The Sweet Far Thing (85 page)

There is something odd about the horse. It’s as if I can see its bones glowing beneath its skin. It pulls forward, and I can see the faint outline of its rider. A man in a billowing cape with a hood. He turns toward me and I gasp. I cannot see his face, only his mouth, and the hint of jagged teeth there. He points a bony finger at me.

“The sacrifice…”

The horse rears high, its hooves dangerously near my head, and I scream for all I am worth.

Mrs. Nightwing’s shout pierces the night. “To the chapel! Go! Go!”

The tracker howls in rage as Nightwing throws the lantern at them. The candle is snuffed out, and the sudden darkness is confusing.

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“Gemma!” On my wrist I feel Felicity’s hand, strong and sure, pulling me forward. Mrs. Nightwing cannot keep pace. She begs us to go without her, but we refuse to leave her behind. Felicity and I take her arms and pull her along as best we can. It is a quarter mile to the chapel. A quarter mile with no place to hide. The fog has come up. It would be easy to lose our way.

The riders seem to come from nowhere. They thunder after us, darting through the trees on horses not of this world. Ann screams as the hooves of one of the beasts nearly trample her. Cut off, we dart to the left, but they have thought of that too.

Screeching comes from above. I look up to see the gargoyles descending. The riders shriek and cover their faces. One of the gargoyles falls, trampled by the rider. I recognize the majestic gargoyle who saved me from Ithal.

“This is our battle. Run!” He points to a break in the fog and the path to the chapel. We waste no time.

Felicity, Ann, and I push through the chapel doors, and everyone stumbles in after us. Mrs. Nightwing sinks into the back pew, gasping for breath.

“Close—close the doors,” I stammer.

The chapel darkens, and I hear the bolt click into position.

Miss McCleethy rushes to Nightwing’s side. “Lillian, are you all right?”

“The girls,” Mrs. Nightwing says, struggling to her feet. “Is everyone safe?”

Cecily approaches us. “Mrs. Nightwing, what is happening?” Her eyes are large and her voice trembles.

“Let’s not fall to pieces,” Mrs. Nightwing manages to say, but there is none of her usual stolidity. “Come on. See to the younger girls.” Dutifully, Cecily does as she is told. Anything to ignore the growing panic that all is not as it seems. That she is right to be afraid. That she will never feel safe again.

The screams and the shrieks cut through the panes of the windows. I do not know what is happening outside, who is winning.

Miss McCleethy sits beside Nightwing in the pew, her head in her hands. “How could this have happened?”

“I told you before—Eugenia has become part of the Tree of All Souls. Part of the Winterlands,” I say.

Miss McCleethy shakes her head.

“I thought I was going mad,” I say.

“They will fight. They will come more and more,” Mother Elena mumbles. “There is no protection now.”

“My girls,” Mrs. Nightwing murmurs. “I must protect my girls.”

“There must be some hope,” Ann says.

Felicity looks to me, begging me to say something that will make it better, end it.

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Outside, the screeches of the trackers blend with the growls of the gargoyles—the death cries of one or both, it is hard to tell. The girls hold on to one another. Some cry; some rock. They are petrified.

“We have to cut it down. We have to go to the Winterlands,” I say.

Kartik steps away from the door. “You can’t go into the realms with every creature hunting for you.”

“She’s no safer here,” Nightwing says. “It must be stopped.”

“I’ll do it,” I say. “But I’m going to need help. The door is across the lawn, through the woods. And somehow, we’ve got to make it there.”

Felicity whirls around. “You really
are
mad! We can’t possibly get through that way!”

“We cannot simply wait!”

“Perhaps the gargoyles will protect us,” Ann says.

Kartik stands beside me. “I will go with you.”

Miss McCleethy is on her feet. “The Order banished the Rakshana from the realms. You cannot take them in!”

“I already have,” I say, nodding at Kartik.

McCleethy shakes her head in disbelief. “Extraordinary. Is there anything you’ve managed not to make a mess of, Miss Doyle? That is strictly forbidden by our rules—”

“Don’t you understand? There are no rules anymore! I shall do as I bloody well see fit!” I hiss. My words reverberate in the chapel, drawing shocked gasps from the other girls.

“I should point out that I am no longer a member of the Rakshana,” Kartik adds. “And Miss Doyle can, in fact, do as she bloody well sees fit.”

Felicity takes my hand. “I’m in as well.”

“And me,” Ann says, taking my other hand.

“I’ll accompany you on behalf of the Order,” Miss McCleethy says.

“Right, well, I’m not waitin’ around,” Fowlson says.

“Someone must stay and protect Lillian and the girls,” Miss McCleethy chides.

Mrs. Nightwing stands firm, adjusting her skirt. She glances at the girls huddled together. “I shall hold fast here. Mother Elena will make the mark on the doors when you leave, and then we shall not open them again until morning.”

“You’ve got a bit of protection should you need it,” I say.

Mrs. Nightwing follows my glance toward the stained-glass windows, where the warrior clutches the
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gorgon’s head.

“The windows?” Cecily screeches, overhearing.

“You’ll see,” I answer.

Cecily cowers on the floor, holding fast to Martha and Elizabeth. “We’ll see what? I don’t want to see anything more!” Tears stream down her face, mixing with the mucus that runs from her nose, unchecked.

“This is all your fault, Gemma Doyle. If we survive, nothing will ever be the same again,” she chokes out.

“I know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” she wails.

“I know that, too.”

Another shriek pierces the night, rattling the windows and sending the girls squawking like frightened geese. The battle between the gargoyles and the riders is fierce.

Mrs. Nightwing rises unsteadily to her feet. Her hymnal shakes in her hands. “Come, girls, take up your hymnals. We shall sing,” she commands.

“Oh, Mrs. Nightwing,” Elizabeth cries. “How can we sing?”

“They’ll eat us alive!” Martha joins in.

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts above the din. “We are perfectly safe in here. We are English, and I expect you to behave as such. No more crying. Let us sing.”

Mrs. Nightwing’s deep voice booms out, the notes tremulous. More hideous screams echo in the woods, so she sings more loudly. Brigid joins in, and soon, the girls do as they are told, their terrified voices a temporary wedge against the horror outside.

Kartik’s expression is grim. “Are you ready?”

I nod, swallowing hard. Felicity, Ann, Fowlson, and Miss McCleethy fall in behind me. A band of six to face an army. I can’t think of it or my courage will surely fail me.

Kartik opens the door a crack and we slip as quietly as possible into the night. Mother Elena bids Kartik hold out his hand. She pricks his finger.

“Mark the door from the outside,” she advises. “I shall mark it from the inside. Do not fail.”

The chapel doors close behind us, and Kartik scrapes his finger over the door. I hope it will hold. The gray-white fog is thick; it bleaches the woods of color. We’ve not brought a lantern for fear the creatures will see our light, so we navigate by memory. The shrieks of the riders and the fierce howls of the gargoyles locked in battle float through the fog so that we cannot tell where they are—near or far, behind or ahead. For all we know, we are walking into the fray.

We clear the woods safely, but there is still the lawn to cross. My heart thumps fast and hard. Fear brings a clarity I’ve never felt before; every muscle is a spring pushed down, ready to release. Kartik
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holds up a finger and cocks his head, listening.

“This way,” he whispers.

Quickly, we follow him, trying not to lose each other in the dense fog. The howling screams grow closer.

To my right, I see a flash of a stone wing, a glimpse of a skeletal arm. A gargoyle swoops over my head and into the fight, startling me as he descends. I turn my head only for an instant but it is enough. I have lost the others. Panic takes hold. Do I run left or right or straight ahead?
Go, Gemma. Move quickly.
I rush into the fog, pushing against it with frantic hands as if I can clear it away. I hear small choked noises—bitten-off sobs—and I realize they are my own, but I’m helpless to stop them.

A gargoyle is locked in fierce battle with one of the ghastly riders. The gargoyle takes the advantage, and the rider sinks to his knees. That gruesome skeletal face, with its red-black eyes, makes me gasp. The gargoyle turns to see me, and in that second, the Winterlands creature takes his chance. With one swift, cruel move, he slices through the gargoyle’s belly with his razor-sharp claws. The gargoyle staggers toward me, bloodying my cape.

“To the Winterlands,” he gasps. “Take down the Tree of All Souls. It is the only way.”

The great stone beast falls at my feet. The rider opens his mouth and screams, piercing the night with a call to arms.

I run blindly ahead. I am so drunk on fear I do not hear my own cries, my calls to the others to run. I am beyond reason.

“Gemma! Gemma!” It’s Felicity’s voice.

“Felicity!” I call back.

“Gemma, here!”

A hand takes shape in the fog and I grab for its warmth. Felicity embraces me. We pull each other along. We reach the turret first. Fowlson, McCleethy, Ann, and Kartik follow soon after.

“This is it,” I gasp. “The secret door.”

“Get on with it,” McCleethy pants.

I reach out my hand, and then I see the crow. Its caw is like a shriek from hell. A warning. A battle cry.

Within seconds, there are a dozen of the terrible birds. They transform before my terrified eyes, shifting into the mummers who visited us. But that is only a disguise. I know who they are: Poppy Warriors.

The tall one removes his hat and bows low, and when he rises, I see the dark rings around his eyes. The inked poppies running up his arms.

“Hello, poppet. Such a nice evening for our sacrifice.”

The other birds shimmer off their shiny black wings and become those gruesome knights, and I shudder to think of the broken cathedral they call home. The wicked games they like to play with their victims.

“Going somewhere, hmmmm?” the tall one asks, grinning like a death mask. His grimy fingernails are as
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long as talons.

“I—I—” I stammer.

Kartik has got his dagger in his hand, but it won’t be enough against these fellows.

“’Kin ’ell,” Fowlson gasps. “Wot pit of ’ell did ’e crawl out of?”

Miss McCleethy puts herself between me and the Poppy Warrior. Her arms wrap round me like a mother’s, but this only makes the filthy creatures cackle.

“Won’t work, m’lady,” the one with three teeth growls.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” a Poppy Warrior shouts like an impresario. “Tonight, we’ve a most impressive show for your pleasure! The story of a maiden sacrificed to a nobler cause: to ensure the freedom of the Winterlands and bestow all power to its inhabitants. To open forever the borders between worlds. Is there no one who will save this fair maiden?” His grin turns feral. “No. I think not tonight. For the script has been written, and she must play her proper part.”

“Run!” I shout.

As quickly as I can, I dash for the school with the others in pursuit. The Poppy Warriors give chase, rising into crows behind us. We fall through the kitchen door, with its fading blood mark, and collapse on the floor, breathing hard.

“Are we all here? Gemma, are you hurt?” Kartik says.

“What the ’ell were those things?” Fowlson asks.

“Poppy Warriors,” I say. “You do not want to play with them, Mr. Fowlson, I assure you.”

“They…they know. They’re coming after us,” Ann says.

“How will we reach the door now?” Felicity wails.

The light of the kitchen is weak but I can see the fear in Miss McCleethy’s eyes. A crow’s wings beat against the window. It signals our whereabouts to the others.

“We can’t stay here,” I say. “If we make it to the turret, we might be able to sneak back that way.”

On the other side of the door, the long hall is dark and threatening. Anything could be hiding at the end of it. Anything. Kartik draws his dagger. Miss McCleethy leads the way, with Kartik and Fowlson just behind. Felicity and Ann, holding fast to each other’s hands, follow a pace behind. I am the last, turning every few steps to keep an eye on the dark behind me.

We travel the length of the hall without incident. But to reach the stairs, we shall have to pass the great room, with its newly freed inhabitants. One door remains closed, but the other is open. I don’t know how we can avoid being seen. We flatten ourselves against the wall and listen.

Kartik nods toward the stairs. Miss McCleethy moves stealthily toward them with the rest of us following. Keeping low, we make our ascent. Through the bars of the banisters I see the creatures
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making a mess of the great hall. The floor is littered with the glass from the lamps, the stuffing from pillows, pages ripped from books. They tear the scarves from Felicity’s tent, ripping them to shreds. It is terrible to see. But there is no time to mourn. We must reach the safety of the realms, though it is not truly safety, only a temporary reprieve.