by Allyse Near
Edgar felt confusion course through him. ‘I saw a picture of you,’ Edgar said quickly, as James changed gears and made to drive away. ‘Just now, you and Isola – you were at some carnival – I was just wondering, are you . . . ?’
Again, James laughed, scrunching up his dark brown eyes. ‘I liked that girl, man,’ he admitted, ignoring the question. ‘I thought I’d make her happy again.’
‘Who says she’s not happy?’ Edgar felt his cheeks heat at the perceived slight. Had he made her so miserable?
‘It’s because of her mum, mate,’ replied James, shaking his head. ‘Seven years later and she’s still not happy because of her mum.’
Edgar remembered what Isola had told her, about her mum getting sick, about how she really blamed herself, her own birth. He ran a hand through his hair; the curls felt suddenly hedgehog-prickly, and he said coldly, ‘Her mum couldn’t help it, James. It’s no-one’s fault.’
‘Sure. That’s what Sola’s always thought. That her mum didn’t choose that. Bollocks, she didn’t.’
The silence was almost as uncomfortable as the conversation. James filled it with dragonish smoke.
‘It’s like she’s trying to live another person’s life,’ he said after a moment, eyes fixed ahead. ‘I dunno, maybe she got the idea from her psycho mum – I think that’s why she’s always changing her look, y’know? Like she’s trying to accommodate a second person.’
‘Uh huh,’ said Edgar, as a memory struck him then, slowly but with enormous force, a squidgy hammer to his brain. ‘Like the first Isola – the real Isola . . .’ he muttered to himself.
A conga line of cars had built up behind James as his car idled in the street; angry honks reached their ears simultaneously, and they both emerged from the deep waters of their respective thoughts.
As the red car chugged off, James’s cigarette butt sailing from the window like a fond farewell, Edgar wondered, Was that it, then? Did she think, because both Isola Wildes shared a name, this Isola had to compensate for a life outlived? She’d told him before that she thought she’d die at nine, had lived with an expectation that never came to pass, and now at sixteen, didn’t know what to do with herself.
In the Belly of the Wolf
As dusk fell, Isola could feel it getting worse. Her throat grew tight, her chest was hollow and cold and her legs pulsed with bruises. She could feel the dragon’s claws clicking at her back, cold and steely, and all because she’d found a body in the woods before school, all because she didn’t have the nerve to slay a unicorn that probably wouldn’t survive another year anyway.
‘It’ll be all right,’ soothed Mother, rocking Isola in her arms while she cried without explaining why.
‘Yes,’ said Isola, wiping her streaming nose on her hand, thinking of the cross-shaped glass dagger, of a foal like Dusk somewhere in those woods – her ticket back to her abnormal life. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
Bunny was curled in Isola’s blankets. He was barely moving; all four of his paws were made of grey stone now. He wheezed as he inhaled, as though his lungs were getting stiffer, too.
‘Bunny, I’m going to help you,’ she whispered in his floppy ear, running a trembling finger down his cheek. ‘I’m –’ she gulped ‘– I’m going to get you something to eat.’
She pulled on her black boots and switched off the light and felt comforted in a way – that her brothers were coming back to her, even in this torture form.
Next was James.
Isola’s phone rang and she answered, recognising his number. Nobody spoke down the line, and she supposed that was all she’d get from him. She left the phone beside Bunny and snuck downstairs, impatient for Alejandro to reappear, in whatever awful form.
It was a bruise-coloured twilight, and she stood on the precipice in her still-damp Mordred dress.
The trees at the edge of the forest bent towards her, calling in wooden voices at a pitch too high to be heard – warnings, perhaps, or welcome-backs. She carried a torch and the jagged piece of mirror. She nervously switched the torch on and off, then, stepping forward, used the broken-mirror piece to cut through the thorny barrier. The old trees were too weak now to put up much of a fight. The cosmic circus was well and truly dead.
She touched the wedding ring round her neck; it had grown almost as cold as her steel-cage ribs. The sky grew darker and the ring got colder as she walked, leading her like a homing device down a clear path through the woods.
It led her to the Devil’s Tea Party. It was as though he had been waiting for her.
The unicorn foal had grown – he wasn’t the tiny creature described to her. He had a sleek black body – which was rare since most unicorn coats fell between blue-white and grey – a short gold horn, and a purple mane and tail streaked with rainbow. He stood in the centre of the mushroom ring. Above him the white cage hung suspended, back in its original form. Isola could see the corpse’s leg hanging down, stockings shredded, most of the meat gone from the bones.
The foal raised his curious head, ripped a shred of flesh from the ankle and chewed happily.
Isola stood outside the mushroom ring, holding the mirror shard so tightly it cut into her hands. Blood trickled down her forearm, spelling ‘ISOLA’ in blackred letters.
The foal’s legs, wobbly as an antique table’s, fumbled under him, and he curled up in the feather nest. His nostrils flared as he smelt her anxiety in the air. He dropped the old meat and raised his bloodied muzzle, looking with black liquid eyes into the surrounding foliage.
She stepped forward.
The foal’s eyes grew wide, its sweet lashes fluttering. He wasn’t afraid of a Child of Nimue.
Isola crouched down beside him. Touched his neck.
At Number Thirty-six, Bunny’s breathing spiked.
She hugged the foal close. ‘Bunny, I’m sorry. I can’t.’ The glass slipped between her nerveless fingers and landed in the grass and feathers. Isola buried her face in the foal’s mane. ‘Dusk, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’
The unicorn kicked his back hooves playfully. He neighed gently, nuzzled her face, and didn’t even seem bothered by her streaming tears.
Isola tangled her fingers in his mane. She kissed the top of his head and whispered again, ‘I’m sorry, little Dusk.’
A twig cracked underfoot. A shadow – a shade or two blacker than the dark. The clouds shifted above, and the full moon emerged from its cover.
‘Who’s there?’ Isola shouted, startling the foal, her fingers fumbling for the mirror shard again. ‘Is that you, Florence? Nimue? Or are you the witch?’
The woman stepped out of the shadow.
‘None of the above, bairn!’ boomed Mama Sinclair.
Weapons of Bones
‘Mama Sinclair!’
‘The one an’ only. And she’s not Dusk, either.’ Mama Sinclair laughed. ‘That li’l one’s Dawn. That’s Dusk,’ she added, pointing into the trees.
An enormous unicorn slunk from the shadows, stepping into the ring after Mama Sinclair. He tossed his dark head, his glossy black hide almost wet-looking in the slivery moonlight. His silver horn glowed faintly, and Isola switched off her torch. He was sinewy and lean, and not as skeletal as she’d expected.
‘Dusk,’ Isola said softly.
He blinked his voluminous lashes, and in answer bowed his regal head to her. The shard in her hand seemed suddenly cold, and comically over-large. She moved her hand to hide it in the folds of her dress.
‘’E’s head of ’is herd now,’ said Mama Sinclair, proudly rubbing his neck.
‘I thought he was a story,’ said Isola in wonder.
Mama Sinclair gave a small chuckle. ‘’E probably thought th’ same about you.’
Dusk gave a whinny of pleasure. His spiralling horn beamed bright as a star, then dulled again.
‘God love ya, Dusk, you big show-off,’ chuckled Mama Sinclair, scratching his nose. ‘Trying to impress this young Lady here?’
‘I’m not a Lady,’ croaked I
sola. ‘I came here to kill a foal.’
She had slain faeries that hadn’t feared her, a dragon that hadn’t harmed her. She’d injured Bunny and she might have killed Dusk – or Dawn, as it were. Feeling disgusted, she held out her hand, the dagger glinting like the Devil’s bright teeth.
‘Aye,’ said Mama Sinclair thoughtfully, but not taking the offered weapon, ‘aye, but the Lady of the Unicorns – she killed, too, when she had to. And that is how it should be. But she always knew when to stay her hand – as do you, Isola. You wouldn’t have harmed li’l Dawn. I wouldn’t be here if you ’ad it in ya. You’ve shown real loyalty to the Children of Nimue tonight. And more than that – you’ve proven yourself to Her.’
‘To who?’
‘Why, to Nimue, o’ course! The Lady,’ said Mama Sinclair, sweeping her hands in a wide circle, ‘o’ these woods.’
‘Nimue,’ breathed Isola. ‘She’s the wood witch?’
Mama Sinclair shook her curly head. ‘Nimue is the Lady of all woods, pet. The witch who lives in this forest does so against Nimue’s will. A year ago she came to live in the great oak tree. The tree with the red ribbon, the golden bells.’Mama Sinclair eyed her sadly. ‘What lives in that tree is responsible for the creature Florence, for what’s befallen your princes, for the evil that’s spread, the death of the forest. She is your true enemy. Florence merely fed off that evil, until she had the power to take over your brothers, to possess you.’
‘It all leads back to the witch.’ Isola tucked the mirror shard away in her pocket. She stood tall in her army boots and said, ‘I have to get to that tree.’
A dusty blossom floated by, catching both their gazes; something seemed to grow wistful in Mama Sinclair’s eyes. ‘Like most worthwhile things, it will not be easy,’ she said before murmuring to Dawn in a musical language. The small foal was curled in a lump, happily pulling up weeds beneath them. Dawn climbed to her wobbly feet and licked Isola’s hand before Mama Sinclair chivvied the foal onwards, and with a last long-lashed gaze at Isola, Dawn clopped off into the darkness.
‘She likes you,’ said Mama Sinclair, with a breast-jiggling chuckle. ‘Well, pet, these are for you.’
Six blossoms floated into the circle, and each transformed – no wands, no glittery mist or spewed nonsense words to conjure them – into six floating, familiar items, pulsing in rhyme like the hearts of old lovers.
The Gifts of the Fairy Godmother
– Alejandro’s purple silk cravat.
– A handful of pink glitter.
‘Faeriedust,’ said Mama Sinclair. Isola smeared it into her dress pocket, remembering, it heals the good and wounds the evil. Next:
– Ruslana’s favourite dagger (the Fury had never let her handle it).
Isola turned it over in her palm, admiring the gems set in the cold steel, the rough engraving at the hilt. For Isola, it read, and her stomach twisted into sailor knots. Then:
– A pearl from Christobelle’s hair, marbled red and white.
– James’s initialled cigarette lighter.
‘And last but not nearly least,’ announced Mama Sinclair, indicating the last floating gift:
– A shining white bow, complete with three white arrows.
Isola stood on tiptoes to reach the shining bow. It dulled in her hand and she realised what it was made of – the bones from the creatures Bunny picked clean as well as wood from Grandpa Furlong’s mandolin, the ribs of Christobelle’s drowned sailor, and the steel of the rusted birdcage. The string was taut spiderweb and mandolin string.
‘Dusk here will take you,’ Mama Sinclair said, as Isola inspected the arrows, all made of slim, sleek bone.
Dusk’s split hooves nuzzled the dust and he blinked his great black mirror-eyes at Isola. Tentatively, Isola reached out and stroked his rainbow mane. His horn brightened again, a happy glow.
With a hum of satisfaction, Mama Sinclair turned to follow Dawn.
‘Mama Sinclair!’ Isola called. ‘What – what do I do with all this?’
‘You rescue your princes, little Nimue bairn.’
‘My –? Mama Sinclair! Wait!’
But as the long-dead Scottish woman crossed the mushrooms that ringed the Devil’s Tea Party, she dissolved into a cyclone of honeysuckle blossoms, and Isola was suddenly certain she’d never see her again in this realm.
Isola and Dusk Ride Out
The wind bit at Dusk’s flanks as he rushed through the night. Isola clutched his neck and blinked through his rainbow mane, and his coat was as chilly as she’d always imagined. His hooves on the forest floor beat a steady elfin drumming, a Spanish bolero.
Strange vines hung in the foliage, ropey as a cloud of nooses. Dusk galloped onward; Isola could feel the stretching sinews in his flanks, the roiling of oily bones beneath her. The branches seemed to clutch at her hair and the unicorn’s tail. Spiders had sewn a great web in the scrub so thick that Dusk was wrenched to a jarring stop, panicky hot air puffing about his nostrils.
‘Hush, hush, it’s okay, hold on!’ Isola pulled out Ruslana’s dagger and leaned down to slash at the silvery webbing. Dusk gave a frightened whinny. ‘Dusk, it’s all right, don’t move!’
She cut through the web entangled round his forelegs, and Dusk hurried forwards through the darkness, his Zeusian-thundering mimicking the thud of their racing hearts.
Isola didn’t recognise this part of the woods. Here, toxic-red coloured flowers had sprouted on fallen logs and moss, and as Dusk trampled them, a great exhale of red smoke billowed up.
A sudden weariness overcame Isola. Cool, molten lead seemed to bubble up in her brain fluid and trickle down through her, settling and solidifying in the lowest hollows of her limbs, and she slumped comfortably against Dusk’s neck, winding her fingers in his mane. Dusk slowed his canter to a trot, veering sideways as though about to keel over. Isola’s grip on her dagger slackened, and it pierced the palm of her hand. She jerked upright, blinking in confusion, then whipped out Alejandro’s silk cravat, leaned down and covered Dusk’s mouth. She held her breath and pressed herself to his soft mane. Sensing the moment they passed through the field of smoke and flowers, they both took a great gulp of air, feeling startlingly awake.
Up ahead a long unbroken wail seemed to bend through the trees towards them. Isola shied away, remembering the hallucinated sirens in the school chapel, but Dusk wouldn’t be swayed from his path. They emerged into a slight clearing, and there was Pepito, James’s red-rust car, crushed like tinfoil against a tree, its horn blaring continuously. The windshield had buckled inwards. Blood dripped steadily from the car door and down the roots of the old willow.
‘James!’ cried Isola, but Dusk cantered on, huffing in displeasure when she tried weakly to climb down. Just then the dewy light from his horn fell upon a figure standing in their path. Dusk reared up in fright and Isola almost fell.
It was Alejandro, drugged and dazed, eyes staring unseeingly. He parted his pale lips and froth dribbled down.
Dusk tossed his head, kicking out at the Spaniard blocking their path. Isola cried out in fear but Alejandro merely collapsed back into the leaves, his body convulsing with poisons, and Dusk took the chance to leap over his shaking body and gallop onward.
‘It’s not real, he’s not there,’ Isola muttered, her voice lost in the rush of wind, tangling in the unicorn’s mane. ‘It just means you’re getting close.’
Animals were running with them now, emboldened by the unicorn’s presence. Streaks of red darted between his hooves as foxes rushed through the undergrowth. Rabbits flooded from their burrows and birds fluttered down from their hiding spots. They were followed by jewel-bright owl eyes and panting wolves on padded paws. Snakes slithered over fallen leaves, scuttling rats clicked their claws on the rocks and bats clouded the sky – they were all clamouring her arrival, urging her on with howls and yips and cooees. The old-soul trees were swaying, creaking encouragement, and flowers hiding underground for months finally poked their bell-heads through the grass,
their buds spreading and their clear voices adding to the others, a chorus of la-la-las.
Children of Nimue joined the entourage. The straw-doll wood imps hurried after her; she could hear the gentle calls of the phoenixes, their songs accompanied by a hot gush of air in their direction. White feathers from the swan-men drifted to line the path ahead, and Dusk’s hooves thundered them into the earth.
The wildness entourage accompanied them all the way to the source of the sickness that poisoned the woods, pausing in the tangle and the gloom. In the centre of the clearing, the Vigour Mortis tree was blacker even than the midnight backdrop, its great naked limbs sprawling, sap bleeding through the bark. The moon was a bite mark in the inky sky, nestled between the oak’s topmost branches.
The surrounding trees rustled themselves to ease the sudden silence. Isola fell lightly from Dusk’s back and patted his flank. He retreated into the trees, his horn dimming, the true moon reflected in his watchful black eyes.
‘I guess this is it,’ she said aloud, drawing an arrow into the bow and lighting the tip with James’s prized cigarette lighter. The flame caught in a great burst, and she drew back the string, pointing it at the imagined heart of the Vigour Mortis tree.
She released the string just as something heavy crashed into her. The arrow speared the earth at the tree’s base, and Isola hit the ground, then rolled over.
It was Florence, her ruined face half-hidden behind her matted hair. ‘LEAVE!’ she screamed, as they both scrambled to their feet.
But Isola wasn’t going anywhere. She understood now that the witch was Florence’s terroriser, the way Florence was hers. It had to end now. It had to be done.
‘Florence, listen!’ she yelled, pushing the girl away from her. ‘If I kill the witch, you’ll be free! She’s keeping you here, remember?’
‘Remember?’ echoed Florence in a bellow. She swung her fists, catching Isola heavily on the jaw and knocking her off her feet again. ‘Ha! Why should I? You don’t!’