by LJ Rivers
A phone rang.
“Excuse me.” Nate retrieved his mobile from his back pocket. “Manny? I’m ready. Yes. Cool. See you in five.”
“Sorry.” He put the phone back. “That was my ride.”
“Take care, Nate.” I shook his hand once more. “By the way, could you let us know if the police have any luck tracking your friend? I mean, even if the news is bad.”
“I will. Manny and the others are already back in the woods, looking for him. I’m going there now.”
“Best of luck to all of you.”
Lucinda and I went outside. Willow had fallen asleep, and I put the blanket back over her again.
“I think I’ll take this one for a walk, Lucinda. Please don’t take it the wrong way, but—”
“Nonsense, my dear. I just wanted to say hello, and to tell you that my door is always open.” She pointed at a black Ford Focus with ‘Chester Taxi Service’ in yellow letters on the side. “This young man is taking me to the shopping centre, and then he’ll drive me home.” She gave me a nudge with her elbow. “We take the trip twice a week, and it’s only fifteen pounds each time. He didn’t even charge me extra for the detour up here.”
“You’re a regular Miss Daisy.” I laughed.
Lucinda moved slowly down to the car, and the driver came out to open the door for her. He winked and said something, which made her laugh and slap him on his arm. I waved at her, thinking the driver knew exactly how to keep her a happy customer. As “Miss Daisy” drove off, it struck me that the driver in the film was named Colburn, which immediately sucked all the fun out of the cultural reference.
Willow made a gurgling sound before yawning and stretching. I didn’t want her to wake up, so I pushed the buggy along, hoping the rocking movement would keep her asleep. It worked, and soon I found myself on the road back towards my house.
Another car passed. The young man behind the wheel was probably Manfred, on his way to pick up Nate. He slowed and drove at a snail’s pace, apparently to avoid trapping us in a dust cloud. I nodded in gratitude, and he smiled back at me. He must have been eager to get back to Snowdonia to look for his friend.
I couldn’t grasp the meaning of Nate’s experience. Could it be a remnant of the fight between Mags and humans? Maybe the Mags didn’t know there were Mags among the campers, too. But why would they kidnap a human? It made no sense.
Would Jen understand? I could ring her later and ask. Right now, all I wanted was to enjoy the beautiful summer day with the even more beautiful Willow. Hugo had changed the wheels on her pushchair to suit the gravel roads and paths around the area. I crossed the bridge over Nordee Brook and chose the path that went alongside the water. Fifty yards in, a car horn sounded behind me. I turned and waved at Nate and Manfred, who had returned to his Hamilton driving style. I hoped they would find their friend, but the sadness in Nate’s eyes had told me he knew they wouldn’t.
My energy was still far from yesterday’s levels, but it was returning. I attributed it to the combination of the sun, the birds’ chirping, and not having to accept condolences and hugs from people all the time. I was proud of how Mum had touched so many lives—many times more lives than I had known or even imagined. But I needed to be alone.
A babble from Willow reminded me I wasn’t. I stopped and leaned in to check on her. She smiled when our eyes met and reached for me.
“Now there’s a hug I definitely want,” I said and picked her up.
We had almost reached the old stone bridge. King’s Crossing was supposedly built more than a thousand years ago, by King Edward the Elder. Dad hadn’t believed the bridge was quite that old, but that some of the stones might be from the original bridge, which had collapsed early in the twentieth century. I had crossed the twenty-foot bridge hundreds of times, if not thousands, and almost every single time, I had stopped halfway across.
I leaned on the stone railing, taking care not to hold Willow over the water. I wondered if Dad had stood like this with me in his arms when I was only four months? It would have been around the same time, as I too was a February child. At least every fourth February. I liked the thought of him and me there, and how it was similar to me showing Willow the jumping trout under the bridge.
“See?” I pointed at the ripples on the surface. “One day, I’ll show you how to catch them. We’ll take it home to Tabbie and have her fry it for us for supper. Would you like that?”
The little Phoenix waved her arms and gurgled with joy. A fat trout jumped right below us. Maybe it was the one I had seen only a few weeks back. It looked the right size. Willow squealed at the sight of it.
“I know,” I said. “They’re eating, but when I was little, I used to think they might be playing, too.” I inhaled the sweet scents of innocence from her skin. “If you promise not to tell, I’ll admit that I still think they’re playing. I mean, if you could swim and jump out of the water like that, wouldn’t you do it all the time?”
A dark cloud shrouded the sun. All the light disappeared, and the brook with it. This wasn’t normal, I thought. Had Auberon returned, somehow bringing the shadows with him?
I crouched, hugging Willow tighter to me.
“Don’t come closer,” I said loudly. “You have no business being here!”
There was no reply. The darkness was still there, but my eyes had adjusted to it, or maybe it had got slightly brighter. I could see Willow, who was clutching my finger. She wasn’t smiling, though. Then she began to fade.
Screams filled my ears. Human screams. A woman. No, several women. Flashes of orange and yellow cut through the darkness. Silhouettes passed by in the lighted moments. I could smell burning wood.
“Help! Please help us!” a woman shrieked.
“No one can hear you, old Pixie.” It was a man’s voice, but at the same time it sounded like a growl from the core of the earth. “Your queen has abandoned you like the coward she is.”
“She’s not a coward. She will avenge us, and then you will regret—”
I gasped at the swooshing sound that cut the Pixie’s voice short. I had heard that sound many times before. It was a sword, swung with fierce power, and with only one purpose.
More screams ensued, followed by galloping hoofs and clanging swords.
“In the name of Auberon,” the demonic voice bellowed. The earth under my feet shook. “I order you to lay down your weapons. Cease your magic, and surrender to your king, and no more harm will fall upon you.”
“To the Nethers with Auberon,” a man shouted. The next second, the zing of a blade told me he would no longer protest my father’s soldiers.
The silhouette of a horse came into view. It was bigger than any horse I had ever seen, even Mr Durham’s old shire horse, Goliath. Mr Durham bragged about it being over nine feet tall, but it would have looked like David next to the one that came towards me now. Amber hues from the burning village illuminated the horse.
I blinked. It wasn’t a horse at all. It was a Unicorn.
A three-foot horn protruded from its forehead, streaks of blood running down the silver spiral. Its eyes were as big as snooker balls and jet black. Froth and saliva sprayed from its nose and mouth with each heavy breath. The Unicorn stomped its foot twice on the ground, sending sparks of blue and silver into the darkness.
“Stand, boy!” the rider said, his voice rumbling like an earthquake. “Join the other prisoners, or join the dead. Your choice.”
His blood-red eyes shot at me like lasers. On each side of his head were two long horns, curving backwards like those of a large goat. His face was elongated, with a pointy chin and a black goatee. Below his horns sat two pointy ears. What kind of creature was he?
“Speak up, boy!”
“I—I’m not a boy,” I whispered. “Please don’t—”
“Smart choice,” the man said and turned.
A small boy stepped out of the darkness behind me and walked past—no, through me—and to the man who was not a man. The boy started walking alongside
the Unicorn. In his hand, he was holding a stick. Or was it a cross?
It’s my mother, a tiny voice whispered in my head. My father made it for me.
The boy was talking, or thinking, in my head, and now I understood what he meant. He was holding a tiny doll, made of twigs. There were arms and legs and a little head with moss on top. His mother.
“Come back,” I shouted, but my voice had no bearing. The boy plodded on next to the Unicorn. Its rider bent down and picked the boy up with a giant, gloved hand. Compared to the man, the boy looked no bigger than the stick figure in his hand.
“You’ll live,” grumbled the man. “And be my servant from this day until you have no more days left.”
They were fifty yards away from me now, but I could still hear his voice. He held the boy high up in the air, maybe twenty-five feet, as he sat on top of the enormous Unicorn.
“For the king!” he shouted. Again, the ground shook in response.
“For the king!” replied a choir of equally dark voices. In the shimmering glow of the fires, spears and swords were raised in rhythm with the chanting. “Auberon! Auberon! Auberon!”
The sun pierced my eyes again. Gone were the burning village and the chanting soldiers. My father’s soldiers.
I looked at the infant in my arms. Willow had let go of my finger and was playing with the red strands of my hair. She beamed at me, and I noticed that more of her first tooth had worked its way from her gum.
“Were you there, angel?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t be able to respond.
Had she shown me a part of the war in Avalon? Or was this a mix of many of her lives throughout the years? An ominous feeling inside me told me this was an actual battle, a horrific one at that. My father’s men had slaughtered the villagers and burned their homes, before taking the few survivors as slaves.
“Oh, Willow.” I hugged her and kissed her forehead. “You shouldn’t have to carry all these memories in your pure, innocent mind.”
But if she hadn’t, if the Phoenix didn’t live again and again, it wouldn’t have been able to tell the stories. Or write them down.
“I think we should go back to your mum,” I whispered.
And then I would go home and find William’s book.
Willow’s book.
Chapter Four
Jen and Charlie held their drinks up and did their best Miley Cyrus impressions, tongues out and both with one eye closed. The text across the picture said ‘Love and miss u, angel!’ in bold, pink letters, with two heart emojis as punctuation. The timestamp said they had taken the picture at a quarter past midnight, but I hadn’t seen it until I got up seven hours later. It was already Tuesday, ten days since Mum died, and although I hadn’t smiled much since then, Charlie’s snap put a big one on my face. I was happy to see my angels smiling and having fun, too. I took a photo of myself after my jog, making a point of looking as horrible as I could, which was hardly a challenge after the final sprint. As usual, I had pulled my hair back in a tight ponytail, but for the benefit of the picture, I had released it and let it fall in front of my face. Sweat made it stick to my skin in thick strands, and combined with my flaming complexion and a genuine expression of total fatigue, I was happy with the disastrous result.
Just finished washing up and getting ready to clean the rest of the house.
I leaned back on the soft pillows in the swing and sent the snap, only to supplement it with a text a few seconds later.
JK, as if you didn’t get it. Miss u too, angels. Any news about getting some days off? I’m ready for visitors. XOXO
Kit strolled across the grass, looking just as disinterested as a cat should. He rubbed against my feet before jumping up and rolling into a ball next to me. He seemed to appreciate Tabitha’s pillowcases as much as I did.
I took another swig of the iced tea, grimacing a little at the taste. Still, it was cold and liquid, and that was what the scorching sun required. “I think I’ll ask Tabbie to give me some hints about the perfect blend of herbs,” I said to Kit and downed the remainder of what I had meant to be a honey-flavoured green iced tea.
Kit opened one eye halfway, but closed it after a second, before wiggling further into the pillow.
“Well, excuse me, your highness. Your humble servant was merely sharing a—”
Freddie Mercury’s voice interrupted me, telling me that my best friend was ringing. I swiped to reply. “Now, how am I supposed to trust the law enforcement agencies of this country, if they’re out partying in the small hours?”
“And a good day to you, too, Miss Morgan,” Charlie replied in a mock formal tone.
“How are you, babe?”
“Tired, slight headache, sweating like six and a half pigs, but otherwise fine. More importantly, how are you holding up? Ready for visitors, you said. Are you sure that’s not a bit too soon?”
“It probably is, but then again I miss you so bad. Besides, all I do here is look at Mum’s stuff, deciding I’ll go through it tomorrow—a routine I repeat daily—and getting condolences from people at the sanctuary. I know they mean well, and I don’t want to be a bitch about it, but I’m just so tired of putting on a brave face.”
“I understand. And I would love to come to see you, but I can’t get away for at least another two weeks, maybe three. Jen is still working for Glover’s campaign, so I don’t see her until late at night. I’m sure yesterday looked way more glamorous than it actually was. We were home twenty minutes after the snap, and when the alarm went off this morning, I had no idea where I was.”
“I’ll survive until you can come,” I said, sniffling loudly to make my point.
“Oh, Ru, don’t make me cry at the office,” Charlie begged. “Any word from B?”
“They went up to Edinburgh two days ago,” I said. “No, wait, today’s the 16th. Then it was three days ago. He’s staying there until the 3rd of July, and then he’ll come to visit me for a very short weekend. By then, he’ll have either made the team or been cut.”
“I’m crossing my fingers.”
A voice called her name in the background.
“I’ll be right there,” Charlie said to her colleague. “So, I had a look at the names you sent me the other day.” She was back talking to me. “We are in contact with the North Wales Police, but so far there’s not much to say about finding the victim. There were seven of them, including your friend Nathaniel Peace.”
“He’s not a friend, as I have told you twice now,” I said.
“I know, but it’s a shame. He’s super hot.”
“Two words, Charlie. Brendan O’Callaghan.” But she wasn’t wrong, I’d give her that.
“Anyways,” she said, dragging the word with laughter in her tone, “this Leigh bloke seems to have a secret he hasn’t shared with his mates.”
“Oh?”
“According to an arrest report from 2015, Leigh—full name Leighton Ballard—is a Harvester. Or was, at the time. Got out of prison just before Christmas last year.”
“Nate didn’t mention that. Not that he would, of course, but it seems strange that he would hang out with a Harvester. That means Leigh hasn’t told them, or that prison time has helped him reform.”
“Hargraves?” the voice in the background sounded impatient.
“Sorry, Ru, I’ve gotta go. Talk tonight?”
“We will. Bye, Char. Kiss Jen from me.”
A minute later, my phone buzzed. A text from Charlie.
Here’s Leighton Ballard’s mugshot from the arrest report. Just in case you see him at Tesco’s or something.
Not much chance of that, I thought, and opened the attached photo. In it, a bald man in his early twenties was standing in front of a grey wall, staring into the camera with narrowed, syrup-brown eyes. He had a broad neck, typical of someone who lifted weights, supporting his even broader chin. The markings on the wall indicated he was five foot ten. It might just have been the fact that I knew what he was arrested for, but to me he looked like the quintessential Harve
ster.
There was no point postponing it any longer, so I spent the next two and a half hours packing and stowing away Mum’s stuff. Kit gave the occasional growl of displeasure as he watched me put various items in boxes and plastic bags. Most of her clothes, save for a few I kept for myself, would benefit others in need, and I would take them to the Salvation Army’s collection boxes outside Aldi down in Chester later. I had to get some grocery shopping done, anyway. I dragged the last of the three bags to the door and turned to go upstairs, aiming to finally wash off all the sweat.
A car pulled up by the garden gate. The door opened, and The Beatles were singing “A Hard Day’s Night” on the stereo. After a short while, the door slammed shut as the guitar solo—I was pretty sure George was the one playing it—began. I peeked out the small window on the front door and caught a glimpse of the red van. Since I’d come home, Mum had received three letters, all bills. Four, I reckoned, counting today’s. I might as well get it, as I had planned to go through a few things later. The house, and all household bills, would have to be transferred to me, and Hugo had promised to get his accountant to help me.
There were two envelopes in my mailbox.
My mailbox.
It had started to become a habit, thinking of stuff around here being mine. I sighed and started back to the house. My house.
The first letter had the logo for ‘ChesNet’, the internet provider, and I added it to the long list of items to attend to. The second was addressed to ‘Ruby Morgana, 28 Upton Grange Lane, Chester, CH2 1BF’. I stopped.
The handwriting was old-fashioned, written with broad fountain pen strokes. And the person who had written the letters had used the name Morgana. I turned the envelope, and my heart skipped. There was no return address, but the envelope was sealed with red wax. An ornamented ‘M’ was stamped on the middle of the wax.