by J. A. White
“Look here!” Taff exclaimed. He gestured toward a narrow opening between the stalks of corn that bordered Widow Miller’s land. Kara raised her lantern and shed light across a path that branched out in three different directions.
“It’s a maze,” she said.
The other children whooped with joy and spilled into the cornfield, tired muscles and aching feet instantly forgotten. The majority took the rightmost path, which Kara found curious only because there seemed to be no specific reason to do so. Before Kara could object, Taff took her hand and pulled her along. They went left, then right, then left again. It was darker in the corn, and although Kara could still hear the giggles of the other children, they were already growing distant.
“I think we’re going the wrong way,” she said.
“Or maybe we’re the only ones going the right way!”
Kara disagreed. Although she couldn’t see the Miller farm over the tall stalks of corn, her sense of direction had always been excellent.
“The house is in the opposite direction,” she said.
“That’s a good sign,” replied Taff. “Any corn maze worth its seed is going to send you the wrong way first in order to trick you. Widow Miller wouldn’t just make a path that goes straight to her house. She’s a lot cleverer than most grown-ups.”
Kara wasn’t convinced, but Taff seemed so excited that she decided to just trust him and see what happened. Hand in hand they passed beneath the towering stalks through a series of interchangeable twists and turns that led to the farthest edge of the cornfield. At this point the path doubled back in the direction of the farmhouse, gradually becoming so narrow that Kara had to turn her body to proceed. Corn silk tickled her bare neck as she passed.
They turned a corner and saw the scarecrows.
There were at least a dozen of them, twine-bound to tall wooden stakes driven deep into the ground. The closest one, hay-padded into the form of a woman, wore a gray burlap sack in place of a face. Moonlight glinted off polished button eyes.
“This is creepy,” said Kara.
“This is great!” exclaimed Taff.
Kara heard voices in the distance. Through the stalks she was able to make out the soft glow of lanterns, floating through the night like will-o’-the-wisps.
“There’s another group just behind us,” said Kara. “Maybe we should wait.”
“I want to be first!”
“It might be more fun if we all go at once.”
Although Kara couldn’t see Taff’s expression beneath the mask, she was sure he was smiling.
“You scared?” he asked.
She was, a little bit. Kara had never been frightened by thunder or the dark, but there had always been something about scarecrows that unnerved her. They were already so close to human in form—how easy it would be for one to leap to life, wraps its arms around her, and drag her deeper into the corn. . . .
“Wait!” Taff exclaimed. “This is Yaguth, the hunter witch! Remember the story? She tried to conceal herself in a broom, and Timoth Clen cracked it over his knee.”
Kara followed his stare to a small scarecrow with a broken shaft in its hands and fox fur draped around its shoulders.
“They’re all witches,” Taff said, and though his voice was still excited, Kara also heard the first stirrings of doubt. “Look at this one with the bag of black stones. That’s Lana the Raiser. And this one over here!” He pointed to a scarecrow with a dirty rag where its eyes should be. “That’s Sable the Blind.”
Taff dashed farther down the row, calling out name after name, filling the night with the titles of bedside tales: Shadow Lass, Elizabeth of the Soil, the Calling Woman, and Esmeralda the Red (two incarnations: one young, one old). The path grew wider but not so wide that Kara could slip past the scarecrows without brushing against them. She looked up at the wrong time and found herself face-to-face with seashell eyes bound to a head of blackened straw.
“Mary Kettle,” Taff said, kicking the small cauldron at the scarecrow’s feet. “She was a nasty one. Could enchant any object and make it do her dark deeds. And then there’s how she got her name—”
“Enough of that,” Kara said, pushing him forward. But Taff twisted away from her hands, staring up at the last scarecrow with a puzzled expression.
“I don’t know this one,” he said.
It was taller than the others and wore a brocade dress dyed the deep red of blood oranges and embroidered with golden swirls. Straight, dark hair snipped from a horse’s mane hung down the scarecrow’s back.
Kara felt the grimoire grow warm in her satchel as anger swelled inside her. That’s Mother’s dress! Somebody stole it from the trunk where we keep her old things.
“Who is it supposed to be?” Taff asked.
Kara placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just a scarecrow,” she said. “Come on. We’re almost there.”
She took her brother by the hand and pulled him around the next corner, where they could see the lights of the farmhouse and smell cinnamon and buttered popcorn. No doubt there would be hot chocolate as well, and maybe coffee. The night had settled into a numb coldness, and Kara would welcome either.
Unfortunately the Widow Miller had one last trick up her sleeve. The path branched into three directions, each blocked by a wooden gate. Taff swung the rightmost gate open, then bent down to examine the hinges before he closed it again.
“It only opens in this direction,” he said, stepping back onto the main path. “The other gates are probably the same. Once they shut we can’t go through them from the other side.”
“And if we go through the wrong gate, we’ll probably end up back at the beginning.”
“Probably.”
Kara sighed. She had always liked the Widow Miller, but right now she could have cheerfully strangled her. If they took the wrong path, they might be at this all night.
Taff took the lantern from Kara’s hands and shone the light down each path, trying to see as far as possible. “The left and the right paths bend out of sight. But the path behind this middle gate seems to head straight toward the farmhouse.”
“A bit obvious, don’t you think?”
“So we should take one of the other two.”
“But which one?”
Taff shrugged. “The left one. If we’re wrong we’ll try the right one next. We’ll be able to get back here faster this time, since we know the way.”
Taff swung the gate open, but he paused before stepping through it.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re right. The center path is obvious. But maybe that’s the point.”
“You mean it’s so obvious that no one would pick it?”
“Exactly! Especially after everyone figures out the path to get here was in the opposite direction of the farmhouse. Then they would think Widow Miller would do the same thing here. Which is why she wouldn’t.”
“You’re pretty smart,” Kara said.
Taff, too excited to be modest, simply nodded. He passed through the center gate, holding it open for his sister. Before Kara could follow him, however, she glimpsed a flicker of motion behind the left gate. She moved the lantern just in time to catch a tall figure walking away from her, pumpkin-orange cloak dragging along the dirt as branched fingers trailed through stalks of corn.
Kara slammed the center gate shut.
“Go,” she told Taff.
“What are you doing?” He pulled at the gate, which rattled angrily but remained locked from his side.
Kara needed to get Taff as far away from here as possible. She hoped that his current path would take him right to safety, but what if it didn’t? What if this direction led to another, deeper part of the maze? What if it took him directly to Sordyr?
“Why aren’t you coming?” Taff asked.
Kara thought fast. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
“But if you are, you can just come back. I’ll let you through the gate and we can try a different path. This way we don’t have to risk s
tarting all over again.”
Kara hated lying to her brother, but she had to admit that her plan was sound. Even Taff seemed impressed.
“But I really think this is the right path,” he said.
“If so it’s a very short walk to the house. An even faster run. If you’re not back in a few minutes, I’ll know it’s the right direction and I’ll follow you.”
“I’ll just come back and let you know.”
“No!” Kara shouted, so loud that Taff jumped. “No. Once you’re at the house, stay there. I’ll be right behind you. Here.” She slid the lantern through the bars of the gate. “Take this.”
“It’ll be dark without a lantern, Kara. How will you see?”
“I’ll manage. I can hear the others behind me.” She leaned in and whispered, “I’ll send them through the left gate.”
Taff giggled. “I’ll be fast.”
“Run!” Kara said. “Don’t stop running until you reach the house!”
She waited until the sound of his footsteps faded into the night. Then she went through the left gate.
Sordyr stood at the end of the row—a dead end—his cloak draped around him. His face was hidden beneath the folds of his hood, but his body looked smaller, as though being away from the Thickety drained him somehow. Even his stick fingers seemed weak and brittle.
Kara resisted the urge to turn and run.
It’s me he wants. As long as I’m here, Taff is safe.
Sordyr strode toward her. Fresh straw, placed after the storm, crunched beneath his feet. She could hear children’s laughter and the faint strains of a fiddle, the music muffled by cornstalks but still audible.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
His orange cloak rustled as he came closer.
“How are you here? You shouldn’t be able to leave the Thickety, even on Last Night.”
The grimoire pleaded to be used (Yes, he is powerful but not more powerful than us), but Kara refused its call. Only ill can come from using its power. I just need to give Taff time to reach safety.
When Sordyr was about ten feet away, he came to a stop. Kara was struck by how awkward he looked, nothing like the omnipotent presence she had met in the Thickety.
He held out his branch fingers.
“Give it to me!” he said.
The voice was fake-deep and all too human. With clear eyes she considered the figure before her. The cloak had been recently dyed. The branch hands were just . . . branches.
“Listen to what I say, witch!” the not-Sordyr exclaimed, his voice quivering. “Give me what you have stolen!”
Kara pushed him to the ground.
“Who are you?” she screamed, clawing at the hood of the cloak.
“I am . . . the mighty . . .”
“Who are you?”
“It’s Aaron! Aaron Baker!” The boy scrambled away from her and pulled the hood back, revealing shifty eyes and a familiar patch of sweaty hair. He held his hands over his face. “Don’t turn me into a bug or nothing! Please! She said you’d stolen something of hers, but you would give it to me if I dressed up like . . . him, because of you being a witch and all. I thought she was just playing some kind of trick. You know, some Shadow Festival fun. I didn’t mean no harm.”
Kara didn’t need to ask Aaron why he had agreed to play his part; like most boys he had a terrible crush on Grace and would do anything she asked. From Grace’s perspective it must have seemed like the perfect plan: “Sordyr” would demand the grimoire, Kara—his dutiful servant—would obey, and Aaron would bring the book back like a dog returning a bone.
“Whatever it is,” Aaron continued, “I guess you couldn’t just give it to me, could you? She promised me a kiss if I returned with it.”
“No.”
“Fine.” He crossed his arms. “She said you’d probably figure out I wasn’t him anyway. She said that would be fine, as long as I led you away from your brother and bought her some time—”
Taff!
No longer caring about the trail, Kara plunged through the dead end of the path and into the crops themselves. Tightly planted stalks slapped her face as she ran. After a few minutes, she stumbled out of the corn and into lights and laughter, several yards to the right of the true exit.
“The Witch Girl cheated!” a small girl said, pointing an accusing finger.
The front yard of the farmhouse was packed with people. Most of the children had removed their costumes but still had enough energy left to bob for apples or play chase the leader. Parents drank hot ale from wooden cups and passed the time in idle conversation.
Kara searched frantically through the crowd.
“Taff!” she called. “Taff!”
No one offered to help. Most didn’t even look up. Only Widow Miller, oiling the wheels of a long wagon that would provide a welcome ride home, acknowledged her presence.
“Lost your brother, have you?” She wiped her hands on a rag before tucking it into the back of her pants. The widow, a large woman with a tight, work-worn face, never wore dresses.
“Have you seen him?” Kara asked.
“I have,” she said. “Not so long ago, right over there. He was all tuckered out from the maze so the fen’de’s girl got him a glass of cider.” She shook her head. “I really think I overdid it this year, but I just can’t help myself. I’m as dutiful as the next woman, but sometimes people need a little fun.”
“Where are they now?”
Widow Miller clapped a huge hand against Kara’s back. “No need to worry. Grace volunteered to take him home.”
“Taff left with her?”
“That’s right. Her and that simple boy. Simon.”
This isn’t right. Taff hates Grace almost as much as I do.
“You saw my brother leave with Grace Stone?”
Widow Miller hesitated. “I didn’t actually see him leave, but Grace told me she was taking him home. She didn’t want you to be worried none. You should be grateful, Kara. That girl’s got a touch of the Clen to her.”
Kara could see it unfolding in her mind: Simon dragging Taff away when no one was looking, giving Grace the opportunity to appear like her usual helpful self. She never expected me to be tricked by Aaron’s costume. He was just a distraction—and I fell for it.
“There was one more thing,” Widow Miller said. “Grace mentioned that you had something of hers. She didn’t seem mad about it or anything, but she said she’d sure appreciate it if you got it back to her quick. Tonight, if possible.” The widow crouched down next to a wagon wheel and removed her oily rag. “I told her I’d pass it along.”
Kara sprinted along the main road, past large groups of exhausted children shedding their costumes like skin. She stopped only when she had reached the copse of red willow trees that lay just beyond the Westfall farm.
Grace had brought Taff there.
Kara’s certainty of this came not from fresh footprints or wagon treads, but an understanding of her foe. This was where Grace had first held the grimoire, and the fen’de’s daughter, who coveted order in all things, would want to end this where it had begun.
The problem, then, was not in finding her brother—but what to do once she did.
It could be so easy. Grace wanted the grimoire; Kara wanted to be rid of it. But then what? Grace would promise to let them go (no doubt with hands clasped together and an expression of angelic sincerity lighting her face), but those were just words. Once the grimoire was in Grace’s possession, Kara and Taff would be at her mercy. By trading her magic, Kara was also relinquishing any ability to protect them.
If she can make it snow without even thinking about it, what will she be able to do once she learns how to control her magic?
Kara couldn’t let that happen. Grace had been dangerous enough before this; if she were given the power to match her ambition, there was no telling what type of tragedy might befall the island. Only one thing was certain: Innocent people would suffer, and their blood would be on Kara’s hands.
/> But if you had to, would you trade their lives for Taff’s?
The answer came instantly.
In a heartbeat.
And yet . . . surely they didn’t all deserve to be punished. What about Constance? Her father? Lucas? And then there was Taff himself. How would he react if he found out that his freedom had been purchased with the pain and suffering of others? He might never forgive her.
It doesn’t matter what I do, Kara thought. She closed her eyes and bent her head forward, as though in prayer. People are going to suffer.
She stepped into the copse.
The trees were still. As Kara passed between them dark shapes seemed to swirl just out of sight, vanishing the moment she turned her head. “Taff!” she shouted. Her instincts told her to be quiet, but given the fact that she had no plan, what advantage could surprise offer? “Taff!” She ducked beneath drooping red leaves, panic growing. “Taff!” Not a sound in response. It was as though the willows themselves had been turned upside down until all life was shaken out.
Then Kara saw the light.
A lantern hung from a withered tree at the far edge of the woods. It held only enough oil to burn for a single hour, so Kara knew that someone—probably Simon—had been here recently.
They must have used a wagon to get here so quickly. Grace could not have walked this far.
Kara saw a second beacon several hundred yards in the distance. She hurried toward it, finding an identical lantern resting on the stones of an abandoned well. Taff’s mask had been propped against it.
By the fifth lantern, Kara knew where she was being led. She stifled a sudden, unexpected giggle. Of course. Grace knew that Kara would come here, but that wasn’t good enough. She had planned an even better location for their encounter. More dramatic.
The final lantern, entirely unnecessary, hung from a wooden peg just outside the front door. Kara took it. Aunt Abby’s house hadn’t been lived in for many years, and Kara thought it might need some illumination.
The stale air stank of death.
Rat bones lay in scattered piles. More recently something larger had crawled beneath the floorboards and expired. The walls were spotted with thick, black mold.