Snake Ropes (17 page)

Halfway up a hill, I look across the island. Directions. Expanse, distance, danger? My head and body feel so light I could float off up into the sky, but I plant my bare feet in the cold wet grass, step around thistles and rocks, watch for brambles. I imagine I’m a farmer who tills the fields and feels the earth pulsing beneath the grass. I can smell the salt air that blows in from the sea. In the night sky clouds pile like floating islands. I could be a fisherwoman with a cloudboat that drifts me from one cloudisland to another. My eyes are used to the dark, and there is a vastness of hills, a horizon of ocean in the distance. I can pick out the shapes of walls and stiles, small cottages, a hill crowded with gravestones. Where my father must go when he buries the dead. I don’t think he ever told me the collective noun for gravestones. Perhaps now he never will. I want to turn back, write him a note to say goodbye.

A woman wearing a long coat tied at the waist walks along the thick hedge at the bottom of the graveyard. I duck down behind a bramble bush and watch her. Something twists inside my stomach and tells me not to speak to this woman, in her dark coat and white boots. My mother’s voice saying,
All the people here are mad
… flits through my mind.

I get a little nearer to the woman and crouch behind a small laburnum tree with coiled branches. The trees are stunted, some grow with their branches stretched to one side, as if the wind has taught them to lean away from coldness.

The woman has stopped – she’s listening to something in the graveyard behind the hedge. If she was in one of my storybooks, what would she be listening to? What can she hear in a graveyard? Do the dead bodies lie there at night, their coffins risen up, like blanketed beds, handing around hot milk and honey, telling each other filthy limericks?

The woman turns towards me. I crouch lower. I think she can see me, but she turns back to the hedge.

Someone else is in the graveyard, further up the hill. A woman with long dark hair and a pale face. She stands next to a grave, leaning on a spade. I shudder. She’s going to dig up one of the coffins my mother made and my father buried, with its gruesome contents. Dig up someone she was in love with … kiss their dead blue lips.

My throat catches, an acid taste.

The woman with the white boots hasn’t seen her.

Further along the hedge, a man who looks like a tall shadow walks out of the graveyard.

Everything holds its breath.

I’ve crawled up out of the hollow and I’m surrounded by graves. Names of dead women and thems still living children carved in beneath. Children’s names under thems Mam’s. The whole family is dead with the Mam gone.

If I die now, the deadtaker will carve through my name beneath Mam’s. I will have a headstone of my own with just my name on it. Just like the men. Them have a headstone what speaks only of them. No belonging people. Dun know how long Barney will be missing before the deadtaker scores out hims name from Mam’s headstone. Or if him needs a body first. The deadtaker carves in the names, scores out the names, carves in the names. When him buried Mam, him wore black gloves with a small tear across the thumb. Hims skin underneath shone pale from the touch of death.

Something moves in the dark.

A young woman with long coils of fair hair. She sits down behind a headstone. I dun recognise her. She leans her head back, like she’s considering what to do. She’s dressed in a light-coloured dress with a smocked bodice and wide skirt. Must be freezing. She could be from the cottages at Wreckers Shore. Them keep to themselves.

An owl hoots near me.

I gasp out.

The woman hears it too, looks over and crawls towards me. I pull my coat around me but can’t do it up. I reach for my bag, only my arm shoots a jab of pain.

She crawls towards me, drops my bag in my lap and sits down next to me. She looks younger from close up. Not as young as me, but a whole lot cleaner.

‘What happened to you?’ Her voice sounds like the talk of the tall men.

‘Nothing happened.’ I clasp my bag to my chest.

‘Yes, it did,’ she says. ‘I saw a shadow man leaving here – a prince? Did he kiss you – was it a
poison
kiss?’

‘Him dun kiss me.’

‘Have you been kidnapped? Did
he
kidnap you, or was it one of those women – are they witches? What did they do to your leg?’ She leans towards the ugly gash where I cut it. She looks like she wants to touch it, her face full of hunger, like a child picking a scab.

‘You ask a lot of questions, dun you. Weren’t any women here. Just me. Can you see my knife?’

She runs her fingers over the grass, crawls all around me, ogles it close. Gets distracted by some insect she’s found.

‘It’s gone then. Leave it.’ I’m trying to get the blanket out of my bag but my fingers dun grip. She drags the bag to her and rummages, pulls out the blanket and asks, ‘Are you a murderer? Is that why you had a knife?’

‘Look. If I were a murderer, what’d I be doing in a graveyard, when everyone here’s already dead?’

She pulls the Thrashing House key out of my bag. ‘What does this unlock?’ She holds it up, gazes at it.

‘Put it back.’ I reach out my hand.

Her shoulders slump, she puts the key in my bag and wraps the blanket around me. I reach down to untie the bag strap still tight around my leg. I can’t undo the knot.

She watches me, her hands in her lap.

‘All right. Can you help please?’ I mutter.

She swoops down on my leg, unties the strap, her hands clean and soft. She asks where I live and I tell her.

‘A
cottage,’
she sighs. ‘Perfect. I’ll help you get there, if you show me the way.’

‘You
know
the way. Traders Bay. Where the tall men—’ The trapped scream sends spikes into my throat.

She says, ‘I’m Morgan.’

‘Mary,’ I gasp out.

‘Pretty name.’ She smiles and holds out her hands.

‘Dun want anyone to touch me.’

She drops her hands down. ‘Well, you won’t get far without someone to hang on to.’ She stands up.

I stare at her toes. ‘How come you’re out with bare feet?’

‘I don’t have any shoes.’ Her dress smells so clean I dun want to dirty it. She’s stronger than she looks as she lifts me to my feet. Pain shoots down my bitten leg. She holds me stood up and helps me sling my bag over my shoulder. I feel like I’m going to crumple down. The sky keels and shifts.

I step on my good leg and lean on her. It’s hard to talk and walk at the same time. I ask, ‘How come … you never been to … Traders Bay? Dun your belonging people trade?’

‘Belonging people?’

‘Family.’

‘My Dad’s the undertaker.’

I stop. ‘The
deadtaker
?’ My voice is shrill.

‘You call him that?’

‘Has
him
sent you for me?’

‘Of course not. You’re not dead.’ She sways, catches my weight and nearly tips over.

Outside the graveyard we can see the Thrashing House, and she asks me about it. I tell her how it can be seen from just about any place on this island – look uphill and it’s right there. She never heard its name before and I tell her no one can get out what’s been put in … and I dun tell her that’s not true. Langward got out.

I say, ‘Look, walking hurts, distract me … tell me why you dun have any boots.’

She tells me she’s never had boots since she’s lived here, because she’s never been allowed outside of her home. She tells me she has twinned sisters and them dun have any boots either. She tells me she lives with them and her Mam and Dad but that she wants to get to the main land because that’s where she thinks her home really is, not here where she’s lived all these years. She tells me about her books, pages tied at the sides with stories written down. That she likes insects and gets upset if them’re hurt.

I feel like that makes her someone I could trust.

She tells me she needs somewhere to hide because she’s just left her family. And she asks about mine.

I say, ‘Da’s an old worn boot. Mam’s deaded. My little brother what I love the most has been took and I can’t get him back. So them’re gone.’

She stops walking, I sag against her. Her eyes shine with tears.
‘All
gone? Just you left?’

My voice is stuck. I almost cry because the night sky is so big above us, but there’s something so sad in the deep shade of blue.

I say, ‘I’ve got no other belonging people. Them were it.’

‘Your brother …’

‘The two women you said you saw—’

‘Where has he been
took
to? Have you looked carefully at animals? He could have been transformed – into a mouse, or a rat, or a bat, even a small cow?’

I say, ‘Him hasn’t. What did the women look like?’

‘Like they didn’t want to be seen.’

‘Red, or dark hair, like mine?’ I pull at my hair and my finger catches in a knot.

‘One woman’s hair was black, her skin was pale. The other’s hair not as dark but nearly, like yours. Bigger than you, though. Much bigger. About Mum’s age.’

‘A strong girth?’

‘Yes. Not unlike a baby giant.’

‘Stop talking nonsense.’

‘Sorry.’ She nods. ‘You said your Dad was …’

‘I can’t go home.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve thieved something I shouldn’t have. I’ll end up in the Thrashing House.’ I stare at the grass.

‘That building you said no one goes in or comes out?’

‘No one comes out what goes in!’

‘Oh,’ she whispers.

Morgan holds me up as we stumble up the hill towards the Thrashing House. Her arm feels strong, but she’s struggling with me leaning so hard. Her family dun trade. So the tall men will never have been to her house.

Stood still for a moment, red pain in my legs, I can’t speak.

She stands still and patient.

‘Morgan.’ I’m breathing too hard. ‘I’ve got a … thought.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Can I get … into your folks’ house? You’d be safe enough … to hide at my cottage. Your Mam and Da won’t find you at mine. We could … just … trade homes.’

She shakes her head. ‘My family will see me. I can’t go back.’

‘Look, I’ll get put in the Thrashing House.’

She stares up at it like she’s not sure it’s something to be scared of.

So I lie to her.

I say, ‘My little brother’s been locked in the Thrashing House. I’m next.’ My face burns, for she’s so clean and good, she smells of soap and her dress is much nicer than mine, and here I’m lying to her, to get her to do something she dun want to.

She frowns. ‘We should get him out. I don’t mind if it’s dangerous. In fact, it might be—’

‘You
would
mind,’ I growl. ‘You’d mind if you’d lost someone you loved.’

Her face is pale. She says, quiet, ‘This is
real
, isn’t it?’

‘Of
course
it’s real.’ My voice cracks. ‘If them lock me in there too, I won’t come out again. If I make you a promise when I need to trade with you this bad, I’m going to keep it, or you can wallop me yourself if them find you because of me. Course I know you’re not going to trust
me
yet, but I’ve got to trust
you
as well.’

She smiles a little, but not like she means it. She stares at the grass. ‘That building looks so grand from a distance. But sometimes it looks like a ruin. I thought it would be beautiful on the inside. A ballroom, an orchestra playing or the banquet hall of a great castle … But it isn’t, is it?’

‘No one knows.’ I swallow, hard.

‘So it
could
still be beautiful.’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘Why would they lock you in there?’

‘I’ve got the key for it – the one in my bag. I thieved it.’

‘You can get locked up here, just for stealing a key?’

‘That
key. Aye.’

‘I could be your nursemaid. We could both hide in your cottage till you’re better, till the boats come and I can get away. Then I’ll go, and you can hide somewhere else?’

I lean hard against her to keep me from crumpling and speak sharp as I tell her that everyone knows I live there and that it’s fine enough for her, but when she’s gone, there’s nowhere else I can go. I tell her she’s not thinking right, and ask if her mam’s a kind woman.

She says she dun think her Mam would take me in. She glances at my shin and says, ‘Even your skin is torn. And your dress …’

The sky is lighter and the grass blows in circles in the wind.

I tell her I’ll show her where my cottage is. I can’t walk and talk. I say, ‘Think hard. I need somewhere safe. So do you.’

We’re at the top of the cliffs at the path what leads down to the beach. Stars are scattered all the way down to the horizon. The fishing boats are tied up to the cleat posts and in the dark them look like open coffin boxes.

Morgan props me up, frowning. Keeps glancing behind us at the Thrashing House. It’s silent, no creaks, no groans. She’s thinking so loud I can almost hear her.

I say, ‘What if I just lay down outside your pink fence. Stuck my leg out … so your Mam can see I’m hurt.’ My throat is hoarse. ‘She’d have to do something then.’

‘I
dun
know what she’d do.’

‘Dun copy me! Talk proper. Dun sound right from your mouth.’

‘I still
don’t
think she’d take you in. She dun trust anyone.’

‘Keep your own voice. Look, you can see my cottage from
here. At the edge of the row, nearest the beach.’ I point down the cliff. My cottage looks rickety and worn, but solid. It’s like nothing has happened.

Only my legs shake and my belly aches, deep inside of it.

She says, ‘Are you all right?’

I stare at the empty sea and tell her where I’ve put the cottage latchkey. I tell her about the tall men, tell her to get herself hid in one of thems boats, for that’s the only way she’ll get to the main land.

Morgan turns to face me. I never seen a face so clear, like she’s never seen anything she dun want to. Her face is like an empty piece of linen what’s yet to be stitched on. No wonder she’s copying the way I talk. Trying to make herself a picture of something, but on her it dun fit.

She says, ‘I’ll get you close enough so you can crawl to the fence, lie down and stay still. Mum walks around the inside of the fence each dawn to check no one is lurking outside.’

‘Who does she—’

Her eyes shine. ‘No one ever is. This time,
you
will be.’

There’s a girl on the top of a hill in the distance spinning around in her white bed dress. We stop, the girl keeps the spin going slow then quick. A stocky man climbs up the hill to her, can’t see him clear, for hims clothes are dark. Him puts hims arms around her and bundles her away over the hill.

I whisper to Morgan, ‘Them should be asleep.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Could be Fiona, she lives on one of the farms near there, so the man’s likely to be her Da, but it’s too dark to see. Could be she’s getting tangled from not sleeping.’

‘What do you mean, tangled?’

‘Just from not dreaming, not getting rid.’

‘Of what?’

‘Her dreamings. If you dun sleep you do get … Dun matter, you’ll understand if you stop sleeping a while. Sends you a bit, you know … Crazed.’

We stop at a well. I lean on the cold stone ledge, breathing hard.

Morgan looks down into it and says, ‘There’s a well in our garden. I used to think I could climb down and find my way into a tunnel to get out.’

‘You never did climb down?’

‘Just once, when I was small.’

I stare into the well. ‘Wouldn’t want to get stuck down there.’

‘It felt as if I was being pulled down even further. Gravity.’