The Darkening (55 page)

Nicholas felt the rhythm of his breathing break, and he sucked in cool air.

He knew that Tristram had died here in the woods, but to see him, his friend, his hero, at the edge of his pitiful murder filled Nicholas with such an awful sadness that he wanted simply to fall to the ground. Tristram’s jaw was tight, one wrist crooked at a strange angle.
Broken
. Nicholas’s tongue flicked the roof of his mouth as he tried to form his name -
Tris . . .
- but no noise came out.

The dead children struggled: Miriam screamed; Dylan sobbed; Owen Liddy nodded like a savant. Suddenly, the red-haired boy’s head jerked upwards. His face grew brighter, and his throat opened up as if an invisible zipper dragged wide. The little boy’s eyes flashed open and went dull. His small body spasmed and stiffened . . . then he vanished.

Nicholas felt sick.

‘Hurry, hurry,’ whispered Quill, gesturing to Nicholas and glancing to the sky. She climbed the short stick ladder that rose to the sphere behind the ghostly children. Feet on the highest rung, she unlatched a hatch made of the same grisly bone and twisted wood, and swung it wide before scuttling down to the ground.

Nicholas saw her for what she was. A spider. A spider herself: bloated and old and thirsty, scuttling to do dark work at the centre of her ancient web of dark trees . . .

‘Up,’ she whispered. ‘In.’

A wind was born, and it tickled the ring of trees, setting them awhisper like excited spectators at a night coliseum. Nicholas’s hands grasped bone and branch, and his feet climbed the makeshift ladder. The dead children squirmed in desperate terror before him.
God, no
, he thought
. Don’t make me go in there . . .
But his legs stepped into the hatchway, and his body slid in after, slipping him into the ghosts of the stunned, wailing, weeping, lost children.

Cold
, he thought.
This is how death feels
.

‘Kneel,’ she said.

He knelt. He was aware of the pain as the hard wood dug into his kneecaps, but could not so much as flinch against it.

‘Reach.’

His hands rose willingly; where the dead children strained against invisible bonds, his agreeable hands grasped the cold stick and bone lightly. As he took hold, the hair of the girl in the forties’ sundress stood on end and her neck jerked long. She tried to twist her head from side to side, knowing she was going to die and fighting. Her skin grew suddenly silvery and pale, as if a spectral spotlight were turned on it, and the skin of her neck opened up, revealing darker, wet flesh in the deep cut. Her small body arched, then slowly slackened . . . and she vanished.

‘Wait,’ said Quill. She was behind him, out of sight, a lurking presence.

Nicholas was larger than the ghosts of the children. His arms were longer. Where they half-crouched, he squatted on his heels and so sat behind the four-folded children and could see the backs of their entwined heads. Their faces interwove and became as hard to discern as ripples in a stream’s crosscurrent.

He willed himself to scream and fight and flee . . . but he sat immobile as a monk. He heard Quill’s careful footsteps on the ladder behind him. She sniffed back mucus.

Then Miriam’s hair grew brighter and the skin of her arms glowed. Nicholas realised what this ghostly light was: the echo of moonlight from several nights ago. Suddenly, her hair jerked straight, wrenched upward by an invisible hand. Her eyes threw wide. Nicholas saw the edge of her throat split open in a new, deep wound, severed by a keen, invisible blade. Her tiny body strained in a last animal panic; her muscles wrenched tight . . . then she swooned. The hair fell down like a final curtain. Her body sagged, then winked out, leaving the ghosts of three boys struggling in front of him.

Oh God
, thought Nicholas.
Like a slaughtered lamb, simple as that
.

‘Why so hard? Why so hard?’ Quill’s voice was ragged, broken by a tight throat. ‘All these years, and what?’ She was talking to herself as she settled on the ladder behind him.

Nicholas watched ghostly moonlight fall on Owen Liddy. The child’s hair was gathered in an invisible hand, wrenched up, and his throat eased apart like a hidden mouth opening. He jolted a few moments, then sagged low and was gone, leaving two ghost boys. Nicholas’s heart pumped peacefully in his chest, a lie to the horror.

The moon. The moon came out just before she cut their throats.

He rolled his eyes upwards, but could not see the moon.
Move!
he commanded his head.
Back!

‘You brought him and now you take him,’ muttered Quill accusingly. Her voice was wet and bitter. ‘What choice?’

Nicholas saw the hair of one of the boys grow bright. Dylan Thomas’s. His scalp and skin glowed silver as the forgotten light of a ghost moon fell on him. A moment later, his short hair twisted cruelly upward, yanking his head high and his neck straight. Then the skin of his neck slid apart in a neat cut, deep, exposing arteries and tendons.

Only he and Tristram were left.

But now Nicholas knew. S
he’ll cut my throat when the moon comes out. I have to see the moon!
He closed his eyes and strained his head back.
Move!
His mind became a sharpening funnel. Every ounce of strength, every bit of anger, every breath he wanted to take before he died, was concentrated into a single thought:
Move!

His head tilted back a degree.

‘Not fair,’ hissed Quill. She was crying. ‘Not fair.’

Again! Move!

His head tilted back another tiny arc.

Tristram was turning. Someone was behind him. His lips moved, grim. Shaking with fear, but not crying. Not grovelling. Brave.
Oh, Tris
. . .

The ladder creaked behind Nicholas and he heard the tick of the knife touching old bone.

Back!
His head tilted another degree. Tristram’s skin grew bright as moonlight touched it. Nicholas could not watch his friend die; he rolled his eyes high to the sky.

The clouds overhead were grey waves, breaking. A glow indicated the moon at the edge of the moving cloud. It would be out in a moment.

His eyes rolled down just as Tristram’s white throat opened. Nicholas’s heart skipped from its metronome beat.
You fucking bitch.
Tristram stiffened and fell.

‘Nicholas,’ whispered Quill.

Tristram was gone. He was alone.

Moonlight opened from behind the racing cloud, touching the distant trees and turning them silver, sprinting closer, closer, closer.

‘Goodbye, pretty man.’

The moonlight kissed his skin. His heart thudded hard as a storm, the blood building inside him like a swollen dam, ready to burst.

Somewhere in the dark, a curlew sounded like a girl’s scream.

Nicholas felt a gnarled hand grab his hair, and the corner of his eye caught the wink of shining steel. His head jerked up.

BACK!
he yelled at every muscle in his body. He let the dam inside him break, and threw himself backwards.

It wasn’t dramatic, just a lurch.

The cage rocked back a fraction. Quill had a poor grip on his wet hair and it slipped through her bony fingers. The knife blade nicked his chin, and he heard a creak behind him as Quill went off balance.

‘Oh,’ she said simply.

He heard her fingers fly through the air, clutching for something to grab. And, suddenly, a thrill rippled through his body, as if a wave of warm water struck him inside. He moved his fingers.
She’s distracted
, he thought wildly.
She’s let me slip.
He told his hands to let go - they released their grip on bone and wood.

‘No . . .’ hissed Quill. ‘No!’

Back!
Nicholas threw himself backwards and this time he slammed against the side of the cage. It rocked violently on its low tower.

Quill scrambled to grab the cage. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered against wood and bone. The cage teetered . . . Quill finally grabbed hold with her free hand, but her extra weight on the side of the sphere was too much . . . the cage groaned, the low tower leaned, and the cage began to fall.

‘NO!’ she screamed.

The cage toppled, carrying Nicholas within and Quill beneath it, and hit the ground with a loud and sickly splintering crash.

43

W
ind tugged at Hannah’s hair and slapped her face cold.

She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, not knowing if she was heading the right way . . . yet strangely certain that she was.

She crawled blindly over roots and under branches, hurting everywhere, guided by sound. Between gusts and the timpani rush of black leaves, she heard snatches of a woman’s voice, a sad and lilting speech to someone or no one, carried away covetously by the fast air. She blundered between the dark trees, arms outstretched, falling and rising, ignoring the nauseating throb in her leg. This was right. This all was meant to be.

She was nearly there, perhaps fifty metres from the cottage. Nicholas was still alive - Hannah felt it in her heart - but things were about to turn.

Just then, the wind grew.

The clouds rolling high above the unhappy trees thinned.

The woman’s voice skipped on the air like a black pebble on silver water.

The moon peeked out of hiding and the trees seemed to spring from darkness.

Hannah stopped.

The ground around her seemed to shimmer. But not just the ground: the trunks of trees, the hanging leaves on hanging vines, the mossed fur of logs, all crept and trembled.

Hannah felt her heart gulp blood. Was it . . . ?

As the clouds parted further, cold silver dropped down between the leaves, lighting everything in front of her - and her breath caught in her throat.

A million spiders watched her. Small and squat, large and bristled: all took a sly, feline step towards her on their alien, skeletal legs. The moonlight winked off their eight million eyes, an evil forest sprinkled with pernicious diamonds. She felt their stare. She felt their surprise at finding her. She felt the tiny sparks flying through their tiny brains, taking her picture, tasting it, conferring.

It’s her
. She watched a hungry shimmer run through them.
It’s her.

The edges of her eyes prickled brightly, and her head felt like an emptying balloon. Her body seemed to know that she would be better unconscious for the horrible fate that came next. Her legs started to fold.

NO!
she yelled in her head.
Don’t faint!
She pricked the point of the paring knife into her thigh and brilliant new pain chased away the swoon. What good would one knife do against a sea of needle-sharp fangs?

Hannah felt them watch her, see her, know her. The forest seemed to shift as the carpet of spiders, with its spiny, bristled legs and wicked little fangs and clusters of cold black pebble eyes, crouched.

She turned and ran.

And got one step before her right foot caught on a root.

She fell.

An instant later, the wave of spiders swept over her.

Hannah curled into a shrieking ball, waiting for the pain of a million stings . . .

But it didn’t come.

The spiders seemed frozen. Their hooked feet grew rigid, snipping gently into her skin, her lips, her ears. All of them - large as breakfast bowls, small as match heads - were motionless. Listening.

Then they fell away.

They dropped off her and began scuttling over one another. Some wandered in confused circles. Some burrowed for cover. Some sprang away into the darkness. Some hunkered down stupidly to hide in her hair.

She sat up and brushed the few remainders away. Whatever had been guiding them was gone. The spell was broken.

And Hannah heard a splintering crash from the direction of the cottage.

She got to her feet and ran towards the sound.

Nicholas was on his back. The cage had rolled as it fell, and had struck the firm, wet ground with a sharp crack. He had instinctively tried to shield his head from the hard branch and bone and so had left his torso exposed; when the cage crunched into the ground, knurled branches and knobbled bones thudded into his exposed kidneys and ribcage. He was winded. Of all the fights he’d lost in high school, the worst was to a Scottish boy named Murray who had hammered his freckled fist deep into Nicholas’s solar plexus, not only knocking every scrap of air out of him, but seeming to switch off his lungs so they wouldn’t draw back in. Nicholas was left humiliated, gasping, desperate for air. This was worse - he was drowning in pain.

He curled on his side, mouth wide, frantically willing a scrap of air to draw into his burning lungs. His diaphragm finally jittered alive and he sucked in a throaty gasp.

His eyes rolled, hunting for Quill.

The old woman was on the ground. She had clung to the cage as it fell, but it had rolled as it collapsed; only one leg had been caught beneath it, and now she strained to pull it from the splintery grid of spiny wood.