Blackened (5 page)

My plan was to go into my bedroom, wrap up in a blanket then sneak out into the garden to meet Bethan, but with Father standing there it seems as though my plan will have to wait.

A hand – his hand – appears. It clings to the very edge of the banister like a crab clinging to a rock. This hand is foreign to me. Pale beyond pale, translucent. Blue veins popping through rubbery, blanched skin. It is the hand of an ancient person, not the hand of a man in his early forties. The nails are bitten to the quick. Peeling skin edged with dried blood surrounds each nail. They are the nails of an anxious man living on the edge of his nerves. Black wiry hairs smear the skin.

Right now, this hand brings only the discordant chimes of terror. Once upon a time, a long time ago, so long ago that it hardly seems real, this hand – the sight of it – the feel of it as it closed around mine – brought a beauteous harmony into my life. It brought love, peace and happiness. But as I stare at this hand now, I am struck by the thought of how easily it could wrap itself around my throat.

I am weak with fear, shaky with hunger. A cold draft whips through the landing chilling me to my core.

I transfer my weight from my right foot to my left and a loud creak breaks the silence like a sudden boom of thunder. My entire body tenses, but fortunately the sound works in my favour; Father abruptly turns and rushes downstairs, leaving me to dash into my bedroom and throw myself face down on the bed.

Hot, silent tears run down my cold cheeks. I am so tired. Drained, both emotionally and physically.

I decide to rest my eyes for a few minutes; just long enough to regain enough energy for my meeting with Bethan. But within moments sleep has taken over and I am catapulted into a murky landscape of man-eating jackdaws and faceless figures in black.

When I wake, I am drenched and shivering, but the hope that Bethan will be in the garden transports me into the kitchen.

I stuff stale bread into my mouth and hurry out into the garden, caring not that each hailstone is the size of a butter bean. All I care about is seeing her. She is my hope, my shining light.

But when I get outside all I see is her black cloak spread out on the grass like an arrow pointing the way. Where is she? Glancing around, all I can see are hailstones and blurs of trees.

“Bethan?” I whisper urgently, “Bethan? Bethan!”

But the only answer is the whooshing wind and the clattering hailstones.

My face is stinging and I am shuddering uncontrollably but my desire to find her conquers all else and I follow the direction of her cloak, going further into the dark garden than I have ever been before.

C
HAPTER 5
G
ONE

Braying, lashing wind. Gnawing hailstones. Clawing, biting cold. The weather is raging. It is three drooling wolves on me all at once, but I will not cower to them. 

My eyes adjust to the ice-fractured gloom. I step beyond the halfway point of the garden and turn to glance back at the cottage. A looming black square. The lights are out. It must be later than I thought. Perhaps that is the reason for Bethan's absence.

Going beyond the halfway point sends thrills of excitement and fear coursing through me. I am breaking Father's rules. I am playing with fire. I am also venturing into an unknown scape in the dead of night.

Tremors run the length of my body, but I do not succumb. I keep going.

The garden grows wild. Prickly weeds stand as high as my knees in great, thick, tangled clumps. They tear at my dress and rip through my skin.

For once, I wish I was wearing shoes. Wincing, I pick my way carefully through, thinking that if I am kind to them they will be less harsh to me.

The wind screeches in my ear; it is angry at me, speaking to me, warning me to go no further. The hailstones grow larger by the second. Soon they shall be the size of conkers. Soon the pain will be too much.

The weeds finally clear and I realise I have reached the end of the garden. A rushing river, four yards wide. A makeshift bridge in the form of a slat of slippery wood.

The water looks deep. The bank is steep and muddy. Gingerly, I lift my skirts and step onto the plank. It is sturdy, but its high sheen makes me wary. The wind seems to pick up, battering me, disturbing my balance as I try to move forward.           

A huge gust slams into my right side. I teeter on the edge, but manage to throw myself forward, landing on the other side on my hands and knees. Shaky and bruised, I pick myself up, wipe my mucky hands on my white dress and carry on into some dense woods.

The wind's cries are dulled by the heavily packed trees and the hail cannot reach me as easily. However, with no light from the cottage and only a sliver of moon, I am almost blind. My hands and feet become my eyes. My heart thunders. It requires every ounce of willpower not to turn and run back to Blackened Cottage. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that I will see Bethan again.

My hand touches the damp, scratchy bark of a tree and something sickeningly slimy. I flinch away and bring my fingertips to my nose. It is just my imagination or is that rich metallic scent really what I think it is? I taste. One little lick. Coppery sweetness. Blood. Fresh, warm blood. Bethan's? An injured animal's?

I walk faster. If there is a victim, there must be a predator. Suddenly, I feel as though the trees have eyes. I am being watched. I begin to run. I trip on a root, stumble, fall onto my hands and knees, jerk my neck. I get up. Run. Bare feet pounding slippery ground. Branches tearing the skin on my face, arms, thighs. I trip again and then I am falling...

*

A dead rat lies on the black soil one inch from my eye, hunched over, little pink feet brought up to touch little pink hands.

Its fingers are remarkably human, topped with clean, perfectly formed nails. It has large petal-shaped ears that are smooth and soft. Its furry coat is a blend of soft and dark brown shades. Firm yet delicate black whiskers fan out from its baby pink snout. Its eye is missing; a clean black ring encircles a glistening purple shell where the eyeball should be. Scarlet jelly spills from its open mouth.

I jerk upright into a sitting position and look around. It is the first light of morning. The sky is off-white, sun hidden by a map of cloud. Tall slim-barrelled trees surround me, their branches bare, their skin silver. The wood-floor is sloppy and a mouldy swamp smell penetrates the area. The ground is flat where I am, but it slopes upwards gradually, and I can make out conifers in the distance. Leaves mean life, which gives me hope.

I stand stiffly, stretch my neck and arms. My dress is thick with mud. My hands and legs are caked with crusted blood. A big lump throbs on my left temple. 

Still, as Mama says, I am strong. I will keep going until I find Bethan. After all that she has done for me, I owe her that much at least.

I continue down the hill, more confident with the light of day to guide me.

For hours, I walk and walk and walk. The woods never change; every direction I walk, every way I look, the trees are the same: tall, bare, lifeless. Even the sky remains the same monotonous grey-white. No rain falls, no wind stirs. The air is cold and damp, saturating my bones with a stiffening chill. The only sounds I hear are the calls of birds. Some high, quick and urgent, others low and melancholy. None warming.

I am starting to lose hope when a new sound catches at the air. A laugh. A high, tinkling laugh. Bethan!

She bursts out from behind a tree to my right and throws her arms around me.

I hold her at arm's length and stare at her, confusion warring with relief.

“Lissie you came! You actually came to find me! You actually left that godforsaken place all on your own!”

“What happened to you? Is everything all right? I saw your cloak and you were nowhere to be seen and I grew increasingly worried that you were hurt, so I came looking for you.”

She laughs and kisses my cheek, “I was just playing a little game. Or maybe it was a test – I am not sure. Anyhow, it worked! It really worked!”

“What worked?”

“My plan to get you away from that horrible cottage.”

“What?”

It dawns on Bethan that I am angry. She begins to apologise but it is too late. I storm away from her, hot, salty tears glistening in my eyes.

Bethan runs after me and grabs my shoulder, “Lissie! Look, I am sorry, but it was for your own good. You might not see it now but later you will and you will thank me for it.”

I shake her hand off and glare at her coldly, “Just take me back.”

Her eyes search mine frantically but I am not ready to forgive her. She seems to realise and shrugs, muttering under her breath, “I did it for your own good.”

I am so enraged that I do not speak to her until we reach the river at the end of the garden.

“Please do not come to see me for a good few days,” I say.

I cannot meet her eyes.

Bethan nods, says nothing.

I turn sharply and hurry across the little bridge. On reaching the other side, I fear I have been too harsh. I turn and say her name, but she has gone.

*

Dear Mama,

I am a silly, stupid girl. I opened up my heart to her and look what happened.

She tricked me, lured me out of the cottage, out of the safety of my normal surroundings into the wilderness.

I do not know if I can forgive her or trust her, or if indeed I should. She gave me something to smile about again, but she also made me feel like a dancing fool.

Bethan perhaps did not realise the huge significance of my leaving the house. Indeed, as you will be well aware, I took an enormous risk when I stepped beyond the garden of Blackened Cottage.

What do you think Mama? Should I give Bethan another chance? My heart cannot handle any more distress. I thought she was here to heal me, but perhaps she is the devil in disguise.

I look forward to reading your response.

Lisbeth

*

Days pass. Nights pass. I exist. Barely.

On the seventh night, I creep out into the garden and look for Bethan. I climb our oak tree and scan the darkness but all I see are layers of shadow. Shadow upon shadow upon shadow. I wait for hours. She does not come.

*

My Dear Sweet Lisbeth,

Trust me my darling. You are doing precisely the right thing by staying away from that spiteful girl. She is nothing but a spoilt, selfish, little madam who loves to play with the feelings of others for her own sick, twisted amusement. You should conceive of this as a blessing; you have discovered her true colours before she had the chance to fully sink her teeth into you.

I am sorry to say this Lisbeth, but isolation is the only key to your survival. I had hoped you would reach this conclusion by yourself, but it seems that I must tell it to you directly. You see, my darling, you have a sensitive, fragile spirit that is easily influenced. Therefore, you must do as I say and stay away from anyone other than sweet little Eddie. Stay away from your Father. Stay away from Bethan. But most importantly of all, stay within the grounds of the cottage. It is not safe for you out there – who knows who you may happen upon or what unsavoury things you may discover!

Trust me sweetheart, you are safer in Blackened Cottage. You are safer alone.

Remember I only say this because I love you.

Mama

*

I sit in the deepest part of Blackened Cottage, charcoal in hand, candlelight my only friend. I listen: faintly whooshing wind, rustling leaves, a heavy sigh – my own.

I am drowsy from crying. My eyes ringed with shadow, my lids puffed up like snails.

Two weeks have passed since I last saw Bethan. Two weeks have I been drowning in regret.

Mama's letter, full of logic and reason, consoled me for a day or so and then my heart took hold.

I know that I cannot live without her; she is a part of me now. She is the light dispelling the shadow, she helps me to be again. When I am with her, I feel a repressed part of myself budding into life. She is nurturing water, gay sunlight, fresh blood flowing in my veins.

I do not simply want her - I need her.

My vision is blurry, but I begin to draw. Slowly and carefully at first, then quickly, carelessly, passionately, hungrily. Shards of charcoal spit at the air, black dust smokes and whirls around me. My teeth sink into my lip, my head swirls with images: her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her mouth. Such is my obsession that I become deaf to my surroundings. All I see and feel and know is her; all I am is the effect she has on me. We are two sides of the same coin. One without the other and we live a half-life, a life devoured by despair, shattered by loneliness.

My fingers are bruised and my lip is bleeding when I finally stop.

Hands shaking, I lift her to my face and smile. Blood glazes my teeth and oozes down my chin.

It is her. It is Bethan. I have captured her; in a moment of abandon and madness, I have brought her to life on the page.

I savour the moment. I kiss her twisted lips. The scarlet blood on my lips mixes with the black charcoal.

As I admire her face, I realise what I must do.

Gripping the drawing in both hands, I mount the cellar steps two at a time and dash through the kitchen out into the night-masked garden.

*

She is here. Somehow I knew she would be. She is naked once again. Her unblemished back to me, her silken black hair falling to her delicate waist.