Half Wild (2 page)

I’m back in Switzerland, high in a remote valley—not the one where Mercury’s cottage is but close to there, half a day’s hike away.

I’ve been here a few weeks now and I’ve gone back to Mercury’s valley a couple of times. The first time I retraced my steps, looking for the stream where I lost the Fairborn, the magic knife I stole from the Hunters. That Rose stole. I found the stream easily enough, and it wasn’t too hard to spot blood and some yellow stains on the ground. No Fairborn, though. I trailed up and down the stream, and all around that stained central spot: peering into bushes, looking under stones. It was getting ridiculous—I mean, looking under stones! I had to stop myself after two days’ searching. I’d started questioning if I’d ever really had the Fairborn at all; if an animal could have run off with it; if it had magically disappeared. It was getting to me. I’ve not been back to look for it since.

I’m waiting here now, in this other valley, at the cave. That was what we agreed, me and Gabriel, so that’s what I’m doing: waiting for Gabriel. He brought me here one day and hid his tin of letters in the cave—they’re the love letters between his parents, his one possession. The tin is in my rucksack now. And I’m here. And I tell myself that at least we have a plan. Which is a good thing.

It’s not much of a plan, though: “If things go wrong wait at the cave.”

And things have gone wrong—big-time.

I didn’t think we’d ever need the plan. I never thought things would go this wrong without me actually being dead. But I’m alive. I’m seventeen, a fully fledged, received-three-gifts witch. But I’m not sure who else is alive. Rose . . . Rose
is
dead . . . I’m certain of that; shot by Hunters. Annalise is in a death-like sleep, a prisoner of Mercury, and I know that she shouldn’t be left in that state for long or the death-like will become just plain death. And Gabriel is missing, still, weeks after we stole the Fairborn—four weeks and four days. If he was alive he’d be here and if the Hunters have caught Gabriel they’ll torture him and—

But that’s one of the things I don’t allow myself to think about. That’s one of my rules while I wait: don’t think about negative stuff; stick to the positive. The trouble is all there is for me to do is sit here, wait, and think. So every day I make myself go through all my positive thoughts and I tell myself each time that when I’ve been through them Gabriel will return. And I have to tell myself that’s still possible. He could still make it. I just have to keep positive.

OK, so positive thoughts, one more time . . .

First off, noticing stuff around me. There’s positive stuff everywhere and I notice the same positive stuff every positive bloody day.

The
trees
. Trees are positive things. Most are tall and fairly straight and thick, but a few are fallen and moss-covered. Most trees here have needles, not leaves, and the greens range from almost black to lime, depending on sunlight and age of needle. I know the trees here so well that I can close my eyes and see each one but I try not to close my eyes too much—it’s easier to stay positive with your eyes open.

From trees, I move to the
sky
, which is positive too, usually bright blue during the day and light black at night. I like the sky that color. Sometimes there are
clouds
and from what I can see of them they are big and white, not often gray, not bringing rain. They mainly move to the east. There’s no wind here: it never gets down to the forest floor.

What’s next? Oh yes,
birds
. Birds are positive and greedy and noisy—always chattering or eating. Some eat seeds and some eat insects. There are crows flying high above the forest but they don’t come in, not down to my level anyway. They’re black. Sharp black. Like they’ve been cut out with scissors from a piece of black paper. I look out for an eagle but I’ve never seen one here, and I wonder about my father and if he really did disguise himself as one and follow me and that seems so long ago—

Stop!

Thinking about my father does not belong here. I have to be careful when I’m thinking about him. I have to be strict with myself. It’s too easy to go negative otherwise.

So . . . back to the things around me. Where am I up to? I’ve done trees, sky, clouds, birds. Oh yes, we have
silences
 . . . plenty of them. Huge silences. The silences at night could fill the Pacific Ocean. Silences, I love. There’s no buzzing here, no electrical interference. Nothing. My head is clear. I think I should be able to hear the river at the bottom of the valley but I can’t; the trees blot out the sound.

So that’s silences covered and then there are
movements
. Things that have moved so far: small deer, I’ve seen a few of them; they’re quiet and brown and sort of delicate and a bit nervous. Rabbits too, which are gray-brown, silent. And there are voles, gray-brown, and marmots, which are gray and quiet. Then there are spiders, black and silent; flies, black, silent until they’re close, then incredibly, hilariously noisy; one lost butterfly, cornflower blue, silent; falling pinecones, brown, not silent but making a gentle word as they land on the forest floor—“
thu
”; falling pine needles, brown, as noisy as snow.

So that’s positive: butterflies and trees and stuff.

I notice me too. I’m in my old
boots
. Heavy soles, flexible cos they’re so worn. The brown leather is scuffed and water gets in the right one through the ripped seam. My
jeans
are baggy, comfy, worn to threads, ripped at the left knee, frayed at the hems, blue once, gray now, stained by soil, some green streaks from climbing trees.
Belt
: thick black leather, brass buckle. It’s a good belt.
T-shirt
: white once, gray now, a hole at the right side, little holes on the sleeve like some
fleas
have nibbled at it. I don’t have fleas, I don’t think. I’m not itchy. I’m a bit
dirty
. But I wash some days, always if I wake up with blood on me. My clothes don’t have blood on them, which is something. I always wake up naked if I’ve—

Get back to thinking about clothes!

Where was I up to? T-shirt. And over my T-shirt is my
shirt
, which is warm and thick, wool—the plaid pattern still visible in green, black, and brown. There are three black buttons left on it.
Hole
on right side.
Rip
in left sleeve. I don’t have
pants
or
socks
. I had socks once; don’t know what happened to them. And I had
gloves
. My
scarf
is in my
rucksack
, I think. I haven’t looked in there for ages. I should do that. That’s something to do. I think my gloves are in there, maybe.

So now what?

More about me.

My
hands
are a mess. A real mess. They’re tanned, lined, rough; the
scars
on my right wrist are hideous, like melted skin; my
nails
are black and bitten to nothing, and there are the
tattoos
as well. Three tattoos on my right little finger and the large tattoo on the back of my left hand.
B 0.5
. A Half Code tattoo. Just so everyone knows what I am: half Black Witch. And in case they miss these tattoos there’s the one on my ankle and the one on my neck (my
personal favorite
).

But these are more than tattoos, more than brands: they’re some form of magic too. If the Hunters get me, if Mr. Wallend gets me, they’ll cut off my finger and put it in a witch’s bottle and then I’ll be in their power. They could use it to torture me or to kill me at any time by burning the bottle. That’s what I think they’d do. The tattoos are their way of having control over me. They’d use it to try to force me to kill my father.

Except I won’t ever kill my father. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, because my father is still the most powerful Black Witch I’ve ever heard of and I’m nothing compared to him. I mean, I can fight OK and I can run OK but that’s not ever going to be enough against Marcus.

Shit! I’m thinking about him again.

I should go back to thinking about my body.

Sometimes my body does strange things. It changes. I need to think about that more. I need to try to work out how it changes, why it changes, and what the fuck it changes into.

I don’t ever remember it but I know it happens because I wake up naked and a little less hungry. Though sometimes I’m sick, vomiting up the night’s meal, then retching again and again. I don’t know if it’s cos my body can’t take what I’ve eaten. I eat small animals mainly, though I don’t remember catching them. But I know it’s happening cos there’re little bones in my vomit and rags of furry skin and blood. There was a tail once. A rat’s tail, I think. I know I change into some kind of animal. It’s the only explanation. I have the same Gift as my father. But I don’t remember any of it: not transforming, not being an animal, not transforming back. Nothing until I wake up after it all. I always sleep so I guess I must be exhausted by it.

I got a small deer last night. Woke up next to its half-eaten body. Haven’t puked that up. I think my stomach’s getting used to it. I’ve been hungry, dead hungry, but now I’m not. So I guess that goes to show you can get used to anything, even raw meat. Still, I could murder a proper meal. A burger, chips, stew, mash, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding. Human stuff. A pie. Custard!

Careful!

Best not to think about what I can’t have: that’s the route downhill. Must be careful with my thoughts. Mustn’t drift into the negative. And I’ve been good at staying positive today, so I can reward myself by thinking about other people, even
my father
, but I have to be extra careful with thoughts about him.

I met him. I met Marcus. He didn’t kill me, which I never really thought he would, but given his reputation it could have gone either way.

I went through most of my childhood believing Marcus didn’t care for me but it turns out he was thinking of me all the time, just as I was thinking of him. And he always planned to help me. He searched me out. Then he stopped time for me, which I’m guessing isn’t a simple thing to do, even for him. He performed my Giving ceremony: let me drink his blood and gave me three gifts. And the gold ring he gave me, his ring, is on my finger, and I rotate it and hold it to my lips and feel its heaviness and taste the metal. The bullet my father took out of me, the magical Hunter bullet, is in my pocket. I sometimes feel that too, though I’m not sure I even like having it as it’s a Hunter thing. And the third gift he gave me, my life, is still with me. I don’t know if that really counts as I’ve never heard of any gift not being a physical thing before but he’s Marcus and I guess he knows what he’s doing.

I’m alive because of my father. I have my Gift because of my father, and that Gift is the same as his. Most witches struggle to find their Gift, maybe taking a year or more to work out what it is, but I didn’t even have to look for mine. It found me. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Best to think of something else . . .

My family
is a positive thing to think about. I don’t often go negative when I’m doing family. I still miss Arran but nowhere near as bad as when I was Celia’s prisoner. Those first weeks in my cage I missed my brother so much. But that was years ago . . . two years ago, I think. The Council took me just before my fifteenth birthday, just before Arran’s Giving. Yes, it’s over two years since then but I know he’s OK and Deborah too. Ellen, my Half Blood friend, contacted Arran, showed him a picture of me, and I saw a video of him, heard his message to me. But I know that they’re better off without me. I can never see them again but it’s OK because they know that I’m alive, I’ve escaped, and I’m free. Being positive is what I do and that is a positive thing because the longer I’m away from them the better it is for the people I care about.

Sometimes I sit in the cave entrance, maybe lie down and sleep there for a bit, but I’m not sleeping too well and generally I feel more comfortable waiting up here in my tree where I have a good view. The mountainside is steep here; no one’s going to come strolling by on a whim. But you never know. And Hunters are good at hunting. I try not to think about Hunters too much, although pretending they don’t exist isn’t sensible. So, anyway, I sit up in my tree and when it’s dark, like now, I allow myself to remember the old days, before I was taken by the Council, before Celia, before they kept me in my cage.

My favorite memory is of me and Arran playing in the wood near Gran’s house. I was hiding in a tree and when Arran finally spotted me he climbed up to join me, but I went further and further out on a thin limb. He begged me to stop so I moved back to sit with him, much like I am now, me leaning back on him, our legs astride the branch. And I’d give so much to sit with him like that again, to feel the warmth of his body supporting mine. To tell that he’s smiling from the movement of his chest, to feel his breath, his arm round me.