Ellie stopped breathing. What?
‘Where would we go?’ demanded her father, his tone clear and flat. ‘Where Claire? And why?’
Ellie didn't quite catch her mother’s murmured answer, but she heard a garble of angry words and her father’s explosive reply as he slammed his hand hard on the table. ‘We remain here under God’s grace, Claire. The weather, this house and all that is here is under His dominion, under his Will.’
‘No, Brian, you may believe this is the Lord’s will, but I don't believe He could be so cruel.’
The kitchen door slammed and Ellie flinched as she heard her mother run weeping into the bathroom. Silence descended, broken only by the increasing howling of the storm.
‘No.’ Ellie whispered beneath the covers, ‘No, please, we can’t go.’
A pulse of warmth stole unnoticed through her hand. ‘I need to be here...’ she murmured. I need to be here...
Breathing softly, Ellie’s voice faded as sleep crept undetected over her senses. She sighed, snuggling deeper into the warmth of her bed and then, as light as thought, as if in a dream, she slipped out of her body as lightly as a hand slipping out of a fine, silk glove.
Still holding the shape of the hag stone under her cheek, Ellie rose up from her bed, passing up through the ceiling and out into the night. Floating on higher, warmer currents, she drifted, weightless, as the storm cloud massed high over the sleeping land.
Light pricked over her skin. Cool and soft, and as fleet as a moth wing.
Ellie.
A delicate hand traced a single line of cold fire across her skin. She shivered.
Soul Flyer.
Help us.
Ellie slowly opened her eyes, and a thousand beings held their breaths around her.
The land beneath her fell away to the horizon, but she had no time to be afraid, as around her came a wave of sound. At first it sounded like the hum of countless bees, but lower, deeper, more desperate, like a quiet, keening lament.
Ellie still wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming. But at once, as though it had been waiting for her to respond, a tiny being flared diamond bright, its eyes huge and as dark and as deep as the sky. It hovered close.
Help us.
From its head spiked a mass of sharp, sticky-out hair.
Recognition jolted and Ellie gasped as her favourite little forest faery darted before her, its true form as iridescent as a jewel.
Now fully awake, Ellie rose higher into the darkness, following the flare-bright shape as it darted over the land. At last the faery stopped and, together with its fellows, keened out a single tone, high pitched and full of sorrow.
Tumbling in the air, it gestured wildly down towards the ground. Beneath them, the great forest slept. And through it, threading through the soil, Ellie could see the clear network of blue-white light flaring from tree to tree, leaping from branch to branch and fanning outwards in an infinite, beautiful pattern.
What’s so wrong? Ellie looked up confused.
The tiny being gestured again.
There.
There.
At first Ellie couldn’t see what was agitating the faery. There!
She dropped lower, following its brightness as it skimmed closer over the trees.
And there! The faery turned to her, its eyes were imploring, its tiny hands pointing to an area of the sleeping forest.
Hovering in the darkness, Ellie stared as around her the cloud of faeries broke into a heartbroken cry.
What? What’s so wrong?
Beneath her, a single line of brightness traced the contours of the landscape, an illumination emanating from tiny, hiding creatures and countless scuttling insects. She watched as it ran on through the earth, picking up speed, and winding out from tree roots and on through the night. And then abruptly the line stopped. Its jewel-bright light snuffed out in sudden darkness.
Another great lament rose from the surrounding beings.
Ellie gasped as she finally understood. It was not a thing that was distressing the faeries, but an absence, a void, a blankness creeping through the pattern. As quick as thought, Ellie rose higher and then see saw it. Holes were spreading through the valley of light; deadening pools of darkness seeping across the vital web like a vast unchecked cancer.
As she watched, another light winked out, and another, and another, as a great icy silence gripped the forest.
TWENTY-ONE
Rose woke, curled in pain on the floor. A deep chill gripped her bones. Her room was dark, her curtains drawn tight, blocking out any intrusion of the day. She was caught, her body pinned between her chair and the bay of the window. Stretching her legs, she stopped, her heart beating faster as she ran her hand over the hard wooden surface beneath her. What was she doing lying down here?
Her stomach heaved.
A dream. It had to just be a dream. Warily, she touched her naked skin; it felt hot, burning under her fingertips, but… smooth, human, and thankfully, just skin. Rose shuddered, remembering the heavy, horrifying feel of wings dragging her body down.
A horrible dream… She lay back down on the cold floor, hugging herself tight.
Her eyes flew open, and her hands flew to her neck. Where is it?
In the middle of her room, dark and angled away from the door, stood the mirror, surrounded by the gutted remains of the candles. Panicking, Rose jumped to her feet, searching among her clothes, yanking off the covers on her bed. Looking through every inch of fabric.
When she was done, it looked as though a storm had thrown the contents of her room to the wind, but she didn't care; it was nowhere to be found. She shuddered, as fury as hot and bitter as bile surged through her. Fighting the urge to howl her loss to the sky, Rose ran to the window and yanked open the curtains. A burst of cold spilled into the room. She shivered once, but didn't care, her skin still felt hot to touch and… she stopped, remembering the silky feel of the necklace draped over her bare skin, and Rose frowned. Shaking her head furiously, she batted that memory away. No! It was just a dream.
The necklace was all that mattered.
Where was it?
Thinking hard, Rose stared out over the garden stretched below. It looked different; the light was a dull, dense grey that draped the length of the garden, concealing the trees and the summerhouse in a dank cloud. Rose shivered again, as cold from the bare glass seeped into her skin.
She frowned. Someone, somehow, in the night had entered her room…
Scooping up a grey hoodie, she pulled on a pair of long, loose trousers and avoiding the mess of puddled wax, stepped cautiously to the mirror. From the window, a shaft of light sliced across the floor and ran up its darkened surface.
She tilted her face to one side.
Am I still beautiful? Her reflection stared back, not answering, her long dark hair curled seductively over her breasts. She felt different, she realised. Strong, and the ache in her muscles had eased; her arms felt supple, poised, as though she could leap into the air at any moment.
Revulsion gripped her heart.
No. It was just a nightmare.
✽✽✽
Matthew was crouched low in the kitchen, feeding fuel into the cast iron stove that dominated one corner. Fire roared from its heart, sending heat billowing up into the vaulted ceiling, and chasing away the bitter chill. As Rose entered, he rocked back onto his heels,. He was in civilian clothes, wearing a black shirt tucked into a pair of black woollen trousers. Nodding at her, Matthew resolutely snapped a branch with a single hand.
Lifting her chin, Rose smiled a faint good morning to her father and padded on bare feet to the fridge. The trousers she was wearing were long, but they didn't protect them from the cold rising from the hard stone floor. I should’ve worn socks, Rose realised belatedly, rubbing her soles with her hand. The nightmare she pushed to the back of her mind.
She was all right. Turning back to the fire, Matthew tossed the wood into its centre and breathed the thought out loud. ‘She is all rig
ht.’ Thank the Lord, his Rosalind was here, whole, perfect once more, without blemish. But…
Rose flung open the fridge door. ‘You look awful, Dad. Do you want some eggs?’
Matthew wiped his hands and eased the metal grate shut. A fire sprite curled away with a serpentine flick. He ignored it.
Cautiously, as if afraid of startling a forest creature, or the most timid of his parishioners, Matthew rose to his feet.
‘I’m starving. I think I’m going to make us both a fry up.’ Tossing her hair back, Rose scraped some butter from the butter dish and cracked a couple of eggs into a pan. ‘You look as though you need it.’ She commented, looking up. ‘And you get angry with me for staying out late.’
He didn’t answer.
Silence filled the room, save for the rhythmic beating of the old clock in the hallway, and the sizzle of the butter in the pan.
She was all right, but for how long? Forcing himself to look away, to not be so obvious in his appraisal of her, Matthew sat down at the wooden table. He clasped his hands and began to pray. Hear me Lord. Hear my prayer; let us Ascend now Lord. I have been Your good and faithful servant. I have served Your Church for many, many years, please. The blood-curse is manifesting … the abomination of her heritage is rising. I beseech You. Let us Ascend quickly, take us now, before my daughter-
‘Dad! Did you hear me? Would you like some tea?’ Rose’s voice snapped. ‘Come on, wake up sleepyhead, or else I’ll have to send you to bed.’
She pushed a plate of yellow eggs towards him. Matthew blinked. His breakfast sizzled hot on the plate, sunny side up, and the odour of salt, butter, and sulphur filled his nostrils.
But he took no notice. When will they be free?
Grimly, he gazed out through the arched window and down to the bottom of the garden. Streaks of cloud, ice-white and luminous, were racing against the frozen sky. The mist had lifted and Matthew could see down to the boundary fence – a line of thin trees were bent low, like a brace of impotent old men struggling against the bitter wind.
They’re in such pain, he mused. The trees’ limbs were gnarled and twisted, and their individual branches whipped and jerked, wrenched into the air by each icy gust until the leaves were shredded and they fell to earth, mute, and as grey as ash.
Nothing could ever triumph against such an onslaught. The storm he had unleashed was born of power and fury, and it would never, ever end.
Matthew froze.
He stared at the tortured trees. Of course…
The storm he had unleashed…
Rising to his feet, Matthew strode over to the window, his mind racing.
The abbot in the monastery all those years ago had recognised this skill. ‘A Gift from God’ the old man had called it. Spirits. They came to his aid. Always, whether willing or not, they loved him. They couldn’t help it.
Angels, they came too, as light as prayer, and as towering and as implacable in strength as any of the faery in the forest.
Matthew closed his eyes.
Of course.
What a fool he had been to not realise. This was his talent … a talent brought before the glory of God. A talent used in service of the Lord. And now…
It was so clear.
‘In the name of the Lord,’ he whispered, ‘spirits, you are mine, as you have always been.’
Slowly he breathed out a familiar name.
Gimbal…
He leaned forward, his eyes intent, and lifted his hands. He quietly called again.
Gimbal…
Deep in the garden, a shimmer began - a slow sort of twisting, a colouring-in of the air beneath the eaves of the summerhouse. It somersaulted awkwardly, and abruptly fell towards the ground. But at the last minute, it checked itself, and a being appeared - green, warty, with large bulbous nose. It looped slowly in the freezing light.
Gimbal.
Matthew didn’t smile.
Faery, spirit, or angel, he knew they were all the same in essence. Powerful beings, free from the longings of the flesh, each put here to serve the Lord Almighty in their own way. He could command them. This was his strength.
And now…
Matthew gazed into the garden.
First this cold, and then he would call on the angels of chaos to come to his aid. He would call on spirits of unbridled hurricanes, and desert winds. He would call entities of the air, he would call fire, he would call destruction, and the damned forest below would turn to dust.
But that was only the beginning.
Not just this forest, but also the next, and the next. On and on, until all the forests, the grasslands and the oceans, and the whole world was scorched, from pole to pole.
The prophecies were clear, and he, the Reverend Matthew Hopkins, had the power to make it happen.
Peace flooded his soul. ‘I see it now, Lord,’ he whispered. ‘I see what must be done.’
It was written in the holiest of books. The earth will be scorched and then the Faithful will ascend to heaven. Every one of them, free at last, whole and perfect. And myself and my daughter will be first amongst them.
‘I am the Instrument.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Rose’s voice cut into Matthew’s thoughts.
The fire had burned low and she was sitting across the table, studying him. Her plate was untouched, and the eggs were congealing in the centre. She slapped her hands on the wood, not hard, but enough for the sound to echo against the empty spaces in the kitchen.
‘What are you doing?’ She repeated.
‘Rose,’ began Matthew.
‘Don’t pretend you’re innocent.’ She almost snarled.
As she glared at him, Matthew could sense power rippling off his daughter. Like smoke, it looped up from her shoulders, in bright fits and bursts. But she seemed unaware…
Matthew swallowed.
‘Rosalind,’ he began carefully. ‘Calm yourself. Do not take that tone-’
‘Don’t, “Rosalind” me, Dad,’ Rose snapped. She stood up. ‘Where is the necklace?’
Heat radiated through the kitchen. Matthew tensed as she walked towards him. Her stance was light and powerful and she flexed her arms to their full length. ‘Did you come into my room last night?’ She shook herself.
‘Rose, you must calm.’
‘Did you?’ Her head loomed forward, and her eyes gleamed hot.
‘Where is it?’ She demanded, and her voice screeched, loud and coarse.
Matthew’s heart began to thud. She’s changing, and she is unaware.
‘In the name of all that is Holy,’ he began to pray.
Rose slapped his hand away. ‘Where is it?’
‘Dear Lord,’ whispered Matthew, ‘Stop this-’
‘‘Where is it. Tell me!’ She cried.
‘Rose, you do not want that accursed thing.’
‘Where is it?’ She cried again. Power now was streaming off her in waves.
Matthew thought quickly. The obsidian stone was upstairs. It shielded her from magic, but to be effective it needed to be close.
Outside ice fell from the sky, lashing against the glass as hard as stone, and the wind howled. Through the window he could see Gimbal still somersaulting, twisting his tubby form as though trying to avoid the driving rain. Sensing Matthew, the faery looked up to the sky and lifted his hands in mock-horror, as though begging to be allowed inside.
Ignoring the faery, Matthew pushed open the back door.
‘Do you know what it happening to you, Rose? Do you?’
‘I don’t care,’ Rose shrieked. ‘No! I just want my necklace.’
‘Rose you do not want that accursed thing.’ He snapped. ‘It is evil. It is the stuff of nightmares!’ Matthew glared at his daughter. Then he knew what he had to do. He grabbed her hand and pulled her outside, dragging her down into the garden towards the summerhouse.
He called to the faery.
Gimbal glared at him, sticking out his tongue, then he began gathering ice and packing it into his
hand.
‘Not now.’ Matthew turned away. ‘Follow us.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ Rose pulled at her hand, struggling against his grip.
Matthew gripped it tighter. ‘Rose, there are…’ He paused, ‘secrets in our family that you need to know.’
‘What things? Where are we going?’
‘In here.’ Matthew unclasped the summerhouse door and dragged her inside.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ For a brief moment her voice wavered as if afraid, then her eyes gleamed, and she tore at him with her other hand. It struck him like a claw.
‘Gimbal,’ he shouted. ‘Show yourself.’
With a defiant pop, Gimbal appeared and, with an exaggerated carefulness, began shimmying-in through the wall.
Matthew twisted his daughter’s face hard towards the faery. ‘Look Rose, see! You are of the Blood, and you do have the eyes to See.’
‘See what?’ She cried.
‘Look.’
‘I will not! There is nothing to see. Give me the necklace. It is mine. I can feel it. My blood sings to it, I want it!’ With a loud shriek, Rose pulled herself free. Power hummed, it looped off her, a rich molten gold, warming the freezing summerhouse, reaching to the sky, and coursing down to the ground. She shook herself as though released from a pent-up cage, and tilted her head back, moaning out a loud, unearthly sound.
‘Rosalind, stop!’ Beneath him, Matthew felt the earth stirring in response; a deep vital thrumming, a vibrating heat reaching up through the wooden floor. His daughter moaned again.
‘Rose, stop, before it’s too late. Rose!’
Heat flared, and Matthew watched in revulsion, as smooth skin shifted to feather, as her long, dark hair shimmered changing texture.
‘Dad!’ she cried. Her eyes widened and Rose’s whole body shuddered. She raised her arms, beating them as though trying to ward off the horror befalling her. ‘Help me!’
‘Look to Gimbal,’ shouted Matthew. ‘Look at him, he is a fool, he is harmless. Let your mind be filled with him. Calm yourself. You must. Hold on!’
Soul Flyer Page 19