Shadowsmith

by Ross Mackenzie

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’re also grounded,” said Dad. “One week.”

  Kirby didn’t answer. He shut the kitchen door and left Dad alone in silence.

  ***

  In the clearing in the woods, Brothers Swan and Swift stood over the fallen tree, staring down at the twisted trunk in which Amelia had trapped the witch’s soul. On the ground by their feet sat two buckets. In each bucket was a tangled collection of slimy creatures.

  “Well,” said Brother Swift, “it’s not how I would choose to go.”

  “No,” said Brother Swan, “nor me. If you listen close… I think you can still hear her screaming in there.”

  The part of the tree that had once been a witch still resembled a bear, but only if you looked carefully. Brother Swan patted what had been the witch-bear’s snout. “The girl’s still strong. This is proper Shadowsmith magic.”

  Brother Swift blew his long black hair from his eyes. “I don’t think we ought to be too worried. She’s nothing compared to what she used to be. That business with Mother took a lot out of her. She’s ripe for the picking, dear brother, you mark my words.”

  “And the boy?” said Brother Swan. “What d’you think she has planned for him?”

  “Who can tell? But let’s keep a watch on him. There may come a time when he’s useful.”

  They picked up their buckets. The black things inside writhed.

  Brother Swan patted the witch’s snout again. “Oh well, you played your part,” he said. “No rest for the wicked, dear.”

  And then the clearing was empty once more.

  Opening the Door

  Over the next week, Kirby was only allowed to leave the house when they visited Mum in hospital. He had hoped there would be some change in her now that the first witch was gone – a blink of an eye or a twitch of a finger – but her condition was just the same. Every day Kirby would sit in the little private room and read Harry Potter aloud, and he began to notice that although Dad sat with his newspaper open on his lap, he no longer flipped through the pages. He was listening to the story. Really listening. And that made Kirby want to read and read and read.

  They barely spoke a word to each other all week. Kirby wanted to explain. He wanted to tell Dad about Amelia and the dangerous adventures they’d shared and why he’d snuck out. But he didn’t.

  On the silent drive home over the coastal road on Thursday afternoon they saw heavy clouds rolling over the North Sea towards Craghaven, and a thick mist breathing inland. Ruby Island, which sat on the horizon like a wedge of cheese, was swallowed, and before long the mist and rain had reached the village.

  When the car pulled up outside their house, Dad turned in his seat and said, “Right then. That’s been a week. You can go out if you want.”

  Kirby put on his raincoat and went for a walk. He was hoping that he’d turn a corner and find Amelia smiling at him in the rain, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Down at the harbour, the tide was out. The ghostly shapes of the beached fishing boats looked spooky in the mist, and the irregular rocks of the storm-damaged harbour wall jutted up like rotten teeth.

  And then, down on the wet sand, Kirby saw a flash of yellow, and his heart leapt. “Amelia?” he yelled. “Amelia! Up here!”

  The yellow raincoat came closer, and beside it was another raincoat, this one dark blue, much more difficult to spot through the fog.

  “Kirby? That you?”

  The voice wasn’t Amelia’s, and when Kirby realised he wouldn’t be seeing her, the hope and excitement rushed out of him. Two faces peered up at him. Charlie Hunter and Ewan Marshall were in Kirby’s class.

  “Who’s Amelia?” asked Charlie.

  “She your girlfriend?” added Ewan.

  “Ha! Good one,” said Kirby. “Just someone my dad knows. What you up to?”

  “Looking for crabs.”

  “Caught any?”

  “Nah. Think we’ll head over to the rocks at Ruby Cove.”

  “Yeah,” said Kirby. “Good luck.”

  The two boys began to walk away but Charlie turned back. Kirby could no longer make out his face through the rain and mist.

  “I heard about your mum,” he said. “Is she going to be OK?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “I hope she gets better,” said Ewan.

  “Thanks.”

  As Charlie and Ewan disappeared into the fog, Kirby sat down on the wet harbour wall, his legs dangling over the edge. He wasn’t surprised the boys hadn’t invited him to go crab fishing. It was the same at school every lunchtime or break. It wasn’t that the other kids disliked him. Not at all. They were pleasant to him. They would talk to him. But they wouldn’t invite him to sit at their table for lunch, or to their sleepovers or birthday parties. Kirby felt like there was an invisible barrier between him and the others, always had been, something that made him a little different.

  He supposed that’s why Amelia had found him. But really, who could tell what was going on inside that curly-thatched head of hers? He’d never met anyone like her, and he still wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

  “You OK, pal?”

  The sudden sound of Dad’s voice almost made Kirby slip over the edge.

  “I will be when I get over the heart attack.”

  Dad smiled. Kirby got to his feet and they stood in awkward silence for a long moment, listening to the patter of the rain on the water.

  “Eh, I’m going to repair some creels,” said Dad. “Could you help?”

  Dad’s creels were stacked up on the harbour wall beside his boat. He took four of them down, turning them over in his big arms, and put them on the ground. “Hold this still, will you?”

  Kirby held the creel while his dad took what looked like a big knitting needle and began to sew a hole in the net back together. His movements were smooth, his hands delicate. He glanced at Kirby through the rain. “Sure you’re OK?”

  Kirby nodded. Then he said, “I’m really sorry about the other night. I mean it.”

  Dad nodded back. “I know. And I’m sorry for shouting the way I did. You scared me, Kirby.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Look,” said Dad, “we’re both under a lot of stress. We’re dealing with some big stuff. I understand why you felt like you had to get away, I do. But when I woke up and found your bed empty I thought I’d lost you. Don’t do that to me again, pal.”

  Kirby stared at his shoes. “I won’t.”

  They stood in silence again. The rain grew heavier.

  “Did you have lots of friends when you were at school?” asked Kirby.

  Dad closed the first hole in the creel net and moved to the next. “You shouldn’t worry about things like that. There’s plenty of time…”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Believe it or not,” said Dad, “I was a lot like you.”

  Kirby narrowed his eyes. “You? You were like me?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised!”

  “I just mean… we’re not exactly alike now, are we?”

  Kirby saw the smile on his dad’s lips fade, and he wished he could learn not to throw his words around so carelessly.

  “I’ve never been one for reading,” said Dad. “Fishing was always my thing.”

  “Fishing?” said Kirby. “You? Never!”

  This brought the smile back to Dad’s face. “I know, shocking, eh? But the reason I fished so much, apart from loving it, was that I could be alone without feeling lonely. See, I didn’t have many friends. Didn’t have any, as a matter of fact. Never knew what to say to people. So I spent a lot of time on my own. But when I was fishing, I felt part of something bigger. Still do.”

  Kirby stared up at his dad. He’d never heard him speaking this way. He supposed he’d always thought of him as being like the rocks around Craghaven: unbreakable, able to stand up to anything.

  “How you feel when you fish,” he said, “sounds jus
t how I feel when I read. I’m not lonely when I’m in a book.”

  “I know,” said Dad. “We’ve always known, Mum and me.” He finished repairing the creel and moved on to the next one, effortlessly threading the needle through the net, pulling the two open ends back together. “There were a lot of times I should have spoken to you,” he said, “and a lot of times I wanted to. I just never knew what to say. I’m not good with words.”

  “You’re doing pretty well now.”

  “All those times when I was your age I wished I could change… become someone else. But look at me now. I’ve got Mum, and you, and I wouldn’t change that for all the fish in the sea. So don’t you bother your head about it, pal. Friends will come in time. Just you be you. The rest will sort itself out.” He finished repairing the final creel and stacked it with the others.

  “Mum’s going to be OK, Dad,” said Kirby. “I feel it. She’ll come back to us.”

  “I feel it too.” Dad frowned, looking out over the mist-cloaked harbour towards the sea. The swell was growing, the waves capped with clouds of tumbling white foam. “Weather’s gone loopy,” he said, scratching his beard.

  “Yeah,” said Kirby, “it has a bit.” And in his head he wondered where Amelia was, and he wished she would come back soon. Because another storm was coming, and who knew what it would bring.

  THREE

  The Fairground

  Fortune-teller

  The fairground arrived the next day, a jumble of lorries and caravans appearing from the mist and setting up in a field just outside of town. Kirby walked out to watch them build their stalls and rides. If anything the fog was getting thicker, and the touch of it, cold and damp against his skin, made him uneasy. The shouts of the fairground folk pierced the air as they worked, hammering and clanging, and before long many of the rides were up, including a huge Ferris wheel that Kirby longed to try.

  He left the field and went home, finding Dad in the kitchen and an overpowering stench of garlic in the air. “Thought I’d give spag-bol a go,” he said, stirring the contents of a simmering pot, “seeing as it’s Thursday. Mum always does spag-bol on Thursdays.”

  Kirby leaned over the cooker, inspecting the thick brownish gloop in the pot. It bubbled angrily at him. “Looks interesting,” he said. “Mum’s isn’t usually that colour though, is it?”

  “Hmm. I was wondering about that as well. Where’ve you been, anyway?”

  Kirby told him about the fairground. “So can we go?”

  Dad stirred the pot again, and brought out the wooden spoon, staring at the steaming lump on the end. He popped it into his mouth, chewed, grimaced as if Kirby had kicked him on the shin, and said, “Good idea. I haven’t been to the carnival for years.” Then he tossed the wooden spoon back in the pot and switched off the cooker. “I’ll buy us fish and chips for dinner on the way.”

  ***

  Even in the thick mist the carnival was alive with light and colour. Fairgrounds didn’t often make it as far along the east coast as Craghaven, so the entire town was buzzing, and the place was crowded despite the weather.

  Kirby was first in line for a go on the big wheel. The glow from the fairground lights lit up the fog, turning it into a fluorescent sea, and when he was up on the wheel, Kirby felt like he was Peter Pan floating through the enchanted sky towards Neverland.

  He won a water pistol on the coconut shy, terrorised his dad on the bumper cars, and ate candyfloss until he felt sick. Dad had a go on the strongman hammer. Then another. And another, until he was so exhausted from trying to ring the bell that the owner of the stall had to give him a drink of water.

  “It must be rigged.” He rubbed his shoulder as they walked away. “Right, I think that’s enough for one night. Home, eh?”

  They were almost out of the field when Kirby spotted a small, shabby tent almost hidden away among the bright rides and stalls. There was nothing fancy about it, only red and white striped canvas, an entrance covered by a curtain of beads and a small sign that read: Fortune Teller.

  “I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told,” said Kirby. “Can I, Dad?”

  Dad squinted at the tent. “Really? It’s all rubbish.”

  “It’s just a bit of fun.”

  Dad reached into his pocket and gave Kirby a few coins. “Go for it,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”

  Kirby swept through the curtain into a tiny square space lit by the glow of many fairy lights strung around the red-striped walls. There was a little round table with a chair on either side. One of the chairs was empty. In the other sat an old woman dressed completely in black, wearing a floppy hat that was too big for her. She kept readjusting it. She smiled up at Kirby, and her face was nothing more than a collection of wrinkles and two shining black eyes.

  “Welcome, boy,” she said. “Cross my palm with silver.”

  “I’ve got two pounds,” said Kirby. “Will that do?”

  “Hand it over.”

  Kirby did as she asked.

  “Sit,” she said.

  Kirby sat on the chair and stared across the table.

  The old woman pursed her lips and held out a hand. “Give us your hand.”

  She took Kirby’s hand and studied it, palm up, a look of deep concentration on her face. Then, suddenly, she let it go, recoiling from him as if he had stung her. Her wrinkles gathered into a sad, concerned look, and she said, “You’re going to lose her.”

  The lights and sounds of the fairground seemed so very far away inside the little tent. Kirby stared at the fortune-teller. His heart quickened. “What did you say?”

  “I’m so sorry, so very, very sorry. I can’t help what I see…”

  “What did you see?” asked Kirby.

  “There’s someone close to you,” she said. “Someone very close. A female. I see her lying down. And when I look a little further ahead she’s gone… empty.”

  Kirby felt like someone had reached in and grabbed his heart with icy hands. She was talking about Mum. She had to be.

  He stood up, numb. “I have to go.” Then he was out of the tent, back among the chaos of the carnival, and it seemed like the world was moving past him in a blur.

  “You alright?” said Dad.

  “Mmm?”

  “I said, are you alright? You look frightened half to death. What did that fortune-teller say to you?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just a lot of rubbish like you said. Waste of money really.”

  But the fortune-teller’s words haunted him. All the way home, and through a sleepless night, he could hear her voice: You’re going to lose her.

  Taken

  The usual smell of burnt toast greeted Kirby when he made his way down to the kitchen next morning. Dad was sitting at the table reading the paper with a steaming coffee, a deep frown on his brow.

  “Something up?” Kirby asked.

  “Mmm? Oh. Paper says a local boy’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yeah. His parents lost him at the carnival last night. He’s only six.”

  Kirby straightened up in his seat. He had that strange sinking feeling in his stomach, the one that the spiders gave him, the witch in the woods too. “Can I see the paper after you?”

  Dad nodded, and handed the newspaper over. Kirby read the story from start to finish. The young boy’s name was Charlie Grant. Kirby recognised the photo – one of the little ones at his old primary school. The newspaper report was implying as strongly as it could that someone had snatched him at the carnival. Kirby suspected they were right. Charlie had been taken. But not necessarily by a person.

  ***

  When he was dressed, Kirby walked back up through town to the field where the carnival was set up. There were police everywhere. The entrance was taped off. As he approached, a policewoman said, “Can’t go in there, son.”

  Kirby walked away, hands in pockets, and watched the comings and goings from a spot on an old stone wall at the edge of the field.

  “Well, this isn’t
good, is it?” said a voice.

  Amelia was beside him, perched on the wall in her yellow raincoat and Wellingtons, swinging her legs.

  Kirby blinked to make sure she was really there. “You’re OK!” He climbed down and looked at her.

  “Of course I’m OK.” Amelia rolled her eyes. “As if I wouldn’t be OK!”

  Kirby folded his arms. “Well thanks for letting me know! I was grounded for a week because of you!”

  “Me? What did I do?” Kirby was about to answer when Amelia said, “Hold that thought…” She stepped back, looking the wall up and down. It was old, built from many stones all wedged together with dark gaps in between them. Amelia reached into one of the gaps, her tongue stuck to her top lip in concentration, and she shuffled her arm about. When she pulled her hand out, she was holding something about the size of a mouse, something black and wriggling. She dropped it to the ground, raised a foot, and brought her Wellington down hard. The thing, whatever it was, exploded under her boot, leaving a smear of black goo on the grass. Kirby pinched his nose. It smelled like rotting seaweed.

  “What,” he said, “was that?”

  Amelia shrugged. “It’s like I said before. When the witches came through, so did some other stuff. Pests. Vermin. No big deal.”

  “Oh, more good news then.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Amelia asked. “Did you miss your nap today?”

  “When I got home after you beat the witch, Dad was awake. He was out of his mind. Grounded me for a week. You dropped me in it!”

  Amelia raised her hands. “Relax,” she said. “Freeze out.”

  “Freeze out… you mean chill out?”

  “Possibly. I’m no good with your jargon. Look, next time we’ll get you home before I fall asleep. That way your dad will definitely still be under the spell. OK?”

  ‘OK,” Kirby muttered. He was so pleased to see Amelia again, he couldn’t stay angry with her for long. And they needed to start searching for wee Charlie.