Darkhenge

by Catherine Fisher

  His head turned sharply. “Of course not. Why?”

  “I can hear a voice.”

  He sat up, both hands on the oyster rim.

  She was sure now. Someone was speaking, very far off, very faint. Someone was talking in an endless one-sided conversation, his voice modulating up and down; she could make out questions and intonation, the drone of words, the hiss of esses. Almost she felt that the words were made up of letters that had melted, that were trickling and running down the shimmering chute of the ramp, arriving here hopelessly mixed and heaped, fused into fantastic sounds.

  “It’s nothing.” The King looked around nervously. “Forget it.”

  Words picked themselves up, put themselves together. She recognized them: theater, production … terrible nuisance really, Chloe … your mum…

  Eyes wide, she stared at him. Then she said, “It’s my father!”

  Vetch crouched at the water’s edge and dipped a hand in. Drawing up some of the green weed, he examined it curiously.

  “Well?”

  “The forest will be able to cross this. Roots will snake out under it, then undergrowth will rise and drown and rise again on the matted remains. But it will take time.” He stood, looking at the white spiral ramp of the hill.

  “It’s Silbury, isn’t it?” Rob hugged himself. “This is the downs, lost under all this woodland. These are real places Chloe knows.”

  “The Unworld is always a real place. And when Darkhenge was made, the downs were forested.” Preoccupied, Vetch rummaged through the crane-skin bag; he tipped a pile of rubbish out of it—nuts, berries, a candle, the ogham sticks, the tinderbox, a scatter of ribbons and knotted threads. Quickly he scooped them up and thrust them into his pockets; then, to Rob’s surprise, tossed the bag on the water.

  “What are you doing?”

  The poet folded his arms. “We could swim. ‘I have been both flesh and fish.’ But why get wet?” He glanced back, into the trees. “Besides, the goddess may be a wolf behind us, or a pike under the surface.” He knelt, and put his face close to the rippled water. Softly he said, “I can feel you, Clare. I can hear your heartbeat.”

  Rob wasn’t listening. He was watching the bag as it opened, unfolded, grew to a small skin boat, its thread a trailing rope.

  Vetch grabbed it and hauled it in; dragging a straight branch from the woodland, he broke the twigs off to make a pole. Then he climbed in, and held out one hand to Rob.

  Rob looked up at the caer, then grasped the poet’s cool hand and stepped into the boat. It rocked, and he sat very quickly.

  Vetch pushed off. Watching the misty surface warily, he poled them across the crystalline lake.

  The King leaped out of the shell. He said nothing. Instead they both listened.

  The voice came from unknowable distances. Chloe felt it echoing and whispering through the Spiral Castle as if the whole building was an enormous ear, twisted and fine boned, and she was trapped in a tiny space at its center. Her father’s voice was huge. The words seemed too big, as if she had shrunk, or the world she had left was gigantic now, and she could never grow to be a normal size there ever again.

  “Make it stop,” she muttered.

  The King scowled under his mask. “I can’t! I told you, the three have opened a hole, a place called Darkhenge.”

  “What’s that got to do with my father?” She turned on him. “He sounds upset. He sounds … scared.”

  He tapped the smooth shell, anxious. “Well, maybe he is. He must miss you.”

  She stepped forward. “Let me see him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t!”

  “I can’t, Chloe! I don’t know how.”

  She put her hands over her ears. “Then make it stop! I don’t want to hear him if I can’t answer!”

  Vetch laughed his soft laugh. Kneeling at the entrance, he upended the crane-skin bag and seeds poured out of it: hazelnuts, acorns, conkers, berries, sloes. They cascaded down as if the bag was still huge; there were far more than it could possibly contain.

  Crouched above him, Rob peered down the seashell spiral. “Now what?”

  “We go down.”

  The poet snapped the thread shut, slung the bag over his head and shoulder, and pushed it under his dark coat. He descended three steps, the seeds rolling and crushing under his feet. Looking up, his eyes were dark. “Be ready. They’ll be expecting us.”

  The King said nothing, and when Chloe looked at him he was standing by the tilted lintel of the doorway, and out in the corridor something was rattling. It was slithering and tinkling down the long spiral ramp, and as she took her hands down from her ears and ran over to him it seemed to grow in size, thundering until she felt a vast boulder would roar into the chamber, an avalanche of rock that would bury them both.

  “What is it?” she screamed.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “They’re still following! They’ve crossed the water.”

  With a final mighty rumble the object clattered into the room, rolled across the pearly floor and lay still, inches from Chloe’s feet.

  She stared down at it. It wasn’t huge at all.

  It was a tiny black seed.

  O. ONN: GORSE

  Dan’s just rung; he’s in his mother’s car out on the downs. No sign of Rob. John’s hoarse with talking, but now Katie’s here. She came running in out of the rain with that blue coat around her; it was just then that the monitors showed the blip.

  A small round interruption in the brainwaves.

  I went to the window. The trees outside were dripping on the sill, and I leaned my forehead against the cold glass.

  Reflected behind me I saw Rosa in the corridor.

  I don’t know what goes on inside people’s minds. I’ve always tried to know. But there are too many defenses, too many tangles.

  Too many masks.

  There shall be great darkness.

  There shall be a shaking of the mountain.

  “THE BATTLE OF THE TREES”

  The King was terrified. He clung to her arm. “Stop them. They’ll grow. The forest will grow,” he whispered. “Stop them, Chloe!”

  How could she stop them?

  Every seed was sprouting. And as she watched, an acorn split, sent a pale root splintering into the smooth shell, a shoot unkinking into the air. They grew rapidly, unbelievably. Saplings of every size and species shot up, snapping the chamber floor, cracking it into tilted slabs.

  She pulled him back. “Trees can’t hurt you!”

  “They’ll attack now. Our enemies.”

  “Your enemies.” She had to shout over the shattering of walls and roof, of leaves unfurling. One of the swiftest trees had reached the roof; with an almighty shudder the smooth mother-of-pearl broke and collapsed. Shards fell, sharp as glass.

  “We’re finished,” he muttered. “There’s no way out. You’ll have to go with them.” He stepped back, away from her, hugging himself. “Go on, Chloe. Leave me here.”

  She breathed out in frustration, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not leaving you.”

  His brown eyes stared in astonishment.

  “No one,” she said firmly, “treats me like a little girl. Not anymore.”

  “But we’re trapped!”

  “Rubbish!” She slid back between the thin trunks, twisting under branches. “None of this is real. It’s not happening. This is the Unworld. We can change whatever we want to.”

  He had hold of her arm. “I can’t. But maybe you can.”

  “Me?”

  “Quick, Chloe! I can hear them.”

  So could she. Seeds were splitting and cracking under their feet; the intruders were running down the spiral ramp, two shadows already huge and distorted along the pearly walls.

  “Give me your mask,” she snapped.

  “What?”

  “Give it to me!” She went to snatch it; he stopped her. His hand was cold with damp and sweat. Shaking, he undid th
e birch mask and held it out; underneath was another, of holly leaves and red berries like one she’d once worn to a Christmas party.

  “Right. Now get behind me.”

  She slipped the mask on. It was warm; the beech bark scratched her cheeks and forehead, its sappy smell rich and cloying, and at once she felt as if she was looking out from the heart of one of the trees, as if bark was growing all over and around her, closing her in, a dryad, a creature of twigs and roots. She stepped into shadow, with a sudden conviction that if she kept still no one could find her. And if she didn’t speak. Because a tree had no words.

  Copying her, the King crouched deep in a holly sapling. She could barely make him out herself.

  She took small, tense breaths.

  The footsteps raced down the spiral tunnel. Shadows grew, then paused.

  A hand came around the corner, a delicate hand, burned three times on the back.

  Then she saw the man.

  Vetch paused warily at the foot of the curled ramp. In the pearly light his face was paler than ever, the mark on his forehead clear. He reached out and held both arms wide against the walls, blocking Rob’s way. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

  Over his shoulder Rob saw a room of trees. They were so closely meshed they had split the walls and ceiling and were still growing. Branches creaked with tightening pressure; in places shafts of pale moonlight glimmered down from above. Showers of dust fell, light as eggshell, and then fragments of bone white chalk, and soil.

  “The roof’s going to collapse,” he breathed. Then, “Where are they?”

  “They’re in here,” Vetch murmured. “Both of them.”

  He stepped into the room, circling. Then he reached out and touched the nearest tree with his scarred hand, fingering the bark, the dusty green lichen. He looked up. “Call her, Rob. Call her name.”

  Inside the mask, Chloe took a sharp breath of astonishment.

  Behind the man in the dark coat was a boy. His hair was filthy with mud and his face smeared with lichen. The expensive green top and jeans were snagged and ruined. But she knew who he was.

  He turned away from her.

  “Chloe! It’s Rob! It’s all right, we’re here. He can’t hurt you now, Chloe! We’re here to take you back.”

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She felt as if she had truly rooted, grown into the ground, become a dumb, rigid thing. Her eyes flickered to the King; she could only see the holly mask. Behind its eyeholes was a gleam, barely visible. She knew he was watching her. All she had to do was speak.

  All she had to do was say one word.

  “They’ve gone!” Rob’s voice was an agony, but Vetch didn’t move.

  “Not so, Rob.” He slid the skin bag from his coat and dipped his hand in, bringing out a thin hazel wand; he began to move into the trees with it, touching each in turn.

  “If she was in here she’d answer,” Rob snapped. But there was a terrible disbelief in him, because what if it was true, that she hated him, that he was the reason she might not want to go back? For a moment he saw her as she had been for three months, askew in the bed in the nursing home, and then swinging on the swing in the garden when she’d been four or five, small, cute, her hands chubby, her fingers tiny.

  He couldn’t bear it; he blundered after Vetch.

  Into something soft.

  As the poet’s wand touched the tree, it was not a tree at all, but a girl in a brown dress, a dress that trailed on the floor. Her hair was long and she wore a birch mask of peeling bark; her fingernails were sharp and painted, her hands hennaed with patterns of leaf and shade. For a moment she was a creature out of some legend; then he knew it was Chloe, and a great sob of relief went through him.

  But as he grabbed her, she jerked back.

  “Chloe! It’s Rob!”

  “I know very well who it is.” Her voice was flat and scathing.

  Shocked, he reached out.

  “Don’t touch me, Rob,” she snapped angrily. “I don’t want you here. No one asked you to come.” She folded her arms as if barely containing her fury. “You always come and spoil everything.”

  He couldn’t believe this. It stunned him. She wasn’t relieved, wasn’t even pleased to see him. And yet it was just like her. Like Chloe. With a cold shock he realized that something Mac had once warned him of had come true, that over the months of her coma he had made a new Chloe in his mind, a softer, friendlier Chloe, with no tempers or scorn, a Chloe that had never existed, a Chloe that he preferred to the real one.

  Confused, he said, “We’ve come to rescue you.”

  “I don’t want to be rescued.”

  “Yes you do. You must!”

  She glared at him through the mask, an alien creature, her eyes green.

  Vetch glanced around; now he reached in and hauled the King out of the holly bush. The King pulled away, then smiled sourly, brushing down his velvet clothes. “Tell them, Chloe,” he said. “Tell them you’re with me.”

  “Shut up. All of you!” Then she turned on Vetch. “Am I dead? Is that it?”

  The poet’s calmness seemed to still her. After a moment he said, “You’re not dead.” His voice was gentle; he took a step toward her and she didn’t back away. “Your body lies in a coma, a long way from here. This is Annwn, where hidden things are clear, where memories surface. Rob has come to take you home.”

  Impatient, she shrugged. “How long?”

  “Three months.” Rob’s throat was dry; he swallowed. “You were riding Callie. You fell. Near Falkner’s Circle. You must remember.”

  She turned away, arms around herself, so he went on, the words tumbling out now in a breathless rush. “Mum’s been frantic, and Dad’s turning into a stranger. None of us can face the house, your room, each other. Everything’s changed, Chloe. School, church, the whole world. Life’s stopped out there, as if nothing grows, as if it’s winter in August. We’re just marking time till you wake up. We’re all waiting for you.”

  Still she kept her back to him. He glanced at Vetch, who shrugged slightly.

  Beside the slowly unfurling holly, the King grinned.

  Rob came up behind Chloe. “We thought you were a prisoner.”

  “I was.”

  “It doesn’t look like that.”

  She whirled. Through the mask she stared at him, and he was astonished at her anger. “So you want me back, do you? Little Chloe. Girly Chloe. You want me back so your life will be perfect again, and tidy, and just like it was.” She smiled, looking at him closely. “I suppose they’re all thinking about me all the time now, are they, Rob? Around my bed, holding my hands, smoothing the hair out of my eyes. That must rankle. That must be annoying you.”

  He was breathless, silenced with dismay.

  Vetch was watching; now the poet said quietly, “You do him a wrong. He loves you.”

  “Well, I don’t love him.” Her hands were trembling; she crushed them together. “In this world he can’t have whatever he wants. I’ll go back if and when I want to.”

  The King sat down, his back against a trunk, his knees up. He grinned, shaking his head.

  She turned on him. “Not because of you, either, so don’t think that. But because I’m beginning to see this is my world.” She looked back at Vetch, challenging. “It is, isn’t it? Mine. This world is me. I am the forest.”

  He said unhappily, “Chloe—”

  “At first I wanted to escape. Sent birds, messages. But I’m growing. I can feel myself … my mind … spreading out. As if I’ve escaped from some enclosure, all that bother of growing and hurting and eating and walking and hiding what I feel, even from myself. As if all I used to keep under the surface is bursting up and growing, like the trees.” She waved a hennaed hand. “Look at me! I can make anything happen here. I’ve been a fool not to see that. Watch.”

  Instantly, all the trees stopped moving. Their constant rustle of growth ended. Rob stared around.

  “I did that.” Chloe smiled. She spun, arms wide. “Did you
see? I did it. Maybe I can do anything. Why should I go back? I’m sick of being small, and a girl, and the youngest. Here I can do what I want.”

  “I could force you to,” Vetch murmured.

  “Yes.” The green eyes darted to him through the mask. “You could. You’re the dangerous one.”

  “For God’s sake, Chloe, stop this!” Rob couldn’t bear it. He pushed past Vetch and grabbed her arm. “We’re going. Now! And take that stupid mask off!”

  He grabbed it; she screamed and shoved him away, but the mask tore and he saw her face, flushed and furious. Crashing into the undergrowth, he fell on his arm and pain shot through him; then he gasped and twisted and kicked. “Vetch!”

  The roots were growing around him. Rapidly, swiftly, they snaked under his arms and over his shoulders, forcing him down, whipping around his neck and tightening. He choked, kicked, tried to pull them away, but his hands were full of leaves, tangled bines that wove between his fingers.

  “Stop it!” Vetch snapped. He confronted Chloe. “Stop it. Leave him.”

  She smiled, took a breath. Rob coughed, slumped. He stared at her in amazement, unable to speak, unable to believe.

  “We’re going.” Face to face with Vetch, she smiled coldly. “Get out of my way.”

  The poet didn’t move. His eyes flickered toward the King, who had closed up behind her like a shadow. The King’s fingers came over her shoulder. He held a small berry.

  “Take this, Chloe. Eat it. Now, in front of them. Then they’ll never be able to take you back, not even the shape-shifter, not even Taliesin himself.”

  Rob tore the ivy from his throat.

  Chloe’s hand came up and took the berry. Slowly she held it to her lips, smiling, teasing. “Shall I?” she whispered. “Shall I eat it, Rob?”

  He froze. “No. Chloe…”

  “I could. That would show them all.”

  “No. Please. Keep the choice open. Don’t close the way back.” Vetch’s voice was soft, grave. Rob knew he was using it against her, the sounds of the words, the very letters in them. “Please. I know they’ve hurt you, Chloe. I know it’s all inside you, and they’ve never seen it. I hurt someone like that once, and I think she will never forgive me, never. But imprisoning yourself here isn’t the way. Think about it. Take your time.”