Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Mother, there’s something going on at the Watcher’s house. Come look!” I shout. She hears the anxiety in my voice and runs from the garden where she’s tending to the smoker.

  “What is it Merry? What’s happening?”

  “The villagers ... people are shouting and pulling each other. I think they’re fighting.”

  She stands next to me and stares down the lane.

  “What can be—Go back in the house Merry. Stay with Jey.”

  I watch with confusion as she runs to join the crowd, watch until I hear her shout and then I run too. Dapples of bright autumn light flicker at me through hawthorns and my lungs grasp for the brittle air as I push hard at my legs to carry me to her. She shouts and screams at the people to stop and disappears into the chaos of the crowd.

  I can’t see her but her screams still fill my ears. “Stop! Stop them!”

  My mother is swallowed by a scramble of people surrounding a darker group—men in the black uniform of Primitive guards. I have to get to her.

  I work my way into the bank of people, cotton-soft breasts brush my arm and bone-hard elbows push into my chest as I force myself forward. The shouting is louder here and I am blunted by the noise. A body pushes back against me and a man stumbles in awkward jerks as a thick black stick thwacks down on him. I realise that the fighters are beating the crowd back. I search frantically for my mother, hear her voice, but the crowd is dense.

  A flash of green.

  Desperate, I grab the shoulder in front of me and force my body through the gap to the centre. There. I see him—Nathaniel. He jerks and shouts and punches but the Primitive fighter is stronger than my seventeen-year old brother and the black arm around his neck is locked tight. Next to him is my mother. I watch as she lunges forwards and grabs at Nate, grabs his green jumper, wraps it around her fist, pulls him to her. She slams her free hand down on the fighter’s head and pulls at his locked arm, but he holds tight, hits at her with his free arm and whips the side of her head. She staggers and stumbles to the muddy ground. Unsteady, she rises and launches her anger at the fighter, smearing him with mud from her kicks, bloodying him with her bites and scratches. Another fighter grabs her and throws her to the floor and I lose sight of her in the jostling of the crowd.

  When I see her again she is bloodied and I look on with horror as she screams in her rage, tears at the men with her nails, and pummels at them with clenched fists. I realise then that their kicks and punches will not stop her.

  “Mother! Stop! They’ll kill you!” I scream, push my way forward and grab at the waistband of her jeans.

  My efforts are nothing against her need. Other hands grab at her, pull her back, pull her away from the vicious, punishing black boots. One of the village men holds her fast, wrapping his arms around her, pinning her to him. “Let me go!” she begs, “Let me see. Let me see my son,” she cries out, bloodied and damaged.

  My heart breaks.

  The mass of people begins to settle. The fighters have tied up seven girls and boys. All of them are older than me, all over sixteen years. The villagers stand defeated: angry, muddied and red-stained with the fight, others ashen and confused. A flicker of movement in the distance catches my eye and the Watcher moves away from an upstairs window. Minutes later he walks out into the sunshine and the engine of a truck starts growling and another Primitive guard opens the back doors wide. A hush falls on the crowd as the Watcher stands before us.

  “Today is our first Collection Day,” he says, his voice calm and determined. “Decreed by the Founding Fathers themselves. Your children have been chosen for Collection in order for them to serve the Primitive Elect.” A murmur from the crowd rises and he stops to look closely at the men and women stood there. “This is a great honour,” he continues with a harsher voice, “and there is no greater privilege,” he says this with absolute certainty. “We live in a dangerous world and we have protected you from its evil for the past years. Now it is your turn to give back,” he shouts, stabbing his pointed finger at the crowds. “Your sons and daughters have a purpose to fulfil. They have a part to play in helping us to keep you safe, to defend our lands and banish all invaders.”

  He pauses for breath. “Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect.”

  He orders the fighters to load up the captives into the waiting truck and the air is filled with the heartbreak of mothers and fathers as they lose their children.

  I walk out of the front gate of our house into the lane in silence. A cold wind is blowing against my back and creeps in at the nape of my neck. I pull my scarf above my mouth, my hat down below my ears, and let my long hair fall over my cheeks. Only my eyes are visible. The scarf covers my nose and my breath feels warm and moist. Cocooned, I want to hide behind my hair and my hat and my scarf; a barrier from the wind and the Primitives and this long, deadening walk up the lane. There are people walking in front, behind, at my sides. They are a blur. I am alone, aware only of the moist warmth of my breath, the lashes of my eyes as they flick against my hair, and the pain of my burnt cheek as its stickiness catches on my scarf. I need this time, these few precious minutes, this walking separate and within myself to cradle the memory of Nate and heal from the shock of its realness—to catch my breath and gain back my strength. It feels instinctive: just something I must do to survive.

  As I reach the point where the steepness of the lane curves and gives way to The Green much of the village is already gathered. They stand in groups along the edge where the crumbling and grown-through path meets the unkempt grass, huddled against their fear and the rain now spitting at them.

  A hard lump presses in my throat when I see the tree. It sits in the middle of The Green, as it has done for hundreds of years, a horse chestnut that throws down its prickly fruit each year, a real climbing tree with thick low-growing, horizontal branches and whorls for footholds where old branches have fallen. Years ago, before Nate was taken, we’d play in its branches and collect the conkers when they fell in late September. Mother said they kept the spiders away, so we’d make strings of them and hang them from the window latches and door handles in the house. The tree’s branches are stark and black now, uncluttered by summer leaves, and coiled with two thick ropes looped at their ends about eight feet from the ground. Mother gasps as she too sees the tree, leans into Jey, and covers her eyes with her hands.

  “Jey, stay here. Look after her,” I command, and walk forward through the crowd, towards the tree. I can barely think and a hard pain is building in my head. This can’t be happening. Nothing seems quite real and as I push my way through the villagers the sound of their voices seems close then distant. I am here, yet not here. I have to push to the front and let Ish and Ria know they are not alone.

  “Meriall! Meriall!” Pascha’s voice breaks through my confusion and he grabs my arm.

  “I’ve got to get to the front—to see them.”

  “Stay with me. We’ll see them together,” he says and pulls me through the people until we are at the front of the crowd.

  The clearing is empty bar the tree and the thick dangling ropes which sway in the wind and the spitting rain.

  “What have you done to your face?”

  I hear the shock in Pascha’s voice as he sees the burn on my face for the first time.

  “It looks bad Meriall.”

  “I slipped in the kitchen—onto the stove.”

  Suddenly the burn feels hot, tight and throbbing with pain. I turn away from Pascha, so that he can’t see me and instantly forget about the burn as a hush falls among the villagers and the clatter of hooves sounds out on the tarmac as the Watcher makes his dramatic entrance. He sits high above our heads, steady in the saddle of his black stallion, forcing his way through the parting crowds. His black gown falls about the flanks of the horse, making his body blend with that of the creature, and I wonder how it is that one can be so beautiful and the other so cruel. Behind him two more horses are being guided by his guards, a cart loaded with a large steel cage dr
agging behind them. Inside are Ish’s parents; shackled -exhausted - hopeless.

  “Ish! Ria! Where are they?” I exclaim.

  “I don’t know. I can’t see them.”

  The crowd closes behind the cart and the villagers merge, making a tight circle around the hanging tree. There is no sign of Ish or Ria.

  “They must still be at the House.”

  “Is it just their parents they’re going to punish?” I ask.

  I want to run to the house and find them, but the crowd is heavy around me and leaving isn’t an option. Whatever is about to happen I am going to have to see it.

  The Watcher remains seated on his horse, looking out over the crowd. He makes no effort to speak. The door of the cage is opened and Noor and Maz are pulled out. It is obvious that they are exhausted and they lurch unsteadily across to the raised platform beneath the ropes. Two guards push them up the short flight of steps where they stand stiff.

  A man I don’t recognise, marked as an outsider by his unusual red jacket, steps forward, standing between them. He whispers and I watch incredulous as Noor smiles, then relaxes, as he slips a dark cover over her head. The Watcher remains silent, staring out among us, reading our faces, trying to creep, I imagine, into our very souls. The red jacket carries on his work until both parents are hooded, a noose secured beneath each chin. A scream begins to grow in my belly as the Watcher raises his arm. The crowd grows silent. The scream is pushing its way up into my chest. He drops his arm. Red Jacket allows the floor beneath the beloved parents of my friends to fall away. I screw my eyes shut and stifle the scream that wants to burst out of my heart. Pascha’s arm tightens around my shoulders and the world becomes black.

  Chapter Nine

  From the blackness there are deep noises - dark voices - beneath me. Shivering cold prickles my skin and my seared cheek burns. Cold fingers press into my arm and the smell of rose oil seeps into my consciousness, waking me as a warm breath brushes close.

  “Meriall, beware! He’s watching you.”

  I make an effort to rise out of the darkness. It pulls me back and I fall down until blackness covers me again.

  Unconscious of time passing, I lie in the black until finally a greyness returns and the crackling of wood in a burning fire wakes me; its warmth a kindness stroking at my aching body.

  “Bring more wood Jey. She’s shivering with cold. We need to keep her warm.”

  Footsteps move away across the floorboards.

  My cheek feels weird as though a weight has been placed upon it and I remember the burn. I raise my hand to touch it. My arm aches with the effort as I gingerly press my fingertips into a wadded square of soft, squidgy cotton.

  “Meriall. Don’t touch it love,” Mother says with concern. “Try to stay awake now. You need to drink.”

  I turn to face her. “My cheek … is it infected?”

  “Yes, but it’s ok love. It’s ok now.”

  “My head ... I feel weak. What happened?”

  “You fainted on The Green. You were exhausted and the infection took hold. Now stop talking, you need to rest. Look here, I’ve brought some warm milk and honey. Sit up and I’ll help you drink.”

  The milk tastes smooth and sweet in my mouth and its warmth trickles into my empty belly. I am thankful for my mother’s kindness.

  “How long have I been here? I smelt roses. Someone talked to me.”

  “It’s been two days since you collapsed. It must have been the Watcher’s Wife you heard. She came round to check up on you.”

  I know she didn’t come out of concern; she was sent by the Watcher when I missed Assembly. What did she mean ‘he’s watching you’? I don’t tell Mother what she said. I am still not sure I really heard it. I lie back down and Mother pulls the sheets above my shoulder. The warmth of the fire and the milk has soothed me and I fall back into a fitful sleep and dream of horses and Pascha and the Watcher staring at me from his upstairs window.

  When I wake again it is dark; the only light is from the moon and the glowing embers in the fire. They have lost their heat and the room feels cold again. The house is silent and all I hear is the breathing of Jey as she sleeps in the bed next to mine. The cold slab of the poultice on my cheek makes me shiver: it covers the left side of my face from my eyelashes to my jaw line. I close my eyes and let the tiredness take me back to my dreams and Pascha.

  It feels like a flicker of time until the bell for First Assembly pulls at me and I awaken exhausted, but consumed by a desperate need to see my friends. Are they still alive? Have they been punished like their parents whilst I slept or are they still locked away in darkness beneath the Watcher’s house? I push back the worn cotton covers that have embraced me for the past days. The coldness chills me and my legs are weak as I press them against the wooden boards of our bedroom floor. I steady myself, holding onto the curved metal of the headboard, and look over to Jey. “Jey. Jey. It’s time to get up.”

  She wakens instantly and looks straight at me. “You’re up! Are you sure you can go?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Pascha, I have to see Pascha. I have to know about Ish and Ria.

  The effort of walking to the School Room has left me with a burning fatigue and I lean into Jey as she stands firm, her thin arm curved around my waist, giving me her strength. I close my eyes in relief, lay my head on her shoulder, and sink into the grey rabbit fur of her collar. It feels soft, soothing against the side of my face and with each breath, a calm spreads through my body and tiredness begins to pull me back to the dark.

  “Meriall, stay awake.”

  I drag my eyes open and see the Watcher mouthing angry and muffled words I can’t hear and feel the overbearing eyes of the Founding Fathers boring into me from their dark portraits. He’s there—through the rows of villagers. Pascha! I’m here. See me. I want to run to him—push my way through the villagers and cling to him—talk to him about it all—about the punishment—about Ish and Ria—about the roses—about how it all has to stop. Instead I hold on to Jey and wait for Assembly to end. I remember the burn and touch my fingers carefully to my cheek. The heat has gone and so has the pain, but it feels tight and there’s a hard line stretching across my face where scabs have grown over the scorched and blistered skin. It must look awful. A stab of self-consciousness fills me and I hang my head low so that my hair falls to the sides of my face. It won’t stop people seeing, but at least I feel hidden. A low murmur and shuffling of feet mean that Assembly is over and I begin to move forward with the mass of villagers to the door. Roses, I smell roses. I look up. The Watcher’s Wife is standing at the open door, head held high by a starched frill of pleats. She holds herself stiffly, her lips pursed and thin. For the first time, I really see her—see the hidden anger and the fear. A lock of blonde hair is curling from the tightness of her bonnet and I notice the green and yellow tinge of a healing bruise beneath it. Our eyes meet for the barest of seconds yet in that moment is recognition. A nod of her head is barely perceptible, but I know what it means. You did warn me! I am suddenly alive with questions. Who is she? Where did she come from? Why does she want to help me? What does she know? What can she tell me?

  “Meriall! Merry, you’re up. Are you ok?”

  I hear the worry in his voice.

  “Yeh, I’m ok.”

  “She’s weak. I’m taking her home,” Jey joins in protectively.

  “I’ll come back with you,” he adds, sliding his arms across my waist to take some of Jey’s burden.

  The greyness of the morning is clearing as we four, Mother, Pascha, Jey and me, walk back to the cottage.

  As soon as the door is closed and bolted I have to tell them. “It was her!”

  “Who?”

  “The roses—the Watcher’s Wife—she was here.”

  “Roses? What roses?”

  “The Watcher’s Wife smells of roses—rose oil maybe. I smelt it again today in Assembly as I walked past her.”

  “Yes, she came to visit you—to check th
at you really were ill and not just sacking off Assembly.”

  “She warned me.”

  “What? What are you talking about Meriall?”

  I hear the fear in Mother’s voice.

  “I smelt the roses, she smells of roses, then she spoke to me, she whispered in my ear.”

  “You must have been dreaming. You were out of it for days.”

  “No, at first I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure if it was real but it is, she did whisper to me, I know she did. Today, in Assembly, she nodded to me, I know what she meant.”

  “You’re imagining it. Why would she whisper to you and nod?”

  “What did she whisper?”

  She said, “Meriall. Beware. He’s watching you.”

  We all know I mean the Watcher. There’s silence in the room and a chair scratches on the floor as my mother leans on it for support. Her face is paper-white in the thin autumn light seeping through the kitchen window.

  “Why would he be watching you?” she asks, a tremor stroking at her voice.

  Pascha tenses beside me and I remember the crude outlines of his tattoo and the grinding footstep in the garden as we looked down into the holding cell.

  “There’s no reason.”

  I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have protected her.

  “I … perhaps I did dream it.”

  “Yes, love. You must have. They have no need to watch us.”

  The frown lingers between her brows, but a subtle shift in her eyes tells me that she is going to lock the worry away.

  “No, they have no need to be watching. Pascha, would you like to sit and take tea with us?”

  And so the conversation is closed and she moves to the stove, plucks summer-dried mint off brittle stalks, and sets the kettle to boil.

  Chapter Ten

  The roots of the dandelion break out of the soil with a snap as I push my trowel under them and pull the green leaves of the flower firmly with my hand. The stem of the seed head pops as it crushes in my grasp and the stickiness of its sap leaks onto my blackened hands. The dark root, stained by months in the soil, is long and narrow, broken at the tip to reveal a pristine and creamy centre. I toss it into the rusting and patched wheelbarrow parked next to me. It lands with a faint tap on the small pile I have harvested during the morning. The last remaining seeds whisper around me, fall to the floor or float onto my shoulder where they tangle with the straggling fibres of my jumper.