The Near Witch (10 page)

C
ECILIA
’
S HOUSE IS A TANGLE
of bodies.

My newfound strength begins to leach away as hands guide me in, and the bodies shift to make room. The last time I saw so many in such a small space, it was for my father’s wake. Even the mood is the same. Too much bustling and shifting and chatting, as if it can all cover up the worry and pain. And loss. They act as if Cecilia’s already dead. I feel as though I’ve swallowed rocks.

All around the room the women are whispering, wringing hands and bowing heads together.

“They aren’t searching hard enough.”

“Why hasn’t Otto found them?”

“First Edgar, now Cece. How long can this go on?”

Cecilia’s mother, Mrs. Porter, is sitting on the edge of a kitchen chair, her twiggish arms clutching another woman’s shoulder as her sobs burst out in spasms. Her friend shushes her. I wind through the room.

“The window, the window,” Mrs. Porter says over and over. “It was latched inside and out. How could…” She shakes her head and continues in this way, rambling, repeating herself as the women weave themselves around her. I scan the room in search of my uncle, but he’s nowhere to be found. No men are, in fact. They must all be out searching. I draw near, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how. Someone touches my elbow, mutters my name. I press my way through the sea of women until I’m there beside her.

“Mrs. Porter,” I say softly, and she looks up. I kneel so that I’m looking up at her. She is back to staring at her clasped hands, muttering of windows.

“Did you notice anything odd?”

She shakes her head harder, her eyes red. She opens her mouth but doesn’t speak, and I think for a moment she might scream. The question earns me stern looks from around the room, and a couple of clucking sounds, as if I’m just supposed to sit and sob with everyone else.

“Mrs. Porter,” I persist.

“I told them already,” she says, her head still swaying side to side. “The window. We keep the window latched. Cece—” She stifles a cry. “She liked to wander, so we put two latches on the window, one inside and one out. I locked them. I know I did. But this morning they were both open.”

I frown. “Did Cecilia say anything last night…out of the ordinary?”

“No, nothing,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, thin. “She seemed cheerful, humming and playing.”

My skin prickles. “Humming? Did you know the song?”

She gives a small shrug. “You know the children, always singing something.…”

“Try to remember,” I press. Her eyes are still fixed on a piece of wall across the room.

She swallows and begins to hum a quiet tune, full of broken notes and awkward pauses, but I know it. A chill runs through me as her voice trails off. My fingers are digging into my palms, and I wince as I flex my hands, leaving tiny crescents on my skin.

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything—”

“That’s quite enough, Lexi,” warns one of the women, and I realize Mrs. Porter’s song has trailed off from the melody and into quiet sobs. Suddenly there are several pairs of eyes narrowing on me. I place my hands over Mrs. Porter’s, give a small squeeze, and whisper an apology as I push myself up. My eyes scan the room, trying to pick out something, anything.

A doorway leads into a hall, and suddenly I want nothing more than to get there, into that hollow space and away from these women.

The bent form of Mrs. Porter reminds me too much of my own mother, hunched first over my father’s bed, and then over her baking, mourning silently as the village spilled out of our house. A tangle of arms and legs, hugs and kisses and stroked hair, the low murmur of prayers, the gentle grip of fingers.

I slip down the hall toward Cecilia’s room, turn the handle, and vanish within.

The covers have been tossed back. There is a rug beyond the bed, one corner flicked up as if a small pair of feet scuffed along the floor, still half asleep.

And there, the window, now shut. I run my fingers over the inside latch. There’s a mirroring one on the other side. The outside latch is still open, but the inside one has been locked again. I push the metal bar to the side, and the latch slides free. I test the frame with my fingers, but the wood is old, stiff. I doubt a child of six could move it up. I pull, and the wood slides up a foot with a loud groan, forcing me to cast a quick glance behind me. Beyond the window, the weedy ground rolls away, and the only signs of trespass are a few trampled patches several yards off, where men’s boots have pressed the grass flat. There are no signs of a fall or a jump, no place just outside the window where feet met the ground. No marks at all. I’m about to turn back when I remember Cole, and the wind-swept path.

At first I see nothing, nothing but a few roofs in the distance. And then, slowly, the world shifts, some shapes settling back, others jumping out. A shadow appears, longer than it should be, given how high the sun is. It almost looks as if the tangled grass is bending, arcing away, just the way it did by Edgar’s house. I gather my skirt and bring my boot up to the sill, shifting my weight so I can jump through.

“Run him out of town.”

I lurch back into the room, pressing myself to the wall beside the window. My breath catches so fast in my throat I almost choke. My uncle and several others have rounded the corner of Cecilia’s house, grumbling as they stop just beyond the window.

“And let him get away?”

“Risk him coming back? No.” The voice cuts through the fresh air, gruff and low. Otto. My fingers wrap around the thin curtain by the window.

“Eric says he saw him around here in the middle of the night,” joins Mr. Ward. “Says he’s sure of it.” Eric Porter. Cecilia’s father.

“What time?” asks Otto.

“Late. Eric says he couldn’t sleep, was standing on the porch, and he swears he saw that boy lurking.”

A lie. It has to be. Cole said he saw me and decided to follow. He would never have been over this way. And then we never came by here together. My fingers tighten on the fabric until my knuckles go white. Fear must be making phantoms.

“Is that all the evidence you’ve got?” counters Bo, with a sickening air of disinterest. I can picture him shrugging as he digs the dirt from under his nails with his hunting knife.

“He’s a creep,” spits Tyler, and I remember his face in the hall, wounded pride and something worse.

Tyler. If he’s here, then Otto knows I’m not at home. I swallow and press myself into the wall beside the window. I had better make the most of today.

“What more do we need?” adds Tyler.

“Sadly, boy,” joins an old man, sounding tired but patient, “a bit more than that.” I know the voice. Slow and even. The third member of the Council, Master Matthew.

“But that’s not all Eric said,” Mr. Ward presses. “He said he was watching the stranger, real close, and that one moment he was there, and the next he just broke apart. Vanished.”

My heart lurches as I remember that first night I saw Cole. My ears ring with the sound of shutters slamming closed.

“What do you mean?” growls Otto.

“Vanished. Right before his eyes.”

“Haven’t you noticed there’s no clues, Otto? No tracks? Maybe this has something to do with that.”

“He’s involved.”

“We need to get rid of him.”

Nothing good grows out of fear
, my father said.
It’s a poisonous thing.

“And if he didn’t do it?”

“He did it.”

“I bet we could get him to talk,” says Tyler. I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell us where they are, the children.”

“You forget the sisters are protecting him,” says Master Matthew.

“But who is protecting
them
?”

There’s a long silence.

“Now hold on,” says another nervously.

“We don’t want to—”

“Why? You can’t tell me you’re actually afraid of those witches. They’re all dried up and their craft is too.”

“Why shouldn’t we march up there and demand the stranger?”

“Why should we wait for more children to vanish?” my uncle growls. “This all started when that boy arrived. How many more children will we lose? Jack, you have a boy. Are you willing to lose Riley because you were afraid of two old witches? My sister-in-law has two girls, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.

“Matthew,” Otto says in appeal, and I picture the Council member, his face softer than the others, his blue eyes almost sleepy behind the small spectacles on his nose.

The other men murmur approval. Matthew must have nodded. I can make out the sound of metal against the house stones. Guns?

I risk a small step along the wall.

“Let’s go, then,” my uncle booms, and the others rally. “This ends now.” He slams his hand against the side of the house, and I jump, knocking a low shelf. My heart races as the voices fade, their words echoing in my head. They’re building a case of lies against him. But right now, with children missing and no one to blame, lies will be enough.

I have to warn Cole.

I turn south down the path that Dreska took, the one that curves around the town square, the ground falling away beneath my father’s boots. This path is winding, so the men will never take it, and if I hurry, I might make it to the sisters first.

I run along the outskirts of the village. In my mind, Cole bleeds into sight on the dark moor, eyes shining. A gust of wind whips through, and he vanishes, like smoke.

I push the thought away and hurry east.

I
PULL MY SLEEVES DOWN
and scold myself for not dressing warmer. The wind is biting as I climb the hill to the low stone wall. When the sisters’ house comes into sight, my chest tightens, partly from the exertion of running, and partly from the sudden relief of seeing the cottage untouched. I’ve beaten my uncle’s men here. I hoist myself over the wall and hesitate.

The place is too quiet, too closed.

The edge of the shed peeks out from behind the house, but Cole’s gray cloak is absent from its nail.

I reach the sisters’ door, and I’m just about to knock when I hear voices within, muffled words, and then my name. It is a strange thing, the way the world goes quiet when we hear our own name, as though the walls grow thin to make way. My fist uncurls and comes to rest, fingers splayed against the door. I slide closer, straining to listen. But the words are muffled again, so I slip around the corner to the next wall, where a window has been cut roughly into the cottage. The glass is old and the wood frame cracking, and through the sliver of space, the voices leak out.

“Lexi found a child’s sock nearby.”

I glance over the sill and see Cole’s narrow frame in the dim room, his back to me. He’s sitting in a chair by the hearth, staring at the cool dark stones while Dreska fidgets around him, her long knotted cane scraping the floor as she goes. Magda unpacks something from her basket, muttering. Cole looks wrong inside the cottage, without the wind and the tangled grass. He takes up no more space than the chair.

“Is that all? No other trace?”

“One thing,” Cole says, standing. He goes to the mantel, his long pale fingers moving over it. “A wind-swept path tracing over the moor. Faint. I showed Lexi.”

Magda’s eyebrows arch, wrinkles multiplying. “Where did it lead?” she asks.

“Here.”

Dreska lets out a small hiss. “But the villagers have had no luck.”

Dreska’s next words are muffled, and I stretch to get a better look, some scattered rocks shifting beneath my feet.

“And I don’t expect they will,” says Magda grimly.

“And Lexi?” asks Dreska, turning toward the window as if she means to ask
me
something. I duck, just before her gaze finds me.

“She doesn’t know what to make of it,” he says.

My skin prickles.
Make of what?

“She will.” Dreska’s voice is too close this time, just beyond the glass, and I duck lower, pulse pounding in my ears so loudly I can barely hear the words.

“If you don’t tell her…” Dreska adds before moving deeper into the cottage, her voice fading out. Cole replies, but he’s moved away too, and it’s nothing but muffled sounds by the time it reaches me. I hurry back to the front of the house, hoping to catch more.

But instead the front door swings open, and I’m standing face-to-face with Cole.

I fight the urge to turn and run, even to take a step back. Instead I find his eyes and hold them with mine.

“Tell me what, Cole?” I ask, quiet and angry. His mouth opens and closes just a fraction, his frown deepening. But then his jaw sets, and he says nothing. I let out an exasperated sigh and turn, walking away. Unbelievable. I’m risking my uncle’s wrath to help him, and he won’t even tell me the truth.

“Lexi, wait.” Cole’s voice cuts through the wind in my ears, and then he’s beside me. He goes to take my arm, to pull me to a stop, but his fingers only hover over my skin.

“Just let me explain,” he says, but I walk faster. Too fast. My shoe hits a stone, launching me down the hill. I close my eyes, brace myself, but I never fall. I feel cool arms around my shoulders, and I sense Cole’s heart beating through his skin. I pull away, the wind tugging at my hair, my dress.

He folds his arms across his chest.

“Lexi, what you heard—”

I run my hand through my hair. “Cole, I’m trying to help you.”

He frowns but doesn’t look away. “I know—”

“But I can’t possibly do that if you’re keeping secrets from me.”

“You don’t—”

“Everyone in town wants to blame
you
for the missing children. My uncle and the Council are coming for you
right now
.”

I look back down the hill to the grove and the narrow path Otto’s men will take, but no one’s there. Still, I imagine I can hear the sound of twigs and leaves cracking underfoot, deep in the trees. Cole follows my gaze.

“This way,” he says, gesturing past the cottage to the shed. An actual crack, this one unmistakable, comes from the trees below, and I let him lead me past the shed, the grove and the hill and the sisters’ house vanishing behind the slouching wooden beams.

Cole turns to the rolling hills. I reach out, bringing my hand to his shoulder, and he tenses but doesn’t pull away. I press my fingertips against him, testing him.

“What haven’t you told me?” I ask.

And for a moment I think he’ll actually tell me. I can see him juggling the words inside his head. Fumbling. I tried to juggle once, with three apples I’d found in the pantry. But I just ended up bruising them all so badly my mother had to make apple bread. The whole time I was trying, I kept getting lost in the movements. I couldn’t concentrate on all of them at once.

I wish Cole would give me an apple. And then he looks at me, and there’s that same sad, almost smile, like he’s decided to pass me one, but he knows I can’t juggle either. Like there’s no reason for both of us to bruise things any more than needed.

I hold out my hand.

“Let me help.”

He stares at my upturned palm.

“You want to know my story,” he says, staring so hard that I think he must be counting the creases in my hand.

“Once, long ago, there was a man and a woman, and a boy, and a village full of people. And then the village burned down. And then there was nothing.”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to go on. But Cole turns away, makes his way to the point where Near falls away and the moor takes hold. I have never been to the sea, but Magda told me stories about rolling waves that go on forever. I imagine it would look like this, only blue.

“You’re not very good at telling stories,” I say, hoping to coax a smile, but he looks so sad, staring out at the moor. The wind around us is whistling, pushing, and pulling.

Then I understand. “Your village burned down?” I ask, staring at his gray clothes, their singed look, and realizing suddenly why he hates the name I’ve given him.

“Oh God, Cole…I mean…”

“It’s fine, Lexi. It’s a fine name.”

“Just tell me your real one.”

He turns away, his jaw tensing. “Cole is fine. It’s growing on me.”

I hear the door to the cottage swing open, and the sisters hobbling out, Dreska’s cane knocking on the ground.

I walk back toward the shed and catch sight of them in the yard. Dreska’s hard eyes flick toward us before moving over the path down the hill. I feel Cole come up behind me.

“How did you survive?” I ask, before I can stop myself. He stares at me, weighing his words in his mouth like they are trying to crawl back down his throat.

“The fire was my fault,” he whispers.

“How?” I ask. But he begs me with a look, all pain and loss and something worse. He is trying to keep his breath steady, even, his jaw clenching as if he’s afraid he might cry. Or scream. I can tell because it’s how I felt right after my father’s death, like I wanted to shout but all the air had been stolen from my lungs. Like if I opened up one part of me, all of it would pour out. Cole closes his eyes, and his hands wrap around his ribs, as if that will keep him contained.

“Lexi,” he says, “I’m not—”

But then the men’s voices break through, Otto’s above the rest.

As if wakened from a trance, Cole’s eyes open wide, dark and gray, his mouth forming a thin line. I push him into the shadow of the shed, pressing him back against the wood.

Peering around the corner, I can just make out the men at the edge of the grove below. They seem to be fighting. Otto gestures up the hill impatiently. Several men gesture back before retreating against the tree line. They don’t seem so bold now, with the witches waiting at the top of the hill. Otto huffs, turns, and makes his way up the slope alone.

Dreska casts a warning glance toward the shed, then crosses her arms and sighs, facing the path.

Magda slips down into the patch of dirt, murmuring uselessly to the bare earth and brushing her fingers back and forth in her childlike way. Otto approaches.

Cole and I huddle against the shed. My hand brushes his, and he slips his fingers through mine. My pulse skips at his touch.

“What brings you to the edge of Near?” asks Dreska, appraising my uncle. I hug the corner of the shed, stealing glances around the edge.

“I need to speak to the stranger,” says Otto.

Cole’s hand tenses in mine.

Dreska’s frown deepens, and overhead the clouds begin to gather. She takes a deep breath.

“Otto Harris. We saw you born.”

Magda unfolds herself. “We watched you grow.”

When the sisters speak, there is a strange echo to their voices, so that when one stops and the other starts, they blend in to each other.

My uncle just shakes his head impatiently. “The Council has concerns about the stranger’s presence,” he says. “About his reasons for being here.”

“We are older than the Council.”

“And we, too, watch over Near.”

“The boy has done nothing. We vouch for him.”

Otto’s gaze hardens. “And what do your words mean?” he barks. His eyes dance with frustration, crease with fatigue. Without the other men, he is not standing as straight, and I remember his hunched form over the table, head in his stained hands. He takes a breath and cools.

“Two children are missing, and that boy you harbor is under suspicion,” he says, rubbing his beard.

“Evidence?”

“Witnesses.” He ignores a short cough from Magda. “Now, what do you know of it?” His face is settling into its hard lines, burying the fatigue beneath his beard, behind his eyes.

“Now you care for the thoughts of two old hags?” spits Dreska.

“The Council knows who is taking the children,” adds Magda with a wave of her dirt-caked fingers.

“Don’t waste my time,” he growls. “Not with that rubbish.”

“All Near knows.”

“All Near forgets.”

“Or tries.”

All Near tries to forget? Before I can make sense of it, the sisters’ voices begin to overlap, and the sound is haunting.

“But we remember.”

“Stop it,” says Otto, shaking his head. He straightens, squaring his shoulders. “I need to speak to him. The stranger.”

The sky is darkening, threatening rain.

“He is not here.”

Magda’s gnarled hand flutters through the air. “Out on the moor.”

“Somewhere out there. We do not know.”

“It is a very large moor, after all.”

Otto frowns. He does not believe a word of it.

“I will ask you one last time—”

“Or
what
, Otto Harris?” growls Dreska. I swear I can feel the earth rumble.

Otto takes a breath before meeting her gaze. When he speaks, his words are slow and measured. “I do not fear you.”

“Neither did your brother,” says Magda. The ground beneath us begins to shift, just a ripple, but enough to make the house stones groan. “But at least he respected us.”

Several stray drops of rain splash down on us. The wind is bristling. I think I feel Cole’s hand slip away from mine, but when I look over he’s still there, his eyes staring straight ahead but unfocused.

Otto mutters something I cannot hear, and then, louder, “But I will.” And with that, I hear his boots scuff the ground as he turns away. Cole shifts his weight beside me, leaning deeper against the shed. The boards creak. His eyes light up with panic, and I catch my breath. My uncle’s heavy footsteps grind to a halt. When he speaks again his voice is frighteningly close to the shed.

“He’s here now, I know it.”

The footsteps grow louder and louder, and Cole casts a troubled glance at me. He seems thinner in the growing wind. I have to do something. If Otto finds me, it will be bad. But if he finds Cole, it will be much worse. I mutter a curse beneath my breath, then release his hand and force my feet to carry me out from my shelter and into my uncle’s path. He staggers back to keep from barreling into me.

“Uncle,” I say, trying not to wince as his look turns from shock to anger.

“
This
is where you’ve run off to?” Otto’s hand encompasses my arm as he pulls me toward him. I don’t have a lie ready, so I opt for silence. Behind me, the boards give another loud groan.

Otto shoves me out of his way as he rounds the corner of the shed, and I bite my tongue to keep from shouting
NO!
But the look he shoots me when he turns back is enough to tell me Cole isn’t there.

Otto says nothing, only grabs me and spins me back past the sisters’ house and onto the path home. His sudden silence worries me more than any amount of shouting. He pushes me ahead of him like a prisoner, and it takes all my will to not look back.