Child of Fear and Fire

by G. R. Thomas

  “Are... are you a ghost?” Her voice wavered. The shadow billowed like fanned smoke, but still, it stayed where it was, unaffected by the storm’s breath, unpenetrated by the rain. Mrs Embrey tried not to look at it but was drawn to do so despite herself.

  She crossed herself again, held her crucifix to her lips. “Do... do you know where my Eliza is?” She felt foolish, reckless even, toying with the forces of the forest. Yet, no one else was here; no one else noticed her. So, she relented to the one thing that had stopped by her side in the mud and cold. “Please, help me?” She whispered. The shadow expanded, stretched tall and thin, its tendrils elongated to resemble arms and legs. It reached out to her but did not make contact.

  Mrs Embrey crossed herself twice more. “Lord forgive me, but if the Devil himself helps me find my Eliza, I’ll take his hand.” She reached out, and the shadow’s vapour enveloped her. It lifted her heavy torso, carried her forwards. As terrified as she was by this beast of the Galdrewold, she let it ease her weary bones, guide her old legs, support her thickened waist. The sounds of the storm evaporated, replaced by a song unknown but comforting. It lulled her fear away until the piercing sounds of sobbing cut though the icy wind and pulled the old woman back to reality.

  Mrs Embrey breached the thickness of the forest into a murky clearing that the search party’s torches struggled to penetrate. She squinted at the blur of people who mingled across on the far side of a raging stream upon an island under the expanse of an immense yew tree. So dense were its branches that it appeared a smudge against the firelight.

  “’Tis the Devil's work!” The vicar’s gravelly voice bellowed as the wind’s whistle calmed its pitch. He chanted the Lord’s prayer. Mrs Embrey clutched her racing heart as the shadow pushed her towards a small wooden bridge. Her belly threatened to empty as the odour of rotting meat hit her quite suddenly. Her feet moved one unwilling step at a time. Her first step creaked the boards of the bridge. The whole thing wobbled, but the shadow kept her steady as it lurched. Something creaked rhythmically. She pulled her cape up to her face, smothering the deepening smell of rot. She cleared the bridge. The shadow set her down; her boots sank into sludge on the other side of the raging water, just behind the silhouette of the search party. The shadow unwound from her; fear immediately slithered back through her veins. She followed the shadow’s path as it coiled upwards, defying the push of the wind. It wound around the trunk, slithered up and slunk into the recesses of the yew.

  That’s when she saw the cause of the creaking. A body swung pendulously from a branch. It was small, the dress familiar. Lord Norlane brushed past Mrs Embrey, shears in his hand, another person with a ladder. He froze underneath the rhythmic movement of the body. His shoulders twitched in fits of distress. “My beautiful baby,” He collapsed to his knees, the shears fell from his hand. Mr Blythe reached for his employer, but the Lord shoved him away. “Get her down, get her down!” Lord Norlane screamed.

  On the lowest branch of the yew, swinging from a plaiting of ribbons, was Annabelle. Mrs Embrey’s feet moved without thought until she found herself under the muddied dress flapping against the rigour of Annabelle’s legs. A ladder slapped against the branch, and a villager scrambled up it, shears in hand. Others gathered below to catch the body. Mrs Embrey shielded her eyes a moment, but as she heard the metallic scrape of the shears snip open and closed, she pulled her cape away from her face.

  The shadow poked about Annabelle’s face. It slid into one ear then out the other. It probed at her tongue; a fat slug swollen out from her gaping mouth. Her eyes were bulged and dull. Dried blood crested around dark lips. Mrs Embrey’s skin no longer felt the cold; she was numb to the driving rain. The shadow swirled faster as though to show off the sight. No one seemed to notice the apparition or the other murky movements within the tree’s knotted top as Annabelle’s body thumped to the ground. Lord Norlane threw his coat over the body and hunched over it.

  The shadow swirled around the remnant of ribbon before slithering to the ground. Its opaque tip danced away from the tree, bouncing like a tornado looking for the right place to land. It flattened and thinned and writhed silently along the ground towards a curvy stone dressed in moss. Mrs Embrey left her master behind and followed its path. It curled smoothly along the ground as though with purpose. She halted when there was another mortifying cry. “Over here!” Mrs Embrey turned back; her feet ankle-deep in ashy mud. The search party converged on the far side of the yew.

  “Help, for the love of God!” A woman hitched her skirt, stepped into the rushing water through waist-high reeds. “Hurry!” Men waded in quickly. They all heaved at a fallen yew branch.

  “Can’t get her out; she’s stuck!” The local Blacksmith yelled over the howling wind. The rain was torrential, the river ran faster, hampering whatever they were doing. “I need an axe,” he called, and within moments one was slapped into his hand. Mrs Embrey pushed through the crowd; the shadow coiled between her ankles, through all the muddied feet and slithered beneath the roiling water. Her face drained. She flinched with each strike of the axe against the branch that pinned Margaret’s head under the water. Her hair billowed like seaweed, caught in the river’s rage.

  Lord Norlane stumbled through the crowd; he fell to his knees once more. His ruddy complexion smeared with mud and blood. Snot dribbled from his nose as he reached for his firstborn. “My baby, my beautiful angel,” he sobbed, the vicar appeared by his side, holding up his crucifix, chanting continuously.

  The branch finally snapped, and her bloated body was pulled ashore. Mrs Embrey backed away. The shadow plumed out of Margaret’s mouth, over the crowd, through their flaming torches and back to the mossy rock.

  Mrs Embrey followed it as though it held some sorcery over her will. Her mouth was dry, she felt sure to faint at any moment, but the shadow blossomed out towards her, wrapped around her again and gave her a gentle nudge towards the offside of the curvy stone.

  She uttered nothing. She felt nothing. She did not reach for Sybilla. She did not remove the stone that crushed her head into the sludge. She watched the shadow circle proudly over its work. Feathers and sticks were matted through the blood-caked remnants of Sybilla’s hair.

  All three sisters dead. Hung, drowned and beaten to death.

  The shadow swirled upwards and away from the body and sailed away upon the wild wind. Lightning flickered over Sybilla, the contents of her skull a pink mush sinking away into the mud. Thunder cracked close by as her body melded with the undergrowth. She was nothing, just a part of the forest floor for anyone and anything to step upon.

  Nausea burned its way up Mrs Embrey’s throat. The acidic rumble belched through her tight mouth as she tried in vain to keep the contents within her stomach. She was pushed aside as Sybilla’s body was discovered. They jostled Mrs Embrey out of the way; she fell to the ground, vomited and cried.

  “Eliza?” she mumbled as she wiped her mouth with her cape. “Eliza?” she screamed. “Where is Eliza? Please, someone, find Eliza?” No one paid heed to her, who would care for a servant, invisible in life and to her terror, in death.

  “Burn the tree, burn the whole bloody forest down!” Lord Norlane screamed. Without delay, as the three bodies were carried towards the bridge, the base of the yew tree was set alight. It drank in the heat as though it were tinder on a summer’s day, unaffected by the rain and bitter wind. Mrs Embrey’s eyes glazed. She watched in silent shock as the flames licked up the trunk and barely heard the vicar’s prayers.

  The shadow swam through the flames, weaving in and out of the blue and amber heat. It was joined by another, and then another. They swirled together, waltzing through the inferno. The crowd began to dissipate; cold battered Mrs Embrey’s back, heat singed the tears from her face.

  She felt a hand upon her shoulder. “Come now dear lady, be gone from this place of Satan,” The vicar had finally noticed her. She did not budge as he reached down for her hand. Her eyes were fixated upon a new sh
adow, her arm reached out, her finger pointing to it standing upon the lowest branch that Annabelle had hung from. This shadow seemed calm and unaffected by the flames.

  “Eliza?” Mrs Embrey whispered.

  “Fire, fire!” The bell was a distant tinkle that reverberated through the Galdrewold. Mrs Embrey did not move. The vicar left her where she was as everyone raced back towards Norlane Hall.

  Under the orange light of the burning yew tree, the shadows of the forest deepened. The rain settled into a soft shower, the wind a gentle breeze, but the tree burned. It crackled and spat; its heat whooshed high into the canopy until a smidge of moonlight found a pathway in. Its light fell upon Mrs Embrey, alone, bewildered. She sobbed silently; her eyes frozen upon Eliza, who stared down, her toes curled over the remnants of the noose rope. Flames ate at her skin, burned the cloth from her body. Her hair billowed until it singed away; she did not move, make a sound of pain, she just stared with piercing red eyes.

  “Eliza?” Mrs Embrey whimpered, signing the cross repeatedly over her body. Eliza’s mouth opened, and a black mist spewed from within her. It descended upon Mrs Embrey, picked her up and whisked her through the trees, across the mud, through the tingling fog and settled her just outside the remnants of the gate.

  The sky was a clear smudge of stars, the air warm and dry. Mrs Embrey coughed on thick, woody smoke. She wobbled on her feet, turned around, hoping to find Eliza behind her, that this was just all a fantastical imagining from shock. But she was alone, the crowd already in a line, passing buckets towards the house. A room in the second storey was aflame.

  She moved as quickly as she could towards the house. Her legs burned; her breath barely caught as she hacked on thicker smoke. She stopped to catch her breath at the Grecian statue and looked back over her shoulder. Lightning flashed beyond the hedgerow, fresh rain upon the wind. Thunder rumbled in the Galdrewold as though laughing at the fire it so easily could douse. She grabbed for her crucifix; it felt coarse and strange. She looked down to find twigs and feathers in her palm. An effigy woven intricately hung where Jesus once had. A voice whispered in her ear; she looked up to see the open window of Eliza’s room.

  Two red slits stared out at her. Mrs Embrey heaved herself up and stumbled closer, each step slow and heavy, each foothold harder than the last. She came as close as she dared. Eliza’s head was draped in vines, where hair once was, white flowers dotted through like adornments. Devilish eyes softened towards the old woman; the vines wafted about her cindered skin.

  “Eliza? What have you done?” Eliza smiled at Mrs Embrey; charcoal drizzled from her cheeks, and she began to sink away into her room.

  “Eliza? Eliza?” Mrs Embrey yelled as Eliza backed away. Mrs Embrey hobbled the last few steps, her hands slapped on the window ledge. As she peered into Eliza’s empty room, Lady Norlane’s scream pierced from the second storey.

  “My baby!”

  †

  Mrs Embrey rushed through the back door, wet a towel and held it over her mouth. The air burned with every breath. She banged Eliza’s door open. The room was empty; a thin layer of smoke floated just below the ceiling. The screams of people tending the flames outside were overwhelmed by another blood-curdling cry from Lady Norlane.

  Mrs Embrey coughed and gagged; she spat soot from her mouth as she grasped the balustrade at the first step of the grand staircase. It was hot, and she pulled back. She struggled one step at a time, falling to her knees to crawl upstairs. The smoke thickened into a choking black as she pulled herself onto the landing and collapsed.

  Lady Norlane screamed again.

  “Give us our child!” Lord Norlane’s desperate voice rose above the snapping fire that billowed across the ceiling, the heat melted the joinery of the Venetian chandelier, searing it from its chain. It smashed onto the floral carpet. Mrs Embrey shielded her eyes, but felt the sting of its shards as she inched on hands and knees around the fragments towards the nursery. She vomited, coughed some more and collapsed just inside the nursery door: one eye open, the other blind with soot.

  Smoke billowed like thunder clouds; flames licked up the walls. The fire was loud as it whooshed and crackled; its gushes blew more soot into Mrs Embrey’s good eye. She blinked with the last of her energy to see the Lord and Lady, both on their knees, huddled near the nursing chair.

  “Please, give us our child?” Lady Norlane cried. “You have taken everything else,” She collapsed against her husband. That’s when Mrs Embrey caught sight of Eliza sitting in the nursing chair, the heir of Norlane Hall contentedly sucking on her charred finger. Her fiery eyes thinned towards her employers. That crescent smile appeared again; flames rose behind the chair in which she sat.

  Lord Norlane lunged for his son. Eliza’s head snapped towards him, fire arced over the chair and singed away the fingers that had lingered too often where they did not belong. He fell to the ground, curled in a ball and bellowed with agony. Lady Norlane crawled to her husband, not her son.

  The fire melted the drapes, seared higher up the papered walls. Eliza gently rocked the child in her charred arms. Her smile widened, splitting her dead flesh, it dripped from her face. Her eyes flickered brighter with delight as she watched the Lord and Lady choke and cower from the encroaching flames. Eliza wrapped the infant tighter in his swaddling as he sucked contentedly. The fire enveloped the base of the chair.

  “Eliza… no.” Mrs Embrey croaked.

  Eliza turned her attention towards Mrs Embrey, the burn of her eyes softened, the wickedness of her smile waned. She opened her mouth and blew towards Mrs Embrey. A white mist, rich with the smell of fresh rain and moss, washed across Mrs Embrey. It cooled her skin, eased the burn of each breath and cleared her eyes. Mrs Embrey pushed herself up onto one hand.

  Their eyes held each other for a moment. Mrs Embrey felt every one of Eliza’s emotions race through her. She glimpsed every hurt she had endured; felt the weight of Eliza’s fury upon the family who had delivered naught but fear and pain upon her.

  “Go, child, go,” Mrs Embrey laid back down.

  Eliza smiled one last time, closed her eyes and rested her head back upon the nursing chair. Haloed in flame, she pulled the babe closer and closer into her chest until it disappeared within her. Flames thickened, their crackle deafening. The walls creaked; the carpet set alight. Eliza smiled calmly before she was consumed by the amber glow.

  Fear disturbed the Galdrewold that day. It awoke an ancient wickedness, ignited its appetite and fed it well.

  The End

  Dear reader,

  Thank you so much for reading Child of Fear and Fire.

  If you enjoyed this story, I would be forever grateful if you could find a few moments to leave a review on Goodreads, and any other book review platforms, or social media, that you enjoy using. Reviews are always appreciated and help an author’s work to be seen. They are the glitter that makes a book shine.

  Acknowledgments

  Firstly, to my husband and children, who have listened on, yet again, to the constant re-counting of this story as I worked my way through it. Your encouragement and support is forever appreciated. To my beta readers Beverley Lee and Becky Wright, thank you for your patient and considered guidance with developing my story. To Kay Kipling of Full Proof Editing, for editing my manuscript to its most polished self. To James and Becky of Platform House Publishing, for my beautiful cover design and interior formatting. Without you all, this story would just be a document on my computer, you all have made it bloom into Child of Fear and Fire.

  About the Author

  G.R. Thomas is an Australian based indie author of epic fantasy and dark fantasy. She has had a life-long love affair with books and enjoys creating her own stories out of her dreamscapes and nightmares. G.R. Thomas is a passionate supporter of indie authors. When not writing, she works as a nurse whilst raising her beautiful children along with her husband. An animal lover, she resides on a farm surrounded by a menagerie of all things furry
and feathered.

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