Shadowsmith

by Ross Mackenzie

  “The good news,” she said, “is you’ll get to keep your hand – I think.”

  “You think?” Kirby pulled his hand away. “Think?”

  “If it starts to blacken and shrivel up, you let me know.”

  “Shrivel up?”

  “One of them hid inside you, Kirby.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Clever thing. It’s escaped now.”

  “Let’s just go back to the part where I might need my hand cutting off, shall we?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that won’t happen.” Amelia’s eyes went back to his hand. “That’s not your writing hand, is it?”

  “Amelia!”

  “I’m joking! Your hand is fine. But this settles it: I’m going to have to keep you close. Keep an eye on you. That spider’s still out there. Chances are, without its brothers and sisters around it’ll have fled. But just in case, you should have your hazel with you at all times. If it comes back, we’ll take care of it together.”

  “OK.” Kirby wriggled his fingers. They seemed fine. “So does this mean you’re stuck with me? Whatever happens?”

  “I suppose it does,” said Amelia. “Here. Sit down and have some breakfast. You’ll need your strength for what’s ahead.”

  They sat at the kitchen table and ate scrambled eggs and toast. It might have been the most delicious meal Kirby had ever tasted. The eggs were light and rich and buttery, the toast thick and golden, not even the slightest bit burnt.

  As he ate, Amelia watched him with great curiosity. At last she said, “Aren’t you going to ask about this place? How it’s different inside than out?”

  Kirby chewed his toast and shrugged. “You’re a witch. You won’t come out and say it but I think it’s true.” He looked around. “You know magic. That’s what this place is. A spell or something.”

  Amelia chuckled. “And that doesn’t bother you? Or amaze you?”

  “You kidding?” said Kirby. “After the couple of days I’ve had, I’m just glad to be somewhere nothing wants to kill me.”

  Amelia’s smile faded. “Um… that probably won’t last long.”

  Kirby pushed the last few pieces of his breakfast around his plate. There was something on his mind that just wouldn’t go away.

  “Are you sure you can’t help my mum?” he said at last.

  Amelia stopped chewing. She swallowed her toast, and wiped the corners of her mouth. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “No,” said Kirby, “you’re more powerful. Can’t you use your magic to wake her up?”

  “People are too fragile,” Amelia told him. Then, before he could protest, she said, “If I was to try, I might drive her mad, or kill her. It’s easy to take people apart with magic. But it’s almost impossible to rebuild them.”

  Kirby wondered what she meant by ‘take people apart’ and how she knew it was easy to do such a thing, but he did not ask. Part of him sensed something in Amelia, something bubbling under the surface – sadness, or darkness, or both. He didn’t want to stir it up.

  “All of this,” she said, “started with the storm. That’s what caught my attention.”

  “The storm?”

  Kirby was sliding towards the edge of the seat, leaning his elbows on the table.

  “Someone brought the storm here. Someone who wanted to cause damage – suffering.”

  “Well they did a good job.”

  Amelia nodded. She screwed up her face. “Something big is going on.” She tapped her forehead. “But I can’t see it. It’s all squiggly and bemuddled.” She held up three fingers. “Three witches. That’s part of it.”

  “Witches? Like you?”

  “No, Kirby. Not like me at all. And there’s much more to it than that.”

  A jagged thought lodged in Kirby’s brain. “These witches caused the storm? They’re the reason Mum is hurt?”

  “I think so,” said Amelia.

  A flush of anger spread through Kirby’s body, crawled upwards from his toes. And then another idea occurred. “Is that why Mum isn’t getting better? Is it because these witches are still out there? Do they have some sort of hold over her?”

  Amelia mulled this over. “It might be possible. I’ve heard stranger things. Part of her might be tangled in the darkness. Lost.”

  Kirby raised his eyebrows. For the first time in weeks, green shoots of hope broke through the blackened surface of his thoughts. “So if we stop the witches Mum might get better?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “Unlikely.” She stared at him, her eyes tired. “You mustn’t pin all of your hopes on this.”

  The farmhouse kitchen faded away in Kirby’s mind, and he pictured his mum lying in her hospital bed, heard the beep of the machines keeping her alive.

  “These witches,” he said. “How do we find them?”

  Amelia stood up, walked to the door and put on her yellow raincoat.

  “Come with me.”

  Counting Sheep

  Kirby followed Amelia Pigeon away from the house and the woods, to the other side of the farm and a field of grazing sheep.

  “What if the farmer catches us?” Farmer Weir was famous for chasing intruders from his land by bearing down on them in his tractor. The older kids would sometimes dare each other to run through the fields.

  “Oh, he won’t notice us.” Amelia climbed over the gate, landing on dry grass. “Come on then.”

  Up and over the gate Kirby went, walking among the sheep.

  “I never really got the point of sheep,” Amelia said. “I mean, what are they for? What do they do?”

  “What are we doing?” asked Kirby.

  “Looking,” said Amelia. “Just up here, I think.” Then her eyes fixed on something in the distance and she pursed her lips and said, “I knew it. Another one.”

  “Another what?”

  At first it looked like someone had left a pile of rags on the grass, but as they drew closer Kirby could see that the grass around the rags had turned red. Closer still and he realised what he was looking at. Or what it used to be. He felt sick.

  “What would do that to a sheep?” He covered his mouth. Flies were buzzing around what was left of the carcass. He stared at Amelia and his eyes widened as he put two and two together. “One of your witches did that? It looks like it’s been ripped apart by… by a bear or something!” Then he remembered what his dad had told him, about rumours of a wild animal in the woods. “You said ‘another one’. How many sheep has this witch killed?”

  Amelia crouched down and touched the bloodstained grass, rubbing it between her fingers. “Ten by my count. But I’m not sure why. Why would a witch bother with sheep?”

  Kirby suddenly felt very sorry for Mr Weir. He didn’t suppose the farmer could run off a witch in his tractor as easily as he could a group of mischievous teenagers.

  “One of them is nearby,” Amelia said. “In the woods, I think. I’m going after her tonight.”

  Kirby grimaced at what was left of the sheep. “Take me with you.”

  Amelia stared at him. Kirby could see from her eyes she was having an argument with herself.

  “Please. You said yourself my mum’s hurt because of them. I want to see this witch defeated. I’ve got to help – if it could bring Mum back.”

  Amelia sighed. “I’ll come for you at midnight,” she said at last. “Be ready.”

  ***

  When Kirby left the farm he went to the beach at Ruby Cove, to gather his thoughts and calm down a bit before heading home to Dad. The last thing he needed was for Dad to figure out he was up to something. The red cliffs were baking in the late-morning heat and the sand was frying-pan hot. He watched a few older boys playing beach football, laughing and yelling and having fun.

  They haven’t got a clue, Kirby thought. They don’t know what’s out there.

  He wandered out to the smooth wet sand, picked up a few flat stones and began skimming them across the surface of the sea. Mum was the stone-skimming
champion in the Simpson house. As Kirby watched his stone bouncing one, two, three times on the water, he clung to the hope that if he could help Amelia get rid of the darkness infecting Craghaven, it might be enough to wake up Mum.

  After a while he walked back up the steps to the harbour, where the warm salty air was filled with the clangs and rattles of workmen repairing the harbour wall.

  “Kirby!” Dad was down on the water, showing another man around his lobster boat. “Alright, pal? You were up and out early this morning. Where’d you get to?”

  “Just felt like a walk.”

  “This is Pete. You know old Terry MacLeod? Pete’s his nephew. Terry’s been taking him out on his boat, teaching him the ropes for a while now. Pete answered my advert. He’s gonnae take over from me for a few weeks. You’re gonnae catch lots and lots of lobster, aren’t you, Pete?” He patted Pete on his huge back, and Pete laughed.

  “Aye. I’m sure gonnae try,” he said.

  Dad climbed out of the boat and up the ladder to the harbour. He smelled of the sea.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” said Kirby. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

  Dad nodded. “It’s fine, pal. Forget it. We’re all feeling stressed just now.”

  “It’s not fine.” Kirby looked at the ground, shook his head. “I just get angry.”

  Down in the boat, Pete was making himself busy, very obviously trying not to listen.

  “I know,” said Dad. “I get angry too. There’s not a second goes by I don’t wish it was me in that bed instead of Mum.”

  “It shouldn’t be anyone,” said Kirby. The anger came again, flowing through him like molten metal in his veins. Because he knew the truth: he knew that the storm had not been a random act of nature. Someone had brought it to Craghaven – someone… or something.

  “You OK?” asked Dad.

  “Yeah.” Kirby looked out over the bay towards Ruby Island, which stood alone in the North Sea, adrift and cut off from the world. “Just thinking of Mum again.”

  “Me too,” said Dad. “Every single minute.”

  ***

  Out on Ruby Island, among the long grass, there stood a circle of standing stones.

  The stones had been there for thousands of years. Scientific papers had been written about them, and many experts argued about their purpose and meaning, though none of them knew the truth.

  Brothers Swan and Swift knew.

  At precisely the moment that Kirby was gazing out at the island from the harbour in Craghaven, Swan and Swift stood in the centre of the stone circle, their long black coats fluttering in the wind. They each held a bucket in one hand and a large paintbrush in the other, and as they glanced around at the tall stones they smiled.

  “How this place brings back memories…” Brother Swift’s straggly black hair whipped about his head in the sea breeze. “Of little people trying to please their gods with sacrifices and magic rituals. Not knowing that places like this belonged to Mother. Oh, how they fed her power…”

  “And those times will come again, dear brother. The Shadowsmith has taken the bait. We’ll soon reel her in.”

  Brother Swift gave a nod. “Our witches should be strong enough now. It’s time.”

  “It is. And all the wars of the past will seem like an appetiser compared with what’s to come when we are reunited. Shall we begin?”

  “Let’s.”

  They walked towards the stones, smiling, and put their buckets down on the grass. Each was filled with red liquid, into which they dipped their paintbrushes and began to paint the stones. As they worked, they sang, over and over again:

  Under the stars in the midnight-stained sky,

  Unto the stones do they gather and cry.

  The knife and the sword and the cup they do bring,

  And they offer their life and their soul as they sing.

  O darkness, O shadow, O Mother of Night,

  Grant us protection with infinite might.

  If enemies march strike them down in the mud.

  Steal their minds and their hearts, their eyes and their blood.

  Into the Woods

  Kirby and Dad went to see Mum in the afternoon. Kirby finished reading The Jungle Book just before visiting time was up. It seemed to him as he read aloud that Dad was actually paying attention to the words. He still had his newspaper perched in his lap, of course, but he was looking up from the pages quite regularly.

  They ate in Frankie’s Café on the harbour as a special treat. Kirby had a bacon cheeseburger and Dad ordered Frankie’s All Day Big Breakfast, which seemed too big for any normal human to finish.

  At home, Kirby spent the evening choosing the next book he’d read to Mum. It was a big decision. Eventually he went with the first Harry Potter, because it was still their favourite despite the fact they’d read it so much the pages were falling out. And for the first time he could ever remember, Kirby found himself thinking about Dad too, wondering what sort of story he might like to hear.

  Kirby’s eyes returned to the clock again and again. Every minute that passed took him closer to the woods, to another adventure with Amelia. Only this time he had some idea of what was waiting. And it wasn’t anything good.

  He lay in bed and thought of Mum, of her laugh and her smile, and when he fell asleep he dreamed he was with her, in front of the fire in the living room. They sat in comfortable silence, reading to the sound of the popping fire, and Kirby was so happy, so content that he could have floated out of his chair…

  “Kirby!”

  He was ripped from his dream. When he opened his eyes, Amelia’s face was so close that their noses were touching.

  “What are you doing?” he yelped, almost falling out of bed.

  “Just watching you sleep.”

  “Why were you doing that? Who does that?”

  “Were you dreaming?” she asked. “What was it like?”

  Kirby rubbed his eyes. “What? It was a dream! It was… dreamlike…” He climbed out of bed, still wearing his jeans and jumper. “How did you even get in? If my dad wakes up we’re both dead.”

  This made Amelia smile. “He’s sleeping like a baby. He won’t wake up.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “Oh. Nothing. Well. I mean nothing bad. He’s having a lovely dream.”

  “You are seriously weird.”

  “Thank you,” said Amelia. Her face became very serious. “Any sign of that spider?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.” Amelia’s eyes sparked green. “What we’re about to do isn’t going to be easy. It’s not too late to change your mind. I won’t think you’re a coward.”

  “I’m not changing anything. If there’s even the smallest chance we might be helping Mum—”

  “Fine,” Amelia cut him off, “let’s be having you.”

  They snuck out of the house and through the silent winding streets of Craghaven. The sea air was warm and still.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” Kirby whispered.

  “No. There’s something else we need to do first.”

  On they walked, to the old church at the back of town, and then into the grounds, to the overgrown graveyard.

  “Why have we come here?” said Kirby. “You didn’t mention anything about walking round a graveyard in the dead of night. It’s creepy.”

  “You’d better toughen up – sharpish,” Amelia sniped back. “I need to make sure of something.”

  He followed her among the crumbling tombstones, his clothes catching on weeds and thorns. His mind began to trick him; he imagined he could hear footsteps behind him, pictured shadows crouched behind graves.

  A barely discernible path led them through a tangle of trees to a wild patch of ground. Amelia stopped. She looked around, and then Kirby heard her take a sharp breath.

  “What is it?”

  She moved forward slowly, bent over and pulled something from the earth. It was a candle, black, caked with hardened waxy drippings. There were
two more nearby, spaced a metre or so apart.

  The uneasy feeling in Kirby’s chest grew. “What are those for?”

  “They’re part of a spell.” She stared at the candle in her hand. “Old magic. Really old.”

  “Do they belong to the witches?”

  “No. They belong to the people who brought the witches back.”

  Kirby frowned. “Back? From where?”

  “From the dead,” said Amelia. “Three candles means three witches. They must have been buried here.”

  Kirby took a step back, his stomach turning loops, his head feeling too light for his body. “They’re ghosts?” Amelia shot him a dark look. “You never mentioned anything about ghosts. Why would anyone want to bring them back?”

  Amelia stared at the candles. She seemed shaken by something, upset. “I have no idea.” Something in her voice told Kirby she wasn’t telling him the truth. But why would she lie to him? Before he could ask anything else she turned away and said, “Come on. We have a job to do.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later they were back at the farm. The abandoned farmhouse was a ghostly shadow set against the glaring blackness of the woods.

  “Stick close,” said Amelia, “and nothing will happen to you. Ready?”

  Kirby was not ready. He knew Amelia knew he was not ready.

  “No,” he said. “But let’s get it over with.”

  So they walked together, the boy and the girl, into the woods.

  ***

  Across the farm, Farmer Weir sat alone in his tractor under the star-filled sky. On one side he had a flask of coffee, on the other his shotgun.

  He took a sip of the steaming coffee. It was very strong and very sweet. Strong enough, he hoped, to keep him awake through the night so he might catch whatever was messing up his sheep so badly. His family had worked the land for generations, but he had never seen or heard of anything that could mangle a sheep in such a way. Well, tonight would be the end of it. The gun would see to that.