by Liz Williams
Months in the van had also sharpened her eyesight. At first she had found it hard, stumbling about in the dark, and Sam had insisted that she carry a torch with her, or at least matches or a lighter. But Luna had persevered, with notions of getting to know the night, hoping that her sight would catch up. And it actually had: she had glimpsed one of Mooncote’s cats, Sable, pure black except for a vicar’s white smudge under his chin, slinking through the orchard one night when all the house lights had been off.
“How,” Stella had asked in astonishment, “did you know he was there?”
“I saw him.”
“You’re kidding me. You saw a black cat on a moonless night, with no lights?”
Luna had fought down an urge to make an irritated snap.
“Yes,” she had said.
“Wow.” Stella had believed her, since the cat was indubitably there, winding around their ankles. Luna felt a moment of triumph: she felt strong, able to see what the common run of humans could not, returning to the ways of the ancestors – all that stuff. It was a bit pretentious, she thought now, but still bloody useful.
So this was how she saw the shadow under the hedge.
The hedge itself was thorn, like the ones further up the field on the way to the churchyard: blackthorn and haw. Luna and Stella had come down here a little while ago, to pick smoky blue sloes and scarlet haw berries (good for the heart, said Sam, if you made them into a tincture). It had been nice, a half hour of sisterly contact doing something productive as they watched the mist roll slowly up off the Moon brook. The resulting sloe gin would be steeped and drunk at Christmas. Their grandfather had made it, so had Alys, and both Luna and her sister felt in need of some continuity. But now the blackthorn, stripped of its fruit, seemed to have retreated into itself. It still bore a scattering of dull golden leaves but the tangle of branches were iron-spined and Luna took care not to get too close.
The shadow was slinking under the hedge. Luna could see it from the corner of her eye. It was long and sinuous, thickly furred. She tried not to move. Was it an animal, or something pretending to be one? Then the piebald shifted uneasily, stepping back, and Luna lost her balance in the wet grass. She did not fall but she had to grab at the horse’s mane and that was when the thing slid out from beneath the hedge and confronted her. She saw black eyes in a narrow black head. It hissed, displaying sharp teeth. It was a mink.
“Fuck off!” Luna hissed back. The mink ran forwards. It was big, though perhaps its fur made it look larger Luna kicked at it and it snapped at her boot, but then the piebald was in between her and the mink, angling its body to push Luna out of the way. She had to move, not wanting to be accidentally knocked flat. The piebald stamped, aiming at the mink, and the mare joined it, whickering in warning. Once, high on the side of a fell, Luna had watched a wild pony go for an adder: the same stamping movement. The snake had been killed; the mink evidently feared the same fate, because it hissed again and slipped back into the shelter of the blackthorns. In silent accord, the piebalds turned and marched up the slope of the field with Luna walking between them, her guardians, as quickly as she could.
Serena
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise.”
“I don’t know,” Ward said. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Serena sat up in bed.
“Shh. I’m listening.”
There was a grumbling sound from the pipes.
“This house still has dodgy plumbing, I see.”
“I know. Bee did have it overhauled a couple of years ago, as well, but I suppose all old houses have cranky pipes.”
“That wasn’t what you heard, though?”
“No.”
They had consumed the wine. Then they had gone to bed, not because either Serena or Ward was drunk (not on half a bottle each of Tesco’s Pinot Grigio) but mainly because Ward had come back and Serena had an oh-sod-it moment.
“However,” Ward had said. “I am conscious of some vestigial responsibility.” He looked momentarily appalled, as if at some personal lapse. “What about Bella?”
“Well, I’d prefer it if she didn’t know,” Serena said. “And I certainly don’t want her to catch us in bed, obviously.”
“Quite. There is a touch of the Aldwych Farce about the whole prospect. People running from room to room in their knickers.”
“Her room is at the end of the corridor and she seems, thank God, to be entering that teenage stage of sleeping a lot and having to be hauled out of her pit in the morning. The battles I have trying to get her off to school! And she’s not actually trying to be difficult, she just can’t wake up. I was the same. Alys used to say my spirit animal was a dormouse.”
“And if,” Ward asked delicately, “this develops? Not that I am making any assumptions, you understand.”
He was making a whacking big one, Serena thought, but at least he had announced a sort of intention and she felt her spirits lift. Not just lift, but soar. This surprised her, a lot. She had got into the way of regarding old boyfriends, if still around, as sort-of family members. Brothers, perhaps, or cousins; Ward himself had alluded to the avuncular and when she’d met him that day in the pub, she’d been too much of a sodden mess to think about engaging. And she had known Ward all her life, as well: their relationship had been more of old family friends than young-girl-dazzled-by-handsome-actor. She suspected that Ward might have been rather more raw over Miranda than he was letting on, too, and rebounds, as she had reminded herself earlier, are never a good idea. But maybe there really was unfinished business. “Anyway,” she had said, “Bella likes you.”
“She barely knows me.”
“She liked you in Endless. She said you were quite cool for an old person.”
“So flattering. I should be grateful that I still have a younger audience, I suppose.”
But by this time Serena was feeling a little reckless. She took Ward by the hand and led him, with no further protests, upstairs to bed, where things had progressed in a way that was still familiar, and yet not. Ward was older, she was older. Maybe not by that much, given the span of a lifetime, but enough to make a difference. It appeared that they’d both learned a thing or two. At an inopportune moment, she recalled that an unfortunate carnal encounter with a waitress had got Ward into the tabloids, some years before, and the young woman had not only told more about the encounter than anyone surely really wanted to hear, but given Ward ten out of ten. Serena obviously did not bring this up, but she had to admit that the waitress had a point.
She had been initially worried about the changes that pregnancy had wrought, but oh-sod-it to those, too, and Ward didn’t seem to notice. If he was too polite to comment, then that was a good thing. And then they had gone to sleep, companionably, and that was also familiar, and nice. Until Serena had been startled awake by the noise.
She could not say what it was. She had been dreaming and something had happened, someone knocking at a door and the door had led to the sea – and then she was awake and knew that the sound had been real. But it had not been a knock.
Ward was listening, as well.
“You know,” he said, “I think I can hear something.”
“What can you hear?”
“It’s like a sort of rhythmic tapping. A pendulum? No, more like a clock ticking.”
Serena was about to say, it is a clock, you idiot, it’s the alarm, but then she glanced at the little bedside clock, which was an old fashioned one of the kind that you imagine in nurseries. It had stopped, at half past four.
“Right,” Serena said. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m just going to have a peek out of the window.”
She went quickly across the room and tugged the curtain aside. The wind was still high but then the black clouds parted and she saw the thin horn of the moon. It was very slim, a rind of light, and it was on its back. The sash gave a sudden ra
ttle. It was unlucky to see the new moon through glass, Serena thought, and that was her last proper thought for some time. The sash shot up, though she had not touched it, letting in a blast of cold air. The moon pierced her: she felt it go in under her breastbone like a curved knife. She gasped and folded. From the bed, she heard a startled exclamation from Ward but the words made no sense. She stumbled forwards, falling against the sash window, and through the gap.
When she landed, outside on the flagstones of the yard, it was on all four feet.
Stella
Stella was, for the moment, stumped. She sat back on her heels and looked at the edges of the star spirit’s gown. For the life of her, she couldn’t see where skirt ended and flagstone began. The spirit herself had lapsed into something that was like sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness. Her eyes were closed, making her look like a marble statue, and occasionally her mouth opened, but she did not speak. Part of the problem, Stella thought, was that she could not really see. The chapel was dim and the spirit had been caught in the shadows. Tam was exploring, somewhere at the back; she could hear movement, and curses. As long as she knew roughly where he was, she wasn’t too worried, but she didn’t want to turn her back on him, either.
Stella straightened up and went over to the windowsill. If she stood up on a pew, she would be at eye level with the little light. If she could somehow get it over to the star, she might be able to see better… Closer to it, she could not see whether it was attached to anything, but now, with a better view, it reminded her of something. Of Abraham.
“Are you – alive?”
The blue-green light bobbed. Stella blinked, momentarily dazzled, and saw that there was a fine mesh between herself and the window. The light flickered behind this. Was it metal? It was gossamer fine. She reached out and hesitated. Oh come on, Stella. It’s not likely to be electrocuted, is it? She touched the mesh but it was like touching spiderweb. It clung to her fingers for a minute and she snatched her hand back, trying to wipe it on her jacket, but the mesh melted away. The light danced.
Stella held out her hand. After a moment, as if making up its mind, or could not believe that it was free, the light shot forwards and hovered over her palm. This close, she could see that it was made up of a vortex, strands of light like DNA, a waterweed presence.
“All right,” Stella said. “Okay.”
Tam’s voice came from the back regions.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Myself,” she called. “I’m the only one who understands me round here.”
She got down from the pew and carried the light, if that was the right word for something that you weren’t actually holding, over to the trapped star. Bending down, the light went with her, flooding the floor with a watery radiance. Stella knelt with care. Now that she could see properly, she noted that there was still no visible join between floor and hem, but this gave her another idea. Might it be possible to get the star out of her dress?
“Excuse me,” Stella said. “I’m going to prod you a bit. Sorry if it’s inappropriate.” The star did not respond. Stella tried to run a finger between the star’s bodice and her flesh, but the fabric – if it was fabric – felt more like concrete and the star’s skin was cold and hard as stone. Stella was starting to wonder if she actually was some sort of statue, after all, when the light soared up. The star’s mouth opened. The light zoomed into it. The star’s lips closed with a snap.
“Oh!” Stella gasped.
The star’s eyes opened and for a moment they were as opaque and black as before. Then they flooded with marshfire light, blue and green and a lightning flicker of gold. The star’s face flushed a delicate blue. She raised her head and there was a tearing, rending sound as she took a tottering step forward and her skirts came free of the floor.
“What’s going on?” Tam Stare came down the aisle in a rush.
“She’s waking up properly. She’s walking.”
The star reached around and took hold of the train of her gown. She pulled and it tore, coming loose in a rattle of shells. The heavy fabric fell to the flagstones. Beneath, she wore a silk shift. Then the bodice, dropped in one piece like the breastplate of a suit of armour. But the star wavered. She clutched the wooden edge of a pew for support.
“She’s having difficulty standing up,” Stella snapped. “She’s too weak. Give us a hand.” She took the star by an arm, no longer so cold and heavy, although it felt unnervingly like the arm of a corpse. How long had she been ensnared? Stella thought about sitting on a long haul flight, how stiff your legs became. How much worse if you’d been standing for – what? Aeons? A hundred years? Poor star, even if they weren’t human and might not have the same biological constraints.
“What’s your name?” she asked. But she couldn’t hear the star’s reply. The star pointed to the door.
“She wants to go out,” said Stella.
“I’m not completely thick, you know.”
“I’m just trying to be clear. Take her other arm.”
Tam draped the star’s arm over his shoulders and they half walked, half dragged her to the doorway. She was remarkably heavy, Stella thought, for someone who looked quite slight now that she was out of her enveloping draperies.
“Hold her up,” she said to Tam. “I’ll open the door.”
They bore the star through and into the porch. There was a spatter of rain on their faces, blown in on a strong sea wind, and the star seemed to revive a little. She looked up. Stella turned back to the door to close it and there was a sudden violent shove in her back. She was propelled through the door and sprawled on the flagstones. A burst of pain shot through her knee as the door was slammed behind her and bolted. Tam Stare, outside with the freed star, had locked her in.
Serena
Running was like flying. Serena had never felt so light; she had never run so far. She did not remember why she had run in the first place, only that something had been coming after her, something bad. It was hard to think in words, rather than blocks of shade/scent/shape, and it was too much effort, she was too busy. She dodged and ducked around tree trunks and bushes, dived beneath bramble and briar, leaped a stream with feather-lightness. Ward was a distant memory: huge and alien, as were her sisters and Sam. She shivered at the thought of humans: they could not be trusted, they would kill. She did not know what she was, only that she revelled in her skittering swiftness, pulled along by the vast crescent of the moon and the sparkling stars. Her heart beat like a manic drum; she could feel it thumping as though it would break through the wall of her chest and fly upwards and it rang to the rhythm of her feet. She barely touched the grass, instinct driving her into a weaving zigzag. Don’t run straight. And the thing behind her, her pursuer, kept on. She did not look back but she could feel it and smell its rank stench, completely different to the fluffy-familiar musky smell of herself and the small fry, who scattered out of her way as she passed and they sensed it coming, too, diving into burrows and into the thick tangles of briar. Serena zigzagged down a slope, past two enormous things who looked up at her mildly as she passed, through a hedge and into another field. She was running along the stream now and she could smell its deep wetness, the mud and weed and the sharp smell of the small people who lived in the bank. Behind her, there was a hiss. It was gaining on her. She could feel its shadow streaming out behind it in the light of the moon and hear it whisking through the damp grass. Something loomed up ahead of her and Serena sprang, scrambling up. There was a snap at her heels, the graze of teeth. But she was over, falling and rolling, hitting stone so hard that it knocked the wind out of her.
“Serena!” a voice said, surprised. And all at once Serena was a woman again, breathless and, to her horror, naked. She was lying against the side of her grandfather’s tomb. Something thin and black ran along the top of the churchyard wall and was gone.
“Grandpa?”
“Believe me when I say,” the blue light that was Abraham said, “that I didn’t know you could do that.”
“At least no one saw me.” Serena was sitting in the kitchen of Mooncote, wrapped in a voluminous dressing gown that had surely belonged to a man and a larger one than any recent male relatives. It was slightly itchy and smelled of mothballs.
“You’d never have lived that down,” Ward agreed. “Arrested. Starkers in the churchyard at midnight. The Daily Mail would have had a field day.”
“It was bloody cold without fur, I’ll have you know.” She sipped the tea he’d just given her, plus a large shot of whisky. The two did not really go together, but Serena was past caring. She was still shaky, from exertion, shock and the relief of seeing Ward pounding down the churchyard path, more or less dressed and waving the dressing gown.
“I found it in the airing cupboard,” he said.
“How did you know I might need it?”
He gave her a brooding stare, familiar to audiences. “Stuff,” he said.
“Stuff?”
“Stuff.”
“Right.”
“I must say, just for the sake of clarity, this particular thing has never actually happened to me before. As you know, I have had a number of ladyfriends, including your good self. And a wife. And indeed a couple of gentleman acquaintances. However, no one I’ve slept with has ever fallen out of the bedroom window and turned into a bloody hare before.”