Mortal Fire

by Elizabeth Knox

  Within half a minute he had around fifty honey bees crawling on him, tapping him with their feelers while he continued to make a series of slow, complicated, deliberate gestures.

  All at once the bees lifted away.

  Sholto saw them go off, like light little bullets, over the trees and toward the apiary.

  Cyrus put his fingers in his mouth again and issued another earsplitting whistle to recall the children from the fields.

  “The children on the river path will be near the swimming hole by now,” Iris said. “They’ll know to go in the water.”

  Cyrus looked at her sternly. “I told my bees there’s a mouse in the hive. That the valley is the hive, and the girl the mouse. Iris, I sincerely hope your other guests have gone. They were due to leave today, weren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Iris said.

  Susan jumped off the step, paused to give them all a look that said she had no idea what she was looking at. Then she set off after Canny.

  “Get going,” Iris said to her brother. “I’ll follow you.”

  Cyrus told Sholto he should catch his girlfriend and rein her in.

  Sholto was cold all the way through. He was very confused, but he recognized something in Cyrus’s expression, some authority he thought he might be able to trust. He wanted to stand there and rage, and demand answers, but—

  —but the bees among the squash and pea blossoms in the children’s garden had flown toward Cyrus all at once, landed on him and dabbled their antennae on his skin, before taking off together and passing from sight. A retriever would race off at a sign from its master, a falcon would fly from its handler’s glove, but bees?

  Sholto set out after Susan. He looked back and saw Cyrus hurrying after him, as fast as his limp permitted. “Sue!” Sholto called. She came to a stop. Then Sholto did too.

  Up the valley the air over the trees was filling with smoke, a black vapor like that from burning oil. But as it became more dense, Sholto saw that it wasn’t smoke, because it writhed and reformed rather than dissipating.

  Streaks of black came from all over the valley and wound in to make not a swarm, but a storm of bees. A sleek, dark whirlwind that spun over the apiary. Bees skimmed past Sholto’s head. He looked back to see that Cyrus was still walking but was covered in them, his shirt invisible under bee bodies, his arms dripping bees, his face bearded by them. Between this cloak and the vast cloud was a thin filament of insect bodies, traveling back and forth, carrying messages.

  Sholto stood frozen. Susan came back to him. She was shaking and crying. He put his arms around her. They stood dumbly and watched the apparently entranced Cyrus Zarene walk past them. His body was humming. The far-off cloud was humming too, like an electrical substation.

  Farther off Iris Zarene’s normally deep-pitched voice had risen to a shriek. “Now, Cyrus!” she shouted. “Do it now!”

  * * *

  CYRUS WAS NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING MORE till he could see the girl and check how close to the river she was, and till he was completely sure of the whereabouts of the boys Iris had sent along the river path. He was aware too of the gardens out at the wide end of the valley and the children at work there, weeding the vegetable beds around the derelict houses their grandparents had lived in. And he was aware of the children at this time of day shut up in Lealand’s schoolroom learning their Alphabet.

  The bees were heavy and warm. He wasn’t being stung. The swarm gathered over the apiary wasn’t angry—only ready, waiting to be shown the way, the task, the enemy.

  Cyrus passed Sholto and Susan and plodded on. He didn’t turn his head to see if they were following him, though he could hear his sister, nearer now but no longer shouting, no longer daring to, so near to his cloak of bees. Then she was beside him. “Quickly,” she hissed, “before she makes herself invisible. You know she can do that.”

  Bees didn’t need eyes to see. Iris understood that. But Cyrus needed to see with his own eyes the swarm frighten the girl into the Lazuli. He needed to see her safely underwater.

  The swarm was nearer now, the filament that tethered them to him was shorter, the messages were flying faster.

  “You don’t mean to do anything, do you?” Iris hissed. “It’s all a big show. You think you can fool me?”

  Cyrus opened his mouth to answer her. But he didn’t dare speak. He could feel the furry bodies gathered around his lips. He shut his mouth again. Not one of the bees stung him.

  Then Cyrus spotted Lealand, hurrying toward them. Lealand hesitated once, under the shelter of the row of cherry trees that hid the path to Orchard House. When he stepped out from the shelter he glanced up at the swarm like someone considering a thundercloud.

  Cyrus climbed carefully over the fence and began across the field of kale. When Lealand reached them they were all halfway across. Cyrus glanced at his cousin. He wanted to say to Lealand that it was so far, too far to the river.

  “Whose idea is this?” Lealand asked.

  “That Mochrie girl has been up at the House,” Iris said. “She’s been plotting with Ghislain.”

  “What do you imagine they’re plotting?”

  “His escape, you fool. And he hates us.”

  “Are you all right, Cy?” Lealand said, ignoring Iris.

  Cyrus moved his eyes to meet his cousin’s.

  Iris said, “Cyrus has to stop the girl. He has to make her go into the river.”

  Cyrus saw Lealand look behind him—no doubt at the young couple. Sholto and Susan would be there still—terrified, intimidated, but following him because they knew he too was hunting Sholto’s sister.

  Lealand moved out of Cyrus’s line of sight. Iris immediately leaned in close. She wasn’t at all afraid of the bees. Her eyes were stretched wide and seemed to have skins of light over them. “I suppose he’s going to style himself as some sort of peacemaker, but you just wait till he finds out what you’ve been keeping from us, brother.”

  * * *

  LEALAND ZARENE FELL INTO STEP with Sholto and Susan. He looked at the rock in Sholto’s hand. “Are you thinking of braining Cyrus?” he asked.

  Sholto dropped the rock.

  “That would make things worse, not better,” Lealand said.

  Sholto believed the man. He didn’t know what to ask, what to do.

  “Stop this!” Susan pleaded.

  “Mr. Mochrie, this is about your sister, isn’t it?”

  Susan said, “Iris sent kids out after Canny when she ran away. It was about our tents. They turned up. I don’t understand her—Iris’s—” Susan searched for a word.

  “Rancor?” Lealand suggested.

  Sholto couldn’t believe how cool the bastard was—with his own cousin ahead of them, covered in bees, and looking for all the world like someone walking the last mile to a place of execution. “Please!” Sholto said. “Do something to stop this.”

  Lealand left their side and hurried to catch up with his brother.

  Sholto seized Susan’s hand and got her to pick up the pace till they closed the gap between themselves and the others. They caught up in time to hear Lealand say to Cyrus, “Send the bees over the river to the feeder calves.”

  “The calves won’t know to run into the water,” Iris protested. “And even if they did, if they go in where they are, they’ll all get washed down into the gorge.”

  Lealand looked frostily at Iris. “I’m sacrificing the feeder calves.”

  * * *

  CYRUS CAREFULLY NEGOTIATED THE NEXT FENCE. He didn’t respond to Lealand’s suggestion.

  Sholto scrambled over after him and rushed around to intercept him. He stood in Cyrus’s path, bullish, flushed red, and quivering with fright.

  In the lowering sun, the trees by the river were a semitransparent barrier. Cyrus caught sight of the girl when she swerved onto that path and began to sprint again. He saw the first lot of Iris’s children, ahead of the girl and backing away into the shadowy forest at the base of Terminal Hill. They meant to lie in wait and ambush her.
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  If he sent the bees now, the girl would see them coming and go into the water. She was closer than all the other children, so the bees would concentrate on her. Iris’s other children were in the forest, and when they saw the swarm attack they’d go deeper into the trees and dig in somewhere. They were Zarenes and lived with hives and understood what to do.

  Cyrus watched the girl, her floating gait, her black plait beginning to unravel and lift behind her. He saw her glance back and falter. She broke stride and dipped her head so that she could peer between the trees. She had spotted the swarm. Cyrus saw the dark O of her mouth. She had seen what was coming. The Lazuli was beside her, its slow bend where the willows trailed in the water. This was possible. He could do it. It would be all right.

  Cyrus showed the girl to his bees. This is the mouse in your hive. The billowing sail of the swarm consolidated itself into a sleek vortex and turned to the river.

  Cyrus felt lighter, his bee shirt had shredded and gone. But he was worn out. He lowered himself to the ground. As he did, a shadow fell across him. He heard Lealand gasp and looked up.

  The girl was standing directly before him. She was hard to see, because the low sun was right above her head. But it was her—Canny Mochrie—in her dirty shorts and blouse, her hair loose and smoking around her head.

  Iris cried out in rage.

  The swarm paused momentarily, then tore in two. The two clouds hung in proximity, slowly drifting apart, though they each boiled, the insects furious. Cyrus could feel their massive distress. He finally saw the cause of it. He saw the long brown limbs of the girl running along the river path, once more heading toward Terminal Hill. And he saw the same girl standing several feet from him. He heard her brother say her name, in an uncertain, wavering voice.

  Cyrus’s shock sabotaged his command of the swarm. All at once the bees lost the idea that had governed them. The clouds began to dissipate. Some of the bees couldn’t deal with where they found themselves, or the energy they’d expended, and Cyrus watched a slow peppering of bodies dropping down from each cloud even as they grew thin, then came apart. The substation hum had gone. So had both the girls. The one on the trail had passed into the forest. The other one, the one in the field, had simply vanished.

  15

  GHISLAIN HEARD CANNY BURST through the front door of the house and rushed to meet her. He had only a moment to take in her face. It was clenched with misery and terror. He gathered her to him and stroked her hair, his fingers snagging on tangles, broken twigs, and leaves. “What happened?” he asked, and kept asking, but whatever it was she was too shaken to speak.

  Ghislain sat down on the lower risers of the staircase and pulled her into his lap. He soothed and murmured, not really listening to himself, but he was saying her name, and “Love” and “My own.”

  Eventually Canny managed to get something out. She said, “He knows.”

  “Who knows what?”

  “Sholto knows I’ve been lying to him.” This admission made her shiver.

  “I’m sure it won’t be a big deal to him. Older brothers must know they’re obstacles.” So, he thought, this Sholto knew she’d been sneaking off somewhere to see a boy. Canny had been so resolute about her bad behavior that Ghislain was surprised she was upset at being caught out. This Sholto must have a very sharp tongue.

  But of course, it wasn’t the whole story.

  “The rain washed my spells off our tents and he found them and brought them back to the guesthouse and hung them on the clothesline. Iris could see there’d been spells. She sent the boys to chase me. Then Cyrus sent his bees.”

  Ghislain only just managed not to throw her off him. He had been working with melted lead in his locked room. The windows were open because of the fumes. If anyone came, anyone following her up the hill, they could look in and see his Spell Cage, his escape plan. “Do you think they’re coming up here?”

  “I don’t know,” Canny said. She lifted her face from the blotched patch on his shirt. “They’re old people, and it’s not easy.”

  “They’re not that old, and it’s not as hard for them as it is for you,” Ghislain said. He set her on her feet, circled her waist with an arm, and carried her off to the locked room. There he let her go and jumped up onto the window seat to close the windows. He put the fireguard back over the fireplace, leaving his tools in the grate. He gathered Canny up again, locked the door, and dropped the key in his pocket.

  Once he’d done all this, Ghislain’s panic relented. Everything was secure, and no one would dare set foot in the house. His dread gave way to exaltation, and he felt himself flush all over. They were on their way up the hill—his jailers, his enemies. He said to Canny, “Was it all of them? Iris, Lealand, and Cyrus?”

  “And Sholto and Susan and some boys. They were all coming after me.”

  Ghislain hadn’t seen Iris or his brother for nearly twenty years.

  “You’re shaking,” Canny said.

  He turned to her and saw her eyes grow wide. “How did you escape the bees?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice went pinched and desperate. She seemed to shrink in his embrace, drawing herself away from him. “You’re excited,” she accused. “Actually happy about it all.”

  He shook his head and tried to lead her back to the open door. They would go out onto the porch together. They’d face his family together. This girl—she was his advocate. If she stood beside him, she was on his side. Canny didn’t know it, but she would argue his case, she would speak on his behalf.

  But Canny wouldn’t come with him. She pulled herself out of his grip. “No,” she said, and backed away from the stretched sunlight on the polished floorboards of the entrance hall. She melted into the shadows by the staircase. The shadows seemed to wrap her as Ghislain’s arms had a moment before.

  Ghislain felt the sudden excitement, splitting, and polite bow of the imprisonment spell as two of its three makers passed through it and came to him. They climbed into sight, then stopped at the top of the steps and clustered there. Three people—Iris, Lealand, and a stranger. There wasn’t enough room for them to stand shoulder to shoulder. The long, gold, angling light was behind them, and the shadows of the hills at the rim of the valley were slicing up through the lively summer air. As the shadows advanced, that air grew still, the fizzing midges becoming invisible again.

  The sun became a white spark, then went behind the hills. It was instantly twilight. The air went cool. Ghislain could now see his visitors properly, two aging people, gray, but not yet bent. But old—old on the outside too.

  The young man with them was gingery, freckled, very ordinary apart from his wide-set hazel eyes, which were as soft as the eyes of a young deer. Ghislain looked at Sholto and promised himself he was going to do his best to be polite to this one.

  “Where is the girl?” Iris said.

  “Getting right down to business, Iris,” Ghislain said. “When it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”

  Iris made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “You were mad. Who needs to see that more than once.”

  * * *

  LEALAND DREW A LONG, STEALTHY BREATH. His heart was deafening him. If asked, he too would swear that he’d last seen Ghislain in 1939 when Iris and he had gone up to the house together to try to see if they could get some sense out of his brother about why the Great Spell was steadily getting stronger. And why the imprisonment spell was sucking all the magic out of any Zarene who hadn’t been involved in casting it. Cyrus, who’d volunteered in ’29 to be the one to see to Ghislain’s needs, had been saying for some time things like “Ghislain is not himself” or “Ghislain doesn’t really talk to me these days.” Vague stuff. And Cyrus was depressed after each visit. Lealand and Iris were used to Ghislain’s arrogance, his haughty sense of his own power, and despite Cyrus’s not-quite-warnings, when they went up the hill in ’39 they thought they’d find the boy they’d known. Angry, yes. Bitter, almost certainly. Full of arguments and accusations a
nd all the old excuses—absolutely. Gloating and unhelpful—probably. But they didn’t expect to find a shambling, barely mobile, half-starved seventeen-year-old.

  They’d discovered Ghislain sitting just inside the doorway, next to a black patch on the wall. He had made an outline of his own sunrise shadow on the east-facing wall of the portico entrance hall. He’d filled it in with layers of thick, silky charcoal. It was nearly a day’s work. Apart from the charcoal blackening his fingers and his face where he’d been scratching himself, and the bits of bloody scalp where he been plucking out his own hair, he didn’t look like someone capable of anything so designed and deliberate. He just sat, biting his bottom lip, and looking through them and through the last of the day, as if everything were transparent.

  Ghislain only ever had twenty-four hours to get his body into a bad way, but that’s what he’d been doing, taking it out on himself, and making a picture of his own shadow, perhaps to say, “I’m still here.”

  When she saw this, Iris had said only, “Oh, he must have known we were coming. He was always such a pretender.” She even said, “The house is tidy, so how bad can he be?” as if she had no imagination.

  But—and no one knew this—that wasn’t the last occasion on which Lealand had seen his brother. He had seen Ghislain again in 1942, the morning after he’d noticed an unfamiliar light up on the hill and gone up to investigate. The lights were the headlamps of a Marine Corps jeep that Lealand found downhill from the old garage, resting at a wild angle, front bumper sunk in a patch of tree ferns, its driver dead at the wheel.

  When Lealand got there mid-morning, the jeep’s battery was dying and its lights were dim. It looked as if the driver had managed to switch his headlamps on, hoping to be found. The driver’s door was closed, but the passenger door was open.