The Plentiful Darkness

by Heather Kassner

  “What is all this junk?” Trick asked.

  Rooney shook her head. She had no answer. At least not one that she wanted to voice. For speaking aloud a fear was to know it. And just as she and Trick did not belong in the wooded darkness, neither did these broken things.

  She bit her lip, trudging on.

  Trick walked beside her, his eyes tracking like a hawk’s, his footsteps steady and quick. All at once, he ducked beneath a forked tree, startling Rooney enough that she did the same. The Monty toppled from her shoulder.

  The rat had come to no harm, but Rooney gasped. Before her, something glinted silver. Her heart leaped, and so did Trick. His arm lashed forward, fingers touching and then closing around the small object on the ground.

  He’d found Rooney’s mirror. He had known where it had fallen.

  Oh, she should have left him dangling upside down!

  She opened her mouth to demand he return it, but a prickling along her skin kept her silent.

  They weren’t alone.

  Disjointed music filtered through the trees, all fractured chords, as if the instruments were out of tune or the darkness warped the tinkling notes.

  Rooney sneaked a glance at Trick only to find that he was already looking at her, eyes dark in warning. “Dim the light,” he said under his breath.

  She did not want to. The darkness would swoop in again, and so would her panic.

  Trick watched her. She couldn’t let him think her weak. Heart thudding as unevenly as the eerie notes of music, she snapped the lunar mirror closed.

  But the woods did not go completely black as she’d expected.

  A pale, pale light slipped through the trees. Blue tinged and flickering.

  It moved closer.

  “Be cautious,” Trick whispered. His eyes circled wide with alarm.

  Around them, a strange melody drifted in the air, and with it came figures fast approaching.

  They pranced along in a disorderly line, a half dozen of them. Some raised blue moonlit torches above their heads. Others played a fiddle or a flute, just out of sync with one another. All of them were children even younger than Rooney. The missing children, must be. Wide grins stretched across their faces (some pale, some dark), which bore hideous, gray-dark stains.

  Rooney cringed at the sight. She hunkered lower to the ground.

  Light leaked between the trees, casting shadow upon shadow. The children skipped through it. Moonlight danced cold in their eyes as they twirled and spun among the trees.

  They tilted back their heads and sang a most creepy little tune.

  Come out, my friends

  Come out, my foes

  If you’re here

  No one else knows

  Try if you want

  To gather moonlight

  But it’s gone for good

  In this ever-dark night

  It’s death you’ve found

  And we must confess

  There’s no escaping

  The plentiful darkness

  Rooney shuddered. It’s death you’ve found …

  She couldn’t be dead; she wasn’t. Her pulse raced too surely for that to be true. But chills skated over her skin.

  The children marched on, sweeping by the very place where Rooney crouched with Trick and the Monty. The torchlight grazed over their bowed heads. They flinched away from it. But as the children wandered on, the quiet pressed in.

  The darkness pressed in.

  “Come on,” Trick said, drawing himself to his feet.

  And so, together (or untogether, as she thought of it, as they were more enemies than friends), Rooney and Trick sneaked after the dimming light.

  11

  AS RESTLESS AS GHOSTS

  Blue torchlight glowed through trees. Rooney, Trick, and the Monty cautiously stole after it, chasing the spooky seesawing of the children’s warped song.

  Along the dark path, the toys and books, the trinkets and threads grew more and more abundant. Rooney hopped over a woolen glove without its match. Trick stepped around a paint-peeled wooden horse that might have once ridden proudly on a carousel but now stared at them with one vacant eye. Without a second glance, the children skipped past the curious objects that had no place here—frolicking as restless as ghosts.

  Rooney shook the spooky thought away. But Trick must have felt the same foreboding of that song.

  “If it’s death we’ve found,” he whispered, “then perhaps that’s what—perhaps that’s who—we’re following. Dead spirits.”

  From its place on Rooney’s shoulder, the Monty chittered. Even the rat harbored suspicions.

  Rooney’s knees locked up. She froze. “Don’t say that.”

  Hearing it aloud only strengthened the idea of it in her mind. That death waited for them around the corner.

  Trick paused when she did. “Come on.” He glanced over his shoulder, but his features were lost in the darkness, so his words seemed to rise from the pitch when he said, “I would rather creep up on death than have it creep up on me.”

  Rooney inhaled sharply, but with Trick’s eyes upon her and the challenge in his words, she straightened her back and forged on. The children’s high singing voices sent a rash of goose bumps up and down her arms.

  They slipped through the trees, winding deeper and deeper into the forest—until they stopped all at once at the edge of a shadowed clearing. Moonlit torches cast the space with a foggy glow. The last child in line spun in a gleeful circle as he sang, eyes sweeping the night.

  Trick darted behind a tree, and Rooney squeezed in next to him. With their cheeks pressed to the silky bark, they peeked around the trunk.

  The children they’d followed bounded through the clearing (which was not clear at all but spotted with the same sort of broken objects they’d encountered in the woods), and joined a scattering of other kids. The song died on their tongues.

  Quiet leaked through the trees.

  Be cautious.

  Rooney held very still, afraid she’d make some small sound and give their hiding place away.

  Within the clearing, the children gathered beneath a black tapestry of tented silk. It draped from the not-sky. Or, it was a part of it. Rooney couldn’t quite tell where the swath of fabric ended and the not-sky began.

  It was like the walls of this place were ever folding inward, pressing downward.

  In the very center of the clearing, on a raised platform sheathed in darkness, sat an onyx throne. Like the trees, it was very narrow and very tall. On it perched a girl no older than Rooney herself. She wore a crown of silver on her dark, dark hair, fine boots that laced all the way to her knees, and a dress the shade of coal.

  The girl regarded the other children, a frown on her lips, a glint in her eyes.

  And then her head snapped up.

  Rooney froze, feeling the girl’s sharp gaze fall upon her.

  “Come out, my friends!” the girl taunted, her voice high and creepy. Then it dipped low. “Come out, my foes!”

  12

  FRIEND OR FOE?

  Rooney shrank away from the words stolen from the eerie song and spoken so menacingly. Beside her, Trick’s hands knotted into fists.

  They (and the Monty) had followed quiet and swift, but all the way through the woods, the children must have known they were there. The group of them turned back, grinning.

  Rooney did not like all those eyes upon her. Or the strange tremor humming under her toes.

  Before they could step forward or slink away, the ground beneath them rippled.

  A shifting and sliding. A furious quaking. The earth changing shape.

  Trick stomped the ground with his boot, as if he could bully it still. It only heaved more willfully.

  The tree quivered too, long branches swaying, tarnished-silver flowers trembling. A vibration ran along Rooney’s fingertips, gentle at first, then more forceful. With a great shudder, the tree shook Rooney away from its trunk.

  Her arms shot out. They pinwheeled through the
air, but she could not find her balance. Not with the ground pulsing like a solid ocean beneath her.

  Trick fared no better. A heavy branch swung down and swatted him twice on the shoulder. He wobbled on unsteady feet.

  One after the other, Rooney and Trick fell to the still-roiling ground. It bumped and tumbled them along, the Monty flopping about beside them.

  They crashed at the base of the throne, limbs (and one tail) overlapping. Clenching the mirror still in her hand and hoping Trick had the good sense to hold hers tight, Rooney swiped her snarly hair out of her face. She looked up, up, up into the pale, drawn face of the girl on the onyx throne.

  “Friend or foe?” The girl’s eyes cut like daggers as she tilted her chin, ensuring Rooney saw every angle of her face. Black, scraggly veins ran along her jaw. Grayed skin lurked in the severe lines of her collarbone, spreading like mold.

  Rooney gulped, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. As she climbed to her feet, the children slipped closer, their shadows stretching long. Some grinned mischievously, the corners of their curving mouths sharp. Others chewed their already ragged lips or stroked the little gray patches spread on their cheeks and the tops of their hands.

  She hadn’t imagined it earlier; the darkness clung to them.

  “Foe or friend?” The girl leaned forward.

  At the edge of the clearing, the trees tilted too, their branches spreading like the legs of a spider. They waited for an answer as surely as the girl did.

  Trick stood, shaking out his hands as if he might be readying them for fists. He met her fierce stare, then said, rather darkly, “A friend.” He sounded not at all convincing.

  Rooney thought about elbowing him, but that might not have convinced the girl either. Until she knew the way of things here, Rooney would play along. “A friend,” she said firmly.

  The girl looked from one of them to the other. “Prove it.” Atop her head, the mothlike flowers woven around her silver crown beat their petals like wings.

  Rooney frowned. Wasn’t it proof enough that they stood there so obediently instead of tearing the girl from the throne and demanding answers about this strange place?

  “What did you bring?” One of the rascals sidled closer, the way the Montys shivered through the alleyway, skittish and bold at once. He poked at Trick’s coat pocket.

  “What did you bring me?” the girl on the throne said sharply.

  Rooney had nothing to offer this girl. (Not that she wanted to give her a thing, except maybe a swift kick to the shins.)

  Trick glanced down at the Monty, who was circling around their ankles, as if the rat might be offered as a gift.

  “That won’t do,” the girl said.

  “Absolutely not,” Rooney said at the same time.

  The Monty ran its paws across its whiskers, seemingly unaware they discussed its fate.

  “But those will do nicely.” And quick as could be, the girl sprang down from the throne, reached out her arm, and snatched the mirror first from Rooney’s hand and then grabbed the other one from Trick’s.

  “Those aren’t yours!” Rooney cried.

  The girl flitted to the platform and settled on the throne once again. She dusted her fingers over the etchings, admiring the lovely lunar mirrors.

  Trick glared at the girl. “Give them back. Or I’ll take them back.”

  “That’s not how it works in the plentiful darkness. Not after we’ve welcomed you so warmly.”

  More like creepily, Rooney thought.

  “But I will forgive you,” the girl continued. “You don’t yet know the rules.”

  “We don’t even know your name,” Rooney said, chilled by the slow smile that crawled across the girl’s face.

  “What is his name?” the girl asked instead of disclosing her own.

  “Trick Aidan.” Rooney’s voice came clipped.

  “What is her name?” The girl nodded her head toward Rooney.

  Rooney watched Trick. She waited for him to pretend he didn’t know, or to call her Ratty, but all he said was, “Rooney de Barra.”

  Around them, whispered in the darkness, the other children offered up their names as well. Too many to remember them all.

  Sarah O’Brien. Daniel Moore. Anne Riley.

  “Devin Hayes.”

  So she was here! Rooney swung her head toward this last voice, but in the pinched light, she couldn’t find the familiar face of the girl from the window. It would have been a welcome sight.

  “And I…” The girl on the throne raised her voice above all the others, demanding Rooney’s attention again. “I am Sorka of the Darkness.”

  (Maybe Rooney should have introduced herself as Rooney of the Alleyway.)

  Sorka glanced at the lunar mirrors one last time. Then she tucked them into the pocket of her skirt, making it quite clear she would not be returning them. “Here, there is only one rule you need to know.”

  Her grin widened. She kicked her legs up over the arm of the throne, lounging back into its silky folds.

  “I can do whatever I want, and you must do as I command.”

  13

  ENTRAPMENT

  The words jolted through Rooney.

  “No way and never!” she cried, unable to hold her tongue. She didn’t like this one bit. She would not play along after all.

  “That’s rotten and ridiculous! No one tells me what to do.” Trick narrowed his blackberry eyes, and for once Rooney knew what it was like to have someone stand beside her when facing off against a foe. (It was much better than standing alone—even if it was Trick Aidan and they were still decidedly untogether.)

  Sorka’s white cheeks flushed pink. She straightened on the throne once more, boots stamping to the ground without making a sound. “I’ve made this rule for a reason. It’s for your own good!”

  “It’s good for nothing,” Trick growled.

  Rooney scrambled forward. She’d rip her mirror—and Trick’s too—from Sorka’s pocket. In three quick strides, Rooney reached the little platform and leaped up.

  Sorka jerked back in her seat, as if no one had ever before approached her so boldly. “How dare you,” she hissed.

  Rooney wobbled on the landing, and Sorka caught hold of her arm, fingers tight.

  Rooney gasped. Not at the sharpness of Sorka’s nails—but at those gray-dark stains on Sorka’s pale face, which looked all the more dreadful up close. Creeping and crawling along her jaw.

  “If you aren’t careful. If you don’t listen”—the lean smile returned to Sorka’s lips—“soon you’ll be as lovely as the rest of us.”

  “The darkness can’t touch me.” But Rooney knew of nothing to stop it from burrowing and seeping into her skin. Except for the lunar mirrors. Their bright glow might hold it back.

  Never mind Sorka’s strong grip, Rooney scrambled for the tucked-away mirrors.

  Sorka screeched. With the sweep of her arm, the platform lost all its sharp corners. “Away with you!”

  Rooney’s feet slipped on the newly made slope. Released from Sorka’s grip, she lurched backward, crashing into Trick, who’d come up behind her. Beneath their boots, the ground rippled once again, sending her and Trick and the Monty sprawling head over heels and claws away from the throne.

  And toward the woods.

  Rooney and Trick landed in a heap—his elbow jabbing her stomach, her knee knocking into his jaw. Hurriedly, they untangled themselves and climbed to their feet beneath the looming trees and the too-close darkness.

  Oh, Rooney didn’t know what was out there, but it must have been better than this rotten girl and these long-faced children. She started for the woods.

  “Wait!” Sorka cried, a startled note to the command.

  Rooney marched along with the Monty, strangely pleased that Trick walked one stride behind her. None of them looked back.

  “You don’t know the woods or what’s at the edge of the darkness.” Sorka’s voice followed them, a warning carved into her words. “You need to listen to me. Yo
u need to stay.”

  Rooney spun around this time, but only long enough to say, “No chance!” Especially not with this new knowledge—the darkness had edges. And that must mean it had an end. If she reached it, they might find their way out.

  Their way home.

  “You’d better learn to behave,” Sorka called to them, and then she raised her arm, one quick swirl of her finger and a whisper under her breath.

  The children hushed when she did so. They huddled in the darkness, watching with bright-dark eyes. Bright, for they pierced so intensely. Dark, for they harbored such secrets.

  Shadows swarmed, cutting through the blue-tinged light of the torches. Soft creaks. A featherlike swooshing.

  “Watch out!” Trick warned, but too late.

  Long, skeletal branches broke through the night as the nearest trees bowed their limbs. They knifed toward Rooney and Trick like a giant’s steepled fingers. All claws and sharp points and ill intent.

  Trick yanked Rooney’s arm, roughly pulling her along as he bounded away from the bent-backed trees. She stumbled after him. But the branches were everywhere. Chasing and piercing and stabbing. They swung like blackened blades, so fast the air shrieked.

  The Monty scampered to and fro, dangerously close to their ankles, and it was all Rooney could do not to trample it underfoot. Clutching Trick’s elbow for balance, she swept her arm down and scooped up the rat. Its little eyes rolled wild in its head.

  They ran in frantic circles. With the branches twitching behind and before them, there was nowhere to hide.

  Rooney and Trick stumbled to a stop. She braced herself, pressing her back against his, scared of moving in any one direction and being skewered by a bough.

  “Hold tight,” he said.

  “Keep still,” she warned, hoping these were not the last words she would hear or say.

  One after another, the branches thrust downward. Black spikes arrowing toward them. They spindled and speared, rooting into the ground.

  Entrapping Rooney and Trick.

  14

  UNRAVELING