The Swarm Descends

by Jacob Grey

  “I suppose I’ve always known,” she said quietly. “Not that she was a feral. But that she was … not nice.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Ha!” Selina barked a laugh. “Mother! She loves those flies more than me.”

  Caw put a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to comfort her, but he hardly knew how.

  “She fooled a lot of people,” he said.

  Selina sniffed. “We were never close,” she said. “I went to boarding school at five, and even in the holidays she was mostly working. I used to stay with aunts and uncles. Or play by myself. When she said she had an important job for me, I said I’d do it straight away. I guess I just wanted her to notice me.”

  Caw stood there, awkwardly, with his hand still resting on her shoulder.

  “I know how you feel,” he said. “I never really knew my parents. I always thought they were one thing, when they were something else completely.”

  “Your parents were good people,” said Selina. “My mother is evil.”

  “But you’re not,” said Caw. He reached to touch her hand, but stopped himself.

  Selina looked up at him. “You mean that?” she said. “After everything?”

  Caw imagined what Velma Strickham would say. She’s the Mother of Flies’ daughter – she cannot be your friend.

  But he wasn’t the fox feral.

  “I do,” he said.

  Lydia coughed from the doorway, and Caw and Selina broke apart. “Sorry to interrupt your little … whatever this is,” she said.

  Caw shrugged. “It’s fine. Any good news?”

  Lydia shook her head and gestured back over her shoulder. “The library’s there though. Got to be worth a look.”

  They followed her across the landing. Inside, the bookshelves had been pulled down and they lay across mountains of leather-bound volumes. “We might be here a while,” said Lydia.

  Caw was just about to reach for a book when a soft miaow made them all jump. A single grey cat stood behind them in the doorway.

  “Hello, kitty,” said Selina.

  The cat stared at them a moment, blue eyes shining with intelligence. Then it padded silently towards them. Shimmer jumped off the floor, flapping.

  The cat ignored the crows and entwined itself with Selina’s legs. She stroked the top of its head. “Is she a stray, do you think?” asked Selina.

  “No,” said Caw, frowning as he recognised the cat. It was the one that had been hurled off the car bonnet by the policeman. “He belongs to Felix Quaker. His name is Freddie.”

  Selina was crouching, fiddling with his collar. “That isn’t what it says here.” She squinted and the cat purred. “The little tag says its name is ‘Wythe’.”

  “Are you sure?” said Lydia.

  Selina gave her a sharp look. “Yes, I can read.”

  The cat hopped up on to one of the fallen bookcases and approached Caw. Its striking blue eyes watched him closely.

  “What do you think, Screech?” Caw said. “He’s the one from outside, isn’t he?”

  Looks like it to me, said Screech, keeping his distance.

  “I wonder why he’s stayed here?” said Lydia. “I would have thought Quaker would take all his cats with him.”

  “Freddie?” said Caw. The cat brushed against him, arching its spine. “Perhaps this is Quaker’s way of offering help,” he said.

  Fat lot of good one mog’s going to be, said Shimmer.

  “No,” said Caw. “I mean, a message of some sort. If he was too frightened to help us face to face.”

  Optimistic, said Glum.

  Caw looked at the metal tag. Sure enough, someone had scratched away some writing on one side of the tag. On the other, carved roughly, were the letters of the word ‘Wythe’.

  “It looks like it was done in a hurry,” said Caw. He stared at the word, certain he’d read it before – but where?

  Never heard of a Wythe, said Screech.

  The cat hissed and placed its paw on Caw’s sleeve.

  Maybe he just wants food, said Screech. You know what cats are like – loyal to anyone who’ll feed them. Not like crows …

  Caw tried to focus on the name in his mind’s eye. He searched his memory for its presence and imagined Quaker there too, urging him on: “Come on, lad. Use your brain! It’s right in front of you …”

  Caw felt a smile tickling his lips. Now he remembered where he knew the word “Wythe” from. He had seen it – the letters in a looping script. And it made perfect sense.

  What are you grinning like a mad fool for? asked Screech.

  Clever, clever Quaker!

  “I think I know where we can find out about the stone,” he said.

  reat banks of grey cloud lay sprawled across the night sky, blotting out the stars. The wind whipped around their bodies as the birds carried them to the edge of the city.

  Will there be worms? said Screech.

  “I hope so,” said Caw. “But you’ll have to control yourself. If we find Bootlace, he probably won’t take kindly to you eating his creatures.”

  He won’t notice if one or two go missing, said Shimmer.

  If he even is where you think he is, said Glum. Seems like a long shot to me.

  “No, it’s not,” said Caw.

  The words of the worm feral were still fresh in his mind. Closer to her than ever now, of course.

  It had seemed odd at the time, but Caw had been in such a state of shock that he’d not paid much attention. It made sense though.

  His mother was dead. Her body was buried in the same churchyard outside the city as Emily the centipede feral. And that was where Caw had seen the name Wythe. What could be closer to his mother than the resting place beside her own?

  They descended to the graveyard, on the other side of the church from Emily’s tomb. Caw’s murder of crows let his feet touch the ground softly and released their hold. The girls landed at his side.

  “I could get used to this,” said Lydia, smiling broadly.

  The crows all circled the looming church, then fell in a synchronised descent, alighting across the headstones. The trees in the graveyard shivered in a gust of wind.

  “Are you sure about this?” said Selina. “I mean, seriously, what sort of freak lives in a graveyard?”

  “I don’t think you need to be speaking about freaks,” said Lydia. “Your mum’s so-called ‘study’ is a slaughter-house.”

  Caw saw a flash of pain across Selina’s face.

  “I guess I asked for that,” she said quietly.

  Caw frowned at Lydia, who just shrugged back. He frowned harder and she sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was mean of me.”

  “It’s OK,” said Selina. “Let’s find this grave, shall we?”

  Caw marched between the headstones, past the spot where his parents were buried. Two over, near to the low wall that ran around the edge of the church grounds, was another headstone lying on its back, covered in a skein of lichen and blotted with age. The name “Henry Wythe” was engraved across the top.

  “This is it!” said Caw. “I knew I was right.”

  The rest of the writing was hard to read, so Caw carefully scraped away a patch of moss beneath the name. 1642–1734.

  “Wow! It’s old,” said Selina. “I didn’t even know Blackstone was here that long ago.”

  There was more writing, and though Caw could make out the letters, he couldn’t make much sense of the words. “What does it say?” he asked.

  “What, can’t you read?” said Selina.

  Caw blushed. “I’m learning.”

  “So what if he can’t?” snapped Lydia. “His parents never taught him, all right?”

  “Oh … OK,” said Selina. “Sorry.” She squinted as she read. “It says, ‘Gilded tombs do worms enfold’.”

  “Worms!” said Caw. “It must be the place! But – what does that mean?”

  “I guess,” said Lydia, “it means even if you have a fancy grave, you’re no better t
han everyone else. Everyone ends up as worm food once they’ve been buried.”

  “Maybe not the worm feral himself though,” said Caw.

  It’s a three hundred year old grave, not a house, said Screech. Am I missing something?

  Almost always, sniggered Glum.

  Now Caw looked closer, he could see there were sculpted worms on the face of the stone and more trailing over the edges. He dropped on to his knees and let his hands search around the rim.

  There had to be something. Some clue.

  “Are you sure this is right?” said Selina, looking around anxiously. “I mean, I like graveyards as much as the next girl, but—”

  “Just let him get on with it,” said Lydia.

  Click-thunk.

  One of the stone worms moved under Caw’s fingertips, pressing into the headstone, and the whole thing shifted a fraction. Caw drew back his hands.

  “You were saying, Screech?” he said.

  “It’s a door!” said Selina. Caw nodded, then stood with his fingers in the tiny gap between the headstone and the earth. He heaved, and the stone lifted up on some sort of hinge. Bits of soil and grass tumbled into a black hole beneath.

  Not underground again … muttered Glum, flapping to the edge.

  Caw let the headstone rest upright. On the underside was a handle, so that someone within could push it open. Steep stone steps led downwards into the ground.

  “You two should stay out here,” he said to Lydia and Selina.

  “No way!” they said at the same time, then scowled at each another.

  “Fine,” said Caw. “But be careful, and stay behind me.”

  Shimmer peered over the edge, and shuddered.

  “You don’t have to come either,” said Caw.

  She tossed her beak. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, she said breezily.

  Don’t worry, said Screech, brushing up alongside her. I’ll watch out for you.

  What a gallant! said Glum from above.

  Caw stepped into the open grave. He had to stoop to get under the lip. The walls were bare earth, packed hard.

  “I hope you’re here, Bootlace,” he murmured to himself.

  He counted nineteen steps until he reached a passage. Selina came next, with Lydia and the crows at the rear. The air was musty and cold, and the light filtering from the hatch above barely penetrated the gloom. Lydia rummaged in her pocket and took out a mobile phone.

  “I doubt you’ll have a signal,” said Selina.

  Lydia gave her a contemptuous stare and pressed a button. Torchlight shone from the back of the phone and she moved it to face down the tunnel, catching the glinting eyes of the crows.

  Caw gasped. The tunnel was about five feet in height, following a gentle downward slope. The walls and ceiling were reinforced with pieces of timber. He wondered if this place had been here as long as the gravestone above.

  “Follow me,” he said, setting off deeper into the earth.

  The torchlight only reached about twenty feet and Caw strained his eyes at what might be beyond. He thought about drawing the Crow’s Beak, but if they did meet Bootlace, it would be best to be unarmed. From time to time, a small pink head wriggled out of the walls, before retreating again. The crows managed to restrain themselves, thankfully.

  Bootlace has spies everywhere, Caw thought.

  Soon the light picked out a door ahead and Caw stopped beside it. The surface was gnarled wood, the planks fastened together with ironwork. Caw was no expert, but it looked hundreds of years old.

  He pushed it open and sucked in a breath at the sight before him.

  A huge cavern stretched out ahead – roofed with uneven stone, and filled in the centre with a lake so still it might have been polished glass. Hundreds of alcoves had been carved into the walls, and in each one a candle glowed. The flames reflected like orange starlight in the surface of the water.

  Lydia bumped into Caw and pocketed her phone.

  “This place is amazing!” she said. Selina was open-mouthed, craning her neck.

  Let me see! Let me see! squawked Screech, hopping between their feet.

  Caw walked forward slowly. All around the outside of the lake were tomb stones, some grand sarcophagi and others humble headstones. It was another graveyard, mirroring the one at ground level. But without the wind and rain of Blackstone weathering their surfaces, these tombs remained pristine – marble blazing in the candlelight. And instead of statues of cherubs, or angels, or engravings of flowers, they were decorated with animals. A perching falcon, so lifelike it looked ready to spread its wings; a lion standing proudly over a coffin; a wild boar with jutting tusks.

  Something moved near Caw’s foot. He glanced down and saw a worm the size of a small snake wrapping itself around his ankle, its pink flesh caked with crumbs of dirt. He cried out and stumbled, only for another to break the ground. Then another. They twitched and writhed blindly.

  Something else darted from his left and Selina screamed. Caw turned to see a dark shape crouching against the wall.

  “What do you want?” hissed the worm feral. He was still dressed in black, like he had been the night Caw had first met him.

  Caw sensed the crows spreading their wings and stilled them with a thought. Not yet.

  “I needed to see you …” he said.

  The worm feral blinked his eyes, no longer concealed by glasses as they had been outside the old house. Caw realised that they were pale orbs, with no irises or pupils.

  He must be totally blind.

  “It’s me, Elizabeth Carmichael’s son,” said Caw.

  The feral unfurled his body slowly, sniffing the air. “I know who you are,” he said, “but who are they?” He jerked his head towards Lydia and Selina. “Enemies, come to prise me out of my hole, are they?”

  “They’re my friends,” said Caw.

  “But she’s not my friend,” said Lydia.

  “They’re no threat,” Caw added. He made a face at Lydia to say now is not the time!

  The worm feral edged a little closer, keeping his hands against the wall. His fingernails, Caw noticed, were sharp, and caked with dirt. The worms at Caw’s feet burrowed into the ground and disappeared. “I am not afraid,” he said. “What have I to fear? It is you who should tremble, mortal children.”

  “Mr Wythe …” said Caw, “or should I call you, Bootlace?”

  “Call me what you will, crow talker,” said the worm feral. “I’ve been known by more names than I can remember.”

  “These are feral graves, aren’t they?” asked Caw.

  Bootlace nodded. “Since the founding of the city, I have been the custodian of this place. What better person to watch over the dead than one who can never count death’s blessings?”

  “So wait – you can’t die?” said Selina.

  “No,” said Bootlace. “And believe me, I have tried. No water can drown me, no fall can break my body. No poisons or weapons can bring the darkness I crave.”

  We’re getting nowhere, said Shimmer. Wythe’s a nutjob.

  “I need to know about the Midnight Stone,” said Caw.

  “And how should I know anything about that, crow talker?”

  The blunt tone took Caw by surprise.

  “Because you gave it to me,” he said.

  “I was merely looking after it,” said Bootlace. “Your mother gave you the stone.”

  “So you have no idea what it does?” said Selina.

  “Perhaps I did, once,” said Bootlace. “But I have chosen not to remember. One mind can only carry so much pain. So many deaths, each one as inevitable as the sunset. Only the worms remember all.”

  “Do worms have memories then?” asked Lydia.

  Bootlace turned on her and Lydia stumbled back into Selina, who shoved her off. The worm feral jabbed a fingernail towards them both. “The worms are memories, foolish child,” he said.

  Anyone else thinking he’s not making a lot of sense? asked Shimmer.

  I’m with you, said Screech.


  “Well, could I, uh … can I talk to them?” said Caw. “The worms, that is.”

  I can’t believe you just said that, muttered Glum.

  Bootlace snarled. “Why should they talk to you?” he said. “Crows are not favourites with worms, you know.”

  This is a waste of time, Caw, said Screech. Worms are good for one thing – dinner.

  But Caw wasn’t ready to be turned back. “I came here because you’re my only chance,” he said. “My mother must have trusted you for a reason. The Mother of Flies wants the Midnight Stone, and I need to know why.”

  Bootlace chuckled. “The fly talker? No need to worry about her, I’m sure. The fly line are carrion-feeders, the lowest of the low.”

  “It’s not like that,” said Lydia. “She’s trying to take over the city.”

  “How the times change!” said Bootlace. “Well, I am safe down here, I suppose.”

  Caw tried not to let his impatience show. “Please,” he said. “Can’t you tell us anything?”

  “I cannot remember,” said Bootlace. “Your concerns might seem great to you, but for me they are trifles.”

  “Oh, you’re hopeless,” said Lydia fiercely. “Just a selfish old man.”

  “When you have lived as long as I have,” said Bootlace, “your self is all you have.”

  Caw’s frustration was reaching a boiling point. There had to be some way to convince him. And then, suddenly, he realised there was. He reached over his shoulder and drew the Crow’s Beak. Selina gasped. “Caw, you can’t!”

  “A sword?” said the worm feral with a snarl. “Blades do not frighten me, boy. I have seen many in my time.”

  “This isn’t a sword for hurting people,” said Caw. “It can rip a doorway through to oblivion. To the Land of the Dead.”

  As he raised the sword, the ground stirred, and thousands of worms broke through. There were so many, the air rustled with the sound of their bodies. Bootlace stood up, eyes fixed on the sword as if mesmerised.

  “Would you really do this for me?” he said. “End my torment? Help me leave this world for the next?”

  Caw nodded. “I’ll help you to die. But first, help me.”

  The worms’ bodies writhed, standing upright like feelers in the air.

  Bootlace gestured to the rock on which he had been sitting. “Very well, crow talker. Take a seat and journey into a world of memory.”