Scatterheart

by Lili Wilkinson

  ‘Here,’ said Molly, panting.

  She held out the scrap of brown fabric that Thomas’s spectacles had been wrapped in.

  ‘It’s Mr Bear’s handkerchief,’ she said.

  Hannah took it, rubbing the tattered fabric between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Why were they so interested in me?’ asked Molly.

  Hannah shrugged. ‘I suppose because … because you look different.’

  ‘No one ever did that before,’ said Molly. ‘Just looked. Most people look away and get all embarrassed.’

  Hannah glanced over at her, and took her hand impulsively. ‘Most people are stupid,’ she said.

  thirty-two

  Scatterheart walked on and on, until she came to a great glass mountain that was so slippery she could not climb it. She cracked open the golden acorn, and found a pair of golden slippers. She put on the slippers, and climbed the mountain with ease.

  ***

  They sheltered under the overhang of a large yellowish rock that night. Hannah shared out some of the meat that the savages had offered them. It was tough and stringy, but Hannah was glad to have a change from stale bread and cheese.

  There was barely any food left in her canvas bag. Only enough for one or two more small, pathetic meals. Hannah’s stomach rumbled hungrily, and she wondered if she could pick some nuts or mushrooms or something.

  There were trees sporting strange grey and brown fruits that were rough and hard to touch, and could not be broken open to reveal any edible flesh. Molly found a crop of bright blue berries, but Hannah shuddered, remembering the blue fruit that Scatterheart had eaten in the ice-garden, and forbade Molly to touch them.

  ‘Knowing this place,’ she said, ‘anything that looked at all edible would be filled with deadly poison.’

  Molly cheered weakly when night fell and they could make out the yellow glow of the campfire high above them on the mountain.

  ‘It still seems so far,’ said Hannah.

  ‘We’re definitely closer,’ replied Molly.

  Hannah huddled next to Molly and closed her eyes. The few scraps of the savages’ meat had done little to fill her stomach.

  Molly was coughing again, her little body shaking with spasms. Hannah wriggled around, trying to find a more comfortable place to sleep, but every way she moved, rocks and tree roots poked into her.

  Molly was quiet the next day. Hannah tried to tell her the story of Little Red-Cap, visiting her grandmother in the forest, but Molly was distant and vague.

  The terrain began to rise again. Strange trees twisted and curled around other trees, like they were trying to strangle the very life from each other.

  Bark hung from some trees in long strips, like peeling skin. Others had soft, fine bark-like paper, which could be peeled off. Once or twice, Hannah made out the three peaks of yellow rock through the thick trees, but they didn’t seem to be closer at all.

  As well as rough, yellow stone, they also came across strange outcrops of smooth grey rock, shaped like the curves and peaks of the ocean. As the sun climbed into the sky, they came across such an outcrop. There were two basin-shaped hollows at either end, and between them, the rock rose up sharply, and then levelled off to make a flat top.

  ‘It looks like a table and chairs,’ said Hannah, laughing.

  Molly looked at the rock with her head on one side. Hannah put down the canvas bag.

  ‘We should have a tea-party,’ she said.

  Molly looked at her, puzzled. Hannah pushed her down into one of the hollows, and seated herself in the other. She handed Molly the water bottle.

  ‘My dear, will you pour?’ she asked.

  Molly stared at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said, taking a sip and then passing it back.

  ‘So refreshing,’ said Hannah, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her sleeve. ‘Now, what have we here?’

  She took out their last morsel of bread. It was fringed with blue mould, and felt as hard as stone.

  ‘Fresh cinnamon cakes!’ cried Hannah. ‘Don’t they smell delicious?’

  Molly inhaled, nodding.

  ‘And some fine French camembert,’ said Hannah, placing a crumb of cheese on their stone table. ‘From the very best dairies in Normandy.’

  ‘What else?’ asked Molly, her eye taking on a lustre that Hannah hadn’t seen for days.

  Hannah reached into the bag again. ‘The very finest suckling pig. Roasted on a spit and served with parsnips and potatoes.’

  ‘Does it have an apple in its mouth?’ asked Molly.

  ‘But of course,’ said Hannah, placing the last of the savages’ meat on the table.

  ‘Everything but the squeal,’ said Molly happily.

  They ate the feast, closing their eyes and savouring the fine flavours.

  ‘Do help yourself,’ said Hannah. ‘But remember to save room for the second course!’

  ‘What’s in the second course?’

  ‘Hand-raised duck pie with plum chutney and stewed vegetables. And collared eels, and a bisque of pigeons with truffles and beetroot. And a calfsfoot pudding.’

  Molly put her hands over her stomach. ‘Stop!’ she said. ‘I’m fit to burst.’

  Hannah grinned. ‘I haven’t even started on dessert yet.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘All the other dishes are removed, and the cloth is changed. Then the dessert course appears. A miniature Vauxhall Gardens made out of spun sugar, twinkling in the candlelight. A little sugar orchestra in the pavilion, a sugar tightrope walker. It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. So beautiful and delicate that you don’t want to eat any of it, for fear of spoiling the scene.’

  Molly looked worried. ‘But we do, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hannah.

  Molly sighed contentedly. ‘What a lovely feast,’ she said. She wriggled a little and rubbed her upper arms. ‘But I wish the fire was hotter, it’s so cold in here. Do you think you could ask Peter to stoke the fire a little?’

  Hannah chuckled. ‘Who’s Peter?’ she asked.

  Molly closed her eye sleepily. ‘I hope Catherine is warming up my bed, Mama.’

  Hannah caught her breath. ‘Is Catherine your sister?’ she asked.

  Molly yawned. ‘Goodnight, Mama,’ she said.

  Molly had never spoken of her life before she had become a convict. Hannah assumed that she had spent her whole life on the streets. She wondered what could have happened to make her family abandon her. Hannah reached out and shook her gently.

  ‘Come on, Molly,’ she said. ‘We have to keep going.’

  Molly raised her head and frowned. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  They kept walking, but Molly was lagging behind. She kept coughing, and her eye seemed unfocussed. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Hannah took her hand. It was hot and clammy. They walked on.

  Clouds began to scud across the sky, and the tree-tops overhead bent and rustled as a breeze picked up. Hannah shivered uneasily. Molly stopped dead.

  ‘Come on, Molly,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Rubies,’ said Molly distantly. ‘I found rubies.’

  ‘Just a bit further,’ Hannah said. ‘And then I promise we can rest.’

  She could feel Thomas nearby, she was sure of it. They must be close. They had run out of food, so if they were not close now, then they never would be. Molly didn’t move, just stared at the tree in front of her.

  ‘Look, Hannah,’ said Molly, her voice slightly slurred. ‘Rubies!’

  Hannah sighed and looked.

  There was a bright, shining red stone protruding from the rough brown tree-trunk. It was twisted and lumpy, as if it had been melted into place. Hannah reached out to touch it. The tree reminded her of something.

  A tree covered in jewels … was it part of Thomas’s story? Hannah ran her fingers over the smooth, hard stones. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ said Molly dreamily.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannah, feeling where it fused wi
th the bark of the tree. What did it mean? The memory lurked at the back of her mind, just out of reach. She frowned, and the red stone came off in her hand.

  She held it up to the light. It wasn’t a stone. It was soft inside, like some kind of sweetmeat.

  ‘Oh, Hannah,’ said Molly, swaying on her feet. ‘What did you do?’

  Hannah looked back at the tree trunk. It was bleeding, a thick, dark, reddish blood. She dropped the red stone to the ground, and stared, horrified, at the bleeding tree.

  ‘We have to go,’ she said, grabbing Molly’s hand. ‘We have to find Thomas.’

  Molly began to walk again, Hannah almost dragging her through the undergrowth.

  The clouds rushed in, low and full. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Hannah walked faster, Molly stumbling along behind her. As the first few, fat drops fell, Hannah felt despair sweeping over her. She shook it off.

  ‘We’ll just get to the top of the next rise,’ she muttered. ‘And he’ll be there, waiting for us.’

  But he wasn’t. The rain started to fall in earnest, thick curtains of freezing water. The ground beneath them grew treacherous.

  They kept walking. He wasn’t over the next rise either, or the next. The three yellow rocks seemed to have vanished. Hannah’s hands and dress became soaked in mud, as she slipped and stumbled through the forest, towing Molly along behind her. Molly didn’t speak.

  It grew dark. The rain continued to fall. There was no moon to illuminate the forest around them, and Hannah felt as if she were going blind. As the light faded, the trees stretched into sinister, looming shapes around them. Hannah’s hands and feet were numb.

  They kept walking.

  As the last glimmer of light faded from the forest, they stumbled into a shallow cave and collapsed in the dirt.

  Molly’s breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps. Hannah put a hand to her forehead, but snatched it away immediately. Molly was burning.

  ‘Mama?’ said Molly. ‘Is that you?’

  Hannah sat with Molly, horrified at herself. Molly was really sick. Hannah had been pushing her for days.

  Molly shivered and burned, muttering nonsense and staring blankly at Hannah with her one good eye. She made Molly sip some water, but it only made her cough and retch, bringing up a stinking greenish-yellow bile.

  ‘King’s pictures, miss,’ said Molly.

  ‘Shh,’ said Hannah. ‘Try to sleep, Molly.’

  Molly moaned and thrashed about. ‘Molly put the kettle on,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Hannah. ‘We should never have come here.’

  As the night wore on, Molly slipped into a restless sleep. Hannah sat by her, using Thomas’s handkerchief to mop the sweat from Molly’s brow.

  Hannah spread the damp handkerchief out and looked at it. It was barely holding together, its threads so worn and tattered that it threatened to disintegrate at any moment.

  She thought about how Thomas had looked when he had told her that he loved her. Or had he? Hannah went through his proposal in her mind. He had never said it. What if the rumours about another woman were true?

  Why would he love her? She had only ever been selfish and cruel to him. Thomas wasn’t like James. He wouldn’t have loved her because of something she wasn’t. He wouldn’t have loved her at all.

  ‘What have I done?’ she murmured.

  Had she made it up? Had he only offered to marry her out of sympathy? Out of obligation?

  A churning, writhing despair rose from her stomach. She felt sick. The cave felt suddenly too small, but she couldn’t leave it because of the rain. She was trapped.

  She never should have let Molly come. She was just a child. Hannah had thought that she had changed, but she was just as selfish as she had always been. She didn’t deserve to find Thomas.

  A great clap of thunder sounded, and Molly whimpered.

  Panic rose in Hannah’s throat. They would die here.

  ‘Hannah,’ whispered Molly. ‘Hannah.’

  Hannah tried to swallow her panic. ‘I’m here, sweetheart,’ she said, taking Molly’s hand. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I–’ Molly broke off and coughed again, a violent, racking cough. ‘I’m the third acorn.’

  ‘What?’

  I’m the third acorn. Like when you gave Mister Bear’s spectacles to the brown men. You should keep going.’

  Molly’s head slumped back onto the ground, and she slipped out of consciousness.

  Hannah shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  She ducked out of the cave and stood in the rain. The wind in the trees sounded like the whistling and wailing of the Derby Ram’s rigging. She looked out for the winking yellow light of Thomas’s campfire, but could see nothing but rain.

  It had been four nights since they’d seen it.

  ‘No,’ she said again.

  ‘Do you hear me, mountain?’ she yelled into the storm. ‘I’m not giving in. I crossed an ocean to get here. I climbed this mountain. I will not let her die.’

  The mountain answered her with another rumble of thunder, and a fork of lighting that lit up the sky. Water soaked through Hannah. The rain filled her mouth. She laughed. The mountain couldn’t frighten her. She had come this far, and she would find him.

  She crawled back into the cave and lay down, taking Molly’s hand again.

  ‘You will be all right,’ she said. ‘I promise.’

  And she slipped into a deep and strange sleep.

  Hannah lay at the mouth of the cave, staring out and up at the stars. The Great Bear was there, glittering above her like a shining knight protector. The bear’s eye burned yellow on the horizon.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said softly. ‘I missed you.’

  She reached out a hand to touch the bear – it seemed so close. She brushed the stars with her fingertips. They made a tinkling noise and began to fall. As the stars tumbled gently down from the sky, Hannah realised that they were not stars at all, but snowflakes. They landed softly on her cheeks and lips, icy and tender. She sighed, and drifted back into a dreamless sleep.

  When Hannah woke, she was feverish. She opened her eyes, and the world swam before her.

  The sky was on fire, glowing pink and orange and gold, burning and boiling. The valley below her was gone. Instead the world was covered in white snow.

  A flat, white plain stretched out beneath her, with greenish-blue mountain peaks rising out of it, like great ships at sea. Hannah remembered the Great Bear turning into snow during the night.

  ‘I found it,’ she whispered. ‘East o’ the sun, west o’ the moon.’

  ‘Molly,’ she called out, and her voice was weak and croaky. She licked her lips. They were dry and cracked. Her mouth felt like it was full of sand.

  She sat up, and the world tilted. She was shivering and sweating all at once, and her head was stuffed with wool. She clambered to her feet, holding onto the rock ledge for support.

  ‘Molly,’ she called again. There was no answer. Molly wasn’t there. Hannah staggered from the rocky overhang, each step pounding throughout her body.

  ‘Molly, I’ve remembered. I know the rest of the story.’

  She was so thirsty. If only she could get down to the snow, it could quench her thirst.

  ‘Scatterheart does find the castle, Molly,’ she said. ‘She finds it, and it’s made entirely from ice, surrounded by fields of snow.’

  The snow was before her, only a few feet away, but it looked wrong somehow, insubstantial. The pink and orange light from the burning sky made everything look strange, like she was inside an oil-painting. She leaned against a tree, catching her breath.

  ‘She goes up to the door of the castle, but…’

  She pushed off from her tree and plunged down towards the snow. As she reached it, it swirled away for a moment, then reached out to envelop her.

  It wasn’t snow at all, it was fog.

  Hannah remembered crouching in her hallway in London, her head against the
front door as Thomas disappeared into the fog. She remembered it swallowing up the Frost Fair.

  This fog was different, though. It was pure and white, light and cool. It was not the deadening, dark, sickly fog of London.

  She heard a crackle of sticks and leaves, and stumbled forward blindly, not caring if it was James or Dr Ullathorne or the London bailiff himself.

  A pair of arms reached out of the fog and grasped her by the shoulders. She sank gratefully into them, feeling dirty linen press against her cheek, and strong hands holding her up.

  ‘But the door to the castle has no key or lock,’ she said to the arms. ‘Not even a handle.’

  Then the mist swirled again, and swallowed them up.

  thirty-three

  Finally, Scatterheart came to the castle that lay east o’ the sun and west o’ the moon. The door was closed, and she could find no handle or lock. She cracked open the last acorn that the north wind had left her, but was surprised to find nothing but a nut inside. Scatterheart tossed it onto the ground and wept bitter tears.

  ***

  Hannah was in a large cave. A fire burned just outside, in a dusty little clearing. Her body felt delicate, as if it were made from glass. Her mouth was dry.

  There was a movement beside her, and a hand held out the glass water bottle.

  ‘Here,’ said a voice. ‘Drink.’

  She took the bottle, and held it to her lips. The water inside was startlingly cold. Hannah blinked, trying to clear the fuzziness from her head.

  ‘Molly…’ she said, her voice hoarse.

  ‘Molly’s here,’ said the voice. ‘She’s fine. She’s playing outside.’

  Hannah turned her head towards the voice.

  She didn’t dare speak. Part of her was frightened, he looked so different. But another part felt that there was not enough of her to be able to shout her joy loud enough.

  His body no longer looked soft – it was lean and hardened. His once-pale skin was brown and creased – from exposure to dirt and the weather. His hair had grown long, and was roughly tied back. He was unshaven. He wore dark trousers like a farmer, and a stained, torn linen shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to expose the thick tangle of yellow hair on his arms. She barely recognised him.