by V. E. Schwab
“That way,” he says, gesturing to the place where the grass grows taller and the path appears again, arcing past the houses and down toward the east. East, where through the darkness, beyond the grove, and up the hill, the sisters live. I cast a single glance toward home, the bedroom shutters still closed tight, and we press on.
The wind-brushed path runs parallel to the old dirt one that leans toward the eastern edge and the sisters’ house, and I walk along it by muscle memory in the dead of night. The path becomes fainter, though the grass is tall, and we continue in silence.
I pause a moment, leaning against a rock. The world tips dreamily.
“You’re tired,” he says.
I shrug, but linger another moment.
“I’m fine,” I say, straightening. “Tell me a story.” I yawn as we continue walking along the narrow dirt lane, the windblown path always to our left. “It’ll help keep me awake.”
I don’t want just any story; I want his. I want to know of the world beyond Near and the way they speak and the stories they tell and why he is here, in his singed gray cloak, and why he is keeping his words so close.
“I don’t know any,” he says. He gazes over the field to the grove in the distance, sitting like a knot of shadows.
“Make one up,” I say, glancing back now at the blue-black world that falls away behind us. Cole looks back too, frowning as if he sees something different, more troublesome or alive than the simple landscape, but he says nothing, seems to grow thinner before my eyes.
“All right,” I say at last. “I’ll start, then. Any requests?”
The silence is so long that I think he hasn’t heard me. The wind around us hums. Finally he speaks.
“Tell me about the Near Witch.”
My eyebrows rise.
“Where did you hear about that?”
“The sisters,” he says. The words don’t come out easily, like he’s just testing them. I wonder if he’s lying.
“Do you believe in witches, Cole?”
His eyes find mine, and for a moment he seems perfectly solid. “Where I came from, witches were real enough,” he says. There’s a strange bitterness in his voice. Where I came from. I cling to those words, the first hints. “But I don’t know about here.”
“Near knows of witches, too. Or at least we used to.”
“What do you mean?”
I start walking again. Cole follows.
“People know, but they try to forget,” I say, shaking my head. “They see witches as scary stories, as monsters. When my father was alive, things were better. He believed that witches were blessings. They are closer to nature than any human, because it is a part of them. But most people think witches are cursed.”
“The sisters too?” he asks slowly, and I offer a sad smile. So he does know more than he lets on.
“If you ask them if they’re witches, they’ll just turn away or wink or make some sharp comment. They must have been powerful, once. But they dried up. Or tried to.”
I look at Cole.
“Witches are connected to the moor. I think my father wanted to have that connection, too. And he got closer than most, but the fact that he couldn’t made him respect witches even more.”
Cole seems even paler, if that’s possible. The wind is picking up.
“And the Near Witch?”
“She’s the reason, I think, that the people here are the way they are. Or so they claim. She’s been gone so long. Now it all feels like a story more than history, to be honest. Like a fairy tale.”
“But you believe it, don’t you?” he asks.
“I do.” I realize, only after I’ve said it, that it’s true. “At least the bones of it.”
He waits.
“All right,” I say, sensing his curiosity, “I’ll tell you the story the way my father did.”
My voice slips low and soft as I draw out my father’s hunting knife. It’s nicked along one edge but still dangerously sharp. I let my fingers slide into the impressions on the handle as I picture the writing on the page in my father’s book, overlapping in my head with his low, sweet voice. I take a deep breath, let it out the way he always did when he was going to tell a story, and begin.
9
“Long, long ago, the Near Witch lived in a small house on the farthest edge of the village. She was very old and very young, depending on which way she turned her head, for no one knows the age of witches. The moor streams were her blood and the moor grass was her skin, and her smile was kind and sharp at once like the moon on the moors in the black, black night. The Near Witch knew how to speak to the world in its language, and sometimes you didn’t know if the sound you heard beneath your door was the howling of the wind or the Near Witch singing the hills to sleep. It all sounded the same…”
My words fade away as we approach the grove. Cole looks up and waits for me to go on.
But something has caught my eye, and I curse under my breath. Just before it reaches the clump of trees, the strange windblown path we’ve been following disappears. Just like that, the grass resumes its usual chaos, blowing a dozen different ways. Like that, the trail is gone. I pick up speed, hurrying through the canopied dark, tripping over roots and fallen branches, snagging my skirt. At the edge of the grove I skid to a stop so fast that Cole almost runs into me.
I stare out at the night, my heart sinking as I scan the hill. The wind-made path is nowhere to be found. I wait, focusing and unfocusing my eyes, hoping to catch sight of it. At last I turn to Cole.
“Can you?” I ask, gesturing at the hill ahead. He looks past me, frowns, and shakes his head.
“Maybe at the top of the hill we’ll find it. There’s too much shadow on this side.”
And he’s right. The moon is slipping lower, dragging shadows over the world. In front of us the hill curves up. To either side the ground stretches out into fields.
I dig into my pocket for a few seeds and hold them out to the growing breeze.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and I can hear the amusement at the edge of his voice. It’s a wonderful sound. He brings his fingers to my outstretched arms, lowering my hands. The way he touches me, it’s as if he either thinks I’ll break, or that I’ll hurt him. As quickly as the touch is there, it’s gone, and it leaves me wondering if his fingers ever met my skin, or if they only came close enough for me to imagine they did.
“The wind on the moors is a tricky thing,” I whisper, half to myself. “But I’m asking it for help.”
Cole stands back, tucks his hands in his cloak, and watches, his eyes vanishing beneath his hair. I’m about to explain that it’s a joke, a silly game I’ve played with myself since I was little and I saw my father doing it, when suddenly the wind steals the seeds and scatters them like bread crumbs down the path ahead of us.
“Aha!” I say triumphantly, following the seed path. “You see?”
“I do,” says Cole.
But the breeze I’ve summoned is growing now. It carries the seeds swirling every direction into the night, and then it begins to bluster and tug at my sleeves. Cole sets his hand on my arm, and the wind settles a bit, dies down.
“Careful what you ask the wind,” he cautions.
He turns his head sharply, looking back through the grove, the way we came.
“What’s wrong?”
“We should walk.” He starts forward up the hill toward the sisters’ house.
“Did you see something?” I ask, scanning the dark. I try to look at the world through his eyes, but all I see behind us is the blue-black night.
“I thought so,” he says. Halfway up the hill, he veers off the path and heads for the low stone wall that sits just south of the sisters’ house. I keep looking back at the way we’ve come, but I still don’t see anything out of place.
“Finish the story,” he says, “about the Near Witch. You weren’t done, were you?”
I nod and follow him.
“The Near Witch was a moor witch. They say it’s the stronge
st kind, that you have to be born of two witches, rather than a witch and a human, and even then, you never know. She could manipulate any of the elements instead of just one. They say the witch was so strong that the earth itself moved at her command, that the rivers changed course, and the storms bubbled over, and the wind took shape. That the ground and all that grew from it, all that was fed and kept and made by it, the trees and the stones, and even the animals—all of it moved for her. They say she kept a garden and a dozen crows, and that the garden never wilted, and the crows never grew old or flew away. The Near Witch lived on the seam, the one between Near and the moor, the one between humans and the wild world. She was a part of everything and nothing…” My voice trails off, and my eyes widen.
Up at the hilltop, between the sisters’ house and the low stone wall, I can just make out a swatch of white. In an instant I break free, forgetting everything but the fabric tangled in a patch of thorny weeds. I stumble to a halt beside a child’s sock, scanning the ground for any other signs. Cole comes up beside me.
I kneel before the patch of thorns. The sock has been snagged and upturned so that the sole faces up, as if the wearer stepped over the brambles and snagged the toes, tugging free and leaving the cotton behind. But that’s not the strange part. The sole of the sock is a crisp white, perfectly clean. As though the foot never touched the ground.
I frown and pull the sock from the thorns, folding the top part inside out. Stitched around the inside rim are two little letters, E and D. Edgar Drake. His mother, the seamstress, always marks her clothes this way. I fold the sock carefully, and slip it into my pocket.
Around the patch of brambles, the tangled earth is in its usual messy state, but there are no signs of human shoes. Again, no tracks. I glance up at Cole.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I murmur. “Where is the rest of him?”
Cole frowns, staring with unfocused eyes at the moor that rolls away from us endlessly. He looks sad but not surprised. I shake my head and push myself to my feet. I scan the ground, hoping to find evidence of the windblown path.
From here atop the hill, I can just make out the strange ripple in the grass, leading up from the grove to the point where we stand. I face forward again, looking past the thorny patch, out at the moonlit moor. The windblown path dips down the hill beyond the sisters’ house, but it spreads as it reaches the base, growing wider and wider until it covers the entire slope. And once it covers everything, it’s as if there’s no path at all, the mass of tangled grass and heather and brambles all bending together. I close my eyes, trying to focus, but my head feels cloudy, slow.
A sharp crack cuts through the night, and I wrench my attention back to Cole and the hillside and the sound of men, remembering in a flash my uncle’s threat, his bright yellow patrol bands, the man in the doorway with the gun. From the edge of the grove below come footsteps. Heavy and careless. Boots crush twigs somewhere beneath the trees, and then the men emerge at the base of the hill, looking up toward the sisters’ house. I hold my breath as Cole and I slide back over the stone wall, press ourselves into the shadow of the opposite side. Two voices travel over the moor, so much harsher than Cole’s against the soft and constant wind. One is older, calloused, but the other is young, smug, and I’d recognize it anywhere. Tyler. The older man must be his father, Mr. Ward. Cole and I crouch silently behind the stone wall as the footsteps come closer, trudging up the hill.
I curse softly beneath my breath. If the patrol catches me out, and doesn’t shoot me first, there will be hell to pay. But if they stumble on the stranger here, without the presence and protection of the sisters, what will they do to him? Arrest him? I’ve never seen them arrest someone, though they’ve threatened it. But I’d never seen a stranger either. I do know that, whatever they do, if Tyler catches me with Cole, it will be immeasurably worse. I glance to the side, but the shadows here are thick, and I can’t see Cole, even though he can only be a foot or two away. I imagine, though, that I can hear his heart, slow and steady and pulsing. Then I realize it’s not him, or me. It’s the wind.
The wind is beginning to rise and fall, to whip through in short sharp pulses over the moor, tugging the grass in waves and casting a blanket of soft noise over everything. Cole slips a fraction closer, but the darkness against the wall is so thick I can just make out his outline and his eyes. It must be because his skin is so fair that his eyes seem haloed and bright, the way they did that first night on the moor. I rub my own eyes, strained from searching all night with only the moon for light. There’s a dip in the wall where stones have slipped free with time, and I peer around the edge of it. Tyler and his father head for the space between the cottage and the wall, as if unwilling to get too close to either. Finally they pause a few yards in front of us, staring out at the moon-soaked moor to the east of Near.
“This is useless,” Tyler says. “I can’t hear anything over this wind.”
“I doubt there’s anything to hear or see,” says his father. “But now we can tell Otto we searched as far as the eastern edge.”
Tyler kicks a tuft of grass. “Lot of good it did.”
My fingers are splayed against the wall, and my hand brushes a group of loose pebbles. They tumble free, clacking against each other until they hit the ground. I hold my breath, but the wind swallows the first half of the sound, and the grass swallows the second. Mr. Ward has already turned and walked away, but Tyler freezes mid-step and looks back over his shoulder.
Impossible. I could barely hear the stones fall. Cole closes his eyes, his breath still careful and even. The beat of the moor wind quickens around us, and I silently pray that Tyler will turn and go. In that moment Cole seems thinner, as if he’s fading away. My hand slides across the ground to his, intertwining our fingers, my skin needing assurance that he’s still there. I give a short squeeze, and he squeezes back, and for a moment we are like the sisters, speaking without words. It’s as if he’s praying with me to keep us unseen.
Tyler hesitates a moment longer, eyes lingering on the wall. No, not the wall, I realize, but the air just above it. I look up and see a stroke of pitch black, a flutter of wings. A crow lands atop the wall, peering down at us with a glint in its eye, even in the darkness. Looking back through the hole in the wall, I watch Tyler lift his rifle, train it on the bird.
“Stop fooling around,” calls Mr. Ward from the base of the hill. At the sharp sound of the man’s voice, the crow takes flight, bleeding back into the darkness. Tyler lowers his weapon, casting one last look at the wall, but Cole and I are hidden behind our stones. Finally Tyler huffs and runs to catch up with his father.
Cole and I exhale together. Slowly the wind around us begins to die down, at last breaking apart into the gentle breeze that it had been before. Cole’s hand in mine feels different, strong and solid. But my head is spinning, and I think that the late hour is playing with my senses.
Cole looks down at my hand in his as if it’s a foreign object, as though he does not know how the fingers came to be intermingled with his own. He lets go. By the time my eyes meet his, he is distant and closed again. We sit there on the cold ground, backs pressed against the jagged stone wall, half hidden from each other by the shadows. There is a soft light spreading through the sky, a glow so faint that, had it not just been the darkest part of night, I wouldn’t have noticed. The morning is a stealthy hunter, my father used to say. It sneaks up quiet and quick on the night and overtakes it.
“I have to get home,” I say, brushing leaves from my cloak. “Tomorrow it’s your turn.”
“For what?” Cole asks, rising beside me, holding his hand palm up, as if it still does not belong to him.
“To tell me a story.”
10
I don’t remember falling asleep.
I climbed in the window as the dawn was breaking, my mind a nest of questions, and now somehow it is fully morning. I roll over, and Wren is there beside me, her knees drawn up and her head bent down, Dreska’s charm still tied around her
wrist. She shivers, curls in even farther. I sometimes forget how small she is.
A moment later her eyes flick open, bold and blue. She’s not even fully awake when she frowns deeply and sits up. Her gaze goes straight to the window.
“What is it?” I ask, my throat thick from sleep.
My sister begins to pick at a thread on the old quilt, her eyes still staring out the window. Wren is not a quiet thing, so to see her so tight-lipped is strange. She begins to hum that silly rhyme, but only sings little pieces to herself, skipping middles so that the sound is fractured, wandering.
“Are you all right?” I ask, sitting up. I run my hands through my hair, trying to untangle it.
She meets my eyes, but does not stop humming.
“Are you worried about Edgar?” I ask. “They’ll find him.”
Her fingers keep pulling at the stray thread as the melody finally trails off. Then she says, “I just wish they’d stop playing.”
“Playing? You think it’s a game?”
She nods very seriously. “They asked me to come play, too, but I said no. I’m not afraid,” she adds quickly, “but it was just, they came so late.”
“What do you mean, they, Wren?”
“Ed and Cece.”
“Cecilia?” I ask, the name caught in my throat. Cecilia Porter. The girl who took Wren’s hand in the singing circle, a splash of freckles and a cluster of auburn curls.
Wren leans forward, in the exaggerated way children do when confiding a secret.
“I heard them, out there.” She points to the world beyond the window, soaked in morning light.
