Dark Light

by Jodi Taylor

  The last light was streaking the horizon as we approached. Dark clouds raced across a darker sky. Around us the tall trees waved their branches in the rising wind, sighing softly to each other. I could imagine witches swooping low, riding the wind, their hair streaming behind them as they did homage to the moon. On such a night as this, wild things were abroad.

  A figure stood at the railings, gazing out into the gathering darkness. I thought it was a man until she turned. She was certainly tall enough. And slim enough. Her hair was knotted tightly at the back of her neck and her face was as hard as iron. I tried not to stare because it was the first time a person’s appearance had told me one thing and her colour another. Hard and tight were perfect words to describe her, but I could see her colour – a warm gold, shimmering gently in the gloom. Her colour said soft and gentle, but it was wrapped tightly around her and giving nothing away. There were no swirling shapes to read, no spikes of colour to give me any clues to her thoughts. She was … encased … there was no other word for it and completely in control, unlike poor Iblis whose silver colour swirled towards her so far and so fast it nearly left him completely. He loved her. Oh, how he loved her. It was there, plain for me to see. He loved her with everything he had. And it was cruel. His colour rushed towards her, ready to envelop and caress her, as Michael Jones’s had once done to me. I pushed that thought away. Her own colour thickened and brightened, strengthening her defences. In vain did the silver mist beat upon it – she would not let him in. After a hopeless minute, it crept back, wounded, and wrapped itself gently around him.

  None of this showed in either of their faces and I felt ashamed for having witnessed it.

  She stood now with her back to the view, her long coat flapping dramatically in the wind.

  ‘Iblis.’

  ‘Melek.’

  They bowed to each other.

  ‘Melek, I recognise and acknowledge your authority in this place.’

  ‘Iblis, I extend to you my welcome and protection.’

  They looked at each other for a moment. And very dramatic it was, with the wind in the trees and Iblis’s hair streaming around his head.

  ‘So, you have come in from the woods?’

  ‘For a little while.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘This woman left an offering for me. I am bound to serve her.’

  ‘And you have brought her here?’

  ‘I think you will want to see her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, among other things, she entered the realm of the Jötund.’

  Some people don’t like being discussed as if they’re not there but it has never bothered me and I was fascinated by the interaction between them. They were standing close together and where their colours touched, powerful sparks of energy flew off into the wild night. What had I got myself into here?

  She turned to me. ‘Approach.’’

  Iblis came and took my arm. He addressed me but his words were for her.

  ‘My apologies, Elizabeth Cage. My colleague was raised by wolves. She would very much like to meet you.’

  I stepped forwards. ‘Good evening.’

  I got nothing from her. Something stirred, but what it was I couldn’t have told you. She stared at me, unblinking. I had no clue what she was thinking, but apparently she harboured no ill will towards me because she said, ‘Good evening.’ There was a pause and then she said softly, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ I said, briskly. ‘And you?’

  She smiled. Well, one corner of her mouth turned up. I’d amused her. ‘I thank you. I am also well.’

  There was a long silence. I could feel Iblis looking from her to me and back again and remembered his interest in me when we first met. If he was expecting some sort of reaction then he was disappointed. Her face and her colour remained unchanged. I could feel the tension between them. And then it was gone.

  I offered my hand.

  She took it very gently, as if remembering to remember not to wrench my arm out of its socket. ‘My name is Melek.’

  ‘I am Elizabeth Cage.’

  ‘Long life and happiness to you, Elizabeth Cage.’

  ‘And to you too.’

  She stepped back. That seemed to be it. Meeting over. I was already turning away when she spoke softly. ‘You are quite right. He is quicksilver.’

  I looked at her, startled.

  ‘But he can be trusted. You will be safe with him.’ She raised her voice. ‘Iblis – a word.’

  I wandered a few paces away and pretended to look at the now invisible view. They stood, heads close, talking together and I suddenly thought how alike they were. Like two sides of the same coin. The same stern, sad faces. Yes, as far as I could see she had red hair and his was so blond as to be nearly white, but their build was the same. As was their height. And their eyes were identical – a deep, dramatic grey set beneath thick dark brows shaped like the wings of a bird.

  Looking at them together, I suddenly thought: one not as good as she should be and one not as bad as he could be. They were a tragedy waiting to happen. I don’t know what put that thought into my head. It had been a long day and I was very tired and more than a little out of my depth. I’d walked miles, been covered in troll snot and met two very strange people. All I wanted was to say goodbye to them, get back to the safety of my house, make a nice mug of cocoa and a sandwich and go to bed.

  As if she heard my thought, she turned her head and looked at me. Her colour gave nothing away. Nothing at all. Then she wheeled about, her coat flying, and disappeared into the shadows. I sighed. Very dramatic.

  Iblis joined me. ‘I am to make you cocoa and put you to bed.’

  ‘You’re still winding me up, aren’t you?’

  ‘If that is what you would like to believe.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two weeks later and things were calmer.

  I’d dismissed Iblis on my doorstep after he’d insisted on accompanying me all the way home. According to him, the apparently respectable town of Rushford was full of peril and fraught with danger as soon as the sun goes down. Once, I would have laughed at him, but over the last year I’d become painfully aware there was a lot more going on around us than most of us are ever aware of. We just live our unknowing lives around it.

  I’d had to promise faithfully to call on him should I ever need his assistance. He was mine, he’d said, assuming a dramatically handsome pose on the steps, his eyes laughing at me. In love with another he might be, but quite honestly, I don’t think he could help himself. It was part of his charm.

  I’d thanked him politely, made up my mind I would never be that desperate, and closed the front door with some relief. Whatever was going on out there, I really didn’t want to be a part of any of it. I wanted normality. I wanted ordinary, everyday life. I didn’t want the sort of life where a pleasant stroll in the countryside turns into a battle for survival in a troll’s cave. And especially, I didn’t want the sort of life where the rescuer was only slightly less dodgy than the troll.

  It occurred to me that these weird things were happening increasingly frequently. Yes, I’d seen people’s colours as a child, and occasionally something had flickered in the corner of my eye which I’d always been careful to ignore, but now things were beginning to happen to me directly. Jones had once asked me if saw dead people and the answer was that yes, sometimes I did, but these days, I seemed to be less of an observer and more of a participant. I often asked myself – were they occurring because I was getting stronger and could see more, or was I becoming weaker and not able to protect myself as well as I used to? Neither option was particularly attractive.

  And I was alone again. There’d been no contact with Michael Jones since he’d brought me back from Greyston. I hadn’t thought his tactfulness would last this long. It could be because he was off somewhere, working. He led a peripatetic life. He was off somewhere peripateticking. I told myself I wasn’t missing him at all.

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bsp; To keep myself busy, I rejoined the Local History Society. Meetings were held twice monthly in the Reference Library which was part of the castle opposite so it wasn’t far to go. My neighbour Colonel Barton was the president and particularly pleased to see me.

  ‘I’m working on a history of Rushford Castle,’ he said, ‘and I wondered if you’d care to lend a hand.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That sounds exciting.’

  He indicated a box full of files, papers and rolled up maps. ‘Say that again in thirty minutes.’

  Everyone was supposed to have their own little project but I suspected most people came for the company and the very excellent cakes. Except for young Mark who came for even younger Alyson. There were usually about eight of us – sometimes more, sometimes less, but eight seemed to be the regular number.

  There was Mrs Painswick, champion knitter and cake-maker. She was a plump, maternal woman, who took very little part in the discussions, seemingly content just to sit, knit and listen. Her main concern seemed to be her daughter, Alyson, whom she watched ceaselessly without seeming to, her orangey colour frequently merging with Alyson’s gentle coral.

  I worried for the pair of them. It wasn’t just that Alyson was here so often on what should be a school day; Mrs Painswick had a clever hand with make-up, but occasionally, when the sun shone through the window and she turned a certain way, you could see the bruises she’d failed to hide. No one ever said anything, but Colonel Barton would be extra assiduous in passing her tea, and everyone chatted gently around her as she knitted furiously. I wondered if the knitting wasn’t some kind of displacement activity. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, one day, one of her needles wasn’t found rammed into Mr Painswick’s left ear.

  You didn’t need any special gifts, however, to see that most of her attention was for Alyson, a quiet girl with long, pale hair that was almost silver. I was reminded of the description of Elizabeth Woodville, queen to Edward IV, with her infamous silver-gilt hair and all the trouble she caused. Alyson was timid and polite, rarely moved far from her mother’s orbit, and spent most of the sessions carefully looking things up in books as young Mark – who invariably sat next to her – took notes on his laptop. I have no idea what their project was – I’m almost certain they didn’t either, but I suspected these two hours on a Thursday afternoon, twice a month, were a haven of peace and safety for both mother and daughter.

  Moving around the table, there was Mrs Stoppard, the reference librarian who advised us all, and next to her was Mr McClelland, a retired accountant. Her behaviour was never anything other than strictly professional, but it was very obvious to me that they were strongly attracted to each other. Since, however, there was both a Mr Stoppard and a Mrs McClelland, strictly professional behaviour was all they were ever going to get. Her colour was a pinky-fawn and his was a pinky-grey. Occasionally, as one consulted a microfiche file and the other an old newspaper, their colours would reach out and gently touch each other and I would always look away.

  Next to Mr McClelland sat one E. Cage, getting stuck into her Rushford Castle project, busy and enjoying herself – and the cake – and on the other side of her was Colonel Barton, himself appreciating a few hours respite from his devoted care of Mrs Barton, whose good days were getting further and further apart.

  Our group was completed by Robert Ryder, a sulky young man who so obviously didn’t want to be here that I wondered why he bothered. It was only later I discovered he needed to complete a course of study in order to qualify for another course that would get him the qualification he needed.

  I would look around us sometimes, wondering what sort of group we were when I was possibly the most normal one there. But they were nice people and I enjoyed it. And yes, I know the whole thing was actually one long tea and cake session, but there was a formal break at half past three when we would ask each other about our week and how our projects were going, and Alyson would smile her pale smile and young Mark would blush and nearly fall off his chair.

  Yes, they all had their problems, but on the other hand, no one seemed to be a flesh-eating demon in disguise, and it was so good to do something normal with normal people. Afterwards, I’d help the colonel home with all his paperwork and boxes of materials, wave to Mrs Barton in the window, go home and cook myself egg and chips – the feast of kings – and settle down to watch television for the evening.

  I did, more or less, stick to my resolution about getting out of the house on Wednesdays, although I’d learned my lesson about lonely places. I did walk, but I stuck to places where there were always people nearby. I visited local monuments, walked up the river the other way – avoiding all bridges – and enrolled on another Drawing for Beginners course at the library: I hadn’t benefited much from the previous one and besides, a lot had happened since then. I even considered a cooking course at the local college. Michael Jones was an excellent cook and it would be nice to be able to meet him on equal terms, and then realised that meant I was considering a future with him in it and I wasn’t too sure about that, so I changed my mind.

  I read a lot and watched TV in the evenings. I know it doesn’t sound exciting but from my point of view no one was trying to eat me or kill me or hold me anywhere against my will, so I was OK with unexciting. Unexciting is good. I don’t know why I’m apologising for my lifestyle – it suited me down to the ground. I woke each morning, worked my way through my carefully planned day, and revelled in quiet enjoyment. I had everything I ever wanted. For me, life was good.

  And then, I had the dream.

  I do dream occasionally and just like everyone else I have the occasional nightmare, but this one was just … weird.

  I think everyone always expects strange happenings to take place only in old places. Places with a history. Sinister monks haunting ruined monasteries, or headless ladies drifting sadly through deserted royal palaces, or ghostly battles being fought under empty skies, murders, hauntings, sinister happenings at a crossroads – none of these ever seem to take place in say, bus shelters, or council offices, or housing estates. But that was where I was. In this dream. I was walking down an empty road in a modern housing estate. The street sign was as plain as day – Meadowsweet Road. There was a shiny red post box on the corner. The gleaming black tarmac on the road looked new and the front gardens still had that raw, just planted look about them. I could even see the joins where the lawns had been turfed. There were cars parked in driveways. Basketball hoops hung over garage doors.

  There was no one around anywhere. I was surrounded by silence. The sun beat down relentlessly. It was so hot that the new tarmac felt sticky under my feet. The front gardens were too tiny for trees and there was no shade anywhere. I plodded on and on, not knowing where I was going. I was hot and thirsty and alone in this big, modern world. And that was the other thing that was wrong. Everything was just slightly too big. My eyes were level with car door handles. Houses looked enormous. Gates were too big and stiff to open. Mummy and Daddy were always busy. There was no one to play with. I’d left all my friends behind. This new place was boring. I was so hot. And there was no shade.

  And then the voice said, ‘Hello, little girl.’

  I looked up into the sun, shading my eyes. A funny knobbly face, all brown and lumpy, looked down at me.

  Mummy says I mustn’t be rude but Daddy says I have to tell the truth, so I did.

  ‘Your face is funny.’

  ‘You must be so hot. Why don’t you come in here where it’s much cooler?’

  ‘Are you stranger danger?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not. That’s only for nasty people. I’m not nasty.’

  ‘My mummy says I’m not to speak to strangers.’

  ‘Your mummy didn’t mean me. I’m not a stranger. I’m your friend.’

  ‘My friends are a long way away.’

  ‘That is so sad. You poor thing. Never mind. I’ll be your friend. Would you like to be mine?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
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br />   ‘Well, while you think about it why not come in and sit here in the shade. Where it’s nice and cool. Look.’

  ‘My mummy …’

  ‘Your mummy will never know. It’s my secret place. No one knows it’s here. You’ll be quite safe and you look so tired.’

  ‘I am sleepy.’

  ‘Of course you are – out in all this hot sunshine. Come into the shade and rest for a moment. Just lie down and sleep … Lie down and sleep …’

  The dream shifted. An evil colour was all around me. Strong and hard and malevolent. A thick green, streaked with the brilliant crimson of hate. Something alive and dead at the same time. Something old. I could smell wood – but not good wood, like my dad’s old shed. Bad wood. With a rotten heart.

  ‘Where am I? I can’t see. Let me out. I don’t like it here. I want to go home. I want my mummy …’

  A crying child. Cold and terrified. Hurting her hands as she clawed at the walls. In the dark …

  I woke in a huge panic, my heart hammering in my chest. My whole body was drenched in sweat and I was all tangled up in the bedclothes as if I’d been struggling. Struggling to get out …

  I couldn’t bear to be in bed a second longer. I fought my way free of the duvet, wrenched off my unpleasantly damp nightdress and went for a shower, letting the tepid water run down my body, cooling and soothing me.

  I dressed slowly, made my rather shaky way downstairs, drew back the curtains to let in the early morning light, boiled the kettle for some tea, and, very unwilling to go back upstairs, switched on the television.

  The on the hour news programme had just started and a reporter, his face serious and concerned, was broadcasting from a residential area somewhere.

  ‘The family moved to the Yew Tree Estate just under a week ago, where young Keira Swanson was understood to be settling in well. The estate has plenty of play areas and open spaces and, I understand, police are searching these rigorously. Residents on the estate have been urged to check garages, sheds and outbuildings – anywhere a little girl could have been accidentally locked in. Police and a large group of volunteers from the neighbourhood are out now, combing the area for little Keira who is described as six years old and small for her age.’