12-08

by Bethany Chester

  And what about Clemency? To be honest, I don’t see her so much these days. The one thing that bound us together is gone, and there’s no real need for us to meet up anymore. Besides, she’s always busy, working in the library and keeping the earth in balance and doing whatever other surreal things she does in her spare time. Although she’d no doubt tell me ‘surreal’ was the wrong word.

  I know I could become more powerful and connected, but right now, it’s not what I want. I’ve seen how Clemency has been affected by missing out on a normal life, and I don’t want the same to happen to me. Call me selfish, but I want my fate to be my own.

  I guess it sounds like I’ve cast Clemency off now that she’s no longer useful, but I want to stress that that isn’t the case. I still see her on occasion, in the library or in the street, and once we start talking, our friendship is instantly rekindled, as if we’d seen each other only the day before. Dodging death together tends to bond you pretty strongly to one another. Besides, we just get on. It’s been that way ever since we first met.

  Anyhow, I get the feeling that I might be seeing more of her in the coming months, due to an unexpected development.

  Annemarie and Clemency have become very close since Annemarie saved Clemency’s life in the web. They’re always going for coffee or going on walks together. I didn’t think much of it, until I saw them sitting under a tree in the park, talking in low voices. There was something intimate about the scene, though I’m not sure exactly what it was. It’s still early days, but I think perhaps Clemency may have found someone who can return her feelings. I’m pleased about it, too. However much she may put on a cold, hard front, she needs to be loved. After all’s said and done, she’s only human.

  I just hope her life is longer and happier than her mother’s was. She didn’t deserve all the bad stuff that happened to her.

  This story began with one remarkable woman, and I’m going end it with another.

  My father phoned me last Monday to tell me Grandma Edna’s social worker had visited her that morning and found her unconscious with no pulse. My mother was too busy being inconsolable to come to the phone.

  “She died peacefully in her sleep,” my father told me. “It’s all we could have hoped for.”

  I managed to hold it together on the phone, because I don’t think he could have dealt with another hysterical female at that moment. I doubt he was even coping with my mother. He never got on very well with Grandma Edna, and I don’t think he ever really understood my attachment to her.

  I broke down as soon as I got off the phone. Jamal and Annemarie were at first alarmed, and then sympathetic. They knew how much Grandma Edna meant to me, and they understood the comparative superficiality of my relationship with my parents. As an only child in a middle-class family, I was sheltered, provided for, and completely misunderstood. I always hated the way they tried to get me to “come out of my shell”. They didn’t seem to understand that it was how I was, who I was. The only blessing was that they never spoilt me. They didn’t really think it was healthy, and in that respect, they were right, although I don’t know how easy I would have been to spoil in any case.

  My point is, Jamal and Annemarie were the best kind of support I could possibly have wished for, but they were not the ones who ultimately consoled me.

  After I cried myself to sleep that night, I had a vision, my first one in weeks. I guess I kind of assumed they’d go away when the wraith did, but it doesn’t look as if that’s going to happen.

  I’m standing in a garden. In front of me there’s a pool, surrounded by shrubs. A path loops around it, the two sides linked by a backless stone bench.

  A young couple sits on the bench. With their fingers interlaced, they stare into the pure water of the pond. The man is dressed in an old-fashioned wartime soldier’s uniform, the woman in a pretty forties-style frock.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” says the soldier, tilting his head to look the woman in the eye. I can see his face now. It’s Sidney Smith.

  Now I know who the woman is, too. Her features are so much younger, so carefree, but once I know who she is, I can’t fail to see the resemblance, both to her older self and to me. I never realised how alike we were. No wonder we always got on so well.

  Edna squeezes Sidney’s hand tightly.

  “It was always you,” she says quietly.

  *

  I miss my grandma deeply, but at the same time, I can sense that she’s content, and I know that she’s with Sidney. Yes, her loss is painful, but at least I know our separation isn’t forever. It will only last a lifetime.

  The End

  About the author

  I am a writer from South Wales. My life isn’t very interesting, so my imagination has to compensate – hence my stories. I don't include a lot of description in my writing, because I think it's important that the reader imagines the characters and scenarios for themselves. I wrote my first novella at the age of fourteen, and I haven't really stopped since then! I don't really write certain genres, so I end up trying to fit my books in somewhere after I finish them. This probably isn't the best way to go about it, but hey. Rules are made to be broken.

  Read my author interview online, where you can also find out more about myself and my writing.

  If you enjoyed this book, I would really appreciate it if you wrote a review on Smashwords. Thank you very much for reading!

  On the following page, you'll find an extract from one of my novellas, Now and Then. If you enjoy it, please download it free on Smashwords.com.

  n o w

  She no longer deals with the future, only the present.

  Perched high in a tree in Farrow’s Wood, grimy and unwashed, she observes the approaching figure. He is nothing, no more an adult than she is. About her age, but blond. He looks like an islander, which is unusual. He’s moving quickly. That’s his first mistake.

  He still hasn’t seen her when he pauses directly beneath her perch. Searching for her, no doubt. Barely a second later, she drops onto his back, silent and catlike. She pushes his face into the ground to muffle the sounds of his surprise.

  “Who sent you?” Her voice is rusty with disuse.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Lying is his second mistake.

  “The Huntsman or Horizon?”

  “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

  She pins down his shoulders with her knees, but he has had some training. She spots the silver glint and snatches the knife before it pierces her flesh.

  “Who sent you?”

  Silence. He is defiant, brave if unskilled. Cruelly, she strikes him across the back of the head with his own knife hilt, before burying the blade between his shoulders. She watches him jolt, before going still. In her old life, she carved a cross beneath the wound, so that they would know who they had offended. But in this case, that would be foolish. She doesn’t want to be found.

  The landscape around the fallen boy wears a crimson bloom on its breast. She wrenches the blade free, cleans it on the overhanging leaves, and tucks it into her boot. Pushing up his sleeve, she finds a cross sliced into his shoulder, barely scabbing over. A new recruit, of course – they couldn’t send someone she might recognise. A wry smile.

  Jay continues on her way, not once looking back. Third mistake – attempting to kill an assassin.

  t h e n

  Jay is seven when her life shatters. It’s the middle of the night when the front door opens softly. She instantly knows that something is very wrong. She wastes no time in climbing into the large chest beside her bed, closing the heavy lid behind her.

  Stealthy footsteps on the stairs, followed by the click of her mother’s door as they enter. When she hears the screaming, she knows better than to intervene. Instead, she remains in her hiding place.

  Soon, a gruesome quiet reins. Young voices outside on the landing. They are no longer taking the trouble to be quiet.

  “Shouldn’t there be another child?” />
  Her door is pushed open a moment later, while she holds her breath and tries to will herself out of existence.

  Voices again. “No-one here. There’s no time to hunt for the kid. The whole world probably heard those screams. Somewhere, there might be someone who gives a damn.”

  The footsteps retreat. It is ten minutes before Jay can be sure they are gone. Cautiously, she struggles with the heavy chest lid, stumbling out onto the cold wooden boards. Picking herself up, she tiptoes to her mother’s room and finds what she was expecting. They killed the child too, her younger brother. She stares with dull horror, but she doesn’t cry – she hasn’t shed a tear since she was an infant.

  Even at her age, she knows that her mother has secrets. She knows that they shouldn’t be able to afford a two-storey house in the city, when other single mothers are restricted to slum-flats.

  Dressing hurriedly, she packs a few things in a bag and sprints to the dark kitchen. She learnt many things from spying on her mother. Rooting in the dresser drawer, she pulls out a stash of notes and crams them into the bag.

  She slides on her shoes, then slips out the door. The cobbles are wet, glistening. She can’t hold it in anymore. She runs until she finds an alleyway, and huddles there, frozen half to the bone, until morning comes, unable to find any comfort in the stars above.

  n o w

  The forest is coldly beautiful, and winter is almost here.

  The latter scares Jay more than she likes to admit. She no longer deals with the future, but she is selfish, and her life is in danger. Soon the snow will come, and even she will be helpless to hold it off.

  You can’t stick a knife into the heart of winter. You can’t assassinate the chill in the air.

  She is clever, and she knows there is only one way to survive. A thief as well as a killer, she has crackling notes sewn into her cloak. She will have to immerse herself in something she has all but forgotten.

  Human contact is to Jay what disease is to many – something which is destructive and will lead to her downfall. In the past, that philosophy has saved her life.

  A subtle click below – the trap closing. They, the Children, often set traps for food, while hunting their human prey over a long distance. It can sometimes take days of travelling to locate their targets.

  She pounces on the trap, releasing the small body inside. A rabbit – this is a good day. She carves a line into its flesh, watching skin peel away from fat. Soon, the slices sizzle over her small campfire.

  She scans the surrounding trees. Force of habit, but it saved her from that amateur earlier on. Nothing now, though.

  In the west, there is reddish light. The sun is setting. She relies mostly on the sun to direct her, these days. West. She dislikes the idea, but the east and the forest are out of the question. It’s a week since she realised that ignoring the future is no longer an option.

  Jay knew what she was getting herself into. She has only contempt for her past self.

  t h e n

  She has been a street child for three months on the day her life changes again. Invisible to the eyes of the city, she paces the back streets alone. She eats little. Who knows how long the money will have to last?

  She doesn't know where it came from, but she more than suspects that it was ill-earned.

  Today she is in the Plaza. The city square is packed with shouting traders. Invisible, she thinks, with a flat smile.

  A scrounging, scrawny alley cat swipes at her scrap of bread. She doesn't remember picking up the stone, but she feels its weight in her hand. The creature retreats, hissing, as the stone smacks into its skull with a cracking sound.

  Then she ceases to be invisible. Someone addresses her.

  “Pure cruelty. I like that in a child.” It's a man’s voice. Jay turns, spotting him in the crowd behind her. Dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit, and practically smelling of money. Their eyes meet – his icy smile mirrors her own.

  “What do you want?” Curiosity, perhaps a little fear. He motions for her to follow him. She palms the shard of sharpened metal in her pocket as she does so. She isn’t taking any chances.

  “What do you want?” she says again. They’ve stopped behind a horse and carriage that blocks an alleyway entrance. He's still smiling that smile.

  “Does the name Horizon mean anything to you?” She shakes her head, clutching the metal so hard it breaks the skin. Her mother used to mention that name when she thought Jay wasn’t listening.

  “It will, before long,” he says. Then he tells her who Horizon is.

  “You will be fully trained, of course,” he adds.

  “Why should I do it?”

  Laughter. “Officially, because you will be paid well. You’ll have a roof over your head, food, a future. Truthfully? You will do it because I say you will.”

  Jay’s instincts tell her that running is a bad idea.

  “What now?” she says.

  “You get in the carriage,” he says. “If you don’t mind.” His tone is sardonic. She knows she doesn’t really have a choice, so she does as she is told. The carriage is painted black, inside and out.

  The seats are leather, luxurious. She is not alone inside. There is another girl, maybe eleven years old, and a boy, who is sleeping.

  “Ayllah,” says the girl.

  “Jay.”

  The carriage clatters and moves away from everything she knows.