Crik (50 page)

‘What?’ Bill asked.

‘The quickest way home,’ Jack said smiling.

‘About time.’

Black, carrying a slight limp from his tussle with the birds, led the way back up the stairs. Jack took two steps at a time, eager to see Knell. He remembered the map Ysgor had drawn behind the waterfall; it had shown a long winding road leading from the Scorn Scar all the way to Crik Village. Knell may have a couple of horses, he thought, excited. A few more days and he would end his mother’s misery. Jumping over the dead birds, he followed Black into the room where Knell sat. The baby Narmacil lay in the cot at her side.

‘How do we get home?’ he asked before his friends had time to catch him up.

Knell wore the hood of her cloak up, hiding her face apart from the tip of her nose. ‘Speak softly,’ she said, pointing to the resting Narmacil. ‘You already know the way home.’ Yang carried Inara on his shoulder; Bill stepped through the shadow to stand beside Jack. ‘The long road will take you away from the foot of the mountain, through the wood and eventually you will see your homes again.’

‘Is there a faster way?’ asked Jack.

‘There is always another way,’ said Knell. ‘Different paths to the same spot. A bird will fly over the mountain; a fish would swim down the river. Most people take the road.’

‘Is the road the quickest way we can travel?’ asked Inara.

‘You have already asked me your question,’ said Knell.

‘What question?’ asked Jack, perplexed.

Inara looked down at her destroyed legs. ‘I told you on the lake.’ She stopped, overcome with emotion.

‘Your legs,’ said Jack, recalling her dearest wish. He regarded Knell with hope. ‘There is no one in my village with the Talent to help Inara, but there are others living within the woods. One of the gypsies or perhaps someone in another village can help her?’

‘No,’ replied Inara. ‘Knell said no one exists with the Talent to make me whole again.’

‘I said, no such Talent exists, yet,’ said Knell. ‘That does not mean such a Talent will not appear in the future. Mayhap when that time arrives, you would not want to have your legs back. You will be that much older. Time has a way to alter perceptions.’

‘I can never see me not wanting to walk on my own two feet again.’

‘If you want, we can discuss it again in a few years. Perhaps by then I will have a different answer for you.’ Knell checked to see whether the baby still slept. Satisfied, she continued, ‘As always the solution to your problem will not be free.’

‘I’ll be willing to pay anything,’ said Inara.

‘We’ll see.’

‘Don’t worry Inara, when the time comes for you to return, I’ll be with you.’

‘Thanks Jack.’

‘Me too,’ added Bill. ‘Black will be even bigger by then.’

‘Is there a quicker route than the road back to our home?’ repeated Jack, impatient to get going.

‘You came to me asking how to kill your Narmacil,’ said Knell. ‘By giving you the purple candle I gave you the means to destroy Yang. Your shadow became solid, making him mortal. A thrown knife, or hands around his throat, would be enough to kill him. The real question, the question you hid from yourself, was whether you wanted to be without Yang. Even when you found out about the "demon" living inside you, you still wanted him. When you first visited me, you came without Yang. Remember how you felt when you discovered your shadow remained fixed to the ground?’

Thinking back to when the Lindre had transported him to the Scorn Scar, Jack remembered feeling lonely. Without Yang stretching ahead, to look at what lay around the next corner, he had felt lost, abandoned.

‘You had your answer then,’ continued Knell. ‘I will only answer a single question. If I answered every query a person had, I would spend my entire life with that person. Now leave me, I wish to return my home into some semblance of order.’

‘I guess we follow the road back,’ said Jack. ‘At least it will keep us away from the Wold.’

Stepping from the room with Inara and Yang, Jack failed to notice Black and Bill remaining behind.

‘Jack, wait,’ said Inara, watching Bill take a step closer to Knell.

‘I haven’t asked my question,’ said Bill. He could not keep a tremor from his voice.

‘What question would you ask of me?’ said Knell.

‘I want to know the quickest route home?’

‘There is always a price,’ said Knell.

Bill gave a firm nod. ‘Ask. If I can, I will pay your price.’

Lowering her head Knell appeared to be in deep thought. When she raised her head, she pointed to an adjoining room. Following her finger the group saw a set of dolls standing on a small cupboard. Some of the dolls wore frilly hats; others carried a basket, or flowers.

‘You told me that your grandmother owns dolls like mine.’

Bill paled. ‘She does.’

‘Promise to return to me with one of her dolls, and I will give you your answer.’

‘Grandma Poulis will never give up one of her dolls,’ said Bill. ‘She’s already going to give me a hiding for running away to find my wolf. There’d be nothing left of me if I told her I promised away one of her babies.’

‘Then you best put on your walking shoes,’ said Knell, leaning back in her armchair.

‘I think she cares more about her dolls than she does me,’ said Bill, looking back at Jack in despair. ‘She’ll ground me for a week.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ asked Jack. ‘I just want to get home.’

Chewing on his lip, Bill turned to Knell. ‘There isn’t another tunnel you want me to go down is there.’ He looked at Jack. ‘Alright,’ he said, throwing his hands up in defeat. ‘I promise to give you a doll. Grandma won’t like it.’

‘To the rear of my garden grows a tree. One of you will recognise its like.’ She stood; her hand knocked a bottle on her hip making it chime. Moving past the children, she said, ‘Many unique things exist in this world. I know of no other with a moving shadow. You boy,’ she pointed to Bill, ‘are the only one who can control your wolf.’ The kitchen she led them through had a bird flapping by a glass window. ‘Shoo, get out.’ Knell told the bird. She opened the backdoor and away the bird flew. ‘Sometimes a twin exists; when this happens they form a connection; an unbroken bond. When Ysgor comes across twins, the Narmacil splits in two, bestowing both siblings with its Talent. Diluting that Talent.’ She climbed up a series of chipped stone steps, overgrown with vine and moss. Night bruised the sky, placing the garden in a deep gloom. ‘Watch your step up here, the ground is more unkempt than a boy’s hair.’ Jack raked his fingers through his mop of hair; his finger snagged a knot, making his eyes water. ‘There are, of course, twin animals.’ She picked her way through the overgrown garden. ‘Though there are few twinned trees, they do exist.’ The garden stopped rising and became level. Standing at the centre of the grass stood a grey tree.

‘It has hair,’ said Bill, noticing how the wind ruffled the grey hair growing on the tree’s trunk.

‘It can’t be,’ said Jack, running forward. Reaching the tree, he passed his hand over the bark’s familiar warmth. Again, the tree reminded him of the supple back of a rabbit.

‘What is it Jack?’ asked Inara, as she floated across the garden on Yang’s shoulder.

‘You recognise the tree,’ said Knell.

Jack nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The same morning I found the Narmacil egg, my mother found a strange seed. She grew it into a tree that sits in my garden. It’s the same tree as this.’

‘Not the same,’ said Knell, ‘its twin.’

Turning from the grey tree, Jack looked at Knell. ‘How did the twin of this tree find its way to my house?’

‘I had Ysgor leave it there,’ said Knell.

‘Why?’

‘Before the occurrence that forms the future question, my Talent already knows the answers. I knew I had to give Ysgor the seed when he travelled to the tomb. Your mother’s Talent allowed her to grow the tree, forming a connection between your garden and mine.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jack asked.

‘The tree in your garden and this one came from the same seed, forming a bridge between them,’ said Knell. Passing Jack, she moved aside the tree’s long hair to reveal a hole.

‘Are you saying by stepping into that hole we will find ourselves in Jack’s garden?’ Inara asked.

When Knell nodded, Bill gasped. ‘You are joking.’

Knell moved aside for Jack, who pulled back the tree’s hanging hair and felt a rush of warm air coming through the hole. ‘Impossible,’ he whispered.

‘Step though and find out,’ said Bill.

‘Is it a tunnel?’

‘No,’ replied Knell. ‘Your passage home will feel instantaneous, though in actuality it will take a number of hours.’

They had travelled for what seemed weeks since leaving home. Now standing before the tree he found it hard to believe he was only moments away from seeing his mother again. ‘The warm air I can feel...’

‘Blows from your garden,’ said Knell.

Spots of rain touched Jack’s hand as he pushed it though the tree. Pulling back his hand he laughed. ‘It’s raining back home.’ He lifted up his wet hand, marvelling at the rainwater that sluiced down his arm.

‘It is always raining back home,’ said Bill, shaking his head.

‘Thank you,’ Jack told Knell.

‘No need,’ she replied. ‘I had my price.’

‘What are you waiting for,’ called Bill. ‘Jump through the hole, we’ll be right behind you.’

Separating the strands of hair, Jack discovered the size of the hole would allow them all to step through the tree. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Knell. ‘Thank you for returning the child to me.’

Smiling, Jack stepped into the tree.

The tree’s hair tickled his face as he fell through the hole and into his garden. The rain thrummed the ground around him. He laughed at the absurdity at arriving back home. Looking up he saw his house and began to cry. Glass from the shattered windows littered the garden, while smoke, from a raging fire, billowed out from the open apertures.

When Inara rode Blac
k
through the hole, the fire inside Jack’s home had become a furnace; charring the wooden window frames as black as tar and sending ferocious orange flames skyward. The air crackled with heat making the rain hiss. Jack, lying on the ground, stunned into immobility, let out a strangled cry. Surrounded by shards of glass and wild honeysuckle, that was a constant denizen of his garden, he felt adrift. He supposed, as he looked up to the kitchen window with its cascading smoke, that this fire was his fault. No, he hadn’t lit a match, or rubbed together two sticks to start the blaze, only in his heart he knew if he had stayed home this would not have happened.

Bill shouted something; he could see his friend’s mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish caught in a net, and his wild gestures toward the inferno a few feet away. He guessed he should move, if he could only get to his feet. The cold mud squishing through his fingers offered a stark contrast to the heated air. Wishing he could escape the horror he had found, he wanted to burrow into the soil; let it bury him. When he rose, his legs felt like two wickets hit by a fast spinner; he would’ve fallen without Yang’s support. Biting back a hoarse sob, he became aware of other houses ablaze. Miss Mistletoe’s, and the large tree in her garden, looked worst than his own, and farther along, he noticed Dwayne Blizzard’s house leaning as though it too wanted to bury itself in the wet soil. Bill’s house at the opposite end of the street was conspicuous in its normality. Every other home was a furnace; the Poulis household had taken no damage. Another thing struck Jack, something extremely odd, and in its own way, more alarming than the burning homes. Looking around, he scanned the road and the gardens to make sure. No one was in sight. Where were the people fighting the fires? There should be a line stretching to the Tristle River, with each person holding a bucket, pan, or cup, anything that would hold water to fight the conflagration. Mr Dash talked of people dying in their beds during a fire. "Died of breathing in too much smoke," he had said. Jack guessed if anyone would know it’d be the grave keeper.

Mad fear took hold, shaking him out of his nervous shock. His mother, please don’t let her be in the house. Sprinting past Bill, who now gazed with dumb awe at the licking flames, and then Inara, who wore the same troubled expression as anyone faced with a calamity they felt powerless to stop. Skidding to a halt, he felt the incredible furnace heat singe his hair. Intent of finding a way into the house, he skirted the building to the main entrance. Air shimmered in the heat, bathing him in a sick orange glow. The sight of the melted doorknob dashed any ambition of entering his home from the front. Defeated, he fell to his knees. Sucking in a searing breath, he prepared to call for his mother, when a horrendous crash came from his home. First the roof sagged, and then, in a cloud of smoke and fiery embers, it collapsed into his attic bedroom.

Bill shared his dumbstruck terror; he came to his side, laying a silent hand on his shoulder. There were no comforting words spoken. What could any of them do?

‘What happened?’ said Jack, knowing Bill had as much idea about what had started the fire as he did.

‘Where’s Yang going?’ cried Inara.

Hot air fluttered the burnt remains of the plants Jack’s mother had grown on his windowsill. Mesmerised, he watched the reeds, caught in the maelstrom they reminded him of kelp caught in a swirling current. Tearing his eyes from them, he spied Yang stretch toward the living room.

Heat and falling debris had no effect on Yang. Two shadowed lines connected Jack to his shadow as it vanished into the billowing smoke. Kneeling, he envied his shadow’s ability to search the house, out here on the lawn he was no help to his mother.

‘If she’s still in there, Yang will find her,’ said Bill.

‘Why did it have to be a fire?’ Jack offered a quiet curse. Since the accident that had disfigured her, his mother had grown deathly afraid of it. She dared light a fire only when frost crept up the windows like rising steam from a kettle. Suspicious of the burning coal, she refused to relax her vigil as she stood over the fireplace, clutching the poker in tight fists. Her fright, on those cold dark nights, mirrored his own silent condemnation of the stuffed animals Yang brought to his room when he was younger. An ever-constant dread, that the cold dead animal eyes would glint with new life and its head would turn on a neck stiff with sawdust, never left him. When she watched the glittering coals, she kept her body taught and her voice silent, standing with an inexpressible dread. Jack shivered despite the heat. Long minutes stretched on, lengthening his painful wait. Not wanting Yang to find his mother, he knew if she were still in the house, she would surely be dead. He thought he spotted Yang upstairs, passing by with a hunched back; it could easily have been the smoke tricking his mind. Switching from one side of the house to the other, the shadowed legs gave away Yang’s location.

A loud explosion thumped Jack in the chest, pushing him backward. Bracing himself with an arm, he watched a pillar of fire explode through the front door. He tried to draw breath only for the heat to scorch his throat.

‘There’s Yang!’ cried Inara, stabbing her finger toward the kitchen.

Amongst the boiling smoke, Jack saw his shadow. Yang ran toward the rear right of the kitchen, to where Jack knew stood the pantry door. Realising the small cupboard could hold his mother, he dared hope she cowered inside against the fire. He jumped to his feet as Yang wrenched debris away from the door. The smoke parted, allowing him to watch Yang open the door. Inside laid only blackened bread and smoking vegetables. Sighing with relief, he considered where his mother could have gone.

‘She’s not in the house,’ said Bill as Yang jumped from the kitchen and raced across the lawn. ‘Yang would’ve found her for sure.’

Shaking his head Yang stepped in front of Jack.

‘Thanks for looking,’ said Jack, feeling both relief and despair vying to overcome him.

‘What’re you holding Yang?’ asked Inara.

Focusing on his shadow Jack noticed Yang held something in cupped hands. Reaching out Yang opened his hands to reveal the charcoal drawing of Jack’s father. Strangling back a cry, Jack read the familiar words "To Jack" written at the bottom of the curled paper. He took the paper and studied the only picture he had of his father. Tears fell from his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ Jack said simply, slipping the picture into his pocket.

‘If your mother isn’t here, where is she?’ asked Bill.

‘Where is everyone?’ said Inara, regarding the deserted street bordered by burning homes.

‘We best check on your grandparents,’ Jack said to Bill. ‘Your house is the only one not on fire, perhaps everyone is up there with them.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Bill.

They all knew, even Inara, who stared at the strange burning village, that no one would hole themselves up in the end house while their own homes burned to the ground. Still, at least they could enter Bill’s house, and perhaps inside find a clue as to the location of the townspeople.

They drifted away from Jack’s home. They expected the crumbling foundations to fall at any moment. Bringing up the rear Jack touched the picture of his father in his pocket. Staring up at the shattered windows, he half-expected his mother to appear. In his mind, her hair would be aflame as the fire finished off the job it had started ten years ago. He pulled his eyes away from his home; his friends already filed out in the street. The burning tree in Miss Mistletoe’s garden put Bill in a trance. Jack wondered if Bill searched the branches for Gesma.

The white picket fence ringing Jack’s home laid unscathed, with each stick standing brilliant in the dark, like soldiers on parade. A footprint on the wet ground stopped Jack from reaching for the gate. He hunkered down to his knees. Black had stepped through the print, and Bill’s smaller shoe had stepped around the heavy tread. Pressed a few inches into the soil, the print, characterised by a large circle at its centre, paralyzed him.

‘Jack, what have you found?’ asked Inara, seeing his troubled look.

Jack fingered the ground, not believing what he saw.

‘Yin?’ said Bill, peering over the gate.

Jack peered up at the mention of his name. ‘This track belongs to a Myrm.’

‘A Myrm. Are you sure?’ said Bill.

‘See for yourself.’ He pointed down at the print. ‘I bet you that round imprint is from a magnet.’

Bill looked long and hard at the footprint. Rainwater had collected in the circular depression, mirroring back his wide-eyed face. ‘What is a Myrm’s footprint doing in your garden?’

‘They knew where you lived,’ said Inara. ‘Back in the Wold you recognised the Hanging Tree. When we escaped over the hedge they must’ve come here to get us.’

‘But Grandpa said we were safe from the Myrms in the village.’

‘When the Myrms took Huckney and his father from their forge they lived outside the village,’ said Jack. ‘Would they attack the entire village?’

‘It would explain the fires,’ said Inara.

Yes, it would, thought Jack with growing unease. If the Myrms attacked the village, no one would be able to stop them. Few of the villagers could offer any resistance. Sure, Mr Gasthem would send his bugs, thousands of them, but what chance did ants and moths have against the Myrms wearing their metal armour. Hunters, like Hank Swath, who had the strength of five men, would have some defence against the Wold’s brutes. What about his mother, what hope had she when they came for her? Growing plants and flowers was very nice...he broke off his train of thought. The idea of a Myrm carrying off his mother was too much.

Lifting his gaze, he spotted a second print and a third beyond the tapered heads of his fence. He looked around for any sign of his mother’s passing. A footprint, a piece of her skirt caught as she fled the house, anything to settle his trepidation. No, trepidation was too mild a word for what he experienced. Cold terror had him, shaking his mind and tossing his emotions around his body like pebbles in a tin can. The shock at finding his house on fire threatened to take hold of him again, only this time he saw it coming and managed to put on the brakes. His cold fingers ran through his hair, casually, not hurried. Knowing if he let his hand speed up, as he wanted it too, he would let in too much emotion and panic would take a hold of him, shake him some more and toss him away. To think, he would have to remain calm. Breathing through his mouth, in long drawn out sighs, helped. Still shaking, his legs became stronger when he stood up straighter. Light cast from the fire that devoured Miss Mistletoe’s house revealed another track on the grass bordering her garden, daring him to follow.

Stepping past Bill; he walked with purpose toward the shining footprint. He kept a sharp eye for any other prints. The smoke pouring onto the street from the burning houses wrapped him in a suffocating hug. His friends, only a step behind, coughed as the fumes caught in their throats. Yang spread himself out in a large dark swathe, looking for a sign of the missing villagers.

‘Can Black smell which way my mother went?’ asked Jack, still hoping she had escaped before the Myrm had arrived. Fled to the meadow or hid amongst the tombstones of Long Sleep until it was safe for her to move.

‘He doesn’t know her scent,’ answered Bill. ‘Besides, all this smoke would mask any trace of her.’

Resolute, Jack strode up to the print the Myrm had left behind; only to flinch as he spied the tracks of a second Myrm meet it. Two furrowed lines in the baked earth trailed the footprints of the second Myrm. They came from Miss Mistletoe’s stoop. He knew what he saw; the Myrm had dragged poor Miss Mistletoe behind it. From the straight, unaltered lines, her feet had left in the dirt; he knew Miss Mistletoe was either unconscious, or dead.

The oppressive heat from both sides of the street hurried them along. The tracks took them to the fork in the road and turned right toward the Tristle River. Jack took a step in that direction when Bill, ignoring the footprints, stepped across the road to his house.

Bill’s house was soon before them. If you could ignore the rest of the street crumbling away into mounds of ash, you would believe everything was okay. By the full-bloomed roses and violets filling her garden, Grandma Poulis had spent Bill’s absence tending to them with an unusual vigour. The grass remained short and the bushes neatly trimmed. White, heart shaped, flowers now bordered the bed of roses where Jack had dug up the Narmacil egg.