Midwinterblood

by Marcus Sedgwick

  He looks out at the horizon again.

  He has never been here, yet he feels he has met Merle before, and then, there is that other feeling, that somehow disturbs him even more.

  Why, he thinks, do I have the feeling that I have come home?

  * * *

  “I don’t think you’ll find that works.”

  He jumps, and spins around to see Merle approaching from the path.

  He puts it away, feeling stupid. He takes the chance to look at her as she approaches, wishing he had more than these few moments to work out what it is about her. He fails.

  “I think you’re right,” he says as she comes up to him. “But how do you get by? Without devices?”

  “We get by just fine,” says Merle, laughing. “We simply do things differently here.”

  “Like having no cars?”

  “I believe we are not the only place that has no need for cars,” she says.

  “I don’t know about need,” Eric says, “but yes, since gas became so scarce, there are many places that use alternatives.”

  He wonders why he can’t find anything better to talk to her about than gas. Cars. Devices. They are alone now, for the first time. He can almost feel her body heat, she’s standing so close.

  “You came here by our steamboat, of course.”

  Eric nods.

  And before that, he thinks, I flew in a good old-fashioned plane, chewing thousands of gallons of aviation fuel. And a ticket with a price that proved it.

  Still, if he gets this story, his expenses will be well worth it.

  “This is a small island, and a small community. There is no need to rush. We walk. If matters are really pressing, one can usually borrow a bicycle.”

  Eric tries to suppress a laugh. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but the serious look on Merle’s face amuses him.

  She doesn’t seem annoyed, or if she is, she doesn’t show it.

  “Look,” she says, pointing into the sky. Not down near the sun, but up, the moon is visible, a pale pink disc against the dark blue heavens. “It’s the flower moon.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s the old name for this month’s moon,” Merle explains.

  “The flower moon. Do you see how pink it is?”

  “That’s quite a sight,” Eric agrees.

  They say nothing for a while, just staring at the moon, ancient, as old as time, and unknowable. Mysterious. Powerful.

  Merle whispers, some lines from an old song. “And none of you stand so tall, a pink moon gonna get you all.”

  She stirs herself.

  “Your house is ready,” she says. “It’s late. I’m sure you’re tired.”

  Eric is very tired.

  “Thank you,” he says. He means it. “It’s generous of you to offer a whole house for me to live in.”

  He thinks about his expenses again.

  “A room is all I need really,” he continues, “and of course, I can pay you for your troubles.”

  “That won’t be necessary. The wards have offered you a house, by the meadow. It’s comfortable, but you must let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

  They walk through the lanes, and Eric keeps trying to remind himself it’s nighttime, which is hard because it’s almost as bright as day.

  “Doesn’t it mess with your sleep?” he asks. “The constant day?”

  “You have no idea! But we have ways around it. Thick curtains, black-out blinds. That helps. And tea, that tea you had will help you sleep. Here.”

  She stops, and points to Eric’s new home.

  It is small but stylish, a blue wooden house, with its own garden, neatly cut grass, heavily blooming rose bushes.

  Honeysuckle climbs the wall and over a window on the second floor. Other flowers whose names he does not know.

  The name of the house is painted at the gate. The Claw.

  “Strange name,” Eric muses, half aloud.

  “It’s from the old dialect. It refers to a type of fishing boat, I believe.”

  Suddenly Merle wrinkles her nose, and sneezes.

  “Grass pollen,” she says, and sneezes again.

  “Bless you.”

  Merle looks at Eric.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t say that here, on the island. We think it’s … bad luck.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Just another one of our little differences,” Merle says.

  She smiles, and turns to leave. Eric fights the urge to say something to Merle. Something meaningful. But he cannot think what.

  “Good night, Eric Seven,” she calls as she goes. “The house is unlocked.”

  She stands for a moment more by the gate, and then is gone.

  Eric imagines that he sees her lips move. He imagines that she says one word to him.

  You.

  He wonders what he would have felt if she really had said it.

  * * *

  Eric opens the door to his house, and finds his way to the bedroom. By the time he gets there, he is feeling lousy, his head swimming, from tiredness and being somewhere new, and the scent of those flowers, and he can taste the tea in his mouth.

  He passes out on the bed, his thoughts tumbling down a deep, deep chasm that has opened beneath the place where his mind sits.

  One final thought comes to him as he goes, and then is lost in the tumbling storm of his mind-stream.

  He has been on Blessed for several hours. He has met a few people, and seen many more. But he has not seen a single child.

  Four

  Eric sleeps well.

  When he wakes, he feels much better. Wonderful in fact.

  He opens his eyes and is surprised to find the room in total darkness. First he thinks that night has finally come, then remembers that there will be no such thing as night here for a month or two at least. Not really.

  He stumbles to the window, and pulls the curtains back.

  It is still dark; his hands reach and touch the black-outs Merle spoke of, and finding a cord to one side, he pulls them up.

  Bright, strong sunshine floods into the room, and he shuts his eyes and waits till they adjust.

  When they do, he is overwhelmed by the beauty of the island.

  His bedroom window looks to the south and to the east. Below him is another small slice of heaven. Pretty colored houses, little lanes, tall birches swaying in a gentle wind, and everywhere flowers.

  Flowers.

  People are walking in the lanes, they call to each other, and pause to chat at the tiny toy-town intersections. From somewhere he cannot see he can hear music. And singing. It sounds like a dozen voices, a haunting, conflicting yet beautiful melody, to a simple accompaniment of a guitar and accordion. He strains to catch the words, but they are blown away.

  The sky overhead is blue, and everywhere there are flowers.

  Eric feels wonderful. All grogginess from the night before has vanished. All thoughts of the night before are forgotten.

  But he feels hungry, amazingly hungry. He wonders if they will have been thoughtful enough to have left some food for him, and he goes downstairs, where he finds not just food, but a whole breakfast laid out on the kitchen table. A pot of coffee is warming on the stove.

  “Hello?” he calls, turning about him. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  There is no one, so he sits down and eats as if he has never eaten before. He has bread, and honey, and cheeses, and there is some tasty dried meat, and apple juice, and then there’s the coffee. And in the middle of the table is a vase of small pretty yellow flowers, freshly picked from the meadow.

  Flowers.

  Flowers, he thinks. Flowers.

  He was supposed to do something about flowers.

  But he cannot remember what it is.

  He happily finishes his breakfast.

  Five

  Eric checks his watch, and is surprised to see it is noon.

  He has slept for a lo
ng time. He walks out into the day and decides to go for a stroll. He passes people, tending their gardens, just walking, or doing nothing. They smile, and he nods back at them, a little shyly.

  He finds himself climbing a lane through the trees that cluster to one side of his house, and then descending on the other side, the woodland gives way and there is the sea before him and another rocky stretch of coastline.

  He is suddenly taken with a massive urge to swim. It’s a hot day, and the sea looks inviting. He explores for a while and before long finds a tiny hidden cove among the rocks. He looks around. He has neither towel nor trunks with him, but the place is deserted. He’s sure he can’t be seen from the path he came down by.

  He undresses quickly and eases into the water from a warm rock. It feels good, stinging cold at first, but the freshness of the cold salty water is delicious.

  He comes out, and this time, finds a higher rock to dive from.

  He plunges in, through the safe water near the surface to a colder, darker, more dangerous world beneath. Darkness beneath the beauty.

  As he surfaces, water runs down his face, across his eyes, trickles from his ears, and as it washes the clouds from his mind, he remembers.

  “What the hell am I doing?” he actually says aloud, and clambering up the rocks, makes toward his clothes.

  He stops, staring at them. He knows he dropped them in a pile where he undressed. Now, they’re laid out neatly, spread flat, to warm on the sunny rocks. He looks around, but can see no one. Nothing.

  Shaking his head, he pulls his clothes on, though he is still dripping wet.

  He tries to clear his head as he walks back to his house, remembering now why he came here, and that he’s supposed to be working.

  He ignores friendly greetings as he heads back to The Claw, and makes his way to his room, where he grabs his device and a notepad, a pen, sitting down at the bedside table. He thinks he hears a noise. The gate clicks, and he lifts his head waiting to hear approaching footsteps. None come, and then, determined not to be distracted, he concentrates again.

  “What was I thinking?” he says again, staring out of the window. He starts to work.

  He goes through what he knows.

  Blessed Island, an obscure self-governed community in the farthest north. Population unknown, but small. Economic production? The island was once home to a fishing fleet, now vanished. However they make their money now, Eric has already seen that it isn’t tourism. There’s nowhere for anyone to stay for a start, and when they do have someone to stay, they don’t charge.

  So how do they make their money?

  What do they do here? Without warning, his mind feels foggy again, and his memory is struggling, though he knows there is something else he was sent to investigate.

  He gets up and walks around the room, trying to clear his head.

  It comes to him that he had some notes that he had prepared before he came, and he thumbs the power on his device.

  It boots, and he goes straight to Notes.

  He reads.

  Flowers.

  Blessed Island is believed to be home to the only surviving population of a very rare orchid: the Blessed Dragon Orchid, Latin name Orchidae dracula beati. Also known as the Dracula Orchid.

  Eric had smiled when he’d first read its creepy name, then realized that dracula had nothing to do with vampires, but merely means “little dragon.” But beati. He’d had to look that up, and found it was the Latin for “blessed.”

  Little blessed dragon.

  He’d found pictures of it, and despite the apparently innocent meaning of its name, it did look a bit weird, scary even. More like an animal than a flower, a spiky dragon-headed thing, with purple petals and a bloodred throat at its heart.

  The rumors hold that the islanders have recently, or otherwise, discovered that the orchid has health-giving properties, that it promotes well-being and energy. That it regenerates damaged cell tissue. That it could even extend life. That the islanders have extracted an elixir of life from the flower, and are selling it untrialed, and therefore illegally, for exorbitant sums, to the super-rich of the western world.

  That is why he has come here.

  He’d spoken to someone on a visit to London who claimed he knew someone who was using the drug, but that was just the problem. It was all someone, who knew someone, who knew someone. Hearsay.

  Now he’s at the source of the story, but he’s already learned from OneDegree that this place might be less connected to the outside world than most.

  He flicks through the notes on his device, looking for a map he knows he stored. He finds it, and just as it flashes onto the screen, the battery gives out.

  He shakes his head. He goes to his bag, and rummages around for his charger, but can’t find it.

  Silly, he thinks.

  He hunts through the bag again, in all its side pockets, and the little compartment at the front.

  He still can’t find it. He knows he packed it because he used it on the plane.

  He takes everything from his bag, slowly, trying to keep calm, telling himself it will tumble out of a sock any moment.

  But it doesn’t.

  He looks at everything he has brought with him, spread on the bed, and he comes to the conclusion that someone has taken his charger away in the night.

  Something cold slices into his mind.

  He is afraid.

  Six

  “How is your article coming along, Mr. Seven?”

  Tor smiles at him. Always the same smile, as if waiting patiently for something.

  “Very good,” Eric lies quickly. “I would like to borrow a bike, however.”

  Does he imagine that Tor hesitates for a fraction of a second before answering?

  “Of course,” Tor says. “May I offer you some tea?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Tor ducks into the kitchen in the Cross House.

  Eric feels frustration rising. He has decided not to mention the missing charger, but he’s not going to be sidetracked.

  He hears voices in the kitchen, and is about to creep closer over the wooden floor, when Tor reappears, cup of tea in hand.

  “Here you are,” he says.

  Eric takes it, somewhat churlishly.

  “I usually take milk.”

  “This is better without it,” Tor says, smiling. “Trust me. This is a special variety, with a touch of root in it, too. Now…”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am here to work and I really could use a bicycle to get around. And a map of the island.”

  Tor holds up his hand.

  “I have arranged the bicycle. It will be here shortly. Why don’t you sit while you wait, and drink your tea? And I’m sure I can find a map for you somewhere. You must be a little tired still, I think, no?”

  As soon as Tor mentions it, Eric does feel a wave of exhaustion come over him.

  “The tea will help,” Tor says, as Eric sits down on a very old but very comfortable sofa. “Now, where’s that map?”

  Eric drinks his tea.

  Seven

  Eric is glad to escape from Tor’s house.

  He still doesn’t know why the man bothers him, but he does. He cannot work out why, when he’s been nothing but kind, and helpful.

  Eric straddles his bike at the intersection of Homeway and Crossway, and studies the map.

  He decides to start again, at the beginning, and to head back north to the quay. From there he will cycle south, methodically exploring every lane and path. If they are producing some elixir here, they must be growing large quantities of the Dracula Orchid, which means a field, or maybe a series of greenhouses. He doesn’t know much about orchids, not even if they can be cultivated en masse, but he knows they are rare and delicate things, that tolerate only very finely balanced conditions in which to grow. In any case, it’s an incredibly rare variety that grows so far north.

  He sets off, and suddenly he is smiling again.

  Much of his lif
e is spent traveling, investigating stories all over the world. Most of the time he’s on his own, and sometimes the trips he has to make are hard, dangerous even. With no one waiting for him at home, not even any truly lifelong friends, he often feels like a ghost, drifting over the face of the earth, rootless. If he died, it would be weeks before anyone even knew, let alone cared. Just for once, his journey has taken him somewhere lovely, somewhere warm, and beautiful. He starts laughing.

  He laughs at the fact that he’s able to freewheel the whole way to the quayside. He whizzes along, the bees humming around his head and around the flowers that burst with life on every side.

  Birds call, and his bike picks up speed. He sticks his feet out sideways and feels the joy of the simple pleasure of freewheeling in the sunshine. He plays a little game, seeing how long he dares shut his eyes for, and as he does, the image in his mind is, inexplicably, Merle’s soft neck. And his lips brushing it.

  He snaps out of it, reminding himself he is here to work, but nevertheless, as he arrives at the quay, there is still a smile on his face.

  The smile gets bigger when he sees Merle approaching.

  “How is your article coming?” she says brightly.

  “Everyone is so concerned about me!” he says, laughing.

  Merle seems puzzled.

  “And why wouldn’t we be?” she says. She tips her head on one side, and Eric swears he can feel his heart swell.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “it’s just that the rest of the world is different from here. People aren’t so thoughtful. So generous. It’s all rush-rush, no time for please and thank you. It’s…”

  “I understand,” Merle says. “It’s different.”

  “Well, so it is,” he says. He stops, trying to think of something to say to keep the conversation going. He looks down. “Tor lent me this bike.”

  Inwardly he groans at another stunningly ineloquent conversation piece. But it doesn’t matter. Ever so gently, Merle puts her hand on his forearm.

  “I found you,” she says. That’s all.

  Before she can say more, something distracts her and she looks over his shoulder.

  “Forthwith the devil did appear”—she sighs—“for name him and he’s always near.”