by Rob Scott
Hannah used another length of leather to tie herself securely to the chain of reins linking the four horses. As brave as she was determined to be, she was not taking any chances. One glance at Churn assured her that the burly mute wasn’t leaving his life to the fates either. She smiled at the sight of his massive forearm, as big around as one of her calves, looped several times in whatever loose string, rope, leather, even cloth Churn could find; wide-eyed, he stared back at her, looking as desperate for an alternative as she had been only a few minutes before.
At least I’m not the only one terrified, Hannah thought, wincing at what she could only imagine the silent Pragan might experience at the hands of the haunted forest.
‘Sorry, Churn. But I think we just have to do this,’ she whispered.
Signing slowly so Hannah could understand, he said, ‘I don’t want to go in,’ in exaggerated gestures.
‘Neither do I, my friend, but drinks are on me when we get to the other side,’ Hannah said softly.
‘Make it six, and I’ll follow you anywhere.’
She laughed: she understood that! ‘Done. Six it is.’
It would be impossible for them to ride like this, Hannah thought, wondering why Alen had insisted they link their mounts together so soon. As he double-checked the knots on the sacks, she asked, ‘Why are we going on foot now? Shouldn’t we ride until we get to the forest itself?’
Alen motioned towards a stand of white birch trees, their paper bark peeling in the autumn chill. The grove rained a cloudburst of tiny leaves with each gentle gust of wind that blew through the foothills. There, half-buried beneath a mound of yellow leaves was what remained of a traveller: man or woman, Hannah couldn’t tell. Seated against a tree trunk, it looked like the figure had expired right there, legs crossed as if relaxing in the shade with a cold beer and a good book; there were no signs of struggle. The dusty grey cadaver was little more than a mummified husk; it looked like a statue. Hannah thought that if she wandered close enough, she might be able to read a bronze plaque, set with mortar into a carved piece of granite, Sunday Afternoon by Michael Adams.
‘Good God, look at it,’ she whispered. ‘It died right there, sitting there.’ Except for the few funerals of friends’ grandparents, and the man Churn had killed while saving her life, Hannah had never seen a dead body up close, certainly not one who had died while wasting away an afternoon beneath a favourite backyard tree.
‘What is this place, Alen?’ she whispered as her eyes moved from the dead body to the old Larion Senator. ‘What are we doing here?’
Alen smiled, summoning as much confidence as he could. ‘We are taking the first of several difficult steps to send you home. So please, tie that loop tight and walk beside your horse. Let him lead you, and I will see you on the other side.’ The old man brushed a strand of hair away from Hannah’s forehead, then grabbed the wineskin Hoyt and Churn had been passing between them and took a gulp.
‘All right Hoyt,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘straight north, all day, all night – however long it takes, do not stop.’
‘Right.’ Hoyt rubbed his palms on his leggings.
‘Do you remember the words?’ Alen had taught him a minor spell, something simple to dull his mind slightly and to keep his own memories from swirling about in his head like targets in an enchanted carnival shooting gallery.
‘Yes.’
‘Right then, lead on.’ Alen looped his hand through the knot in his horse’s reins and twisted it several times until it was tight about his wrist.
Hannah had expected the enchantment to overcome her the moment she stepped beneath the trees, so she was surprised that they were able to climb the slow-rising hill and descend into the shallow valley between it and the next before anything strange seemed to happen. Hoyt and Alen spent some of the time singing a Pragan song about friendship and courtship; Hannah had picked up most of the refrain before – in typical Hoyt fashion – the lyrics spiralled into a less appropriate libretto. Behind her, Churn grunted and giggled along, bursting out with an unnatural guttural sound every time his friend mentioned loose women, free beer or the incontinence of his eminence, Prince Malagon.
The melody and rhythm lulled Hannah into a false sense of security. This isn’t so bad – maybe nothing will happen. It can’t be far – we’ve come a long way already. She sang along until the song began to echo back at her from the forest, blurry, bent notes and odd angles that seemed to be creating lapses in time. Weird jazz. The boisterously loud refrain woke her from a daze – a quick nap, she told herself. Her eyes widened in her effort to stay awake.
*
The television was on – the boisterously loud refrain of a commercial awakened Hannah and her eyes widened in an effort to stay awake. The couch again, rats. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and waited for the commercial to end. It was something about soap and dress shirts; a bald fellow with a deadpan look was washing one white shirt at a time. I’d hate to wait around while he does his laundry. Hannah reached for the TV Guide. What time is it?
Before she could turn to check the hallway clock, the late news came on. Two men, one the anchor and the other a sports commentator – Hannah couldn’t remember their names – were discussing football.
That’s right, John Elway. He was the standout superstar at Stanford, and he does not want to play in Baltimore. He has told his agent. He has told the media. He won’t go to Baltimore, and we are going to get him right here in Denver. I tell you, this kid has an arm like a god, and if we can get him here with the Broncos -
Ten o’clock. No, later. They do sports later, almost at the end. So it has to be almost ten-thirty. Hannah sat up and was surprised to find her mother’s old coverlet, the ratty one with the frayed edges, thrown over her. She had been sleeping longer than she thought. Normally, I wake up when she covers me out here. She curled back beneath the blanket, falling into the indentation she had left in the pillows, two pillows, and watched news clips of college football teams battling their way across a gridiron. She guessed that the focus of the report was a blond man, the quarterback from the team in red. He’s cute. He can play here. That’s okay with me.
The Sorensons’ living room was located just off the kitchen, next to the area they used as a dining room for company. When it was just the three of them, they always ate their meals in the kitchenette, where a small table, easy to set and easy to clean, provided a pleasant place for family dinners and quick breakfasts before school. The dining room had a longer wooden table, conservative chairs, and a cabinet stacked nearly to overflowing with decorative china. A centrepiece of fake flowers adorned the table year round, their perpetually bright colours illuminated for dinner by candles in the candleholders Hannah’s mother had bought one summer on a trip to Boston. When no one was visiting, the dining room remained dark, the door closed.
Tonight, light spilled through that doorway. Hannah craned her neck, not wanting to actually move to see who might be in there at this hour – she wished she could see around corners, a cool superhero power. Then she heard them, above the noise of the television news (more blather about John Elwood or whoever he was), her parents were sitting in the dining room talking – no, arguing. This can’t be good. Hannah tried to go back to sleep. They only sit in there when it’s really bad. She closed her eyes, certain if she kept them shut long enough she would drift off to sleep, but it was no good; closing her eyes just sharpened her hearing.
To get to her own room meant passing the open door – they would see her, and they would be angry; why was she listening, this was none of her business. Hannah pressed her head down into the pillows and ground her teeth, and focused on the news, listening to everything the sports commentator was saying about John Elwood. That wasn’t his name. But they had already gone to another commercial. Sports were done for the night.
This time it was dog food. What is a gravy train, anyway? It was no use; Hannah could hear every word.
‘But she loves you. Doesn’t that make any differen
ce to you?’ Jennifer Sorenson was pleading with her husband. Hannah didn’t know who she was.
‘I don’t give a fuck about her.’
Slurring. He’s been drinking again.
‘But she’s left her husband; she’s waiting for you. Are you going to tell her that you’re planning to live here with us, or go to her? Either way, Gary, it’s up to you, but you can’t keep doing this to us – to Hannah or to me.’
‘Just shut the fuck up about Hannah!’ Gary Sorenson was yelling now. There was no drowning this out.
‘I’m not going to cry, damn it. You are not going to make me cry again, Gary, you’re not. But you have to decide. We love you – I love you, Gary, I still do, and Hannah idolises you, but you can’t take advantage of us this way. Not me, and not your daughter – no more.’ Jennifer, despite her promise, started crying.
Hannah rolled over on the couch, covering her ears with the pillows, trying not to hear her mother saying, ‘I don’t care about the women, Gary, because I believe you still love me, but you have to stop with the booze – it’s going to kill you. You know that.’
Hannah heard the squeal of a chair being pushed back and her father shouting, ‘I told you to shut the fuck up! Do you not understand shut the fuck up? I will drink if I want to, and I will-’ The chair slammed against the dining room wall, rattling the porcelain. ‘-I will fucking go and fucking do what I want to!’
‘Gary, I’ll make it easy for you: just go. She loves you; she left her family for you – why, I don’t- Well, anyway, I’ll take Hannah, and we’ll go to Bryan’s. You can have three days, Gary, and then I want you gone, out of here.’ Hannah heard her mother walk out of the dining room to the master bedroom. The door slammed.
What are you doing? Come and take it back, Mom, you don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him to leave. Where is he going? I don’t want to go to Uncle Bryan’s; I want to stay here. Mom! Take it back now! He’ll leave if you don’t come out here and tell him you’re sorry.
She could sense her father’s hesitation. He was probably standing beside the table, lighting another cigarette, or maybe pouring another glass of whatever was in the bottle he kept in the cabinet by the phone. Hannah was too terrified to move, so she pulled the blanket up beneath her neck and tucked in the sides until she was wrapped entirely in old knotted wool.
Hannah was seven years old and she had known for a while something was wrong. Her father was gone too much; when it was normal for dads to come home, her dad often didn’t. Sometimes he came back two or three days later, arriving at seven o’clock in the morning, a funny time to get home. He would call into work and tell them he was sick, then sleep much of the day. By dinner time he was up and dressed. After a fight with her mom, he would be gone again.
But that doesn’t mean I want him to leave for ever. Hannah used a corner of the blanket to wipe her face – then she felt a tug, gentle at first, like a friend gripping her hand and pulling her across the playground at school. But there was no one with her now.
What is that?
It came again, a tug on her wrist.
From the dining room, she heard her father lift the chair and slide it back into place beneath the table. He would sit there for the rest of the night, drinking and smoking until the sun came up. Then he would take a shower and leave for work. Some nights, he cooked eggs, adding whatever leftovers were in the refrigerator to his omelettes: green beans, chopped turkey, bits of hot dog, anything. The smell always lingered until Mom got up and sprayed the house. Some mornings Hannah would see him in the dining room asleep on his folded arms, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and grey ash at one elbow.
There was a tug again. This time the little girl’s wrist actually jumped up from the blanket, as if an invisible someone was lifting it. ‘What is that? Who is doing that?’ Hannah whispered, waving the offending wrist in front of her face, trying to see in the darkness if someone had sneaked in and tied a string around her arm.
She heard the dog pad in from the kitchen, his paws tapping out his approach on the linoleum. He was a big dog, like a wolf, and he climbed on the couch to curl up across Hannah’s feet. As she felt the warmth of his fur, Hannah drifted back to sleep, wondering why she couldn’t remember when they got a dog.
In the background the television was on. The boisterously loud refrain of a commercial woke Hannah from where she had fallen asleep. Her eyes widened in an effort to stay awake.
This time, the tugging came more frequently.
Churn woke to the snow tickling his nose and cheeks. The world, muted and out of focus, gradually exposed itself. Although he could feel it snowing, he wasn’t cold; rather, it was uncomfortably warm. Churn couldn’t recall the last time he had seen snow south of the Great Pragan Range. He was dimly aware that his body had been broken – he had so many injuries, there was no better way to describe it. A tugging sensation came from his left, as if he had been gripped by an invisible spectre, and Churn struggled to turn his head.
The soldiers had been brutal. The Malakasians had kicked, beaten and clubbed every inch of him. Churn assumed he was in shock, because except for his shoulders, nothing hurt any longer: his mind had closed off the part of itself that remembered the agony he had experienced that morning…Or had it been the previous morning? When he came fully awake, he drew a massive breath and screamed. He screamed for a long time, nearly half an aven, before passing out again.
Later, he woke in a panic, unable to breathe. His feet had slipped off the thin branch and now dangled high above the yard. The weight of his body pulling so hard on his shoulders made it impossible to breathe. He had been lucky to find that branch, though it was so narrow he was certain it would snap at any moment, but he mustn’t slip again. He had to stay awake.
He had been terrified the whole time the soldiers spent getting him up here. He’d already been beaten near to death and he had no fight left in him. He hadn’t fought back when the Malakasians tied him to a plank they’d found in the barn, not even when it snapped, the first time they tried to lift him. They hadn’t been deterred, though; they’d just found a sturdier piece of wood.
While the soldiers lashed him to the new plank, one, a pretty woman, climbed the giant cottonwood next to the ditch. Once he was secure, the men tossed the other end of his rope to the girl in the tree.
In all his life, Churn had never seen anyone who could climb a tree like that girl – through the haze of his injuries he had wondered if she was some kind of magician, perhaps half-woman, half-cat, she climbed the old cottonwood with such graceful ease. She found a solid branch near the top and looped the rope over and back down to her companions, who were impatiently barking orders up at her. They were all obviously relishing stringing-up their trophy, the killer of three of their brethren, and looking forward to leaving him there to die, slowly and in great pain.
As soon as his feet left the ground, Churn had started gasping for breath; his head was bleeding and his body was in screaming agony, but he was more frightened of suffocation. His head and shoulders crashed through the lower branches, sometimes stopping with a jolt, but each time he thought they’d give up and tie him off there, the half-cat-girl with the grim, pretty face would swing over to dislodge him so he could continue his journey into the upper branches. When she finally secured him, fifty paces above his family farm, she hadn’t noticed the thin branch jutting out of the trunk, but Churn counted it among the greatest strokes of good luck in his lifetime.
Though he faded in and out of consciousness, he remained lucid enough to keep his toes pressed firmly against the twig, taking enough of his weight that he could breathe a little. While he waited for it to snap, he thanked the snow for waking him.
He looked around, but there was no trace of the Malakasians below. He could see his sister and parents lying motionless in the grass below, and tried hoarsely to shout down to them. Perhaps they didn’t know he was here…
There’s that tugging again, from my left. Someone’s pullin
g on my arm.
They were dead. There was no way they could have survived the beating they had taken. Churn didn’t bother wondering why the squad had chosen this farm on this day (was it yesterday? How long have I been up here?) – trying to understand why the Malakasian Army acted with such brutality was like trying to understand their enigmatic leader.
The Pragan farmer who had grown as strong as a bull heaving bales up into the loft of his father’s barn dangled like a macabre ornament from the snowy branches of the cottonwood tree. He could see his sister’s cloak was soaked through where her neck had bled so badly. There was so much blood – it had stained the ground around her dark brown. Blood is supposed to be red. This isn’t right.
His father’s arm had been severed at the elbow. His old sword, little more than a rusty dagger, was still gripped in the missing hand. Churn would remember his father’s wailing scream for the rest of his life: he screamed until one of the Malakasians had hit him hard across the temple with a cudgel. There had been a snapping sound, and his father’s voice had been cut off in mid-cry.
His mother was dead too. She’d huddled on the ground, trying to revive Churn’s father. She hadn’t posed a threat; she hadn’t fought back, and they might have overlooked her, if she hadn’t run for the house when she saw the flames. There had been so much other brutality to distract them; they hadn’t realised the soldiers’ fire had kindled into a raging blaze, engulfing their house. Doren had been in there, Churn’s younger brother, the baby of the family.
Churn’s mother had ignored the inferno and burst through the front door, screaming to the gods of the Northern Forest – and then she had fallen silent. She hadn’t come out, and Churn couldn’t bear to think what his mother had seen before she had been swallowed by the flames.
Now his abused voice was a rasp at the back of his throat, but still Churn screamed as the smell of burning ash assaulted his nostrils. Flailing about in mental and physical agony, he finally managed to break the rope, and started crashing back down through the branches until the plank crossbeam caught in the juncture of two thick branches. Churn felt both shoulders come free from their sockets, the cartilage torn through, and he struck the ground with a thud that knocked the wind from his lungs – an unwelcome irony after he had struggled so hard to get any air in there at all. And then he screamed again, a dry wheeze that eventually faded to silence.