She stumbled as they changed direction yet again, and then Piper pulled her through a doorway. She found herself in the cellar through which they had entered. She stood there uselessly as Piper shoved an old chest in front of the door.
‘Gyps, snap out of it, will you?!’ He rummaged through the piles of junk, retrieving their coats, then pushed up through the trapdoor. Freezing air blasted around them. She took off the apron and gently moved the bird to a pocket of her coat and slipped it on. Piper urged her out into the night, with Larkwood’s bellows echoing round the grounds from the window above.
‘The hounds! Release the hounds!’ he screamed.
‘Run,’ Piper whispered.
The wind whipped her hair around her face as they raced away from the stag, away from the river, away from Elsewhere, for it could no longer carry them where they needed to go. Instead they followed the direction the stag was facing: to the north, where white tipped mountains crashed in the sky like waves. Below them, a dark mass of trees clustered as far as they could see. Around them, a chorus of howls and snarling struck up.
It’ll give them a good run . . .
Gypsy understood now, replaying Larkwood’s words in her head.
They’re hungry . . .
‘To the woods,’ Piper panted. ‘It’s our best chance to hide . . .’
‘But the dogs . . .’ she gasped, her voice muffled from within the pocket. ‘They’ll be released any minute! They’ll kill us!’
‘They won’t.’ Piper seized her hand tight, pulling her along. ‘I won’t let them. But we can’t outrun them.’
The barking began moments before they reached the border of the woods, growing louder with each thud of their feet. She ran harder, not daring to look back. Were they close enough to see yet? She could hear ragged snorts and snuffles, the thundering of paws over winter-frozen earth.
‘Climb!’ Piper gasped.
But there was nothing to climb; these were young, weak trees. They needed to go deeper. As they plunged further into the woods the moon vanished above the canopy of branches, and as the trees grew closer together Gypsy was forced to drop Piper’s hand.
‘This one!’ he said frantically, already further ahead than she’d anticipated. She followed his voice, her breathing ragged above ever-growing howls of Larkwood’s dogs.
‘Quick!’ Piper’s voice was panicked. She felt his fumbling hands pushing her up into craggy branches. She twisted, reaching blindly, scraping her cheek on bark. She stopped on a thick branch, reaching for Piper’s hand as he clambered after her. His fingers grazed hers then jerked backwards. He cried out but it was lost to a thick snarling below.
‘Piper!’ Gypsy lunged for his hand, finding it once more. Piper yelled as she pulled, his body jerking as something shook the other end. Wrapping her legs around the branch she grabbed him with both hands. She sensed rather than saw him fumbling with his other hand, wincing with each movement. Below him the dog growled, joined by another and another, jumping and snapping their jaws up the bark of the tree. A glimmer of silver caught her eye.
Piper’s flute. His weapon.
He brought it to his lips and started to play; a haunting, lilting melody. Almost instantly she felt herself softening, her eyelids growing heavy. Her fingers relaxed in his, but he grabbed them tight. The snarling subsided into snuffles and grunts, and then little snores that were almost comforting. Gypsy wanted so much to join them, to simply lie down and sleep, but Piper’s grip was too tight; painful. It kept the fog from taking hold. She felt another jolt as he was released from the creature’s jaws, toppling forward.
‘Are you hurt bad?’ she whispered, but he continued to play, softer and softer until below them was nothing except snoring. Finally he stopped, sliding the flute back in its case.
‘Is it bad?’ she repeated. She slid her other hand into her pocket, checking on the bird. It was barely awake either, stirring only to sleepily murmur her words.
‘I dunno.’ It was a lie; his teeth were gritted. ‘We can’t stay here. We’ve gotta lose them.’
‘But you’re injured . . .’
‘We got no choice.’ He winced, sliding back down the trunk. Piper held a finger to his lips, then together they began wading slowly through the sea of dogs.
It was several minutes before they stood clear, and Gypsy was weak from supporting Piper as well as herself. ‘How long will they sleep?’ she whispered.
‘Hard to say.’ Piper’s mouth was set in a grim line. ‘Maybe an hour. Long enough for us to get away.’
They continued onward, Piper limping at Gypsy’s side. They moved in silence, the woods growing colder every minute. Soon they could not keep up a good enough pace for warmth. Despite his discomfort, it was Piper who insisted they keep going. Eventually she heard what should have been a welcome sound, but which brought only dread.
A trickling stream up ahead, rushing downhill. This, she knew, was what Piper had been looking for. She glanced longingly at a fallen tree laid across it, but Piper nudged her away, his breath misting the air.
‘We’ve gotta go through it. It’s the only way they’ll lose our scent.’
The water was below her knees, but its iciness made her bite her cheek as she waded through it. Thin ice on the surface bumped against her shins. She emerged staggering, the bones in her legs aching, her feet numb. She reached into her pocket, feeling warm against her fingers and a gentle, almost affectionate nibble from the bird’s beak.
‘We have to sleep,’ she begged.
‘Soon.’ Piper limped on. ‘We need shelter. We won’t survive the night otherwise.’
They trudged forward, miserable and silent, damp clothes clinging to their legs. Once or twice, Gypsy was convinced she heard the howling of dogs, but when she paused to listen she heard only the wind. A snowflake rested on her cheek, blisteringly cold.
‘There!’ Piper said suddenly. He pointed to a dark shape ahead and they hurried towards it. ‘It’s an old hunting lodge,’ he said as they drew level.
Gypsy stared dismally at the broken windows and sagging roof. ‘It’s a ruin.’
‘Well, it’s all we’ve got.’ Piper pushed the door open. She followed him inside, feeling leaf mulch and rotten wood under her boots, then heard the hiss of a match as Piper lit the nub of a candle. Creatures skittered away into the shadows. There was a pile of old sacking and a stash of newspapers in the corner.
Gypsy pulled at the sacking. Surprisingly it was dry; the roof in this part intact. She arranged it as best she could, then lay back, hugging her knees to her chest while Piper used handfuls of newspaper to stuff the whistling gaps in the windows and roof. Once done, he hesitated for a moment, then lay down next to her.
‘For warmth,’ he muttered.
They lay there like that, shivering until some semblance of heat finally crept back into her and the trembling stopped.
‘Piper?’ she whispered eventually. Her voice drifted up from the folds of her pocket. ‘Why didn’t you play your flute before? When we got into the house, I mean. Maybe the dogs and everything could have been avoided, if . . .’
‘If I’d played to Larkwood?’ he finished.
She nodded.
‘His madness could have stopped him responding the way he was meant to,’ Piper continued. ‘I’ve seen it before, in crowds. The one who doesn’t react, or who looks at you a certain way. I couldn’t risk it.’
She said nothing, instead leaning further into him. He put his arm round her, pulling her closer wordlessly, and his lips brushed her forehead. She felt his breath on her lips and waited for them to touch hers, too afraid to open her eyes. Eventually she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a kiss that never came.
VIII
They woke still damp, but warmer, to a dazzling white light bouncing off everything. Gypsy sat up, checking her pocket. The bird looked at her, its silver eyes curious. She fed it a few crumbs of bread and icy water, then eased over the still-sleeping Piper to look out of the window.
At first she thought it had snowed in the night, but then saw that it was a thick frost covering the ground and nestling in the crooks of tree branches as far as she could see.
‘Piper.’ She nudged him. ‘Wake up.’
He struggled into consciousness, rubbing his eyes. They ate a little of the food they had brought, then Piper removed his boot to examine his ankle.
It was swollen and red and, although the leather had taken the brunt of the bite, there were several red welts where the dog’s teeth had punctured the skin. Gypsy helped him bathe it with icy water, collected from a dip in the roof.
They walked, rested and ate, speaking little and listening often, waiting for their pursuers to catch up with them. But their luck held, so much so that they even found an old upturned carriage abandoned on the border of the woods. While its wheels were smashed beyond repair, the cabin itself was practically intact, and warmer than expected.
Again, that night, they held each other for warmth. Once, Piper said her name, but when she answered him he didn’t continue.
The next morning they woke, ate and said even less. Both knew that today the food would be gone and the journey even harder. Piper moved slightly faster now but he was still slow, and as they left the woods and found the mountains stretching before them they knew the hardest part was yet to come.
Piper shielded his eyes from the sun and gazed back over the diminishing woods. The stag stood proud upon the gate in the far distance. But as they headed up the mountain path, it vanished from sight.
‘Now what?’ Piper asked, his exhaustion evident. ‘Can’t see no birds, can you?’
The mountain appeared desolate; there was no sign of life at all except themselves and the little bird in her pocket and scrubby plant life jutting out from the rocks, half-killed by the frost. ‘No,’ she answered, kicking at a stone with a ‘V’ shaped scratch on it. Neither of them said it, though they both thought it: perhaps Larkwood had lied. There were no birds to follow. ‘But we may as well keep going up.’
Up they clambered, over rock after rock after rock. Piper winced after losing his footing and jarring his weakened ankle. ‘Let’s rest a minute and eat,’ he began, but broke off at the sight of Gypsy’s face.
She was frowning, having crouched down to inspect another stone, bearing the same curling ‘V’ etched on its surface. ‘Have you been noticing these?’ she asked. ‘This is the third one I’ve seen.’ She picked the stone up, then dropped it as a high pitched shriek swept over them from above at the same time as a small, unmistakeable shadow. She looked up quickly but the sky was empty, and yet her eyes caught the shadow gliding away once more. She looked at the ‘V’ on the fallen stone, now seeing it for what it really was.
‘A bird,’ she whispered. ‘Follow the birds . . .’
‘Gyps, wait,’ Piper began, but she was off, picking her way up the mountain, through the chill air, following the path, following the birds. She heard him hobbling behind her, struggling to keep up, but she found she couldn’t slow down. She was close, so close.
The air turned colder still, turning to ice around them as snowflakes began to fall so fast that Gypsy could barely see her outstretched hand in front of her. She reached into her pocket, stroking the bird’s head. It losing heat quickly. She ploughed onward, upwards, clasping Piper’s hand. She lost track of time, not knowing whether they had been walking for minutes or hours. She couldn’t tell how high they were, either. Once or twice shapes moved quickly out of the corner of her eyes, darting away between snow-covered rocks. Piper pointed to a track of prints, his voice muffled from under his hood, but she could hear it was low and fearful.
‘Mountain cats. Probably waiting to scavenge what’s left of us if we don’t make it back.’ He paused. ‘Or attack if we show any sign of weakness.’
Gypsy glanced at another cat slinking past. More were circling, but they kept their distance. They were skinny – not at full strength – yet she knew better than to underestimate their hunger. Gritting her teeth she strode on, then stopped as something crunched under her boot.
‘What is it?’ Piper asked as she knelt to pick it up.
She brushed away the snow, her gloved fingers closing around the object. It was smooth – or had been before it had shattered under her heel. A bird’s skull. An eerie stillness settled around them; the wind died and the snow eased to a light flutter.
‘Look,’ Piper whispered.
A shape was visible in the mountain, blocky at first but as they drew nearer Gypsy could make out something that looked like a window, and above it a sloping roof. Coming closer still, to round a jutting rock, a small door was tucked away. Above it the skeleton of a bird was pinned by its wings like a warning.
Gathering her courage, Gypsy crept to the door. She stopped a couple of paces short, feeling Piper’s hand on her arm.
‘You sure about this, Gyps?’
She nodded and took the final step, raising her hand to knock. The door swung open, startling her. She stared, her hand still raised as though in a salute. The woman before her was not what she had been expecting, not the hobbledy little crone with frizzled hair she’d caught a glimpse of all those years ago.
This woman was tall and slender, with braided flaxen hair and high cheekbones. Her nose was long and thin, adding a sharpness to her face that just prevented her from being truly beautiful. And though Gypsy did not remember this face, it was familiar, for more reasons than one. She reeled backwards, the blood draining from her cheeks.
‘Hello, Gypsy Spindle,’ the woman said.
Gypsy took the bird from her pocket and clutched it to her breast.
‘Hello, Mother,’ the bird replied for her.
‘What?’ Piper gasped. ‘Your mother? No, it can’t be. There’s been a mistake . . . this wasn’t her!’
‘Her?’ The woman smiled. ‘Oh, you mean . . . her.’ She undid her braid and combed her hair out with her fingers, and as she did so it lost its colour and spread, becoming wiry until it stood out from her head like a grey dandelion. At the same time, she shrank and became wizened and birdlike, all knobbly fingers and knees and cracked brown teeth.
Piper’s face went white. ‘You . . . it is you! You’re the one who took Gypsy’s voice!’
‘All this time it was you,’ Gypsy finished. She paused, swallowing anger and tears. ‘Why?’
Her mother shook her hair, and the grizzled fuzz gave way to gold once more. Her face plumped out; white teeth grew back.
‘Why? I needed a disguise. I couldn’t set foot back in Twisted Wood as Lydia Spindle. I was known. Hated. Your little quarrel worked out well for me, but the truth is, I’d have taken your voice anyway.’
The words washed over Gypsy like iced water. She saw that Piper, too, was struggling to comprehend this news: all this time he had believed he was responsible.
‘No.’ Gypsy’s voice emerged from the bird harsh and loud. ‘Why? Why did you take my voice? Why did you try to drown me? What did I do to make you hate me so much?’ she screamed.
Lydia gave a pitying smile. ‘I didn’t hate you,’ she said at last. ‘I could probably have grown rather fond of you, had you been a boy.’
‘What?’ Gypsy whispered. ‘You didn’t love me . . . because I was a girl?’
‘I couldn’t allow myself to.’ Lydia reached out, touching her hand to Gypsy’s cheek. Though her face felt half frozen, her mother’s hand felt colder. ‘It was the foretelling, you see.’
Piper cut in. ‘Foretelling?’
‘When I was a child, I crossed a fortune teller,’ Lydia replied. ‘He’d come to our camp one day, lost, and my people gave him shelter. In return he told their fortunes. My friend Talia and I were too young to have ours read, but we weren’t about to miss out. We hid behind a curtain and eavesdropped.
‘When the last person had left, we waited for the traveller to settle down to sleep so we could leave unheard. Instead he called out to us, having known we were there all along. He said he would tell each of
us one thing of our futures. One of us would not live out the year, he said. And the other would meet their end by the voice of their own daughter.’
With mounting horror, Gypsy listened. She had long thought about what she would do if she ever found her mother, played out a hundred different scenarios in her mind . . . but none of them had gone like this. This stranger with her face was her mother; someone Papa had loved once.
‘We crept away unseen, our faces burning,’ Lydia continued, her eyes faraway. ‘The next day the traveller left and we never saw him again, but his foretellings haunted us. Which of us was which? Whose time would run out within the year and who would be killed by their own daughter’s words? We were just twelve years old. We should have had our whole lives ahead of us, but now our futures held shadows and dread – and one future was worse than the other.
‘Yet I knew I was at a disadvantage. I was a sickly child, while Talia was strong as an ox. Winter was approaching, and I knew that if sickness took hold the way it had the year before, I’d be the one to perish and Talia would live on.’
‘But you were wrong,’ Piper murmured.
Lydia shook her head. ‘No. I knew I wasn’t meant to outlive her.’
‘But you did . . .’Gypsy trailed off, the pit of dread growing in her stomach.
‘Because I chose to,’ Lydia said softly. ‘One night down by the river, I saw my chance. One quick push, that’s all it was. She was a strong swimmer, but the current was stronger, and the water so cold it took her breath. I could have run for help, I almost did, seeing her bobbing there like an apple . . . but I only ran when I was sure she’d gone under for the final time.’ She reached out again for Gypsy’s face, but Gypsy slapped her hand away. ‘It was her or me, don’t you see? And I was right. I lived.’
‘That still don’t explain why you tried to kill Gypsy,’ Piper spat.
‘Yes, it does.’ Gypsy recoiled in disgust. ‘Because when you killed Talia, you took her future for your own. She had been destined to meet her end by her daughter. You killed to live once, and you tried to do it again to me.’
‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded. ‘But you’re a survivor, my girl.’
Winter Magic Page 10