Crik (5 page)

He never expecte
d
to find a mess, but as Jack entered the window, the clutter at his feet almost sent him crashing to the floor. The room’s confusion heightened his tension; only when his hands fell atop a curled head did he remember the dolls Bill’s grandmother collected. Like a silent troop, the dolls, whether sporting summer hats, lacy frills, or holding closed umbrellas, watched him through unblinking glass eyes. Preferring Yang’s collection of dead squirrels, he moved among the stacks of toys, careful not to snag the flared dresses with the sword. His infrequent visits to Bill’s house did not prepare him to navigate in the deep gloom. Each doll, being of a similar height to the Hatchling, sent his heart racing at every silhouette. Once, he almost swung his blade at one holding a sweeping broom, mistaking the miniature household item as the demon’s tail. Venturing deeper into the room, he had less light, and Yang grew faint, until finally his twin disappeared.

With nothing but touch and hearing to guide him, he passed the last of the dolls, hoping no one would hear him tread the wooden floor. Using the dark shapes, he drew a vague picture of his surroundings. To his right, still smelling of a cooked roast, was the kitchen; to his other side loomed the stairs. Knowing he had less chance of Bill’s grandparents discovering him down here had him move toward the kitchen. Would the smells wafting throughout the house, awaken the Hatchling’s hunger? Not liking the idea of the Hatchling feeling hungry, he nevertheless entered the wide room.

The kitchen, both larger and more ordered than was his own, had storage shelves for a myriad of frying pans and pots. Wooden cabinets fit the far wall, and a large marble-topped worktable sat at the centre of the beech floor. Overhead more pans hung from hooks, together with a set of three deadly looking cleavers. He deliberated taking a cleaver instead of the sword; despite the cleaver’s advantage of a smaller size, he decided to keep hold of the sword. Having a fighting man’s weapon gave him all the false courage he needed to carry on with his search.

Sweat dripped from him. He could not believe his daring in entering the house, if Grandma Poulis discovered him the Hatchling would be the least of his worries. Unlike Bill’s grandfather, who always used his Talent to transform himself into a boy, Grandma Poulis kept her Talent hidden, creating wild conjecture amongst Jack and the other children of what it was. To his continued annoyance, Bill refused to relinquish her secret. As far as he knew, Bill was the only member of Crik without a unique Talent. Perhaps that was why his friend read so many books. It couldn’t be much fun having Liza Manfry call you a freak every chance she got.

A shape residing in the corner of the kitchen moved. Jack seeing the circumspect shift of weight reluctantly moved toward it, holding the blunt-edged sword high, ready to drive its point into the Hatchling’s stomach. When he was no more than a few feet away, he recognised a familiar tail. Relaxing his arm he grinned as Wolf moved in his sleep. He had forgotten about the old dog. Careful not to wake him he tiptoed back to the workbench.

The Hatchling was not in here, unless it hid in the cupboards amongst the pots and pans. His breath faltered as he cast his eye back from where he had come. It would have been too easy if he found it downstairs. Shaking his head, he retraced his steps back to the passage and the pregnant stairs.

The stairs became a mountain face; its steps leading to the dark summit felt as treacherous underfoot as scree-filled slopes, which at any moment could creak, bringing Bill’s grandparents down on him. Wishing for a carpet to mask his steps, but instead finding varnished wood, he mounted the first step. Snatching the banister, he clung to the woven wood with tenacious strength. Wooden flowers spiralled up his own staircase, whereas roping vines and small intricate shaped leaves stretched to meet his fingers here. Creeping vines wrapped the entire banister length in loping python coils. Nothing about the aesthetics soothed him, the hardness, and sharp angles, only heightened his tension. Pictures presented themselves as dark squares along the wall. He recalled one of the paintings had red puddles that gradually grew into a lake. Rain swept the scene, rippling the lake’s surface in hundreds of small circles. Bill named the painting as "The Blood Storm". Why anyone would want such an image in their home had eluded Jack then and now. 

He almost reached the landing when a blue glow filled the house, throwing warped outlines across his path from stationary furniture. Yang spawned across the wall, anchored to Jack’s feet. Frantic, Jack caught his shadow’s attention and demanded Yang to his side before anyone saw them.

A door, standing ajar down the hallway, allowed the blue light to invade the darkness. The location of the room at the front of the house identified it as the same one Jack had spied illuminated earlier from behind drawn curtains. Bill’s room looked over the trees at the back of the house. Ignoring the shot of adrenaline surging through his limbs, he refused to bolt, knowing he couldn’t leave while the Hatchling remained in the house.

The door opened on well-oiled hinges.

Vaporous material escaped the room; each thread floating on the air as though cast forward by a sudden gust. It took him a moment to realise light did not shine through the diaphanous garment from some unseen source, but from within. When more of the coloured cloth floated into the landing, he pressed his cheek against the uppermost wooden vine, knowing that he only had a remote chance of remaining hidden.

A form, brighter than the glowing garment, strode into the doorframe. Recognising Grandma Poulis did not lessen the shock. Her face, smoothed of the ravages of age and worry, became beautiful; heightened cheekbones framed almond shaped eyes, not the dark circles he knew. A full mouth, turned at the corner in a perpetual smile, promised love, laughter and sorrow in equal measure. Hair, free of its accustomed tight bun, spun down her shoulders in a shower of gold. She glided into the landing, her feet hidden beneath folds of shifting light.

A Ghost Walker. Hard to accept that any still lived after the Cleansing, but he had heard enough stories to recognise one when he saw it. Many women possessed by a woodland spirit had died at the Hanging Tree. That one should still live in the village right under his nose filled him with horror. Seeing how beautiful Grandma Poulis had become discredited the tales of Ghost Walkers consorting with Boguls and Wretches. Then memories of the Giant going straight to her rosebush surfaced. Had the Giant come to visit the Ghost Walker? Why else had it come into the village? Stories told how when the spirit wandered, the body died, and would only awaken once the spirit returned. 

Despite his misgivings, the young girl enchanted him. Love for Grandma Poulis spread through him, making him lightheaded. Relaxing his grip on the wood, he felt himself sway forward. No, he couldn’t let her see him. If she found him, the Hatchling would escape, or more horrible, attack Grandma Poulis. Yang slipped onto the verge of the landing, his form bold in the dazzling light, leaving Jack to pray his wayward shade would not betray their presence.

The Ghost Walker had not noticed them; in fact, her eyes never left the door at the far end of the hallway. Driven by some invisible force, she effortlessly glided across the wooden floor. Without pause, she passed both Jack and Yang.

As the blue light enveloped him, Jack felt his love deepen for her. He wanted to stand up and go to the Ghost Walker. Tears dropped from his eyes as his hand lifted toward her. Never had he experienced a love so pure, it filled his body with warmth.

Mesmerized by her, he failed to notice Bill’s door standing open with the Hatchling peering out, its eyes ablaze in the Ghost Walker’s glow. The creature had its tail wrapped about its potbelly, ignoring the Ghost Walker as she reached the door at the far end of the landing.

The door opened without Grandma Poulis reaching for the handle. Aided by her radiance the room sprang into immediate life, revealing an old stool set before a half finished painting. Taking her seat, she began to paint figures on the branches of a golden tree. White light shone upward from the figures to create the drifting clouds.

Perturbed by the painting, Jack turned and spotted the Hatchling watching him from Bill’s room. He flinched. It was larger, the ears more pointed than he remembered, and the rows of teeth keener to his critical eye. Now the sword no longer felt adequate. The blade had a good weight, but he had no skill with the weapon, if he got into a fight with the creature, those talons, stroking its tail, would rip him to shreds.

The Hatchling, sensing Jack’s reluctance to follow, stuck its forked tongue out, taunting him, before disappearing into Bill’s room.

Hot anger drove away the warmth imparted by the Ghost Walker. He should have destroyed the egg, he had another chance to kill the creature when Yang communicated with it, and this was how it repaid his mercy? Grinding his teeth, he rose from his haunches, when the task of crossing the landing unseen brought him to an immediate halt.

Grandma Poulis put green bristle to paper. Could he risk crossing? A few seconds would carry him into Bill’s room. Finally, knowing his friend was alone with the beast, spurred him from the safety of the stairs. His fleeting glance at the woman at the easel assured him that she had no idea of his trespass.

Enough blue light entered the bedroom for him to avoid the furniture, and Bill’s clothes strewn across the floor. A round mat softened his steps as he moved closer to the bed, where Bill snored, oblivious of the two intruders in his room. Branches scraped the window, playing his nerves like a master harpist. Unable to see the Hatchling, he nevertheless heard the demon banging into a cabinet, before careering into a tall bookcase, filled with the leather-bound books. The noise drew him deeper into the room.

Resting his free hand on a carved toad on the bedpost, he waited for the Hatchling to betray its location. His friend’s snores frustrated him by masking the demon’s whereabouts. Yang, spread across the lighter wall, pointed with a hurried hand at the windowsill. Jack followed his shadow’s finger and saw the Hatchling perched on the ledge.

‘Come here,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. Pulling his hands to his chest, he tried to coax the Hatchling away from the window. If the demon again tried to escape by crashing through the glass, not only would it wake Bill, but the Ghost Walker would also find him.

The demon tilted its head in amusement; much like a grown man humouring a child’s tantrum, halting Jack’s gesture. If he had some sweets, he would offer them to the demon, though he imagined he would have better success with red meat. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he felt around. All he found was some loose thread pulled into a bundle from the seams of his pants.

Noticing his hesitation, the Hatchling leapt from the windowsill to land on the pillow beside Bill.

Aghast, Jack could only stretch his arm out in silent reproach. The sword, proving more useless by the second, hung forgotten at his side as the demon stroked black talons through Bill’s hair.

Opening his mouth, Bill snored loudly. Inexplicably the demon threw its head into the open cavity, bringing a surprised grunt from Bill, and a silent scream from Jack. Remarkably, Bill’s eyes remained closed. Diving forward, Jack grabbed the Hatchling’s tail, its slippery feel bringing to mind one of Mr Gasthem’s blind Milk Worms. Wrestling with the beast, he planted his feet on the mattress ready to yank back with all his strength. Instead of coming out, the demon sank deeper into Bill’s mouth. In moments, it had an arm and a shoulder nestled between incisor and molar. Yang, watching from the wall, refused to help. Sending a silent plea filled glance for his shadow to assist him accomplished nothing. Scared of alerting Grandma Poulis, he remained silent, but cast reproachful looks at his immobile twin. How could Bill sleep through this? Fretting over the question, he tugged on the tail once more, shifting the mattress beneath his feet. The creature’s chest now flowed into Bill, the ribs snapping and cracking as it fought its way through the wide open lips. With mounting desperation, Jack coiled the tail about his wrist; gaining better anchorage, he arched back in greater effort to get the beast off his friend. It stopped at the midsection, unable to creep any farther down Bill’s throat. Elated at his small success, Jack doubled his efforts, grinning with triumph as a snapped rib slipped back into view. Locking his jaw, he prepared to keep pulling until the rest of the Hatchling emerged; then the tail disappeared from his grasp.

He wanted to yell in frustration. The Hatchling had changed its shape.

He tried to grab the flailing feet that beat against his friend’s chin, only when he got a hold, they turned into flippers and vanished into the darkness.