A Skinful of Shadows

by Frances Hardinge

  The old man shook his head.

  ‘Never mind,’ Makepeace said quickly. ‘Thank you for the name. I’ll find it.’

  ‘I wish we could spare you provisions for your journey,’ said Ann, ‘but we have little enough for ourselves. The soldiers have stripped our cupboards bare.’

  ‘Soldiers from which side?’ asked Makepeace.

  ‘Who knows? Both, I warrant. There’s not much to tell them apart.’ Ann retrieved a cloth bundle from under a floorboard, and unwrapped it on the table. ‘You can take your pick of these, though, if there is anything you fancy.’

  Makepeace could see at a glance that the huddle of items in the bundle must have belonged to the dead soldier. There was a much thumbed devotional book with a few letters between the leaves, a sturdy pair of boots and a recently cleaned sword.

  ‘We have a use for the boots,’ admitted the old man. ‘The rest we will probably bury. We dare not sell them in case questions are asked. Take whatever you please.’

  Makepeace thumbed through the devotional book, which was apparently called The Practice of Piety. Parts had been underlined, and there was a fanciful little doodle of an angel in one margin. A flower had been pressed in the front cover, and Makepeace imagined the young soldier, out of his home county for the first time, plucking and preserving a bloom he had never seen before. Opposite the flower was written the name ‘Livewell Tyler’.

  What sort of nonsense name is ‘Livewell’? demanded the doctor. It is every bit as bad as yours! And look at these prating prayers! I think our dead man is a Puritan.

  For some reason, Makepeace could not bear the thought of the well-loved book rotting in the earth. She was about put it in her pocket when some of the letters fell out.

  They were all scrawled in the same youthful, uncertain hand, and signed ‘Your loving sister, Charity’. To judge by the brief addresses at the top, young Livewell Tyler had been posted in a number of different places. The address on the last letter caught Makepeace’s eye: ‘Whyte Holow, Buckinghamshire.’

  Back outside the house, Makepeace took a moment to pause on the path. She could still hear the faint voice in the wind.

  ‘The farmer will live,’ she whispered. ‘You can stop now.’

  What are you doing? asked the doctor. If that is the soldier’s ghost, we have just saved his murderer!

  If he wanted help for himself, he would have been trying to claw his way into my head, like most ghosts, Makepeace told the doctor silently. But he didn’t. He just flapped at me like a wounded bird. He was trying to stop me leaving the cottage. He wanted me to help them.

  The wind settled, but the wispy, fluting note continued, tickling at Makepeace’s brain.

  Will . . . live? I am not . . . a murderer?

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Makepeace gently. ‘You were afraid you were going to Hell, weren’t you?’ She was surprised by how well the ghost had held its mind together, given its unhoused state.

  The wind rose again, and subsided in ragged gusts.

  I am . . . going to Hell. The fluting voice was filled with a grim certainty. Not one of the Saved . . . but the farmer will live . . . will live . . . that is . . . that is good . . .

  ‘What makes you think you’re going to Hell?’ demanded Makepeace.

  . . . Deserted my post . . .

  Makepeace could almost taste the bitterness of his shame on the wind.

  . . . So hungry . . . tried to steal a chicken . . . farmer warned me off with a rake . . . drew my sword and struck him. Struck him with my sword. Mad . . . hated him . . . mad with hunger. I am a . . . coward. Thief. Sin of wrath . . .

  I told you he was a Puritan, said Dr Quick.

  Makepeace thought the doctor was probably right. There was something about the ghost’s way of talking that reminded her of the apprentices in Poplar. She wondered how many of those boys had signed up to fight, with their hearts full of fire, and worn-out bibles in their top pockets. This Livewell Tyler sounded young and fierce like them, but for now all his fierceness was turned on himself. She remembered his calloused hands, and wondered what hammer or scythe he had thrown aside for a sword.

  He was a deserter, and apparently stupid enough to have died over a chicken, but somehow he had held together his hazy spirit for two days through his sheer determination to save the man who had killed him. He had done this even though he thought his own soul was irrevocably lost.

  . . . A thief and a coward . . .

  The voice was becoming more broken, blurred and anguished. Despite the wan daylight, Makepeace could just about see its smoky shape as it started to twist and writhe. It was turning upon itself, tearing shreds from its own spirit.

  Fascinating, remarked the doctor, who was apparently observing the same phenomenon.

  ‘Stop it,’ she whispered. ‘Livewell Tyler . . . please, stop it!’ Left to itself, the ghost would drive itself mad, and torture itself to pieces.

  Oh please, no, said the doctor, as if detecting the drift of her thoughts.

  ‘Listen, Livewell!’ Makepeace hissed, willing the tortured spirit to notice her. ‘How do you feel about second chances?’

  I . . . have earned none . . .

  ‘But I have!’ Makepeace changed tack. ‘I am fleeing from wicked men who would endanger my very soul. I need to find a place called Whitehollow. Will you help me?’

  CHAPTER 28

  Makepeace trudged mile after mile after mile, trying to ignore the incandescent rantings of Dr Quick.

  What were you thinking? he demanded. Why would you recruit a member of the enemy? Is our little cadre not divided enough?

  Master Tyler knows the way to Whitehollow, Makepeace pointed out defensively. Besides, we might need somebody who understands soldiering.

  For all we know, he may decide to cut our throat, muttered the doctor. Will he ever give up that infernal noise?

  Back at the farm, Makepeace had explained her ‘gift’ to Livewell, and it had seemed that he understood what she was suggesting. His spirit had calmed, and stopped tearing itself apart. After she breathed in his ghost, however, he had fallen silent for an hour. Then he had started praying, fervently and relentlessly. He had been doing so ever since, despite all Makepeace’s attempts to talk to him.

  Makepeace would not admit it, but she was starting to wonder if the doctor was right. Perhaps taking on Livewell’s spirit had been a stupid, rash thing to do. But watching his ghost unravel had been unbearable.

  He probably needs some time to adjust, she told the doctor.

  Well, he cannot have it! snapped Quick. Soon we will cross the border into Buckinghamshire, and then we will need some actual directions from him!

  While walking, Makepeace had seen the sun reach its wan summit, then start to descend again as the afternoon wore on. Ever since leaving the Axeworth farm, she had been trudging non-stop, never daring to pause. Somewhere James would be hunting for her.

  Makepeace knew that she was passing through no man’s land, and that there would probably be troops from either side roaming around. She hugged the hedgerows in the hope that she would not be seen from a distance. Soldiers meeting a lone traveller in such a place might be suspicious or arrest her. Worse, they might even be dangerous.

  Soon she would be in lands held by Parliament. If she was caught and searched, Lady April’s ring or the King’s paper tickets would mark her as a Royalist. A little reluctantly, she halted in a little thicket, and buried them at the foot of an alder.

  As she prepared to step out of the thicket into a meadow, she was brought up short by a sharp whisper in her head.

  Get back!

  She reflexively stepped backward into the shadow of the trees, and ducked down behind a high troop of nettles. Only then did she realize that the praying had stopped. The whisperer had been Livewell. Looking out across the meadow, she saw a tiny brilliant glint wink from behind a hedge.

  Spyglass, whispered Livewell.

  Makepeace held still. After what felt like a little a
ge, two men with muskets slung over their shoulders climbed through the gap in the hedge, and walked away. She stayed where she was until she was sure they were gone.

  Thank you, Master Tyler, she said as she carefully set out again.

  ’Twas a matter of habit. It was a rather surly response, but at least he had not resumed his prayers.

  Master Tyler, Makepeace tried again gently.

  What is it, witch? snapped the dead soldier. He sounded harrowed but defiant.

  Makepeace flinched, startled. All the reassuring words she had prepared abandoned her.

  I am not a witch! she protested. I told you what I am! I told you about the Fellmottes!

  I know what you said, answered Livewell, his voice quivering but determined. You were very clever, and I was weak. You told me that the King is friendly with witches, and that I could help you against them. I told myself that this would be doing God’s work! But you use the Fellmotte witchcraft. You bind spirits to yourself. You are served by a great beast. I am the one making deals with a witch . . . and I have let you claim my soul!

  If I was a witch, she answered, why would I bother claiming your soul? You’re so sure it’s hell-bound already. Why wouldn’t I just leave it where it was and pick it up on Judgement Day?

  You want me to lead you to Whitehollow, Livewell answered promptly. Maybe you mean harm to our men there. For all I know, you plan to poison them or curse them. I betrayed my brothers-in-arms once, by abandoning them. I won’t betray them again.

  He sounded frightened, but resolute. Perhaps he was braced and ready for Makepeace to hurl devilish curses on him and then swallow his soul with a gulp. She closed her eyes and sighed angrily.

  If I’m a witch, she asked, why don’t I fly across the miles instead of walking my feet bloody? Why didn’t I turn into a hare to hide from those soldiers, instead of squatting in a nettle patch? Why don’t I send my imps to fetch a partridge pie and a big mug of ale right now? I wish I was a witch!

  But I’m not. I don’t have magic, just a hand-me-down curse I never asked for. I’m flesh and bone – bruised flesh and weary bones right now. The only dark masters I ever had were the Fellmottes, and I’ve run myself sleepless fleeing from them.

  I do want to believe you, the young soldier said, rather less fiercely. If the Fellmottes truly are witches, and if you really are their enemy . . . then let us warn everyone about them!

  I have no proof! exclaimed Makepeace. They would call me madwoman – or witch, just as you did!

  But if we could open everyone’s eyes, he exclaimed, it might change the course of the war!

  Makepeace hesitated, knowing that she was about to make everything worse. However, dishonesty would be a poor beginning to their relationship.

  I am sorry, Master Tyler, she told him, but I do not give two crushed peas who wins this war.

  Instantly chaos broke out in her head.

  That is too bold! declared the doctor. To weigh His Majesty as lightly as those rebels in the Parliament—

  How can you say that? Livewell sounded equally incensed. How can you not care whether our people are safe and free?

  Oh, stop your howling, Puritan! snapped Dr Quick. You and your kind would bring us to a joyless world with no merriment, no beauty, nothing high and mysterious to lift our souls!

  And you would rather see the King rise up as a bloody tyrant, cutting the heads off anyone who argued with him! answered the soldier. Where’s the ‘joy’ and ‘beauty’ in that?

  How dare you, you lousy, beggarly—

  You’re very lucky we’re both dead, sir! Or I would—

  ‘Stop shouting in my head!’ erupted Makepeace aloud. Several nearby birds took off in fright. ‘No, I do not care. Why should I? Nobody has shown me why I must die for the King, or why I should love Parliament better than my own hide! I wish to live! And I have more than a dram of sympathy for everybody else who just wants to live!’

  There was a long pause.

  I cannot blame you for that, I suppose, Livewell said at last. I tried to save my own skin too. He gave a small, uncomfortable little laugh. Forgive me. I have no right to ask you to risk your life, just because I failed to live mine well. You’re a young maid. I should be trying to keep you from harm.

  Remorseful Livewell was somehow harder to deal with than angry, suspicious Livewell. Makepeace had offered him a second chance. Maybe he had seen it as an opportunity to redeem himself. What redemption could she possibly offer him?

  So what is your plan? he asked quietly. Why do you want to go to Whitehollow?

  There is a man I need to find there, she explained. A treacherous man, but he might know a way to fight against the Fellmottes.

  And then? he asked. What do you want to do after that? If the war doesn’t matter to you, what does?

  The blunt, simple question knocked Makepeace back on her heels. What did she want? She realized that she scarcely knew. For so long, her mind had been filled with thoughts of what she did not want. She did not want to be chained up, or imprisoned, or filled with ancient ghosts. She did not want to live in fear of the Elders. But what did she actually want?

  I want to save my brother, she said slowly. He’s full of Fellmotte ghosts. I want to chase them out and free him, so I can cuff him and tell him he’s an idiot. And . . .

  Her mind crowded with memories. Jacob’s ghost screaming. Sir Thomas’s frightened face. James with dead things behind his eyes. And the icy, snake-eyed Elders, so sure of their rights to others’ lives . . .

  There was a mountain of a wish in her heart. It was dark and looming, daunting and unscalable, but she looked directly at it at last.

  ‘And,’ she said aloud, ‘I want to be the Fellmottes’ undoing.’

  Now that sounds like a cause worth the whistle. For the first time, Livewell sounded like he might be smiling.

  The walk was easier with Livewell’s directions, and more pleasant without the incessant praying. Makepeace explained a little of her history, and Livewell gradually opened up about his own. He had been a cooper’s son in Norwich, brought up in his father’s trade. He had learned his letters in the local grammar school, and started teaching them to his younger sister.

  Then the war had broken out, and he had enlisted at the first chance.

  I had no doubts, he said. How could I stay at home, hammering barrels into shape, when this war was beating the world into a new shape? This is a fight for the country’s soul! I wanted to do my part! It was like a hunger and thirst in me . . .

  He trailed off. Even his zeal had a touch of sadness.

  By the time the shadows started to stretch, Makepeace had walked over fifteen miles, and Livewell was certain that they had crossed into Buckinghamshire. She was exhausted, her feet were blistered, and her legs and injuries ached. She was also very hungry. She had used up the provisions from Mistress Gotely over the last few days, and the gruel the Axeworths had given her had been thin and meagre.

  Bear felt the hunger too, and that was something he understood very well. Makepeace could sense his rumbling unrest, and his sudden curiosity about every rustle in the hedges.

  Makepeace found that she had had unexpectedly halted, and that she was looking up into a nearby tree. There was a dark spiky blot that looked a little like a bird’s nest. Makepeace could sense Bear thinking of the oozing innards of eggs, the crunch of fledglings. But peering up at a different angle she could see it was not a nest after all, just a tangle of twigs. Instead, she found her mouth opening, and her teeth fastening on the tender, spring leaves of the tree.

  Bear! Makepeace told him, spitting out the mouthful of leaves. I can’t eat those!

  But Bear was indomitable now. With Makepeace’s hands he reached down to grab an old piece of rotting log, and ripped it open to show its flaky inside. Makepeace found herself licking off the scurrying ants, their taste a peppery tingle against her tongue.

  Livewell gave a squawk of alarm and shock. Going feral was probably not the best way to convince
him that she was not secretly a demon in female form.

  Makepeace sighed, and dropped herself down on the bank of a nearby stream, then pulled off her shoes and stockings.

  No cloven hoofs, she pointed out drily, then lowered her feet into the water, and felt the cold water pleasantly numbing her blisters. And I don’t vanish at the touch of running water, either.

  A thin, dark shape in the water caught Makepeace’s eye. The little fish was gone almost as soon as she noticed it, but it had clearly captured Bear’s attention too. Makepeace’s mouth was watering, and she did not know whether it was from her hunger or his.

  She found herself lurching to her feet again, and had placed one foot in the water, damping her hem, before she was able to take back control again.

  Stop! And yet, did she really want to stop Bear catching a fish if he could manage it? Wait just a little. She could not afford to get her clothes wet, for she would have no means to dry them if she was sleeping in barns, and they would chill her to death. She carefully hitched up her skirts and shift, tucking and tying them just below hip height.

  Then she let Bear stride her into the stream, feeling the cold, rushing pressure of the water, and the slither of wet, weed-covered stones under her feet. At first the cold was pleasant, but after a while it started to bite. Her mind fidgeted as well, thinking of time lost and pursuers behind them. Bear, on the other hand, was patient as a mountain. After a while Makepeace was infected with his alert calm. The pain of the cold water became simply something that was, like the blue of the sky. Her mind-fidgets eased.

  There! With reflexes not her own, Makepeace raked at the water with the spread fingers of one hand, and a fat, brown perch was scooped out of the stream. It flew through the air and landed on the bank, where it flapped and flexed, trying to flick itself back into the water.

  Makepeace found herself lurching out of the water to land on all fours, slapping one palm down on the fish’s head, and sinking her teeth into the middle of the still-living fish.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ came a sudden shout. Looking up, Makepeace saw a man in worn clothes pointing a drawn sword at her. He had just stepped through a gap in the high hedgerow, and seemed as shocked to see her as she was to see him. There was a dingy sash over his coat, so she guessed that he must be a soldier, but it was too muddy for her to guess which side he belonged to.