The SoulNecklace Stories Page 7

  “Don’t whine,” she said. “We’ll bake it in the fire.”

  Even though the skin of the fish was charred and I burnt my fingers on its flesh, it tasted delicious.

  “Do you want some?” I asked her.

  “I’m not solid enough for food. But thank you for the offer.” She smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She shook her head. “Look at you – coal in your hair, greasy fingers, your hose are wet. Yet you look as though you’re having the best time in the world.”

  I smiled, my mouth so full that little bits of fish squeezed out between my teeth. “But I am. I’m on holiday.”

  We sat together, staring into the fire. The afternoon sun was warm on my face, so I moved into the shade of the tree and lay on my back, watching the red leaves dance against the clouds.

  “Sleep well, Dana,” I thought I heard her say. “And don’t worry, child. Right now, you are safe.”

  My eyes closed. The deep grass was soft and smelt of summer.

  * * *

  When I woke there was no sign of the flickering girl. The wood was in shadow. My mouth felt thick, as though I’d swallowed dirt. The grass was damp with dew and the light under the trees was turning evening gray. Small crackles and rustlings in the undergrowth suggested larger animals might soon be about. I was cold, so cold. Shivering, I rubbed my arms and shoulders. So did I have a fairy godmother or not? Had she been a dream?

  I set off in the direction of the Castle. Or, where I thought the Castle was. Foolishly, I’d not even thought of taking note of where I had come from. Now, in the late afternoon light, it seemed that all the paths through the bracken led in circles. No matter which muddy track I took, it always led back to the same clearing, the same beech tree.

  How could I have been so stupid? I should have put some of the white stones from the road into my pockets, so I could follow a neat white-pebbled trail back home, like they did in stories. I needed to hurry. It was nearly evensong; at evensong the bridge was drawn.

  The treetops were still sunlit. Their thick trunks looked like roads that climbed through the leaves, up to the sky. If only I could climb – I could get above the wretched forest. Then I’d be able to see the Castle and the road. I’d be able to see how to get home. All I needed was to get myself into that tree. But the lowest branches were too high for me to climb to. Maybe if I jumped? I put my hand on the rough bark. Could I pull myself up?

  Time twisted. The everyday world blurred. Leaping, I climbed. Higher, higher. Gray bark sped by, green leaves brushed my face. Empty air, wind in my hair. Dizzy, I closed my eyes. A crow cried, harsh and long. Like a squirrel, I sat at the top of the tree, looking out at the Castle on its craggy mound. Shakily, I stared at the green-branched world.

  And there, far below, a red-haired girl stood looking up at a gray-barked tree.

  I had two sets of eyes; my mind in the treetop, my body below.

  Two views, two perspectives.

  What was this? I felt sudden sickness and clung to the tree. Maybe I was still in a dream. Perhaps I’d not woken after all; perhaps I was still asleep. At least I knew where the road was. Keeping my real eyes closed, directing my feet from my mind-in-the-tree, I walked my body slowly toward the road.

  It felt like purposeful daydreaming. Or sleep walking. If my concentration wavered I flicked from one point of view to another. If my body could keep its thoughts quiet, my mind-in-the-tree did the directing, put my body on the right path. I stumbled through brambles and mud, but it didn’t hurt now, because my mind couldn’t feel it.

  How was this possible?

  I stumbled, falling into a ditch. It was dry, and smelt of wet leaves.

  Startled, I lost concentration. Thwack!! My mind-in-the-tree slammed into my ground-based body. I scrambled at leaves and splinters of stone, lost my bearings for a time as the world spun above me. Finally, though, everything rightened. Dazed, I scrambled out.

  Here is the mud, and here are my fingers and my toes, I told myself fiercely, and shook them, to remind myself of where they were.

  Behind me, someone coughed. I stopped my hand waving and tried to look normal. As normal as someone standing beside a road waving her hands and covered in coal dust could. I turned around. There was the open road, gray-white in the early evening light. High above, the Castle walls were turning the rose pink of sunset. And here, next to me, was a boy on a heavily laden donkey. The donkey just blinked, but the boy stared at me with a startled expression, as though trying to make out if I was mad, or merely eccentric.

  Then he smiled. There were two dimples on either side of his mouth, and his eyes were kind. “You heading to the Castle?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “Want a lift?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, gratefully. “Is there room for me?”

  “I can fit you on behind.”

  The beast sighed. His soft, grass-scented breath grazed my cheek.

  “Won’t I be too heavy?”

  “You don’t know donkeys, do you? He’ll be fine.”

  I clambered on awkwardly. I’d never be able to do this in a skirt. Pots and spoons hung from the saddle and swung with each stride. The donkey clanked mournfully as he plodded up the hill.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He smiled suddenly. “My name’s Will.”

  “And the donkey?”

  He laughed. “Mostly he’s just called “hey you”. Sometimes other words, too, but they’re a mite rude for repeating.”

  “How fast does he go?” I asked.

  “Donkeys never push themselves.”

  I liked riding; Mother had let me take lessons. But a donkey was different to a horse. Softer, wider, lower to the ground. Slower.

  I clung to the saddle-frame in front of me. “Do you have any water?”

  The boy uncorked a flask. “Here. You come far?”

  I shook my head. “You?”

  “Aways. The kitchens sent me to the Crossing. Cook wanted her pots mended.”

  “I thought you were a tinker.”

  “Tinkers don’t ride donkeys. They have horses, and live in caravans. They’re at the Crossing at the moment. Be a grand life, though, wouldn’t it? In a house on wheels, always on the move.” He twisted in the saddle, staring at me over his shoulder. “Where do you come from? I’ve not seen you before.”

  “I work in the laundry,” I said quickly. “I do the errands and such for the maids.” Hopefully he’d think I was a boy.

  “For someone who works in a laundry,” he said observantly, “you’re plenty grubby.”

  “It’s the collier’s delivery day.” I felt virtuous, for I was telling the truth. “He had an accident with his cart. I went back to help him.”

  “You’d think he could have gotten you home.”

  “You don’t know the collier. He’s got a mean temper. What do you do in the kitchens?”

  “I’m a ’prentice. I turn the spits and such. Bit like you. Run errands, wash the pots.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s all right, I guess. It’s better than living with my aunt.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s an evil cow, that’s why.” His voice was grim.

  What would it be like to be forced to do something one had no interest in, to do tasks that meant nothing? I had to do French verbs, true, but at least I had a family who cared. Not at all the same as turning spits and washing pots.

  “Why don’t you run away?”

  “Where would I go? Outside ain’t no better.” His voice lightened. “Won’t be forever, anyways. I’ve been taken into baking.”

  He sounded proud.

  “Is that good?”

  He stared at me, as if I should understand that baking was important. “Aye,” he said. “Of course. I start next month.”

  “Are your parents bakers, then?”

  “They were. They’re dead now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but he
didn’t reply.

  We bounced on the back of the donkey, the pots and spoons clanking in the cooling evening air. Beside me the forest opened up, showing an avenue of grass. The Great Ride, which led straight as an arrow to the river. Above, crows returning home to their nests in the tower cried harsh sounds of welcome. But there was a smell of coldness, of something in the wind.

  The air trembled, the forest leaves whispered. I looked behind me, down the road. In the east, clouds were growing.

  “There’s a storm coming,” I said.

  Will twisted in the saddle. “Looks like a big one,” he kicked the donkey with his heels. “Come on, you.”

  My face felt suddenly chill, as the wind shifted.

  “Come on, donkey,” I said.

  With a sigh, the animal heaved himself up onto the edge of the moat, where the road ran like a towpath beside it, until meeting the gatehouse a few hundred yards away, just beyond the curve of the road. Many years ago the moat had been ugly, full of stinks and rubbish, but Daddy’s grandfather, my great-grandfather, who had a thing for pipes and taps, had reorganized the plumbing and now the Castle was much more convenient and, Daddy said, cleaner.

  Running water. Pipes. Taps. Which meant baths, hot water. Soap. “Do you think we’ll reach the Castle before the storm?”

  “I can see the gatehouse,” said the boy, pointing.

  My hair lifted, gusting into my eyes as the wind picked up, blowing dust and debris from the road. I could smell rain.

  Chapter Nine

  Stormy Beginnings

  Couldn’t this wretched donkey go any faster? Maybe it heard me, for it picked up its heels. The wind gusted harder; the storm scent was strong. The donkey shivered, shaking its head as though a fly was trying to bite it.

  “Hey, now,” said Will, sliding down to walk beside the animal. He patted its neck.

  “What are you doing? We’re nearly there.”

  “Look at him. He’s trembling.” Will stroked the dusty mane. “He’s not normally like this.”

  Should I dismount as well? Will was right; the donkey was restless. The pots and pans clattered until I felt like a fairground monkey. So much for slipping in undetected.

  The wind came in a sudden rush, lifting the road dust, blowing my hair.

  The soldiers shouted. “Shut the gate!”

  Down from the gatehouse towers ran the sentries, fighting against the stormy air.

  “They’re lifting the bridge!” I shouted.

  “What? They can't! Evensong hasn’t rung.”

  The guards cried to each other in urgent voices of fear or battle. The donkey brayed, his call louder even than the wind, echoing from the stone, shuddering into the sky.

  I threw myself off the donkey’s back, slid to the road in a cloud of dust. Just in time. Ears back, eyes wide in panic, the animal lifted his front legs and brayed, almost drowning the clanging pots and shouting guards. At the gatehouse two of the guards dropped to their knees, spears at the ready. More guards, arrows at their bowstrings, stood behind them. What was this? Did they see the donkey as a threat?

  On the far side of the moat came a dreadful sound. Chains, clanking. The guards were turning the windlass! Slowly the black-pitched bridge lifted up, separating the gatehouse from the Castle.

  We stared disbelievingly at the unbridged moat, its water muddy-gray in the twilight. The wind was whipping waves on its surface. Clouds towered above us, the wind roared.

  “Come on,” said Will. “There’s shelter at the gatehouse.”

  Together, we pressed forward, the wind pushing us up the final curve of the hill. The donkey followed, clanking and braying. And then came the rain.

  Sheets of water that turned the road gray, sluicing mud into puddles. Our hair plastered to our heads; we were soaked in seconds. The guardsmen called above the wind’s roar. Squinting through the darkening evening, wiping rain from my face and hair from eyes, I felt a shock of fear. They were aiming at us!

  There was nowhere to run, no shelter here beside the moat. This was the killing ground.

  “They're not aiming at us. Look!” Will pointed.

  There was a shade, a darkness, hiding in the shadow of the gatehouse walls. It crouched, like a panther about to spring.

  The rain stung my face and I brushed strands of hair from my eyes. It was so hard to see. A black figure, silhouetted against the gray stone. Its cloak blew around it, blurring into the rain.

  “They’re trying to stop him,” said Will.

  “Why? Who is he?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  I staggered toward the gatehouse, the wind pushing me on. This had to be stopped. I needed to get warm and dry, and so did Will, and so did the donkey. Whoever it was could wait. I wanted the bridge down.

  The guards lifted their weapons.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Put that drawbridge back!”

  For a moment, the figure stood as the wind surged and roared and then, in an explosion of fury, flung both fists into the air, as though reaching into the clouds. Thunder roared, reverberating off the stone fortress. Male? Female? It was shorter than the guards. But powerful. The air tingled, the shadows shifted. The thunder seemed to pause.

  Then the figure lifted an arm. A wave of air pushed past us. The earth shook. Chains clattered, roaring even louder than the thunder as the windlass began to turn, faster and faster, until the bridge came loose, dropping into place with a splash.

  Almost negligently, the person in black waved his hand. The rain stopped, the wind stilled. The waves along the moat subsided. And the stranger stepped onto the bridge.

  From across the water, a clear voice called, “Let her pass. She’s a friend!”

  But the soldiers had their weapons ready and their faces were hard, suspicious. “Hold!” roared the Sergeant, “or I fire.”

  One word, one thought, was all it would take and the stranger would be dead on our bridge. And, I thought, we’ll never know what she’s here for. I remembered my father’s sleepy voice repeating his dream: “If we are to weather this, our doom.” I ran forward, toward the archers.

  We cannot slaughter a stranger.

  All this happened fast, yet I seemed to see it all so slowly, as if time itself had paused.

  I reached the gatehouse. The guards did not notice me. They were watching the person on the bridge, who had turned her back to stare up at the Castle.

  “Ready?” called the Sergeant. The men pulled back their bowstrings, held them taut. “Aim.”

  I stepped between the guards and the stranger. Held my palm up. “Stop!”

  “Fire!” called the Sergeant.

  My father, watching from the parapet, had a look of horror on his face.

  Too late.

  Time snapped back. My father called once, a fear-filled cry. And Will leapt toward me, bundled me out of the way of the arrow that sped, faster than thought, toward my heart.

  The stranger turned in surprise. Lifted a hand. As one, the arrows thudded into the ground. Their points jabbed into the soil, forming a fence across the base of the bridge.

  I lay underneath Will’s warm body, my face pressed into the earth, and felt only surprise. Turning my head, I saw my father gasping, then he doubled forward. Through the crenellations of the tower I could see his body shaking. He was being sick. Briefly I wondered why, but then my eye was caught by the slight, still figure in white that stood beside him.

  Gold glittered, shining bright at her neck, its radiance lighting the darkening clouds. She lifted pale arms.

  “Enough,” she breathed, so quietly that I doubted anyone but me could hear her.

  But all the guards stopped, frozen in their places, their weapons falling to the earth. The shadowed stranger smiled, raised a hand in reply, and the storm clouds scattered like a flock of birds.

  Will climbed to his feet, offered me a hand. Above us a star glittered: Venus, the star of evening.

  Part Two

  Chapter Ten
r />   No More Governesses

  The woman in white waved at me. Her voice sounded inside my head. “Well done! You found your way home.”

  It was the voice of the girl from the forest. Yet, this person was no girl. Even seen from a distance, she seemed old. Very old.

  Daddy, his personal guards trailing behind him, crossed the bridge at a run. “Dana! Dana!”

  He hugged me, crushing me to him so my cheek was scratched on his gold buttons.

  “Daddy, I’m all right. Really.” Embarrassed, I struggled out of his embrace.

  Will gasped, stared at me with bulging eyes. “You’re the Princess?” he whispered. He pulled the brown cap off his head and knelt on the dusty road. “Sire.”

  Daddy kept one arm around me, but with the other he pulled the boy up by his shoulder. “No kneeling, son. I’m in your debt.”

  I didn’t mind Daddy holding me. There’s nothing like your father’s arms to make you feel safe. “He saved me, Daddy.” It was a relief to be home.

  “I saw.” Daddy reached his hand out to Will, who took it. They shook hands seriously, man to man. Will was only a little shorter than my father, but so much slighter in frame that he seemed smaller. His brown hair was tousled and dirty from the road. Hesitantly, he shook Daddy’s hand. Finally, as if not quite believing where he was, or who he was with, he began to smile. He had a nice smile; his eyes crinkled and his cheeks dimpled. I grinned back at him.

  “I haven’t forgotten you, Missy,” said Daddy, and I stopped beaming. Letting go of my rescuer, he squeezed my shoulders and shook me, a quick shake. “Where have you been? We’ve been hunting all over for you. When we found your clothing we thought you’d been kidnapped.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, sulkily.

  “You’re filthy! No wonder this young man didn’t recognize you.” He looked at the boy again. Keep looking, I thought, hoping he’d stay distracted. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “William,” said the boy. “But people call me Will.”

  The Sergeant, a deep-voiced man with a barrel chest, bowed. “Sire. My most humble apologies.”