by Melissa Gunn
THERE WERE STILL FORTY kilometres to go to get to their new home when the bus deposited them at another gloomy station. The rain had paused for a while and watery sunlight was causing steam to rise off the asphalt.
“Let’s get a move on, then,” Danae said briskly. Freya and Tammy, scrambling to pick up their things, ceased glaring at each other long enough to glare at their mother.
“This isn’t anywhere near where we’re going, is it?” Tammy asked, consulting her phone.
“It’s a lot closer than we were. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be there.”
Freya rolled her eyes.
“We’re going to have to camp out, aren’t we, Mum?”
Danae shifted uneasily.
“Maybe not, if we hurry.”
“I am not camping out. My things would get ruined,” Tammy declared.
“Your things aren’t as important as my job,” Danae snapped.
Freya picked up her empty cat cage and shouldered her rucksack.
Looks like it’s time to act like the adult around here.
“Come on, Mum, Tammy. The longer you argue the later it will be when we arrive.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AUTUMN
“Don’t make me go to school today, Mum,” Freya pleaded. She was standing in the doorway of their rather battered new-to-them kitchen while her mother threw together some food for the day. The grim memory of camping out en route to this place was fading, thankfully. Blisters had made all three of them miserable for the second day of their enforced trek, and the weather hadn’t helped.
“Why shouldn’t you go to school? It’s not a holiday or a weekend.” Her mother was abstracted, not focused on the argument.
“Come on, Mum, it’s horrible there. There’s no greenery, it’s all just fences, asphalt and brick buildings. And everyone stands around in huddles, like groups of penguins with their backs to the storm.”
“Sounds like a sensible way to keep warm. It’s certainly colder here than in the south.” Her Mum pressed down the lid on her container of salad and slipped it into the bag standing at her feet.
“It’s not sensible if you don’t have a huddle to join. And I don’t. Come on Mum, one day off won’t hurt.”
“You know I could be fined for not sending you to school, Freya.”
Freya felt that she might be winning her argument. She pressed harder.
“And Mum, the teachers don’t even stop people bullying each other. They just stalk between groups. I suppose they usually stop outright warfare, but that’s about it.”
“Look, Freya, I’m sorry you haven’t settled in yet. It takes time though. I’m sure you’ll find some people to spend time with sooner or later.” Danae picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She was clearly ready to leave, and no closer to letting Freya skip school.
“You always say that, and it hasn’t happened yet. The kids at this school pick on me because I’m new, you know. Do you want me to have to go through that?”
“Of course not, Freya, but you must go to school, and I must go to work. That’s just the way it is. You’ll survive. Think of it as character building.”
“I’ve got enough character for a dozen of me by now.”
“Go for the baker’s dozen then. Once more into the fray and all that. Off to school with you now.” Freya’s mum herded her out the door.
THAT DAY AT BREAK-TIME her situation reached new lows. The clouds were a bruise in the sky, and the asphalt was dark and wet from earlier rain. People had formed their usual huddles. Freya had yet to fit in to any group. It had been a lonely few weeks, especially with no cat to go home to. She stood uncomfortably to one side of the so-called playground, trying to look casual and relaxed.
"Freya, slayer," chanted one obnoxious boy from a nearby huddle, staring over at her in a challenging manner. Red hair, freckles and broad face identified him as a local.
Well, there goes the casual look.
She hadn’t figured out his name yet - admittedly in part because she didn’t want to know.
"Did you forget your big sword on your way from Valhalla? No, wait, you don't have a sword and you don't come from Valhalla," he said in a mocking tone.
Freya groaned inwardly. Apparently, he had listened to her last outburst, when she had had more than enough taunting for one day. She’d told off the teasing group in no uncertain terms, trying to educate them about the difference between someone with a Nordic name, and someone who came from the Norse hall of the gods. It was always tricky, trying to tread a fine line between denying the gods - probably a hazardous thing to do when one was descended from them - and telling the truth. She’d always had it drummed into her that telling the truth was simply not an option.
"Freya layer then? Are you easy like your big sister? Down in the valley with someone different every week I hear. Valley girl, valley girl! Give us a kiss, valley girl!"
Freya’s cheeks burned, and the blood pounded in her ears. She opened her mouth to make some reply, but couldn’t think of one. His taunts about her sister stung all the more for the grain of truth in them. Tammy took her ancestry as a descendant of a fertility goddess seriously. Freya, who had inherited the name, was always trying to live it down. Freya had hoped that now Tammy wasn’t at school any longer, she would avoid the unpleasant associations and insults. It seemed that her hopes were unfounded. She turned and ran indoors, trying not to cry in front of the other kids. Maybe she should tell them about the goddess Freya being the chooser of the dead. Except that she’d always hated that idea.
Safely away from the eyes of her classmates in the toilet stalls, she let a few tears slip down her cheeks. Every time she moved to a new school it seemed to go like this. It was hard to make friends when she started off as an outsider. But this school was the worst so far. And she stood out from the locals, who almost all seemed to share the same colouring. Clearly no-one moved far around here.
She emerged from the stalls when the bell rang for the next class, avoiding the eyes of her classmates as she slid into a seat. This school was old-fashioned, with desks and chairs - no beanbags around here. The students slouched into the room in the usual way. The boy who had been bullying her earlier pretended to trip next to her, and dropped a note onto her desk as he did so. She didn’t pick it up, but couldn’t help but look at it. In large pencil letters, the words
‘Midnight. Oak tree in town square. We know where you live.’ were written.
Now there was an assignation she shouldn’t keep. Then she worried - what would happen when she didn’t go? Would these bullies track her down to her house?
At least at home she would have the backup of her sister and mother - though only her mother was likely to be helpful. Tammy had recently told her that she needed to learn to stand up for herself. At times like this she wished Dad had stuck around. Surely, he would have stood up for her. She had no idea where he was, these days. She didn’t even have a postcard from him to give an indication of where he might be living.
Freya risked glancing around the room. The red-haired boy was staring at her, smirking. She hastily lowered her eyes again. The teacher stood at the front of the class and shouted for attention. It took a few minutes of glaring and shouting on his behalf before the class quieted.
“Listen up, class. As you know there’s a major storm forecast today. Usually, we’d simply keep you in class and have a wet-day lunch hour, but the latest forecast has the storm making landfall directly through our town, with a high chance of building damage, so school is closing early.”
There was a cheer, and the teacher shuffled his feet as the class turned their full attention on him.
He probably doesn’t usually get that much attention in a week.
“Ahem. We expect you all to go home and help your families to prepare your homes for a potential emergency. This storm is shaping up to be quite out of the ordinary, so please go straight home, no lingering.”
The red-headed boy put up his hand
.
“Yes, Gareth?”
“What if we want to linger?” Gareth’s voice was a sneer of sarcasm.
Another boy interjected.
“Yeah, what if we want to get chips and watch the waves on the seafront?”
The teacher assumed a dignified-yet-responsible air that Freya thought he’d probably practised in front of the mirror - maybe when he was pretending he was principal already.
“I trust that you will act sensibly and go home. Remember that the eyes of the public are on you, and you are expected to uphold the honour of the school while you wear its uniform.”
There was muffled tittering. Clearly the class didn’t think much of the school’s honour. The teacher smoothed his hair sideways.
“That means no eating chips in uniform, and wave watching would be an extremely unsafe activity under the circumstances. I strongly advise against it.”
“Are hot dogs OK then?”
The class laughed as Gareth continued his efforts to mock the teacher. This time, the teacher ignored them.
“Now. Since this storm is of unprecedented strength, we are taking the unusual step of giving you advice to share with your families. Here is what the forecasters are telling us. When this storm hits us, there will be gale force winds as well as the usual rain. I’m sure we’re all used to rain.”
The class groaned. They were indeed used to rain.
“However, given the predicted wind strength, you and your families might be best to retreat into the basement, if you have one. Listen for updates on the radio.”
He was interrupted again.
“Radios are so last century. No-one has radios anymore; we have the Internet.”
“Nevertheless, I hope you or your parents are able to access one. In case of emergency, audio communication is more reliable. Those of you in flats, I hope your buildings are strongly built.” There was more laughter, rather nervous from those who lived in flats. The teacher smoothed his hair again. “Er. Yes. I mean, consider using internal stairways for shelter. Please pack up your bags now, and when the fire bell goes, it’s time to go home. I will expect you to make up today’s work after the storm has passed. I have assigned you all a worksheet on calculus as applied to storm prediction that you can go through. I also suggest that you investigate the principles of transistor radios.” He grinned toothily, an unpleasant expression on his usually sober face. “You may find the information useful.”
Typical. Go home and look after yourself, but make sure you get this worksheet done and do some electronics. Teacher priorities are all wrong.
Freya started re-packing the few things she’d taken out of her bag, pointedly leaving the note on her desk. It was not the time to consider clandestine meetings, even if she had wanted to go - which she didn’t, of course. Even if this was the first invitation she’d had to participate in some sort of activity with her schoolmates.
Freya joined the rush of students out the door when the bell rang. The red-haired boy, Gareth, managed to press in behind her, and she shuddered away from his unwanted touch. The sooner she got away from school, the better. She broke into a run as soon as the press of bodies eased. The wind had risen even in the short time since she’d come inside, dark clouds scudding faster across the sky. Ragged tendrils of cloud reached down towards her, twisting in a disturbing reminder of a tornado. Freya shuddered. Surely the clouds couldn’t really reach for her?
She decided to take a shortcut through an alley behind the shops. She didn’t like the look of the rising wind. It was almost certainly accompanied by storm sprites, who she never got on with. They seemed to take delight in giving her unexpected shocks. Also, their red colouring currently reminded her of the unfriendly townsfolk. As she pounded past the back doors of shops, shopkeepers were dragging their recycling bins indoors. Some bins had already blown over, strewing the alleyway with refuse. Freya leaped over blown boxes and dodged bottles rattling down the street, enjoying the challenge despite the rising wind. She turned the corner to head up the hill towards their house, and skidded to a halt. Ranged across the street were a group of large, red-haired boys.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ENTER THE WERE-FOXES
All of them looked like the boy who had been taunting her at school, but bigger. Freya took an involuntary step backwards. She’d been so busy worrying about storm sprites that she hadn’t paid enough attention to her surroundings, thinking herself safe from the mundane.
As she eyed the group warily, wondering how to get around them, she realised that in fact this was not a mundane encounter. Every one of the large boys in front of her had lengthening hair on their exposed forearms. And curiously, she could see their nostrils flaring as they took a threatening step towards her. She had a sudden wild thought that perhaps this was simply a meeting of the ginger society on steroids, before shaking herself back to reality. She had to find a way home. And she didn’t want to get entangled with what was looking worrying like a pack of weres. Were-what, she didn’t know and didn’t want to have to find out.
She eyed the feral grins of the boys. Were their canines lengthening? One of them stepped closer with a swagger in his step.
“Are you listening, Freya? This information could save your life one day.” Her mother’s remembered voice made an unwelcome counterpoint.
“So, new girl in town, eh? We heard about you and your sister.”
Freya gritted her teeth and forced out a reply (not easy, through gritted teeth, but that was the way these boys made her feel).
“I’m just getting home before the storm. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Don’t keep reading your book, you need to know how to deal with weres.”
Not helpful, Mum.
“Well, looks like trouble found you first,” sniggered the leader. Freya wondered how long he’d been waiting to say that - or if he said it every time he and his friends cornered someone.
“Don’t you want to avoid the storm too?” she suggested in a reasonable tone.
“Keep them thinking, not acting.”
Good advice, Mum, Freya thought. How about some specifics?
“Nah, it’s more fun out here, ain’t it boys?” The red-haired leader looked back at his red-haired cronies and winked. “If we stay out a bit longer, we can fight the sprites. But-” his attention turned back to Freya. “You are in our patch here. And you’re not one of us. If you wanna use this way, you’re going to have to fight for the right. Yeah, fight for the right!”
“Whatever you do, avoid large groups of weres.”
Too late, Mum. Now what?
The group began to clap in time, grinning at each other and chanting. Freya was sure their canines were longer now. She needed to know what they were in order to deal with them. Werewolves? No, none of the re-wilding movements had managed to get wolves approved yet, so anything wolf-shaped that turned up would be shot by angry farmers protecting their stock. Were-polecats? That would be weird. And they’d be able to climb. These guys didn’t look especially agile though. Maybe... she cast her mind about, trying to think of what animals were gingery around here. Ah! Foxes. She sniffed, suddenly aware that her movements were being copied by the figures ranged around her. A rank odour met her nose. Yes, foxes seemed about right. Didn’t they smell bad? Right on cue, the ringleader wrinkled his nose at her.
“You’re not just new, you smell weird. Boys, don’t she smell weird?” His cohort nodded obediently. They didn’t seem to bother thinking for themselves.
“Yeah, she stinks. Stinks worse than the singletons round here. What is she?”
“We’ll have to have a bath after we beat her up, Tobes.”
“Nah, Lachy, it’s gonna rain. Don’t fuss your fur.”
“I reckon we’ll need deodorant after her.”
“Nah, put the deodorant on her, man. Keep it real.”
Ugh. She didn’t care for their banter. She was pretty sure of her identification now. Were-foxes. They stank, not her. It was worrying tha
t they seemed to think that she smelled different though. Could they tell demis from regular humans? That might be a problem, one day. If they were weres, she supposed that they would have a better than average sense of smell. That would also explain the ginger fur starting to cover their arms, and the incipient beards on previously beardless faces. Also, foxes hanging out in an alleyway, how typical. Really, the only thing that was odd if she judged them by fox standards was the way they were hanging out together. Maybe that was something weres did differently. She couldn’t recall. Right now, she needed to know how to escape a pack of were-foxes, and she didn’t have hounds and horses to help her out. Or did she?
She snapped her fingers involuntarily, a sudden movement that caught the attention of the whole group. They all focused on her hand. She moved it to the right, and their eyes followed it. She crouched briefly, picked up a random piece of rubbish - a half-eaten packet of crisps, it turned out to be, and tossed it to the side, away from her, hoping to divert attention away from herself. The group pounced after it as one. She was startled by their reaction, but quickly took advantage of it by starting to run back the way she had come. Back one block and over a street there was something that just might help - if she could get that far. The wind was whipping about her face now, the few trees on the grassy slopes above the town being blown by great gusts. The sky was darkening rapidly, although it was not nearly sundown. She pelted down the alley and took the corner faster than was sensible, grabbing the rough brick corner of the greengrocers building to help swing herself round faster.
Up the street again, the way she obviously should have gone the first time round. The streets were deserted now, shop fronts covered by roll-down frontages or locked metal grids. Soft footsteps followed her, their lack of sound scarier than the clatter of boots would have been. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. While she spent plenty of time walking, she didn’t do much running these days. She’d need some breath for what she planned to do. Just a bit further...