by Caro King
Before
The Story of Mr Strood
by Harry McWhirter
A raven flew overhead. It looked down and remembered the boy.
The boy was running like he was possessed. Then the raven flew lower and a flash of steel caught his eye. The boy was holding a knife.
Now the boy was not alone. A man was chasing him. The raven saw the boy’s eyes. They flashed with a sudden white fire. Then the man gained on him. Then, in a heartbeat, the boy spun around and stabbed the man in the stomach. The boy paled, then turned and fled.
The man, with his dying breath, whispered, ‘Why?’ before collapsing in a bloody heap. The raven had seen many deaths but never one that seemed so potent, and the raven was not one to ignore the signs. This was big.
I ran. The blood was dripping from my hands. I would not be accepted back now. Eight dead by my hand. Never in a million years would it be forgotten. I would not, could not, be accepted into anyone’s house ever again.
It was getting dark now and I pushed through the dark trees with a frantic obsession. I pushed my way into a clearing and there I climbed a tree and made a little bed, nestled among the many boughs that formed an untidy floor for my makeshift bed. It wasn’t comfortable but I was too scared to go down there now. I could hear the hunt.
Just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard a rustling and a twig snap. I jumped up. Then my brother walked into the clearing. He was holding a knife and he called out, ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are. I know you’re here.’
We hated each other. I lowered myself down to a lower branch. I looked at him. He had always had it in for me. I lowered myself down further. He wouldn’t give me any mercy. Suddenly my vision turned red. I jumped down the remaining distance and landed on his back. He started struggling. I had to act fast. He would overpower me and then I would be in trouble.
I drew my knife and without hesitation killed him. He was still for a couple of heartbeats before collapsing into the dust. I stood there panting. I looked up just as it began to rain. I filled my lungs with cool night air and howled. I howled for my lost life, my pain and fear, the fear that I was slowly being driven insane.
Then I realised that there was nothing here for me anymore. The fragile hope that my family might still harbour some love for me was gone: destroyed, obliterated in one single act, one movement.
The raven swooped in lower to get a better look at the boy. It was pitch black and the boy was running blindly through the trees, away from the ashes that were the body of the boy’s brother. He pushed through a holly bush and ran on.
Now the sounds of the hunt were fading away behind him but he still didn’t slow. He crashed through the dense undergrowth of the valley, which from the raven’s point of view was very small compared to the rest of the country, but the raven supposed it was all the boy knew. It was not that the valley was small, by any means, it was plenty big enough for the three or four medium-sized collections of houses that occupied it, it was just that the rest of the country the raven flew over was so vast. When the boy left the valley, for the raven believed he would, he would have no easy task traversing the trackless wastelands ahead of him.
I ran blinded by blood and also the stifling mists that hung over the valley. I ran into a clearing and nearly ran head on into a rock wall. A sheer rock wall loomed in front of me like a giant over a mouse. I looked left, nothing, but then I looked right, and among the trees I could see a silver glow. I made for it. There, in the rock, was a swirling pool of light.
I could hear voices. ‘Come to ussss,’ they said. ‘You can ssstart again here. We won’t judge you.’ I heard the hunt behind me, louder, and I stepped into the portal.
Suddenly he was gone, the boy was gone. Vanished into thin air. Disappeared.
This was before. Before Mr Strood.