Stay calm. My father’s voice seeps in. Pay attention. Don’t let your mind wander, or your prey will too. I shake my head and climb the fifth and final hill, knowing what waits beyond. The trees come into sight like low clouds left in the valley, so heavy they’ve sunk to the ground. I descend the hill.
The forest is a different thing in the dappled light of day, but not a better thing, not a less frightening thing. It does not glow blue-white from within, but dull gray-white from without, diffused by the dead branches of the trees. The trees themselves make jagged lines, thin poles jutting up from the ground. There is something violent about the way they’ve been stuck in the soil like pins. Careless and sharp. And everything feels deadened by a stifling quiet.
I inch forward to the edge of the forest, and the ground crackles beneath my feet, a blanket of dead leaves and brittle sticks. As my fingers brush the outermost trees, the bone hand springs to mind, curled and white against the dark trunk. I recoil. I do not want to touch this place. I do not want to leave a mark. I am as afraid of finding answers as I am of finding none, and that fear makes me angrier than anything else. I find the spot where the Near Witch stood when she peered out, and with a deep breath and a quick touch of my father’s knife, I force my feet to carry me through, over the threshold and into the witch’s woods.
I HOLD MY BREATH, but nothing happens, nothing comes.
The wind doesn’t pick up, the world doesn’t change, so I start moving. Instead of skirting the tree line, clinging to the edges of the forest, I head straight in, toward the center, the way the witch must have vanished. I swallow and remind myself that dead things are bound to their beds so long as the sun is up. I look up through the canopy, but it’s impossible to gauge the time. The forest swallows the world beyond, gnaws at the light and the warmth so that only pieces find their way through. It seems endless.
I look for any signs of the child-shaped shadow, but all I can find are dead leaves—this forest is thick but hollow, drained, the bark brittle, the limbs snapping off.
Most forests harbor a range of animals. Some creep across the floor, others inch up trees. They fly or perch or skitter. Every kind of thing makes noise. But here, there is nothing.
And then, a sharp caw breaks the quiet. A crow. Overhead a single black bird weaves between the trees. And then another. And a third. All making their way deeper into the woods. I follow the trail of caws and black feathers, winding my way through the trees, brambles and branches snagging my cloak, grasping at my legs. I pick up speed until something catches my boot, flinging me to the damp earth. Pain shoots up my leg, and I try to twist free, but the grip only tightens. A long gnarled root has caught the buckle on my boot. I struggle with it, freeing the leather strap, and am halfway to my feet when I see it.
Half erased by my fall, among the moss and dirt, is a footprint. Five small toes. A ball. A heel. And another. I scramble to my feet.
And another.
And another.
There are no prints between here and the village, but the forest itself is brimming with them. Multiple pairs of child-size feet.
Footprints but no children. And none of the sounds children make. I think of how loud Edgar and Cecilia are when they play their games, of the way Emily dances and laughs, of how much noise Riley makes knocking into things. Now I hear only the occasional caw of crows circling overhead.
I try to follow the footprints, but they go a dozen different ways.
A smaller pair, maybe Edgar’s, trudge sleepily off to the right, dragging over the earth and smudging the other marks.
A light-footed girl with small dancing steps, almost all ball and toes, no heel, curls to the left.
Another pair wanders back and forth in even waves, as if walking an invisible winding line.
And a fourth walks deliberately, proud, the way a small boy does when he is trying to pretend he is a man.
I follow each set and discover that though they take different paths, they all go the same way, eventually. They make their way to a spot up ahead where the trees edge aside to form a kind of clearing. When I reach it, a nervous flutter of wings draws my eyes up. Gaunt blackbirds wait on almost every half-dead tree, black eyes unblinking. Issuing caws as sharp as the woods.
My eyes flick down to the ground where the forest has made just enough space to allow a kind of mound. A dense mass of tangled branches and leaves sits in the middle of the space. Here in the clearing, the footprints vanish.
“What is that?” I ask aloud, because sometimes it’s better to pretend there’s someone else with you. I imagine my father’s soothing response, since I don’t have one.
Let the moor tell you, comes a rather thin version of his default.
“Well?” I ask the moor again. A crow overhead lets out a single sharp caw. I edge closer, and several of the birds flutter their wings menacingly, but don’t release their clawed hold on their perches. The nestlike cluster of branches is actually several trees, their limbs bending down awkwardly to guard the space between them.
It’s like a home, I realize. Like a cocoon. I build my cocoons of sheets and blankets. But this one is all sharp sticks and half-rotted wood. The branches are close together, in some places side by side, but in other spots they bow out, leaving gaps large enough for me to fit through. I already have one leg into the cocoon when a gust of wind lifts the air inside to meet me. It’s damp and thick, and smells like natural rot.
Overhead a crow clicks its black beak over something white and smooth. It reminds me more than anything of a knucklebone. The bird plays with it, but the pale shape slips free and falls down through the cocoon, bouncing off a branch before plunging into the cold, dark hollow. I can see it sitting on the earthy mound, a glint of white. And then I see that there are other pieces down there, all half buried and white.
Bones.
They glint in the slivers of light that slip through the forest and the nest of trees. A forearm juts up from a mass of tangled weeds.
This is the Near Witch, or what remains of her.
Again I remember the five white finger bones curled around the tree, the way the moss and dirt crawled over them like muscle and tissue in the night; and then I look down and feel ill. All is rot. I swallow hard and am just about to lower myself into the mossy pit, to dig through the decay for the witch’s bones, when I hear it.
A crack, sharp enough to send one of the crows into flight.
The branches snap beyond my line of sight, and my father’s knife is out and molded to my hand before I’ve even turned to find the source. I’ve pulled my leg free of the cocoon, and I hop down to the ground and step back, putting the nest of bending trees between the sounds of approaching feet and myself. There are two people, two different strides, one heavier than the other. I recognize Mr. Ward’s voice, a thicker version of Tyler’s, as he speaks to someone who mumbles a reply. I can tell by the latter’s tone that he’s the more uncomfortable of the two, the more superstitious. It’s Mr. Drake, Edgar’s father, a nervous twig of a man whose eyes move too much, twitching from sight to sight so fast it’s a wonder they don’t just leap out altogether.
What are they doing back here? What did they do with Cole?
“Yeah, this is where they saw them last night,” Mr. Ward says, his voice growing louder. He must be entering the clearing. “Outside the forest.”
I take a slow step back, the nest still between us.
Mr. Drake comments on the smell, but I’m holding my breath entirely as I scan the forest and attempt to orchestrate my retreat without a sound.
“Lexi and that stranger?” he asks nervously. Mr. Ward must nod, because Mr. Drake continues. “You really think he took Edgar?”
“Doesn’t matter,” mutters Mr. Ward. I take another step back as the voices grow nearer, and I can picture him on the other side of the cocoon, running a hand over it. “At least he’s gone now.”
The air catches in my throat.
No.
I close my eyes, sure that t
hey can hear my pulse pounding.
No.
“You don’t think he did it,” says Mr. Drake, and it’s not quite a question.
“Like I said,” says Mr. Ward. “Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t bring your boy back.”
No. No. No, I say to myself, taking a silent step back. I shake my head, try to focus. They’re wrong. They’re wrong, and Cole said I had to find the bones, and he would find me. So where is he? And where are the children? I focus on this last question because it seems like the only one I might be able to answer.
“Then why?”
I saw a child walk into this forest, when the moonlight went into the trees and the music swept through. I saw a child. They must be nearby, but where?
“To make sure, I guess,” says Mr. Ward.
I scan the trees, the ground, the dirt and moss and dead twigs, and—
My foot comes down hard on a brittle branch, creating a deafening snap, and even without seeing the men, I know they’ve heard it. Overhead, all twelve crows alight and begin to caw, sharp terrible sounds. I can’t wait. This is my only chance. I turn and sprint as fast as I can, abandoning the bones, through the forest and out onto the moor, my knees wobbling with every stride, my body beyond exhaustion now. I look up, shocked to see that the sun has fully crossed the sky and is now sinking in a haze of color. I run, over the five hills and back toward the sisters’ house. My lungs cry, and my legs cry. But I cannot cry. I will not cry.
The look in Cole’s eyes, the strange almost good-bye, the apology.
Would I have confessed, and let them punish me?
I will not cry.
Would that have eased anyone’s pain?
I will not.
He promised. He said he would be fine. He—
My knees buckle beneath me as I reach the top of the last hill, and the sisters’ house comes into sight. I tumble to the grass, gasping for breath, and bury my fingers in the weedy earth.
“What are you doing there on the ground, dearie?”
I look up to see Magda leaning over me the way she does. Her voice is thin, tired. Everyone seems so tired. She urges me up and leads me toward the cottage in silence. There is no gray cloak on the nail of the shed. Dreska is standing in the yard, arms crossed, staring at the scorched spot on the ground. Her green eyes flick up at me, but she doesn’t move. The earth beneath us seems to hum. Magda urges me past her and into the house.
“You haven’t seen Cole, have you?” I ask, my voice raw, as if I’ve been screaming.
“No, no, no…” She says it like a sigh, wandering off with the word as she pours water into the kettle. I slide into a chair. I feel the tears stream down my face as the images of red puddles streak before my eyes. I wipe them away.
“They took him,” I say, because I have to.
Magda gives that sad, knowing nod, and wraps her gnarled fingers around my shoulder.
“They saw us last night. They came this morning and took him, took him out onto the moor. And Bo said they wouldn’t spill a stranger’s blood on Near soil, and I don’t know what they’ve done, but he promised me he’d come find me if I found the bones, and I did, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there, and the hunters are saying he’s—”
I gasp for breath, hands wrapped around my ribs. Gone. I should say Cole is gone, but that is not right. If I said it that way, one might think he just left, wandered off the way he came. But Cole was pulled away by men of flesh and blood. Men looking for someone to blame.
I should say Cole is dead, but I don’t think I can speak those words without breaking, and I cannot break right now. I do not have the bones, and I have not found the children, and there are too many things to do before I am allowed to break.
“So, you found them,” Dreska says, from the doorway. I didn’t even hear her come in.
“Aren’t you listening?” I say, pushing back from the table. The chair topples over. “Cole’s gone.”
“And so are four children.”
“How can you not care that they’ve taken him? That they’ve probably…”
“He knew what he was doing.”
“No! He didn’t. He didn’t know. He promised me!”
Everything in me hurts. The room tips. The kettle hisses.
“Then trust him,” Magda says at last. She pulls the water from the fire. A strange numbness is settling over me, a kind of cottony padding in my head. I cling to it.
“Things are about to get much worse,” murmurs Dreska, but I don’t think her words are meant for my ears.
“I have to go back,” I say. “I have to get the bones. Cole said…and I didn’t find the children. I couldn’t find them.”
“You will go home, Lexi Harris,” Dreska says.
“What? But we need those bones now! She’ll come back tonight.”
“Go home, dearie,” Magda says, her gnarled hand closing over mine. I realize I’ve been gripping the table.
“Do not leave your sister’s side,” says Dreska.
“And in the morning,” adds Magda, “you come straight here, dearie, and we will put things right.” She gives my hand a pat and slips away.
“You just come back in the morning, Lexi,” Dreska chimes. “Everything will be all right.” There’s that stupid phrase again. People are always saying it, and it’s never true. I give her a look that says as much.
“Go home, Lexi,” she says in a different voice, softer, like the one she used with my father. Dreska ushers me to the door. Her long bony fingers graze my shoulders. “We’ll put things in their proper place.” I step outside. The sky is red.
“Everything will be all right,” she repeats, and this time I don’t fight it. I don’t disagree.
How? asks a voice inside me, but it’s sinking, slipping beneath something warm like blankets.
Somehow I make my way home. My feet must take me, clever things, since I don’t find the path with my eyes.
My house comes into sight, and with it, Otto, Tyler, and Bo. They are standing in the doorway, bathed in the red light. Bo cocks his head to the side. Tyler’s back is to me. Otto catches sight of me, and even in my daze I expect him to go into a rage. But there’s only grim fatigue. It’s not a victorious look. It’s one that says I might not have won yet, but you’ve lost.
I push past them, past my mother, who knew I would come back. She casts me a glance, a look exchanged between prisoners of sorts, before turning to the oven. I shrug the cloak off, free my feet from the boots, and go to drop them out the window. But the window is still locked from the outside, the wood still freshly splintered from the nails. I rub my eyes and let the boots fall to the floor with a thud, before slipping out of my dress and into my nightgown.
Every inch of me aches for sleep. How long has it been since I slept? There is still an hour until dark. I can rest, just a little, and be wide awake to guard Wren tonight. I peel the covers back, slide beneath them, and sleep folds over me, welcome and warm, and complete.
THE FIRST THING I REALIZE is that the room is dark.
I’ve slept too long, and panic floods me, but then I see that Wren is fast asleep and safe, tucked beneath the blankets. The night has settled in around us, the wind humming through the window cracks and the floorboards and the space beneath the door.
My thoughts come to me thick and slow. That cottony numbness is still here, filling my chest. I drag myself from the bed, meaning to light the candles, when the room tilts, my body and mind still caught in the dregs of sleep. I pause against the bed, waiting for the dizziness to pass. And then I hear the voice. One soft, simple name, faded at the edges.
My name. Lexi. The wind is playing tricks on me again. My eyes wander sleepily to the window, to the moor beyond, expecting to see nothing.
But there is a person standing there in the darkness. Waiting in the field, just beyond the village line, a foot or so across the seam where Near meets the northern moor, someone tall and thin and crowlike.
“Cole?” I ask. When he doesn’t vanish, I
drift in my lovely haze, my almost sleep, to the window, forgetting the nails that pin it shut. I press my hands against the surface and look through, heat fogging the glass around my fingertips. Outside, the wind picks up, and the windowpane quivers. Cole tips his head to the side, and the nails tremble, then begin to slide up and loose and away, falling to the grass. I push the window open; it creaks once and then glides up silently beneath my fingers. The sound beyond the glass is stronger. The wind whistles past me into the room, rippling any surface that can peel away.
I hesitate, glancing back at my sister’s sleeping form beneath the blankets, but she is sound asleep, the bracelet fastened around her wrist.
Outside, the moor is cool and dark, and I climb through the window, nearly tripping over my own feet. I latch the shutters hastily. I want to see Cole, his face and his river-stone eyes, and know why he has left me, and how he has come back, and what has happened. He wavers once, and I want to feel his skin and know that he is there. I cross the small stretch of land in only my nightgown, numb to the rough and tangled earth beneath my bare feet and the cold night against my arms.
“Cole,” I call again, and this time he makes a motion toward me, holding out his hand. As I draw near, I see that it is him. I close my eyes, find it difficult to open them again as he takes my hand, his fingers oddly cool as they intertwine with mine. He is not hesitant, not flinching. On the contrary, his grip is firm, pulling me toward him. It makes my heart leap in a strange way, not unlike when I am tracking and catch sight of my prey, and all my nerves bristle beneath my skin, alert. He embraces me in silence, and the wind curves playfully around us.
“Are you all right?” I ask, running my fingertips over him. “You’re alive. Cole, they said…I heard them…” He says nothing, only pulls me along, out onto the moor, and I follow, delirious with relief.
The Near Witch Page 18