Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Dedication

  To Safi, Evie, Harrison, Mia and Jacob.

  For our future.

  Chapter One

  AUTUMN 2086

  A fight is not something I can stomach today, but the pig lies ahead of me, unexpected and outstretched among the sprawling ivy and long-worn bluebells of the autumn forest. A rare gift. Its dirt-stained trotters twitch and kick in its pig-dream, scratting at the fallen leaves. I watch intently through the white mist of my cooling breath, measuring the rise and fall of its ribs, its belly hollow then full, silently waiting for its deeper sleep. This time it will be different. I won’t fail.

  As the pig settles, I squat low, heart thumping quick in anticipation, the handle of my skinning knife hard and reassuring in my grip but useless for this job. On the forest floor a grey slab of jagged lichen-covered limestone lies half-buried just steps away. The pig stirs as I scrape away at the earth, dirt filling my nails.

  I stop. Keep silent. Wait. Continue.

  The rock is heavy and wide, solid in my grip, perfect for the job. I creep towards the pig, careful to step between fallen twigs and branches with the lightest touch, dreading the crack underfoot that will ricochet between the trees if my steps betray me.

  Ears and snout twitch as my shadow falls across its face, the rock high above my head. Startled eyes fix on mine as it crashes down. The pig squeals and its legs jerk, but I smash against it until my arms ache and the pig lies silent; head-caved.

  Blood-spattered, I kneel in the dirt next to the lifeless animal, catching my breath, confused at the regret and relief coursing through me. I lay my hand on its still warm body. Thank you.

  A snap of twigs.

  I turn, but there is nothing, just the tangle and deepening dark of the woods. The hairs on my neck creep. I’ve spent too long here and the light will soon be gone. I work quickly tying the pig’s front and back trotters together and hook the heavy carcass over my shoulder. Its head points to the earth, knocking against my thighs and I steel myself as its warm blood soaks through to my skin.

  Stepping out of the woods, the sun sits low on the horizon, fronted by clouds that cast dark shadows across the moors. I hitch the pig across my back, shifting its weight, and step out onto the open grass. Beside me the trees sit in the growing dark; a wall of thickening black. Uneasy fear gripes at my belly as I step out of their shadow. Another crack of branches and I quicken my step, not wanting to look to the noise. The pig jostles against my back, weighing me down. My chest tightens as my heart thuds, the pulse throbbing at the base of my throat and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. There’s nothing there. Nothing.

  Another crack. My fear rises and I look to my left. A flicker among the trees. My heart hammers in my chest. Run! I push hard down into the grass, powering my legs forward, away from the black of the forest and towards the lowering sun, not daring to look behind. Ahead is the grey of the winding road cut into the moors, the road that will take me home. I push harder, forcing myself to run faster, ignoring the burning in my thighs and the sharp pain in my ribs. The hill steepens where the road cuts through, forcing me to slow down as I look for safe footholds. The last few feet are a sheer drop. I stop, looking for flat ground. Are they still there? Behind me? I turn. Nothing. Nothing but the black of the trees in the distance. I search among the hills and the growing shadows. Nothing. Stupid!

  Loose gravel scratches against my boots as I scramble down the bank and onto the tarmac, relieved to be alone, but still uneasy. The grey of the road stretches out then disappears as it bends around the moor. I quicken my pace again needing to get home and out of the dark.

  As the sun finally slips below the horizon, the great ash tree that marks the village boundary comes into view. It casts a deep, black shadow across the road and creaks with its burden as the wind whips through its branches. A familiar pain begins to tighten across my chest as I walk towards it, old memories, still fresh, burning at my heart.

  A figure steps out of the dark to my left. My ribs tighten, locking my breath in my throat.

  “Meriall!”

  Pascha. I step quicker, annoyed to be startled, but flustered, caught off guard.

  “Merry! Wait up,” he calls as he runs forward from the shadows.

  “Hi. I’ve got a pig,” is my pathetic response.

  “Hah! Yes, I can see that. What’s that down your jeans?”

  I look down at the black mess that has seeped across the fabric, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

  “It’s blood. I killed it with a rock.”

  “You certainly did,” he says laughing.

  “I didn’t want to, but …”

  “Yeh, I know,” he says quietly, understanding my need.

  We walk forward together, his steps matching mine. The queasy ache in my stomach has nothing to do with the dread I have of walking under the tree.

  “There was something in the wood,” I blurt trying to fill the quiet space between us, to block out the fluttering in my belly.

  “There’s lots of things in the wood,” he replies dryly.

  “No, I mean, I thought there was something chasing me.”

  “What, you mean like a monster?” he laughs again.

  “Yeh, kind of,” I finish lamely.

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” he reassures me, “the only monsters are up there,” he adds darkly, nodding towards the houses climbing the hill beyond the ash tree.

  At home, I present the pig’s carcass to my mother and smile in expectation. She accepts the gift with quiet gratitude, “Thank you, Meriall. Please, take it down to the pantry. I’ll sort it out later.”

  Her smile is forced and doesn’t reach her eyes. She barely looks at me. I am disappointed and a little angry. It’s still not enough!

  As I walk across the kitchen to the pantry door, memories of the first time I’d tried to kill a pig overwhelm me.

  Nathaniel had spotted it first. “Look! There,” he whispered, nudging his elbow into my arm, “a pig.” Its snout was down to the ground, snuffling through the undergrowth, and we crept as close as we could without being seen.

  “Let’s grab it,” I said, excited at the thought of lifting the burden of hunger from my mother’s eyes.

  “No, it’ll be too quick for us. We need to wait till it comes closer. When it gets close enough we’ll jump it, sit on its back.”

  “Then what?” I ask, fear rising in my belly.

  “We’ll have to kill it somehow. Stab it or something. Cut its throat.”

  Neither of us really knew what we were doing. Sure, we’d caught rabbits and squirrels in traps before, but never a pig.

  “Ugh!” I whispered, disgusted. I didn’t have much stomach for killing then, but we couldn’t let it get away; Nathaniel, me, Jey, Mother, we were all starving. I pulled my hunting knife out of its sheath, held it tight in my hand and took another step forward, straight onto a rotten branch. The crack as it snapped rang out and startled the pig. It looked up, sniffing the air, sensing us. I couldn’t let it get away, I just cou
ldn’t, so I sprang out from the trees and launched my skinny ten-year-old self at it, arms outstretched, knife ready to kill. I landed flat on my belly on the forest floor and only managed to slash the pig’s leg. The damned thing squealed, letting the whole forest know it was being murdered, and thundered away through the undergrowth.

  “Way to go, sis! I’ll give you a ten for that belly flop,” Nathaniel laughed.

  “I had to. I had to get it,” I stammered, winded and choked with frustration.

  He reached down, pulled me to my feet, then picked the leaves out of my hair and wiped away the dirt smeared across my face. “There’ll be other pigs,” he said gently.

  It was always Nathaniel who calmed me when I felt anger and fear that was too much to bear. On those days he’d say, ‘Come on Meriall, let’s jump the brook,’ then he’d be up out of his seat, letting the chair clatter on the stone floor, and rush to the door. I’d charge there too and we’d clash into it making the wood rattle in its frame and the metal latch clack. He’d grab me and push me back across the floor. We’d both be laughing so hard that my belly would hurt. Running to the woods, trying to catch Nathaniel and beat him to the brook where we’d jump backwards and forwards over the water, is the freest I’ve ever felt.

  I clack the iron latch, open the door and walk down the cold steps into the dingy space that serves as our food store. A small window lets in just enough light for me to see the stone slab where we keep our fresh meat and a pungent smell, earthy and sickly sweet, rises up to meet me. The pantry is lined with shelves, far too many for the measly collection of preserves, honey, apples, roots and dried meat that sits on them.

  Back in the kitchen, I watch my mother as she stirs the pot on top of the hob, an ancient black stove, greedy and hot to the touch. Her greying hair is pulled back, but wisps stray around her face and she brushes at them in annoyance. She seems worn, and her hands shake as she reaches for the bowls. They slip and land with a crack on the hard, stone tiles.

  “Oh, heck!”

  “It’s ok, Mother,” I say bending to pick up the broken shards. “I’ll get them.”

  “Thank you, Meriall,” she says, a tremor in her voice.

  We stand, each holding pieces of broken pottery. There are tears in her eyes.

  “What is it Mother?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer.

  She looks at me, her pale face sallow in the yellow light of the kitchen.

  “What if they come tomorrow?” she asks in a strained whisper. “Meriall, if they come, you have to hide. Take your sister into the woods and hide.”

  “I will,” I promise, but a knot of anxiety twists in my stomach at the hollowness of my words. Hiding seems impossible.

  Chapter Two

  I wake to the angry sound of the bell ringing and open my eyes in the half-light to see that Jey is still sleeping, curled like an embryo beneath the faded roses on her thin bedcover. Her freckled cheeks are flushed pink and red hair a halo framing her pretty face; even in sleep she is beautiful. I don’t want to wake her, don’t want her to ever wake again. If only she could stay like this; beautiful and at peace. I reach across the narrow gap between our beds and rock her shoulder gently.

  “Jey, wake up. It’s time to dress. The bell’s gone.”

  She awakes instantly, covers thrown back, bed-heat lost to the coldness of the room as she swings her legs over the side and rests there a moment, still drunk with sleep.

  “C’mon, she’ll be waiting for us,” I say as I push my own covers back and shiver at the cold’s touch.

  “I’m coming.”

  Seconds later we’re both in the warmth of the kitchen where Mother has laid out our breakfast on the scrubbed kitchen table.

  “Morning girls,” she smiles, “eat up quick,” she says gesturing to the boiled egg and slice of cheese apiece that sits on the scrubbed table. “Times getting on and that bell’ll be calling us again. You’ll have to go without if it does.”

  I eat quickly and gulp down mouthfuls of nettle tea whilst Mother pulls at the clothes on the airer hanging above the burning stove. Yesterday’s clothes hang there, scraped of their mud and bloody mess, their warmth offered as a small comfort in the early morning cold.

  The second bell rings as I sit on the worn kitchen chair pushing my feet into my blood-stiffened jeans. My stomach tightens with each dull thud of the bell’s hammer. I slide the jeans over my thighs and zip them as quickly as I can. They drop down low on my hips as I stand.

  “Pull your belt in love,” my mother suggests, the pang of anguish clear in her eyes if only for a second, “you too Jey,” she adds turning away from us both to busy herself at the sink.

  I look across to my sister and notice the thinness of her body: the defined ribs and pelvis as she buttons up her soiled and too big jeans and the hollows of her shoulders as she pulls the warmed and baggy t-shirt over her head. My stomach knots.

  “I’ll go back to check the traps. After Morning Assembly,” I offer to my mother’s sagging shoulders.

  She nods quietly from her place at the sink.

  I grab my top from the back of the chair next to the stove and take a second to press its warmth to my cheek, jarring nerves soothed, if only for a second.

  “Meriall, come on or the third bell’ll be ringing.”

  Jey’s anxious voice bumps me back into reality and the familiar pressure in my chest is back again. I take a deep breath to help suppress it and flip into ‘Nate’ mode.

  “Ha! I’ll be ready before you”

  “Try it!”

  We race to finish dressing, giggling like two overgrown kids, jostling each other to the door still pulling on our hats and coats as we push through into the front garden, quietening suddenly as we reach the gate and stumble into the hushed silence of the dark lane.

  Forty-three of the houses in the village are inhabited and the lanes that lead to the School Room are busy with families hurrying towards the stark electric lights, resentful at being called out of their dark houses into the cold.

  We’re half way down the lane when the third bell begins to toll. Jey grabs mother’s arm and we walk faster. Behind us the noise of hurried feet scuffing over gravel mixes with anxious voices urging each other on.

  “Quick!”

  “Come on!”

  At the School House door, the Watcher’s young Wife stands tall, thin, erect and drab in her ankle-length charcoal-grey tunic, face framed by the ash-grey cotton bonnet tied tight beneath her chin. Her hand rests high on the door, holding it open. The gathered white frills of her shift’s sleeve flop back over her slender arm, the fabric only a shade lighter than the pale skin of her hand. As I pass, I avoid her eyes, but can’t help look at the blue circle scratched into her chin. Today, there is a bruise on her cheek too and I wonder what kind of privilege it is to be chosen as a Wife.

  “Thanks be to the Elect,” she repeats, nodding her head stiffly as each villager passes over the threshold, starched snow white ruff of a thousand pleats clamped tight around her neck.

  “Thanks be to the Elect,” is the obligatory response.

  I mouth it silently. That way I’m not letting it into my heart.

  I’m inside in time and breathe a sigh of relief, but a voice behind me shouts. “Wait! Hold the door.”

  It’s Pascha.

  The doors are closing. He’s running, but won’t make it.

  “Don’t move!” I hiss, as forcefully as I dare, hoping that the people next to me, the ones that have just stepped through the door, will stand still and block it even for just a few seconds.

  “Move along. Close the doors,” the Watcher’s Wife orders.

  Her sternness turns to a frown, eyes slits, as she stares through the door into the semi-darkness. I stand still, blocking the villagers behind me.

  “Move along!” she repeats and the crowd pushes me forward.

  The heavy wooden doors begin to close, shutting out the dark of the morning and with it Pascha. The gap narrows. I watch the bl
ack slit intently, ignoring the tug on my sleeve from Jey. The doors jar against the hand that is pushing them closed and he’s there, slipping sideways through the gap, brown-blond hair falling into his eyes, tan cheeks smudged pink. My shoulders sag with relief. The Watcher’s Wife scowls.

  “You’re cutting it fine,” I reprimand, trying to hide my pleasure at seeing him again. “Let’s get to the back. She’s watching you!”

  He turns and nods to her.

  “Thanks be to the Elect.”

  She softens slightly and nods her head in return. She seems relieved. Pascha’s eyes, green and tipped with over-long curled black lashes, catch mine and for those moments the room and the Wife disappear.

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself,” he says smiling.

  His hand brushes against mine and a thousand tingling sparks flash across my skin. I’m angry with myself. I don’t want to feel this way about him. It’s pointless and it makes me vulnerable and that’s a bad thing when what I need is to be strong.

  We join a row of villagers at the back and listen to the low hum of subdued voices that fills the room. The hum is interrupted by the hack of a cough. Emett. She looks thinner and more worn than even just a couple of days ago, as if the cough is eating her up from the inside. I look away, not because I don’t care, but because seeing her like this provokes my anger. She needs more help than any of us can give her. How much longer will it be before she stops fighting and the cough consumes her completely?

  I nudge Pascha.

  “I wish there was something we could do to help her.”

  “Perhaps there is,” he responds, the boredom of waiting already making him fidget.

  “What? There’s no medicine here,” I ask, curious.

  “No, but ...”

  Before he has a chance to tell me, the rusting latch of the heavy, panelled side-door gives a resounding clank as it slams up. A hushed and uneasy silence falls across the villagers. The Watcher, strides across the wooden floor, ankle-length black cloak flapping about black trousers. With each thud I sense the vibration of his steps through the bones in my feet. He walks to the raised platform at the front and stands square before us, grasping the corners of the heavy wooden lectern, his white shift visible beneath his black fitted tunic.