Crik (62 page)

Again, the wolf extended his tongue, and took away the last of the girl’s tears.

‘Happy hunting,’ she whispered. Nodding to Grandpa Poulis, the old man lifted her back up. ‘Make sure you take him deep into the wood,’ Inara told Bill. ‘I don’t want him stumbling across a hunter’s path and getting himself shot.’

‘It’ll take more than an arrow to hurt him,’ said Bill.

‘Promise,’ she urged.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Grandpa Poulis. ‘I’ll make sure my grandson releases the wolf well away from here. This village already has one wolf, it doesn’t need another.’ The old dog at his heel gave a tired bark.

Bill stepped forward and gave Inara a fierce hug. A long moment passed as they clung to one another. They parted without a word, yet the emotion of their farewell suffused the air. Jealousy stabbed Jack at their parting, a bitter barb that drove into his chest.

‘Where’d you like to sit?’ asked Igneous. ‘There’s enough room next to me, or you can make yourself comfortable in the back.’

Inara eyed the narrow seat Igneous perched himself on dubiously. The worn leather padding titled forward at a precarious angle. ‘If there’s room in the wagon I’ll travel there,’ she said. ‘I’m still weak and would welcome a lie down.’

‘Your call lass. Take care not to knock over any of the clocks, they are fragile.’

Assuring the seller she would be careful, Inara allowed Grandpa Poulis to place her into the covered wagon. She sat amongst the ticking arms of a thousand clocks, looking older than her years. The dress she wore looked odd on her after the rough spun tunic, but she seemed happy to have lace against her skin. Her mother will be so happy seeing her looking so pretty thought Jack. He recalled Inara’s concern that her folks would love her less for her having lost her legs, and knew she had nothing to fear. Who could not love her?

Grandma Poulis came bustling from the house carrying a basket full of food. Brushing past her husband; she gave bread, cookies and cake to Inara.

‘Those are for you,’ said Grandma Poulis. ‘You may share with Igneous, that’s up to you. I won’t have you going hungry.’

‘Are those cookies chocolate?’ asked Igneous Fowlt, craning his neck to peek at the wrapped goods.

‘Chocolate gives a girl spots,’ said the old woman. ‘There are hazelnuts, and almond biscuits. You liked the lemon slice,’ she addressed Inara, ‘so I packed a few extra for you. Clock seller, you make sure you take care of this one.’

‘I’ve already promised to treat her like my daughter.’

‘Treat her better,’ snapped Grandma Poulis. ‘If you have a daughter I’ve never seen her.’

‘It’s time we were off,’ said the old man, bristling under Grandma Poulis’s rough tongue. As though agreeing with him the wagon erupted in chimes. Seven small birds sprang from wooden trapdoors, chirping at the end of bending springs. A wooden figure walked around a track under a glass domed carriage clock and struck a small hammer against a tiny anvil. Ignoring the chaos, Igneous reached over his head and turned the hourglass as the last grains of sand ran out.

Happy to get away from the black wolf that watched them hungrily, the ponies pulled the wagon forward. Painted wheel spokes revolved, first slow and then picked up speed until they began to blur. Jostled, Inara waved with one arm while she secured a precarious clock with the other. As the last bell clanged, the wagon drifted from view, taking Inara away.

Jack stood with Bill and Yang long after the wagon disappeared. All three remained silent, lost in their own thoughts. The near deserted village felt morose, as though it too lamented the departure of the girl that had saved it from total destruction.

‘I can still hear the clocks ticking,’ said Bill.

The noise had faded a long time ago, but Jack didn’t argue, let him believe Inara is still close. At least for a few minutes longer.

‘Better clean that grave dirt off,’ said Bill, looking down at Jack’s clothes. ‘Gran won’t like you traipsing it through the house.’

***

When Jack stepped from the bath the water was a grey sludge, and his skin was rosy pink. He continued to breathe in the steam, hoping it would clear his head. Depressed, he reflected on Inara’s trip home, he felt as though he had a limb severed when she left. Disgusted, he shook himself. Towelling himself vigorously, he slipped into the clothes Grandma Poulis had provided. Although the dim light only afforded Yang a dim outline, he could see his shadow shared his downcast demeanour. The certainty that his mother’s condition had worsened lingered like the scum the lowering water revealed on the iron tub. Perhaps he dwelled on Inara so he would not have to face what was happening to his mother. Yang’s loping arms and bowed head only reinforced his dread. Steam clouded the mirror, saving him from seeing his own haggard appearance.

Leaving the bathroom, he paused to study the painting lying lengthways on the landing. Grandma Poulis had moved her easel out of the spare room to make space for his mother. Looking up from the painted field of blackened trees, he saw the door beyond the stairs was ajar. His heart lurched. No doubt, Bill or his grandparents had checked on his mother whilst he bathed, yet that crack, coated by flickering amber candlelight, set his heart pounding in his chest. Scrunching his toes in the carpet, he perceived the landing to stretch, doubling its length. Swooning, he touched the cold wall. Closing his eyes, he tried to collect his thoughts; only his thudding heart shattered all clarity. Cold fingers gripped his arm; startled, his eyes flew open. Yang held him.

‘You think I should go in there,’ said Jack.

His shadow did not have to make a reply; he knew he would have to check on his mother. Dr Threshum assured him that his mother’s coma would not last. What the doctor did not mention was what came after the coma, life or death? Even if she woke, would she be herself? Others had injured their heads in accidents, and some could no longer speak. Some could not look after themselves. Cringing from such a possibility, he pushed away from the wall. Bill shouted for Black in the garden. Jack wanted nothing more than to jump down the stairs and play with his best friend and the wolf. His fingers traced the wooden vines looping the banister; the rough texture beckoned him to follow its rope down to the ground floor. Snatching his hand back, he hurried on, blocking out everything but the open door.

Hinges creaked as the door swung inward. The flickering candle illuminated a large four-poster bed. Chestnut oil aroma filled the room. Dr Threshum advised the oil would help his mother breathe, so Jack had scavenged all the jars he could find, until they lined every shelf. Patting him on the back Yang urged him forward. Wooden flooring met his foot. Applying his weight the wood creaked, making him catch his breath as though he was a thief stealing into the room. His mother did not stir at the sound; her chest rose and fell rhythmically, slightly stirring the blankets covering her. Her every breath is a struggle, he reflected. Thankful for the support, he allowed Yang to take hold of his arm. A stool sat close to the bed, which he used. Meagre light painted the burns on her face, casting a play of shadows across her cheeks and forehead. He had never seen anyone look so beautiful. Guilt for leaving her hit him again.

‘I no longer think she was angry at me for leaving the village,’ he confided to Yang. ‘Frightened and lonely, yes; I betrayed her and left her alone. Farmer Vine told me how frantic she was that no one could find me.’ He wiped away at the hot tears that spilled unbidden down his cheek. ‘She would’ve wrapped me in her arms and welcomed me home.’ He sobbed into his chest.

When he took her hand, he gasped at the warmth. He expected hands as cold as Yang’s. Every time he had touched her skin, it had felt ice cold. Hope bloomed suddenly in his chest, robbing his fear of its potency. Quickly he touched her face, and almost cried when his fingers warmed at the gentle caress.

‘Yang.’ His excitement threatened to send him into another swoon. Could she be getting better? After so long, could he dare hope the impossible. All other cares left him. Her pulse beat strong against his fingers as he probed her neck.

‘Mother,’ he said, though emotion strangled the word. He repeated, this time with more urgency. ‘Can you hear me? Mother, it’s Jack. I’ve come home.’

Though she made no reply, he now listened with renewed hope and found her breathing was stronger. A week back Grandma Poulis had placed a mirror before his mother’s face; concern had etched new lines into her withered face. Finally, a thin layer of mist clouded the glass and the old woman had breathed a sigh of relief. That sigh had haunted him. Had Grandma Poulis expected his mother to die? Wanting to laugh he instead restrained himself, wanting to listen to each sound his mother made.

Threading his fingers into Jack’s trouser pocket Yang grasped the purple candle Knell had given the boy. Retrieving the candle, he extended the cool wax to the lit wick that resided on the bedside table. Before he could light the candle, Jack saw him.

‘You want to speak,’ said Jack.

Nodding, Yang lit the strange candle; a moment later thick tendrils of purple cloud filled the room.

‘She is fighting hard,’ said Yang, in his hollow voice. ‘But Jack, your mother is weaker than you think.’

Alarmed, Jack stood, knocking the stool to the floor. ‘What’re you saying? Is she going to die?’ The possibility that he could actually lose his mother after this new hope was too cruel. ‘Tell me Yang?’

‘We must help her,’ answered the shadow.

In disbelief, Jack watched Yang clamber onto the bed. Bedsprings groaned under the added weight. His mother remained unmoved as the shadow pressed its now solid frame atop her. Pushing his weight down Yang brought his angled face to within inches of the unconscious woman.

‘No,’ said Jack. He reached out and gripped an arm as cold as an icicle. ‘She’s struggling to breathe; with you atop her she won’t be able to draw a breath.’ Pulling with all his strength, he could not budge his shadow. ‘Please, she is getting better.’

‘She is not out of danger yet,’ replied Yang. The shadow’s echoing voice sounded as though it came from deep within a cave. ‘If I don’t help her, I fear she will not have the strength to break free and will slip further into this coma and never awaken.’

‘What are you planning on doing?’

‘Do you trust me?’

That question had taken them from one end of Crik Wood to the other. When faced with Yang’s demise he realised what he would lose. Together with his mother, Yang was the only family he had. Yet he could not understand what Yang intended. Would the Narmacil’s actions cause his mother harm? Neither of them were doctors. Was it possible that Yang’s meddling could halt his mother’s recovery? Since Yang climbed on the bed, her breathing had become shallower. Yang was ice cold, would that rob her of the warmth that had so infused him with hope for the first time since the battle? Hundreds of questions and concerns rifled through his mind.

‘I trust you,’ he said, knowing that was the only answer he had.

Black lips parted in a sigh. ‘Thank you Jack.’

Leaning forward Yang pressed his face to Jack’s mother and breathed into her. Her entire body lurched upward, pushing Yang from the mattress. Jack lurched forward, snagging the bedclothes with fingers as stiff as pegs. Cold sweat dampened his brow. Roving patterns of thick purple smoke obscured the bed. When the smoke dissipated his shadow breathed, and again his mother’s body swelled under the dark form that pinned her to the bed. Once more dark cheeks expanded with air that then filled her lungs. She shuddered as though assailed. Compressing his lips, Jack kept still; he had to believe in Yang or he would lose everything. Time lapsed, with only the eddying purple light marking its passage. Relaxing her taught body, his mother lay still on the bed. Dark lips parted from pale lips with an almost inaudible murmur.

Exhausted, Yang slipped from the bed. His head hit the bedpost with a loud thump, but the shadow did not seem to care. Short breaths hitched his chest as he slumped to the floor amongst the swirling clouds that made him corporeal.

‘What did you do?’ demanded Jack.

‘I had to give her my strength,’ said the shadow in a weedy voice. ‘When that happened, she took from me.’

‘Took what?’ All Jack could think of was two flippers slipping into Bill’s open mouth.

‘There were two lives at risk,’ answered Yang. ‘Your mother suffered an injury that would have killed her if not for her Narmacil’s efforts to keep her alive. My kin’s essence saved her, and battled to restore her to you. Such efforts exhausted them both. Hearing her Narmacil’s cries for assistance, I had to act.’ Yang slumped against the bed like an old man after an arduous run. ‘Do you understand?’ he gasped.

Jack nodded dully. ‘How much of yourself did you give?’

‘I will recover.’

If the shadow had anything more to say, the groan from the bed stopped him. Both boy and shadow turned at the sound. Colour had blossomed in cheeks that for days had stubbornly remained chalk white, turning them a faint pink. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘Mother, come back to me.’ This time Jack’s words were strong, and he repeated them as though they could wrestle his mother back from the brink. ‘I am home, I’m here for you.’

An arm lifted from the rumpled blanket to wipe away a dark curl that clung to a temple damp with sweat. Jack stared in awe as his mother’s arm fell back. He could scarce believe what he saw. His mother had moved her arm.