by Cat Hellisen
“I don’t want to hear it.” Nanna’s voice was dead, utterly emotionless. “Leave.” She turned, and the hem of her fur coat swept bare inches from Sarah’s nose. Nanna walked away.
For a few heartbeats more, Sarah stayed on her knees in the tanglehead grass, the dirt blackening her jeans. She dug her fingers into the earth, and fought against the harsh sob that lurched up her body. I won’t cry. A few more beats, a few more breaths, and Sarah raised her dry eyes. There was no sign now of her grandmother. The dusk had given way to the velvet night, and a half-moon grinned low, just peering over the castle walls.
The night held its breath, and then the first few sounds began trickling back in. The high strange calls of the night birds, the rustling branches, the click-click of the things that moved in the dark.
A fox screamed like a ghost-woman, and Sarah jerked. Quickly, she got to her feet and ran for the castle doors. They were closed, and as much as she rattled and banged, they would not budge.
Rage swept over Sarah. This wasn’t how family were supposed to treat each other. Her mother would never have locked her out in the cold, no matter what she’d done. This wasn’t normal. If this was how her dad had grown up, she wasn’t surprised that he’d never wanted to come back here. That he’d never talked about this other family full of cruel magic and lies. He must have been beyond desperate when he’d driven her up here.
Sarah missed him. Missed her mother so fiercely that it made her whole body ache. She wanted them both to come and gather her back into their family and wipe away the awfulness of this year. As if it was a bad dream she’d woken from in the middle of the night, and hot chocolate and warm arms would melt the memory of it.
She slammed her fists against the hard black wood until her knuckles were scraped raw and the bones bruised, but no one came. She put her back to the vast door and, shivering, looked out onto the wall of the forest. It flickered green and black and silver, the leaves like dancing glass.
It was that, or perhaps spend the night in the revolting shack where Grandfather had been caged. In the morning, maybe Nanna would see reason. Sarah curled her hands into fists and marched straight to the moonlit forest. Her eyes slowly adjusted. Under the light of the half-moon, she could see fairly well. The shadows were deep blue as spilled ink, the edges of the leaves limned silvery sharp against them, but she could make her way through the undergrowth.
Even the spiderwebs caught the filtered moonlight and shone.
She walked, hoping to find the wide road that she remembered walking with Alan. He’d help her—let her sleep on the rainbow-throw-covered couch, perhaps even talk to Nanna in the morning.
Only, once again, the forest played its twisting tricks on her, leading her this way and that until her head was too muddled to think straight. All around her the wind whistled, seeming to change direction with every gust. From far away came a lonesome yowling and howling. Some beast was singing through the night.
A deeper song joined the first, and the two creatures yipped and ululated. Even the shrieking foxes were drowned out.
Sarah took another turn and pushed her way through a stand of whippy saplings, only to see the low stone wall of the vegetable garden, with the castle hulking overhead. Her heart sank.
Sarah sat down on the garden wall and put her face in her hands. The night had grown chillier, and the traipse through the forest had left her sweaty. Her soaked clothes cooled. She shivered in the dark, her hands pressed hard against her cheeks.
Move, she thought. You can’t sit here feeling all sorry for yourself. What good’s that going to do? She got to her feet and trudged to the back of the castle. It looked like she had no choice but to spend the rest of the night in the filthy, stinking hut.
She stopped when she came to the rusted-out car, with its sleepy hens clucking softly to themselves. The hens would be warm. And while the car might be full of chicken poo and old feathers, it was a more appealing bed than the hut. Carefully, she clambered in and sat down in the midst of the surprised hens. They squawked and shifted in consternation, then seemed to decide that she was no great threat and tucked their heads away.
There’s no way I’ll get any sleep in here, Sarah thought, just before her chin nodded onto her chest and her eyes closed. A moment later she was softly snoring.
* * *
The light stung her eyes. Even with her eyelids tight shut, the morning sun seemed to cut right into her head, red and harsh. Sarah curled up smaller, shifting an indignant hen, and covered her face with her arms. Her throat hurt. Her knees ached. Her skin was shivery and damp.
Finally she couldn’t ignore the curious pecking of the hens, and Sarah squinted one eye open and groaned. It was the crack of dawn. Not that the resident rooster had noticed. He’d started crowing hours before the sun rose.
“I will eat you,” Sarah mumbled. “I swear it.” Her voice was little more than a croak, and talking made it feel like someone had forced razor blades down her throat. She rubbed at the sleep in her eyes and sat up slowly. Her head spun.
A strange gurgling noise woke her properly. It had come from the vicinity of her stomach. Sarah hugged her knees and tried to tell herself that it was going to be all right now. Her grandmother wouldn’t leave her to starve out here. Slowly, moving like an old person, she uncurled and made her way back to the castle door.
The wood gleamed blackly in the red dawn. With a lump in her throat, Sarah raised her aching fist to knock again.
Again the door stayed immovable, and no one answered. She’d been thrown out for good, and even the raven had abandoned her. “At least give me my stuff!” she yelled, but it came out more like a sad little croak, and she was certain no one heard her.
Sarah went back to the hens and sat there, wondering what to do next. Thanks to the rooster and the cold and her own despair, she hadn’t managed to sleep well, and she was understandably tired. So it wasn’t long before once again she drifted back into a feverish sleep, her dreams stippled with sunlight.
* * *
In the dream, Alan was leaning on the windowsill of the car, peering in at her. His arms loose, his fingers almost brushing her nearest knee. “Nice bed you have there,” said Alan.
“It’s not a bed, you idiot. It’s a worn-out piece of junk.” Even in the dream, her throat felt all scratchy, but at least the words came out clear. Her nose was running too, and she tried to surreptitiously sniff and wipe, without looking like a baby.
“So why are you sleeping in it?”
“Long story,” Sarah said. “I may have set my grandfather loose, and that may have upset Nanna.”
“May have?” Alan raised one eyebrow, giving his face a delightfully off-center look.
“Probably did.”
“And she punished you by locking you out,” Alan said. “And you hope that by now she’ll have settled down, and she’ll let you back in.”
“Something like that.” She curled up smaller, sweaty-shivering. “And then the raven will come back.”
“And? You suppose that then she’ll explain to you how to end the curse, and everything will be right as rain.” It was amazing how easily the dream version of Alan understood exactly what was going on. Sarah decided that dream people were much more convenient than real-life people, at least when it came to explaining things.
“Mzagly,” Sarah mumbled. The light was hurting her eyes, sending throbbing bolts of pain right into her skull. She felt like she was being boiled in the car.
“Up, girl,” said Alan. His voice was louder.
Sarah blinked. Alan was leaning on the windowsill of the car, peering in at her. His arms loose, his fingers almost brushing her nearest knee. He was frowning. “Why are you sleeping in the car?”
“Already explained.”
“Not to me you didn’t.” He sighed. “Come on, you’re sick as a dog, and the old bat isn’t answering when I knock.” He jerked the rusted car door open and carefully tugged her out. “Can you walk?”
“Maybe.�
� Sarah swayed on her feet. “I think so.”
Alan frowned again. “This way, then.”
Sarah followed him away from the castle. She tried to pay attention to all the paths he took, but it all slopped into a soupy mess in her head. “Why were you at the castle, anyway?”
“Might have been worried about you,” he said.
“Might have?”
“Probably was.” He gave her a concerned look. “Here. It’s not far now. Think you’ll make it?”
Sarah nodded, too tired to talk any more, and trudged onward, one foot in front of the other. She reached the cottage in the clearing, and the last thing she remembered was Alan pouring her a spoonful of something sour-sweet.
And then sleep.
* * *
“Feeling better?” Alan asked Sarah over a breakfast of scrambled eggs and another spoonful of the sour medicine. Her throat was ticklish-sore, but nowhere near as bad as it had been the day before. She could swallow without wincing.
“Yes.” Sarah set her fork down. Her head was clearer. She still ached a little all under her skin, but it was the kind of ache she could mostly ignore. “I give up.”
“Eh?” Alan paused at his dishwashing, and looked back over his shoulder. “What’s what?”
“I give up,” Sarah said louder. “I refuse. I’m going home.”
“Ah.” He set the last dish on the rack and went back to the table. He looked at her, arms crossed. “How do you plan on doing that?”
“You’re going to show me.” It was right. It was time. She’d done her bit by setting her grandfather free. And now she was going to do exactly what her mother and father had done before her. She was going to leave this crazy forest and all its curses behind. Probably there was no curse, not really—it was all lies and misunderstandings. Her father would be back at home. And maybe her mother too; she wasn’t a bird. And her father wasn’t a beast. Her eyes stung with tears. “You know how to walk into the Not-a-Forest. You know the way from here to there.”
“And back again.” One corner of Alan’s mouth twitched upward, but he didn’t smile. Not quite. “Fine. I’ll teach you.” He picked up her plate and set it in the sink before heading out into the late-morning sunshine. “Remember what I said before—about how all forests were once one?”
“Yes.” They were crossing the little clearing. The grass was withering, and a few dandelions still raised puffy seed heads, but most of the stalks were bare now. “You said they remember.”
“That they do.” Alan stepped into the shade of the forest and held out his hand. “You just need to walk into their memories, and then you can travel between all the woods in the world, with only a few steps.”
“That simple, huh?” Sarah smiled. The tears that had threatened were drying away now, and she felt that perhaps this was what she should be doing. Something about Alan just made everything seem like it wasn’t that bad. His hand was warm in hers, and she felt a calm rightness settling over her.
“It’s magic.”
“Of course it is.” She tugged at his hand. “Show me.”
Alan moved in silence, pulling her with him a little deeper into the forest.
“Alan?”
“Shhh, I’m remembering.”
Sarah fell quiet, and tried to remember too—the way the little eucalyptus trees grew in shaggy bunches from the sandy soil, and the smell of their leaves. The glint of abandoned rubbish, the tracks left by strangers, candy wrappers and birdsong, and prickly shrubs with papery violet flowers.
Around them, the forest shifted and grew familiar.
“Do you want me to stay?” Alan said, when they stood in the Not-a-Forest. The sky above was as blue and bright and fierce as she remembered, the saplings cast no shadows, and distantly she could hear children shouting, cars humming, sparrows chittering.
No foxes, no snow, no scampering unseen things.
No beasts howling into a frozen night.
“No,” said Sarah. She shrugged out of her jacket. “I’ll be fine.” She smiled at him. “Thanks. You’ve been the best friend I could ever have had.”
Alan looked at her with a fierce solemnity. “You can’t have had many, then,” he said, but then he grinned. “Away with you.”
Sarah didn’t need telling twice. She waved and ran off down the little sandy paths that cut through the Not-a-Forest, on her way home at last.
13
INVISIBLE FIREWORKS
THE UNMAGICAL HOUSE looked exactly the same. It had the same beige walls, square windows, neatly tiled roof. The grass on the front lawn was clipped down to keep the clover from taking over, and the front door was white and shiny as it had ever been.
There was a red tricycle on the lawn, lying on its side.
Sarah stood at the edge of the road, not quite ready to step onto the lawn and make her way up to the front door. She thrust her hands into her pockets and shivered a little, despite the high sun. Maybe the forest had changed her. It smelled wrong here—too smoggy and thick and greasy. If she opened her mouth, she could taste the exhaust fumes from distant traffic, the overflowing neighborhood trash cans, the chemical choke of household detergents.
She swallowed, and looked again at the red tricycle.
Maybe some neighborhood kid had left it there accidentally. A distant shout followed by laughter made her look up, toward the wall that hid the backyard. A head appeared. Disappeared. Another appeared—a girl’s head, blond pigtails flying. Up and down, up and down, the faces came and went.
There were people jumping on a trampoline in her back garden.
The white door burst open, and a woman stared out at her, frowning. “Can I help you?” she called. “Are you looking for Megan?”
“I—” Sarah found she had nothing to say. Her mouth stayed open, but the words all gathered up in her throat and wouldn’t come out.
The woman trotted across the neat lawn. As she drew nearer, her frown deepened. “Are you lost?”
“I—” Sarah’s mouth snapped shut, and she shook her head. All she wanted to do was get away from here. Her father was gone. No matter what she’d wanted the truth to be, this was reality. She had to face it. There was no going back to a happy family where Mom and Dad loved each other and everything was as safe as houses. There was just this: a strange new family had taken over the unmagical house, and her parents were gone. She was alone.
Sarah stumbled back. “I’m looking for the man who used to live here. He’s my, um, uncle.”
The woman paused and crossed her arms. “The previous tenants? They’ve gone, and they didn’t even bother to leave a forwarding address. I’ve a whole packet of mail for them—I was going to return it all to the post office—”
“I could take it to—to him for you.”
“But you’ve no idea where he—oh, never mind.” The woman turned away. “Just wait there. It’ll take me a few seconds to find it.”
Sarah stood motionless, going hot and cold, half watching the bouncing heads over the wall. Her mind was elsewhere. Letters. Maybe there’s something there from Mom. Her heart beat faster and faster when she saw the woman opening the door again and coming toward her with a plastic grocery bag.
“There you go,” she said, and handed the bag over. “You will find him?” she asked, perhaps already second-guessing her decision to simply hand over the mail.
“Yes,” said Sarah. She swallowed; the plastic handle was sweaty against the palm of her clenched fist. “You can count on it. Thank you.”
As soon as the woman had retreated back into her house, Sarah walked to the Not-a-Forest. At first she moved as unhurriedly as possible, swinging the bag against her legs. But as soon as she was out of sight of the unmagical house, she took a deep breath and sprinted. She needed to see what was in the collection of mail. Even though she thought she’d trained herself to stop hoping for anything, she couldn’t help the feeling that rose in her now. She almost couldn’t breathe.
In the safety of the first clump of scraggl
y bushes, Sarah tipped the letters out onto the ground, and knelt to sort through them.
Boring bill after boring bill, business letters with typed names and addresses and company logos. A whole pack of junk, and not a single message from her mother. The last envelope fluttered from her numb fingers. All Sarah wanted to do was curl herself small.
Everyone was gone.
She couldn’t go back to Nanna—her grandmother had made sure of that—and now she really was alone in the world. Sarah was shaking so hard it seemed to her that she’d been caught in a terrible fever, and her throat was hurting again. It was a different kind of hurt this time. A choked little sound burst out of her mouth. She was too upset to even cry.
“Sarah?”
She focused through the haze of unshed tears in her eyes.
It was Alan, peering at her, his mouth turned down in worry. He must have just stepped out of the cover of the trees, because she was certain she’d been alone not a second before.
“You didn’t leave,” she said. One hand flew briefly to the little bear pendant under her T-shirt.
“Of course I didn’t. I wanted to make sure you were safe first.”
“Oh.” Sarah lowered her hand and looked at the discarded letters at her feet. They covered the tips of her shoes like a tiny snowdrift. “It’s all true,” she said, very softly. “Everyone is gone, and I’m alone. Of course, you knew it was all true.”
“I’ll take you back home,” Alan said. “Your proper home.”
With a small sniff, Sarah took his hand and once again let his magic tug her through from one forest to another. The cold slapped at her face as she left the scrubby tangle of the Not-a-Forest behind and stepped into the heart of the castle’s woods. “I haven’t got a home.” Sarah pulled her hand free. “She won’t have me back.”
“I’ll talk to her, “Alan said. “You can wait in my cottage, if you’d rather.”
Sarah nodded, and a moment later, the magic had pulled them into the clearing.