Darkwood (2 page)

The passage was easier to manage on the way back, with the light coming through the open door to guide her. She had almost reached the door when she heard her aunt's voice.

“Annie? Annie girl? Are you there?”

Annie hesitated. She could see the outlines of her aunt's face and the tight, small bun she wore framed by a square of orange firelight.

“Annie dear?”

The hair on Annie's arms prickled. She eased backward a few feet.

Aunt Prim chirped her name again, and then said in her regular voice, “She's still in the shed.”

Uncle Jock's legs came into view, his big knees level with Aunt Prim's shoulder.

“Can't you shut the door, just to be sure?”

“Oh, Jock, come now. The fright would kill her.”

He chuckled. “A little thing like the dark?”

Uncle Jock bent down and peered into the passage. Even in silhouette, Annie could make out the heavy flaps of skin that hung from his neck and jaws. His … what had Page called them? His
dewlaps
.

“Not a lively kind of a girl, is she? Not like the other one.” Uncle Jock placed a hand on top of his wife's head and levered himself upright. “I sent word. Everything's set.”

“Jock, are you sure? She's strong for her age, and like you say, not too clever. In a few years she could take over the cutting.”

“It's done.”

Aunt Prim put a hand to her hair, neatening the bun that Uncle Jock had squashed. Then she stood and moved out of sight. Annie crept forward, straining to hear her next words.

“I made a promise to Helen.”

For a few moments all Annie heard was the squeak of the pump drawing water from the well into the sink, then the faint splashing sounds of her aunt washing her hands. When her uncle spoke again, his voice was almost … Annie winced. Almost tender.

“Primrose, it was only a matter of time. He's run us clean out.”

“But the Drop, Jock? Such a waste.”

They moved farther away then, their voices growing muffled. Annie had stopped listening in any case. The Drop. They were sending her to the Drop, and she would die there.

Every night after dinner the three of them followed the same routine. Aunt Prim ironed the laundry, Uncle Jock cleaned his rifle, and Annie scraped out the cooking pot. Normally this was a chore Annie hated, but tonight she was glad for the chance to hide her face inside the pot and think.

She'd waited another few minutes out in the passage, then, making as much noise as possible, crawled back into the room. If she hadn't been so frightened it would have amused her to see them arranged around the table just as before, her aunt polishing an invisible stain with her rag, her uncle scowling into his bowl. The rest of the meal had passed as usual, only now Annie read some secret communication into each scrape of her aunt's spoon, each wheeze of her uncle's breath. More than anything, she wanted Page to be there. Page would have known what to do.

The fire had died to embers by the time Annie's head and shoulders emerged from the pot. Uncle Jock had long since finished cleaning his rifle, and having restored it to its place by the head of the bed, had restored himself to his place by the fire and begun to snore.

Annie straightened abruptly, preparing to return the pot to its shelf. As she did, she bumped into Aunt Prim, who was crossing the room with a pile of freshly ironed breeches. The pile swayed for a moment as if deciding whether or not to fall, then toppled to the dirt floor. In an instant, Annie was on her knees.

“Get away! You'll only make them dirtier.” Aunt Prim shoved Annie aside with her hip and bent to reach for a pair of breeches. As she leaned forward a small book fell out of her pocket. The two of them stared at it, then at each other. For the briefest moment it looked as if Aunt Prim was going to cry. Instead, she snatched up the book and shoved it back in her pocket, but not before Annie saw that the margins were filled with notes written in Page's tiny, precise hand.

“Out! Get out of my sight, you clumsy girl!”

Uncle Jock shifted in his chair. Aunt Prim clamped her lips together and jabbed a bony finger in the direction of the ladder that led up to Annie's garret room. Annie scurried up it, but after she had crawled into the garret and let the trapdoor slam behind her, she silently opened it again, just a crack. She watched her aunt glance at her uncle, still sleeping, then cross to the bed and slip the book between the mattress and the frame.

Annie let the door down gently. She walked to the window and peered out. Her face peered back at her. In daylight she had a view of the privy roof, and beyond that a fence, a field of stumps, and finally the dark wall of trees that formed the forest's southern edge. It was bad luck to put a window facing the forest. Everyone knew that. But her father had built this part of the house, so she didn't like to think of it as a mistake.

The garret had been their parents' bedroom. A wooden cradle stood under the eaves, used first by Page and then, five years later, by Annie. And now … Annie reached down and lifted out the warm, limp body of an orange cat. Isadore hated to be held, but when he was asleep she could pretend for a few moments that he liked it. She sat down on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a mattress facing a row of empty shelves. Their parents had owned dozens of books on every subject: geography, agriculture, medicine, folk stories, woodworking. Some of the books were handmade, the bindings sewn together with heavy thread. Others were bound in shiny leather with gold letters stamped on the front. There was a
History of Mining
and a
Guide to Weaponry
, a bestiary and a giant dictionary with a tattered red cover. There was a grammar of ancient Frigic, a cookbook devoted to the preparation of grubs, a volume of love poetry. Page read them all. She had hurt her ankle as a baby and it never healed properly, so she scooted herself from sink to fire to ironing board on a stool with runners fastened at the ends of the legs, like a sleigh. As soon as she finished her chores each day she would make her way to the garret to read. She read her way through the volumes stacked in wobbly
towers around their little room, moving each book from the unread to the read pile after she finished it. When she had finished them all, she started again from the beginning, making a new pile for books read twice, then another for books read three times, and so on. After Page died, Uncle Jock had come into the garret and taken away all of her books and clothing. “Fever,” he said, and burned them along with the body.

Annie released the now wide-awake and squirming Isadore. Immediately, a brown striped cat climbed into her lap. Annie scratched her ears.

“Prudence,
you
are an excellent cat.” She unwrapped a piece of fish and flapped it in Isadore's direction before feeding it to Prudence. “
He
should learn to be nicer to the Holder of the Haddock.” Izzy flicked his tail.

“Yes, yes, here's yours.”

After a while she blew out the lantern and crawled under the blankets to wait. Orange light came in through the cracks in the chimney stones. The garret was always smoky, but at least it was never completely dark. When at last she heard something it wasn't any of the familiar sounds that meant her aunt and uncle were preparing for bed.

Someone was knocking at the front door of the cottage.

Impossible. The sky had been dark for hours now. But there were her uncle's heavy footsteps crossing the room and the sound of the door being unbarred and quickly opened, then just as quickly shut and barred again. There was a subdued babble
of voices, then more footsteps and the sound of benches being scraped back at the table. A man was speaking. Uncle Jock, or the visitor? She couldn't make out the words.

Once more, Annie eased open the trapdoor. The room below was red with firelight. A man sat at the table across from Uncle Jock. His back was to her, but she could see that he had narrow shoulders and a pointed head covered by wisps of straw-colored hair. Uncle Jock poured himself and the other man a cupful of whisky. Aunt Prim sat in the chair by the fire mending a pair of socks. She made a big show of measuring and snapping off thread, but Annie knew she was listening.

Uncle Jock was doing most of the talking. He finished his drink quickly and poured himself another. A musket leaned against the table by the strange man's side. From time to time he caressed it absently, as though it were a pet dog. Uncle Jock poured himself a third drink. He began to wave his hands around in big gestures, his eyebrows raising and lowering dramatically. She caught a few of his words:
strong, sorry, worth, quarry
. Suddenly Uncle Jock laughed and pounded his fist on the table.

“It's a deal, then!” he cried. The other man reached out and laid his hand over Uncle Jock's. It was a light touch, almost gentle, but a spasm of fear crossed Uncle Jock's face.

“Not like the first,” the man said. “I want the living child.”

Uncle Jock managed the barest of nods. Before releasing it, the man gave Uncle Jock's hand a couple of soft pats.
There, there
.

Uncle Jock snatched back his hand and rubbed it with the other hand as if to warm it.

The man rose to leave.

“Wait! You wanted to know about anything unusual, right? Any odd marks?”

“On the girl? Yes.”

“Not on the girl, but …” Uncle Jock spoke in a rush. “Kinderstalk got into the neighbor's yard and left behind a tuft of white fur.” He looked up hopefully. “That's unusual, isn't it?”

“Indeed. Any signs in your own yard?”

“My yard! No, none. None at all.”

The man drew a purse from his pocket and shook out a handful of ringstones. Even from her perch, Annie could see that they were high quality, perfectly smooth and bright white. He took a single stone from the pile and poured the rest back into the bag. He placed the stone in front of Uncle Jock.

“To whet your appetite.” He paused. “If anyone asks, kinderstalk took the girl.”

The visitor paused on the threshold to light his lantern. Cold black air blew into the cottage. Then, quickly, he turned back toward the room, as if he had just remembered something. For the first time, Annie saw his face. She gasped, a tiny sound, but his head jerked toward her, and for a second their eyes seemed to meet. Then he smiled, the lipless mouth opening onto two rows of perfectly square white teeth.

“A good night to you,” he said, and stepped out into the darkness.

Uncle Jock lunged at the door and slammed it shut.

Aunt Prim looked up from her mending. “When, Jock?”

“Tomorrow.”

Aunt Prim nodded. “When she's finished her morning chores.”