Crik (3 page)

Extended to twice his length Yang slipped his hands into a dirty puddle and, ignoring Jack’s waving arms, threw the water over Liza’s white skirt. She wailed in disgust and outrage, before disappearing in a ground hugging mist.

‘I’ll get you Yin,’ she cried from the departing cloud.

‘Liza, wait for me,’ called Dwayne, trailing after the fleeing mist that sped toward the meadow.

Shaking his head Jack wanted to admonish his wayward twin, useless as that would prove. At least they were now alone in the street. With a quickened heart, he marched from his gate and up the road. He began to jog outside Miss Mistletoe’s house, and was running by the time he passed the rundown Space house, with the rotting wheelbarrow leaning against the gap-toothed fence. His eyes fastened on the rosebush.

Hoping Liza was right, that Bill’s grandparents were by the river, he stopped beside the red and white flowers. Beneath the thorns and twisted stems, he looked at the earth, seeing no sign of the disturbance the Giant had wrought the previous night. Perturbed by the lack of evidence he turned. Only one torn flower lay on the cobblestones. Picking up the rose, he knew anyone else would presume the storm had caused it to fall.

Jack did not know whether Yang had seen the night visitor before he had extinguished the light. Glancing at Yang he hoped his shadow did not call attention to them; he needed to know what the Giant had left here. On hands and knees, he pushed his fingers into the yielding soil. He buried the Blue Leaf, Grandma Poulis used in her tea, in handfuls of dirt. With cold sweat already dampening his hairline he peered up at the windows of the house. The curtains were open, though no doubt Bill, sleeping at the back of the house, still had his shut. Bill always slept late; his grandparents were early risers, with Grandpa Poulis taking their dog Wolfen, known as Wolf to everyone else, out for a walk as far as the surrounding wood. As he continued to dig, Jack hoped Grandpa Poulis, after hearing about the body floating in the Tristle, had returned to fetch his wife.

Yang helped, using his dark fingers to delve beneath Jack’s own. Perhaps his own strange actions piqued his shadow’s curiosity, or had Yang sensed something buried deep in the ground? Knowing his twin’s propensity toward the macabre perturbed his thoughts. Instead of handfuls of wet earth, he now slackened his pace, scraping the dirt back with wary fingers, unsure whether he wished to discover what lay beneath the sodden ground.

With a troubled brow, he touched an object. Although the smooth round surface could belong to a hidden stone, the warmth emanating from its touch belayed any illusion; this was what the Giant had left. Yang moved back as Jack carefully brushed away a thin layer of dirt, revealing a golden sphere, no larger than a cricket ball. It looked precious. With shaking fingers, he removed more grime from the sphere.

With the ball out in the open, Jack fell back onto his haunches, scrutinising the golden globe. By its shape and size, he guessed it to be either an egg or a nut. His mother would know; she understood seeds, and nuts, only he did not want to show it to her. She may want to grow it, as she had done with the seed she had found, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to see what grew from the nut the Giant had planted.

A narrow silver line zigzagged down its centre, splitting the gold in two. If not for the rising sun striking the silver, he would have missed the singular difference in the outer gold shell.

Shadow hands crept closer, nudging the side of the sphere. Alarmed, Jack sprang forward taking the object for himself.

His breath caught in his throat, not only from the sudden rush of heat against his palms, but he also felt something within the orb move.

Once he had fille
d
in the hole, Jack headed home with the golden orb secure in his pocket. Through his jacket’s thick wool, he felt the furtive movement of the presence inhabiting the egg. He no longer regarded the orb as a nut, because plants do not move.

His eyes roved from one side of the street to the other, checking the windows and the open doorways. He expected a furious Mr Space, his hair in disarray, to appear, cursing him for messing with Grandma Poulis’s roses. Thankfully, no one came accusing him. The news of the floater had emptied the streets quicker than a plague of rats.

Fear dampened his upper lip, as the egg again shifted in his pocket. Forcing his gaze downwards, he saw Yang had risen up his body, without his realising, to cradle the egg with caring hands. Horrified, he slapped his shadow’s hands away.

Disturbed by Yang’s interest in the egg he failed to notice the figure running up behind him. He let out a cry as a hand smacked his back. When he doubled over in fright, he almost let the egg slip from his pocket. Hearing laughter, he turned angrily on Bill, his heart hammering against his ribs.

‘Damn it Bill, you almost gave me a heart attack!’

Bill’s grin pushed his glasses higher. Through the thick lenses, his brown eyes appeared huge, and the golden burst of colour near the left pupil beamed bright.

‘Will you look at him,’ Jack said, looking with disgust at his double. Yang rolled in the street holding his stomach, kicking his phantom legs into the bright sky. ‘You’d swear I pissed my pants the way he’s reacting.’

‘I did call your name twice,’ said Bill. ‘Remember, I’m the daydreamer.’ He held up a worn copy of “The Nymph and the Willow,” or as the subtitle below read, “Fun Times in the Wood”. A provocative picture of a half-dressed girl hugging a tree adorned the cover.

Cracking a smile, Jack took the book from Bill. ‘Does your grandma know what you’re reading?’

Wrenching the book from Jack’s grip, Bill held it to his podgy stomach. ‘Grandpa gave it to me. He said there was nothing wrong with a bit of fantasy. There must be something naughty in these pages; he made me promise not to show it to Grandma.’ A pink tongue explored Bill’s lips as he fingered the book’s spine.

‘Are your grandparents over at Long Sleep?’

Scratching his head, Bill for the first time took in the deserted village. ‘Is that where everyone is? What’s happening over there?’

Eager to get the egg to his room, Jack at first didn’t want to go to the cemetery. He was about to show his disinterest when he paused. Could there be a connection between the egg and the open crypt? The coincidence of the Giant and the torn open door happening on the same stormy night demanded investigation. Besides, Bill would be suspicious if he didn’t go with him.

‘Liza said someone broke into a tomb last night. They found the body in the river.’

‘What and you didn’t come to get me? Come on Yin, it’s not everyday that we can see inside a tomb.’

Jack hadn’t thought of it, preoccupied with the idea of the body, the open crypt never entered his mind. Coerced by his curiosity, he allowed Bill to lead him along Brandy Road to the graveyard.

Despite having nearly the entire population of Crik at Long Sleep, the graveyard was curiously hushed when Jack and Bill stepped around the first wooden crosses littering the bottom of the hill. A few young children remained close to the village, happy to let the adults congregate by the riverbank. They ran between the wooden markers, laughing as they tried to catch one another. Jack envied them, he wanted to be as carefree as them - his sighting of the Giant, and the weight in his pocket, ended any hope of that happening.

An old path, overgrown with tangled weeds and coarse grass, wound up the slope, bypassing the humped earth where coffins rotted out of sight. Both boys followed the crumbling flagstones. Now higher, they saw Mr Gasthem, the Village Elder, standing on the bridge on the far side of the hill. His Talent allowed him to talk with creatures, not horses, or wolves, or anything as interesting as that, but common slugs and cockroaches. Jack often wondered what, if anything, a bug could say of interest. Despite having a rather unfortunate Talent, Mr Gasthem always knew what happened in Crik, far quicker and in more detail than did anyone else in the village. Close to the corner of Crik pub, stood three solemn men; Bill’s grandfather amongst them.

‘They must be fishing out the floater,’ said Bill. ‘You don’t want a body to stay in the river for too long, otherwise it’ll poison the drink.’

Deciding to check out the tomb later, they followed the bank down to the bridge. They came to a stop amongst tall reeds. The familiar smell of malted barley, used to make the pub’s famous thick black ale, drifted over to them. Jack’s mother blamed the drink for drawing in so many people to the village every weekend. It was common for the population of Crik to swell to the thrice its number on market days - more on special holidays. Many farmers enjoyed Crik pub more than, perhaps, they should.

Eager to see the body, Yang stretched himself toward the bridge; for once Jack shared his shadow’s ghoulish curiosity.

‘Okay boys, that’s far enough.’ Mr Gasthem strode over, his long hooked staff tapping the white stone bridge. ‘It’s not a pleasant sight we have here.’ As his shadow fell over them, he lowered his tone to a whisper. ‘His tomb has kept Mr Hasseltope well preserved. It’s not like the washed out bodies you’ve seen before, where there’s only rags and bones. He’s as fresh as morning-baked bread. I’m afraid animals found him before us.’ Two nicotine-stained fingers touched his nose.

Extended beyond Mr Gasthem, Yang peered over the lip of the bridge. Jack wondered what his shadow saw amongst the bloated tide of the Tristle River.

As was customary, Mr Gasthem wore his brown suit, ironed and spotless. Hundreds of insects scurried over his sleeve and turned down collar. Beetles both large and small filled his breast pocket; spiders took residence close to his ears, with their silken threads mingling with his iron-shod hair. An encounter with any one of those bugs would have Liza screaming in dismay. With his concentration squared on Jack and Bill, Mr Gasthem paid the creatures no interest.

‘Back to town with you now,’ said Mr Gasthem.

‘Bill,’ called Bill’s grandpa, ‘heed Mr Gasthem now, go home.’

‘You too Yin, and take your bothersome shadow with you,’ said Mr Dash.

Yang! With the Village Elder taking his attention, Jack had forgotten about his shadow. Looking toward the bridge, he saw Yang’s upper body had slipped over the side. A deep unease settled into the pit of his stomach; he knew his dark twin’s intent.

A loud splash turned everyone back to the river where widening rings spread out from beneath the bridge. Realisation hit Grandpa Poulis, Mr Gasthem, Dr Threshum, Crik’s only butcher and doctor, and finally the grave keeper Mr Dash, at the same moment. Each mouth formed a large ‘O’ as Yang pulled one of Mr Hasseltope’s dripping legs over the lip of the bridge.

Clothes normally rotted first, and yet the trousers Jack’s shadow gripped were, if not for the water pouring through its stitching, in pristine condition.

‘Yin, release Mr Hasseltope. Do you want the entire town to see him?’

What did Dr Threshum expect him to do? Despite telling them on numerous occasions that he had no control over Yang, every time his shadow misbehaved, he got the blame.

With anger boiling his blood, he threw up his hands to show them all he had no control over what had happened.

The gutted ruin that was Mr Hasseltope’s stomach raised a cry from a few of the girls watching from the hill. In a grisly display, roped intestine bubbled through the shredded black burial shirt, like bloated sausages. Unconcerned with the spectacle he caused, Yang carried on lifting the body, bringing more of the gaping wound into view.

‘Damn it boy, throw it back in, we’ll retrieve it out of sight of the girls.’ Mr Gasthem glowered at Jack; the insects filling his pockets bubbled furiously.

‘It’s not me,’ cried Jack. ‘Why doesn’t anyone listen to me, I don’t control my shadow.’

‘If not you, then who?’

The unfairness of the question hit Jack, hard. Unable to find a suitable answer all he could do was keep quiet as Yang threw the drenched body onto the stone at Mr Dash’s feet. Feeling faint, Jack noticed a fish caught in an empty eye socket.

Back a few years, when bodies still hung from the branches of the Hanging Tree, Mr Hasseltope took it on himself to tie the noose. He enjoyed it a little too much, Jack’s mother always said. Bill’s grandparents, who knew Mr Hasseltope the best, said he hanged anyone, whether they deserved to die or not, even children, whispered Grandpa Poulis.

Jack had only seen one man condemned to the tree, a child killer who took kids to his cabin deep in the woods. As a warning, Mr Gasthem left the killer dangling for more than a week. Before the crows came, Jack saw his bulging eyes, and his clenched fists.

Bill had travelled halfway up the hill before Jack noticed. Let them blame him for Yang’s behaviour, if they didn’t know he was different from his shadow by now, they never would. Wiping away angry tears, he trotted up the path, catching his friend as he reached the hill’s crown.

The sight of the body had turned the curiosity of the crowd into disgust. It did not take long for the girls to scamper back around the hill, and the rest followed with hastened footsteps.

‘They should’ve worn black veils,’ said Bill, pushing back his glasses with his thumb.

Jack understood his friend’s point. Even the hangman deserved to rest in peace. ‘We’ll light a straw man to guide his spirit.’

Bill nodded.

Despite the sun, they felt cold as they approached the open tomb. With its face hidden within its stone cowl, the statue, holding aloft its rope, welcomed them. The pair shied away from the looming figure as they navigated the broken stone slabs littering the crypt’s opening.

Dry dust caught in their throats, making them cough into their hands. A patchwork of cracks on the marble floor, and shards of broken stone, made it awkward for them as they entered. Alcoves lined the walls, welcoming spools of darkness within their recess. The large coffin at the centre crowded the small room.

‘Something tore open the door.’ Bill blew out his cheeks.

Jack nodded. He had little doubt the Giant had enough power to do that, but what did it want in here. As far as he could tell, the small chamber held nothing bar the coffin and the broken door pieces.

‘It smells in here.’ Bill’s voice echoed as he waved a hand before his face.

It smelled of old cabbage and urine. Doing his best to ignore the foul odour, Jack looked inside the coffin, where his shadow had slipped in unnoticed. Beneath his transparent twin, on a silk pillow, lay the hangman’s noose. They buried him with it, he thought with a curious thrill. Beside the noose, a flap of red lining had come away, half hiding the remains of a long dead fox. Looking down at the fur still clinging to the gaping skull turned Jack’s stomach. Why a body of a fox laid inside the coffin was anyone’s guess. At the foot of the coffin was a piece of white cloth. Mr Hasseltope wore a black burial shirt. Did the torn fabric belong to the Giant? It was here, not down by the river that the Giant had ripped into Mr Hasseltope. Why would the Giant gut him here and then take his body to the river? None of it made any sense.

Hunched over at the far end of the room, Bill waved Jack closer. ‘What’re these?’

Intrigued, Jack joined his friend and saw a series of small pictures carved into the stonework. The faded lines appeared old. Though crude, the first picture showed a boy standing amongst trees, waving through the stone. A second drawing showed the boy and a second smaller figure. Squinting, he still could not make out what the newcomer was; however, the stance of the boy had changed, reflecting his fear of the smaller shape. A final image revealed the boy as an adult with the little figure perched on his shoulder.

‘Wonder what it means?’ said Bill, straightening up. ‘It looks like a forest sprite with the boy. Why would he fear a sprite?’

Jack had no idea; sprites were annoying, but hardly dangerous. Stepping closer, to inspect the drawings for further detail, he felt the egg inside his pocket give a violent twitch.