Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

“Morning, love. Did you sleep well?” my mother asks as I rub my eyes and yawn as though I’ve just got out of bed. She smiles. “Sara’s in the kitchen. She’ll get your breakfast. I’m off to wake the others. We need to get cracking this morning, if we’re to get to Bale before that snow starts up again.”

  The kitchen is warm from the burning logs in the stove and my father’s smile as I walk through the door. He holds his arms out to me and I gladly let him hug me there, enveloped in the love and comfort that he shares with me. Through the kitchen window the snow lays heavy on the ground and sits foreboding in the sky above.

  Bale sits white roofed, a huddle of grey blocks stacked onto the sheet of fresh snow that blankets the undulating moors. The village is lifeless but for three curling tendrils of white-grey smoke.

  “There’s people there!” I nudge Pascha.

  “People! How do you know?”

  “There’s smoke coming from the chimneys. So that means there’s people in those houses.”

  “Huh,” he sighs, looking up towards the village. “I thought it was supposed to be empty.”

  “Me too. But-”

  “They’ll make us move on—like at Hawdale.”

  “Listen! It’s only three chimneys. Maybe the other houses are empty,” I say hopeful, and pick up my step to trudge down the snow-covered road towards the houses.

  The threshold into the village is marked by a huge winter-bare ash tree. Snow lays tracked along its climbing trunk, moulded to its greened bark, flattening its rough hollows. I look up into the overhanging branches as I pass beneath. They reach out, divide, and search blindly for the sun, their crooked silhouettes twisting and tapering into a thousand brittle twigs. A gust of wind, whipped in from the moors, strokes at my cheek. The tree shivers and snow-dust sparkles, twirling and glistening in the crisp winter light as it falls then disappears into the whitened earth.

  Further down the road to the right, sits a large house of grey stone with a smaller building at its side. ‘School House’ is carved into the stone lintel above the door and the windows beneath its snow covered roof are black, shuttered from behind, no sign of life. As we move up the lane towards the three houses, trailed with smoking chimneys, I notice the twitch of a curtain to my left and then pale faces appear, pinched and questioning, unsure. A flash of auburn and a young girl of about ten, slender, long hair hanging in plaits, looks out from behind an open door. Another, younger girl, red hair also in long plaits, pushes her head beneath the taller girl’s arm. A shout from behind and the two scuttle back as a woman peers out from the black painted wood. She looks drawn, frightened. My father raises his hand for us to stop and we wait quietly as the doors inch wider and villagers step out.

  “We’re here for shelter. Nothing more. We mean you no harm.”

  The doors widen and a man, black-bearded, his strength unhidden beneath his dark jacket, steps out onto a grey, stone path cleared of snow, the white mist of breath billowing about his head.

  “What do you want here?” he demands, squinting against the bright winter sun, his huge right hand grasped around the long wooden handle of an axe.

  “We need somewhere to live. We’ve come from the towns. Benet, Benet from Hawdale, he said there would be space for us here.”

  “Well, he was wrong. There isn’t.” The axe man returns. He takes a step closer to us and another villager, a tall man with mistrust in his dark eyes and a hammer in his hands, leaves his house to join him. Both stand strong and defiant, their faces grim as they watch us intently, their weapons at the ready.

  “There’s no room here. Be on your way,” the second man shouts when we show no sign of moving.

  “No room!” I shout, unable to control myself. “Most of the houses are empty. There’s plenty of space for us all.”

  “Edie!” my father reprimands. “That’s not our way.”

  “But Dad, there’s only three chimneys smoking.”

  “Let me talk, Edie.”

  He turns from me to the men. “We need your help. We have nowhere else to go. We’re exhausted and starving.”

  “There’s precious little food here. How’re we supposed to feed you lot?”

  “I know hunting and trapping. I can catch what we need. I know how to survive off the land, even here. I can teach you.” The men look at him with a hint of interest.

  “And my mum’s a nurse,” I shout, desperation making me bold. The men turn to each other. I take my chance. “And she knows the herbs that make medicine,” I add.

  “Jack! There are children with them.” The woman with greying auburn hair calls from her garden gate. A boy of about my age stands behind her, tall with rich auburn hair, green eyes defensive. “We needed help once, remember,” she continues. “We trekked across those moors half-starved. Have some compassion.”

  Jack looks to her, unsure. “How do we know we can trust them? They may just want to rob us?”

  “Would I have walked across the freezing moor with my baby if I wasn’t desperate?” Agnes steps forward, Bella on her hip, pale face leaning against her shoulder. “We’re not here to harm you. We’re looking for safety. The towns have become too dangerous.”

  “Let us stay here. We can work together. We can find food for us all and help each other to survive,” my mother adds, stepping forward. “Back in the town, that’s what we did. We’re just a family looking for help,” she implores.

  Jack fidgets. “You,” he points to my father, “you’re the leader. Come with me and we’ll talk. Carl,” he says to the man with the hammer, “stay here and watch them. Nathaniel,” he beckons to the boy standing next to the woman with auburn hair, “you watch them too.” Jack beckons to my father grudgingly and I watch as they disappear through the door of Jack’s cottage.

  The woman with the auburn hair is tense, but steps towards us as the cottage door closes. My mother takes a step forward too, but doesn’t speak. Despite her words to Jack, she’s wary of us. The boy with the auburn hair stands quietly behind her watching each movement that we make. Bella begins to cry and the woman’s heart softens. “Come! Come with me. I can make you hot tea, please, all of you come.”

  Relief surges through me and I feel the tension drain from my body and my shoulders slump a little. As I step forward to follow the woman the boy’s eyes meet mine. They are intense, emerald green, startling next to his honey-coloured skin and auburn hair. I snatch my eyes away and look at my snow covered boots. I can feel him watching me and embarrassment creeps over me that he should see me like this, hair lank and skin red from the whipping of the wind, my lips cracked. I walk into the house as quickly as my tired legs will let me and hope that he finds something else to watch.

  His house is small and the kitchen, where I’m ushered in by his mother, is filled by a large scrubbed pine table around which sit four wooden chairs. An ancient black stove dominates one wall, its silver pipe rising up the chimney. Above the stove is a slatted airer over which clothes are hung drying. Opposite, a white-grey sink of crackled enamel sits sunk into the counter top beneath the window where light pours in. Everything about the room is well worn, used for decades perhaps, but there is no sense of decay. The room is scrubbed and spotless and as the sun shines through the glass mots dance happily in its warmth. I watch as his mother busies herself filling pans and a kettle to sit on top of the stove, and realise that the warmth here isn’t just from the logs burning in the stove.

  “Sit. Please sit. Go through to the living room, make yourself comfortable. Meriall, bring some logs for the fire, and some kindle,” she says gently to the girl at her side, red hair plaited neatly, freckles dotted across her nose. “Jey,” she says to the delicate sister, “get the mint leaves and bring over the large teapot.”

  I watch intently as Jey, a slight girl, auburn-haired and pretty, moves about the kitchen collecting the leaves and teapot and places them on the table. Her mother reaches for a cloth as she pushes back the wisps of hair about her face, picks up the large kettle from the stov
e and pours the steaming water into the flowered teapot. A crack runs from the top of the chipped spout to its base. Cups are brought out from a cupboard next to the sink and placed on the table, leaves are dropped into the steaming pot and the lid replaced. When it’s brewed we sit hugging the warm mugs in our hands as Esther tends to the fire, boils more water and makes us all as comfortable as she can. My heart warms to her as I watch her slim figure move about the kitchen checking that we all have a warming drink. She hangs the coats of the smaller children on her airer above the range, then makes them sit before the fire in the living room to warm their hands and feet.

  A growing relief fills the kitchen as we sit and talk. Meriall stands shyly in the doorway, her green eyes watchful, taking each of us in. I notice Pascha looking at her when he thinks she’s not looking and smile to myself. I haven’t seen him take an interest in a girl before. Jey stands with her mother, quiet, petite, green eyes clear but uncertain, unsure at this sudden invasion of cold and half-starved people into her home. The clank of the iron latch lifting and then the stamping of boots at the open front door quietens the rooms.

  “You’re all here then,” Jack says in half-grudging statement. “Good, you can all hear what I have to say.” My heart suddenly feels like it wants to burst out of my chest. Is he going to chuck us out? “I’ve talked to Fletcher,” he says nodding back towards my father, who stands a little behind him in the hallway, “and I’ve decided that,” he pauses for effect, making sure that he has our complete attention, “on certain conditions, you can stay.” A smile breaks the sternness that has sat hard on his face since our arrival.

  The elation in the two rooms is immediate and loud; sighs of relief are mingled with loud chatter and laughing. In the kitchen I reach across to my mother and Pascha. Agnes sits quietly, head bent low over her daughter, shoulders heaving with the sobs she is struggling to subdue. I watch as Meriall steps away from the doorframe, into the room, places her arm about the woman’s shoulder and crouches down to soothe her. My love for these people is growing even now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Winter turns to spring and with it comes the relief of new life after the harsh struggle of the frozen months. The house we have wintered in has finally lost the dampness of decay and neglect it welcomed us with. Electric fires and blocked up chimneys have been ripped out, and logs burnt in their grates. Empty houses have been explored, their linen cupboards ransacked, their curtains taken down to be hung at our own windows, the fabric layered to keep out the harshness of winter.

  A clatter sounds on the stone slabs that line the path to our front door. “Edie!” my father shouts as he opens the front door. “Edie, love, come help me please.” There’s a lilt to his voice that piques my curiosity. What’s he done now?

  “Coming Dad,” I shout back as I push the chair away from the table, take a final gulp of morning tea, the last of the mint we’ve traded with Esther, and walk into the hallway.

  At the door my father stands grinning, his darkening copper beard, streaked just a little more with grey. A thick blue rope is grasped in his hand at the end of which, looking darkly at me, a nanny goat with bulging belly. I can’t help but smile and clap my hands in delight. I know what this means: milk and cheese.

  “Why’s its belly so fat?” Pascha asks, plodding down the stairs, body layered fatly with clothes, hat pulled down about his ears, ready to go out to the forest.

  My father snorts with laughter. “That’s because, my beautiful boy, this here goat is pregnant!”

  “Pregnant!” Pascha exclaims, “don’t expect me to clean up after no baby!”

  “You won’t have to,” I laugh. “It’ll live outside and its mother will take care of it. You’ll be glad of its milk though.”

  “And the cheese,” my father adds.

  Pascha’s eyes light up. “We’re going to get our own milk and cheese?”

  “Yep, just as soon as she has milk to give and the kid doesn’t need it any more we can have some too. It can be one of your jobs—to do the milking.”

  Pascha stares at my father in disbelief and, as realisation dawns, he stares at the goat’s swollen belly and the teats hanging down below. I watch, barely able to hold my laughter, as his eyes widen in horror.

  “You mean … you mean you want me to, to pull on those,” he points towards the teats.

  “Well, how else are we going to get milk,” my father asks, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  “No! Just no way! I’m not doing that. Disgusting. I’m not touching those!” he refuses, motioning, as if pushing away the goat and the awful images in his head. He runs down the final steps, turns back down the hallway and out the back door into the garden.

  “Well, he’ll get used to the idea,” my father says with a smile.

  “How did you get her?” I ask, impressed.

  “I’ve been teaching Jack about trapping, skinning, recycling water. We made a deal, if I taught him what I know then he’d let me have Annie.”

  “Hello Annie,” I croon, walking slowly towards the fidgeting goat, holding out my hand and stroking her gently as my father holds the rope tight.

  Her coat is brown but for two white stripes at the side of her long nose and the white of her pointed ears. Black pupils like long slits divide her amber eyes. She nuzzles at my hand, her eyes wide, and tugs at my sleeve,

  “She’s eating my jumper! Dad, she’s got hold of me.”

  He laughs. “Well, that’s goats for you—eat anything. We’ll have to tether her until I can make a pen. Come with me. We’ll take her round the back.”

  By late afternoon we’ve sectioned off the garden for a pen and knocked together a shelter where she can stay out of the weather and birth her kid.

  “It’s ready Edie,” my dad calls as he pulls at the makeshift gate, checking that it stays in place. “You can bring her in now.”

  For the second I’m distracted, she grabs at the dandelions in my hands, biting down on my fingers, bitter sap from the torn stems squeezed out onto my skin as her long yellow-brown teeth scrape against my fingers.

  “Ow! She got me,” I exclaim as I snap my hand back, pulling away from the next bite.

  I hear the slap of Pascha’s shoes running down the lane before I see him pelt around the corner of the stone cottage, a blur of legs and arms.

  “Dad!” he shouts, startling the goat, making her skittish on the rope, yanking me forward.

  “Pascha! Quit shouting,” I reprimand, “you’re scaring Annie.”

  He ignores me.

  “Dad, come quick. It’s Nate. He’s hurt!”

  “Hurt? How?”

  Nate’s hurt? The rope tightens around my hand as Annie pulls at her tether, but I’m oblivious to it as I listen to Pascha.

  “We were in the forest, near the falls. He slipped on the bank and fell. He’s hurt his head. He’s just lying on the rocks, and there’s blood,” he says in rising panic.

  My father acts immediately.

  “Edie. Tether that goat in the pen and get your mother. Pascha, fetch Esther—Mrs Beswice.”

  Nathaniel lies sprawled across the rocks, blood smearing the side of his face. I am knocked back to that night in the darkness of the moors and my dreams of Robin’s fingers grasping out to me through the bracken.

  “Edie! Edie!” my father calls to me. “C’mon lass, you’re in the way just stood there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, the words catching as he pushes me gently aside in his need to get to Nathaniel. I watch as they make their way carefully down the bank, feet to rocky outcrops, hands to looping rootholds. From the top of the bank I look on as my mother works quickly, watching his breathing, testing his pulse, checking his pupils. She places her hands gently on either side of his head and straightens it in line with his spine. The wound on his head seeps blood.

  Robin lies quiet, still in his grave, cold.

  “Edie! Edie, come down,” my father shouts, pulling me out of my thoughts and I focus on the river bed again a
nd step onto the rough path down the steep bank.

  Esther crouches next to Nathaniel, holding his hand as my mother does her work. “He’s unconscious,” my mother says, looking to her, “but the wound looks superficial, just the skin torn where he knocked it I think. It looks worse than it is. Heads can bleed!” she adds as she places a clean cloth from her bag against the wound with the gentlest of pressure.

  Esther brings Nathaniel’s hand to her lips and kisses his fingers. “How’re we going to get him out of here?” she asks, looking up the steep bank, “we can’t carry him up there!”

  “Pascha, is there a place the bank is lower?” my father asks.

  “Yes, but its further upstream.”

  “How far?”

  “I dunno. About half a mile, I think.”

  “We’ll have to make a stretcher,” my mother says as she lays her coat over Nathaniel. “Tris, go back to the village and get some of the men, and come back with a stretcher, we can do it that way.”

  “Yes, we need some strength with us. Edie, stay with your mum and Esther. I’ll come back with Conrad and the others.”

  My father and Pascha scramble back up the steep bank and then disappear into the woodlands. I turn to look at Nathaniel, his auburn hair shines in the light, the blood on his cheek darkening against his paled-honey skin. Long, dark lashes lay against his cheek. His lips white, bleached.

  “Edie, love, hold his hand.”

  A startled quiver runs through me. Hold his hand? Touch him? I look at Nathaniel and then to Esther, hesitant. She looks at me, her eyes pleading.

  “He’s cold, human touch—it’ll help him. Please, Edie, comfort him” she implores, nodding her head towards his hand, beckoning me to take it.

  Tension fills me as I take a step forward and rising tears threaten to fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I can do it. He’s not Robin. He will live. He must. I crouch down and put my hand on his then lift it. He remains still, but his breathing is gentle. Tingles shoot through my fingers at his unconscious touch. His hand is warm, but chilled at the finger tips, the skin soft but hard too, callused from work on the pads at the base of his fingers. Our hands fit together as I slide my thumb between his and gently stroke the back of his hand. I am lost in this moment and shocked at the intense sparks of our touch. The urge to pull his hand to my lips and stroke it across my cheek is strong. He murmurs and I flush, embarrassed at my reaction, hoping he doesn’t realise the need I have.