Whiteland

by Rosie Cranie-Higgs

  She believed it then, filled with rage, and she believes it now: it wasn’t enough. It’s not enough for her and shouldn’t be for anyone. Out of Whiteland, she could live. She could be what she invented.

  I was careful, she says. It may be futile, but the nails are in the coffin. There’s no harm in one last try. I wanted a life where I wouldn’t be hated, so when I got out, I left Whiteland for good. I never even said the name to myself, let alone anyone else. She huffs. The irony is awful. You’ve endangered us all more than I ever did. By releasing women of the Kyo, using inept women as spyglasses, and messing with my daughter, the worlds well and truly collided.

  And yet. The Whispers rustle closer, swirling around her in a windy cocoon. Whatever they’re building up to, it’s close. Quite apart from justifying why you’re hated, you set an example that anyone can leave. You posed no threat once you were out, but others who try to follow might not be so careful. If we’re all to stay safe… They pause, and with a surge of bitterness, Anna knows what’s coming. You must be an example.

  Hook, line, and hypocrisy; out comes the truth.

  It’s not like I’m the first to have left! Anna flings out her arms in anger, despair. We grow up hearing the stories. Things have schemed, and waited, and escaped. Even outsiders have stories; the Havsrå, the Huldra. That stupid bishop-fish. Why should I have to be an example? If you’re that concerned, make it harder to leave. She drops her hands. Or are you not as omnipotent as you make out?

  A breeze tears across the ice. It pierces her cheeks, and she winces. You for your daughter, the Whispers hiss. Together, they’re a rumble, menacing, provoked. Moving on from reasons, spinning the cocoon. A trade, as you said.

  Anna’s head swoons, out and back. She knew this would happen from the minute the boy appeared with Romy, but now it’s here. I…she tries. Winded, hollowed-out, resigned. Her fight drains as quickly as it came. I know. But please. When it’s done, let her go.

  She releases a shuddering, ice-flecked breath. Her, Kira, and that poor damn boy. Wherever the nearest entrance is, send them there. I don’t care if it lets them out in Peru; just get them away from here.

  Another breath, and another, fighting to stay even. The cocoon is closing around her ankles, ready to spin, to rustle, to whirl its way up her body until there’s nothing left. Despite her sacrificial bravery, she’s afraid. They’re slowing her heart. They’re taking her life. She’s so, so afraid.

  Don’t hold me against them, she continues. Even in her mind, the words are frail. You can help them get out. Spin, rustle, whirl, breathe. Please.

  A shriek slices the end of her words. Anna looks round sharply.

  No. Anna’s breath catches and stays caught. Emerging from the ice wall is someone, something, too distant to make out, but there—a hundred metres away—is Romy.

  Romy and Matt.

  Oh, God.

  ‘Stop!’ Romy shrieks again. Rigid, Anna stares at her husband. How is he here? Why is he here? Head drooping, feet dragging, he appears to be unconscious.

  Fearful longing constricts her throat. Romy’s desperation is furious, hauling Mathew across the ice. The sight is wretched, impossible; what happened after she left? What brought them all here? How? The questions start to race. Anna’s hands start to shake. What does the woman want? Is Matt okay? Is Romy okay, hidden in herself? Even from here, she looks so thin. She’s corners and bones.

  Anna nearly chokes. She screwed up. Oh, God, she screwed up. She’s a carousel, spinning and spinning, gravitating toward inevitability. She thought she could do this, be strong enough for this, but they’re here, now, here, and oh, God, oh, God—

  She likes her freedom, the Whispers breathe when Romy wails again. It’s racked and hoarse and hurts. It hurts. The woman. She always knew she couldn’t keep it, but she wants to. She intends to bargain.

  Anna’s head swoons again, but she pushes it down. What?

  The Whispers ignore her. Interesting, to choose Mathew. They’re mild, musing, amused. She must have sensed the vulnerability of his mind.

  Stop the horses. Calm the carousel. Anna’s lungs are paper. What do you mean? she asks. How would she—no. Her mind drops to frozen, paralysing dread. Please say you didn’t. Not Matt, too.

  You said yourself that he suggested your holiday. A voice slithers by her elbow. If it had a face, it’d be smirking, unpleasantly pleased. Do you recall the business trip to London? It was fortuitous. Stepping into someone’s mind near an entrance, especially when the mind is unguarded. The voice laughs softly. He had no idea we were there, and obeyed. It’s a shame the woman chose him. Smug, sly, dreadful. He was such a good boy.

  Anna closes her eyes. They got to Matt. She curls her fingers, her toes, her lips. They got to Romy. As a result of both, they got to Kira. For what?

  No. She didn’t come here—she didn’t leave her home, scar her family, and abandon the life she carved from nothing—to be beaten by a leech from the Kyo.

  Whoever the woman is, she says fiercely, ramming down the pain, she can’t keep her freedom. You said there’d be a trade.

  There will be, they say. The cocoon swells up to her knees, tying her in place and beginning to roar. As much as its climax scares her, its stolidity is a relief. We don’t want her free. It defeats the purpose of making you an example. Rosemarie will be released, and they will all return to the outside. The other two were never supposed to be involved.

  ‘No!’ Romy screeches. Grimacing, straining, she speeds up. Anna chokes on a sob. Her daughter and her husband, one dragging the other like a disobedient dog. Mathew thumps against the ice. His kneecaps thud. One elbow cracks, scraped along the ground. Anna swallows.

  That’s not her daughter. Her daughter’s not the one shrieking, dragging. She’s not the one with the haunted face, the hateful fury, the air of a ghost. Romy will be okay. The Whispers are brutal, but they don’t lie. And Matt…

  Anna shuts her eyes. She can’t look at him. It’s a gruelling enough fight as it is, simply knowing he’s there. Everything inside her aches to run, to check he’s alive, to hold his hands and kiss him awake. To apologise for his role, for the catalyst he became. If it wouldn’t stop the trade, she’d already be gone.

  But the trade has to happen. It aches, it breaks, every possible anguish, but it’s the way she has to save them. She can’t stop it, can’t risk the woman wreaking havoc. She can’t risk it not starting again. She can’t do anything but stand, submit, and hope the Whispers keep their word.

  ‘Anneliese!’ Romy shrieks. It’s ragged, raw, animalistic, but even with the raging woman inside it, it belongs to her daughter. Her sixteen-year-old daughter.

  As the Whispers swirl up her thighs, Anna opens her eyes.

  At once, she wishes she hadn’t. Pushing Matt to his knees, half-awake and swaying, Romy plants her hands on either side of his head. ‘Anneliese,’ she says. Jerking his chin so sharply that he gasps, she fixes Anna with a dead-eyed threat. ‘Stop.’

  The valley of ice took forever. Kira’s relief is unrivalled when it ends: never slowing, never stopping, they pelted around so many bends that she lost all sense of direction. Her eyes stung from real, sparkling snow-blindness, her mind growing giddy with unsteady speed. It was nauseating, and as she gallops after the wolves onto the glittering, endless ice, she doesn’t look back.

  She’s found them.

  In the distance, three figures bob into view. Kira’s heart surges up to her mouth. They’re toy-town tiny, and rattling on Maja’s back, she can’t make them out, but it doesn’t matter. Romy, Mum, and Dad.

  She nudges Maja faster, but the horse is faltering. Her mane is sweat-matted, her legs out of time. She slows, judders, and comes to a halt, far from the toy-town shadows. Kira’s heart sinks down, down, down. No.

  The wolves lope on. ‘No,’ Kira pleads, digging in her heels, tugging on the reins. Not when she’s so close. ‘You have to move, Maja. Please.’

  She’s close enough to hear Romy shouting in d
esperate, inhuman shrieks. Close enough to see her hauling Mathew over the ice to their motionless mother. Jabbing her heels into Maja’s flanks, Kira thrusts her hips forward. The wolves have stopped, now, looking back and pacing. Their impatience growls. We have to go.

  Kira throws them a helpless glance. Maja is trembling, hanging her head, going nowhere. What can she do?

  She can run. Stiff-legged, she slips from Maja’s back, stumbling toward the wolves. Her apprehension has ground to dust; compared to the scene ahead of her, they’re nothing but puppies, or petals. Mulled wine, chestnuts, cinnamon, candles. Wintry, unthreatening things. She staggers into a run.

  Useless legs. Stupid stilts. Romy is yelling, Anna doing nothing, and as the largest wolf dips its muzzle toward her, her sister stops, drops Mathew to his knees, and places her hands on his head.

  ‘Romy, don’t.’

  Anna’s mind quakes, but her voice is calm. It has to be. If she loses her calm, she loses everything.

  Not everything. If she stepped away from the Whispers, she could stop this; they’re swirling up her stomach, a corset of air replacing the cocoon, but she’s not powerless. Not yet. She could drag Matt away, disable the woman, and start over.

  ‘Move.’ Romy jerks her father’s head again. A painful whine keens from his lips. Anna’s very being judders. She could hurt Matt fatally in a second; she’s fighting for her freedom, she’s unnaturally strong, and as a result, she’s ruthless.

  ‘Romy—’

  ‘Move.’

  Anna flinches at a third jerk, this time to the side. What can she do? If she stops the trade, she loses Romy; if she continues, she could lose Matt.

  Oh, God.

  With her chest shot with shock, Kira gasps. She expected something like this, but seeing it here, so close to coming true, with her dad’s life in her sister’s hands—

  The bending wolf yips. Horror vaulting, soaring, roaring, Kira turns to it, wide-eyed. It’s bowed its front half, haunches high. Waiting.

  Waiting for her to get on. Time staggers. In a long, looping moment, Kira sees what the wolf wants, sees the danger, and sees that she no longer cares. The wolves were strange from the start.

  It’s her dad’s life in her sister’s hands. She has to get to Romy.

  The wolf’s bent snout is as tall as her waist. Kira doesn’t think as she heaves herself up, gripping its coarse grey-black fur. Its broad body is hot. It neither helps nor hinders. Her mind whirls and shouts, chaos, hell. Has she made a mistake?

  No. In one fluid movement, the wolf straightens, yips at the others, and runs.

  ‘Step away from them,’ Romy hisses. Her human façade is slipping. Her eyes shine large and black. Anna glances around, panicked. The dark shapes are getting closer, but whatever they are, they’re too far away. Contact lenses aren’t something that exist here, so she didn’t think twice about leaving them behind.

  There’s still some of Whiteland in her.

  ‘Romy.’ Avoiding this thought, Anna cuts her eyes back to her daughter. Her not-daughter. Her husband, God, the man who loved her without knowing any of her secrets, slumping on his knees. Choosing between them is no choice at all. ‘Romy, don’t.’

  ‘I said, step away,’ Romy snaps. Her nails are sharp on her father’s skin. His eyelids droop and flutter. ‘I’m sure you can see what’ll happen if you don’t.’ A smile tears the slipping face apart. Impossibly, gapingly stretched, it leers. ‘Can’t you, Anneliese?’

  Anna chokes. Tears blur in rainbows and spill. She throws her eyes around again. The dark shapes have grown to wolves. A girl rides the largest, her long hair streaming, flying across the ice. Anna can’t stop the tears. She needs to scream. She needs to die. They’re close, so close, and it’s Kira, her Kira, the girl who reads and paints and studies, who took to snow like a fish in the heat. It’s Kira, hurtling on with the wolves. If she can just buy a little more time.

  The Whispers need to take her. She needs to stall, help the process, before the thing in Romy does something the real Romy can’t forgive. At the very least, she needs to stall until Kira gets here.

  Despair sweeps through her like suicide. God help her. God help them all. She’s relying on one of her daughters to stop the other from murder.

  ‘All right.’ Somehow speaking, somehow lucid, Anna looks back to Romy. The Cheshire grin is fixed, the head slightly tilted, and it makes her want to run. That is not her daughter.

  This is all her fault.

  ‘All right.’ Breathing, riding out the despair, she steps an inch to the left. The Whispers cloak her shoulders now, creeping up her neck. ‘There.’

  Romy moves a hand, an inch from Mathew’s head. ‘More,’ she says, singsong-sweet. ‘All the way away. Move.’

  Steadying her breath, Anna takes another step. It’s a struggle to mask the discomfort bleeding through her as the Whispers slide up. Beyond her chin, up to her mouth. Although they won’t smother her, it’s a thin thing to breathe, like a butterfly trapped in a net. She’s nearly gone.

  Another tiny step. Can Romy tell she’s lying? Does the woman have enough of a mind to see, from her tautening face, her rigid limbs, that while her body looks alive, it’s nearly dead?

  Maybe. Maybe not. She’s light, tingling, grainy, adrift. Narrowing her eyes, Romy’s hand retreats. Anna moulds her face straight. Come on. Come on.

  The wolves are almost here.

  Romy’s hand moves away from Mathew’s head. The wolf pushes harder toward them. Kira’s blood roars like an ocean: they’ll make it. They will. There’ll be enough time. Run her down, scare her, whatever. As long as she doesn’t hurt Mathew.

  But why isn’t Anna stopping her? Kira squints through the rushing air. Romy must be a waif, a wraith, fragile and dwindled after coming this far; Anna could overpower her. She must be missing something. Their mum looks nothing but terrified.

  Romy’s hand retreats farther. Kira releases a precarious breath. Anna’s talking to her. Convincing her not to do it. Reasoning, threatening, something. Anything.

  The wolves are so, so close.

  ‘More.’ Romy nods twitchily. Anna’s heart stops. She can’t move, even if she wanted to; with the Whispers crawling up her face, her body is no longer hers. ‘More,’ Romy repeats, her leer warping to anger. ‘Can’t you hear me? It’s not enough!’ She slaps her hand back. Her 8-ball eyes are on fire. ‘Move.’

  I can’t, Anna thinks faintly. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. She’s lifting, drifting, sifting away. The Whispers eddy above her head, and as she fades—it’s in her dispersing bones, in the nothing of her skin—Romy’s face morphs into horror.

  ‘No!’ She jerks the man’s head back up. ‘You won’t go.’ She squeezes his skull between the heels of her hands. It’s not too late. It can’t be. It won’t be. ‘You won’t.’ Fury. Freedom. Nothing. Another jerk. ‘Not before—’

  ‘No!’ Kira hears. Fifty metres. Forty.

  ‘You won’t go.’ Thirty.

  ‘You won’t.’ Twenty. ‘Not before you see.’

  The wolves scrape to a frenzied halt. Gripping Matt’s slumping head, Romy snaps his neck to the side.

  Kira shrieks. Tumbling from the wolf, she crashes to the ice, scrabbling over to her father. His eyes are closed. His breath has gone. Chest bursting, heart a storm, Kira’s leaves her body.

  ‘What did you do?’ she yells. The words are hoarse. Linking her fingers, she slams them into Mathew’s silent chest. Again, again, again, again, trying for a heartbeat, searching for life. ‘Romy, what did you do?’

  Throwing back her head, Romy screams. Her body bends so far back that her hair scrapes the ground. Kira flinches away in horror. Romy’s spine creaks with the strain, cracking as her chest pushes up like a puppet, and at a second, agonised scream, Kira scrambles to her feet. Where’s Anna? She has to stop this. She has to make it right. That’s the reason she’s here, the reason any of them are—

  Her urgent, searching eyes find Anna. Her hope plummets through the ic
e. ‘Mum?’

  She was ready to run to her. She was ready to hug her, beg her, shout at her, but she stops in her stiffening tracks. It’s Anna, but it isn’t; it is her mum’s face, her mum’s hair, and her mum’s winter clothing, but as familiar as they are, they’re not there. Not quite.

  ‘Mum?’ Kira repeats. It pitches with confusion, with roiling distress. Step forward. Falter, step back. Anna is still, quiet, bleached, whipped by a translucent wind and fading to the ice. Distress smashes back up to horror. ‘Mum?’ Dread, hysteria, dismay, a whirl. ‘Mum?’ she cries. ‘What’s happening?’

  Romy wails again. More bestial than human, it’s a ghastly, volucrine screech. Kira throws a wild glance at her. Down to her dad, back to her mum. What does she do? Why does she never know what to do? Anna’s eyes close, paling. Her expression glints sadly away, and it clicks.

  Anna for Romy.

  ‘Mum!’ Kira flings herself forward. Her skin tingles as she passes through the wind, rustling against her like cold-fingered leaves, but she ignores it. She has to keep her mother here. Whatever Anna’s done, as Anneliese, as a huldra, there must be a way for her to stay.

  It’s not too late. Anna’s witchy perfume drifts, faint and mingled with the smell of her skin. Kira gulps, sobs, grapples. It’s not too late. It won’t be.

  She reaches for her mother’s hands, but there’s nothing left to touch. Nothing to hold to, nothing to keep. Her fingers wane, her arms become air, and when Kira looks up, Anna’s face is gone.

  ‘Mum?’ she whispers. The wind leaves her skin. The air settles and stills. ‘Mum?’ She turns. Wolves. Mathew. Romy, collapsing with a final, breathless cry. Everyone but Anna. ‘Where are you?’

  Nowhere. Romy’s body goes limp. A cold rush of air flies up from her chest, and Kira’s legs buckle and give. Romy’s unconscious. Mathew’s dead. And Anna…