The Thickety: A Path Begins

by J. A. White

  Sordyr chased the Leaf Girl through the village.

  The people of De’Noran, lining either side of the dirt road, blocked any escape route. Many were eating popcorn or candy apples, and not even the smallest child was frightened. For one thing Sordyr hardly looked real; the farmer playing him was wearing a tattered orange cloak and a papier-mâché mask that kept slipping from his face. And although Tammy Little was an exceptionally adorable Leaf Girl, her mother had done a poor job attaching the leaves to her clothes. They had been falling off since the chase began, and a trail of them, like bread crumbs, led back to the starting point.

  Despite all this, Kara still had to clasp her hands together to keep them from trembling. Images from the Thickety swarmed her mind. Sordyr’s branched hand digging in his chest. The way he had whispered her name as though he had always known her.

  Doing her best to shake free of such dark thoughts, she smiled up at Taff, who was perched on Father’s shoulders. The Leaf Girl would be passing their way in a few minutes, and he wanted the best view possible. Someone began singing “Night’s Long Journey” in anticipation, and the crowd joined in, filling the afternoon with music. The song had never been Kara’s favorite, but she sang along anyway, clapping her hands during the chorus.

  She realized, with a tremor of surprise, that she was having fun.

  Usually Kara dreaded the Shadow Festival. For everyone else it was a ten-day respite from the strict rules of their religion, an invitation to relax and frolic. Yet for some reason this freedom encouraged the villagers to heap abuse on the Westfalls to an even greater degree than usual. By Last Night their property would be in shambles, a wasteland of moondrink jugs and rotting vegetables.

  This year things were already different. No one had insulted them as they passed through the crowd. Kara had not been hit in the back by apple cores or had lemonade “accidentally” spilled on her dress. Not that the villagers were friendly, of course. They simply avoided looking in her family’s direction. In fact, Father was able to maneuver Kara and Taff to a prime position closest to the road. The crowd seemed to part for them as they passed.

  A pinch-faced woman met Kara’s eyes. She whispered something to her husband, and the two ushered their family away.

  Suddenly Kara knew what had changed.

  Word had spread about the incident at the farmhouse. Before, she had been a harmless little girl who they could treat any way they wanted, but now . . . they were afraid of her.

  Good.

  The crowd cheered as the Leaf Girl passed their way. Taff watched her, entranced, and Kara couldn’t help but smile. She reminded herself to start on his costume that night. She had promised to make him something special, and there was only a week left to Last Night. Real scary, he had told her, not kid scary. At his age the final night of the Shadow Festival was scary: the only time of the year when demons could cross the borders of the Thickety and enter De’Noran. As the years passed, however, most children came to realize that this was only a myth, a bit of fun the adults had at their children’s expense. Although older children still wore the masks, they no longer believed they had to wear them in order to remain hidden among the unwelcome visitors. Mostly they were just interested in who was going to the festival with who, as boys and girls who attended the Shadow Festival together usually wed when they were eighteen, the Marrying Age.

  “Taff seems to be having fun,” Lucas said, joining them. The stumps of his fingers had healed nicely. Since he could no longer lift a shovel or a pitchfork with ease, his duty had been changed. He was now an Observer, charged with keeping track of how much the Fringe was growing each day. It was a job usually reserved for the infirm and elderly, and although Lucas’s pride had taken a hit, the work was much safer.

  “I never actually thanked you,” Lucas said. “You saved my life.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Kara said. “I don’t even know what happened. The beast just turned and ran back into the Thickety.”

  The crowd erupted in applause as the Forest Demon tried to snatch the Leaf Girl and she dove between his legs, barely escaping.

  Lucas turned to face her.

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  Kara started to respond, then stopped herself. She wanted to tell him about the grimoire and the things she could do—but not here. There were too many ears.

  And can you really trust him? Friend or not, will he really understand?

  “So,” Lucas said, “your brother said his costume is going to scare even me on Last Night. You must have something special in mind.”

  Kara smiled.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  In addition to making a costume for Taff, she wondered if she ought to start on a dress for herself. Something long and red, like Mother would have worn . . .

  Just in front of her, the farmer playing Sordyr grabbed the Leaf Girl, who screamed in surprisingly convincing horror as he wrapped his cloak around her. The two figures remained motionless for a moment.

  Kara felt the warmth drain from her body.

  “Kara?” Lucas asked. “Are you all right?”

  She did not move. Even when the crowd burst into applause, and the farmer and Tammy Little had taken their bows, Kara remained frozen in place. She could imagine, all too clearly, what it would be like to be lost in that cloak forever—and it terrified her.

  When they got home, the graycloaks were everywhere, combing their property as though searching for something. The grimoire, Kara thought, her eyes flashing to the barn. The doors had been propped open, and inside she could see several graycloaks stabbing the hay with their ball-staffs while others tore open sacks of seed. Kara tensed her body, preparing to make a desperate sprint for the book, but Taff, as though sensing her intentions, grabbed her hand. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Even if she did reach the book, what was she going to do? It would take more than just rats to drive the graycloaks off, and someone was liable to get killed.

  Maybe all of them. And what would be wrong with that?

  Two graycloaks approached, long ball-staffs held diagonally across their bodies. One end of the staff was a wooden ball packed with iron filings. The other end was sharpened to a point. Different ends for different situations.

  “Get inside,” the older one said. He spoke directly to Father, though it was Kara he eyed warily. “He’s waiting for you.”

  At the sound of those words, Kara’s heart was seized in an icy grip, and she wondered if she should have made a run for it after all.

  He sat at their table, drinking coffee. As always his eyes immediately found Kara’s.

  “Work hard, want nothing,” he said.

  “Stay vigilant,” they replied in unison.

  Fen’de Stone turned to face her father.

  “How are you, William?” he asked. “Could I get you a cup of coffee? I brought my own beans. It seemed uncharitable, using yours, given these unfortunate circumstances.” Fen’de Stone waved his hand, and a fifteen-year-old boy wearing a band of gray around his arm poured a cup of coffee from the percolator. His name was Marsten Cloud; Kara remembered him from school before the fen’de stole him for a life of religious devotion. These days the two were never apart.

  Marsten handed the coffee to Father.

  “Freshly made,” the fen’de said. “Incidentally I couldn’t help noticing that you were all out of your own beans, so I refilled your jar from my own personal stock.”

  “How kind of you,” said Father.

  “Don’t worry about paying me back,” said Fen’de Stone. “I wouldn’t hear of it.”

  He clapped a hand on Father’s shoulder as though they were great friends.

  This was nothing new.

  In the years following Mother’s execution, Fen’de Stone had been unfailingly kind. Again and again he arrived at their time of greatest need: when there weren’t seeds enough to buy a single meal or when Father couldn’t work up the will to get out of bed. It seemed that Fen’de Stone
was always watching them, waiting to knock on their door at the last moment and save their family from utter devastation.

  He had murdered her mother. He had made her family the outcasts of De’Noran. Kara hated him with a passion so black, it frightened her sometimes. Yet all she could do, upon seeing him in the street, was curtsy and say thank you.

  Kara was certain he took great pleasure from that.

  “Fine coffee,” Father said, taking a sip from his steaming cup.

  The fen’de folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, highlighting an ample belly. Somehow, even during the bad seasons when crops provided little sustenance, the fen’de found a way to eat well.

  “Drink up, old friend. Then we’ll talk.” He sighed. “It seems we have a bit of a problem here.”

  They entered, then, as though on cue. Silas Goodson. Aaron Baker. Simon Loder.

  Last into the room, her cane clicking against the stone floor, came Grace. Kara was surprised to see her but not nearly as surprised as Fen’de Stone.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I thought this would be a good opportunity for me to observe how you handle such a delicate situation,” Grace said. Her eyes never left the floor. “This way in years to come—”

  “You are not needed.”

  “Maybe I can offer some insight into—”

  “Go home, Grace. Now.”

  Kara expected Grace to argue, but instead she simply nodded.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She kissed her father on the cheek and clicked her way through the silent kitchen, Simon at her heels. Marsten Cloud held the door for them both, sneaking Grace a victorious smirk as she passed.

  Fen’de Stone took a sip of coffee before returning to business. “There has been a formal complaint,” he said. “These boys were attacked, while on your property, by a vicious throng of unusually inspired vermin. They also saw your daughter at the scene of the . . . incident. It’s unfortunate, but given your family’s history, I can do nothing else but suspect witchcraft.”

  This is it, Kara thought, her heart pounding in her chest. They’re going to bring me to the rocky field just like Mother and hang me from a tree.

  “That’s a lie!” Taff exclaimed. “They’re making up stories just to get Kara in trouble!”

  “Taff,” Kara said softly. “Please don’t get involved.”

  Silas held forth his forearm, a grotesque patchwork of oozing scratches and bite marks. “Does this look like a lie, you little runt?”

  “So you got bit by something? So what? My sister never touched you.” Taff turned to the fen’de. “They’re liars! And you’re a liar if you believe them!”

  “Enough!” the fen’de exclaimed. The room came to a halt as he turned to Marsten Cloud. “Remove him,” he said.

  The fen’de’s apprentice grabbed Taff by the elbow, none too gently. From the corner of her eye, Kara saw her father tense.

  “It’s just not fair,” Taff mumbled as he was guided outside. “It’s never fair. It’s never—”

  The door slammed shut. Kara was relieved to see him go. If something terrible was about to happen to her, she didn’t want him there to see it.

  Father was first to speak again. “You’re saying these boys were on my land?”

  “That’s right!” Aaron exclaimed. “We were here!”

  “Might I ask why?”

  The boys refused to meet his eyes. And Kara’s father, in a moment of rare lucidity, understood.

  “Ahh,” he said. “You’re the ones who’ve been vandalizing my property.”

  “That don’t matter,” Aaron said. “We were just having a little fun. Not hurting anyone.”

  “Not like this witch here!” Silas added.

  Father made a low grunt deep in his throat and took a step toward Silas. The boy seemed to shrivel beneath her father’s rising anger.

  “So let me get this straight,” Father said, jabbing a finger into Silas’s chest. “You throw dung and urine and Clen knows what else against my door, and then you have the nerve to come into my house and say you were attacked by some kind of, what? Monsters?”

  “Rats!” Aaron said.

  Father turned his wrath on Aaron, who instantly studied his toes.

  “Really, um, big rats,” Aaron added.

  “Right,” Father said. “Rats. It’s a farm. We have rats in our barn. In the stable. Did it ever occur to you that there might be a simpler explanation? Any animal blood in that wonderful concoction you were going to throw against my door?” When neither boy answered, he continued, “The rats smelled it. That’s why they attacked you.”

  “It wasn’t just a few rats. There were lots of them.”

  “And we saw her there!” Silas exclaimed.

  “I live here!” Kara snapped. “Did you ever think of that?” She turned to her father. “I heard noises outside and came out to investigate. They were being attacked by rats, all right. That part’s true. But I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Kara’s father asked.

  “I did,” Kara said. “You must have forgotten.”

  He turned his face away, accepting her lie as truth, and Kara instantly hated herself for telling it.

  No need to be ashamed. You did what was necessary to protect yourself.

  Silas turned to Fen’de Stone. “She’s a witch, just like her mother.”

  “She did something near the Fringe too,” Aaron added. “I heard she made a Thickety monster attack this Clearer boy. . . .”

  Fen’de Stone rose to his feet and gave each of the boys a long stare.

  “We’re done here. My men have combed this place from top to bottom. If there were any evidence of witchcraft, they would have reported it by now.”

  Silas and Aaron stared at the fen’de, openmouthed.

  “So, that’s it?” Silas asked.

  “Yes,” Fen’de Stone said. “That’s it. For now.” He turned to Kara. “It’s too bad that my pet is no longer with us, Kara. The nightseeker. Do you remember?”

  A doglike creature snorting her blood . . .

  “I remember,” she said.

  “Such a creature would settle this argument quickly. But there was something about that particular nightseeker that I just didn’t trust. I dined upon it immediately following your mother’s execution.” He patted his stomach. “Not much meat, but oddly filling.”

  The men left.

  Father stood there in silence and leaned his forehead against the door. As Kara watched, he seemed to shrink before her eyes, as though his former self was a costume he could wear for only a short time.

  “Kara,” he whispered. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”

  She wanted to. She would tell him anything, as long as he would stay like this: strong, a whole man, her real father. But although Kara could hear the right words in her head, the lie refused to pass her lips. Finally her father shuffled off. He would not leave his room again that day, and she knew that when she saw him the next morning, his fingernails would be stained with ink.

  After making sure that Taff was unharmed, Kara entered the barn. It looked like it had been at the epicenter of some great storm. At least a dozen sacks had been torn open and emptied; no matter where she stepped, seed and chicken feed cracked beneath her feet. Tools, yanked from their wooden pegs, lay strewn across the floor. Those with wooden shafts had been snapped in two.

  Kara knew she should be angry, but right now there was only one thing on her mind: the grimoire. After glancing back at the house to make sure that Taff had not followed her, Kara closed the barn door. It’s safe. It has to be. If a graycloak had found it, he would have immediately brought it to the attention of the fen’de. She just needed to see it, hold it in her hands (use it) before she could rest.

  Kara pulled on the trapdoor. She had oiled the hinges herself, and it opened smoothly, without a sound.

  The hiding space was empty.

  Not quite understandin
g, Kara held the lantern closer. Perhaps her grimoire had moved just out of reach in order to hide from the graycloaks? Given the book’s extraordinary powers, the ability to slide a few feet did not seem beyond the realm of reason.

  After a few minutes of careful examination, however, Kara had no doubt that the book was gone. In its place were five tiny dots, nestled in the soil as though trying to plant themselves there. Kara dug them out with one trembling hand and gazed at her find by the light of the lantern. One brown seed and four grays. The significance of the amount was not lost on her: the two brown seeds she had been owed for healing Shadowdancer, minus the gray Jacob had paid her. She shook her hand, and the seeds seemed to jump, eager to provide Constance Lamb’s message:

  I have your book.

  Kara wanted to confront Constance immediately, but this proved impossible; the woman, who had always seemed dispassionate toward her husband at best, suddenly clung to Jacob with the blind attachment of a newlywed. It was maddening—and more than a little confusing. If Constance had simply wanted to steal the grimoire for her own purposes, why had she left what amounted to a personal note informing Kara of her identity? And why tell Kara she had taken it but then make no effort to tell her why? All Kara needed was a few minutes alone with the farm woman, but even starting a conversation in Jacob’s presence was out of the question. What would she say? Pardon me, Mr. Lamb—I know you despise me because you think I’m a witch, but could I talk to your wife about my spellbook?

  Four days passed.

  Without her grimoire it seemed like an eternity. Kara could barely sleep, and when she did she would wake up gasping for breath, as though she had been drowning in her dreams. One moment her body was cold to the touch, the next moment it burned with fever. She was constantly hungry, but the sight of food made her ill, and when she forced herself to eat, she spewed black vomit.

  One day at their lunchtime meeting on the hill, Lucas told her she looked unwell and suggested she go home early. “Leave me alone!” Kara screamed, louder than she intended, and refused to open her eyes until she heard his footsteps fading in the distance. When she returned to the schoolhouse, everyone was giggling and chatting and building Straw Men for the festival. Kara stared at the ground and scratched at her forearms until they bled.