Absence_Whispers and Shadow Read online

  Imich’s charitable intentions deserted him when the monster stepped into the light. ‘Curse o’ the Black Eye!’ he stammered. ‘What’s happened to your face?’

  The monster responded by thrusting an arm out, encircling his throat with the bundle of kindling it was using for a hand. Then it yanked him forward, forcing him to his knees in the pouring rain. Imich wrestled desperately in its grip; using both hands to pull at the gnarled wood that was crushing his airway. But it was to no avail. Its grip was like a shrinking manacle and in a matter of seconds his strength faded and his arms dropped to his sides. The monster looked up at Della and swiped its woody claws across his face, sending a splatter of flesh and blood onto the wet cobbles.

  Give back what you took from me!

  A woman appeared in the doorway. For a few seconds she just stood there in silence, trying to make sense of the shadowy figures beyond her doorstep. But then a flash of lightning lit the street up in all its detail and she screamed - a lance of sound punctuated by a huge clap of thunder. Up and down the street doors began to open and armed villagers stepped out.

  But the monster wasn’t concerned. It remained where it was, holding Imich up to the rain like a prize. His arms hung by his side and his fingers dangled in rainwater. It waited for the first villagers to draw close before it consummated its deed - thrusting the sharp sticks of its other hand into the base of Imich’s neck. He twitched once and when the monster released him, his lifeless body fell back over his bent knees. His head cracked on the cobbles and came to rest with his ruined face bathed in the full light of the doorway.

  The monster fled up the street, limping heavily despite the adjustment it made after falling from the window. It ran past two stunned villagers and turned down a narrow passage. But before it disappeared into the night, the whispers spiralled up to Della with an icy promise: I will find you again - wherever you go.

  The first villager to recover went to Imich and bent over him. ‘His face... Look what she did to his face.’

  Behind him, the lady in the doorway collapsed, falling forward to join her husband on the cobbles. Further down the street, two men peered warily into the passage. One was armed with a sickle, but the other had only his fists to bunch.

  ‘Look!’ said the man with the sickle, pointing at the broken window. ‘We better see if Lady Arabell’s alright.’ He went to her front door accompanied by two others and drummed on it. She didn’t answer. But when they tried the door and found it unlocked the three of them rushed inside. Lights went on in most of the houses and villagers flooded the scene. Della recognised one of them as the blacksmith and he froze when he saw the slain man. He dropped to his knees beside him, pulled his shredded face to his chest and began to wail.

  The sickle bearer flew out of Lady Arabell’s house, braced his hands on a wall and purged the contents of his stomach into the gutter. The two who followed him in were close behind. They stepped out of her house as if in a trance and stood together as the rain flattened their hair - one holding his stomach, the other covering his eyes. ‘Lady Arabell’s dead,’ said the one holding his stomach. ‘It got her too.’

  At this the man who was braced on the wall spun around, gesticulating wildly with his sickle. ‘It! Come on Eble; tell it like you saw it. It was Jarl’s girl did this! You saw her as well as I did – limp and everything.’ There was a look of disbelief on the faces of the new arrivals and he turned to speak to them all now. ‘You didn’t see her as we did. Her face was all caved in and she’s got these bright green flints in her eyes. She killed Imich with a hand made of sticks; a witch if ever there was one.’ He looked to the men outside Lady Arabell’s house for support. ‘Ain’t that right?’

  ‘Aye. Hick’s right,’ said Eble. ‘It’s just like he says.’ The other man seemed unable to remove his hand from his face, but he gave them a nod of confirmation.

  ‘Must be her killed Rayle and his family,’ Hick went on. ‘We need to stop her tonight; before she can get to anyone else!... Let no man sleep until we have her in our possession. Go back to your families and secure your homes, then bring torches and weapons and meet me in the square. We’ll go to her house first… And if Jarl knows anything about this… Then we’ll see to him too.’

  There was growling approval from some of them. Others were still in shock. Yet they dispersed as bidden, their faces hardening to the black deeds ahead. The blacksmith was the only one who remained behind. He was still kneeling in the rain with Imich’s torn face pressed to his chest. His wailing had become sobs that could no longer be heard above the wind.

  Hick went to him and was brushed off when he gripped his shoulder. He set off to the square, but was called back after only a dozen steps.

  ‘Wait!’

  Hick spun around. The blacksmith’s upturned face was a wet winter moon, but his eyes were blazing feverishly within it. ‘I want to be there when you find her.’ He pushed himself to his feet, heaved Imich up from the cobbles and carried him through the open door.

  Della’s paralysis broke. As Hick waited for the blacksmith she streaked away. The events in the street had unfolded like a black play, contrived in every detail to portray her as a murderer. And she had been its unwilling front row spectator; bound and gagged by the horror of what was happening. She had come to the village with the mistaken belief she could help. But she had caused more blood to be spilt and had paved a path of vengeance, right up to her front door. She thought about what her uncle would say and wanted to cry.

  Time to Leave

  Della swept back into her body and leapt from the bed. She ran through to her uncle’s room and was dismayed to find him still Absent. She shook him hard - the agreed upon communication to appeal for an urgent return. In her mind’s eye she could see him drawing up at the hideaway and streaking back through the sky like a ghostly meteor.

  She went to his window, pressed her face to the rain streaked glass and squinted in the direction of the village. There was no sign of the villagers on the lane yet and if her uncle returned soon, they still had plenty of time to get away. She looked back at his serene face, biting her lip as if it would hasten his return. He could travel as fast as a falcon in Absence, but the hideaway was many miles away and he would be a while getting back. She decided to make use of the time and brought her backpack through. She took his out from under the bed and put them both by the door. He was always packed and ready to go. Inside his backpack would be a set of dry clothes, a blanket, a tinderbox with a flint and steel and a spare knife. There was a bit of space left near the top so she looked around to see if there was anything else worth taking. There was a whittling knife on his bedside table and a block of wood that was half rabbit, standing in a pile of shavings. There was nothing else except for the painting that hung on the wall opposite his bed. Her uncle was a simple man who took no pleasure in trinkets and ornamentation, but she had insisted he hung the painting there to brighten up what she thought was a dull room. It was one of her paintings - a red and gold sunrise set inside the outline of a face. It was called Inside Uncle’s Head and he had laughed when she gave it to him. Over the last year, whenever she complained to him about the weather, he would smile, tap his temple and claim brightly: The sun’s always shining in here. He had lots of sayings, but this was her current favourite and one she decided to illustrate. The painting, she explained would be the first thing he saw in the morning in case he ever needed reminding of his claim.

  She put the half whittled rabbit in his backpack and returned to the window. Her insides were now churning with guilt and anxiety. She had let her uncle down again, but she vowed to make it up to him. As soon as he got back she would tell him what happened after the monster grabbed her and what had just happened in the village. She looked back at the picture and wondered how his claim would hold up afterwards. Perhaps she would have to paint it again - with storm clouds instead of a sunrise.

  Ten minutes later the first torches appeared on the lane. But to Della it felt like a whole hou
r had passed; a period during which she raked her hair and bit her nails. And by the time she set eyes on those first flickering torches, her nerves were sizzling.

  She leapt from the window and shook her uncle again, her heart now galloping in her chest. Where was he? In his rush to get back had he exceeded the safe speed and lapsed into unconsciousness? She looked into his peaceful face, imagining him hanging comatose over a distant field. She grew almost hysterical with the idea and began pacing the room with her hands to her face. She watched the line of torches moving along the lane and wondered if the monster was following them.

  Another shake and her uncle was back in the room. ‘What is it?’ he said, jumping to his feet and bracing for a fight. ‘Is it here?’

  ‘No. But the villagers are coming,’ she said pulling him to the window. ‘Look. We’ve got to go. Now.’

  ‘The villagers. What’s happening? Do you think they found it?’

  ‘I think they’re coming for me,’ she replied in a jagged stutter.

  He looked into her frightened face with puzzled concern. ‘Look at you,’ he said, gripping her shoulders. ‘You’re scared stiff. Just take a breath and tell me what’s going on.’

  There was all of it to tell, but now his brown eyes were regarding her she couldn’t begin - urgency and guilt conspiring to form a huge fluttering mass in her chest. She knew she should say something, but all she could manage around the growing lump in her throat was, ‘I went out while you were away…They think I’m the monster and they’re coming to kill me.’

  Outside the line of torches were bunching up at their gate.

  ‘What? You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘Trust me. Please. I’ll tell you everything on the way.’ She mobilised all her power of persuasion and ignited it in her eyes.

  Her uncle hadn’t seen her so distressed in a long time, but he knew better than to press for details when a lynch mob was on its way to his door. ‘Okay,’ he said and actually smiled. ‘You ready?’

  She answered by whirling away and tossing him his backpack. They raced down the stairs, snatched forest cloaks from hooks and bounded through to the back door via the scullery. Her uncle slung the bolts and pushed her out. ‘Straight through the trees!’

  He rushed into the rain after her and jumped down the back steps. But the bottom step was slimy and wet and his boot slid beneath him, turning his ankle and sending him sprawling with a sharp cry.

  Della spun at the sound and raced back. She helped him to his feet, but as they started forward he went down again, splashing into the wet grass. ‘My ankle’s sprung damn it! Maybe broke. Help me back up the steps.’

  ‘What for? We have to go now! Lean on me. I’ll help you.’

  ‘No I’ll slow you down. You go on. Make for the caves at Davoll and hide in the one that looks like a keyhole. I’ll see them off and when I’ve strapped this up I’ll come find you.’

  ‘I can’t leave you here.’

  ‘You must!’ he pleaded, squeezing her arm until it hurt. ‘Their trackers are good. They’ll catch us up in no time if we go on like this.’

  He loosened his grip and smiled through a lash of rainy crosswind. She held his gaze. There was so much he didn’t know. How could she leave him to face the villagers in such broad ignorance? She thought about telling him the rest now, but there was no time - she could already hear tatters of angry voices, whipping around the house. She was about to insist on staying. But as she looked into his eyes she understood what a terrible mistake it would be. She couldn’t be with him when he went out to meet them. They were coming for her and were in no mood to be disappointed. If she stayed and they tried to take her, he would try to stop them. Anything could happen then, so it would be safer for him if she wasn’t there.

  ‘Okay, alright.’ She helped him up the steps and then hugged him, burying her head in his wet shirt. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Too… Now go.’ He pushed her away. ‘Don’t stop till you get to the caves. Assume they’re tracking and remember what I taught you.’

  Their eyes met for the last time then he disappeared through the door.

  Bent into the wind and grimacing against the rain, she raced for the black expanse of woods behind the house. She plunged into trees, forging a path where there wasn’t one, her arms up to protect her face. When there was enough cover between herself and the house she moved in an arc so she could see the front stoop. He had told her to go and she would. But not until she knew he was safe. She pressed up against a thick black trunk and peered around it - her heartbeat like blows from an axe.

  The villagers were halfway up the garden, fanning out across the wild flowers and trampling them down. There were perhaps twenty or thirty of them, most carrying torches that guttered and flared with every gust of wind. All carried some form of weapon. There were sickles and scythes and even cleavers and bread knifes – sharp metal that glinted menacingly in the torchlight.

  She heard the front door open and her uncle hobbled into view. He was holding a hoe in one hand and using it for support. What happened in the village had horrified her, but she got the feeling she was about to witness a much darker sequel.

  Jarl waited, his face impassive as the bristling wedge of men drew up before him. The man at the front lifted his torch, shedding light on his wet face.

  ‘Hick.’

  ‘Jarl,’ the man replied, speaking his name like a curse.

  ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Come on Jarl. Game’s up. We saw her!’

  Jarl frowned. ‘Saw who?’

  The blacksmith was standing behind Hick and he pushed in front of him now. ‘That witch you got in there killed my brother! Tore his throat out in front of his wife. Some here saw it with their own eyes. Now bring her out or I’ll come in there and get her myself.’

  Jarls eyes widened.

  ‘Now look Al. That’s a terrible thing that’s happened to your brother. But Della’s been here with me all night. Perhaps there’s another explanation.’

  ‘You calling them liars Jarl,’ he said, jerking a hand out behind him.

  ‘I’m calling no one. But this is no way to go on – turning up at a man’s house like this. Why don’t we wait for morning? Talk it through with the warden present.’

  ‘We found some of her prints in the mud!’ spat a voice from the back. ‘Same ones we were out tracking all day. Same ones you put us on.’

  ‘He’s in it with her!’ said another voice.

  ‘Aye,’ said Al, almost frothing at the mouth. ‘That or she put a spell on you. Which way it is, don’t so much matter right now. Just bring her out so she can answer for what she’s done.’

  ‘I’ll not bring her out to this,’ said Jarl, gesturing out at the sea of hard faces and pointed tools. ‘Bring the warden and we’ll talk to him.’

  Al leapt onto the stoop. ‘You bastard! Get out of my way.’

  Jarl took a grimacing step to bar his way, but Al shoved him against the front of the house, whipped out a knife and stabbed him in the chest. Jarl stiffened and gasped. There was a moment of complete stillness; Al holding the knife in place and Jarl staring at him in surprise. Then Jarl dropped onto the boards with both hands clutched to his chest and blood blossoming on his shirt. The mob regarded his dying face with grim satisfaction, then trampled over his dead body and into the house.

  Della saw him collapse on the stoop and felt the Membrane open to receive him. She cried out as his soul drained into the void; gripping the tree like a limpet. He had been her companion for over five hundred years and as the Membrane closed up again she felt some vital part of herself go after him. He had gone Absent for the last time and this time his Absence would be forever.

  Her instinct was to run to him. To fight her way to the stoop, for one last chance of holding him. She didn’t care what the villagers did to her after that because her very existence felt wrong now she was alone in it.

/>   Yet she didn’t move.

  Another force kept her at the tree. In her grief stricken state the consciousness she harboured rose unchallenged. Its fate was bound to hers and it wasn’t about to surrender her to an angry mob. It forced her to breathe; to taste the first breaths of a world without her uncle, then it ran her deeper into the forest.

  The back door opened and light spilled out.

  ‘There she is!’ shouted a man with an outstretched arm; signposting her to those that followed. She was crashing through the woods now with no thought to stealth and they picked her out easily. They poured out after her, some slipping on the same step her uncle went down on. And as they ran for the woods the first flames appeared in her bedroom window.

  Outcast

  Kye looked out across the lake, willing his sister to make an appearance. He knew she was out there somewhere, watching him from beneath the water and he could feel her gaze as surely as the sun on his face. It had been weeks since he had seen her, and every day that passed without her was making his life that little bit harder to bear.

  He sat down on a patch of grass and shook the flour from his hair. Then he pulled his braces off and leant back, propping himself up on an elbow to waft his shirt. It had been another hot day at the mill and it was a relief to be out in the fresh air.

  It wasn’t the first time Emilie had refused to speak to him. There were two previous occasions, but neither had lasted anything like this long. This episode was unravelling on the back of a heated argument during which she had told him he shouldn’t be visiting her anymore. She said he needed to make friends; to find some connection beyond the lake and to let go of what happened. He had heard it all before – numerous times. But what had troubled him more, was her strange behaviour. She had kept her distance; choosing to stay out on the lake as they talked, instead of coming to the water’s edge like she usually did. And she had asked him a string of bizarre questions. She wanted to know what the raspberries he had been eating tasted like; what the grass felt like between his fingers; and if his damp shirt chaffed his body. Strangest of all - she wanted him to explain the difference between hard and soft and rough and smooth. He laughed at her questions at first, but it only made her angry and in the end he had humoured her. The fall out had followed soon after.