”

  “You should just tell him. I’ve heard your story and I don’t think it was your fault.”

  “I don’t know if he’d see it that way. And I don’t think I could bear it if he wouldn’t forgive me. Still, it’s only what I deserve.”

  “You think you deserve to be unhappy?” said Red.

  Stitch shrugged and rubbed his nose.

  “Maybe. Who knows. I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again, not truly. Not without her.”

  He pulled his horse up short and pointed to the ground suddenly. “Look.”

  There was a dirt path, overgrown but still visible beneath the horses’ hooves.

  “It’s a good sign,” said Stitch. “We must be nearing the edge of the woods. We need to keep our wits about us now—no more talking. This must be where the Dead Wood ends.”

  He was right. Presently, Red noticed a significant change in their surroundings. Birds sang and chirruped, undergrowth twitched and rustled, and once or twice she caught sight of small tree fey, peeping out from their nests. She jumped as something caught in her hair, and reached up to try to extract herself after halting her horse. There she found a thick, twiggy branch of a knobby old tree. As she twisted around, she could swear the tree moved—swaying a little—and the twigs curved farther into her hair.

  “Stitch! I’m caught up.”

  He turned and trotted back, waiting momentarily as the colt trailing behind paused to rip up a mouthful of grass.

  “Keep still,” he said, studying the tree. “It’s just curious. It probably hasn’t seen many humans in its time.”

  Red slowly lowered her hand, staying very still, not daring to look up at the living tree. Her scalp itched with each brush of its gnarled fingers, and a couple of times she felt strands of hair get caught and plucked out. Then it withdrew, and gave a long, creaking sigh.

  “Come on,” said Stitch. “Keep moving.”

  The next hour passed without incident, although fairy life was far more prominent now that they were out of the Hedgewitch’s domain. Soon Red smelled a familiar scent in the air, one that somehow reminded her of Sunday lunch. It was masked by another smell, something unpleasant that was earthy and musky. She looked at Stitch and saw him staring through the trees at the stream. Only then did she realize there was something odd about it.

  “It’s flowing uphill!” she exclaimed.

  Stitch nodded. “I’ve heard of this place. That smell—the herby one—is rosemary. But not just any rosemary. It’s piskie-tainted.”

  “Piskie-tainted?”

  “Look down.”

  Beneath the horses’ hooves, clumps of dark, stinking matter were being trampled, some of it dried and cracked, some fresh and oozing.

  “Piskie dung,” said Stitch. “This is their domain. The rosemary that grows here is very magical—it can tamper with memories. We should pass as quickly and quietly as possible. Piskies can be volatile if they’re disturbed.”

  Sure enough a jabbering sound had begun around them. The next thing Red knew, a pinecone hit her in the temple. She winced, turning to a giggle and a doughy-looking, spiteful little face ducking out of view.

  Stitch was hit next by a pebble, lifting his arm a fraction too late to defend himself as another small figure bobbed out of sight.

  “Hurry,” he muttered, clicking his horse on. Soon the jabbering faded as they left the piskies behind.

  Red wondered how long they had been on the move now. She was hungry, her stomach gurgling. She placated it several times with huge gulps of water, but its protestations gradually grew louder. She was about to ask Stitch if they could stop for a break to eat, when they came upon the edge of the woods. Her heart leapt at the promise of finally being free of the gloom, out beneath the sky instead of the branches.

  “Let’s stop over there,” said Stitch, motioning to a dip in the grass beyond the woods. “It’s sheltered from sight, and we can tether the horses over there—it’s right by the stream. It should be safe for us to stop awhile and eat.”

  Red followed him gratefully, urging her horse on a little faster to be free of the trees. They were almost on the border when Stitch’s horse suddenly reared up in terror. She saw him sliding from the saddle and gasped, but then he managed to grasp hold and right himself, bringing the frightened animal back under his control.

  She stiffened as she saw what had made the horse rear up. Two figures stood silhouetted in the opening of the trees, blocking their exit from the woods.

  Instinctively, Red tugged her horse’s reins to the left, preparing to head back into the woods at speed.

  “Hold it!” Stitch yelled, before she could dig her heels in. He dismounted his horse and led it and the colt over to the two figures, waiting expectantly for her to join them. Slowly, Red brought the horse back around but stayed in the saddle.

  “It’s all right,” said Stitch. “They’re not going to harm us.”

&n
bsp; Red eyed the two strangers properly for the first time. The first was a young, dark-skinned fey man with gleaming golden eyes. Beneath a black hooded cloak, he wore an impeccably stitched suit of leaves.

  The woman next to him was older, her coloring a stark contrast to the fairy man’s. Her ivory skin was almost translucent, and her black hair carried the same oily blue-green sheen as her gown of ebony feathers. Red recalled Stitch’s account of the large black bird that had transformed into a woman before his eyes.

  “You’re Raven, aren’t you?” she said.

  The woman stared back at her, her black eyes glistening.

  “It’s one of the names I go by, yes.” She motioned to her yellow-eyed companion. “And this is Gredin.”

  Red stayed in the saddle. Stitch gestured to the grassy knoll they had been heading for before Raven and Gredin had found them.

  “We’ve been traveling since daybreak,” he told them. “We were just about to rest awhile and eat.”

  “Good,” said Gredin curtly. “We will join you. And then we can start thinking about how to get you out of this mess.”

  They tethered the horses by the water and ate after Stitch and Gredin made a kill.

  Raven had removed from her cloak a small, hedgehoglike creature, which was now snuffling for insect life near where Red was sitting. Red was unable to take her eyes off it.

  “I can’t tell you its real name,” Gredin said, watching her. “But Tanya calls it ‘the Mizhog.’ ”

  Red looked up into Gredin’s intense golden stare. Evidently Stitch had told Gredin about her connections with Tanya while they had hunted in the woods.

  “I’ve seen one before,” she muttered, turning back to the Mizhog. “It used to follow me everywhere before… the accident.”

  Gredin nodded. “Your guardian.”

  “My what?”

  “Your fairy guardian,” he repeated, bemused. “All children born with the ability to see fairies have one.”

  The Mizhog settled by her foot to chew on a worm.