Crik (51 page)

‘It’s dark,’ said Bill, peering at the windows.

‘Do we enter?’ asked Inara.

Jack looked. It did not seem as though anyone was home. ‘I think we must,’ he said, his mouth tight against his teeth. ‘If there’s even a chance that someone is hiding in one of the rooms; we have to try.’

‘Yes,’ Inara said quietly.

‘Whoever it is that Black has smelt, has unsettled him,’ said Bill, without looking at the wolf.

‘The Myrms,’ said Jack.

‘No, he can smell the others.’

Without further explanation, Bill strode up to the front door to his house. The last time he had touched the polished wood he had only just discovered his Talent. That morning he had felt so energized. He had run down the street, ignoring the other children, eager to see Yin. Excitement had kept the air bottled in his lungs, waiting to explode with his news. Now, as he pushed the door open and saw the familiar green carpet and his grandfather’s thick woollen jumper hanging from the brass hook on the wall, he felt his lungs contract again, this time it threatened to suffocate him. This time fear, not excitement, pressed its hand on his chest.

After the smoke filled street, the house felt cool and lightly fragranced with polish and a few houseplants lining the cupboards.

‘Hello, Grandma, Grandpa, it’s me I’m back.’ Bill’s voice shot out in a gasping breath.

Deafening silence sank into their bones, making them throb with anticipation, as they predicted an immediate attack from a hidden Myrm. A low rumble in the wolf’s chest foreshadowed the lowering of his shaggy head. Trusting Black’s instinct, the group halted. Raising his blue eyes, Black looked up the stairs, baring his teeth in an almost human grimace.

‘He smells something upstairs,’ said Bill.

‘I know,’ said Jack, watching the black wolf.

‘Should we look downstairs first?’ asked Inara, her face chalk white beneath the black smears from the smoke on her cheeks and brow.

‘No need,’ answered Bill. ‘Black knows there’s nothing to fear down here.’

‘And up there,’ said Inara. ‘What has Black so spooked?’

The mahogany vines, twisting over the banister, brought back the night to Jack when he had followed the Hatchling up to Bill’s room. Placing his fingers on the wood, he regarded the dark stairs. He half-expected to see a Narmacil appear on the upper landing, poking its forked tongue at them. Not for the first time he wished he had stayed home that night. Yang took the lead, climbing the stairs in utter silence. Jack came next, with Bill only a step behind, Black, with Inara riding his back, came last. Orange light spilt from the yawning front door, flickered across the wall. This light mingled with furnace red, creating warped shadows and monstrous faces that wore lurid grins and watchful eyes. Those faces swept over the framed paintings, and followed them as they mounted the stairs one-step at a time.

‘The third step from the top creaks,’ warned Bill.

The sense of dread grew in Jack. A cold sweat dampened his upper lip. He stepped over the creaky step and his eyes moved toward the master bedroom. The door stood ajar, the fires from the street eddied on the wall like snakes. His friends also ignored the other two rooms on the upper landing. They knew, as he did, that it was inside the far bedroom where they would find out what had happened here.

Jack seized the banister, fastening upon the roping vines that seemed to come alive and wrap themselves over his wrist. He looked over at Yang, who gave a thumbs up. His fingers let go; his hand drifted to his side.

The carpet cushioned Jack’s feet as he stepped onto the landing and turned toward the end of the hall. Bill crowded his back.

‘Do you want to go first?’

Bill shrank away. ‘I’m afraid of what I’ll find.’

Jack understood; he had experienced the same feeling in the pit of his stomach when Yang had swung open the pantry door. Stairs creaked; Black had stepped on the suspect step making Jack grasp for the banister that was no longer at his side. His head sank to his chest; he wanted to turn and run, to get as far away from the half open door as he could. He needed to stay; if he fled, Bill would step into his grandparent’s bedroom to find... The answer to that question slowed his hand.

The door widened at his touch revealing more of the room. Ten dolls, frozen in place on small black pedestals, looked toward the king-size bed. Jack followed the glass expressionless eyes and let out a choking cry. Beneath the neat blankets lay Grandma Poulis. She was dead.

Jack stood paralyse
d
in the doorway. Two steps forward and he would reach the bed, another step and he would be able to touch the cold skin of Bill’s grandmother. She looked serene; a slight smile curved her mouth, crinkling the skin of her cheeks into a network of fine hash marks. Her silver hair spread out on the pillow picked up the flickering firelight pouring in through the window, turning it a deep auburn. Around her, the bedding remained orderly, with the upper blanket turned at chest height. Grandpa Poulis’s blanket was a tangled mess, with the twisted under sheet pulled loose from the sprung mattress. Jack snapped his head away from the bed, he expected, and dreaded, to see the crumpled body of Grandpa Poulis sprawled on the floor. Dolls had fallen from the shelves still clutching an assortment of accessories. Firelight sparked in their glass eyes, giving the appearance of life. Sickened, he viewed them not as clutter, but as though they were the bodies of little girls, rather than porcelain melded over wireframe. His chest expanded to let out a sigh of relief at not finding Grandpa Poulis amongst them, when Bill pushed past him to see his grandmother.

Jack took a step toward the wall, unsure what to do. If he had found his mother dead would he have welcomed a friendly arm over his shoulder, or would he have seen that as an intrusion of a private moment? Debating with himself, he opted to watch Bill, his body poised to rush forward should Bill show any sign of needing him. He had forgotten about Inara on the upstairs landing, until she and Black crowded the doorway. Inara had seen enough dead bodies to recognise another. Only, and he saw this with the clarity of a young boy, she showed no sign of fear, or revulsion. Her dark gaze swam over the body in the bed. She stood as though death to her was as commonplace as puddles after a downpour. His skin puckered up in thick clustering gooseflesh. Later, he would think of her lack of emotion at finding Grandma Poulis; she only softened her gaze when she observed Bill.

Bill stood over his grandmother, his face contorted into a frown. Reaching out he pulled aside a stray hair that curled across her brow. His hand lowered down to her clasped hands.

Bill’s voice shook as he said, ‘I’m sorry I went away. Finding my Talent was the best thing that has ever happened to me. No one could ever call me a freak again. At last I could show off what I could do, and the ability to control animals is better than most. Wanting to test myself, I begged Yin to come with me to the woods. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you and Grandpa. Grandma, I missed you.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘If I knew the trouble this would bring I would never have gone looking for a wolf. I should’ve made ol’ Wolf stand on his hind legs, like I did in the kitchen.’

‘Are you alright?’ Jack asked.

‘Not really,’ Bill said, wiping at a hanging tear. ‘It’s because of me that all this happened. You never wanted to go into the woods; afraid your mother would ground you. I insisted that we should go, it is my fault.’

‘Grandpa Poulis isn’t here,’ said Jack. ‘When we find out where the Myrms took him, we will rescue him and then we can both tell him sorry. I know he’ll understand why you had to leave.’

‘I know Grandpa will understand,’ said Bill. He pulled back his hands in a rush as though he held a bunch of nettles. ‘It’s what my grandmother will say that concerns me. You know her Yin; her lectures last for hours. More than anything else, she enjoys seeing me squirm.’ He confided in a hushed voice. ‘It’ll take me weeks to get back into her good books, and I’ve yet to ask her for one of her precious dolls.’ He let his shoulders sag.

‘She’s dead,’ said Inara. ‘Can’t you see she’s not breathing?’

‘I know she’s not breathing,’ said Bill. ‘She never does when she goes walking in her sleep.’

‘Walking in her sleep?’ said Inara.

‘Of course,’ shouted Jack. He stepped away from the wall, his body felt lighter, no longer fearful of his discovery. ‘It’s like what it says in the poem.’

‘What poem?’

Her quizzical look made Jack want to laugh. ‘The poem Mr Dash told me one night:

On blackest night, she roams,

Stepping from her house of bones.

She schemes and hides,

While her house falls and dies.’

‘I don’t like that poem,’ said Bill.

‘You know that Bill’s grandmother is a Ghost Walker.’ Jack told the puzzled girl. ‘When her spirit walks from her body, her body appears dead; only she isn’t.’ Relief made him feel faint.

‘Then she’s not dead,’ said Inara.

‘No, just angry,’ said Bill. ‘A few years ago I rushed in here after having a bad dream. Grandpa woke with a start and tried to console me when he saw I couldn’t wake Grandma. I screamed, not understanding why he didn’t care that Grandma was dead. That’s when she came back into the room. You’d call her a Ghost Walker; she was so beautiful. Her light, unlike Justice and Kyla, is warm and comforting.’ Jack, remembering the freezing touch of the Ghost Walkers, shuddered. ‘Light wrapped her,’ said Bill, ‘making her appear young. She sat with me, and with a hand on my shoulder, told me that she was safe. The next morning Grandma was making eggs as normal. Appearing as she always did, she greeted me with an appraising glance. You know that look Yin,’ said Bill, ‘the one she uses when she suspects you or Yang have been up to no good.’ Jack knew that look all right; he had seen it all too often. ‘That morning I had to promise not to tell anyone what she could do. Although I never understood why she wanted it kept a secret. Until now,’ he said.

‘What do you guys want to do now?’ asked Inara, after Bill had fallen silent. She had waited, what had felt to her to be a few minutes, but had in fact only lasted a few seconds. Her question, cutting through the quiet, had the considerable effect of stealing back the good mood that had filled the room when Bill explained his grandmother’s condition.

‘We follow those tracks and find everyone,’ said Jack. Peering out the window his eyes sparkled like rubies. ‘We brought the Myrms here; we have to send them back.’

Each felt the weight of Jack’s words. Neither Bill nor Inara asked how they were to achieve what Jack had so boldly spoken. Gripping Black’s hair Inara prepared to turn and exit the room when she noticed Yang spreading himself over the wall. ‘What’s Yang doing?’ she said.

They all turned. Moving colours of reds and yellows still splashed the wall, like a kid’s wild creative outpouring on a blank canvass. Yang began to etch out a picture on the wall. From his torso emerged black thread, spreading out over the room. Altering his shape, Yang reminded Jack of clouds blurring into recognisable forms before the wind dispelled the brief illusion. Concentrating on his shadow, he attempted to grasp the message. Dropping a vertical finger, Yang formed an "O", and began swinging it like a pendulum. Horrified, Jack realised his shadow had drawn the Hanging Tree. Stepping back, he took in the entire prophetic etch. The hangman’s noose Yang animated continued to swing, just like a ticking arm of a big Grandfather clock.

‘If they took them to the tree, they mean to kill everyone,’ said Jack through a throat compressed with fear.

He did not wait for the others to respond, the knowledge of his mother’s peril was enough to drive him from the room. He had reached the top of the staircase before he realised Inara called his name. ‘What,’ he replied with impatience. ‘It’ll take us ten minutes to run to the Hanging Tree.’

‘So what,’ she said. ‘You arrive just to say goodbye to your mother, before Kyla slips a noose over your neck. What good is there in running out there without a plan?’

‘We can’t just stay here, slinking through the village, hoping for inspiration.’

Bill and Inara stood on either side of the open door. Bill had his arms crossed, and Inara, with the same emotionless face she had shown him on so many occasions, waited for him to answer.

‘Yang will take care of...’ Before he could finish, and his idea had time to take hold in his mind, he saw Inara shake her head. ‘Why not,’ he said. ‘Yang took Raglor, had him beaten so bad that monster wouldn’t look sideways at my shadow.’

‘Raglor was one,’ said Inara. ‘How many Myrms are there?’

Her slow voice frustrated him, if she hadn’t called him back he’d be down on the road by now, running past the bed of roses and up toward the stone bridge that crossed the Tristle River. ‘Yang could fight them all.’ Even his ears didn’t believe him.

‘Even if Yang could best all the Myrms, the Ghost Walkers’ amber glow drives Yang back,’ said Bill.

‘Then you propose we do nothing,’ said Jack. ‘Shall we hop back through the hole in the tree and live with Knell? To pretend none of this is happening. Is that what you want to do?’

‘Now you are being foolish,’ said Inara. ‘We have to think about our next step, all the rushing in the world won’t help your families.’

‘The longer we stay here doing nothing,’ said Jack, losing his temper, ‘the more chance that a Myrm will hang my mother from the tree. I will gladly die in her place.’

‘Your death won’t save your mother,’ said Inara.

‘We can argue about this on the way,’ said Bill. ‘The cemetery lies on a hill. We can see the Hanging Tree from up there and what we’re up against.’

Jack hesitated. Picking his way through Long Sleep’s graves and tombs would take time. He kept remembering the swinging circle tipping Yang’s finger, and imagining his mother jerking at the end of the rope.

‘Jack,’ said Inara. ‘Your mother may have hid in the cemetery.’

The idea that his mother had escaped the village prior to the Myrms setting upon his home had earlier crossed his mind. Would he find her, frightened, but alive, amongst the gravestones, or inside one of the stone tombs cresting the top of the hill? Improbable, his pessimistic mind snapped at him. Since her accident, she hardly ever left the house. Likelihood was she would be the last to leave at any sign of danger. He recalled the lines dug into the baked ground that led from Miss Mistletoe’s house. The Myrms got those who remained in their homes.

‘It’s worth searching,’ said Bill.

‘Okay, we’ll have a look around,’ said Jack. ‘If I spot my mother standing by the tree when we’re up there, I’m going to help her. I won’t wait around to see if you two are with me.’

‘If Grandpa is in trouble I’ll be right behind you.’

The stairs thundered under his feet as Jack sped down to the gaping front door. Hearing the others following him, his mind calculated the distance to the cemetery and then the time it would take him to travel from the cemetery to the Hanging Tree. Far too long - if Kyla had her way, the villagers, and his mother, would be dead already, punished for crimes they had no hand in. The heat from the burning homes stung his face as he exited Bill’s house. He glanced down the street; his house smouldered in a ruined pile of brick and blackened beams. Its only material, he told himself, paper comics, leather chairs, wooden cabinets and wilting flowers; only they were not just fuel for the fire, each item consumed was now a priceless memory, something that he would never have again. His toys, melted into shapeless piles of lead, were forever beyond him. That fire consumed memories. Then I will make new memories, he thought, furious with himself for pausing to contemplate what he had lost, his mother needed him and together they will make a new life.

Yang raced ahead, following the road and then veered off to the right behind the houses. Following, Jack hit the beaten track, through the ferns and bramble the kids used instead of the cobbled lane, at a dead run. His shadow flickered amongst the surrounding trees and hedges that blocked off most of the light from the burning village. Scrambling, he passed a tree house he had made the year before, its boards hanging on rusted nails threatened to collapse, and probably would the next time a high wind hit it. In his eagerness to reach Long Sleep and climb its high hill, he ignored his childhood relic.

He breached the thicket like a bird taking its first flight. Arriving at the bank of the Tristle River, with its assortment of leaning crosses, he stopped. Observing the first unaltered scene since his return, filled him with relief, but also anger that the only thing not destroyed were the graves of those who had started this cycle. Those buried under the headstones and sticks had executed Justice, Kyla, and the others for being Ghost Walkers. If they had left them alone the warped spirits of those women would not have hid themselves in the Wold, and they would not have now returned seeking vengeance. Yanking the first cross from its wet moorings, he thrust it from him. The ancient wood clattered to the saturated bank. His harsh intake of breath met the sound. He indicated the crooked crosses. ‘Our ancestors committed crimes against the women who had called this place home.’