Authors: James Treadwell
‘Bad time,’ the shadow agreed.
‘Is this truly England?’
‘Yes yes.’
She twitched and shrugged in her clothes as if they didn’t fit properly. ‘The twilight was dismal. Perhaps the sun and moon have also fallen.’
‘Dawn coming. Long way off.’
‘This is a dying world.’ The shadow might as well not have corrected her for all the attention she paid it. ‘Or already dead. Its woods and fields are barren.’
Across the river valley a light winked out. An upstairs light in a house, perhaps, or a bulb failing at someone’s front steps.
‘Did you see that, puka?’
‘No no.’
‘Even the stars expire where they fall. Their virtue is long gone. I feel it. They are scattered here cold and silent.’
‘Not stars,’ muttered the shadow, but the woman must have thought it was agreeing with her, if she was listening to it at all. She addressed it as one might address a dog.
‘I was dead too.’ Her voice sunk to a rasping whisper. ‘I died and returned.’
There was no answer to this. The woman stared out at the black water, remembering. Her free hand rose absently to her chest, where something small and smooth and round hung like a pendant from a silver chain round her neck. Her fingers closed around it.
‘I bear the seed of the world’s life.’
Up here on the higher ground of the headland there was always wind, even on a night as still as this. The shadow shifted, seeming to fold inwards, huddling down for warmth. Its motion made a rustling noise, pulling the woman out of her reverie.
She spoke over her shoulder. ‘The pilgrim at the gate. Do you remember him?’
‘Can’t forget.’
‘He knelt and greeted me in our saviour’s name.’
‘Made him go. Ran off.’
‘Perhaps I would have done better to hear him out. Perhaps . . .’
Silence returned. The woman stood, rapt by her unfinished thought, until the cold broke through her dreams and she shivered so violently she had to clutch the staff with both hands. For the first time she turned round, away from the wide view northeastwards.
‘Does the dryad still watch the gate?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘Good.’ Prodding around in the grass, she found the path that led back down towards the woods and the house. ‘Follow.’
The shadow moved silently behind her as she shambled clumsily along the path.
‘What of the old man?’
‘What.’
‘Is he in the house still?’
‘Sleeping.’
‘You are certain?’
‘Last I saw.’
‘Good. I would prefer not to have to silence him as I silenced the changeling girl.’
‘Poor girl.’
For the first time the woman’s voice gained an edge. ‘What are these people to you, puka? I am your master. No one else.’
The shadow evidently had no answer.
‘The girl knew nothing of who she was. The old man knows nothing either. Let him sleep until he can be useful.’
‘Long sleep.’
She stopped and turned to face it, though it was nothing more than an outline of absolute darkness against the velvet black of the night.
‘This is a fallen world. If I am to restore it, I must not be hindered. Not by children and old men and their weeping and senseless questions.’
‘Big if.’
‘Least of all by you, puka.’ She had ignored its muttered rejoinder entirely. ‘Never think that I cannot punish you. Never think that.’
‘Bad enough.’
The resentful answer might as well not have been spoken. ‘You will not let the old man leave the house.’
‘Sleeping.’
She raised her voice. ‘You will not let him leave.’
No answer was expected, and none given.
‘No one must leave and no one must enter. None but the witch, if she comes.’
‘Not far.’
She leaned forward towards the blackness. ‘Let us hope so, for your sake. Let us hope your disobedience is quickly undone.’
‘Door opened,’ it protested. ‘Man came.’
‘Do not answer me. I have little patience with your kind, puka. I gave you the substance you crave and you repaid me with disobedience.’
‘No no. Never said—’
‘Silence!’
The shadow shrank in a little.
‘Tomorrow,’ she went on, when she was sure it was listening, ‘you will search for the boy who escaped you. You will not be free to eat until he is found.’
‘Might be far.’
‘You will not be free,’ she repeated slowly, ‘until he is found.’
The shadow’s only answer was a wordless groan,
wrrraaaaa.
‘For ever, if need be. I will not be disobeyed. Least of all by such as you.’
No answer.
‘Acknowledge it.’
‘Yes yes.’
‘Well, then. I have sent my servant spirit to look for the boy, but it is no more than spirit. Your obedience will be required tomorrow. Prove it to me then.’
‘Yes yes.’
She resumed her laborious struggle along the dark rough path. The manner of her walk – crouched, leaning heavily on the staff, sliding her feet beneath her – gave the impression that she didn’t trust her legs to keep her upright. ‘You are certain no one else has entered?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘What of the man who came to the well? Whom the dryad struck?’
‘Hairy man.’
‘Yes. He has not returned?’
‘Ran off. Last I saw. Can’t say now.’
‘Once I am within, watch the woods. If the old man wakes while I rest, see that he does not leave the house. Let no one enter.’
‘Cold,’ it muttered. ‘Dark.’
She raised her voice. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘I must not be obstructed. There may be dangers here.’
They went on in silence. The gorse and thorns grew thicker beside the path as they descended.
‘I must not be,’ she whispered. ‘The world needs me, in its death throes.’ One hand strayed to her chest again, where the small thing hanging on the silver chain bounced against the front of her padded jacket. ‘For this I overcame death.’
The shadow had fallen a few steps behind. ‘Bad time,’ it croaked softly. ‘Poor girl.’ A gust of wind rattled the spiked branches above and the words went unheard.
Part V
Wednesday Morning
Twenty
Horace was already
awake when his mother came upstairs. He felt like he’d hardly slept at all. He rolled over and closed his eyes, waited for her to come and sit at the end of his bed.
‘Time to wake up, small boy.’
He feigned bleariness. ‘Is it?’
‘It’s seven o’clock. I have to go early. Everything is ready for you downstairs.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Do you have anything special today?’
His secret was glowing so hot it made his cheeks burn. He rubbed his face. ‘Just a normal day.’
She patted his legs under the duvet. ‘All right. Work hard. Don’t be late.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I might still be with Professor Lightfoot when you get home. You can just come and knock on the door.’
‘OK.’
‘She must have come back late. The car is there. I put a note through her door.’
‘Right.’
‘You have everything you need?’
He didn’t mean to, but he snuck a quick glance at his keychain on his desk. That was all he needed. Even if what he was going to do today meant that she took the key away in the evening and never gave it back, he had to have it until then.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
He was amazed she couldn’t actually see his secret flaring inside him. Maybe I could pretend to be ill, he thought suddenly. When she finds out I didn’t turn up to school today. I could say I felt ill on the bus. Mum liked it when people were ill, it gave her a chance to fuss even more than usual and make weird drinks. All he’d have to do was get back before she did. Then he could say he’d come home and been in bed all morning.
‘Mum? What are you doing today again?’
She stood up, sighing. ‘Mrs Standish and then Mrs Ambell. They are both outside Falmouth. I have to take two buses.’
‘Right, but aren’t you coming back here?’
‘Yes, I told you.’
He tried to sound casual. ‘So what sort of time?’
‘I told Professor Lightfoot about two o’clock. It depends if Mrs Ambell will drive me. Why are you asking these questions? You don’t usually ask these things.’
‘Just wondering.’
She looked as if she was going to ask him something else, but then Horace’s desk clock caught her eye. ‘I should hurry. The bus might come early. These drivers always go too fast.’ She kissed him quickly on the top of his head. ‘Have a good day.’
‘Yeah, I will.’
‘It’s going to be a nice day.’
‘Great. Bye Mum.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to her making her usual overcomplicated preparations for leaving the house. Finally he heard the door swing open.
‘Bye, Horace!’
‘Bye,’ he called.
‘Don’t be late!’
‘I won’t.’
‘Bye!’
The door clicked shut and the house went quiet. He heard her walking away, up the lane.
His hands were tingling and his breath felt short. It was like the feeling he got sometimes before an important game for the school. Not nervousness. He didn’t have anything to be nervous about. He left that to the other kids. No, Horace knew he was going to be the hero.