Child of Fear and Fire

by G. R. Thomas

  A giggle rumbled in Eliza’s chest, but self-preservation taught her better, so she suppressed it and quietly enjoyed watching Margaret push and pull until her cheeks were pink. Margaret wrestled the lock until wood splintered around the keyhole. She kicked the gate. “Stupid thing!” Margaret snatched a handful of leaves in temper and ripped them from their branches. A malodorous gust burst from within the hedgerow. It caught the leaves from her grasp, twirled them upwards into a vortex over the sisters. Annabelle screeched and fell back onto the lawn. “It’s a ghost!”

  Sybilla groaned. “Stop being a baby, it’s just a gust of wind, you stupid girl.” The breeze sighed, and the leaves fluttered over the hedgerow and away into the beyond. “See,” Sybilla grumbled. Annabelle’s pallor blossomed into an inquisitive bloom again. “Silly me,” she stammered but kept her doll close to her chest and stayed well behind Sybilla.

  The greenery about the doorway quivered and crackled, the shadows around them deepened. Margaret recoiled, “Must be vermin in it.” Her face wrinkled. Her shoes scored the gravel as she shuffled back, hands-on-hips peering up and down the hedgerow’s length. Margaret fiddled with her own crucifix as the stirring within the hedgerow settled.

  “Me, me! I’ll do it! I don’t care if I see a rat! I’ll catch it and hang it by its scrawny neck!” Annabelle jumped up and down, the doll dangled from its noose. She rustled her hands in the leaves as though to prove her bravery. Margaret pulled her back, Annabelle’s doll caught on a branch and hung limply amongst the leaves.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Annabelle! If I can’t open it, how at all do you suppose you can?” Margaret shoved Annabelle back behind her, plucked the doll out and threw it at Annabelle’s feet. The delicate face cracked.

  Eliza felt unexpected delight watching the sisters scuffle amongst each other, bickering like chickens over scraps. All the while, the gate to the Galdrewold remained firmly sealed. Then, the leaves began to flicker once more and the voices harmonised like angels to Eliza. She breathed deeply at their gentle song.

  As the sun dipped behind a larger billowing mass of clouds, Eliza watched on quietly as the sisters fought still. Thunder rumbled far in the distance; a spittle of rain eased the fire of Eliza’s cheeks. A soft wind toyed with the hem of her dress. The air smelled of lichen and rain, the thunder deepened, and the sound of the sisters squalling raked through Eliza like nails on a board.

  It took for Sybilla to push Margaret to the ground before any of them noticed Eliza’s hand reaching out in offer. Margaret rolled onto her knees and stood up, slapping down the creases in her dress. She glanced quickly at the darkening sky; her cheeks quivered. “You utter cow, Sybilla!” Annabelle hid behind Margaret; a smile puffed up her cherubic cheeks, and she pulled the noose tighter on the poor doll. The crack in its face widened.

  Sybilla smirked and ignored Margaret, instead, she focused on Eliza’s hand and laughed. “You? How do you possibly think those twiggy arms are going to open the damned gate?” Thunder rumbled softly again. Sybilla cocked her head towards the sky and sniffed, her mouth thin with annoyance.

  Eliza kept her hand open, waiting for the key. Calm draped over her as she focused on the sounds beyond the divide. Chirps, flutters and shuffles in undergrowth and whispers of things unknown. Another splash of light rain ran down her collar.

  “Give it to her!” Annabelle jumped up and down, her high-pitched squeal assaulted the momentary peace in Eliza’s mind.

  “I want to see her snap her arm!” Annabelle giggled. Eliza’s eyes slid towards Annabelle. The breeze strengthened, and the last of the sun’s warmth slipped behind the hedgerow’s shadow. Bird song on this side of the divide stilled, yet the sounds beyond intensified. Eliza’s hand remained where it was, waiting for the key.

  Annabelle’s delight waned, and she slid back behind Margaret. Eyes a little wider, her blush of morbid excitement paled, Annabelle pushed Margaret’s hand towards Eliza. “Give it to her, Margy,” Annabelle’s voice wavered as she clutched onto the back of Margaret’s dress.

  “Ugh! Fine.” Margaret slapped the key into Eliza’s palm as hard as she could. Thunder clapped overhead. A light drizzle settled in. Margaret hugged herself, Annabelle snuggled closer into her, Sybilla crossed her arms and snapped at Eliza. “Hurry up!”

  Eliza rolled the cool metal in her palm. Its weight was satisfying. She stepped up to the gate; its whorls and cracks reflected the way her insides felt. Her hand pressed gently against its ancient texture. Warmth fanned throughout her chest. The sky darkened further; raindrops slid down her arm as her fingers dipped into its splintery imperfections. Thunder cracked like a whip overhead. Annabelle whimpered. “I don’t like thunder.” Sybilla shushed her.

  Eliza brought the key to the lock. It slid in with ease. She closed her eyes as the whispers grew more excitable. The groan of the hedgerow snapped in time with the wind. The key turned.

  Eliza pushed the gate. It creaked open a foot or so before she was muscled aside by the sisters who rushed through ahead of her. Sybilla turned momentarily to glare at her with the unbridled hatred of being shown up. Then, she spat on the ground and ran off, following the others, spoiling the perfect stillness of the Galdrewold.

  Eliza hesitated at the entrance to the forest. She watched the sisters tread with cautious excitement into a dense verdigris undergrowth. They held up their dresses from the dirt, their disappearing silhouettes lit only by fingers of overcast daylight. A mist blanketed the ground in the distance. The voice in her head remained a soft coo that calmed a new wave of fear that coiled within her. Eliza breathed deep of the forest’s swampy breath and peered back through the gateway. She cringed under the vastness of Norlane Hall, watched a carriage pull up outside its grand entrance. The Lord’s belly preceded him as he exited the carriage. Eliza hesitated no longer and stepped through.

  Eliza caught up with the sisters after Annabelle had tripped over. Margaret picked her up. “Stop being a baby. It’s just a scratch!”

  “It hurts Margy,” Annabelle sobbed. Her strangled doll now dragged behind her in the muddy undergrowth, only half a face left. Margaret inspected the tear in Annabelle’s dress and peered back at Eliza. “Don’t worry, she’ll darn it this evening.” Her perfect hair was sodden, and the sight pleased Eliza.

  Margaret pointed at Eliza. “You go on ahead, make sure there’s nothing else for us to trip on!” Eliza hesitated, not knowing which direction to take. Sybilla backtracked and pushed Eliza hard in the back. Eliza walked on straight ahead, hesitant, but with no other option.

  The wild forest had no path, no obvious way to move, other than back towards the manor behind them. Eliza peered over her shoulder, but the hedgerow was no longer visible. They had only walked a few minutes; could they have gone so far as to already lose sight of civilisation? Frigid air nipped through her damp clothes. Fear poked at her thoughts, but the whispers quickly dulled the ache, and she let her balled fists relax by her sides. She took a few more steps forward and breathed in the earthy air. Spirals of frost twisted around her feet. It coiled left and then twirled right as though it had a mind of its own. She was not sure which way to go but spied the mossy remains of an ancient well and stopped next to it. The miasma was denser to the right of the well, she turned that way, and the voices became louder. Eliza heeded them and followed the misty pathway, the sisters whispering excitedly behind her.

  With each step, light lost its fight against the canopy overhead, but its cover, at least, filtered the rain. The howl of the brewing storm raged beyond its protection, and Eliza hurried along. As the sisters fussed and squabbled, Eliza concentrated on the murmurs of encouragement that faded when she took a wrong turn and deepened when her path seemed right.

  She jumped a ditch and pushed through a dense, slippery fernery until she came to the edge of the fog. It stopped as though there was an invisible barrier holding it at bay. The mist swirled up and back over itself, covering the lower half of her body, deepening the chi
ll. The weather seeped down through cracks in the canopy, bringing with it larger drops of rain. Things scattered in the leaf litter where her sodden boots sunk. An aching cold wicked through to her stockings. She stood at the edge of the fog, wondering which way to go on.

  Seeing her hesitation, Sybilla snapped. “Just keep going straight.” Eliza received another shove and fell back into step as Sybilla chatted in hushed tones with the others.

  “They say the middle of the forest is haunted. An island surrounded by a small stream. Let’s go there.” Sybilla shoved Eliza again. “Hurry up.”

  The wind picked up a notch the deeper they ventured. It felt like a warning generated by the forest itself. Ancient sentinels laced with vines groaned under its gusts. Eliza tightened her cap as her hair fluttered across her face. She hugged herself against the cold and uncertainty. Her boots waded through a sea of umber slipperiness. There was only the occasional tweet of a bird now fleeing the cracks of thunder and lightning that sliced through the canopy. She shivered.

  “How will we know when we find it?” Annabelle asked, clinging again to Margaret’s dress.

  “It will be on an island!” Sybilla yelled over the howl. “You’re such an imbecile!”

  “I hope it’s haunted; I want to see Eliza scream,” Margaret’s laugh lacked conviction.

  “I don’t want to see ghosts!” Annabelle squealed. She clutched her doll tighter against her chest.

  “Really? Happy to put a noose around anything that moves but scared of a ghost?” Sybilla pulled Annabelle along, but not before snatching her doll from her and throwing it away. “Stop being ridiculous, you’re fourteen, that’s far too old for dolls anyway!”

  Annabelle began to sob, so much so that Margaret gave her another tartlet to quiet her.

  Eliza continued on, thinking a ghost perhaps would be less frightening than the sisters. Annabelle grumbled to her right, complaining of the cold. It bit like ice. Eliza shoved her hands deep into her pockets, but they offered no comfort. The dark surroundings held a heavier, heady note of swampy rot. Her feet were now numb.

  “Can you hear that?” Margaret stopped, pulled Sybilla to a halt and cocked her ear up. The sound of water trickling only just overcame the grumbling weather. “Sounds close. That way,” Sybilla pointed ahead, but Eliza was already moving in that direction. Something whipped her heart with a touch of excitement. A branch creaked overhead. The sisters squealed, then giggled as a crow settled upon it before fluttering quickly away along the path of the wind. Eliza kept a brisk pace; the voices urged her to hurry.

  She pushed through a drapery of willow to happen upon the edge of a shallow river bed. It bubbled wildly; its coffers filled upstream by the wild rain beyond. Across the other side, a new fog laced the water’s edge. Its white veil petered away near the base of a mounded clearing shadowed by the canopy of a large yew tree. So ancient was it that its uppermost branches were engulfed within the forest’s murky night.

  “This must be it!” Margaret exclaimed; the clap of her hands echoed through the dense surroundings. She ran on ahead with her sisters towards a small bridge that joined the island to the rest of the forest. They jostled at the bridge, pushing each other to cross first.

  Eliza weaved her fingers together, clasping and unclasping, entranced by the yew. The tree’s gnarled branches entwined into leafless knots, filled with shadows, nooks of darkness, places to hide and never be found. The ground below erupted with thick moss-covered roots feeding the goliath.

  The air felt colder than before, yet Eliza wiped a spring of sweat from her palms. The cold nipped at her ears; mist curled around her hips. She stepped away from its cool grasp, but it seemed to follow her. Whispers chorused the loudest voice. The sounds of the sisters dulled. With each melodic beat in her head, Eliza moved towards the bridge, drawn by the voices. Knee-high ferns, wet with dew, added to the damp of her dress. She shivered once more as she came to a stop. The sisters bickered in the middle of the bridge.

  Sybilla jumped up and down, her shoes clipped on the ancient planks. “You’ll fall in!” She wobbled the balustrade. The wind blew in strong gusts along the burgeoning stream. It pulled her hair wild, toppled Annabelle into Margaret. Annabelle screamed as they caught themselves from slipping over. Margaret slapped her hand over Annabelle’s mouth and pointed at Sybilla. “Stop it, Sybilla! Do you want us to get caught out here?” Margaret steadied herself against the balustrade. “It will be you that takes the punishment.”

  Margaret glared down at Annabelle. “Are you going to scream again?” Annabelle shook her head. “Good, if you do, I’ll tell the vicar what you do to your dolls,” Margaret grimaced. “How many Hail Mary’s will that be?” Annabelle screwed up her face when Margaret let her go and crossed her arms. Margaret peered over her shoulder. “Hurry up, Eliza, are you scared?” The three of them laughed. “Come, you can find some ghosts with us. Probably will be the most exciting thing you’ve done in your miserable little life,” Margaret’s brows tweaked, her mouth pulled into a half-smile.

  Eliza’s jaw ached, lips pressed firm, she held her tongue as always. She stepped a little closer, eyes wide. The trees whispered, leaves trilled high and low. Boughs creaked; twigs snapped. The murky surroundings felt alive with more than furry and feathered things. Her feet sunk deeper in the thickening mud with every step closer to the bridge. She pulled one boot out and took a step closer. The voices chittered more excitedly. She peeked quickly over her shoulder, convinced something just had to be behind her — nothing but the greens and browns of the forest and the roiling fog that trailed her.

  Eliza wriggled her freezing fingers; her little finger found another loose thread in her pocket. It twirled nervously until the thread tightened and snapped. She pressed her lips together, wished she was in the laundry surrounded by steam with Agnes curled up nearby. Instead, she rested a hand upon the splintered railing. Her eyes ran up the length of the yew tree at the centre of the island.

  She stepped onto the bridge; dampness squelched between her toes. The sisters jostled each other to step onto the island first as thunder rumbled louder, lightning flashed through cracks in the leafy ceiling. Eliza felt its power rattle the bridge; her fingers gripped tight to the railing. She stared at the tree. Something moved within it; her grip tightened further. A flicker that was there and then not there. Margaret grabbed her arm, and Eliza nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Go on, you first,” she pushed Eliza ahead of them. Her boots sunk into a dark and powdery ground, untouched by the rain. The wind swirled faster on this side of the river, whipped her dress up and tugged at her cap. It smelled of old things, burnt things, dead things.

  Eliza shielded her face from swirling debris. Her squinted eyes took in as much of the scenery as they could before the sisters took control. Her body shivered harder and she moved purely to generate warmth. Wandering cautiously across a grassless expanse, she sat upon one of three undulating rocks below the tree. The rock underneath her was soft with moss, a small comfort in a miserable situation. Eliza hugged herself against the weather. The girls bustled across and wandered about the yew, poking its bark, climbing its great roots. Annabelle stomped on a clutch of mushrooms at its base. The wind gusted harder.

  Eliza stayed where she was, observing the tree. Its bark was unusual, cracked and peeled back in places. One of the roots was split wide, its inner flesh grey, as though it was dead. As the thought slipped through her mind, a shudder rumbled beneath her feet, a drumming reverberation followed. Eliza jumped up, looked down upon the furry rock. The ground pulsed beneath her feet again; the voices trilled. She leaned forwards and sunk her hands into the green velvet covering; it too pulsed with the same beat. She felt like she could sink within it.

  The sisters ran past Eliza, pulling her from the strange reverie. Annabelle yanked at Eliza’s dress and then ran back to the yew and climbed over its roots some more. They picked at its trunk, peeled its skin away. The voices hissed, and a welcome
heat flushed Eliza’s cheeks.

  Sybilla jumped upon another root, hands-on-hips. “Look at this place! Ugh! I wouldn’t imagine even a ghost would see fit to live here.” Sybilla jumped back down, scooped up a handful of soil and drizzled the charcoal-like earth from her hand. She wobbled in the gusts that threaded through the forest. Her hair blew wildly; a ribbon slipped from it and disappeared upon mother nature’s wrath.

  “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!” Margaret steadied herself against the trunk.

  “I don’t like it!” Annabelle said as she poked moss from another rock with a stick.

  I love it, Eliza thought to herself. She liked the swampy taste of the air, the softness underfoot, the pull of the whispers that were louder and more joyful than ever.

  “Look! Up there!” Annabelle was suddenly wrought with thrill again. “Decorations. I want one. I want one now!”

  Intrigued, Eliza set around the offside of the yew. Tucked in the shadows and niches of the boughs, a myriad of unusual wooden decorations hung still and untouched by the wind. Made of twigs and leaves, some with feathers and leaves entwined. Some were circular, some square, and more than a few were in the shape of a star within a circle. A handful were in the design of human torsos.

  Eliza stepped away and sat back upon the closest velveteen rock. She focused on the dark recesses and studied the symbols with interest. The heartbeat beneath her intensified as she counted three human effigies, three circles with stars inside and two squares strung like a harp and woven with feathers.