Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Put these on under your jumper,” I say, handing her the folded clothes.

  She puts out her hand then pulls it back, shaking her head. “No, I can’t. You need them.”

  “Not as much as you do. You’re shaking with cold. It’ll be hours before we reach shelter and if you get too cold you won’t make it.”

  “Take them Ria,” Ish adds.

  She’s reluctant, but takes the clothes from me.

  “She’s right,” Pascha joins in, “Ish, I’ve got some extra too—if you layer up you’ll be warmer. It’s the best we can do until we get to Hawdale.”

  “Hawdale?” Ish asks confused.

  “Yes, we’re going to Hawdale, the hamlet you found,” I explain.

  “I didn’t think you’d ever go back to that place after what we saw in the garden,” he reminds me and the recollection of the pile of bodies in the back garden makes me shiver.

  “No, I didn’t either, but it’s the safest place we could think of.”

  “We figured Hawdale was the best place to get to first off. It’s empty and pretty much hidden in that dell. We should be safe there for a while,” Pascha explains.

  “Yeh, and there might be some warmer clothes there too,” Ish adds as he takes the extra layers from Pascha.

  “I’m warmer Meriall, thank you.” Ria puts her arms around me and I give her a reassuring squeeze.

  “The light’s gone off!”

  We all turn to look at the house. It stands in darkness again.

  “He must have gone back to sleep.”

  “She should be coming by now!”

  I walk to the dip in the stone wall, peer into the dark and grey of the garden, and stare intently at the back of the house.

  Ish moves to look over my shoulder. “She’s not coming,” he says, the exasperation thick in his voice.

  “We have to give her a chance,” I repeat, although with each breath I take, I want to run.

  “We can’t wait for much longer though,” Pascha concedes anxiously.

  “Just a few more minutes,” I beg and turn back to stare into the garden as if looking hard enough will bring her around the corner.

  We wait a few more excruciating minutes.

  “C’mon Merry. We’ve got to go!” Pascha is insistent.

  “Ok. Ok,” I finally give in, fear squirming in my belly, and readjust my rucksack to start our onward journey.

  “She’s there!” Ish points to the house.

  A slight figure stands at the open door, one foot poised across the threshold, but still, as though caught in a photograph.

  “Why isn’t she moving?” Ria asks, peering over the wall, nose barely above the top stones.

  “Perhaps she’s looking for us?” I suggest, fingering the straps of my rucksack in agitation.

  “Should we call to her?” Ish asks.

  “No. They might hear us,” Pascha returns.

  I have to let her know that we’re here, waiting for her. “I’ll go,” I say. “I’ll go and get her.”

  “Meriall no!” Pascha exclaims, but I’m already dropping my rucksack to the ground.

  “I have to,” I whisper back as I climb up the stone wall and drop quietly to the other side.

  She stands at the half-open door; too scared to make the final move. I crouch down and check the area around the house. Nothing moves in the garden, and so I run across the grass, keeping low. At the corner of the house I stop and call to her. “Hey, I’m here.”

  “I see you,” she whispers back, but still doesn’t move.

  “Come out. We’re waiting for you.”

  “Yes, yes, I will. I’m coming.”

  The door remains half-closed and she stands, unmoving, half-hidden, full of fear.

  “If you don’t come now I’ll have to leave you. Is that what you want?”

  “No, of course not but …”

  “If you stay then you will be his. Forever!”

  She disappears as the door closes. She can’t want to stay with him! I look back to the others; they stand behind the wall beckoning frantically for me to come back. A creak and a click sound behind me and I swing to the noise. She’s there, standing on the step, and the door is shut fast.

  “I’ve got you,” I say, holding out my hand and reaching forward, as though to a frightened child scared to cross stepping-stones.

  She takes a tentative step forward and I beckon with my hand, urging her forward. She looks different somehow; the regulation bonnet is tied to her head, but there are no frills clamped about her neck and her blonde hair is hanging loose past her shoulders, catching the moonlight. A flicker of joy skits across my heart.

  “We’re going to be free!” I whisper as she comes forward and for a second the fear leaves her face and a smile creeps into the corners of her mouth.

  “Yes,” she whispers back excitedly, grabbing my hand. “Free!”

  At the wall, I put my hand under her feet to power her up and then scramble to the other side. Silence. Pascha, Ish and Ria are staring at the Wife as though she is some new species of animal they have stumbled upon.

  The Wife breaks the awkward silence. “Well ... Thank you—for waiting for me.”

  “Yeh, well, Merry—she didn’t want to leave you behind,” Ish says, grudging and unsure.

  “We haven’t got time to stand around chatting,” I break in. “We need to get going.”

  Twigs snap like thunder beneath our feet as we run along the side of the wall towards the road. At the corner with the road I look back at the School House to check for movement before we make our escape. It sits in darkness.

  “We’re safe. The lights are out,” I say. “We can move out onto the road.”

  Pascha takes charge.

  “We’ll leave two at a time and stick to the darker parts of the road, at least until we’re clear of the village.”

  “If we leave thirty seconds between each group we’ll make less noise,” I suggest. “If you go ahead with the Wife, Ish and Ria can stick together and I’ll go last. OK?”

  “Sure,” he says and pats my shoulder gently.

  They’re gone and I count to thirty, deliberately slowing myself down because the urge to run is chewing at me so bad I could launch myself down the road this second. Thirty. I leave the dark shadows of the wall and make my way out onto the road. As I reach the last house, I take a final look back at the village that had been my home and then my prison.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I turn back towards freedom and can’t ignore the urge anymore. At first I jog, then I break into a run with quick, hard strides overtaking Ish and Ria then Pascha and the Wife. I run faster, my breath coming harder. Behind me is the crunch and pounding of other feet as they start to run too. I push on, striding forward as powerfully as I can, purging the fear and the anger that has built up inside me. Pascha overtakes me easily and sprints ahead. A stitch is starting to stab in my ribs as I pass Tristan’s tree and my thighs are burning. Ignoring the pain, I push myself to run harder until the anger flows and the tears come. Pascha stops ahead of me and I slow down to stop next to him, breathless, tearful, laughing. A laugh breaks out from Pascha too as he stands, hands on hip, catching his breath. It is a moment of perfect solidarity and I throw my arms around him.

  “We’re out! We’re really out!” I stand on tip-toes, hold up my lips, and wait, eyes closed, for the warm and gentle pressure of his lips on mine. When I have it, I hold it for a second then pull back embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I just … I just felt like I had to celebrate,” I finish.

  I am ridiculous.

  “It’s ok Merry. I liked it,” he looks at me, smiles and reaches for my hand, “I really liked it,” and bends down to kiss me again.

  We stand in the coldness of the night with the rain spattering our faces. As he kisses me I can think of nothing but this moment, the softness of his lips and the warmth of his face and his strong body next to mine. The wind whips up and the rain starts i
n earnest.

  “Hey pack it in you two! We’ve got to find somewhere to hide. Remember?” Ish says with a small laugh despite the rain, a sliver of his usual happy front returning.

  I pull away from Pascha and look down, self-conscious.

  “Which way do we go?” I ask Ish as I pull the collar of my jacket up against the rain. “To Hawdale?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only been there across the fields.”

  “It’s too dark to go that way. We’d never find it.”

  “What shall we do then?”

  “We need to find somewhere to hide. When its first light we can walk to Hawdale. They won’t know we’re there. We’ll be safe.”

  “We need to find shelter. It’s really starting to chuck it down,” I say and begin to walk towards the stone wall that lines the road where a tangle of hawthorn grows.

  “If we sit here, together, we’ll be hidden and protected from the rain on two sides,” I say, pointing down at the verge where the hawthorn and the wall converge.

  We sit, huddled, backs to the stone wall, waiting for the night to end.

  “I should have brought a coat for you. I didn’t think. I’m sorry,” I say to Ria, as her body shivers with cold next to me.

  She feels small and delicate, reminding me of Jey, and I put my arm around her, giving her some of my warmth. The Wife suddenly stands up and unlocks the clasps of her cloak. “Please, my cloak is big enough to cover us all if we squeeze together.”

  Awkwardly, I shuffle up with the others.

  She lays the cloak over us. The warmth is a welcome comfort.

  “I-, I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are,” I say and instantly regret my clumsiness. “I mean … the Watcher, he never told us your name.”

  “My name is Bettrice. My father always called me Rosie – that’s my middle name.”

  I recall the smell of roses when she visited my room and the image of a man laid unconscious on a kitchen floor flashes in my mind; her father the day she was stolen.

  “Thank you, Bettrice,” I say, “Maybe he’s still alive?” I add hopefully. It sounds weak.

  Thoughts of my own father push into my memory; I wonder if he is alive and still raging at the world.

  “I pray that he is alive every night.” Bettrice interrupts my thoughts and I escape them with relief.

  “Pray to who?” Ish interrupts.

  “I …” She stops.

  “It’s ok Bettrice. You’re among friends here.”

  She remains silent, afraid of saying the wrong thing I guess.

  “I pray too,” I add, “but not the way they tell me to,” I admit, scared to voice my thoughts even among friends. “I believe … I believe that we all pray to the same God really and … and we should be free to pray in whatever way we want to.” I stop, waiting for someone else to pitch in.

  Silence.

  I continue.

  “For me, and don’t laugh because I’m baring my soul here, God is everywhere. In the stars, the trees, the moors, the moon—especially the moon,” I admit, smiling to myself, feeling a little sheepish. “And when I look out at how beautiful it all is, it gives me courage and I feel, I feel like I’m not alone and that there is so much more, you know, so much more to life than what we’re living now and that we can change what’s wrong.” I stop, embarrassed that I cannot explain the incredible passion for life and freedom I feel when I look to the moon and the stars and realise how incredibly vast the universe really is.

  “They killed my mother and my father for praying,” Ish says softly. “They followed one of the old religions and they wanted to teach us. Father said that we were born Muslims and would die Muslims no matter what the Primitives told us to believe.” He stops, his words choked down with emotion.

  “I pray to the Blessed Virgin” Bettrice finally admits, “to ask God to keep them safe: my mother and my sister and my father.”

  Ish nods his head in understanding and I smile to myself at her secret resistance. The old religions still survive despite the Primitives’ insistence that they are forbidden and must be forgotten.

  The warmth of our bodies lulls me to drowsiness and my head begins to nod. I jerk my head up, aware that I am falling asleep, but cannot keep my eyes open. The last thing I hear before I sink down into the comforting blackness is Bettrice’s voice.

  “It’s ok,” she soothes. “Sleep now, we’re safe till morning”.

  I wake to a nightmare; a high-pitched wail and the Watcher standing over me, his riding crop in hand, raised and ready to whip down on me.

  I snap my eyes open to a still dark morning as a hand grabs my shoulder and pushes at me hard.

  “Meriall! Meriall, wake up”.

  Pascha is crouched in front of me. “Can you hear it? The Claxon! They know we’ve gone.” His voice is low, insistent.

  I’m awake and aware within a second, rinsed in a cold and uncomfortable sweat.

  “They’re coming after us! We’ve got to go now!” Ish says in panic.

  “We should have woken earlier,” Bettrice frets, as she stands looking desperately about.

  “Which way do we go Ish? Which way to Hawdale?” I ask in a panic.

  He points to the moors. “It’s about five miles that way.”

  My heart sinks, the land is barren except for the grasses and heathers. “There’s no cover. They’ll see us for sure.”

  “It’s still dark enough for them not to see. Once we get over the brow of the hill there are trees. We should head for those,” Ish says, thrusting his arm through Ria’s, pulling her forward.

  The claxon sounds again.

  “Let’s go!”

  We’re suddenly in action. Pascha grabs his rucksack and helps Bettrice over the wall and onto the road. I scramble over too and begin to run for my life across the moors. The ground is wet and uneven and I jump from stone to grassy hummock and over low growing heather. The moor slopes steep to the trees in the distance—just a couple of fields away now. Movement catches my attention and I grab at Pascha’s jacket for him to slow down.

  “Pascha, can you see that. Over there,” I say anxiously, pointing to the grey, snaking road cut into the black moor ahead, “there’s someone on the road.”

  “I can’t see anything Merry. The fog is too thick down there.”

  “I saw something moving. I’m sure I did,” I say, peering across to the hill.

  The fog shifts and the black patch moves forward again.

  “There!” I say, pulling at Pascha’s coat sleeve. “Can you see it?”

  “Yes! It looks like men on horseback and—there’s a cart too.”

  Bettrice gasps.

  “It’s the Enforcers. They’ve come for the Collection.”

  “Get down everyone,” Pascha orders, “we can’t let them see us.”

  I crouch, knees drawn up to my chest, making myself small, next to a tumble of boulders, thankful for the drabness of my clothes. I check the others too—nothing bright— just khakis, browns and greys—slubbed colours that help us melt into the moors. A section of wall, overgrown with clumped hawthorn, sits about a hundred feet further down the hill. It is next to the road and we will be hidden when they pass if we can make it before they get close enough to notice us. I call to the others to follow and snake my way down the hill, edging myself between the heather and over rocks, keeping low.

  We make it to the wall and crawl close to the thicket of gnarled elder and red-berried hawthorns just as the party of Enforcers comes over the brow of the hill. The trundle of the cart is clear now, getting louder as they roll closer. I rise slowly, edging my sight to the top of the wall, and spy through the hawthorn, ignoring Pascha’s hissed whispers to get down. There are ten Enforcers on horseback and two in the cart, one driving the horses. The cart is old and shabby, no more than a metal chassis with a flat, wooden base, carrying some rough looking canvas bags and piles of metal chains. The Enforcers are dressed in their usual black uniform: trousers tucked into ankle high boots
and fitted black jacket. Thick black lines slit across their cheeks, reaching out from mandatory beard to nose. At the front sits the Captain, zig-zags of black between his scratched lines tell of his status. Another man rides with him. For a second, I think it is the Watcher because he wears the same black cloak and ruffed collar, but this man is younger. Like the Watcher, he rides with total confidence and authority.

  One of the guards turns and looks my way. I freeze, not daring to move a muscle or even breath. Double lines tattooed across his cheeks mark him out as property of the Elect, the black dots between them count the kills he has made. He frowns then looks away and spurs on his horse with a kick to its flank.

  I watch with creeping fright as they pass, and when the last wheel of the cart has gone by, I squat back down next to Bettrice, breathless and terrified of making a sound. She looks at me, her face drained of colour,

  “You look ill Bettrice. Are you ok?”

  “Yes, I just … the day they took me and my sister … the cart and the chains … the Captain. It was him.”

  Anything I say will sound trite so I just put my arm around her shoulder and pull her to me.

  “There was another Elect there too. He looked like the Watcher. Clean shaven, no tattoos. Who would that be?”

  “I don’t know.” Bettrice raises her head to reply, “It could be an Overseer. They’re like the bosses of the Watchers.”

  “Why would an Overseer be going to our village?” I ask. No one has an answer.

  When the last wheel of the cart disappears over the hill it’s time for us to continue our journey to Hawdale. Ish is the first to see the entrance; a lane narrowed by grasses pushing through untended tarmac and hidden by an overgrowth of low-growing branches. We stand as a group before the opening. The lane is littered by a layer of fallen leaves browning to black in the autumn rot.

  Pascha holds back the lowest boughs to let us through. “Try not to disturb the leaves. That way, no one can tell we’ve gone through.”

  I duck my head down and walk into the hole. More leaves have fallen since the last time we visited and the grey, early morning light filtering through the open branches makes for an eerie passageway. I walk on, pulling my jacket tighter around me and feel the buzz of anticipation as the road tips me forward as it cuts through and down into the steep hillside. Moss covered rocks jut out from the mud banks held in place by the gnarled roots of ancient trees. The canopy overhead is thick with criss-crossed branches and the road seems to darken as we get lower down the hill until it suddenly brightens where the woodland ends abruptly and the lane leads into openness. I stop to take in the scene. The light is ashen yet, but brightening, and although there are dark clouds in the distance I am not sure if it is last night’s drizzle disappearing or a new storm coming. The village of Hawdale sits nestled at the bottom of a valley, surrounded on all sides by steep hillsides. The road we stand on is the only way in or out.