The Color of Darkness

by Ruth Hatfield

  But Sammael was still here.

  Danny swung his legs out of bed and went over to the window. He couldn’t do anything now. It would have to wait until the morning, of course. Except that in the morning he’d leave for school, and suddenly he knew that in the morning school would seem like a much better idea because he would be rational and sensible and afraid in the open light of day.

  He stared out at the moonlit garden, the trees waving wildly in the silver night. There’d been a moon like this when he’d left the farmhouse with Tom, last summer on the first night of June.

  The moonlight. The trees. The wind. So many things he’d never looked at before last year. He’d kept his head down and looked at his house, his small family, his school, and his friends’ houses. These other things—the mysterious dark and the howling anger of the wet wind—they made him want to turn his eyes back to his bed and crawl inside it. But he couldn’t stop looking.

  Before him in the moonlight he saw them all—Shimny the horse, Paras and Siravina the swallows, the river in Great Butford, Sentry Hill, the great, gathering storms; all the companions of that summer’s journey came back to him in a black, tingling flood, and he shivered as sharply as a cat.

  If only Tom were here, tall and cheerful, they could pretend they were just going on a midnight badger watch, or up to the top meadow to watch bats at dusk. Danny had never really enjoyed those kinds of trips, but at least Tom’s merry whistling had pierced the darkness and covered the sounds of dog barks echoing across the night.

  None of that mattered, he reminded himself. He and Tom weren’t even really friends anymore. Tom was having his own adventures, and Danny was alone.

  But Cath was alone, too, somewhere. And she’d risked a lot to deliver the hare’s message and go to the farm with him. Both she and Barshin clearly thought that the message was important.

  He had to save Tom.

  Go into another world, dream up a gray lurcher called Kalia, and offer her to Sammael in exchange for Tom’s soul.

  It was a crazy idea.

  Danny thought about standing in front of Sammael, trying to find words to say, Here is this imaginary dog, I’ll give it to you in return for the life of my cousin, I know I’m cheating you, and you’ll probably find out sooner or later, but hey …

  His stomach churned with fear. Forget it, he told himself. Forget anything beyond the next task. One step at a time. That’s the way to get things done.

  Because, before crazy worlds and gray lurchers, before even Tom, there was somebody else he had to save.

  He set his face against the moonlight and began to get dressed.

  * * *

  He took his bike from the shed and waited until he was out in the road in front of the house before switching the lights on. He could see quite well by the streetlamps and the moon, but the sky seemed like a wide black cloak waiting to throw itself down on top of him at any moment. Somehow the bike lights convinced him that he could fight it off. Or at least have a chance.

  The bike was too big for him: even with the seat at its lowest, his feet only just touched the pedals. Danny paused before throwing his leg over the crossbar. Should he leave a note for his parents, in case anything happened? Maybe. But they hadn’t left him a note when they’d disappeared in the middle of the night last summer. Let them find out what it was like to wake up and have your family missing.

  He got onto the bike, turned his face to the wind, and pulled the zippers of his coat right up, so his chin was sitting inside the collar. Without looking back, he kicked the pedal and cycled off into the raw night.

  * * *

  It was easy to remember where he’d buried the stick. He almost wished it had been harder. But as soon as he stopped his bike and saw the little wooden gate that led to the nature reserve, he felt its presence in the midnight air, calling to him with an anguished pull as rough as his own racing heartbeat. He left the bike by the gate and took the front light to use as a flashlight.

  What was he walking toward? It was a sound, but not so much one that his ears could pick up. More like a humming taste in the air—the thin, hard, woody taste of bark mixed with burning sap. His palms itched.

  At the base of the tree, the dry leaves and moss were disturbed, as though a dog had been having a root around. The earth was rough and mounded and didn’t want to be where it was, piled uneasily over the alien growth he’d tried to make it hide.

  Danny dug with his hands. It was deeper down than he’d remembered—he’d obviously been trying to put the stick so deep in the earth that it couldn’t call to him, or make him want it back. Fat lot of good that had done.

  And then it was under his fingertips and leaping into his hands, shedding the soil under which it had lain.

  The world came to life around him. For a second he was surrounded by so much sound that he couldn’t think how to listen to any of it. And then he remembered—turn his thinking toward one thing, and the rest would recede a little. The whispers of the breeze through leaves became whispered words. The groans of the trees were real groans—conversations about other trees, about the lack of sky and the salty edge to the stormy air.

  “… Such a long spring this year. So many leaves to hold on to. And that wind last week—would you believe that wind? I had to hold on to my leaves like a whelk to a rock…”

  There it was: he’d forgotten how they talked about things they couldn’t possibly have seen for themselves. It was because they spent their lives talking to one another—stories flew from tree to tree, or grass to grass, crossing vast distances. Often they squabbled, too: the plants around his feet were doggedly arguing. A small tendril of ivy above them was clinging to a tree and giggling.

  “Hee-hee! Squee-eeze! Hold on tight, boys, and squee-ee-ee-eeze! Hee-hee! Round and round and round we go, climbing high and creeping low…”

  The babbling. The chanting. He’d forgotten about that, too.

  An owl hooted out a wicked greeting, boasting about the fat mouse it had caught in a territory outside its own. The earth bristled and sighed with a thousand tiny voices chattering away underneath it. Danny became aware of a soft music drifting up from the forest floor. Of course. It was the worms.

  They ate the soil and sang tales of the lives that the soil had once been. It wasn’t a very nice thought, really, but it had been useful to him before. The songs that came out often seemed quite random: the first time he’d heard a worm, she’d been singing “Cockles and Mussels.” And now, from just in front of his knees, perhaps because it had his name in it, he heard:

  “Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,

  From glen to glen, and down the mountainside,

  The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,

  ’Tis you must go…”

  And then another worm began to chant like an ancient monk, and voices piled on top of one another, dozens and dozens of songs and shouts and whispers, from worms and grubs and beetles so small they could hide under leaves in their thousands, until Danny’s ears began to buzz so loudly that he could no longer think what anything was, or hear any particular voice. He had to let the stick fall from his fingers just to find some quiet. He knew he wouldn’t lose it in the darkness.

  Why do I have to do these things? he asked himself. Why can’t it be someone else? But he was asking the question of himself, turning his thoughts toward himself, and there was no plant or tree to give him an answer.

  * * *

  He knelt beside the hole he’d dug, waiting for his head to calm down a bit. And then, from behind a tree across the small clearing, a stag stepped out into a shaft of moonlight.

  It was a fine, slender animal with thin antlers, and it wasn’t quite as big as he’d have expected a stag to be. But it seemed impossibly powerful, standing with its head high, thrown-back antlers piercing the silvery moonlight.

  For a long moment it listened to the woodland creaks and rattles, and then it put its muzzle down to something on the ground and curled its lips ar
ound whatever it had found there. Danny heard the soft tearing as its teeth crunched its food, and the rustle of its hooves through the undergrowth. Could he speak to it? Should he speak to it? And then he remembered the words of the old sycamore tree so many months ago. Be careful who you ask. Which had been a dying tree’s way of saying: Sammael is everywhere. Some creatures are on his side, and you never know which ones.

  Regretting his own cautiousness, Danny watched the stag for as long as it stayed in the clearing. In his place, Tom would have spoken to it, he knew. But then Tom would do a lot of things Danny would be too scared to do. And perhaps that wasn’t always a good thing.

  * * *

  His front bike light ran out just as he got back to his bike. But away to his left there was a bluish tinge to the sky that suggested it might, in an hour or so, start turning into dawn. The road was deserted. Even the wind had dropped slightly.

  Danny’s eyes wanted to close. His skin felt heavy. He fought it off—there was no time for resting. He had to save Cath. Then at least she would be safe.

  He got on his bike and thought, once more, of the moment he’d seen the stag stepping out into the moonlight. Once this was all over, he’d go back and find the stag again. He was sketching deer in his head as he stood on his pedals and kicked the bike forward into the slackening darkness. Stags with antlers and does with soft eyes—a passing herd of them, traipsing by and chewing at the vegetation. Hesitating only slightly, he mentally sketched himself sitting astride the biggest stag with the tallest antlers. He smiled to himself.

  In the night so many more things seemed possible.

  CHAPTER 11

  IACO

  In a shaft of early-morning sunlight, the calf struggled, fell, scrambled in its panic to get back onto its feet, then lifted its tail and let out a stream of liquid dung: the only answer it had left to give.

  “Sssh. Silly girl. I’m only trying to take a look at you. Sssh now, you’ve cut your shoulder.”

  Tom tried to calm the little calf with the sound of his voice. She wasn’t struggling anymore, but whether that was due to his efforts at calming her or the fact that she was now lying on the barn floor with three of her legs pinned down, he couldn’t tell. No matter. At least he could clean her up now.

  It was a quick job, which was more than could be said for the washing of his overalls after the calf’s shocked flood of green slime.

  “Is this a good time? You look a bit … occupied.”

  Sammael stood in the doorway of the barn, framed by the light. Tom clenched his hand around the calf’s foot in case she should be alarmed by the stranger, but the animal had gone limp in his arms, her eyes soft and trusting. Of course, Sammael was one of those people whom animals instantly felt easy with. He knew how to move around them, and the tone of his voice was gentle.

  “Just a sec,” said Tom. “This lady’s got a cut on her shoulder, and she’s nervous as a field mouse. I’ll finish up while I’ve got her quiet.”

  “Here.” Sammael came forward and stepped neatly between the rows of pens, bringing the fresh morning air in with him. “I’ll give you a hand if you like?”

  The calf was almost in a trance. Her eyes quivered and half closed as Sammael ducked through the rails and came up to her. When he put his hands on her, she gave a sigh, shuddered, and lay back on the straw, as if sleeping beside her mother.

  “Nice,” said Tom, cleaning the last of the cut.

  “Lovely calf,” said Sammael. “Looks well bred.”

  “She is,” agreed Tom, finishing up and putting the lid back on the antiseptic spray. “My granddad started this herd fifty years ago. They’re as good cows as you’ll find anywhere.”

  Even when both Tom and Sammael took their hands off the calf and got to their feet, she still didn’t move. She lay in the dung-splattered straw, her chocolate eyes gazing up at Sammael.

  Tom wanted suddenly to gather her up in his arms and offer her to the thin man. He wanted to offer up the whole farm, to say, Won’t you take it, and live here, and work your magic on the whole place? The cows would grow fat, happy, and calm. The wild animals that lived in the hedges and ditches and copses would come out to flock closely around. Sammael would teach Tom about the plants, too: what to use to heal the cows, to make their bones sturdy and strong, their udders full of milk. Sammael’s magic would bring a clean, bright life to the farm, a step higher than the endless rounds of milking and mending.

  Tom saw a tiny face peep out from the neck of Sammael’s white shirt. It had round ears and dark brown fur with a tinge of white showing underneath its chin.

  “Is that a stoat?” he said. Stoats were one of the shyest creatures he knew; he’d seen them around the farm from a distance, but they disappeared in a flash when they caught wind of him.

  “Meet Iaco,” said Sammael, putting his hand up to his neck and pulling the little creature out of his collar. He sat it on his forearm where it glared at Tom with hot anger in its eyes.

  “A tame stoat? Where on earth did you find it?”

  “She was wounded. I took her home and healed her. Her family were killed by men with terriers out ratting.”

  Tom reached out a finger to the stoat, which arched its sleek back and bared its tiny teeth at him.

  “Not keen on people, then?” He tried to smile but a thudding in his chest was choking him. If only the stoat would jump onto his outstretched arm, tuck herself into his collar, and feel safe with him. For a second his blood ran green with envy. But if he stayed friends with Sammael, he could have this too. He was sure of it.

  “Not keen on people. But I think she might help you.”

  “How?” Tom pulled back his hand and the stoat chattered, then relaxed along Sammael’s shirtsleeve.

  “I think if you could learn to understand the way stoats talk, she might go with you and round up other stoats. If you had an army of them you might be able to divert the dogs, once they’d set on the badger. If you still want to stop the baiters, that is.”

  “Of course I do! But … I mean, I know I’ll easily learn to understand stoats—I just haven’t quite got to them in the book yet. But could I really learn to talk to them? I’ve never tried that with anything else. I didn’t think it would work. My voice must sound so different from theirs, whatever noise I try to make.”

  Sammael smiled and put up a finger to stroke Iaco’s back. The stoat bent herself to his touch.

  “I’m sure I could help with that. It might take a little time, though. Could you take a day or so off from your farm?”

  Tom never took time off from the farm. The milking was his job, and he did it come rain or shine. He’d done it since he was twelve. Five whole years without a single day’s vacation.

  “Sure,” he said, not liking the way the word stuck in his tight shoulders. “Of course I could. Mum’ll understand. She hates the baiters too. I’m sure she’ll understand. I do need to finish up a few things here first, though.”

  “As you like,” said Sammael. “I’ve got plenty of time. Maybe I can start trying to explain things to Iaco, and you can come and find me in the woods later, when you’re ready.”

  He turned to leave the barn and Tom followed him, wanting desperately to say, I’ve changed my mind, let’s go now. But as they walked out into the damp yard and Tom saw every familiar thing, old troughs and fences and the puddle by the drain that never quite dried up, he couldn’t help feeling that the plan was a bit crazy.

  “Do you really reckon it’ll work?” he said. “I mean, stoats are so territorial. They’ll just end up fighting one another, won’t they? Wouldn’t we be better off trying to chuck water on the dogs or something?”

  “Depends on how well you think you could learn to command wild animals, doesn’t it?” said Sammael. The stoat ran back up his neck. “Depends on how creative you want to be in your approach.”

  “But … stoats?”

  Sammael turned and smiled his thin, easy smile, and Tom’s doubts vanished.

  “
Imagine,” said Sammael. “If you could.”

  And with a brief salute, he walked out of the yard leaving Tom staring after him, hope soaring in his heart.

  * * *

  Up in the ether, Sammael stepped out of the air into the doorway and stamped into the cold room, hardly noticing as Iaco leapt from the neck of his shirt and raced behind a high stack of boxes. He was muttering to himself, a long stream of words the stoat couldn’t follow.

  The walls of the room had changed color again. Today they were a moldy green, the sort of color that gobbled up light.

  Iaco’s paws were still shaking from the horrors of the journey. They’d traveled through that awful, blinding world, wild with evil men and evil dogs. She’d had to hide inside Sammael’s shirt and stay close to his chest again, just to stop herself chewing her own paws off in terror.

  She found something that looked like an old lump of bread and gave it a tentative gnaw.

  “Humans!” spat Sammael. “Humans!”

  The stoat’s fur prickled along the ridge of her spine. She burped, and a stream of tiny shovels flew from her mouth, in all the various colors of the rainbow.

  “Iaco!” snapped Sammael. “I warned you—don’t touch things you find here. You’re still a creature of the earth—if you’re going to be witless and dumb, not even I can help you.”

  The tiny shovels dwindled away, although they were followed by a single curving scythe, and then Iaco could breathe properly again.

  “I’m not dumb!” she yelled, leaping up and down in fear and fury. “You haven’t explained a thing about this place! I can’t eat, I can hardly breathe, and every time I move a claw something even more disgusting happens to me! Last week—those giant pink slugs falling from the roof—ugh! This isn’t what I asked for! The deal’s off! I’m going home!”

  “Go on, then,” said Sammael. “Off you trot.”

  Iaco crouched against the ground, sniffing with hatred.

  “I can’t,” she growled. “You’ve trapped me here. You’ve tricked me.”