Crik (46 page)

Hearing the unexpected voice, Jack dropped the lantern, plunging him back into darkness. His breath whistled from his throat, and he noted the tap of his shoe as he took a step, but he heard nothing more from the mysterious voice. Pressing his back against the wall, he waited. Someone had followed him underground. He did not recognise the voice; it had sounded hollow, as though the speaker had spoken into a bucket.

‘Who’s there?’ he dared to whisper. No answer came. ‘I know you’re down here, you may as well tell me who you are.’

Blind, he knelt down, and with fumbling hands hunted for the lantern. He strained his ears to listen beyond his own noise to locate the person who shared the tunnel with him. When his fingernails touched the silver housing of the lantern, he snatched it to himself. Only two matches remained in his pocket; fishing one out he hesitated to strike the match. The absence of light also blinded the stranger. Unless the stranger belonged in the dark. The Birdman had built the tunnel to hide from the light. Even now, the Birdman could be creeping up on him. Feeling the need to dispel the darkness persuaded him to light the candle. Although Yang once more leapt to life with the struck match, as Jack expected, there was no sign of the stranger.

‘Reveal yourself,’ said Jack. No reply met his command. He regarded the bend in the passage with suspicion. The Birdman could be standing to the right of that outcrop of rock, waiting for him. Who else but the Birdman would be down here with him?

‘Give the child back to Knell,’ said Jack.

Yang sprang forward, twisting his body down the tunnel beyond Jack’s vision. Returning the shadow shook its head.

Jack could not trust the duplicitous nature of his shadow. Yang could have looked directly into the eyes of the Birdman for all he knew. With the match almost burnt out, he touched the flame to the candlewick. Purple haze infused the Birdman’s burrow. Behind, the tunnel carried on straight; if anyone followed from the garden, he would see them. No, he knew the speaker with the hollow voice had come from ahead. Grey stone, spotted with fungi, obstructed the passage. He imagined the Birdman clinging to the rock behind the bend, waiting for him to approach. Without his birds, he is only a man; Jack repeated this until it became a mantra in his head. That he was only a boy didn’t escape him either. Would Yang help him again? What did the shadow see? The soles of his shoes scraped against the rough-hewn floor, leaving a trail in the dry earth. Edging closer to the grey stone, the lantern light painted the depressions within the rock. Realising the purple haze would alert the Birdman to his approach made his heart beat like a torn jugular. Ornate silver bit into his hand as he reached the stone outcrop. Could he hear someone breathing around the bend? Taking root, the thought paralyzed him. It took twenty flickers of the candle flame for him to realise that he listened to his own tortured breath. His muscles eased at the realisation, allowing him to shuffle forward. Standing to his left, Yang continued to look where he could not. If he reached out, he would touch the opposite wall; the narrow confines restricted his movements. Like a badger in a trap, he thought sullenly. Knowing he couldn’t go back, he turned the corner, bracing himself for an ambush. None came, the light revealed a longer passage ahead, as unremarkable as the one he had just left.

‘I did hear someone,’ said Jack, as much to test his hearing as to voice his quandary.

Suspecting someone raced toward him from the garden, he darted his head around the corner. Only earth and stone met his questing eyes.

Had the speaker retreated deeper into the tunnel? The passage continued straight, yet the purple light only managed to illuminate part of the tunnel ahead. Another bend in the tunnel, or even a depression in the shaft’s wall, could conceal the Birdman. Raising the lantern spilled racing shadows across the tunnel, like leaves blown on an autumn wind.

‘The tunnel is empty. We are alone,’ said the hollow voice.

Spinning around, he managed to hold onto the lantern. He didn’t see anyone, only Yang, staring at him from the opposite wall. Again, he checked the passage he had just left, and again it stood empty.

‘Who are you?’ asked Jack.

‘Why, I’m you, and you’re me,’ answered the mysterious voice.

Jack’s brow furrowed as he said, ‘That doesn’t make any sense. What do you mean, you’re me?’

‘You aren’t normally this dense,’ said the voice. ‘You’re looking straight at me.’

The only thing standing ahead of Jack was his shadow. Yang had looped himself into the corner of the tunnel roof. ‘There is nothing but my shadow,’ said Jack.

Yang clapped his hands together. ‘I’ve wanted to speak with you for a long time Jack.’

Dumbfounded, Jack realised the hollow voice he had heard earlier, emitted from Yang. His demon spoke to him.

Jack observed the shado
w
coiled into the roof of the tunnel with despair. Clapping his shadowed hands, Yang dislodged a trickle of dirt from the earthen ceiling. Concerned that the sound could affect the stability of the newly dug tunnel drove Jack back against the supporting beam. Despite this very real fear, his mind refused to concentrate on anything other than Yang’s whispers. Wind entering from the garden buffeted the purple hue, swirling the lantern light around his shadow as a cadaver draws flies. Correlating the odd colour to Yang’s ability to speak, as the different coloured lanterns back in the Wold had bestowed his shadow with different attributes, amplified his misery. How many more mysteries did the demon possess? The lantern gave the shadow a solid appearance, giving the impression that if he were to throw a stone it would hit the opaque form. Every contour lining Yang’s face was hard and sharply angled. Pronounced cheekbones, though mirroring Jack’s own, belonged to someone older. He distrusted Yang, who had transformed into something utterly alien. Edging away from the beam, he preferred to brave the birds rather than remain underground with his shadow.

‘Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?’ asked Yang. Each utterance sounded like an indrawn breath. Its movement disturbed the coloured mist. ‘Do you want to know why I saved your life outside, when you only wish to destroy me?’

When Jack fell back, Yang slithered down from the roof to clutch his arm in an ice-cold grip. Fingers extended around Jack’s bicep, pinching the muscle, making him drop the lantern. Struggling to break the demon’s grip, he threw himself toward the garden exit. Snatching his other arm, Yang forced him up against the back wall, immobilising him against slick stone.

‘Consternation, trepidation, some even experience dismay when they first discover they have a Narmacil living inside them,’ said Yang. ‘You aren’t alone in your struggle with the truth. I lived with one girl who named me Giggles, because the thought of me moving around inside of her made her laugh. Paige was a nice girl, always happy to see me. Invariably boys have the most trouble adapting to the knowledge about my existence; that their Talent comes from me.’

‘You have no right to use me,’ said Jack.

‘Use you?’ said Yang. The shadow stuck out his face to a few inches from Jack. ‘Most people use their Talents. Your mother wouldn’t be able to grow all those plants without the help of her “demon”.’

‘Don’t talk about her.’

‘She knows what I am,’ said Yang, tilting his head to the side. ‘I showed you the meeting between the grave keeper and the Giant. Everyone knows we share a special bond. You are angry; it’s hard accepting people have kept a secret from you.’

‘I don’t care what others know. You jumped into my body without my permission. When that thing hatched from the egg in my bedroom, you knew what it was when you spoke with it. No doubt telling it where it could find Bill. How much fun you had, playing me for a fool.’

‘A part that you’ve grown into,’ replied Yang. ‘You put your friends at risk by taking them into the Wold.’

‘They were already at risk,’ retorted Jack. ‘It’s not natural to have you inside us.’ Avoiding his shadow, he diverted his gaze to his stomach. ‘What are you doing in there anyway? Why do you need to hide?’ The lightest touch from the demon pimpled his skin, straightening the hair lining his arms. Shivering, he wanted to rub his arms and stamp his feet. His shadow had never been this cold. Looking into the blank orbs set into their sunken sockets, he pondered what Yang concluded from this, their first proper exchange. The depths of those eyes made him feel younger still, as though he was looking up at the night sky where time became irrelevant. ‘What happened to Paige?’ he asked, expecting the demon to have turned on the girl.

A sudden sadness overtook the shadow, softening the hard ridges and turning down his mouth. ‘She died a long time ago. She always left a candle burning in the night, afraid that I would vanish and never come back. When her final night came, she never reached for the match. I heard her giggle, once, as the life ebbed from her; in the dark I said my own goodbye.’

The emotion in the demon’s voice caught Jack unaware. Could it feel love for those it used? He forgot about the grip leaching the warmth from his body as he observed the girl’s passing. In his mind, the silver haired woman lay under a chequered blanket; Yang sat motionless in a bedside chair as the first morning light filled the room. Despite the strong sun, Yang grew faint and disappeared. Jack lurched back against Yang’s restraint. His shadow entered his mind to show him Paige. ‘Get out of my head,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

He had never known anything as old as the demon. With one glimpse, his shadow revealed shared lives going back generations. The demon could be ancient, older than the Hanging Tree with its gnarled roots. Apart from Paige, it had mentioned “boys”. How many lives did that plural indicate? Had the demon hitched a ride with, two, three, four, or lives so numerous as to travel back hundreds of years? His own life paled in comparison to those accounted years. Other features swam across Yang’s visage. A furrowed brow over small eyes gave way to an open face with a large bulbous nose. It transmogrified into a good looking youth, followed by a haggard man with roping black spirals painting long straggly hair.

‘What’re you doing?’ demanded Jack.

‘It pains me to show you these faces. Each one has given me a lifetime of joy and doubt. Some liked walking in the rain. Others preferred dusty rooms with stacks of books.’ Yang shifted form from male to female, passing so fast they blurred like a hundred animated pictures. One moment he appeared as a young girl, and then took on the guise of an old man with a hair-lip.

‘So you hid inside them too,’ remarked Jack. ‘Did they want to have you? Did you ask permission to use their bodies? I wouldn’t take food from my mother’s table without asking her first, and yet you jumped inside of me when I was still a baby.’ His anger grew as new shadowed faces emerged. ‘I can’t be the first one who wanted you gone. Perhaps they didn’t come as far as I have. They may have only wanted you to stop getting them into mischief. My life would be so much simpler if you didn’t exist.’ He was shouting now, spittle flew from his lips.

A third hand grew from Yang’s chest to cover Jack’s mouth. ‘Hush.’ The shadow warned. ‘Remember, we aren’t alone down here.’

Jack didn’t care. He tossed his head to the side in an attempt to throw off the hand keeping him silent.

Paige’s face came to the surface, younger than when Jack had seen her, and in that now familiar inhaled breath voice, Yang said, ‘He’s a killer Jack. You don’t want to meet him down here.’ Yang contemplated the tunnel to where the purple light diffused in trailing smoke. ‘We need to be careful.’

It’s you I’m afraid of, not some Birdman lurking in the dark. The demon, with devilish golden eyes, could tear open his stomach at any moment. Defenceless to stop such a reprisal for any affront silenced his remark. If confronted by the Birdman he could run away; how could he escape something that lived inside his guts? Despite his immediate fright, his eyes did stray, from Paige’s likeness, down the long tunnel. Light from the dropped lantern illuminated the Birdman’s burrow, highlighting dangling vegetation until cloistered darkness reclaimed the shaft. Briefly he mistook the thrown shapes of the dying purple mist, as it tried in vain to spread its light deeper into the tunnel, as that of the Birdman. His breath frosted the air as Yang withdrew his hand.

‘You didn’t let the birds kill me,’ said Jack, ‘and you won’t allow the birds’ master to harm me now.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that Jack,’ said Yang. Paige’s young face aged into the weathered countenance of the old woman Jack had seen lying under the chequered blanket. ‘If you die, I will sleep for ten years. While I rest, I will remember you Jack; perhaps regret my decision not to defend you. I will look back upon our time and find new meaning in every shared moment. Each action I will scrutinise, seeking new understanding, much as a poet returning to a half-forgotten verse. Recollecting us playing with toy catapults on your bedroom floor, watching as you fed pebbles into the wooden cup of the throwing arm. Relishing those good times would also bring hurtful reproach. By abandoning you, you will die here, miles from your mother.’ Jack’s likeness replaced Paige’s face; the shadow copied him down to his mussed hair. ‘You incessantly complained about what you called “the dead things” I kept in your room. You forgot; you presented me with my first stuffed animal. It was the owl, which I keep on the top shelf. We helped Miss Mistletoe find Gesma, only a kitten at the time. Hours passed, but you would not stop until we returned her to Miss Mistletoe. Eventually, muddy and bruised, you found Gesma down at the river. Mesmerised by the swimming fish, the kitten had forgotten to go home. Miss Mistletoe gave you the owl for returning Gesma.’

Five years old, Jack remembered scouring the village for the cat. He had climbed trees and hunted under bushes for the kitten. Recalling that day, he realised Yang had omitted to mention something important. Gesma, not content with just watching the fish, jumped after them, into the rushing water. The swift current was too strong for the cat. ‘Frantic, I tried everything to pull the cat ashore. A stick, anything would have done.’ He recalled his shadow slipping into the water to retrieve Gesma from certain death. Yang had held the mewling kitten up to Jack. ‘Believing I had rescued Gesma, Miss Mistletoe gave me the owl. Only you did,’ he said. ‘I had forgotten that’s why I gave the owl to you.’

‘You have forgotten much,’ said Yang. ‘So have I. If you were to die here, you will never recall all the things we have shared. Only I, in my dreams can rediscover them,’ said the shadow. ‘Bit by bit, I can fit small fragments together and form memories. However, if you died, I would find no joy in those memories. Each day that comes back to me will be a poisoned kiss. I would mourn you.’ Yang’s face sagged with sorrow. ‘I will not die for you.’ Yang’s grip tightened on Jack’s arms, making Jack gasp in pain. ‘By killing me, all the memories I have built up from those I have loved before you, will vanish. You would silence Paige’s giggling laugh. That will not happen, I will not allow it.’

‘This is my life,’ said Jack, tensing himself against Yang’s hold. He leaned forward, his frosted breath mingling with the eddying purple swirl. ‘If I want to live without you, I will. You only exist to catalogue lives, an ever-watching observer. It’s my choice to let you live within me, not yours. You’re just like one of those spiders under the waterfall, waiting to ensnare someone new.’

‘If I wanted someone else, I could’ve jumped into Krimble, he wanted me.’

‘Others had,’ said Jack. ‘The casket full of bones, outside the marsh house, reveals their abandonment.’

‘No, those bones are a testament to those who refused to give up their Narmacil. Each suffered unbearable torture; until the Narmacil could no longer bear for those they loved to experience anymore hurt. They sacrificed themselves for Krimble to put an end to the suffering. Memory of those days will forever haunt those poor Narmacil, who will replay every cut, each whimpered plea, a thousand times over. They spoke to me when Krimble brought the rats into the room, telling me what he would do. Voices implored me to give you up, to save you from torture, to save myself the anguish of witnessing your suffering.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Inara has a very old Narmacil. Amongst the choir screaming inside Krimble, her voice came through strongest. Her one question asked whether I would fight for you. Krimble’s ability is intoxicating; we believed we had lost the ability to communicate with a human. A host sometimes travels from Crik Wood, taking the Narmacil with them. Not only could Krimble talk with us, and to an extent control us, he opened us up to greater Talent. He knew about the coloured light, as he worked out that Inara could raise an entire forest of dead animals. Power is exhilarating. If I knew lanterns such as this existed,’ he looked down at the fallen lamp, ‘I could’ve spoken with Paige, told her how much I loved her.’

‘I remember you playing with the rats,’ said Jack. ‘You weren’t concerned for me then.’

‘I tricked Krimble into believing he had more power over me than he did. The rat diverted his attention from what was important. Krimble let his attention drift; Inara’s Narmacil took that opportunity to whisper to me, giving me the power I needed to resist him.’

‘You still haven’t said why you need me,’ said Jack. ‘Those Narmacil with the Giant didn’t have anyone, until one leapt into the Traveller’s daughter. Inara called you a Wood Sprite; live amongst the trees, haunt the deep dells, change shape as you wish; I don’t care. Grandpa Poulis told us stories about shape shifters living deep in the woods.’