Snake Ropes (25 page)

falling

down

down

down.

I read of the underworld in the mythology book, but this underworld has no fire or dark pronged creatures. Here, the underworld is a tiny hole buried deep beneath the ground. And I’m stuck in it.

The underworld is made of compressed soil, and there’s no way out.

Drifting in and out …

IN

a hole the earth is thick and the sky is so far away I can’t breathe

OUT

of the world disappeared. Light. Sight. Gone.

IN

this place my lungs are insistent, demanding, persistent, my heart, a clock that will stop when the air is all gone and I’ll tick myself

OUT

of hope. Under soil, more soil. Below soil is rock, under rock, more rock, then gasses, through to a fire in the centre. It pulls me

IN

two directions, backwards is upwards, lost in memories, trapped. Wind them around myself, spiders’ silk and sleep

OUT

my years before now. This impossible now: no one in the world above knows I am below

IN

the earth beneath me, I plant my fingers like roots of a tree

OUT

down down down, this relentless pull of gravity.

I scratch cold, dank soil with my fingernails. How long will this sense of touch last, or like sight, will my senses fall away …

Sound.

Above me. A creak, a faint low groan. The sound of something growing. Is this movement in my mind … a trapped place for hope to grow in, before the gravity pulls too hard.

Smell of earth and something green … something growing, spreading … the Thrashing House has roots.

Roots split the soil above me. They could push through me, tangle me in them … so, is this what I have to do, dig further down, rather than up? How deep can I bury myself, when I’m not dead? The roots above me, solid and coiled, tendrils spin down from them, twist in my hands, light as fine hair, the soil falls away. Above me, the space that must lead back up, but
up
is too high, too dangerous, too steep. I walk the palms of my hands around the hole I’m in, search for a way out, some weakness in the soil. This tiny chamber, a pocket of air in a lung. Alveoli, deep underground, so the roots can breathe. The soil feels looser here. Someone’s already dug at this patch and the soil feels cold and damp in my hands. I make a small hole, push my hand into it. Air moves on my fingertips. This must be a way out.

Two choices. Stay buried. Dig.

I’m a blind mole, digging deeper, digging down … But between my fingertips, in my palm, on my wrist, my forearm, I can feel air. My hands are tunnelling and this hole is nearly wide enough. The smell of dank air, and a faint other smell: the sea, the salt air of the outside. Escape.

Shift this dirt … scrabble, move the earth … I push soil through and make the hole wider, deeper. I shift my feet, sit on the edge of the hole, nudge myself forwards, drop through it and

land

not far below. There’s enough room to stand. I’m in a tunnel of earth and roots. A way out. I move forwards in the direction that the air is coming in. My white hair lights up and gently glows, so I can see.

The sound of waves. I edge forwards, the tunnel is wider. I round a curve, and there are smashed rocks under my feet.

The tunnel has led into a cave. I move towards the direction of cold air. Salt air blows in, the sound resonates: the wind plays the cave like a discordant instrument. Rounding the next rock face, there is the mouth of the cave; the rocks are dark around the edges like enormous broken teeth. The mouth of the cave holds the whole outside world in its jaws.

The shore, the sea. Thick dark clouds in the distance over a tiny rocky island on the horizon. I slip and slide over jagged rocks. There are traces of some gleaming mineral on the rocks; here is a shore, the sea, the stars. I fall out of the cave, my body hits broken stones. I roll over, lie gazing upwards, flood air in and out of my lungs.

Swallowed back into the world, I laugh it in, cry it out, fill my mouth and eyes with sky.

Escape is possible, even from the darkest places.

I can choose to feel anything, do anything, walk away or stay. Get completely trapped, and still escape. I don’t want to run away any more. I want to find something to run towards. I pick up a sharp stone and carve a word into a rock:

HOME

The stairs creak on my way up to the ground floor. I’ve got the keys to all three doors from the basement in my bag.

I open the door at the top of the stairs. The kitchen door is open, it’s dark in there.

Morgan’s Da steps out of shadows. ‘This story you wrote—’

‘Dun spook me like that.’ I breathe, hard.

‘—how real is it?’

‘What she said. It thrashes out the truth. Now you know. I need to get out. You going to open the gate for me then?’

‘My wife has … misplaced the padlock key. She wishes the gate to remain locked.’

‘She’s skittering in madness, for all her clever drawings. What if Morgan wants—’

‘Now, how would you know the name of my daughter?’ Him folds hims arms.

I clench my hands.

‘So, where is she?’ Him leans towards me.

I knock back into the wall. The keys in my bag clunk. ‘She dun want you to find her.’

‘Was she all right?’

‘Well, I think she can take care of herself. If she hasn’t got enough food she’ll just
steal
some.’

‘When you saw her. Was she—’

‘She’s fine.’

Him smiles. ‘Good. That’s good.’

I say, ‘You’re not going after her then?’

‘No, but I’m certain she’ll be back. My wife is, however, less certain. She’s decided she wants you to stay, to do her bedspread and help—’

‘I’ve got to get gone. Tonight. So, you going to let me out then, or have I got to smash your fence up?’

Morgan’s Mam steps out of the kitchen. Them both take my arms, bluster me along the corridor, through a door and up the stairs. It all blurs, for thems hands grip too hard.

I’m pushed into the room with the small bed and folded bedspread.

The door is pushed shut behind me, a key clacks in the lock.

I bang on the door with my palms, shout, kick and screech but … I stop. I’m just fighting a locked door with no sound on the other side of it. I yell, ‘No wonder Morgan’s took off!’

I try to open the window but it’s been painted shut with thick lilac paint, and the panes are too small to get through even if I did smash them up and find some way down to the ground what isn’t falling.

Throwing my bag on the bed, I slump myself down beside it.

The bedspread lies there, folded, blank, waiting for my flowers. On a shelf are books. Morgan told me about these. All shapes and sizes. These have pages full of tiny neat words. I lick my thumb and rub at them. Them dun smudge.

Stories and stories and stories. I get some of them down off the shelf and put them on the bed. I sit down and look at the
pictures in them: a girl with a mirror, another of a wise old woman and one of a jug and a blue cornflower what’s crying. Maps, apples and plants. Girls in flouncy dresses, all crowns and red lips. Some pictures are crammed so full of colours, them look real. Not made of stitches at all, but of real things, squashed flat.

But them’re just some place to get lost in.

I listen at the door. Silent. I rattle the door handle. Listen. Nothing. I kick it hard, and behind me I hear a quiet, slow tune being hummed.

I spin round.

Shadow Mary sits on the bed, all dark and grey.

In shadows under her hair, her eyes gleam.

She sings a slow song I’ve never heard before:

‘Blank dark in you

a place you never cross to.’

I say, ‘Get back in the moppet.’

She keeps singing.

‘Stop it.’ I put my hands over my ears but I still hear her inside my head.

She sings, ‘You take the sun down, burn it out

bring night, right into me

but night frays

rips away

shadows rumple and tear …’

Stopping singing, she says, ‘When Barney were born—’

‘Dun you get in my head.’

‘Not just your head. My head. Your head’s full of blanks. I’ve got the rememberings.’

I put my hands over my ears. ‘No no no no no.’

She reaches under the bed and picks up a pair of small scissors.

I say, ‘Put them down.’

She grabs a clump of her hair. Opens the scissors.

‘No!’ I reach forwards but she cuts a clump of her hair off, just below her jaw.

‘You got any rememberings of this, then?’ she whispers, her voice hollow.

‘Stop it. Please.’ The tears in my eyes blur her up till she’s not there any more.

I sit on the bed. A picture of Mam and Da leaps up and sticks in my thoughts. This picture isn’t my memory, but I’m in it. It’s come loose from Shadow Mary.

In my bedroom at home, Mam stands by the door, holding Barney, when him were just new. Me, three years younger, sat on my bed, Da sitting next to me, cutting my hair. Cutting it off, short, to my jaw. Stepping back, saying, ‘She’ll be wanting to be outside again soon enough. Like you said, we dun want anyone—’

Mam says, ‘Dun, Ned. I’ll do it. Said I would. Mary, it’s for the best, you know that. Only us what knows, and only us what will. If you dun look nice, no man’ll try anything you dun want them to. You know that.’

Da says, ‘Kelmar’ll talk.’

Mam says, ‘She’ll not.’ She holds Barney close to her, her tears fall on hims head. Mam rocks him, says, ‘It’s best this way, Ned. I’ve got more of the tincture from Valmarie. I’ll keep on giving it her.’

I watch myself, sitting on the bed in my bedroom. Not speaking. Looking just like Shadow Mary.

Da steps back, nods at her hair. ‘Well, I’d best finish. Can’t leave it half-done.’ Steps up to her, cuts the rest of it. Him steps back again. ‘It’ll grow.’

‘And be cut again,’ Mam says, her face sad.

Mam and Da are stood by the door with thems new baby.

Shadow Mary sits on the bed in her pale blue bed dress, staring out of the window.

Them are frozen in a picture.

This picture makes my legs shake. I pull the moppet out of my bag. Whisper in its raggedy ear, ‘Mary dun make up rememberings.’

Barney’s voice says, ‘Mary, it’s too dark. Cradle me …’ and the sound of him stings me right across the chest, as waves wash through the shell and carry hims voice away.

I bury the moppet in my bag and my hand touches one of the basement keys. I stare at it while I cry away the sound of Barney’s voice. I think of Grandmam. Her arms around me, my eyes closed, feeling her soft shawl on my cheek.

I started thieving keys not long after Grandmam came to live with us, for she’d told me she liked thieving bits of broken plates. She had a locked-up box under her bed, and she kept her growing collection in there. My hands had wanted metal, so the first thing I stole were the key to her box. She thought it were a good game, but made me give that one back to her. When I did, she told me about thieving. This is what she said:

When you’re a thief and you believe what you’re doing is right, you can get away with it, without anything bad happening by way of consequence. If all you ever thieve is keys, and you believe that keys are belonging things for you and you alone; no trouble will come your way. You remember what I’ve told you about believing you are right in whatever you do. Watch out for the call of the Thrashing House
.

Others seek out guilt like spiders darting after a tangled-up
fly. So watch you never let yourself feel guilt about what you’re thieving. Guilt gets tangled, and that will be that. You’ll get blamed for sure, and the tangles will tie you in knots – you’ll believe you’re guilty, so you’ll be punished. And all you needed to do from the start were – to believe you were not
.

So, if you’re a thief of keys, believe that the keys belong to you and only you. You’re only taking back what’s already yours. And if it’s already yours, you’re not doing wrong and have no room for guilt
.

Keys unlock things, so if that’s the thing you’ve chosen to thieve, know there’s something in you what calls out to be unlocked. Whatever folk choose to thieve, it is something to do with what is missing in them. So if you meet a thief who steals everything them comes across, and them are indiscriminate with thems thieving, it means them believe them have nothing of worth in themselves. If you meet a thief who only steals tokens of love – rings and posies and jewels – it is because them needs to be loved, and has either not enough, or too much, love to bear. Think careful about what it is you thieve, because that will tell you what is important to you, and that is the truth of all thievery
.

Thinking of Grandmam’s voice reminds me that I’ve got good memories what’ve been stitched so firm them can push away anything from Shadow Mary. Grandmam said:

We live on an island of thieves, Mary. No one else will tell you that, but that is the truth of this place. So, watch what is precious to you, keep it close by and thieve only what belongs to you
.

Me and Grandmam talked, then I rested my head on her shoulder and picked at the threads in her shawl.

‘Keys unlock things.’

‘Them do that, Mary.’

‘I want to keep them so I can unlock things with them.’

‘What kind of things, pet?’

‘Doors. Hidden things.’

‘What’s to be unlocked in you? Think on that, pet. Might make sense when you’re older. But you got to believe in what you thieve. If keys are what you want, mind you think loud an’ clear them all belong to you.’

‘No guilt, Grandmam?’

‘No guilt, pet.’

She showed me all her bits of broken plates. We spread them out all over the floor, some were painted with flowers and some were blue, green or white. Mam got back from her walk and looked at them all as well. We decided Grandmam liked thieving broken bits because she’d spent so many of her years fixing and mending things. Mam made the three of us valerian tea and told Grandmam not to break her cup.

I asked Mam what
she
liked to thieve. She said she dun ever remember thieving anything, apart from the last spoonful of honey in each jar. Grandmam said that meant that Mam wanted some sweetness just for herself, but it had to be a sweetness what dun last too long, so it’d be special each time. Mam said she thought Grandmam might be right.

I look through the keyhole. Morgan’s Mam and Da have left the key in the lock on the other side. Well, that were careless. I take the basement keys out of my bag. Lie them all on the floor. The longest key should do it.

I find the book with the biggest pages. The first page has a
picture of a great black shaggy dog what’s drooling blood. ‘Sorry Morgan, I know this is yours,’ I whisper, ‘but you thieved the Thrashing House key from me, so this makes us even.’ I tear out the picture of the dog, and another page, and another.

I push the torn-out pages under the door and shove the longest of the keys into the lock. It bashes against the key what’s in there, pushes it out, it clanks on the floor. I lie down and pull on the first piece of paper, but it comes through empty. I use both my hands and slide the other two pieces towards me and feel a bump as the key hits the bottom of the door. I slide the paper along, towards the hinged side, where there’s a bigger gap. The key passes through, on the picture of the dog. I grasp it in my hand and unlock the bedroom door.

I step outside into the night and close the front door behind me. The moon is a grey glow, trapped in a cloud. The clouds scrumple up to the north, thickening. This fence is too tall to climb over. The earth is thick with grass roots so I can’t dig under it. I look round the garden for a stone to smash the padlock. No stones. No rocks. Nothing sharp or heavy. Someone’s already thought of this.

My hands are swollen with cold. At the gate, I pick at the thick iron padlock with a broiderie needle. The workings inside of it click twice. The needle sticks on the next one. I ease the needle to the left, down, up, right. Can’t find the next clack. The metal of the padlock hums in my hand.

Behind me, the windows of the house stare at my back. My shoulder feels frozen, sharp, from holding the needle so tight and firm. The padlock sends a pulse through my fingers.

‘Go on, tell me,’ I whisper. I can feel the touch of Morgan’s
Mam in the padlock, feel that she comes and goes through this gate. Often. But the metal sends a sharp zing through my fingers. It dun want me to know.

There’s a bitter smell caught in the cold still air. A smell of metal. Like blood. I move the needle, listen close for the next click in the padlock, and the next one. Just a couple more clacks will unlock it. I listen, my hands numb, white. My hand feels like a fat moon, my fingers grip the needle like it’s going to pull down the stars.

Right up, left down, click. Further in.

This smell of metal in the still air.

Blue eyes opposite me, between the slats in the gate.

A round face hangs there, pale in the dark. Her black coat locks away the rest of her body in shadows. I let go of the needle and lose all the clicks.

I gasp out, ‘I dun have the Thrashing House key!’

Kelmar says, ‘I know.’

I step back from the gate. ‘Murderer.’

She whispers, ‘You could only be here. I’ve looked everywhere else.’

I’m here face to face with her, the gate between us, but I’m somewhere else, locked in a room, ice all around me. Somewhere inside me, not yet in my mouth, a scream is storming up … only my hand reaches out, wants to touch hers. I pull it down.