Ormis blinked.
His father stepped around the table and gripped his shoulder. ‘If I do this I have to know you’re going to be alright with it… They say if a spirit senses its host giving out, then it’ll leave… What do you say?’ He looked back at the pail and when understanding dawned in his eyes his father gripped him harder. ‘She’ll struggle, but it’ll only really be panic. I’ll pull her out before any real harm gets done.’ Ormis’s face crumpled and his bottom lip began to wobble. ‘When it’s out, she can start to heal Orm. We all can. But I can only do it if you’re right with it.’ His lip was squirming now and his eyes were ready to add a few drops to the puddle on the floor. ‘You want it to be over quickly, don’t you?’ He nodded. ‘Then this is something I must try.’ He was pleading with the whole of his face, begging his son to consent to the unthinkable.
‘Do it Dad… If you think it’ll help. Do it.’
His father seemed all but crippled by his words. He dropped to one knee and pulled him close. Ormis couldn’t see the way he squeezed his eyes shut, but he could feel his emotion through several horrible jerks of his chest. When his father pushed him gently away his eyes were as wet as his own. He kissed him on the forehead and wiped his tears away.
‘Go to your room now and stay there till I call you.’
Ormis ran to his room, meaning to do as he’d been asked, but he stopped near the top of the stairs, unable to turn his back on what was happening. He sat down and gripped the spindles, looking down through the gaps as his father pulled the cellar door closed behind him. He listened for his boots on the steps, but heard nothing. In his mind’s eye he saw him creeping down with the pail in his hands, trying not to wake her.
A huge reel of silence spun out and then he heard a terrible gasping that was cut short by a splash of water. Now he imagined another scene - his father standing over his mother, one hand on her neck and the other on top of her head; pressing her head into the pail. Her mud matted hair hanging over the edge and the water glowing red with the bloody light of her eyes. Under the weight of his vision he gripped the spindles and bit his lip. There were more gasps - a series of them and then a roar. A moment later boots pounded on the stairs and his father burst through the cellar door and disappeared into the day.
Ormis ran downstairs after him, pushing the cellar door shut on the vicious barking as he passed. His father stood hunched in the sunshine. His sleeves were wet to the elbow and water dripped off his fingers. His breathing was heavy and sniffy and he flinched when Ormis touched his arm. He turned sharply as if to chastise him for leaving his room, but his severity softened when he saw the distress in his eyes. He hugged him, pressing a wet hand into the centre of his back.
‘I couldn’t do it son,’ he said, crying freely. ‘I should have stuck with it, but I just couldn’t do it.’
‘You did what you could Dad.’
They stood together for some time, taking comfort in the warmth of the sun and the feel of each other’s arms.
That evening Ormis found him sitting at the table. His arms rested on his elbows, his hands propping his head and smothering his face.
‘Dad. Are you alright?’ he whispered. If he had finally drifted off to sleep, he didn’t want to wake him.
But his father’s head jerked up with surprise and he rubbed his knuckles into his damp eyes. ‘Sit down son,’ he said, turning his raw face towards him and forcing his lips into a faint smile. He had seen his father’s face like this once before – right before he put their old horse to sleep.
‘I’m gonna have to bring help. If I don’t, I fear what might happen… She takes no food or water.’
‘But what help? I’ve heard stories of what people do to witches.’
His father stiffened as if the words had whipped his back and his eyes flashed with anger. But when he reached for his neck, his touch was tender.
‘Don’t say that son. She’s not…Well she ain’t that. You saw what happened. She didn’t call the spirit - it took her. Your mother is blameless in all this and she don’t deserve such a brand.’
Ormis didn’t doubt it. But he had heard what the other children said about witches. And what the adults said when they thought no children were listening.
‘The exorcists can purge your mother’s possessor. When I told Joel she was ill, that’s really all she is. And when she’s better she’ll be herself again. You mark my words.’
Ormis wasn’t so sure. He had marked his father’s words last night when he told him she would be alright by morning. ‘You want to bring an exorcist here?’
‘It’s the only way.’
‘You gonna ask the warden to send one?’
‘No… I know it’s what we’re supposed to do, but I don’t want the town knowing about this… The stories you might have heard… About how people treat those in the same way as your mother. Well there’s some truth in them. I fear for us if this gets out. People get scared and some of them have strong views.’
‘Then where will you go?’ Ormis asked, puzzled.
‘Directly to the Caliste. I’ll petition the exorcists in person.’
‘But that’s a day’s ride!’
‘That’s why I must leave now, before it’s too late. I’ll take Bo - you know how fast he is. The moon’ll be up so I can ride through the night and be back before the cockerel marks the dawn.’
‘But I’ll be on my own.’
‘I know son. And that’s what I’ve been chewing over. But I don’t think we can wait any longer. I hate to ask it of you, but will you do it? Will you stay with her while I go get an exorcist?’
‘What shall I do while you’re gone?’
His father gripped him firmly. ‘Don’t let anybody near the house. If anyone comes tell them your mother and I were feeling better and that we’ve gone to pick herbs for the belly ache. Don’t open the cellar door for any reason. For any reason. You understand?’ Ormis nodded his promise. ‘She has water beside her and food if she wants it. The bindings should hold. If not the door’s strong and it’s bolted. I’ll jam a chair up against the handle just to make sure…’ he trailed off as if realising it was better not to speak of escape scenarios.
‘I’ll do it Dad.’
In the ensuing silence his father’s eyes set him on scales, weighing him against the task. ‘And you promise not to open the cellar door whatever happens?’
‘Promise,’ he said, tapping his heart with each syllable.
‘Good lad… Good lad. I can see you’re frightened, but it’s alright. I am too.’ He held him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes with a mixture of pride and reluctance. ‘Look at you son… Nine years old and having to go through all this. You’re going to have to be all grown up tonight. Cos it’ll be hard. But when I get back you can go back to being a boy. We can go fishing and I’ll get your mum to fry the catch and bake one of her sponges to go with it.’
Ormis smiled weakly. ‘Why doesn’t she fight it Dad. Why doesn’t she push it out like I did?’ Neither of them knew he had a rare talent for such things and would never have guessed he would end up joining an order that would push his talent to the limit.
‘I’m sure she’s trying son. I don’t know how you did it, but you did good. Real good. I can’t imagine what it would be like if you were down there.’ He rose from the table and ruffled his hair. ‘I best get going before I change my mind. I’ll get Bo saddled.’
A Man for a Night
Ormis watched from the stoop as his father disappeared into the distance, raising dust spirals in the fading light. He felt the house grow pregnant with the secret in its belly and spun around with a sudden squirt of panic; sure his mother was standing there with a sickle in her hand and red fire in her eyes. But there was only the dark gape of the open door. It did nothing to calm his nerves and he spent several minutes kicking around in the front yard before plucking up the courage to step back into the scullery.
Once inside the cellar door glared at him.
His mother was sitting only a flight of stairs beyond it, but he had never felt so alone. He almost gave in to a twitchy urge to run out of the house and shout after his father, but be had promised to be a man tonight and was determined to make good on it.
He went to his room without cause, but once there he knew he couldn’t stay. He needed to be able to see the cellar door – to be sure it wasn’t opening. So he tucked Rag Cat under his arm, grabbed some fresh bedding and went back down stairs. His fear rose as he returned to the scullery and by the time he stepped in he was convinced the cellar door was wide open and his mother’s grimy fingers were reaching around it. But to his immense relief it was still locked and the chair still wedged under the handle.
He set his bedding up in front of the pantry. It was still early, but he lit the lamp anyway and stood it on the corner of the table nearest the cellar door. He dropped down among the blankets and smoothed out the creases on the embroidered image of their horse Bo. His father was perhaps a mile away now, riding him toward the black mountain they called the Cragg.
He looked at the cellar door and hugged Rag Cat to his chest. There had been no sound from below for some time, but somehow the silence was worse. It had a conniving quality, as if the spirit downstairs was aware of his father’s departure and was plotting its escape. He waited and watched, sucking his thumb to the bone - trying to be a man while his insides danced like a child. Outside the shadows lengthened and birds quietened in the trees. The temperature dropped and a breeze took up, making the house creak and rattle. With his imagination primed he suffered several false alarms. On one occasion he felt a hand on the back of his head and on another he heard tiptoeing on the cellar steps. At first these little frights kept his him alert, but his lack of sleep soon caught up with him and despite his appalling vigil, he nodded off.
He woke in the thickest part of night. The moon was up and the lamp was flickering on the table. He pushed himself up against the pantry and focused on the cellar door. He didn’t know what had woken him up, but he sensed a recent sound, soaking into the room. The humble glow of the lamp had strengthened with the night and now it was a pale wash across the centre of the cellar door, highlighting the latch and bolt with little nuggets of gold. He stared at the shining metal as his ears strained against the silence. But after an uneventful few minutes, his eyelids started to droop. They were almost shut when the cellar door began to blur. He rubbed his eyes, but soon realised it wasn’t tiredness that impaired his vision. The door was shimmering like it was being baked and he clutched Rag Cat to his chest as if it was a talisman; his knuckles like baby moons in the cold light of the lamp.
The tortured air bulged as the spirit pushed its beastly face into it. But there was little resolution to it this time - just a single blood blister eye and the beginnings of a snout. It was as if the Membrane was stretching over a giant keyhole and the spirit was peering through it. He shrunk down in his blankets, expecting another possession attempt. But the spirit sunk back into the Membrane and disappeared through the window with a roar.
For a time, he remained clenched in fear with his blanket drawn up in front of his face like a battlement. He was sure the spirit was playing some kind of trick, circling around outside the house and deciding on the best angle of attack. But when seconds turned to minutes he began to relax and started to tell himself it wasn’t coming back.
‘Garel. Where are you? … What’s happening? I’m so cold.’ Her voice was muffled by the cellar door and the gag his father had applied that morning, but he could tell his mother was back. In the eerie darkness of the scullery it was like hearing the first birdsong after a long winter and it brought an overwhelming gladness to his heart.
‘Mum!’
He clambered to his feet and rushed to the cellar door, but when he reached for the bolt his fingers faltered on the metal, the promise he made to his father running up his arm like an electric shock.
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted, hearing the rattle. ‘Ormis. Is that you? Please help me. It’s so dark in here and my head hurts.’
It was enough to decide him. The spirit was gone and everything was going to be alright. He threw the bolt and creaked the door open, then took the lamp from the table started down the steps. His mother was kneeling on the stone floor next to the pail his father had tried to drown her in. Her eyes were wide and frightened, but he was relieved to see they were hers again. Her gag was soaked and squelchy with spittle and he wasted no time untying it. She smelt of sweat and urine, but he hugged her regardless.
‘What happened?’ she asked. Her voice was raw and he was reminded of the terrible noises that had tortured her throat.
‘The spirit got you Mum. The one in my room, remember? You weren’t yourself so Dad put you down here. He went to get an exorcist cos we thought you were dying.’ She looked at him blackly, and he realised with amazement that she had no recollection of what happened. ‘But you’re safe now. I saw the spirit leave.’
‘I hurt all over Ormy. My head, my throat, my hands. Can you untie me please?’
He reached around to unfasten the rope and she winced as he worked it against her raw skin. But his little fingers were no match for his father’s knots and he had to bring a knife from the scullery to finish the job. When the bindings fell away she brought her hands out from behind her back and rolled her wrists and shoulders in painful circles. He helped her to her feet and she straightened and stretched like a ball of paper from a tight fist.
They mounted the stairs together and once back in the scullery she collapsed into a chair and pulled him onto her lap. ‘How long have I been down there?’ she asked, breathing hard from her efforts.
‘Since last night and you haven’t taken food or drink the whole time. I’ll get you some now if you like?’
‘Please.’
He poured her a cup of water, kicked his bedding away from the pantry door and stepped in. On a large plate he placed two clumps of bread torn straight from a loaf, half a dozen grapes and a whole block of cheese. He took it back into the scullery, getting his first proper look at the gash on her head as she gulped the water and devoured the food. It was right above her left eyebrow and about two inches long. The bleeding had stopped but dried blood caked most of her cheek and stained the left shoulder of her nightgown. He recalled a similar cut his friend got falling off a rope swing. The surgeon put five stitches in to close it up and it left a nasty scar. It started him worrying whether his mum would end up with a similar one and if would spoil her pretty face.
‘Your head’s hurt bad Mum. But if you’re brave I could clean it up.’
She looked up at him as she stuffed the last piece of bread into her mouth and smiled. She was gaunt and haggard, but he was happy to have her back.
Oh how his father would be pleased.
He slept in his parent’s bed, snuggled down in the depression his dad had made. The last two nights had stocked his mind with many terrible images from which his nightmares could draw, but his sleep was untroubled that night. His mother’s arm was around him and the closeness of her warded off such horrors. He woke alone with the sun streaming through the window and passed a contented moment staring through the ceiling before the memory of last night came back to him. He looked anxiously at the empty space his mother had vacated and hurried downstairs to find her.
He found her at the stove, stirring the steaming contents of a large iron pot. The scullery was bright and the smell of butter porridge hung in the air. He took a couple of steps in and froze – suddenly fearful there would be a grinning wolf’s head on her shoulders when she turned around. But before the idea could take hold she twisted around and smiled at him with the face he knew and loved. He smiled back and took a seat at the table. He saw that she had been busy while he slept. She had replaced the crude bandage he applied last night with a fresh strip that was almost entirely hidden by clean damp hair. And he was pleased to see that she was wearing his favourite dress. Its pale blue reminded him of the sky and its
white lace cuffs of fluffy clouds.
‘I thought I’d let you sleep little man,’ she said, squatting down beside him and pushing her fingers through his hair. She gave him a big hug that made it difficult to breathe then held him away, taking him in with eyes that shone with pride. ‘You did good yesterday Ormy. And you were very brave.’ A single tear streaked down her cheek and she rubbed it away with her thumb.
‘It’s alright Mum, you’re all better now,’ he said, but it only made her cry a little bit more.
‘I’ve made us some porridge,’ she said returning to the stove. ‘And you can have as much jam in it as you like.’
‘Really Mum?’
‘Really!’
He watched with rising hunger as she ladled a portion into his favourite bowl. She placed it lovingly in front of him and positioned the jam pot next to it. Jam was a luxury in their house and a full pot was usually rationed to last a whole month.
‘Now I want to see every duck on the bottom of that bowl before you leave this table.’
He scooped out a huge dollop of jam and splotted it into his porridge. It was much more than he usually took; perhaps twice as much, but she swept an inviting hand over the pot and he scooped out some more. He tipped it into his bowl and his smile was wide enough to tie behind his head. His mother sat down opposite him, watching him eat as though it was the height of entertainment. He shovelled it down, but he couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable under her loving regard.
‘When did you say your father planned to be back?’
‘Before the cockerel marks the dawn.’
‘Then he’s late isn’t he?’ she said in good humour. ‘When you’re done and dressed, we’ll get on out. It’s market day and the cupboards are bare.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘We’ll leave him a note telling him not to worry. If we hurry on we can be back within an hour. I’ll prepare something nice this evening and we can forget all this.’
Absence_Whispers and Shadow Page 25