The Fourteenth Summer of Angus Jack

by Jen Storer

  ‘Martha?’ he said, and that feeling of intense fear, the one he had felt at the door, surged through him again. ‘It’s me. Angus.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Angus, looking around the room. It was dark and shadowy but it was empty. There was no-one else here. He thought of Varla and looked up. He could see past the rafters to the shingled roof. No birds, nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ he said urgently. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said Martha again but she made no attempt to move.

  ‘Martha, please,’ said Angus. ‘Come on. We have to go now. While we can.’

  ‘I can’t go with you,’ said Martha. ‘I’m leaving. I’m leaving soon. I’m leaving with ... Varla.’

  Angus felt as if he’d been punched. ‘Are you insane?’ he cried. He dragged on his sister’s arm. ‘Get up,’ he ordered. ‘Get up now!’

  There was a deep growl behind them and Angus spun around.

  In the doorway stood a tall, thin wolf. Its ragged coat was the colour of clotted cream. Its tail stood upright. Around its neck its hackles were raised.

  ‘Did you bring the narrare?’ asked Martha calmly.

  ‘What? Yes,’ said Angus, his mind racing, his eyes focused on the wolf.

  ‘Give it to me and then I have to say goodbye,’ said Martha.

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ said Angus. ‘This is crazy.’

  The wolf took a step forward.

  ‘Give me the narrare,’ said Martha. ‘I want to go with Varla. I want to be with her. She has taught me to sing and given me presents.’

  Angus knew he had to bide his time, draw this out while he tried to think. He sighed and slowly raised the case over his head. The wolf slunk closer.

  ‘Martha,’ he whispered, ‘what’s wrong with you? You don’t belong with Varla and you know it. You belong with us. With me and the Prof.’

  ‘The Prof?’ said Martha, and for the first time since Angus arrived he saw a flash of the old Martha. Anger and defiance flicked across her face. But in the same instant, Angus saw something else entirely. Something he had always avoided, ignored, denied.

  It was enormous sadness.

  ‘Give me the case,’ said Martha. ‘She wants to see it.’

  The wolf was closing in. Angus could smell its rancid breath. ‘Varla is lying,’ he said softly. ‘She’s using you, Martha. She doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t care about anyone —’

  The wolf pounced. It threw itself at Angus, knocking him sideways.

  Martha screamed. ‘Just do as I say, Angus,’ she cried. ‘I want to go. I hate it here. I hate this world!’

  The wolf was unnaturally heavy. Each of its paws seemed to bore into Angus’s flesh. Its coat reeked of old meat and death. It pinned Angus to the floor. As he kicked and fought, the wolf raised its head and howled. It was so loud, so awful, that Martha dropped the willow flute and the shells and shook uncontrollably.

  ‘Get out of here, Martha!’ yelled Angus. ‘Get out!’

  Martha scurried backward on her bottom, confused and disorientated, as if waking from a dream.

  As the wolf bared its teeth and lunged at his throat, Angus swung the leather case and slammed it against the beast’s head. The wolf yelped and collapsed on top of him. Angus summoned all his strength and heaved it aside.

  ‘Get up, get up!’ he screamed at Martha. ‘We have to go. NOW!’

  But instead of responding, Martha crawled toward the wolf and cradled its bleeding head in her arms. ‘You killed her!’ she said, her face white with rage and despair. ‘I loved her and you killed her.’

  ‘Martha, please,’ said Angus, dropping down beside his sister. ‘You’re not thinking straight. You have to come with me.’

  The wolf’s eyelids flickered. It would be awake again at any moment.

  Angus gently took his sister’s hand. He looked at her pleadingly. She tore her eyes away from the wolf and raised her face toward her brother’s.

  ‘Who am I?’ she said sadly. ‘I can’t remember anymore. I can never remember ...’

  ‘You are Martha Jack,’ said Angus. ‘Martha. Jack. There’s no-one else like you anywhere.’

  Martha thought for a moment.

  ‘I miss Mum,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Everything about her, it’s all so hazy.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Angus. ‘I’ve been writing it down. All the memories. All the stories. What made her laugh. Her favourite films. How she dressed — remember those horrible green beads? Remember how she thought she could sing?’

  Martha smiled shakily.

  ‘The perfume she wore. How she was petrified of cockroaches and always said “whatchamacallit”. I’ll help you when you forget, Martha. I’ll be your memory.’

  Martha let go of the wolf’s head and it flopped to the floor. The wolf lay still for a moment then slowly opened one eye.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Angus quickly, and he pulled his sister to her feet and grabbed the leather case.

  The wolf snarled. The sound was soft — and bloodcurdling.

  ‘Run!’ cried Angus.

  They tore out of the room. Behind them, the wolf rose to its feet. It howled, but its howls were more like the screams of a human.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  ____________________________________________

  Mevras speaks

  Watch it!’ The Donut Lady appeared from out of the shadows. ‘Behind you!’ she cried.

  The kids spun around. In the narrow hallway, not five paces behind them, stood a spectacularly ferocious-looking woman. She was unnaturally tall and wore a full-length fur coat, grimy and matted. Her long, dark hair was as tangled and filthy as the fishing nets outside the shanty. Damp blood streaked the side of her face.

  Angus wrenched Martha aside as Varla made a grab for them. They tumbled into the nearest room off the hallway.

  The Donut Lady bellowed something in a foreign language and Varla turned her attention away from the kids.

  Angus peeped around the doorframe.

  The Donut Lady held her sword at her side and approached Varla cautiously.

  ‘You!’ said Varla.

  ‘I am surprised you remember,’ said the Donut Lady, trying to conceal her revulsion at the sight of Varla. Varla was in some ways the same. But in many ways she was greatly altered. For one thing she was enormous. But more alarming than her height was her presence. The Donut Lady felt a wave of nausea. It was as if Varla’s essence, her very soul, had left her.

  Varla eyed the Donut Lady scornfully. ‘You came back to this world. You left the Old Realm to be ... this?’ she said, throwing her hands wide. ‘To continue this worthless existence?’

  ‘The carnival has always been good to me,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘It was once good to you too, Varla. You were a great talent. You were adored on this side.’

  ‘Pah,’ said Varla. ‘What did I want with illusions and perception errors? Children’s tricks! As for my adoring public, they stopped adoring me long before I left this dull world.’

  ‘You could have made a comeback,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘Could have revamped your routine. You had so much talent. So much of the shazam and charisma! You still do.’

  ‘Don’t flatter me,’ said Varla, almost spitting with contempt. ‘Besides, I found so much more, didn’t I? In the Old Realm I found real magick. Real power.’

  The Donut Lady sighed. ‘Your choices in life, I suppose they are none of my business. But, Varla, I know you must long to get back to the Old Realm. I see you here before me, I see you in this degraded, bedraggled state, and know you are not here by choice. I will aid your passage back through the veil. I am here to help you.’

  ‘You?’ said Varla suspiciously. ‘You will help me?’

  ‘And in return you will leave the children and their father in peace.’

  Varla stroked the collar on her coat. Her fingers looked withered — almost scaly.

  ‘I do this for the sake o
f old times,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘And because these children are special to me.’

  ‘And the narrare?’ Varla’s voice was husky with greed.

  ‘The narrare belongs with the goblins,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘This is how it always is and will be. It was the wish of Mevras himself.’

  Varla laughed mirthlessly. ‘I’ve waited decades for this,’ she said. ‘Do you really expect me to give it up now?’

  ‘If you wish to go home,’ said the Donut Lady pointedly, ‘yes.’

  ‘You think you’re the only one who can get me back through the veil?’ said Varla quickly. ‘There are others in this miserable world, you know.’

  ‘If you are speaking of Lynch,’ said the Donut Lady, ‘I think you will find he is ... indisposed.’

  Varla shifted her weight. From his vantage point behind the doorframe, Angus could see that her feet were troubling her. He could see her bare heels. They had changed to a leathery grey colour. And something was protruding from her ankles ...

  ‘Yes, I knew this idiot was in love with you,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘Even when he was still with the carnival. I saw his madness, his obsession. Mirrors everywhere! It was all for you that he did what he did. Chasing that narrare, threatening children, just for you.’

  Varla shuddered. She rolled her shoulders painfully.

  ‘I intercepted Lynch this very day. He was on his way here. Always and forever at your bidding,’ said the Donut Lady.

  ‘He loves me.’ Varla shrugged. ‘What can I say? It’s entertaining. It always was.’

  ‘I knew you had found a way to summon him. I knew he would help you escape — and take little Martha with you, no doubt.’

  ‘That girl has the blood of Mevras,’ hissed Varla.

  The Donut Lady shook her head. ‘What has become of you, Varla?’

  ‘These useless children have the blood of Mevras!’ shrieked Varla as if that were explanation enough.

  ‘And you do not,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘And you never will. The battle is lost.’

  ‘Their blood, so full of the endowment of Mevras, will make my magick invincible!’ cried Varla. She teetered slightly — and pulled forth her own weapon: a long, ivory dagger almost like the fang or tusk of an enormous beast. The tip was rusty red, discoloured with blood. This weapon had killed before.

  ‘I will find my own way back through the veil,’ said Varla. ‘And I will take the children with me. Rest assured, I will kill them quickly. Such a tiny sacrifice.’ She laughed as she lunged at the Donut Lady.

  Angus recoiled in horror and slammed the door. He and Martha huddled together. They could hear the thuds and shouts of a terrible fight. They could also hear the Donut Lady, still trying to calm Varla, to reason with her.

  ‘What will we do?’ said Martha. ‘We can’t get out. The window’s boarded up.’

  Angus glanced around the room. For a moment he wished they had fled toward the back door. But he had not realised it was the only way out.

  He looked up. Shafts of light poured in through the derelict roof but there were boards across the only window and they looked solid.

  They heard the Donut Lady cry out in pain.

  ‘She’s going to kill the Donut Lady,’ said Martha. ‘I just know it!’

  Angus put his arm around his sister. ‘The Donut Lady knows how to fight,’ he said, ‘and besides, I think something weird’s happening to Varla. Something she can’t control ...’

  In his pocket the Wishing Stones jolted — as if prompting him, reminding him to think, to reason things out. He thought about the narrare, the Narrare of Mevras. It was a storage place for the memories of Mevras, the great Viking magician. Mevras was his ancestor. Their ancestor. The blood, the DNA, the memories of Mevras were theirs as well.

  Angus recalled what Martha had told him, how when she’d shaken the narrare, memories long forgotten, or perhaps never part of her conscious mind, came flooding back to her. He had scorned the idea. But deep down he had also feared the narrare, feared the memories, the feelings it might provoke in him.

  ‘Jam the door,’ he said. As Martha sprang to action, Angus quickly took the narrare out of its case. He had the Wishing Stones. And he was directly descended from Mevras. Maybe, just maybe, this would work ...

  The narrare was icy. So icy his hands burned with pain. The scales on the silver serpent rippled as Angus brought the narrare to eye level. Behind the glass, the snowflakes swirled and glimmered like tiny stars in a vast black cosmos.

  Angus knelt on the floor, shut his eyes — and shook the narrare with all his might. In the darkness of his pocket, the Wishing Stones lit up.

  When the ghosts and shadows of his recent mind began to clear, he saw other images, sharp and pristine: people, villages, fields and forests. He saw rock and ice. He tasted sweet mead, periwinkles and mussels, smelt fish smoking over hot coals. He saw deer and wild boar and ravens on high. In the depths of a winter forest, he spotted dark elves, tall and menacing. He saw wooden boats covered in hoar frost, haunted landscapes made desolate by biting winds and gale-force ‘skeevers’, brutal lands inhabited only by ice trolls. Angus saw his ancestors. He knew these people. He knew they were his family, his tribe. He heard snippets of their songs, lines from their stories. He heard the music of willow flutes and the pounding of hammers on anvils. He even saw a group of laughing goblin elders spinning runes in the dirt.

  And all of this, every fragment, he gleaned in less than a minute. He even heard Mevras himself speak. It was like tapping into a current of breathtaking magick ... and humbling wisdom.

  Angus let the narrare fall into his lap. Perhaps this was not as it might have been had he entered the ice caverns; he could not ask direct questions, or choose to view the stories and memories he most desired, but in his heart he knew he had received all the answers, all the clarity, he needed. It was enough.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Martha knelt beside him, her face alarmed. ‘You looked like you were having some kind of fit.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said softly as he slid the narrare back into its case.

  They both looked at the door.

  The battle in the hallway had fallen silent.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ____________________________________________

  Cornered

  They waited.

  Still there was no sound, only the wind outside and the occasional roof shingle rattling. On the beach a gull squawked.

  Time passed slowly.

  ‘I can’t stand it,’ said Martha under her breath.

  ‘I’m opening the door,’ said Angus.

  Martha gasped as he silently pulled away the plank she had propped beneath the doorknob.

  He passed the plank to Martha and she quietly set it aside. Then, huddled together, they opened the door, grimacing as the handle squeaked. They peeped through the crack.

  Down the hallway the Donut Lady sat slumped against the wall. Her face was obscured. One hand held her sword, the other rested across her belly. Blood oozed between her fingers.

  Martha attempted to run.

  ‘No,’ said Angus. ‘Wait here. I’ll see to her.’

  Martha nodded and Angus dashed out into the hallway, glancing about fearfully. Where was Varla? Was she waiting in the shadows, ready to pounce? Or had she slunk away, wounded and ... dying?

  Angus knelt beside the Donut Lady. She raised her head and smiled weakly. ‘You are a good boy,’ she said. ‘Too skinny. But a good boy.’

  ‘You mean a lot to us,’ said Angus. ‘You’re more than just a friend. Martha and I, well, what I want to say is, um ... thank you.’

  The Donut Lady managed another brief smile.

  Angus looked down at her wound. He felt so helpless.

  ‘Take my sword,’ she whispered. ‘The witch, the sorceress, she is still about. You know what to do?’

  Angus nodded and gently prised the sword from the Donut Lady’s hand. He noticed Varla’s weapon, damp with blood, lying further along on the f
loor.

  ‘Angus!’

  Angus leaped up. It was Martha! Brandishing the sword awkwardly, he bolted back to where he had left her.

  Martha stood in the middle of the room, pointing at the ceiling, backing away slowly. Hanging upside down from the rafters was a large, grotesque creature. It looked like a bat but it was white. It had the head of an old woman, bald and mottled. It used its claw-like feet to grip the beam.

  ‘It’s some kind of harpy,’ said Martha almost with awe. ‘Like in the old stories. Only worse.’

  The creature opened its eyes, unfurled its leather wings and flapped gracelessly to the floor. From the way it moved, Angus could tell that Varla was not used to this form.

  ‘Run!’ cried Angus.

  ‘But, Angus ...’

  ‘Now!’

  Martha shot out into the hall. He slammed the door behind her, jammed it with the plank, then turned to face the creature. It leaped at him unsteadily, flapping its wings. It had two human-like legs, long and sinewy. Its face was that of an ancient crone, but the eyes — the eyes belonged to Varla. And it was her fury, her cruelty, that animated the creature; that gave it its arrogant stance.

  It hissed at Angus and began to circle him, its clawed feet clattering on the floorboards. It had thin, withered arms and hands, but the long, black claws on its fingers were razor sharp.

  Angus raised the sword and held it steady.

  The harpy spoke. ‘You won’t kill me.’ It was Varla’s voice. ‘You poor, weak New World scrap. You don’t have the courage.’

  Angus thrust the sword at the harpy and it recoiled.

  ‘I have courage enough,’ he said angrily.

  The harpy took a swipe at him. Angus brought the sword down. It sliced through one of the creature’s fingers and sent it flying.

  The harpy shrieked.

  Martha hammered on the door. ‘Angus!’

  ‘Stay away, Martha!’ yelled Angus. ‘Please. It’s okay.’

  But it was not okay. Somehow the harpy had backed Angus into a corner. He could either hack his way out, which would probably lead to his own gruesome death, or he could draw on the knowledge of Mevras, the strange, intangible wisdom that Angus had glimpsed when he shook the narrare. He took a shaky breath. In his heart he knew what he had to do.