Crik (14 page)

A warm gust thre
w
dust across a dirt track, lifting a brown leaf high into the summer sky. A white dog, with a splash of brown over its right eye, watched the errant leaf in bored attention. Dirt smeared the thick rope tethering the mongrel to a leaning post. Written across the post in red chalk, in a child’s scrawl, were the words, “Knell tells no lies, so don’t ask”. Accompanying the post on the dirt track stood two windowless houses; they also had no door. The nearest building had a net thrown over a gaping hole in its side, where a baby’s cry rent the air in a siren’s call. Dead grass and bald mounds of earth outlaid the gardens. An old metal swing, its frame speckled with rust and the seat damaged by damp, creaked with every gust. A dead tree, its blackened limbs home to blacker birds, overlooked a large hole that dominated the other garden. Red jagged stone poked through the loose earth around the edge of the hole.

Blinking, after the sudden bright light, Jack looked around. His mouth fell open in amazement, and only grew wider as he spotted the dog tied to the leaning post, biting its hind leg. Almost tripping over his feet, he searched for the Lindre, the clearing, and his friends, but only saw the two houses and a hillside rising in a purple swathe of heather. The cawing of a large Rook perched on the dead tree snatched his attention. The cruel grey beak of the carrion bird cracked wide again; its red eye froze Jack to the middle of the track. The other birds paid him no attention, and the dog still busied himself by attacking the fleas on its backside. Ignoring the interest of the bird, Jack regarded the odd houses with no windows. Having never seen homes like them, he had no clue as to his present location. Was he still in Crik Wood? Behind him, an angled stone stood in tall grass. Age had taken away the name carven into the white stone, leaving behind only rounded holes.

The dog barked, but not at him. The mongrel glared at the birds, and they glowered back. Standing apart from the smaller birds, the Rook watched him from the highest branch. The sun beat the back of his neck drawing a line of sweat across his skin. Wiping away the moisture with an irritant hand, Jack crouched down with the idea of freeing the dog, so it could escape to cooler shade, but he found he couldn’t undo the knot. Although he pulled the threads apart, the knot remained. After three failed attempts, he gave up. His failure went unnoticed by the dog; it continued to bark at the birds. Disturbed by the dog’s lack of curiosity in him drove Jack back a step. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he licked the tips where the rope had rubbed them raw.

For the first time since coming here, he found himself staring at the dark smudge under his feet. Wherever he had gone before Yang had been there, anchored to him, but here his shadow was the same as everyone else’s. It did not move contrary to the position of the sun; it did not change shape. Here his shadow could not get him into trouble; it just was. Extending one leg, he watched his dark outline mirror him over the lumpy ground. Trying to trick his shadow, he shot out an arm, spreading his fingers. The shadow copied him. Kicking the air, he then jumped and waved an arm, and then the other, and always the shadow moved with him. Inexplicability he found himself growing concerned over Yang’s absence. Didn’t he want Yang to disappear? If his shadow remained in one place, instead of wandering off, the demon would be no more. Then why feel sad? Regardless of his confusion, he could not deny the loneliness pulling him down.

Acrid smoke stung his throat, making him dry swallow. Only dust swirled across the street, no smoke. Confounded he looked again for the fire. In an attempt to build saliva, to clear the taste from his mouth, he moved his tongue, to find it stuck like glue to the roof of his mouth. Chalking the dryness to the hot day, and not the fear coiling around his innards, he continued walking down the track. By the time he had passed the dog, he had dismissed the mysterious smoke. Within the nearest house, rising above the nattering birds, he heard a baby cry. Hair prickled along the back of his head, and the skin along his arms cobbled.

The net covering the side of the house billowed outward, bulging with its invisible catch. Waiting, he held his breath for a repeated cry, and when only the Rook’s harsh voice broke the silence, he moved with weighted feet to the grass bordering the property. He wanted to cough, perhaps to make some noise other than the bothersome bird. With his nerves shattered, he kicked a rough stone. It struck the frame of the swing, snapping the dog’s attention away from the dead tree and its resident delinquents. Unsure how he could affect the stone and not the slipknot he tried kicking another stone, and watched as it skidded across the straight track. Again, the dog followed the projectile.

Movement from the other side of the net stopped him from further experimentation.

The bulky silhouette, he had spotted, disappeared in an instant. He correlated the outline with that of a flesh-eating ogre, straight from the pages of his favourite comic. The shape however did not fit with his over active imagination, though wide, it did not possess the height required to be a monster. He approached, hoping whomever he saw inside suffered from the same blind spot as the dog.

The tickle in his throat increased as his feet drew him nearer. Again, he scanned around for smoke, and again he found none drifting on the winds. Disregarding his discomfort, he proceeded to the side of the house. Through the net, he looked into the room beyond.

The back of a large padded chair, its stuffing spilling from torn seams in yellow balls, covered half of an old cot. A hand rocked the cot, with its gap-toothed bars, while a half remembered lullaby played from the shadows. In one corner stood a broken grandfather clock, stuck at the close of the witching hour. Mushrooms festered on the wet walls, like barnacles on a whale.

At the close of the lullaby, the baby began to scream. Pressing forward, Jack spied the blanket rise at the tail of the cot. A tired sigh, close to the crib, followed.

The chair creaked as the same shape he had earlier seen rose to block his view of the crying baby. Heavy robes accounted for the bulk of the person. From the thick woollen sleeves appeared a slender hand holding a strange flute. Longer than a flute, the instrument also had many more holes. Bending over the cot the figure brought up the musical instrument and played a high-pitched note. An orange glow brightened the room. When the note faded so did the light, allowing the gloom, which was as much a part of the room as the chair, to return. The screams of the baby reached new falsetto heights before subsiding into gentle sobs.

‘You can come in now.’

Jack jumped at the female voice.

‘She is about to fall into a deep sleep, it will be hours ‘till she wakes again.’ The husky accent of the woman tasted each word, stretching her speech in a comforting way. ‘Careful, do not tear the net, it’s old and frayed, but it still keeps out the birds.’

Listening to her warning, Jack looked back at the blackbirds with their yellow beaks. The rook had shifted position; it now perched on the leaning post. Unconcerned with the big bird’s proximity, the dog watched the row of blackbirds.

‘You can see me?’

‘I know you’re there,’ she responded, drawing out the last word, until it fell into a whispered silence.

Taking care not to pull too hard on the rope, Jack drew aside the net, leaving behind the hot sun. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Names are too powerful to relinquish so hastily. Those who knew my name are gone.’ She paused, her hood rising a few inches, tantalising Jack, who fancied having a peek under the drooping fabric at the owner. ‘You may call me Knell, for it fits me well.’ She dropped her head as though in prayer.

‘I’m Jack.’

‘Half-truths are always the wisest lie,’ responded Knell.

The sobs of the child became gentle snores.

‘Where are we?’

‘As with all old things it has many names; some are beyond my speech, whereas others describe what once was. I knew a hunter, who called these parts “The Scorn Scar,” which fits better than you may think.’

Dust bunnies crunched beneath Jack’s feet as he trod the warped boards.

‘One, both older, and younger than I, brought you here,’ she continued without turning from the cot. ‘Company is such a rarity these days that when a visitor does drop by, it always comes as a shock. I suppose it’s like finding an unexpected love letter on your stoop.’

Unnerved by her reluctance to turn and face him, Jack came to a stop. Though not as tall as the creatures in the pages of his favourite sequential art, she still towered over him. For all the cowl revealed, she could be bald, or have horns. Her squared shoulders were strong. The robe itself bulged at the waist and again high on her back, as though she carried a hundred different items within the blue wool. The hand, clutching the strange flute with long tapered fingers, appeared ghostly white in the gloom. She had chewed her nails, and strips of skin peeled back from the end of her fingers in fine tissue paper coils.

‘Am I dead? I saw a blinding light.’

‘I’ve never seen a ghost,’ said Knell. ‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything - but not today.’

Jack sensed her smile.

‘Tell me why I’m here?’

‘You have many questions,’ said Knell, ‘of which I know many answers. But the most important question only you can answer.’

‘What question?’

‘You don’t know? It’s written all over you boy. Instead of looking outside for answers, try looking within.’

‘All I want is to go back to my friends, to get back home.’

‘No you don’t. Your village is full of secrets, and you will never fit in until you discover all of your little town’s clandestine affairs. Having glimpsed the truth behind one lie, you distrust everything, and everyone you have ever known. Your suspicion of your shadow is only the beginning. Who else knows about the little demons? The girl in your party knows. Who else, perhaps your mother kept the truth from you?’

Taking a tentative step, like placing a foot on shifting plates of ice, he moved into the room. Despite the interior gloom wiping away his shadow, he still felt its imprint. He knew the demon that had hatched from the egg in his room, and then jumped into Bill, was evil. The forked tongue, the slanted eyes, the mischievousness of the beast, accounted for his deep-set abhorrence of the Narmacil. How could anyone in Crik live knowing such a loathsome creature existed? His mother would not keep Yang’s true nature hidden. If she knew the truth of the demon, she, not he, would be seeking out the answers he sought. Inara’s distorted belief in the Narmacil’s benign nature, could not dissuade him.

‘I want to be rid of the Narmacil.’ Nagging him was the single idea that he should leave Yang alone. Aggressively he shut the door on such a poisonous thought, which no doubt came to him from his unwanted hitchhiker. Yet, like a bout of conscience after perpetrating a bad act, he could not fully shake the notion.

‘We all have our own personal demons, but sometimes they lend us strength. Are you so sure you want to lose part of yourself?’

Disturbed at how close Knell had come to voicing his own troubled thoughts left him dumbfounded. Instead, he looked back through the net at the watching Rook. Its black feathers, shining with a dark lustre, fluttered with the vagaries of the warm breeze. The bird seemed larger, something its closer proximity could not fully account for.

‘If I help you,’ said Knell, ‘you will only find shades of death. Are you so keen to lose your identity?

‘I want it gone,’ replied Jack, not fully understanding her meaning.

‘Then go outside and look into the hole, there you will find the pathway to your answer. Return to me once you have seen what lies among the ruined ground and things will become clearer.’

Jack wanted to leave, to discover what mysteries he would find in the ground before the dead tree, but before he could, he had to ask, ‘Can I see your face?’

Silence, broken only by the soft sleeping breaths of the baby, met his question. Not daring to ask again, he turned to leave. Spying the large Rook made him pause. Mistaking his hesitation for stubbornness, Knell said, ‘I will show you what lies within this cowl when you return to me.’ She sounded amused.

The Rook raised an obscene note as Jack pushed aside the net and stepped back into the heat of the day. With the bird only an arms length away, he saw flecks of gold twinkling like stardust in the red irises.

Eating up the ground with swift steps Jack moved around the house. He stopped when he spied the neighbouring garden with its hole exposed like a festering wound. The tree threw down its shadow, sending searching skeletal fingers into the pit. To Jack, the tall tree reminded him of a headstone, wrought in twisted old wood instead of granite. The hole itself then was an open grave. His skin grew tight at the comparison, compressing his lips into a hard line.