Crik (4 page)

Something moved within the egg
.
Jack would have dropped it, had he not feared that the outer shell would shatter releasing whatever horror resided within.

The moon cast eerie shadows across his bed. Yang, curling his fingers across the spread, did nothing to alleviate his taught nerves. The shell was hot against his palm. Erratic movement from inside tickled his flesh, raising the hairs along his arms. By cold light, he once more studied his find, curious to see if he could discern any more detail of the shadowy form. An outline at the base of the shell had to be a tail, the shape and length told him that much, though the growths along the tubular body mystified and excited his imagination. Could they be hair, or perhaps feathers? Attempting to answer the riddle, he ran through his meagre knowledge of the local birdlife. Without a doubt, the Raven was the most common bird in Crik. Rooks also took up residence at the graveyard. Neither shared any characteristics with the shape outlined before him. Duck eggs were smaller with darker colouring, and the hawk nested in the loftiest branches far from the ground. Besides, he thought with exasperation, why would the Giant bury a normal bird, it must be something else.

Yang, grown bored with his pantomime, moved closer to the window to peer at the egg. Jack knew Yang wanted to hold it, his shadow had acted more agitated than normal once he got home, even his mother gave a cross word when his shadow danced through the kitchen in Jack’s wake.

‘You can’t hold it,’ said Jack, turning his shoulder away from his shadow, ‘you’ll drop it, and I’m not sure I want to see what lies inside.’ Especially tonight, in the day his mother would be up, and others will be about outside his window. One cry and the entire road would be at his doorstep.

Another gentle thump against his hand made his heart hammer. What if it did break through; though small, it could hurt both him and his mother.

Dead eyes watched from the shelves, and for once they did not look at him, the amber and grey stares remained fixed on the egg. Stupid, they are nothing but stuffed fur and feathers, they never watch you, and they definitely have not taken an interest in what’s in your hand, he told himself. Yet the feeling refused to leave him, and he didn’t relax until he turned his chair to put the stuffed animals to his back. It was only then, with the glow of the moon hitting the shell at a different angle, that he noticed a new silhouette. Appearing like a question mark, he deduced it to be the creature’s head.

No larger than a thumb nail it raised over the main mass, swaying toward the edge of the egg before withdrawing. The movement barely registered, the creature moved so slowly. Jack’s eyes watered before he dropped his gaze. Flinching, he felt a slight tap on the shell, before his bewilderment had abated two more hits played against his fingertips.

Yang lit a candle. The light flickered at the corner of the desk, illuminating a few metres in a golden nimbus. Glad of the extra light, Jack left it burn, allowing the warm glow to soothe him.

For what purpose had the Giant buried the egg, had it something to do with Grandma Poulis? She was the oldest member of Crik, and stories existed of times past when the wood folk met with people. Many poems and songs recounted tales where a Giant, or a dryad, helped a lost traveller. Other tales told how Giants ate travellers. Yang preferred those. Could it be more than coincidence that the Giant went straight to Grandma Poulis’s rosebush?

Through blue drapes, he could see a light burning from the far house, the position of the moon told him the late hour; was Grandma Poulis still awake. It could be nothing more than she wanted to go to the toilet, or read in bed, but the conviction that she knew something about the Giant’s visit disquieted him.

Another tap on the shell interrupted his surveillance, this time the pressure managed to make the shell bulge against his skin. Alarmed, he placed the egg on his desk. Pushing back his chair, he watched from arm’s length, expecting the shell to break.

The quick moving head thumped the casing that trapped it with more determination. Yang did not attempt to take the egg, preferring to watch from a distance. Jack sighed; at least he had his shadow with him.

A green light spilled from a crack in the egg’s exterior, expelling a puff of smoke, which drifted toward the window where it dissipated. The light reminded Jack of swamp gas, though eerier than the light filling the Boswain Bog. Another, larger, crack joined the first, spilling more coloured vapour into his room. Anyone who looked across the road to his house would see him bathed in this sickly hue. He wished someone would see him; whatever lay inside the egg was about to eject itself onto his desk.

Time froze as the eggshell broke away with a sharp crack, granting him the first glimpse of the creature, which lay inside. His immediate conclusion on seeing the scaled beast was that a dragon had hatched. Yet, apart from the tanned scales and the distinct reptilian head, everything else about the Hatchling convinced him that it could not be the fabled winged beast of the old tales. It had two mouths, one beaked, with the second set high on the left cheek, where three teeth bit at the cold air. Protruding golden eyes swivelled to him, catching a moonbeam along its narrow horizontal silver slit. A nose as mismatched as the mouths sucked in air through one huge nostril, while from the other extended a pale green tube that curled almost to its serpentine neck. Along a neck, as long as half its entire length, ran delicate scales. Its body, bloated from eating the sustaining nutrients in the egg, had strange growths along both its back and abdomen. These tube-like protrusions had made the silhouettes seen through the egg. Each autonomous strand filled Jack with loathing; he likened them to poisonous centipedes. Curled around the broken half of the shell, moving in languorous indecency, was the creature’s tail. Having no distinguishing feature, other than its ordinariness, the tail appeared to belong more to a rat than some mythic beast.

Jack’s chair fell with a clatter to the floor as he bolted away from the creature. Riveted by the beast’s first investigations of its surroundings, he failed to see Yang circle closer to the desk. His shadow took a stand beside the desk, his form flickering wildly with the spluttering candle. It seemed Yang reached for the Hatchling, instead the insubstantial fingers entwined, and after some wriggling, Yang made a perfect replica of the beast. Yang’s fingers became the tubes along the creature’s back and his thumbs formed the beaked head.

Mesmerised by its double, the Hatchling took its first steps away from the egg. The green light, almost gone by this time, flared up once more, dousing the candle before disappearing.

Yang moved to the right, and the creature followed. The golden eyes drank in the moonlight. When Yang wriggled his fingers the tubes along the Hatchling’s back perfectly mimicked the movement.

Why was his shadow so bold as to communicate with the thing? Many times Yang did things that baffled Jack. Yang teased Liza horrendously, yet last year when she had lost her cat Yang had comforted her. The contrary aspects of the shadow, could not prepare Jack for tonight. He had always known the limits of Yang’s actions, for in a sense they were his own. So how, without his own knowledge, could Yang instinctively know how to communicate?

Yang did not stop there; contorting his hands, he formed a small bipedal creature, much like a tiny man, with a long looping tail. For a long moment, the Hatchling stared at the new shape Yang had created, moving its head from one side to the other. Then the tubes along its back flattened against its scales.

Dumbstruck, Jack whimpered as the mysterious creature began to twist and shake. Ripping and popping sounds filled the silence, as four legs became two; the spine straightened, allowing it to stand erect. Its tail thickened like a long leach bloated with blood. Losing two mouths, the creature’s face elongated into a fearsome muzzle. The long neck had halved its length and the tanned scales gave way to yellow skin. Large golden eyes stared at him.

‘What did you do Yang?’ Jack whispered.

The small room close
d
in around Jack as the Hatchling stepped up to the edge of the desk. Its new mouth, now filled with rows of pointed teeth, smiled at him across the gap. Ceasing his attempts to communicate with the creature Yang stood back, looking forlorn at having lost the creature’s attention.

Only his fear of his mother rushing into the room and seeing the monster for herself stopped Jack from screaming. In despair, he scooted up his bed, dragging his woollen blanket into a ball beneath him.

With its back toward the window, the Hatchling, in near perfect darkness, almost vanished; would have if its eyes didn’t glow. A moment lingered in which the two disembodied orbs held Jack. Taught nerves thrummed through him like clashing cymbals. Paralysed with fear, he looked to Yang for help; his shadow remained apart, as watchful as the Hatchling on the desk. Slipping from behind a cloud the moon highlighted the Hatchling in silhouette, altering its long ears into horns. Jack had no idea whether a trick of light fabricated the illusion, or if the Hatchling had once more transformed. Its fingers took on the appearance of five cruel knives.

Why couldn’t have Yang created a rabbit with his fingers instead of this monstrosity? Even if he had, Jack had to admit the same feeling of loathing, wriggling in his guts, would remain, his fear of the Hatchling was more than skin deep.

Tired of the stalemate, Yang reached out to grab the creature. With a disgruntled grunt, the Hatchling dove off the desk to the dark floor, evading Jack’s shadow.

Jack heard its running feet on the carpeted floor. It ran from the bed, not toward him as he expected. A large catapult he had made from wood and twine crashed to the floor, scattering a group of toy soldiers in its wake. Thankfully, he had closed his bedroom door before bringing the egg out; the last thing he wanted was for his mother to catch him. If it escaped outside it could hurt her. Alarmed, he moved to the edge of the mattress, determined to stop it. Anticipating the creature to head toward the door, he gasped when the noise came from another quarter. Looking high he listened to the sharp cracks punctuate the dark as the creature climbed up the wall.

His mother always said if you gave fear a shovel it would keep digging. Fear sank deep into him as the demon scuttled up the white stone. He wanted to move, but where could he go? The room offered no protection, and to get to the landing meant he would have to pass the Hatchling, something that filled him with dread. Drawn away from the window by the climbing creature, Yang had first grown indistinct and then disappeared in the dark. Robbed of his only help, Jack grew more nervous, imagining the little demon attacking him from every side.

Snick. Snick. The fingers gripping the mortar were loud, crunching the stone and sending piles of dust to the floor. In many ways, the soft sound of the falling dust disturbed him more than anything else. Perhaps knowing his mother would have to clean up the crumbs of broken stone made the nightmare more real.

With the creature climbing toward him, Jack decided to move from the bed. Stopping beside Yang’s collection of grinning animals he listened to the Hatchling make its way across the wall. Along with his fascination with stuffed animals, Yang also managed to discover gruesome artefacts amongst the hedgerows. Stumbling blindly into the corner Jack laid hands an old battered sword. Lifting the weapon, he doubted the sword’s edge would cut paper, yet its weight gave him some much needed courage.

Away from the light, the demon’s shining eyes had winked out, and it took time for Jack’s vision to accustom itself to the gloom. Casting about he noticed against the pale wall a dark smudge outlining the creature. Leading with the rusted blade, he closed the distance, wanting to confront the beast before it dropped back to the floor, where it would be much harder to track. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he had left the rosebush alone.

‘What are you?’ His voice came out as a throaty growl.

The Hatchling turned its head in the dark to observe him. ‘You understand me, don’t you,’ said Jack.

Perhaps the stillness that came over the creature as he talked convinced him of the Hatchling’s understanding, or the beast’s arrival had awakened a feeling lodged deep inside. This latter speculation disturbed him, how would he have some buried connection with the Hatchling, he had never seen anything like it before. The memory of Yang’s communication for a second time raised the hairs on the back of his neck. What did his shadow know?

With the Hatchling now motionless, watching him, he found himself at a loss of what to say or do. Grasping the sword, he wondered what good it would do him. He had only ever fenced with Yang, and his shadow always disarmed him with little effort, he had little hope of fending off an assault.

If the Hatchling could understand him, perhaps he would be able to reason with it. Without any other course of action coming to mind he said, ‘I mean you no harm.’ Feeling foolish he continued, ‘I’m Jack, I brought you here today. You were under the rosebush at the end of the street.’

A change came over the Hatchling, a slight turn of the head toward the window.

‘I don’t know why you’re here. If you want food, I have a couple of biscuits by the bed. Their old and a little hard, but they should taste alright.’

The creature refused to shift its gaze from the window. Jack knew the Hatchling peered out at Grandma Poulis’s garden. What was so important about the rosebush? He should have told Bill, the Giant had left the egg outside his home; if he had, he would have someone else with him.

With a quick spring, the Hatchling launched itself from the wall, hitting the desk. Its tail wrapped itself around the back of the chair as it steadied its feet on the wooden top. Amazed at the distance the creature had jumped, Jack could only stare, mouth agape. It cleared the bed with no effort, and he felt sure it could have jumped a lot farther if it were not for the pane of glass now reflecting its hideous demon face.

The talons, still dusted with mortar, tapped the glass, cutting shallow cuts down its length. A wash of moonlight returned, and with it the glow in the Hatchling’s eyes and, Yang, who, on his return, rushed the Hatchling. With a sharp intake of breath, the Hatchling dove forward to evade Yang’s grasp, breaking the glass in a tinkling shower.

Jack rushed forward, banging his shin on his bed in his haste. Leaning over his desk, he peered out. It lay on the grass with its leg twisted at an awkward angle. Shards of broken glass winked up at him from around the sprawled figure. A mewling cry from below reached his ears, then the Hatchling pushed itself from the ground on shaky arms.

Hoping his mother had not heard the window breaking he went to his bedroom door, releasing the lock. Peering cautiously out, he saw no light and no sign of movement coming from the first floor. Careful of the worn wood that creaked, especially at night when he needed silence, he tiptoed out. Sneaking along the small landing, he gratefully reached the carpeted passage at the foot of the stair. Pausing outside his mother’s door, he sighed with relief when he heard her gentle snores.

Picking his way to the front of the dark house, careful not to bang into the furniture his mother had rearranged again that day, he met the door. Passing into the cold night air he saw the garden gate swinging on its worn hinges. Still gripping the sword, he crept toward the street, ignoring the vacant imprint left on the lawn.

The houses along both streets were dark. It seemed no one had heard the commotion. Perturbed that so much noise had not alerted anyone to his misadventure, he followed in the wake of the limping demon.

Keeping to the shadows the Hatchling hugged the row of fences, only pausing long enough to glance back at Jack. Its little body, only three feet tall, became increasingly difficult to follow, but Jack knew its target and set off at a brisk trot to reach Grandma Poulis’s roses first. The demon realising Jack’s intent increased its own pace, its limp now becoming more of a hopping run as it navigated Mr Space’s overgrown garden.

After every fourth or fifth jump, the Hatchling turned its misshapen head to see how much distance Jack had caught up. Once it shook a fist in the air and jabbered madly before abandoning the gardens for the cobbled street.

Taking heart that the fall had managed to injure the creature Jack closed the distance, but saw the Hatchling would reach the rosebush before him. With sweat coating his body and greasing his hair he tried to find more speed, but was unable to close the gap.

The large flowers loomed pale against the laced branches. Taking a final backward glance, the Hatchling threw itself into the bush, breaking off a few low roses. Jack arrived as the last of the petals alighted on the floor. With squint eyes, he scrutinised the darkness amongst the branches, but saw no hint of the creature lurking within. Stabbing the dark pockets in frustration only made him more anxious. Yang made no effort to help; he stayed back where the moonlight remained strong. Yang’s form, more solid and distinct than at any other time that night, allowed him to create a sword that mirrored the one Jack possessed.

Remembering the light in Grandma Poulis’s window Jack stared up; it seemed like everyone else in the village she had gone to sleep. Part of him wanted to shout a warning, to let others know of the Hatchling. That however would mean letting others know about the Giant, and if his mother knew what had come into town she would never allow him to leave the house again. The memory of those long rain swept days was too fresh to ignore. Besides, how could he tell Grandma Poulis that he had dug through her prized garden, she would skin him alive.

A rustle of leaves betrayed the location of the demon. It remained close to the front, much closer to him than Jack guessed. No wonder his stabbing sword never came close to hitting the beast. Black lips, pulling back from razor teeth, smiled up at him from beneath two red rosebuds. Time froze as they locked eyes; Jack’s wide and fearful, the demon’s narrow and cunning. What the Hatchling did then amazed Jack; it stuck a forked tongue out between its deadly rows of teeth, wagging it at him like a petulant child. Perhaps he should not have been that surprised, after all, the creature was not yet an hour old, but seeing such childish actions from another creature bewildered him completely. Before he had time to react, the Hatchling pulled back into the bush. A series of snaps and cracks followed as it drove through the dense foliage to the other side, where, discovering an open downstairs window, it entered the house.