Wild Wood (53 page)

Rachel sighs. “We can do it together. Come on.”

It’s a nightmare. A bat is trapped in Jesse’s hair. Squeaking, scratching madness, animal and human, they’re both frantic. On her knees in the dark, trying not to whimper, trying not to scream again. Nothing works.

“Shush.” Alicia holds up a hand.

“What?”

“Shush!”

They both stop breathing.

“There!” Alicia hurries back down the stairs again. She’s running through the chapel, flashlight bouncing, Rory clattering behind. In front of the back wall, panting, she stops. He joins her.

They both hear it this time. Muffled, but a scream. Definitely.

A woman’s voice. Terror.

Rory’s shoving boxes and chairs aside to get to the wall.

Alicia drops to her knees. “Look.” The light shows the opening, close to the piled-up paneling.

She plunges through. And disappears.

Rory hesitates. He’s never liked the dark.

52

I
FELT MY
way along the tunnel. Without light, the close smell of earth was all that was familiar, yet I could breathe—there was no smoke or taste of burning in my mouth. The song pulled me forward. I did not know if it was in my head or my heart.

I stumbled into the first cavern with the last notes as they died. Empty dark pressed my face like fingers as I walked forward, arms outstretched.

“Margaretta?” I called out, so that she would not be frightened. “Here I am.”

Flint struck sparks like stars and a candle shone, fingers red around the shaft. A man stood there, waiting. I could not see his face.

I weighed the ax. “Show yourself.”

A shuffle, and the flame shone higher.

“Swinson?” The damage to his face was stark. “How did you know?”

The man spoke over me. “Our history is your history, Bayard de Dieudonné. That is how I know.”

“What do you mean?”

“A baby was born to our house too.” By candlelight, his eyes were scarred holes as he limped toward me. “Out of pity, my great-grandfather covered the naked body of her mother with his cloak when he found her in the forest. And though the woman could not speak, they married.” His voice grew stronger. “She was never seen again after the birth of her daughter. And though the child’s father died fighting the Norman devil, that baby survived to breed. As a slave. The slave of your house, as we have been since.”

“What do you want, old man?” I could not let him see I pitied him.

“My daughter and her son. I have nothing without them.”

“You are wrong.”

I turned. Alois bowed as he came through the red door, but not to me; blood had soaked his jerkin and his trews.

One hand gripped the ax, the other Godefroi’s sword as I stepped forward.

“Not far, now.” Mack’s kept up a one-sided conversation for most of the drive.

“No.”

“You know this part of the world?” A glance.

“Too well.” The Scots accent had flattened over the years in Australia, but Janet’s burr was coming back.

He shifts down. “Too well?”

Janet Marley doesn’t answer. Eyes wide, she’s staring at the gates of the estate as the car passes between them. In the distance, the river glimmers.

“Die!”

Swords clashed and sang. I parried, a pivot to the side.

A grunt. A slash. Both returned. Maugris had sliced Alois deep, but the man was good.

“The. Battle.” Step, thrust, back, feint. “Is. Lost. Alois.”

His blow went astray as I dodged the blade. “No!” Forward, forward, slash, pivot, and I slashed again.

Margaretta’s voice. “Brother!”

“Get back!” My shout to her.

Alois dared me, “Look. Look at your whore.”

But I did not. Sword hand, ax hand, sword hand, ax hand, I drove him to the wall, a dog with a wolf.

Margaretta sobbed and I flicked a glance. The dress had been sliced from her back with a whip and her face was a bloody mess.

I ran at Alois. He got a slash away—it clipped my sword hand. And sheared it off. I felt no pain as it fell to the floor, still holding the sword. Blood fountained as if it were not my own.

But I held the ax in my left hand. And threw it.

Alois dropped to his knees, the ax head in his chest. He wavered there, as if to pull it out. And toppled.

A wail. Swinson hobbled to his son and I staggered to where he stood. And put my good arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Here it ends.”

As I passed into the dark, I heard the child’s voice calling. And saw Margaretta’s face.

Alicia trips. Something’s on the floor.

“Rory. Rory!” She crouches beside Jesse.

Rory bursts from the tunnel. “Jesse?” He pinches the skin on the back of her hand.

“What are you
doing
?” Alicia tries to pull him away.

“Reflexes.” Another pinch. “Jesse!”

Jesse’s fingers twitch. She frowns. And sighs.

Rory sits back. He stares, perplexed. A small bat chitters as it flits above their heads. “She’s asleep.”

“Asleep, but . . .”

“It’s happened before. Look.” He points. The light, held from above, shines down like a follow spot. Jesse’s eyes are moving under her lids.

“That’s . . . creepy.”

“She’s dreaming. Or . . .”

“Or what?”

He looks at Alicia. “Or she’s somewhere else.”

Alicia says politely, “Of course. She’s what, on a cruise?”

He ignores the goad. “We should take her to the house.”

Alicia drops the flashlight beside them and hurries back toward the entrance of the tunnel. “I’ll get help.”

“Wait.” Rory stands. He points the beam. “Turn around.”

Alicia stops.

Slowly, part by part, light reveals the great figure of the Christ.

Astonished, Alicia steps close, reaches up to touch the torn feet.

Rory joins her. “Is this in the book?” He turns her gently by the shoulders.

Alicia gasps.

The figure is so simple—so tall and slender, with little detail except that hands of blackened silver hold the child against the mother’s chest. Rags of fabric hang around them both, and the stone they’re made from glitters white.

“Jesse.” Alicia hurries to kneel beside her friend. “Jesse. Wake up.”

The girl’s eyes snap open. “The bat. There was a—” She scrabbles to sit up.

Alicia breathes, “Look.”

Rory plays the beam over the head of the standing figure. Light shows filaments of bronze streaming down like hair.

Jesse says wonderingly, “The Mother has no face.”

53

W
HERE IS
she? You said she’d be here.”

They’re in the kitchens at Hundredfield. And Janet won’t sit down.

“They can’t be far away. Rory’s car is outside.” Mack wasn’t sure where else to bring Jesse’s mum; the front door was open, but Hundredfield seems empty.

“Rory?”

“My brother. He’s staying too.”

Janet pales. “Helen’s little boy. He’s here too.” She’s speaking to herself. Now she sits. Slowly.

“Yes. He’s a doctor. Tell you what—why don’t I go upstairs and see if Jesse’s resting? She’s recovering well, and he’s looking after her.”

“I knew it. I
knew
something was wrong.” Janet stuffs a hand in her mouth.

There’s the sound of feet on the staircase and the low murmur of voices. On any other day, the relief on Mack’s face might have been comical.

Rory enters first. He stops, stares at the woman sitting in the chair.

She gets up. “Hello, Rory.” Her voice shakes. “You won’t remember me, but I remember you.”

Behind, Alicia’s helping Jesse through the door.

In the frozen pause that follows, Jesse looks from Alicia to Rory. And then at her mother’s stricken face.

“Oh.” Janet breaks. She stumbles to her daughter.

And Jesse opens her arms.