The Wind of Southmore

by Ariel Dodson

  She couldn’t explain what had happened last night. She had tried and tried not to think about it, not to let the memory come flooding back through her, satisfied and triumphant. “You did it!” Alice had cried accusingly, and perhaps the terrifed feeling that rose within her and forced her to block out the thought, was because it was true. Try as she might, she could not forget her fury and how she had hated him at that moment; how she had felt the wind surge though her as if her anger had taken on a life of its own, and how he had fallen, helpless, to the bottom of the cliff. Right then, at that moment, she had wanted it to happen and it had. She shuddered, icy suddenly, and tried to force the sick feeling back down. Sick, particularly when she remembered the tall, dark, hooded figure she had seemed to see behind Robbie, slamming against him, as he fell.

  It seemed like hours later when she finally stepped back outside, the small carrier bag swinging in her hand and the torch smuggled safely in her pocket, and began to head back towards the castle with a quick stride. It was only when she reached Alchemist’s Block that she saw the birds.

  Above her, gliding in and out of the thick blanket of sky, several gulls sailed, mewing softly to one another in the dense grey air, as if calling each other. They seemed to be congregating over by the castle, above the tower, over the dark strip of beach in the rocks which housed the dancing ground and the strange, rotting wreck.

  A fierce shudder ran through her like an electric jolt and, in a sudden clear flash, as if she had been right there in front of her, she could see Alice, and she began to run.

  Alice was at the wreck before she even realised it. It was almost as if she were in a dream, and the alert, awake part of her was standing to the side, looking on, but, as is usual in dreams, unable to interfere. Stop! she wanted to shout. Don’t go any further!

  But she couldn’t help it. As much as that insistent, instinctive voice tried to hold her back, she could feel the power of the presence before her, luring her, and guiding her on. Somewhere, in the strange sea mist that embraced her with damp phantom arms, she could see the bright, deep glint of a red jewel, beckoning her forward, through the cracked paving stones patterned with weeds and lichen, past the heavy, crumbling walls of the castle, the foundations of the tower room, and towards a small, broken-down gateway which appeared to lead to part of the beach. She could see herself from afar, stopping at the entrance, hesitant, and the pungent smell that crept around her and filled her senses chilled her with a fierce shudder of disgust and made her want to retch. A sickly, sweet, rotting smell, pervading what should have been fresh sea air. She tried to hold her breath, tried not to let it in, but she felt the odour surrounding her like a physical presence, its cold, clammy touch feeling for her skin, and she swayed with revulsion. The fog gathered and ribboned around her like a shroud, and she found that she could see things in the mist, swirling shapes which writhed around her, reached for her, and caressed her with chilled, invisible fingers. And the wind sang softly to her, flirting around her ears, whispering secrets, until she felt that she could almost hear voices, calling, crying a lost song in the blindness, in the sadness. An aching loneliness overwhelmed her and she stumbled, grasping the gate for support. It came away in her hand, and she felt the ancient step on which she stood begin to crumble beneath her. She tried to scream, but no sound would come to her lips, and her thoughts seemed to dissolve amongst the voices in the wind, throbbing with anguish, their wail rising to a wild crescendo, bleeding in her ears until she felt that she could faint with the pain. It seemed to be coursing right through her, and the ghostly shapes before her eyes began to gather and take form. She could see the gaping mouths and vacant eyes, clouded, like the breath of the mist. Their hands were out and grasping, and they came towards her, pleading and helpless, and she could do nothing. She did not know what to do. Somewhere inside her, she could hear a small voice fighting to be heard, calling for help, but how could she help? She didn’t know what she was even doing here, in this strange, frightened village, so far away from everything and everyone she had ever known. What could she do? Arlen had left her alone. Panic rose within her now, like a wave. She had to get away, somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere was better than falling into that rolling, ghostly sea of pain and loss and fear, and when the rich blood colour of the ruby flashed before her from somewhere beyond the darkness, she automatically stepped forward to follow.

  Arlen didn’t know that she could run that fast. Around her the wind rose and screeched, and the sea mist rolled in from the salt-crusted waves and wrapped itself around her with cold fingers.

  She would not heed them.

  Her pace quickening with every thud of her foot on the narrow path, her heart pounding so that it beat against her ribs like a drill, she ran. She had started it, she had let it in, she had let it use her, and she had tried so hard to prevent it. She had to get to Alice.

  It was the automatic memory which found its way to her feet that got her back to the castle; she could not have reached it otherwise. The mist had intensified to fog, sweeping inland like ghostly waves which clung, damp and clammy, to her skin and hair. Arlen, hot with running, could still feel the icy touch grasping at her, chilling the beads of sweat that rolled from her skin. Her legs, familiar with the narrow path and winding turns since a child, had taken her home without harm, and she paused for a moment by the side of the castle, gasping furiously, the salty air sharp and painful to her heaving lungs.

  It was very strange. Shrouded by fog, the tower loomed dark and craggy above her, a heavy stone, seemingly suspended in midair. She could barely see her own hand before her eyes, and yet, as she turned her glance to where the sea should have been, she could see the other girl very clearly, in a flickering sort of light, as if she had been pinpointed on a movie screen and the background had faded out. Arlen would have perhaps made the comparison, if she had ever been to the cinema. Needless to say, Southmore did not boast of one.

  It was like watching herself. Alice was standing, hesitantly, by the small, broken gate that led to the beach. She was swaying slightly, as if she were listening to something that held her attention completely. Her back was towards Arlen, but somehow she could still see her sister’s face, her mind seeming to throw the image back at her in reverse, so that she could see the action from the front as well. Alice’s eyes were large and staring, a dark grey, like the sea fog itself. Arlen could not see what she was looking at, but she could see her mesmerised expression. And then, suddenly, in a brief glimpse, she caught the flash of ruby, glinting in her eyes.

  It all happened so fast, she wasn’t aware of her own actions. Alice moved as if to step forward, the fragile wood of the gate trembled and broke, the stone beneath her feet began to crumble away, and the girl’s foot reached out over the circle, onto that sand, that beach, where they had been.

  “No!” Arlen shouted fiercely, and began to run towards her twin. Alice seemed to pause, the thick fog casting the illusion that she was floating within its heavy arms. Arlen increased her pace, but the fleshy grasp of a loose root from a tree nearby caught her ankle and sent her sprawling. Rough stones tore at her jeans and she spat thin, gravelly soil from her mouth. Rising quickly and painfully, she could not see Alice anywhere. The mist had closed behind her like a set of sliding doors and seemed to have solidified into a thick wall.

  Her knee was smarting but she forced herself to run, stumbling on loose stones and scattered twigs. Thin, sharp branches scratched at her face and she clawed back at them blindly, forcing her way through desperately. She could not see where the opening was, she just knew that the dancing ground and the grey, dead sea lay beyond, waiting for her to enter, and it was only the faint fear at the back of her mind that perhaps that was idea, which caused her to stop short, abruptly. She smelt salt and seaweed, and a sickly sort of rotting combined with a faint trace of charred wood – left over from the other night, she guessed. Silence reigned. No gull cried or wave lapped, and she could hear only her own harsh, frightened breathing forcing i
ts path through the cold, dull blanket.

  “Alice?” she called, her voice husky with fear. No sound answered her. All seemed dead, smothered by the fog. It was as if she were in another world, on the edge of nothingness. “Alice?”she called again, and her voice took on a sharper edge.

  She paused silently, waiting for a response, and this time an answer came. A furious beating of wings arose from somewhere before her, screeching at her, driving at her face. She moved backwards, holding her hands up to shield her eyes, and the creature moved behind her. She could feel coarse feathers scratching her skin and sharp talons tugging at her hair and scalp, and she cried out “Alice!” and thought she heard a muffled cry. It increased her desperation, and she beat back at the bird until her hands felt wet with blood. It was circling her now, clawing at any free part of her it could find, and her hands tore and fought back, despite the fear, despite the pain. She hadn’t realised it, but in the fierce battle her hand had hooked on the thin velvet ribbon around her neck and caught there, taut and restrictive. She felt the sharp pull on the back of her head and, struggle as she might, she could not remove her hand. She couldn’t see what she was doing in the thick blanket of fog.

  The bird saw its opportunity and dived at her right hand, which she was vainly trying to disentangle, and she waved madly with her left arm. She felt it claw at her cheek and she screamed and pulled her arms towards it, almost strangling herself. But the movement had drawn out the small golden charm that hung on the ribbon, and suddenly, in the midst of the dense, dull fog, a light shone, bright and clear. The gull screeched sharply, and disappeared in a flurry of harsh, flapping wings. Arlen, breathing heavily in jagged gasps, felt her knees grow weak and almost slid to the ground. Quickly, she freed her hand from the ribbon, an easy task now that the onslaught was over, and studied the small, knotted image before her. It seemed slightly larger to her than when she had last looked at it, and it danced and twinkled in the golden light which shone from it like a small ray of sunshine. There was something in its smooth coils which reminded Arlen suddenly of the twining tail of the crumbling Penmorven dragon. She stared, fascinated, and a small cry sounded from somewhere to her right.

  “Alice?” she called, pulling herself up and staring wildly into the thick, grey wall before her. “Where are you?”

  Alice could hear Arlen plainly, but it was almost as if the sound came from another world, a world beyond her vision and reach. She could not explain what had happened, but she had felt the ground crumble beneath her and her grip on the mossy wood fail, and all she could see before her was the bright flash of ruby, growing larger and more brilliant before her eyes, until she felt that she was watching a burning fire, tongues of blood red flame licking the woolly swirls of mist around her until it swelled to bonfire size, and it seemed that she was in the middle of it. She could hear the chanting echoing rhythmically around her, and was aware of the hard slap of feet on wet, packed sand and the swish of robes somewhere outside the circle, but she could feel no ground herself, almost as if she were walking on air. She tried to scream, but her throat was dry and silent, and she could only watch in horror as the curls of fire ribboned towards her.

  “Alice – Alice, where are you?”

  The voice rang, suddenly, clearly, through the blanket of fog, and she turned, confused and hopeful, her heart pounding fiercely. She knew that voice. It rang deep in her memory, and she turned, but she could not see.

  Arlen gazed wildly into the grey air, her heart throbbing so loudly it was ringing in her ears. It was no use, she thought desperately, she couldn’t see a thing. But she must do something.

  Terrified as she was, she took a deep breath, and prepared herself to step into the circle. As she moved, her sleeve caught on something by the side of the rocks, and when she reached out her fingers touched ancient, rotting wood. And suddenly she smiled, thinking how odd it was that she had got her own way after all.

  Alice was lost. As if breathed from the cold sea fog itself, a single gull dived at her, herding her away from Arlen, further towards the sea and those clammy hands and desperate voices. She gasped and twisted and turned away from the furious beat of wings, feathers scratching her face and the maniacal flap sounding like thunder in her ears. There was no hope now. She had completely lost all track of direction. The fog rolled in, drowning out all sound but the ceaseless throbbing of the waves and the eerie moan of lost voices driven by the wind. Its damp fingers ran over her skin, and she felt that she would go mad with the terror of ghostly pleading hands and lonely cries. She couldn’t help it, she had to escape, and she began to run, but the grey curls of sea breath wound around her legs like wool and slowed her pace, and she seemed to be running in circles, terrified that at any second she would run straight into the sea. Perhaps that was what it wanted. Another life to add to so many beneath the cold, treacherous waters.

  She stopped, and pressed her hands tightly against her ears in a futile attempt to keep them out, the moaning in her ears ringing in her brain and driving her onwards. Her head ached and it was hard to breathe. But it was the voices that were the worst. If only they’d stop. If only they’d stop.

  “Alice? Alice!”

  The words were very faint, and yet she could hear them. But it couldn’t be, she couldn’t hear anything but the cries, the whispers in the wind, and she crushed her ears even more tightly with her hands.

  “Alice? Alice!”

  The call was stronger this time, and it was with a sudden sharp shock that she realised it was coming from within herself.

  “Alice,” she murmured softly. “I am Alice.”

  It was then that she saw the light – narrow and pale, but true. Slowly, she drew her hands from her ears and turned towards the brightness, straight into the burning red eye of the ruby. She screamed, unable to help herself, and her cry was swallowed in the dampness. The dark shape loomed before her, the fog shrouding it like a cloak, and the ruby gleamed brilliantly and seductively before her eyes.

  “Alice? Alice!” Arlen’s voice grew louder now, and more frantic.

  Alice was confused. She could hear the voice clearly, so like her own, and yet – before her shone the stone, winking encouragingly, and the ghostly shape wreathed itself around her like another skin. She could feel the cruel talons reach out and stroke her cheek, and she felt a deep thrill which seemed to freeze her blood and her mind. All that she could see before her was her own face reflected in deep, shining crimson.

  “Alice!”

  The cry broke through the thick veil of air like a knife, and Alice could feel herself falling. It was as if she had been suspended in midair, held closely by the tight bands of fog, and now it had let her go and she was dropping. Into the sea, onto that sand, it didn’t matter, she was terrified.

  “Arlen!” she screamed loudly, her brain snapping to attention. She could see her sister suddenly, floating somewhere above her, circled in a golden shower of light, and she wondered how it was that she was falling and Arlen was not. But she continued to look upwards, mesmerised by the shine, hoping desperately that somehow she would be carried in its waves and not fall into the greedy, sucking waters below. How was Arlen doing it? she thought, mildly aware of how ridiculous such a question was at a time like this. Above her the light seemed to disperse and rearrange itself into a glowing, golden shape, which swirled around her and held her, gone suddenly as oddly as it had come, but in an instant the way was illuminated and the dream suddenly became real.

  She was falling. The wind rushed past her ears in a shriek and her terror returned as she heard the crashing of the waves on the rocks below. She screamed.

  “Alice, hold on!”

  She could see Arlen mouthing something but she couldn’t hear what, she just instinctively reached out and her hand caught on something old and wooden, nearly rotted and very weak, but it held her, still and safe, for a few minutes. She dangled, the sense of the unreal returning, as if she were standing outside watching a movie, and she nearly lost h
er hold when her swinging brought her alongside her own face in a dark and decaying wood. The paint was long gone, but the eyes – the eyes, grey and still as a misty sea, stared upon her, and she felt reality returning to her in a fearful gasp of horror. She looked away and realised where she was.

  She was hanging on the prow of the shipwreck, only inches above the circle of sand which seemed to sit back mockingly, waiting for her, enjoying her predicament.

  “Alice!”

  She could almost feel the thuds of Arlen’s feet on the creaking boards in her heartbeat, and she was suddenly filled with a deep, inexplicable pain.

  “Alice, come on!” Arlen’s face appeared above her, a small white star in the darkness, the golden charm dangling and glowing softly about her neck, and Alice couldn’t help but notice how strange was the positioning of that fresh, young face above the peeling, rotting wood of the figurehead, its features still so eerily similar. “Can you climb up?”

  “I – I think – I’ll try,” Alice called faintly, half surprised to hear that she still had a voice. She didn’t know how Arlen had got up there, but she had serious doubts that she would be able to perform the same feat. Below, she could feel the circle quietly waiting, and her skin crawled in revulsion. She had always hated gym at school, but she had to escape that sand.

  She gulped, and raised her other hand, sucking in a deep breath from the dank, sour air. As she moved, the wind soared behind her, rising fiercely as if to ride through her, swirling up her hair and pushing her forwards, then tugging her back in a fierce, persistent gust. She lost hold with her left hand and dangled, blown back and forth in the wind like a ragdoll. It was then that the voices started again. She could see the fog rising from the sand and the ghostly figures sweeping around her, and their whispered pleas cried in agony in her ears. The flash of red below her grew wider and deeper, until she seemed to be hanging above a whirlpool of fire. She gasped, and in an almost frenzy of panic, threw herself forward and exhibited a feeble attempt to climb up.