Absence: Whispers and Shadow

by J. B. Forsyth

  Ismara remained where she was for some time, watching Della as she would a wild animal. She considered bolting for the door, but thought better of it – not wanting to provoke whatever was inside her again. She moved slowly to the back corner instead, taking up the furthest chair from the cripple and rubbing at her wrist. It was the first time in her life she was truly scared and she sat there trembling, giving no mind to the damp skirt on which she sat. Her father had told her stories about people like Della. He called them witches and when she got home she would tell him there was one in Agelrish, hiding in her school.

  Della stared into her hands, trying to make sense of what just happened. She remembered feeling angry when Ismara poked her fingernail into her forehead, but when she stole the cheese some black vitality had risen within her. It was the same thing that caused her to strike out at Ismara in the corridor, but this time it took complete control of her. For a short time, she was nothing more than an observer behind her eyes and a passenger in her body. And only when she saw the horror of what she had become reflected back in Ismara’s face, was she able to snap out of it. If she hadn’t, she was sure she would have done worse. The intention to hurt her had been so strong. She stole a quick look over her shoulder now. Ismara was sitting at a desk in the far corner of the room. Her head was turned away and her eyes downcast; as if she feared to even look in her direction.

  Last night when her uncle shook her awake, she hadn’t been able to remember how she fell asleep. Now all of a sudden she did. She remembered the terrible sense of something approaching her from the inside. And she remembered the heavy malaise that sent her staggering to the bed. Something was very wrong with her and when she finally told her uncle all about it, she hoped he would know what to do.

  Agelrish on Alert

  She was still brooding when her attention was snagged by a commotion outside. She looked out of the window and saw Lady Demia and Mr Tilder walking around the square; ushering the other children back inside. They soon began to filter in – thudding up the corridor and pouring into the classroom - some still eating off plates and grumbling about the premature disruption to their play. Jimmy Briggs gawped when he found Ismara in his seat. He looked around for Lady Demia to protest to, but Ismara shifted back to her original position next to Della without a word to him. Jimmy took his seat cautiously and when suspicion dawned on him, he lifted his desk lid. He did this slowly, with his head angled back and his face tight. As if he was expecting to find a dead rat looking out at him.

  Lady Demia was last in. She picked up the pieces of the broken jug and put them on the lunch table. There was no inquisition or reprimand - something of a precedent for Lady Demia who normally needed only the slightest excuse for such things. She took up position at the front and stiffened in a pose the children knew well. When they fell silent she addressed them with a voice of grave authority.

  ‘Children. I’ve been informed that a wild animal has strayed into the village. You’ve been brought in for your protection while the good men of Agelrish take care of it. Your parents have been sent for and when they arrive you’ll go straight home with them… Until then, we will continue with our lessons as best we can.’

  Wild animal? Della didn’t think so. Lady Demia was lying, or at least holding something back. This was about the monster. She was sure of it.

  The afternoon lessons got underway, but the news had set the children’s imaginations off and note passing and whispering were soon rife. Any other day Lady Demia would have pounced on them for such behaviour. But she hardly seemed to notice. She chalked her lesson on the board like always, but kept looking out of the window at every opportunity; dishing out lame reproaches only when the whispering got too loud. Besides Della and Ismara, only Meldrum and Rhea failed to take advantage of her distraction. At first they looked towards Ismara for inspiration. But when she ignored them they exchanged several worried looks and fell silent.

  It wasn’t long before the first children were whisked away; mostly by parents who worked close to the square. Ismara was among the first to go and she raced past her mother as soon as she stepped through the door. Time scraped by for Della after that. The children disappeared at regular intervals until, hours later, she was the only one left. Lady Demia had long since given up on teaching and the two of them sat together in silence; each absorbed in their own thoughts. They made eye contact only once, during which Lady Demia forced a rare smile and went back to looking out of the window.

  Della had known she was going to be the last one collected. If the village trackers were onto the monster, her uncle would be right there with them. He wasn’t one to shirk responsibility and he would come for her only when they could spare him and it was safe to do so. Mr Tilder had assured her that he was alright, but as the shadows in the square grew longer she began to wonder if that was still true. She became so worried that when the next set of boots pounded up the school steps she was convinced it was either him, or a whole world of bad news.

  It was him.

  She was so relieved to see him that she almost ran to him. But her crutch was leaning against her chair and as she jumped to her feet it clattered to the floor, bringing her up short. As her uncle exchanged a few words with Lady Demia, she tucked it under her arm and limped by him; taking a last look at a classroom she hoped never to see again.

  Lady Demia followed them out and locked up before hurrying off in the other direction with Mr Tilder. To the west, a giant anvil of black cloud was rolling in, drawing a wide smudge behind it.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Della when they got out of earshot. ‘Lady Demia said there was a wild animal loose in the village. There wasn’t was there?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s here in the village somewhere and it’s killing people. We’ve got to leave tonight.’

  She pulled up. ‘Who did it kill?’

  ‘Not here. Back at the house…Keep your eyes peeled.’

  They went on in silence, reaching the house just as the first drops of rain pattered onto the stoop. Once they were inside Della dropped into a chair.

  ‘Get your bag ready,’ her uncle said as he double bolted the door. ‘When the rain stops we’re away. It’ll have to be the hideaway first. I’ll take a look at it while the storms up.’

  ‘You said it killed someone today, who was it?’

  Even though she was looking at his back she saw him wince at the question. He turned around and crossed to her with a terrible sympathy developing in his eyes. She took only a moment to understand it.

  ‘Please no… Tell me it wasn’t Rayle Oakley.’ She spoke each word around a heart that was swelling in her throat.

  He gave her a solemn nod. ‘I’m afraid so... His family as well.’

  The words hit her like arrows and if she hadn’t been sitting down she would have collapsed. She tried to talk but the words wouldn’t come out. Her eyes welled with tears and for a moment she couldn’t draw a breath. Her uncle pulled up a chair and hugged her close. She buried herself in his arms and wept, her breath finally coming in a series of jerks.

  Forget me Not

  She opened the door to Rayle Oakley six months ago. It was a sunny winter’s morning, a week after they moved in.

  ‘Hello there young lady,’ he said with a puff of cold air, his furrowed face tightening easily into a broad smile. But then a look of surprised recognition jumped into his eyes and he faltered on what he was going to say.

  ‘Well now,’ he went on after a quick recovery. ‘Look at you. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I used to know a girl just like you; way back when I was your age. Had the lame in her leg and use of a stick just like yours. But I’ll tell you what - it never held her back none. I even taught her to ride my old horse you know. I don’t remember its name but I remember hers. She was called Elia and she was the best damned friend I ever had. The best! Oh the times we had.’

  He looked through her as he went on, seemingly absorbed in some distant recollection. ‘Never got over her leavi
ng you know. She left in the night without a word to anyone. One day she was there, the next she was gone… Damn nearly broke my heart it did.’ He paused and his eyes refocused on her in kind appraisal. ‘Forgive me young lady, why ever would you want to hear all that? I’m forgetting my manners.’ He thrust a hand out at her and she took it absently. ‘The names Oakley. Welcome to South Agelrish.’

  Della stood in the doorway with the fixed expression of a spellbound toddler. She had recognised her visitor after his first few words and the emotion his sudden appearance conjured up, froze her in place. Time had bent his spine and leached the colour from his hair - but it hadn’t taken the summer from his eyes, or straightened the kind smile that drew up ever so slightly on one side. The left side. It was a face she once loved and a dusty chamber of her heart had gasped his name well before he offered it.

  Her uncle appeared in the doorway beside her and clasped hands with their visitor. He would tell her later that he didn’t recognised him. After an exchange of names, Rayle Oakley fell smoothly into a sales pitch for the eggs and cheese he was carrying in his basket. A basket which, until that point, she hadn’t even noticed. She backed away from the door and went to her room; listening to his voice as she sat on her bed. And when the front door finally rattled back into its housing, she rushed to the window and watched him hobble down the path.

  She had never expected to see Rayle Oakley again when she left the lakeside hamlet where she fell in love with him. She would later learn that his family moved to South Agelrish a few years after and that he had been here for more than fifty years. Rayle was one of only a few she had allowed to roam in her heart. With time his presence there faded; but it had never disappeared completely and the memory of him had always haunted its deepest and most tender chambers.

  Now he was back in the flesh.

  She knew she should have been glad to see him; but his sudden appearance filled her with sadness instead. For to see him aged and bent was too much to bear. And as he disappeared through the gate his words echoed up the stairs: Best damn friend I ever had. She curled up on the bed; her tears dampening her pillow as she remembered the long summers she spent with the young Rayle Oakley.

  Della sat on her bed now, staring into the flower in her hand. There was a knock at her door and her uncle appeared around it.

  ‘You alright?’ She gave him an unconvincing nod and a smile that told him she was over the worst of it. ‘I won’t be long. Give me a shake if you need me. Keep the doors bolted and don’t go outside for any reason.’

  ‘What about the villagers? We can’t just leave them with the monster. There’s got to be something we can do to help.’

  ‘They’re onto it now. There’s three good trackers and a dozen armed men out hunting it. Every household has been told to lock up and stay inside. Hanging around won’t make a difference. And if that thing changed course because of its encounter with you; then it’ll be better for them if we’re out of here.’

  She knew the monster was in the village looking for her, but to hear him say it like that filled her with fresh dread. ‘Okay, but hurry back.’

  He gave her a sympathetic smile and went to his room. In a few minutes he would be Absent and on his way to survey the hideaway, to make sure it was safe. At a push, it was a precaution he could have seen to once they were on their way; but going Absent in wild country was an unnecessary risk.

  She looked down at the poppy in her hand and thought again of Rayle Oakley. Over the years there were many people who had touched her heart in one way or another. But with time, her memories of them tended to sink beneath the poison mists that plagued her mind. So to help her remember, she had devised a way to reinforce those memories. Whenever she wanted to remember someone, she would choose a type of flower to represent them. Then she would pick a handful of them and stare into their petals; pollinating them with everything about them she wanted to remember. Doing so forged a mental association between the flower and those memories; so that whenever she saw or smelled a particular type of flower, she would recall the person to which she had dedicated it.

  To walk a summer meadow was now to travel back in time and walk amongst old friends - to see their faces lifted towards her and to relive her memories of them. Such walks could either be happy or sad, depending on her mood and the type of flowers she encountered - each spray of colour wrenching her heart or bringing a smile to her face.

  There were bluebells for Tamera, the singing seamstress who baked the best cherry pie. There were buttercups for Benjie, the half-starved sheepdog they found in a ruined farmhouse and took on as their own. They nursed Benjie back to health and he was a ribbon of joy through the next eight years. And there were forget-me-nots for little Annie, the six-year-old who she taught to make perfume from petals and for whom she read stories when her cough became so bad she could no longer play out. Little Annie had burned as bright as the sun during her miserly lot of six years and had broken her heart when she passed away. And there were many more – so many she was running out of flowers.

  After her uncle told her about Rayle she went out into the rain to pick the flower she held. Poppies were for Rayle, the boy she once loved and the kind old man he had become. One of her most cherished memories was the day they rode his horse together. He took her along a little track at the side of a shallow brook with her in front and his arms around her, holding the reins. It was the most romantic day of her life and she kept it above the mists by placing poppies in her memory of it. Hundreds of them lining the bank and one in the horse’s mane. She looked out through the window with wet eyes. There would be no need to choose a new flower to mark this visit to Agelrish, because there was no one here she wanted to remember. This time the village had left her cold and all she wanted to do was get away from it.

  She pulled a leather bag out from under the bed. Inside it was a necklace her father had made for her mother: three carved wooden animals on a length of twine. It was the only thing she possessed that had belonged to her mother and the one thing she took everywhere. She put her diary in next to it and stuffed her blanket on top. She was going to put the poppy in, but decided to leave it on her pillow instead. She might never get to lay flowers on Rayle’s grave and this was the next best tribute. She looked around the room; at her paintings, perfumes and flower pressings. She would leave them here. They had a long way to go and it was best to travel light.

  She turned her mind to the hideaway. It had served as a temporary home on countless occasions and was the second of its kind. They had abandoned the first one when civilisation got too close. The second was still remote and as far as they knew, still safe. Hidden at the site was a repository that contained all the things they hadn’t been able to leave behind. It was a treasure trove of the heart – an evocative clutter of memorabilia that spanned several centuries.

  There was a whole rack of her paintings, some of which she thought were pretty good. She would often take them down to marvel at them, especially at times when the skill required to create them was no longer in her possession. There was a collection of sketches she would look at for hours – artist’s impressions of what she would look like as a young woman. Some were by old friends who had been happy to humour her; but others were by real artists her uncle had commissioned as a gift. Each one was different. Some she liked and some she hated. But she kept them all; knowing she might never know which one was closest to the truth.

  There were funny poems and one or two love letters. There were recipes for dishes they made when it was still possible to live east of the mountains. Dishes with ingredients they could no longer acquire, but whose recipes still conjured a faint memory of taste and aroma. On one shelf a hundred and sixteen diaries stood shoulder to shoulder. One hundred and seventeen, once she added the one in her bag. Thousands of pages in all; documenting many days that would otherwise be lost to the mists of her mind.

  In a wardrobe were clothes that still fitted. Clothes that she could pull on and be transported to a p
articular time and place. Her favourite was a pale blue dress that was the uniform of an old school. Stitched on the front was the head of a deer her teacher had helped her with. Her name was Gilli and although barely out of school herself, she was the best teacher she ever had. Wearing the dress always put her in mind of the day Gilli brought a hutch of rabbits to class. Someone forgot to put the latch down after stroking them and they escaped, bolting out of the open classroom and disappearing into the grass. Lady Gilli just laughed and they spent the entire afternoon coaxing them back in with lettuce and carrots. Gilli loved children as much as Lady Demia loved pies and every summer she remembered her face in each new bloom of roses.

  She would visit the hideaway with her uncle at least once a year. It was an experience they both loved, but one that differed for each of them. Her uncle’s memory wasn’t clouded by mist and he was able to remember the story behind most of his deposits. She on the other hand would trawl the shelves and boxes with fascination, feeling at times as if she was rummaging through the belongings of another person. One of her favourite pastimes was to pick up a diary and read about things she had done many years ago and about which she had no recollection. If there was something really interesting, she would read it to her uncle whilst they were sitting by the fire in the evening. And if he could remember the day in question; he would delight her by giving his own account of what happened, bringing colour and dimension to what was written on the page.

  She often heard old folk complain about their memories. Saying how they could recall an event of fifty years ago, but were unable to give an account of something that happened yesterday. She suffered the same problem, but on a much grander scale. Her memories were spread over ten times as many years and the sum of the blank spaces in between could be measured in lifetimes. If her memory was a net; the poison had burnt large holes in it. Some experiences drifted right through and most wiggled free in time. Only those swollen by strong emotion stayed caught – like those created in times of great joy, terror or pain. In the last day she’d experiences two things that would stay tangled forever: Ismara looming over her with the rusty shears and the monster’s changing face.