Lorrie sighed. It was time she headed back, even though it was earlier than she’d intended. The plan had been to stay out until just after dark. If this was to be her last time hunting alone, or ever, and she was going to catch some punishment anyway, Lorrie hadn’t felt obliged to be considerate. Let them worry, she’d told herself. She’d wanted to have as much time as possible in the cool, green solitude of the forest amongst the musty autumnal smell of mushrooms and fallen leaves—she was going to miss it so.
But guilt was calling her home. Lorrie hated the thought of worrying her mother, and her father. Daddy would patiently take the brunt of her mother’s worried temper until she turned up, listening to threats that became more dire with each passing minute. But then they’d argue about her punishment, each claiming the other was being too harsh, until they settled on something that was hardly a punishment at all. Lorrie smiled: they were so predictable.
As she stood up to go a strange feeling began to grow in her, flowing down her neck to curdle in her stomach. At first she thought it was her imagination, but then she felt a flash of something that shrilled like fear. Or even more than fear, but it was gone almost instantly. Lorrie was so far away from home that the feeling had to have come from Rip. It shook her so that she started back at a jog, trying to think of every possible thing that could cause such a spurt of terror in a six-year-old boy.
Now, as she grew closer to home, her worry increased, until she was running flat-out, her long slim legs flashing like a deer’s as she hurdled bushes and ran right through a sounder of half-wild swine grubbing for acorns.
She could sense Rip, but it was as though he was asleep, and with a stab of fear she suddenly realized that she couldn’t sense her mother at all. All her life there had been that contact, the warmth of her mother’s presence somewhere in a corner of her mind. Never had she felt an absence there, like the aching void left by a pulled tooth. The bag holding the string of coneys and pheasants banged against her leg, and then her lungs began to burn and her heart to hammer. She ignored it all.
Gradually she became aware that she was smelling smoke. What’s burning? she wondered. Lorrie stopped and tried to tell where the smoke was coming from. If this had been midwinter she’d have thought her father was burning off a field. But it was far too late in the year for that: the new seed was already in and any pile of weeds being burned wouldn’t put this much smoke in the air. Besides, it was too late in the day. Her mind jumped to the ashes she’d thrown out this morning. No, she thought. The barrel wasn’t big enough to throw up this much smoke and it was right next to the watertub by the eaves which captured soft rainwater from the roof for the leaching process, and you could dump it right in with the pull of a rope.
A new thrill of horror ran through her stomach as she thought: The house is on fire!
People died in fires—there was a bad one in the district every couple of years . . . ‘Mother! Father! Rip!’
Panic left her gasping. She threw down the game-bag and left the trail, vaulting over the snake-rail fence that separated the seven-acre field from the woods. The hay had been cut, stubble only calf-high, and she raced across it like the wind.
As she dodged around a huge and ancient oak, that her father had judged too much trouble to uproot—leaving it as a marker between fields, her foot caught on a gnarled root. Her arms windmilled for balance, but it was too late. The ground rose up and struck her as she landed full length with enough force to stun; she could taste blood in her mouth—iron and salt—where her teeth had grazed the inside of a cheek.
She lay panting for a moment and was about to rise and run again when she saw two strangers. Both male; they were a rough-looking pair and Lorrie dropped down again, frightened. The brown homespun and leather of her clothing would be hard to see against the earth and faded straw, and her hair was much the same colour. The late afternoon sun was throwing long shadows, and the landscape was now painted in bright edges around opaque darkness. In the shadow of the ancient oak she was invisible to the men. They would have had to have been looking straight at her as she ran down the hill to have seen her before the fall.
The men looked exactly like the kind of men who seemed to haunt her mother’s nightmares, with their greasy hair and filthy clothes and faces that bore witness to a life lived hard. They were young and strong, though; she could see the corded muscle in their necks and forearms.
They were standing over something on the ground that she couldn’t see from where she lay, and one drew a tool out of a stained burlap bag. It looked like the sort of long-handled pliers the blacksmith used, but with a broad front end.
One of the men worked the handles of the tool while the other bent over something on the ground. With a cry of disgust the man with the tool yanked and stepped back, something wet and floppy held in the grip of what looked like teeth.
Lorrie realized that it was blood and meat and her breath froze in horror. If they’d butchered a sheep, why tear it apart like this? Why not cut it up with the perfectly serviceable-looking knives they wore at their waists?
‘Makes me want to puke!’ the man with the pliers said. He dropped the torn meat into a sack and reached forward with the tool again. ‘Why do we have to do it this way?’ He dropped another strip of meat into the sack.
‘We have to do it this way,’ the other said, rising, ‘because this is the way we’re being paid to do it.’ He gave a snaggle-toothed grin. ‘And if I’d known you was a girl, I could have got more use out of you.’
The other man spat close by his companion’s feet by way of comment, but not quite on them.
The second man studied what they’d been tearing at. ‘Do you think that’s enough?’ he asked.
‘It is for me,’ the one with the pliers answered, dropping the tool into the sack. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They moved away as Lorrie watched. She waited until they’d vanished behind a hedge and she scuttled over to see what they’d been doing, staying low. Glancing nervously in all directions Lorrie caught sight of one of the strangers disappearing over the hill toward her home and froze. She held her breath until she was sure they were gone, then cautiously moved forward again until she stood over what they’d been tearing apart.
For a moment Lorrie couldn’t even breathe; was so shocked that all she knew was that this used to be a man. Suddenly something went snap behind her eyes, and she realized she knew him.
It was Emmet Congrove, the man of all work; she could tell by his clothes, and the thinning grey hair, and the wart on the back of his right hand, always inflamed where he picked at it.
He’d been with the family since just before Rip was born. How could they do that to him? How could anyone do such a thing?
Tearing her fascinated gaze from the terrible wounds on the body Lorrie turned aside, her hands covering her mouth. Falling to her knees she was instantly, helplessly sick; heaving and sobbing uncontrollably. Finally the nausea passed and Lorrie hugged her middle to ease the ache, spitting to clear her mouth.
A sudden stab of fear that was not her own sobered her. Rip! Lorrie leapt to her feet and ran toward home. Rip was in danger. But where is Mother? Why can’t I feel her? In her heart Lorrie feared the answer, and she refused to believe it.
The smoke was growing thicker.
Coming over the hill that hid the house and barn from view she ran into a pall of black smoke so thick that she could see nothing. Lorrie stopped, choking. She heard hoofbeats and the neigh of a horse, but no longer felt the panicked fear that Rip had projected just moments before. A puff of wind parted the smoke and she could see that the barn was wreathed in orange-red flame, thundering where it had got to the packed hay in the loft and turning almost white along the rooftree. Beyond she thought she saw two figures on horseback riding fast down the road.
Thick sooty-black smoke poured out of every window of their house; wisps of it were coming out of the thatch too, and as she watched a few tentative tongues of flame. Lorrie let out a cry like
the wordless shriek of a hawk and ran down the hill, careless of where her feet went, not minding the pounding shock as they hit the ridged furrows.
The wind shifted again, sending billows of smoke toward her, blinding her, blurring her eyes with tears. She coughed with a racking intensity, her lungs dry and burning with her effort and the harsh smoke. Then she tripped over something and fell forward with a thud. What had she tripped over? Slowly she turned, her heart hammering with dread, and looked behind her. It was her father, his throat torn out, his eyes staring sightlessly upward, his beard moving slightly in the wind that bore the smoke. His blood pooled out around him, so much blood that the ground was turning to mud beneath it. His wood-chopping axe lay not far from his outstretched hand, the edge still shiny.
She tried to scream, but her throat closed and all that came out was a pathetic squeak as she scuttled backwards across the dirt. Then with a choked sob, she forced herself to stand. For a long moment she looked down upon the grisly sight. Lorrie reached toward him, halted and drew her hand back, holding it against her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. Then she looked toward the house—her head moving in little jerks—and saw her mother, mercifully lying face down. There was blood pooled beneath her too, so much blood that Lorrie knew her mother could not possibly be alive.
Lorrie gave one sob and stopped herself. Rip was still alive! Rip had only her now, and only she could save him. Forcing herself to turn away from the horror, she wrenched her gaze away from her mother’s body, turned and ran around the house, and down the road after the vanishing riders.
She ran until her lungs ached and she could taste blood in the back of her throat. She raced up one hill and down another until she came to the top of a rise and saw them; two men, one of them struggling with a small boy.
Rip, she thought. One of the boy’s shoes fell off, and the man holding him clouted him across the side of the head. In what seemed like a moment they were out of sight around a curve in the road and soon she couldn’t even hear the hollow sound of the hooves on packed dirt.
Running full out Lorrie came to the place where her brother’s shoe had fallen. She reached for it and fell to her knees, gasping as she was overcome with sobs and desperation. Finally, still weeping, she forced herself up and staggered down the road in the direction the kidnappers had gone. After a few steps she stopped.
I need a horse, she thought. The only one they had was Horace, their old plough horse. He was no champing stallion, but he was better than shanks’s pony. The kidnappers couldn’t keep galloping, they’d have to slow down sometime.
‘Slow and steady gets the job done,’ her father always said. ‘And a man can walk further than he can run.’
Her breath caught in her throat as sharp as a fish bone when she remembered that she’d never hear him say such a thing again; the pain was physical, like needles stabbing into eyes and heart.
Turning toward home she saw flames flash through the smoke churning over the hilltop. Everything was burning. Lorrie thought of her mother and father lying in their blood . . .
They’re dead, she forced her mind to say. Blackness threatened to rise up and overwhelm her. She wanted nothing so much as to awake from a horrible dream, or to discover this but a mad illusion from a fever. She kept looking around, expecting things to change. She knew that if she turned quickly, her father would be walking toward the house, or if she ran home fast, her mother would be standing in the kitchen doorway.
A great primal sob shook her, followed by a scream—more than a scream: a deep roar of rage, pain and defiance that caused her to clench fists and throw back her head and shriek until her throat was raw and there was no air left in her lungs.
Gasping for air, she forced herself to look clearly ahead. She had to put pain aside. Mourning would come later. Rip’s alive! she thought again, and everything in her turned cold, her outrage and pain turning from fire to ice. Rip must be saved! Hysteria and confusion would serve only to put him at more risk. Obviously those who took him wanted him alive for a reason, otherwise he would be dead with his parents.
Rip might be facing slavery or worse. And there was nothing she could do for her parents. At least not now. She looked around once more, burning the images of this moment into her young memory. She would never forget.
With silent resolve, she set off toward her home.
EIGHT
Family
Lorrie ran.
She wasn’t quite home yet when she saw Bram’s father, Ossrey, coming across the fields. His wife, Allet, was with him, and a field hand; behind them more neighbours were coming, the whole valley turning out. The men carried shovels and axes and the women carried buckets. Lorrie ran to them, throwing herself into Ossrey’s arms, weeping so hard she couldn’t speak.
Ossrey held her for a moment, stroking her hair then, keeping one arm around her shoulders, he guided her toward the house and barn.
‘Where are your ma and pa?’ he asked gently. ‘Did they send you for help?’
Shaking her head, utterly breathless from weeping, Lorrie couldn’t answer him. Just then they came in sight of the house and barn and the bodies of her mother and father.
‘Sung protect us,’ Allet whispered in horror.
‘Stay here, Lorrie,’ Ossrey said, putting her gently aside.
But Lorrie grabbed hold of his sleeve and wouldn’t let go as she struggled to get herself under control. Finally she was able to speak.
‘Men who did this . . . took my brother,’ she managed to gasp out. Pointing down the road, she said, ‘Help me get him back.’
‘First we must see if we can help your parents,’ Ossrey said calmly.
Lorrie shook her head, tears flowing down her face. ‘You can’t, you can’t,’ she said plaintively. Then once more, ‘You can’t.’
‘Oh, Lorrie,’ Ossrey said, gathering her into his arms. Over her head he and Allet exchanged glances.
‘Please,’ Lorrie said, pushing herself away from his chest, ‘help me find Rip.’
Just then a piece of the barn roof collapsed, sending up a storm of sparks, and Ossrey’s head whipped round at the roar of the fire.
‘We must take care of the fire, girl,’ he told her. ‘If it spreads to the crops, you’ll not be the only one around here to lose your fields.’
By now other neighbours had come up and were staring in horror at the scene before them.
‘What’s happened?’ someone asked in a dazed voice.
Lorrie looked from face to face and could see that they’d all be occupied with the fire in a moment and deaf to anything she said.
‘Murderers have kidnapped my baby brother,’ she said. ‘Help me get him back!’
‘Are you sure the boy is . . . wasn’t in the house, girl?’
‘No, men took him!’ Lorrie said, her voice verging on the hysterical. Exhaustion and fear were driving her to the brink of collapse.
Ossrey asked, ‘Any of you see any men riding along the road today?’
A murmur of voices answered in the negative. ‘I saw them!’ shouted Lorrie.
‘Lorrie, girl, someone will go for the constable, he’ll be the one to hunt these men down.’ Ossrey nodded to several of the men who started to hurry to the other side of the barn, while others ran to the well to get water. They would see that any fire in the fields started by blowing embers was quickly quenched.
She looked up into Ossrey’s kind face and knew that no one would follow the killers, at least not today. ‘I’ll go,’ she said impulsively. ‘I’ll take Horace and ride to the constable. That will leave more men to fight the fire.’
But Ossrey was shaking his head. ‘You go with my Allet,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a bad, bad shock, girl. Someone else will go for the constable. Try to rest,’ he advised. ‘We’ll take care of everything.’
‘These are teeth marks,’ Farmer Roben said, looking down at her father’s body. ‘An animal did this.’
Lorrie looked at them in wonder, more and more of them were
starting to fight the blaze. It was as though they hadn’t heard her, or understood what she’d said.
‘It wasn’t,’ she started to say.
Allet put her arm around Lorrie’s shoulders. ‘We’ll leave it to the men, shall we?’ She turned the girl toward her own farm and patted her. ‘You could use a nice rest.’
Lorrie pulled away, or tried to. Allet took her arm in a strong grip.
‘I need to find my brother!’ Lorrie shouted. She waved her free arm frantically. ‘Does anybody see him here? He’s been carried off by murderers, not animals, and he needs our help! We have to follow them now or we’ll lose them forever!’
‘That’s enough!’ Allet snapped, shaking her arm. ‘You leave it to the men and come with me right now! Don’t you get hysterical on me, girl,’ she warned.
Lorrie stared at her, open-mouthed. Then she looked around at the circle of her neighbours, those who weren’t already fighting the fire. ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said at last, her voice full of wonder.
One of the women stepped forward and put her hand to Lorrie’s cheek. ‘It’s not about believing you, child. It’s about doing what we can. You wouldn’t catch anyone on your old Horace, and any of us would have to run all the way back to our farms to get horses not much better.’ She sighed. ‘Meanwhile that fire might get out of control—you’ve lost the house and barn, but there’s still the crops, and if they go, the fire could spread to other farms. Besides, if we left now we’d be no closer to your brother. We’ll send word to the constable; he’ll know what to do about this. Try to have faith, dear.’
Lorrie started to weep again from sheer frustration, then began a keening that she was horrified to discover was beyond her control. Allet gave her arm another shake and a hard look. The other woman moved in to hold her gently but firmly. ‘What can one girl do against grown men except get herself into trouble?’ she asked quietly.
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