The walk from the open cellar door, back past Quill’s cottage, and into the circular grove was as slow and silent as a dream.
Nicholas lifted his eyes to look at the sky. The rain had all but finished, and clouds were easing apart like rotten lace in a stiff wind; behind them, stars blinked cold, faint light. Ahead, a round wall of trees glistened and their wet leaves whispered to one another with sly drip-drips. There were two dozen or so trees in a circle twenty metres wide.
As Quill walked between two trees, she touched fondly the trunk nearest. She didn’t look back at him.
Nicholas knew what was happening. Hannah was gone. Quill needed a miracle. To summon one, she had to have blood. She would use his.
A figure slid through him, and his eyes widened with surprise, but his body allowed no other shock. Miriam Gerlic screamed without sound, wrists bound together behind her, legs kicking at air as she was carried by unseen hands between the trees. As she slipped out of sight, her ghost eyes fell on Nicholas. . then were obscured by sable branches.
Nicholas let out his own silent scream as his body carried him into the circle.
The ground underfoot was wet, sandy dirt, raked clean. In the centre of the unnatural grove was a pedestal of stilted legs a metre high holding aloft a spherical cage made of woven branches and bone.
Quill hobbled to stand beside the cage. Within it was a shifting cloud of moving shadows. As Nicholas grew closer, he understood: inside the cage, five or six children half-knelt, half-hung, their ghostly skins melding with one another’s. Each was suspended by the wrists, which were lashed to the curved branch bars above them. A half-dozen children. A half-dozen ghosts. Their faces were an overlapping blur. But as each bobbed or struggled, he or she would drift apart from the others and Nicholas could see their singular terror. Little Owen Liddy in his long shorts, his face pale with disbelieving fright. The girl in the forties’ sundress, her bare feet torn and bleeding. Another boy, younger than the others and with red hair, had his eyes screwed tight above wet cheeks. Miriam Gerlic’s eyes were impossibly wide and without hope. Dylan Thomas, head bowed and bawling. And Tristram Boye.
Nicholas felt the rhythm of his breathing break, and he sucked in cool air.
He knew that Tristram had died here in the woods, but to see him, his friend, his hero, at the edge of his pitiful murder filled Nicholas with such an awful sadness that he wanted simply to fall to the ground. Tristram’s jaw was tight, one wrist crooked at a strange angle. Broken. Nicholas’s tongue flicked the roof of his mouth as he tried to form his name — Tris. . — but no noise came out.
The dead children struggled: Miriam screamed; Dylan sobbed; Owen Liddy nodded like a savant. Suddenly, the red-haired boy’s head jerked upwards. His face grew brighter, and his throat opened up as if an invisible zipper dragged wide. The little boy’s eyes flashed open and went dull. His small body spasmed and stiffened. . then he vanished.
Nicholas felt sick.
‘Hurry, hurry,’ whispered Quill, gesturing to Nicholas and glancing to the sky. She climbed the short stick ladder that rose to the sphere behind the ghostly children. Feet on the highest rung, she unlatched a hatch made of the same grisly bone and twisted wood, and swung it wide before scuttling down to the ground.
Nicholas saw her for what she was. A spider. A spider herself: bloated and old and thirsty, scuttling to do dark work at the centre of her ancient web of dark trees. .
‘Up,’ she whispered. ‘In.’
A wind was born, and it tickled the ring of trees, setting them awhisper like excited spectators at a night coliseum. Nicholas’s hands grasped bone and branch, and his feet climbed the makeshift ladder. The dead children squirmed in desperate terror before him. God, no, he thought. Don’t make me go in there. . But his legs stepped into the hatchway, and his body slid in after, slipping him into the ghosts of the stunned, wailing, weeping, lost children.
Cold, he thought. This is how death feels.
‘Kneel,’ she said.
He knelt. He was aware of the pain as the hard wood dug into his kneecaps, but could not so much as flinch against it.
‘Reach.’
His hands rose willingly; where the dead children strained against invisible bonds, his agreeable hands grasped the cold stick and bone lightly. As he took hold, the hair of the girl in the forties’ sundress stood on end and her neck jerked long. She tried to twist her head from side to side, knowing she was going to die and fighting. Her skin grew suddenly silvery and pale, as if a spectral spotlight were turned on it, and the skin of her neck opened up, revealing darker, wet flesh in the deep cut. Her small body arched, then slowly slackened. . and she vanished.
‘Wait,’ said Quill. She was behind him, out of sight, a lurking presence.
Nicholas was larger than the ghosts of the children. His arms were longer. Where they half-crouched, he squatted on his heels and so sat behind the four-folded children and could see the backs of their entwined heads. Their faces interwove and became as hard to discern as ripples in a stream’s crosscurrent.
He willed himself to scream and fight and flee. . but he sat immobile as a monk. He heard Quill’s careful footsteps on the ladder behind him. She sniffed back mucus.
Then Miriam’s hair grew brighter and the skin of her arms glowed. Nicholas realised what this ghostly light was: the echo of moonlight from several nights ago. Suddenly, her hair jerked straight, wrenched upward by an invisible hand. Her eyes threw wide. Nicholas saw the edge of her throat split open in a new, deep wound, severed by a keen, invisible blade. Her tiny body strained in a last animal panic; her muscles wrenched tight. . then she swooned. The hair fell down like a final curtain. Her body sagged, then winked out, leaving the ghosts of three boys struggling in front of him.
Oh God, thought Nicholas. Like a slaughtered lamb, simple as that.
‘Why so hard? Why so hard?’ Quill’s voice was ragged, broken by a tight throat. ‘All these years, and what?’ She was talking to herself as she settled on the ladder behind him.
Nicholas watched ghostly moonlight fall on Owen Liddy. The child’s hair was gathered in an invisible hand, wrenched up, and his throat eased apart like a hidden mouth opening. He jolted a few moments, then sagged low and was gone, leaving two ghost boys. Nicholas’s heart pumped peacefully in his chest, a lie to the horror.
The moon. The moon came out just before she cut their throats.
He rolled his eyes upwards, but could not see the moon. Move! he commanded his head. Back!
‘You brought him and now you take him,’ muttered Quill accusingly. Her voice was wet and bitter. ‘What choice?’
Nicholas saw the hair of one of the boys grow bright. Dylan Thomas’s. His scalp and skin glowed silver as the forgotten light of a ghost moon fell on him. A moment later, his short hair twisted cruelly upward, yanking his head high and his neck straight. Then the skin of his neck slid apart in a neat cut, deep, exposing arteries and tendons.
Only he and Tristram were left.
But now Nicholas knew. She’ll cut my throat when the moon comes out. I have to see the moon! He closed his eyes and strained his head back. Move! His mind became a sharpening funnel. Every ounce of strength, every bit of anger, every breath he wanted to take before he died, was concentrated into a single thought: Move!
His head tilted back a degree.
‘Not fair,’ hissed Quill. She was crying. ‘Not fair.’
Again! Move!
His head tilted back another tiny arc.
Tristram was turning. Someone was behind him. His lips moved, grim. Shaking with fear, but not crying. Not grovelling. Brave. Oh, Tris. .
The ladder creaked behind Nicholas and he heard the tick of the knife touching old bone.
Back! His head tilted another degree. Tristram’s skin grew bright as moonlight touched it. Nicholas could not watch his friend die; he rolled his eyes high to the sky.
The clouds overhead were grey waves, breaking. A glow indicated the moon at the edge of the moving cloud. It would be out in a moment.
His eyes rolled down just as Tristram’s white throat opened. Nicholas’s heart skipped from its metronome beat. You fucking bitch. Tristram stiffened and fell.
‘Nicholas,’ whispered Quill.
Tristram was gone. He was alone.
Moonlight opened from behind the racing cloud, touching the distant trees and turning them silver, sprinting closer, closer, closer.
‘Goodbye, pretty man.’
The moonlight kissed his skin. His heart thudded hard as a storm, the blood building inside him like a swollen dam, ready to burst.
Somewhere in the dark, a curlew sounded like a girl’s scream.
Nicholas felt a gnarled hand grab his hair, and the corner of his eye caught the wink of shining steel. His head jerked up.
BACK! he yelled at every muscle in his body. He let the dam inside him break, and threw himself backwards.
It wasn’t dramatic, just a lurch.
The cage rocked back a fraction. Quill had a poor grip on his wet hair and it slipped through her bony fingers. The knife blade nicked his chin, and he heard a creak behind him as Quill went off balance.
‘Oh,’ she said simply.
He heard her fingers fly through the air, clutching for something to grab. And, suddenly, a thrill rippled through his body, as if a wave of warm water struck him inside. He moved his fingers. She’s distracted, he thought wildly. She’s let me slip. He told his hands to let go — they released their grip on bone and wood.
‘No. .’ hissed Quill. ‘No!’
Back! Nicholas threw himself backwards and this time he slammed against the side of the cage. It rocked violently on its low tower.
Quill scrambled to grab the cage. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered against wood and bone. The cage teetered. . Quill finally grabbed hold with her free hand, but her extra weight on the side of the sphere was too much. . the cage groaned, the low tower leaned, and the cage began to fall.
‘NO!’ she screamed.
The cage toppled, carrying Nicholas within and Quill beneath it, and hit the ground with a loud and sickly splintering crash.