I clapped my hands together and grinned broadly. "This week gets better and better," I declared happily. "How long will he be gone?"
"I don't know," replied Lorin, "a few days at least."
I considered the answer for a moment, then scrambled to my feet and started walking back towards the house.
"Hey!" Lorin called after me. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," I replied over my shoulder.
"You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?" called out, frowning.
"Of course not," I yelled back. "You stay there and dream about your precious sofa." "I will!" he shouted stubbornly.
I crept into the house like a cat, walking on my tip-toes and peering this way and that for any sign of danger. I was sure Lorin wouldn't lie to me about our father being gone, but I also knew well enough that you couldn't be too careful where Moises was concerned. I snuck down the narrow hallway, past my own bedroom to the door of my parents' room and gave it a slight push.
The door fell open a little; just enough to poke my head inside and make sure nobody was there. Satisfied that I was really on my own, I slipped inside and gently pushed the door closed behind me before looking around.
There wasn't much there. Our family had always lived a pretty spartan life and we didn't have many possessions, but there were a few shelves on the wall near the foot of the bed that drew my attention. I hopped over as lightly as I could and reached for one of several candles stacked upon them. Some were red, and some were black. These were the candles he used in his wicked rituals. Devil candles, I thought, practically throwing it back onto the shelf in disgust. A few empty bottles sat next to the candles, then a cardboard box that I fumbled open to find rows of gleaming bullets inside. I shuddered at the touch of the cold metal and closed the box again. Then I saw something that made my heart leap.
It was a book; a small, leather-bound book with a tie around it. But, no clues as I picked it up and turned it over in my hands as to what might be inside. With a glance back towards the door to make sure nobody was coming, I carefully unwound the tie and dropped the book onto the bed. I sat next to it, opened it up at a random page, and gasped.
A twisted figure stared back at me from the paper. Neither man nor beast, the creature had the legs of a horse, the body of a person but covered in thick, bristly hair, and a head like a ram's except with human eyes that burned with hatred the same way my father's did sometimes when he looked at me. The demon appeared so lifelike that I had to fight the urge to slam the book shut and run from the room lest it leap from the page to attack me. My father was a fantastic artist, I knew, able to draw and sculpt and make objects with his hands that most people couldn't dream of. He built houses, fashioned his own explosives for hunting and fishing, and even made a machine to extract the juice from sugar cane which was super sweet and delicious. Often, though, his gifts were employed in less virtuous ways. One of his favourite pastimes was to go down to the river, fashion little men with enormous willies out of mud and show them to the bathing women just to laugh at their reactions.
The drawing in the book fell somewhere between these extremes. It was beautiful and terrible at the same time, and made me feel very uncomfortable. I turned the page and found something I recognised, a circle with a pentagram, a five-sided star, inside of it. It looked like one of the circles my grandmother used to cast her spells, but the writing next to it didn't describe any spell that she would dare to use.
"Powdered bone," I murmured, reading the scruffy lettering, "chicken's blood, gunpowder..."
Something flashed past the window, obscuring the sunlight and throwing me and the book into shadow for the briefest of moments. I jumped, slammed it shut and shot to my feet.
"Mama?" I asked, shakily. No-one replied. Had it been one of my brothers and sisters? Had they seen? Maybe it was just a bird flying past. My heart in my mouth, I snatched up the book and ran. "Mama!" I called again, haring through the house and out to the kitchen. I had been sure I would find my mother here making food as she usually did at this time of the morning, but the room was empty. The wood stove was still burning though, and I walked over to it with a thought forming in my mind.
My father had read from this book when he performed his wicked ritual out in the forest that night, I was sure of it. If he didn't have the book, he wouldn't be able to cast any more evil spells. Or at least, he might get them wrong and they wouldn't work, or he would end up hurting himself. Summoning all of my courage, I pulled back my arm ready to hurl the book into the fire, but then another thought occurred to me. My grandmother had warned my about using dark magic, but if my life were in danger, or my mother's, or one of my brothers or sisters, wouldn't it be better to use it than to let them die?
I ran to the door and peered out to make sure nobody was coming, then dropped the book onto the kitchen table and flipped through it to find the spell I had read. Troubling images flashed before my eyes, of sinister-looking animals and twisted human figures, devils and symbols, until finally I found what I was looking for. I tore out the page, folded it twice and stuffed it in my pocket. Then quickly, as though afraid I might lose my nerve at any moment, I snatched up the book, ran to the stove and threw it inside.
As the orange flames rose up and licked around the soft leather, crackling and spitting gently as they engulfed the shrinking pages, I was sure I heard that voice again. The soft, ghostly, hissing voice from the forest clearing. Could that be the demon I had seen in the book? Had I angered it?
Silently, I sat down on the floor and just watched as the flames flickered and danced, and kept their secrets.
CHAPTER NINE
The Chase
AN INTENSE STORM earlier that afternoon had soaked the trees, and all around the smell of wet, rotting wood hung thick in the stifling air. The alternate combination of heavy rain and fierce sunlight drew the very essence from the forest and its inhabitants and left it lingering, trapped beneath the heavy canopy. Even with your eyes closed, your nose could tell you everything you needed to know about what was nearby. Perhaps, I thought as I hopped a broken branch and landed with a soft crunch on the thick layer of dead leaves that covered the ground, that was how my grandmother was still able to find her way around, pick herbs and perform her rituals even though her eyesight had all but deserted her.
Evening was the best time for fishing. There was a particular fish that would only show itself when the sun began to set, and Maria had decided that's what she would cook for dinner that night, so off she started down towards the Black River.
I followed behind, a skip in my step. The farm was always a happier place when my father wasn't around, but lately I had even more reasons to be optimistic. My grandmother had started to teach me how to protect myself and the rest of the family, and I had managed to destroy my father's black magic book. Life was more good than bad lately, and I was enjoying myself.
"Aha," said Maria as we came upon a little shed just clear of the trees. This was where we used to live when I was younger, in a tiny house not far from the river, until my father’s growing family and growing ambition led him to relocate to more suitable farming land a few miles away. Now all that was left of our old home was this little wooden storage shed. "Something to catch the fish," said Maria, fetching a length of fishing line down from one of the shelves, "and something to carry them in," she grabbed a hemp sack from the corner and offered it to me. I peered at it doubtfully. "You'd better take it," said Maria, shaking the bag.
"Why?" I asked, defiantly.
"So that when your father asks me if you've been working, I don't have to lie to him," Maria replied. I was in a rebellious mood lately and didn't much care what my father thought about anything, but one glance into my mother's eyes quelled any desire I might have had to argue. They were always so full of love and kindness that none of her children could ever say no to her.
"Okay mama," I murmured, taking the bag and slinging it over my shoulder. The river wasn't far away now and I could j
ust hear the swirling water above the sound of chattering monkeys. But I could smell something too, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Mama..." I said, stopping in my tracks, my nose twitching.
"What is it now?" asked Maria, exasperated, turning her head. Then she saw the fear on my face, and a second later she understood what had caused it. The sickly sweet, pungent scent of rotting flesh could mean only one thing.
"Onca," I whispered. For a moment, the two of us stood like statues, frozen with fear. Then something rustled in the trees nearby and together we broke and ran as fast as we could back towards the house. I was quicker, and every time I looked around to check that my mother was still right behind me, the scent of death filled my nostrils again. "It's chasing us!" I cried. "Mama!
Hurry!"
Home was miles away, but time seemed to freeze as I raced between the trees, my bare feet hardly touching the ground. All that existed was me, my mother, and the invisible danger at our backs. The next moment we would either be safe, or we would be dead, and everything in between just stretched out like a rubber band ready to snap one way or the other.
"Get inside!" my mother gasped as finally we broke clear of the forest and the house loomed large ahead of us. I had never felt particularly emotionally attached to the building, it was hardly the sight of many happy memories after all, but right now I was gladder to see it than I had ever been to see anything in my life. I burst into the kitchen and collapsed on the floor, closely followed by my mother, who slammed the door behind us and then slid down it, panting hard. "I can't believe it didn't catch us," she said as her breath returned. I frowned. That was strange. If a panther really had been chasing us, we shouldn't have stood a chance.
"Maybe it was playing with us," I suggested, doubtfully.
"Onca don't play," Maria shook my head, "they kill." Now she was frowning too. I sniffed once, twice, then scrambled to the window to peer out.
"Is it still out there?" I asked, clutching the bag to my chest as though thinking I might be able to hide underneath it if a panther burst in through the window.
"No," Maria shook her head. I looked around and sniffed again. I could still smell it, the dead, rotting scent that so resembled the panther's breath. My mother took a few steps towards the door, then her eyes fell upon the dirty bag in my hands. "Give me that," she said, holding out her hand. I held it up curiously and she snatched it from me, pulled it open and upended it over the kitchen table.
With a soft thud, a fish landed upon the wooden surface, its eye sockets hollow and great patches of its flesh rotted through to the bone. I flinched and pinched my nose.
"That's no Onca..." I murmured nasally, peering at it. Then I caught my mother's eye, and the two of us burst out laughing.
"What's this?" asked a voice behind them. My father stood in the doorway, his already imposing frame further loaded down with bags of supplies in addition to his rifle. He looked filthy from head to toe, and I could tell even with my nose pinched that he must smell even worse than the fish. He stepped inside the little kitchen, dumped his bags on the floor, and approached the table to see what we had been staring at. "Is this my dinner?" he asked, looking from my mother to me without a trace of humour in his dark eyes. "This is what I come home to? This is the thanks
I get for working hard and bringing back supplies to feed my family?"
"We were going to fish..." Maria began.
"I think you're doing it wrong," Moises interrupted, picking up the dead fish by its tail and then throwing it back down on the table in disgust.
"I'll make a chicken instead," said Maria, her head bowed, unable to look at her husband's face when he was angry like this.
"Hurry up about it," he replied. "It's been a long journey and I'm hungry." He glanced down at me, crouched on the floor. "What are you looking at?" he snapped. I didn't answer, but met his stare bravely with equal anger. My father's eyes lingered upon me a while, then he trudged back towards his bedroom and disappeared.
Why can't he just go? I thought bitterly as my mother shuffled out of the kitchen to find a chicken. Why can't he just leave and never come back?
I sat up in bed, hugging my knees, praying for the shouting to stop. My father was angry about something, and though I couldn't hear clearly through the wall what was being said, I had a horrible feeling I knew what it was. Every now and then his voice would let up for a few seconds, and I could make out the soft, muffled tone of my mother trying to soothe his anger, but it didn't seem to be working. Each time Moises resumed his tirade it was with increased fury.
Slap! I heard the unmistakable sound of a hand connecting with soft flesh, then a rumbling of furniture shifting against the wooden floorboards, and a scream. I twitched. I wanted to run in there and help my mother, but how? What could I do? Maria was right, I was just a little girl. But my brothers weren't, they were almost grown men some of them, why weren't they stopping this? Couldn't they hear? Didn't they care? I began to rock back and forth as, next door, my mother began to cry. I tried not to think about what he might be doing to her, but my mind wouldn't be forced anywhere else.
"No," I muttered, shaking my head, "no, no, no!" I covered my ears and began to say the prayer my grandmother had taught me. I had no circle, no candles, and no water, but maybe the spirits would hear me anyway. I said the words over and over until finally exhaustion overtook me, I slid down onto the mattress, and fell asleep.
I didn't go to milk the cows next morning, and I didn't emerge for breakfast. I was scared of what I might find outside my bedroom door. Was my mother badly hurt? Was she still alive? Finally I heard the footsteps of my brothers in the hall, and peered out of the window to watch them make their way towards the plantation.
"Mama?" said I cautiously, poking my head around the door. I crept through to the kitchen, where Maria was on her own, clearing away the breakfast dishes with her back to the door.
"Mama?" I asked again.
"Run along baby," she replied, without turning around. "Run along to work now."
"Mama, are you okay?" I asked, taking a step towards her. "Did he hurt you?"
She sighed heavily and turned around, and I gasped as I saw the evil black and blue bruises around her neck. I ran forward to hug her, and she stroked my thick, red hair softly. "What happened?" I whispered, with tears in my eyes.
"Oh my baby," my mother said, softly. "Did you take your father's book?”
I pulled away and stared up at her, a mixture of guilt and anger churning my insides. "Yes..."
I replied. "I took it and I burned it so that he couldn't do any more black magic."
"He was very angry when he found that it was gone," she said. "He thinks that I took it. That's why he..." she lifted her hand towards her face before catching herself, lowering it and looking away, as though she were ashamed.
"I'll tell him," said I angrily. "I'll tell him it was me!"
"You'll do no such thing!" my mother snapped, suddenly stern. "It's over and done with now, you'll do no good bringing it up again."
I threw my arms around her again and squeezed her tightly. Fat, hot tears ran down my cheeks, but they were tears of anger not sorrow. I wanted to kill my father, to take his gun and shoot him and—
"What's this?" said Moises, appearing in the kitchen doorway. "A couple of lazy bitches?" He started towards the bedroom and I felt a tight grip on my shoulder, as though my mother were warning me not to reply. "Don't you have anything better to do than sit around and cry?" asked my father with a smirk. Seeing the look on his face, as though he were pleased with himself, that was the last straw. That was too much.
"It was me!" I shouted, stepping towards my father and glaring up at him with flames in my eyes. "I burned your book, I did it. And I destroyed your altar and ruined your spell! And I'll do it again!"
"Baby, no!" cried Maria, but it was too late. My father stared down at me for a moment, his face hard and cold, then his arm whipped across his body with a c
rack like a gunshot. The hand that struck the side of my face wasn't open, but balled into a tight fist, and I barely heard my mother scream before it swung again. I fell, but my father had a hold of my hair now and he yanked me back again straight into his onrushing knuckles. And then everything was pain.
CHAPTER TEN
The Lock
"DONA MARIA," I vaguely recognised the voice, but I couldn't open my eyes to see who it belonged to. Everything hurt too much. "You can't go on like this."
"I know," Maria replied miserably, "but what am I to do? If I go to the police, he will kill us all. I'm trapped, Carlito!"
Carlito. I dwelt on the name. He owned another farm about five miles away. My father never liked him, I remembered, but Maria always said he was a nice man and he sounded as much now.
My brain felt like it was floating inside my head. I knew I must be awake because I was thinking these thoughts, but I couldn't feel my body at all apart from a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to surround me completely.
"At this rate," I heard Carlito reply, "he'll kill her soon anyway. You have to protect your daughter."
"How?" asked Maria, desperately. "Tell me how!"
"I don't know," replied the neighbour, "but if you don't, who else will?"
I heard my mother let out a quiet sob, and I tried to reach out a hand to comfort her, but my arm refused to cooperate. I could feel it lying next to me, heavy like a slab of meat, but I couldn't make it move more than a twitch.
"What if you all left?" asked Carlito. "While he's gone sometime, you just get on a cart and go far away."
"Go where?" asked Maria. "Where could we go that he wouldn't find us? He knows people, Carlito. He finds out everything that happens here."
"Who does he know?" asked Carlito. I was listening hard now. My mother never usually spoke about my father's business. But she didn't answer the question. I felt a cool, damp cloth pressing down against my forehead, and I let slip a grateful moan. "Is she awake?" Carlito asked tentatively.
Daughter of the Forest: Diary of an Assassin Page 5