Darkwood (5 page)

Annie had never seen so many trees so close together, or so many different kinds. Some she recognized: tall pines, like men with sloped shoulders, strong-armed oaks, fancy-dress maples. Others she had never seen even in books, twisted trees with black trunks and long mossy beards, trees with gray bark and scarlet leaves, yellowish trees with wood so soft her finger left a dent.

She unfastened her cloak and pushed it back over her shoulders. Most of the morning's chill had faded, which
meant she had about six hours of daylight left. Enough time to get to town, surely, if only she knew what direction to take.

“Izzy?”

But Isadore was busy tidying the fur between his toes.

“Prue?”

Prue eyed a nuthatch and pretended not to hear.

She walked a few yards in one direction, but when she turned around and could no longer see the oak tree she felt afraid and retraced her steps. She tried another direction, but the cats did not follow so she hurried back. Fear squeezed her ribs. Every minute she remained here was another minute lost to the darkness.

A hawk screamed overhead, no more than a black dash against the blue sky. Hawks loved to hunt the cutting fields at the forest edge, full as they were of little dazed creatures knocked from their nests. She would follow the hawk.

She ate whatever she could find. Most of the plants in the forest were unfamiliar to her, but the bracka bushes she recognized. They grew everywhere in Dour County, in thick hedgerows along the roadways and in straggly clumps along the cliffs that overlooked the river. In summer, Annie filled milk pails with their fat purple berries. These berries were the last of the season, too small and hard for the birds to pick off the branches, and so sour they made her jaws ache.
At least I'm not eating porridge, or
—she watched Prue bat an insect to the ground and pounce on it—
or that
.

The trees had started to shed their leaves and blue sky showed patchily through the branches. Just ahead a stream ran through a small clearing. Annie knelt to drink. A face stared back at her with wild eyes and a ragged halo of hair. Quickly, she broke the surface of the water.

Annie sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth.

“Prue, aren't you thirsty—”

Prudence was standing several yards away, her body strangely stiff. The cat arched her back, flattened her ears against her head, and hissed. Isadore had seen it too, whatever it was, and darted upstream to crouch behind a stand of reeds. Annie scrambled after him.

Prudence had disappeared. In her place stood a kinderstalk.

It was twice the size of a sheepdog, but rangier, with long legs and a compact body. Rusty black fur grew shaggy around its neck and shoulders. The head was large in proportion to the body, with a narrow muzzle and close-set gold-colored eyes. Those eyes scanned the clearing, pausing—or had she imagined it?—at the stand of reeds before moving on.

The creature yipped twice. A second kinderstalk appeared, and then two more. Soon kinderstalk were appearing as if out of the air, and they all made their way to the same place. They sniffed the ground and snuffled and whined, but except for the first, not one turned toward her. She didn't dare move, scarcely dared breathe.

Then something truly strange happened. A man walked into the clearing, carrying a musket and a bulging burlap sack.
He had a round, pale face and round, pale eyes that protruded slightly. But his mouth—it was like something drawn by a young child, a red line reaching almost ear to ear. The flesh around the lips bulged, as though the man held something in his mouth he could not swallow. Annie's heart hammered against her ribs. This was the man who had come to her uncle's last night. This was the man the king had named—had touched with his own gloved hand—to run the western mines. This was Frank Gibbet.

Gibbet dropped the sack to the ground. The first kinderstalk, larger than the others, stalked over to him and rose up on its hind legs. Annie closed her eyes, afraid to see what must surely follow. Nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, the beast was still balanced uncannily on its hind legs. Gibbet remained where he was, his musket now resting casually against one leg, the barrel pointing into the earth. The kinderstalk began to make a garbled noise, something between a bark and a whine. As Annie watched wide-eyed, Gibbet made a similar noise back. The kinderstalk dropped down on all fours and Gibbet reached into his bag. He pulled out a dead rabbit and flung it toward the circle of kinderstalk. It hit the dirt and one of them lunged forward and then backed away, snarling, before turning to run into the woods with the rabbit dangling from its mouth.

Gibbet pulled rabbit after rabbit from his sack. The kinderstalk snapped them out of the air and, one by one, disappeared into the wood. Finally there was just Gibbet and the large kinderstalk left, and one dead rabbit.

“A token of my esteem,” Gibbet said in his own language,
and tossed the rabbit on the ground. The creature lowered its head and with great delicacy took the rabbit between its teeth. Just as carefully it laid the rabbit at Gibbet's feet and walked slowly from the clearing.

Gibbet stared after the kinderstalk for a long time. Then he picked up his empty sack and his gun and went away in the same direction he had come.

Annie crept from her hiding place. She could not shake the chill that had gone through her when she saw Gibbet and the kinderstalk standing together. Watching Gibbet's face she had felt a spasm of fear, but not for herself. She had been afraid for the kinderstalk.

As she walked, Annie noticed signs that Gibbet had come this way before: a leaf pressed into the earth by the heel of a boot, new growth snapped off the ends of branches. The trail wound upward for a bit, then ended abruptly at the top of a steep drop. An oak tree clung to the hillside, half of its roots exposed where the soil had washed away. Gibbet's footprints overlapped at the base of the tree, carried on to the edge of the wash where they overlapped again, and finally headed down the hill to the open field below.

Annie had been so intent on trailing Gibbet it took her a moment to realize where she was. The cutting fields spread below her like a brown lake. Stumps of every size stuck out of the bare ground. At the northern end of the fields whole trees lay on their sides, leaves softening into mulch. To the west, where the road from Gorgetown abutted the field, stacks of chopped firewood sat waiting to be hauled away.

She had been here twice before, once with a pail of fish sandwiches her uncle had forgotten to take for lunch and another time exploring with Gregor. They hadn't wanted to come back.

No one cut alone. The men worked in pairs or groups, taking turns cutting and keeping guard. Uncle Jock had been her father's partner.

Page had told her the story a hundred times but Annie was never satisfied.

“Again?” Page would ask in mock exasperation. “Very well. Come here.”

It was autumn, two years after their mother died. Their father and Uncle Jock had been cutting long hours all week. Uncle Jock wanted to cut extra wood and drive east to sell it. Father said no, no more than the family needs for winter. They were fighting when they left that morning. Aunt Prim hadn't expected them back until near dark, but Uncle Jock returned alone only a few hours later. He barred the door behind him and leaned his whole weight against it.

“Prim. Primmy. They took Shar.”

“Took him! In broad daylight?”

“Only a moment I stepped away, only a moment. And there it was, and his clothes on the ground in tatters.”

“Are you hurt, Jock? Should I fetch Grandmother Hoop?”

He held his big hands in front of his face. They were shaking. “It never touched me.”

Annie wondered what it had been like to die here. Was he terrified? Was it painful? Gregor once told her the kinderstalk ate
you a piece at a time, starting with your feet. She thought of Uncle Jock. Had he reached the house in time?

And then, improbably, there he was, jogging across the field. Annie ducked behind the precarious oak. A second man appeared, walking swiftly from the opposite direction. Both men carried rifles. They reached each other and spoke briefly, heads bent. Uncle Jock pointed to the hill. The other man shrugged and they turned and walked toward her. They stopped near the base of the wash. Uncle Jock had been holding the other man's elbow, and now the man shook off his hand impatiently.

“You said you have a message for him?”

This was far and away the most hideous man Annie had ever seen. His skin was gray and thick and full of holes, like poured wax, with little round black eyes stuck into it. A puffy white scar parted his hair, as though someone had tried to split his head open with an ax.

“This.” Uncle Jock produced a purse and pressed it into the man's hand. “We sold our cow for it this morning. It's all I've got.”

The scarred man cocked his head to the side. “What happened to the child?”

“She's dead.”

“Dead? This one too?”

“Look, how long do they last? A year? Two?” He jabbed a finger at the purse. “That should cover her take for the first few months. I can get more. I just need time.”

The man tossed the purse lightly from hand to hand. “He won't like it.”

Uncle Jock licked his lips. “I know he wanted her alive. I know. But he can be reasonable, yes? He understands about accidents. He understood before.”

“I was there before,” the scarred man said. Then his eyes narrowed. “What happened to your face?”

Uncle Jock raised his hand to the scratches on his cheek. The cut over his eye looked puffy and discolored.

“A branch, maybe, while I was cutting. It's nothing. So are we square, then? Am I square with him?”

“How did she die?” asked the scarred man.

“Kinderstalk. How else? We had a fight, she ran outside after dark. There's the end of it.”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn't there something you've forgotten?” The scarred man put out his hand. He wiggled his fingers.

Uncle Jock blanched. “It's gone.”

“Where?” the scarred man asked sharply.

“The girl. The girl stole it.”

“That stone was your pledge, Jock. You've gone and lost your pledge.”

“I didn't ask for any pledge.”

“He'll be sorry to hear that.”

“No, don't tell him,” Uncle Jock said quickly. He was wiping his hands over and over on his pant legs. “Are we square?”

The scarred man shrugged. He turned to go. “There is one thing, for next time.”

“What? What is it?”

“You know he likes proof.”

“Proof?”

“A finger might be anyone's. Better to take an eye.”

Annie watched them leave, the scarred man brisk, Uncle Jock slouching off like a beaten dog. Izzy had come to stand beside her. He flicked his tail.

“I know,” Annie whispered. “Part of me wished they'd caught him too.”

If I catch you in my store one more time, I'll feed you to the kinderstalk myself. Just see if I won't.”