Crik (52 page)

He turned to see Bill watching him; Inara remained unseen behind, wrestling Black through the narrow path. ‘Come on,’ he said, knowing he must look insane, panting over a grave and covered in mud. Although the rain fell with less intensity than it had, it was still heavy enough to make footing treacherous and he slipped on the slick mud.

Bill rushed to help pull him back to his feet. ‘What are you doing?’ cried Bill, his face a melody of conflicting emotion; confusion at seeing Jack desecrating a grave when he should already be halfway up the hill, and fright at the night’s horrific turn of events. What would he find once they reached the topmost tombs? Would he look across and see his grandfather hanging from a broken neck? ‘They need us to keep calm. We are the only ones who can rescue them.’

‘How can we rescue anyone?’ said Jack. ‘What can we do against Ghost Walkers? We are only children.’

‘We’re children,’ answered Bill, ‘with Talents.’

‘You just told me my Talent,’ he pointed at the faint outline moving along the floor, ‘has no chance against the Myrms. You can only control one animal at a time. They already killed Silver; Black won’t last long against them.’

‘Then we come up with a plan.’

The sound of snapping wood rose above their voices. The boys stopped arguing when the great wolf burst through into the cemetery. Inara, white faced, clung onto Black with tenuous strength. Red marks scored her skin from the bramble. She looked over her shoulder, her mouth turned down into a rigid snarl. From within the overgrown track, large shapes blundered through, beating through the underbrush with unstoppable power.

‘They’re coming!’ she shouted.

Her warning was unnecessary; both the boys recognised the danger and the dusty rank odour of the nearing Myrms. The leaping wolf flitted between the graves with agility beyond that of the following boys. Taken uphill by the loping wolf, Inara waved encouragement.

Jack turned and spotted a metal hawk’s face looking up at him. Matted hair dangled from the arms of the Myrm like stalactites. A second and third monster crashed through the bramble. One wore a boar’s helm; fastening cold eyes onto him, it let out a blood-curdling cry.

Repeatedly Jack’s shoes skidded on the slick grass. He had overtaken Bill by the time they reached the fourth marked grave; Bill’s face showed the strain of his effort. The heavy strides of their pursuers haunted their backs. Daring to look behind Jack saw the extra joint in the legs of the Myrms made running difficult. The beasts were more at home in the iron branches of their home.

‘Come on Bill,’ shouted Jack. ‘We can lose them.’

Then Jack fell. Age had eaten away at the headstone, leaving only a humped stone rising a few inches above the level of the grass. His feet smacked into the stone sending him sprawling across the grass and mud. Blazing agony shot through his legs.

‘Yin.’ Bill stopped to put his hands around Jack.

‘Leave me,’ said Jack, pushing Bill’s hands away. ‘If you stay they will catch us both.’

‘I’m not going on without you.’

Gritting his teeth, Jack, with the help of Bill, pulled himself back to his feet. He saw Black transport Inara over the crest of the hill. She had looked back. Goodbye Inara, he whispered as the three chasing monsters caught up to them.

A calloused hand cam
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down hard on Jack’s shoulder, hard enough to rattle his teeth and jangle his nerves. He would have let out a gasp, only when his mouth parted the hand gripping his collar yanked him from his feet, and threw him into the air. When he found himself flying backward, he noted, with an odd fascination, at how time appeared to slow down. Marvelling at the fat beads of rain falling around him, he admired their lucent quality. Casting his eye up the hill, he wondered whether his new vantage would allow him to see Inara fleeing from these monsters. He landed, hard. The rain saturating the ground softened the blow enough to knock the breath from his lungs instead of breaking his back. He arched his back anyway, perhaps checking to see if he was still in one piece. Screaming, his body yelled for him to quit it, to lie still, just don’t move. Shit, he thought and collapsed. Dirty puddle water lapped his calves, chilling his skin and cramping his muscles. Listening to his body, he suffered the discomfort without moving.

The world had drifted from night black to a dull grey, as though he surveyed the scene through soaped up windows. His assailant, stepping over the crumbling gravestones, appeared as a lumbering shape within this grey world. Tossing his head to the side, he tried to clear it. Blackness seeped into the edge of his vision, spreading welcome dark branches that promised relief from the pain. Allowing his eyelids to close he started to drift. The thrumming sounds of the rain grew distant, muted as though he listened to a storm from inside his house. I no longer have a house, the bitter thought searing his mind with hot fire, its flames coaxed by his mounting anger, made his eyes fly open. ‘No,’ he cried out, his teeth gritted together in a fierce grimace.

The Myrm stood before him; its bestial form huge and terrifying. Misted breath swirled around its metal boar tusks in tight circles, like the smoke rings Bill’s grandfather blew when he smoked his pipe. A tangled mass of reddish fur covered arms that hung idiotically at the beast’s sides. Jack wondered whether this creature had pulled his mother from her house, had she screamed for him, desperate to remain in her home, waiting for his return.

Behind the monster, which bore down on him with as much ferocity as a rabid dog, Jack saw Bill. Bill had his arms up to his neck, trying to prise loose the two hands that gripped him in a vice-like hold. Jack snapped. He flung his hand up, not realising he held a stone until he had thrown it. The egg-sized projectile rang against the helmet of his assailant. Sunken yellow eyes widened in surprise, and he felt a momentary swell of triumphant glee at that look.

‘Leave him alone,’ he screamed, scooping up another muddy rock and hurling it this time at the creature that held Bill. It struck the beast’s shoulder with a hollow thunk and sprang up into the air as straight as a dart.

The beast dropped Bill, who lay gasping for air; his face had gone the colour of faded November sunlight. Forgetting Bill, the Myrm turned toward Jack. It wore the face of an eagle; the rain sluicing down the sharp beak spread out like blood splatter. Jack now wanted to get away; only the creature with the boar helm had taken hold of his shirt, tenting the fabric from his sunken stomach, stopping him cold. After everything he had survived, he feared this was how he was finally going to die, torn apart by these animals. The faint outline of his shadow, stapled to his feet, expanded. If the Myrms noticed Yang, they may remember what had happened to their chieftain and back off; leave him alone to look elsewhere for easier sport. That hope evaporated as the eagle helmed Myrm stepped over Yang without pause.

Its massive shoulders, bunched into two hillocks of bristling fur, rose above its lowered head. Tightening its grip, the boar picked Jack off the floor. Depleted of all strength, he dangled from the hoisting hand. His panting breath mingled with the steam billowing out of the boar mask. The other beast emerged behind the one that held him, and now he could see how sharp that metal beak was, sharp enough to puncture his neck, he thought, letting out a shallow breath.

Bill screamed hoarsely, shouting out Yin. Quickly the hands of another Myrm wrestled him to the ground. Jack wanted to answer that cry with a shout of his own. He felt alone, and if he could somehow communicate with Bill, to let him know he was still here, then he would not be so scared. That was what he believed, until dirty fingernails reached for his face.

No, no, his mind repeated in a frantic, silent plea. Those fingers extended toward his face, they were going to drive themselves into his sockets and pluck out his eyes! The eagle’s face, which had appeared passive until then, now seemed to leer at him. Not my eyes, he wanted to shout. Leave me alone, I didn’t mean to throw the stone at you; you were just hurting my friend. No words echoed his conscious plea. He could not breathe. You had to release him or he was going to die, his mind shrieked.

The creature behind the boar mask growled, knocking away the hand reaching for Jack with its free hand. The Myrm that had choked Bill let out an answering growl, and reached out again. Forestalling the beast again, the Myrm with the red fur waved a hand over the lapping water of the river. Understanding the importance of that gesture intruded upon Jack. Across the Tristle lay the Hanging Tree. Thwarted from having its fun, the eagle-faced beast seethed with rage. He guessed the Ghost Walkers had given them orders to bring anyone they found to the tree. They want to see us hang. Trading one death for another, he thought, yet his overwhelming emotion, as the bird’s face pulled back into the wet night, was one of relief. It would have gouged out my eyes, an inner voice whispered. A spray of ice struck his spine, and sank in deeper, making his entire body shudder.

The hand holding him let go of his shirt and he toppled forward. He managed to catch himself and stand on legs that felt as sturdy as a rope bridge held together by a slipknot. The brute barged past him in the direction of the stone bridge that crossed the Tristle River. Panting, Jack almost fell for a third time.

Limping, Bill approached. ‘I was sure they would kill one of us, if not both of us.’ He rubbed his reddened neck. ‘Who knows how far they would have taken things if you hadn’t thrown that stone.’

‘They do what Kyla and Justice tell them.’

‘I struggle to keep control of Black during a hunt. The scent of blood drives him wild.’ Bill’s eyes moved to the beasts crowding the foot of the cemetery. ‘They wanted to kill us. Still do, I suppose.’

‘The Ghost Walkers scare them.’ Jack remembered how the Myrms had scattered to the trees when Justice and the others appeared after their capture. ‘Nothing demands obedience more than fear.’

‘I guess you’re right. If one of these things suddenly spoke and told me to jump down a well I’d be hip deep in water before I had time to think.’

The eagle faced Myrm stepped closer, making the pair take a few hurried steps toward the rain fattened river. Ten yards ahead, they saw the shape of the lead Myrm, walking along the crumbling shoreline. It did not look back to see if anyone followed it.

‘I think we best keep up with him,’ said Jack, pointing ahead. ‘I don’t want to be alone with bird brain.’

‘You got that right.’ Bill cast a fearful glance behind; his feet picking up the pace before his head had turned back.

Now that they were moving, Jack felt the invisible bands binding his chest ease. The light had all but gone; he could no longer see Yang, though he knew his shadow was with him. Sandwiched between the leading Myrms, they marched ahead of the raucous knot. They stayed beside the river; a piece of land both he and Bill knew expertly. Even blindfolded he would be able to walk without stumbling. His feet automatically rose, missing hazardous rocks and roots breaking through the muddy banks. Coming to a smooth verge, where both he and Bill had sat on hot days fishing, or skipping stones, filled him with sadness. Looking to his right he saw a well-known headstone; seasons had robbed the stone of its name, but the epitaph read, "She died too young, for some, she lived too long for others."

‘I didn’t imagine my homecoming would be more dangerous than my going,’ said Bill. ‘I hope everyone is alive. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw Grandpa hanging from the tree.’

‘I think Justice and Kyla will find their match in your grandmother.’

‘I don’t know. Scaring us kids is one thing,’ Bill hiked back his finger, ‘these monsters won’t care what she says.’

Bill’s fear jolted his own, making his breath wheeze in fits and starts. ‘Where’s Black?’ he asked, between hitching breaths.

‘They aren’t in any immediate danger. Black carried Inara to the top of the hill; they are hiding amongst the tombs. The wind is coming from the direction of the Hanging Tree, so Black will smell any approaching Myrm.’

‘Good.’ Jack failed to mention his fear; if the Ghost Walkers killed Bill, no one would control the wolf, and Black, in a frenzy of gnashing teeth, would turn on Inara, devouring her. ‘Let’s hope they remain safe,’ he said, his heart sank, as though submerged in the water that rushed beside them.

‘You know how hard it is to find anyone up there; every tomb or stone offers a hiding place. Never mind them, the Myrms already have us.’

‘They are taking us where we want to go,’ said Jack.

Despite his assurance to Bill, his fear crystallised at the thought of seeing someone he loved hanging limp from a branch. Although he tried to detach his fear, it tormented him, a dreadful pulsing tattoo that refused to leave him alone. His stride widened, taking him, and Bill, closer to the Myrm captain. Cutting through the murky night loomed the ashen profile of the Tristle Bridge. Growing impatience swept through him like a broom sweeping a dust-filled room, throwing up more emotion than he could handle. The need to spring forward overcame him, to reach the Hanging Tree in seconds, not the long ticking minutes forced upon them by the slow-paced Myrms. Damn them and their stupid jointed legs, he thought bitterly. He wanted to scream, ‘come on, move it, run!’ He did not, knowing with certainty that the brute would wheel on him; only this time perhaps the Ghost Walker’s words would not be enough to save him.

‘Slow down, any faster and you’ll be leading this party,’ said Bill, gasping to keep up with Jack. He looked ahead and the frightening boar masked turned in annoyance. ‘There’s the bridge, it’s not much farther to go.’

Jack wanted to say, ‘what if they are at this moment slipping the noose over my mother’s neck?’ He had told Bill not to think of the worst; he should follow his own advice. He forced himself to slow down, to relax his breathing.

They crossed the bridge. The Myrms still wore magnets on their feet, and these clipped the stone like hooves. Their trip trapping set Jack’s teeth on edge, so by the time they left the bridge he stepped out onto the grassy shore with relish.

A steep bank stretched ahead, hiding the Hanging Tree; if the Myrms had followed the old Harmon Road, they would have seen the tree. Streams of colour suffused the crown of the hill, amber, blue, and red shot the sky. The colour promised both warmth and coldness; the sound of raised voices mingled with this riotous blend of colour. Jack shot forward, passing the surprised Myrm, in his eagerness to see the owners of those voices.

What he saw brought him to a sudden stop.

The colour brought Yang back into focus, and he shared the boy’s horror. They only viewed the topmost branches of the large tree, and from these hung five bodies. Three men, and two women, still wearing their nightclothes. Rope acted as the awful punctuation to their ghastly expressions of pain. Their death throes had turned their faces a terrible black, making identification difficult; unfortunately, Jack recognised Miss Mistletoe. She hung from the highest branch that could support a person’s weight. The light spotlighted her white clothes, with stark shadows fanning the birdlike bones standing out from her clenched fists.

Jack wanted to fall to his knees and cover his face. Fearing the executions of those people he knew, had not prepared him for its awful fact. Shame at not being able to identify all the bodies crippled him. They had died because he had entered the Wold; the least he could do was mourn them. Feeling sick, he welcomed the distraction of the bile burning his throat. Stumbling forward, the tree grew in his eyes, revealing more branches bowing under the weight of hung bodies. These too wore the clothes they had gone to bed wearing before the fires and the Myrms had roused them in frightful alarm. He recognised people amongst the grisly exhibit. Karl Guild had torn at his shirt, leaving bloody streaks on his chest. Aghast, he looked in terror for Tommen Guild, but saw no children amongst the dead. Alongside Karl, hung the hunter brothers, Mark and John Alefeet. Mark’s Talent brought drawings to life, while John summoned any bird in the wood, just by whistling.