I wake with a start to the cold of the kitchen.
“Pascha! Pascha!” I say, reaching across the table and shaking his arm.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Tristan. We can’t leave him with them.”
A frown of disbelief covers his face. I persist. “We can’t leave him there, not now.”
He doesn’t speak, just looks at me incredulous.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know it sounds crazy—but I had a dream—about Tristan—about your dad.”
“A dream!”
“Yes, the cage—Tristan—there was a storm and the branch broke—he crashed down.”
A flicker of pain followed by understanding.
“Merry, we can’t take him with us,” he says gently.
“No, I-. No, of course not. But we can take him down and … lay him to rest,” I end, feeling foolish.
“Sometimes Merry, I wonder at you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
“No, I mean, I ‘wonder’ at you,” he says with emphasis. “You’re extraordinary.” He smiles at me across the table. “You’re right; we can’t leave him here with them.” He pauses for thought. “We need a spade and something to wrap him in,” he says, taking control.
Minutes later we have what we need, leave the warmth of the kitchen and run through the dark to the edge of the village where the carved ash stands and Tristan’s body has hung for five years. Pascha is fast and strong, but I manage to keep pace with him until we near the tree where he pushes harder and I can no longer keep up. I understand though; he needs to be on his own—just for the first moments. I give him time, stand with him and hope that my being there is some comfort. He seems not to notice me until he slips his fingers roughly through mine and squeezes our hands together. His fingers reach down to my wrist and sink stone-hard between the bones of my hand. I wince. He holds fast, his arm unmoving and tensed. And then, just as quickly as he grabbed it, he drops my hand and walks forward. The moon gives us enough light to see that the cage, as in my dream, has crashed to the ground.
I hear the sharpness of Pascha’s breath as he looks down on his father. “It’s not him. Not really him.”
I reach up and put my aching hand on his shoulder, “I know.”
“We need to work quickly,” he says stepping back and turning to me.
“Where shall we bury him? In the Church?”
“No, he needs to be here, beneath the tree. He can live on forever then, be a part of its leaves and branches. They took him from me here, but he will never really die.”
I stroke the branches of the tree, the edges where the symbols of his power have been carved, rough to my touch. He can live on within us.
We dig and scratch and scrape until there is a hole carved between the roots of the tree.
“It’s big enough.”
I nod in silence to Pascha and we both walk to the cage and look down at the heap of bones and rotting cloth that was his father. He bends down and places the cloth before Tristan as I hold the iron door high. Slowly, tenderly, he pulls the pile closer to him and cups his arm around the mass, making sure nothing is left behind, and lifts him onto the cloth. Scooped together, Tristan lies on his side, knees to chest, as though curled in sleep. Pascha covers his father with the corners of the bedsheet, carries him to the hole, and lays him to rest, just as the moon is at its brightest.
We work together quietly, place fresh soil over the bones, and hide our labour with leaves and fallen branches. I reach for another handful of bark and grab a piece that has been sheared off by the cage as it fell. It is carved - an etched circle with lines jutting out at angles - an arrow, unbreakable. I rub my thumb over its rough surface and put it into the pocket of my jacket. I will be strong Tristan. I promise.
Back in my own warm kitchen, I stoke the embers in the stove and hold the carved bark, grasped by brass fire tongs, in the low flames. It sizzles as the moisture burns off and then catches alight. When it is well lit, I pull it out, watching the fire dance and the bark crackle as it burns. I scrape off the charcoaled wood into a bowl and mix the powder into a paste with drops of water. It’s still dark outside so I have time. I take Mother’s sewing kit from the top drawer of the kitchen dresser and pick out the longest needle I can find.
Crouching down in front of the open door and glowing embers of the fire, I push the sleeve of my left arm above my elbow, dip the needle into the pot of blackened paste and push it into my skin. It pops as the needle punctures the outer layer. I suck in my breath, I can do this, and repeat the sharp jabbing again and again until a small smudged circle of black has been pricked into the fleshy part of my arm that can be hidden beneath my clothes. The circle needs an arrowhead and fletching before it is complete so I carry on and prick the lines into my skin then wash away the black smudge to see my work. A patch of reddened and angry skin sits on my arm at the centre of which is a crude circle with six lines coming from it at angles. It is crude, like Pascha’s, but it is there forever.
I slip up to bed and fall into an exhausted sleep that is broken yet again by the bell for First Assembly. One day soon, I know, I won’t have to listen to that bell again. For now, I get up and drag myself through the same routine of getting dressed and tramping down the lane with the others. As I walk the tattoo rubs on my clothes. The stickiness that covered it in the night has become crusted and is catching on the fabric of my sleeve. I don’t like the feeling, it makes me cringe, but my heart sings a little with each tug at the thought that I have some part of Tristan forever etched into my body. It is hidden. Disobedient. Restless.
Chapter Fourteen
After First Assembly, the morning passes in hurried preparations. Before my dream, we’d spent the night talking through our plans. Mother, Jey and Celeste will go on to Hawdale first. Pascha and I are to cover for them in Assembly and then, together, we are to rescue Ish and Ria from the Watcher and make our way to Hawdale. It all seems straightforward.
Second Assembly comes and we make our excuses on behalf of the others explaining that a vomiting sickness has fallen upon our houses. The Wife accepts my excuse without question and I spend Assembly anxious to get back home.
This is the last time I will be here I realise, as I sit in the darkness of the kitchen waiting for Pascha. These walls have been our sanctuary for years. It was our safe place in a world turning in on itself and, in truth, I am scared to leave. What lies ahead of us may be freedom but how hard will we have to fight to keep it? And if the towns are still as lawless as they were then? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Pascha knocks at the door and walks in.
“Are you ready?” His voice is low and determined, more of an expectation than a question.
I stand and the chair scrapes harsh across the stone floor and tips backwards. I grab it -silence it - annoyed at my clumsiness and take a deep breath, letting the grip of tension ease away.
“Hey, it’s ok. Calm down.”
“Yeh, I am—I will. It’s just—what if it doesn’t work? What if there’s worse … out there,” I say, flicking my hand towards the door, my bowels queasy with fear.
“It will work.” Pascha steps forward and wraps his arms around me, pressing my face to his chest. I stiffen for a moment then relax and put my arms around him and the knots and tension and queasiness start to fade. We stand locked together, without speaking, and just hold each other. He knows! He knows I need this—to feed off his strength.
“I’m ok now,” I say, eventually pulling away from him.
I pick up my backpack and heave it onto my back. It’s heavy; crammed with everything I think we’ll need. My survival kit.
“Let’s go.”
The walk to the Watcher’s house seems to take forever and every step rings out with noise, making me nervous that we will be seen. We arrive at the iron gate that opens into the front garden of the School House. All the windows are black.
“We’ll put our bag
s here—pick them up later,” I tell Pascha.
“We can’t just go in through the front gate!” he responds with a frown and it dawns on me that we have missed a crucial element of our rescue attempt; a plan.
“Where shall we go in from then?” I ask as uncertainty descends over me.
“Let’s go round the side,” he suggests.
We make our way to where the dry stone wall is at its lowest. I drop my rucksack and hope that I don’t forget to pick it back up. It has so much in it that we need. Pascha grabs hold of the wall and swings himself over and lands noiselessly. I know I can’t do that; I’m just not tall enough. I grab at a top stone and clamber up, get my leg over and sit on the wall. As I push myself off, the rock wobbles beneath my hand and begins to fall. It’s too cumbersome and heavy for me to grasp and slips effortlessly through my fingers, landing with a thud on the ground. I stiffen and hold my breath. The windows of the house stay dark.
Pascha grabs my arm and pulls me to follow him and we run, crouched in the shadows, to the back of the house where we saw Ish and Ria on the night they were arrested. It is even darker at the back and the window into the cellar is small and locked from the inside. We check the other windows on the ground floor. Each one is shut fast.
“How are we going to get in?” I ask, in hushed consternation, and watch in disbelief as Pascha walks up to the back door, takes hold of the handle and pushes it down. To my surprise it moves; the handle brings back the latch and the door opens easily! Pascha turns and gives me a thumbs up.
The door leads into a darkened kitchen. There’s enough light to see across the room to an open door leading into a hall. Moonlight slides in through the window-light of the front door revealing a floor patterned black and white. We have some in our cottage hallway; there they are simply chequered whilst these are an intricate design. A wooden staircase curves up and round to the first floor. Sitting in the wooden panelling below the staircase is an unobtrusive door, opened by a thumb latch. It must lead to the cellar. I motion to Pascha and point to the door.
“They’re down there,” I whisper with a creeping sense of terror at what we will find.
No one has seen them since they were arrested. I put my hand on the thumb latch but can’t bring myself to open the door. Pascha’s arm pushes past me and turns the key in the lock.
“Go on Meriall,” he whispers, “open the door.”
I press the latch down silently, push the door open and stare into a black and silent hole. The stink hits me before I have chance to adjust my eyes to the dark; an earthy dampness mixed with the sourness of fear.
“Pascha I …”
“Shh. I know, but we have to go down there.”
Following Pascha, I take my first hesitant, terrified step onto the staircase, into the hole, and edge my way down the stairs one dreadful step at a time on shaking legs. Why can’t I be tougher? More in control? A noise! Scuffling and a low moan.
Pascha stops in front of me. “Ish? Ria?” The only light in the cellar is what filters through from the small window in the garden and the room hides them in the darkness. I hear Pascha’s whisper again, “Ish? Ria?” this time more insistent.
A sob breaks from the blackness.
“Pascha? Oh my God! Is that you? Pascha?” Ish’s voice sounds rough and at the point of collapse.
“Yes, it’s me and Meriall. We’ve come to get you out.”
“I can’t believe it. You’re really here. Ria, wake up. Pascha’s here,” Ish croaks hoarsely.
Pascha is the first to find them hunched in the corner. Ria is sobbing now.
“Tell them to be quiet,” I say, fearful that we’ll be heard. “We have to be quiet.”
“Ria, honey, you’ve got to be quiet so that we can get out. OK?” he cajoles.
She calms a little then quiets.
“I’m sorry. It’s just … I can’t believe you’re here.”
The walk back up the stairs is full of dread and each squeak of the wooden treads makes my heart sink and the skin on the back of my neck creep as I imagine the Watcher standing there waiting for us. Pascha reaches the top first.
“Shh! Stop,” he whispers.
I freeze and press Ria’s arm signalling her to stop too. Now I hear it. Footsteps! I hold my breath for fear that whoever they belong to will hear me breathe. The footsteps get louder, closer, and walk past the cellar door. The dark intensifies every sound and the pad, pad of their feet seems to brush past my cheek.
“They’re going up-”
“Shh.”
The footsteps stop.
Have they heard us? My heart is banging so hard in my chest that I’m sure it will burst any minute. Ria sways and I put out my arms to steady her. The footsteps continue up the stairs, get further away and disappear. We wait a little longer until there is silence once again.
“Let’s go.” Pascha opens the cellar door and we all creep out into the dark hallway.
The front door is just feet away but going out that way is too risky. We have to go back through kitchen and the side door. Pascha leads Ish and Ria across the hallway and I close the cellar door and lock it again—that way it looks as though nothing has changed. We make it to the kitchen when suddenly the footsteps start to pad across the floor again. They’re on the staircase. I close the kitchen door as quickly and as quietly as I can and hiss to Pascha that someone’s coming. The kitchen door opens. Pascha and Ish flatten themselves against the wall at the side of a large wooden cupboard and I crouch behind the table pulling Ria to my side.
A click and the room is suddenly bright, brighter than I’ve ever seen. Stark and so unlike the gentle glow from the oil lamps at home. I screw my eyes shut to readjust to the brightness and when I open them a pair of slippers and the hem of a white robe are walking about the kitchen. The ankles look slender—a woman—it must be the Watcher’s Wife. I daren’t move and risk being caught, even though she confided in me. Can I really trust her not to give us away?
The legs of a chair scratch against the tiles as she pulls it out from under the table then sits down, her feet so close I can touch the worn red velvet of her slippers. My thighs burn with squatting. Ria wobbles, her shoes scratch on the stone floor, and the Wife is suddenly alert. She stands, pushes the chair away, and begins to take slow steps backwards. If she panics? I have to try and talk to her first.
“It’s me—Meriall—please don’t be scared,” I whisper and stand up slowly.
“Meriall! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to take my friends.”
Ria stands up and Ish and Pascha come out from behind the cupboard. She takes another step back and the colour drains from her face as she realises what we are doing.
“Let us go,” I say softly, palms forward, passive. “We’ll be qui-”
The bowl slips from her hands and splinters as it hits the floor. She looks at me like a startled doe and I bob my hands, palms first, in silent pleading for her to stay calm.
The noise of someone upstairs moves her to action.
She puts her fingers to her lips. “He’s awake!” she says with a tremor in her voice. She walks silently to the back door and pulls it open. “Go! Go now. Before he catches us all,” she says turning to me, her face solemn and threatening.
Ish, Ria and Pascha disappear into the greyness of the night but as I step down onto the concrete path to make my escape.
“Come with us!” I say without thinking.
She looks at me startled and questioning.
“Yes, you must escape with us,” I insist. “What is there here but a prison for the rest of your life?”
“I know, but … leave? He’ll catch us. He’ll never let me go.”
“He doesn’t have the right to keep you as a slave. No one does. I can’t stay here and wait for them to make me a slave too. Come with us. It’s a chance to be free again.”
I put my hand out to her. She ignores it standing next to the door in stiffness. I wait for tense seconds then
drop my hand and step away into the night.
She grabs my arm.
“Yes, I will come. I have to dress first though!”
She looks despairingly down at the long, white shift and red slippers.
“We’ll wait for you over the wall. But hurry. We have to get as far away from here as we can before we’re discovered.”
She’s gone and I run across the grass and scramble over the wall as a light from an upstairs window flickers on.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m the last to get over the wall, but my relief is short lived.
“There’s a light on in the house. We should get out of here,” Pascha says anxiously.
I can hardly catch my breath and my heart is pumping hard but I have to tell them about the Wife.
“She’s coming with us. We have to wait for her.”
“Who?” Pascha’s brow furrows in confusion.
“The Watcher’s Wife. I asked her to come with us,” I explain.
“What did you do that for? She’s one of them—a Primitive.”
“No, Ish, she’s one of us. She wants to escape as much as we do. Look, I can’t explain it all now but I know she doesn’t want to be here.”
“But if she’s caught leaving then we’ll all be caught,” Pascha berates me.
“I’m sorry, but I had to ask her. She’s a prisoner just as much as we are. We have to help her.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Ish is annoyed. “Just wait here to get caught?”
“We’ve got to give her a chance,” I insist.
The group falls silent until Pascha speaks up. “We can wait, but not for long. Agreed?”
We respond with whispered yesses and stand close.
Waiting is hard. Every part of my body wants to run, grab Ria and tell the boys to follow me through the woods, across the fields and to the hidden hamlet. The cold of the night creeps over me and as we stand, hardly daring to move, I notice Ish and Ria shivering. They’re still wearing the indoor clothes they were arrested in and no way prepared for the journey we have to take. I slip the straps of my rucksack off and pull out the extra tops.
Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2) Page 9