Фрэнсис Хардинг - A Skinful of Shadows

She drew nearer, feeling mud squelch under her shoes with every step. The thing was dark brown, large and mound-like, and jewelled with the quick green-and-black bodies of flies.

A man in a wool coat?

No .

The shape grew clearer. At last Makepeace could see what it was, and what it was not. For a moment she felt relieved.

Then she felt an awful wave of sadness, stronger than her fear or revulsion, stronger even than the smell. She slithered down to crouch beside it, and used her handkerchief to cover her mouth. Then she very gently stroked her hand over the sodden dark shape.

There was no sign of life. In the mud nearby were gouge-marks, from its weak attempts to drag itself out of the ditch. There were bleeding, yellow-edged sores that looked as if they had been left by chains and shackles. She could hardly bear to look at the torn mouth, the seeping gash and trickle of dark blood.

Now she knew that she did still have a soul. And it was on fire.

Makepeace was muddy and briar-torn by the time she reached the backyard of the Angel, but she did not care. A small, wooden stool was the first thing that came to hand. She scooped it up, too angry to feel its weight.

The two travelling entertainers were murmuring fiercely in a corner, and paid Makepeace no mind. Or at least, they paid her no mind until she swung her stool and hit the tallest in the face.

‘Gah! You crazy little wretch!’ He stared at her in disbelief, clutching his bloody mouth.

Makepeace did not answer, but hit him again, this time in the gut.

‘Leave off! Have you gone mad?’ The shorter entertainer grabbed at Makepeace’s stool. She kicked him hard in the kneecap.

‘You left it to die!’ she yelled. ‘You beat it, and tortured it, and dragged it about by a chain until its mouth tore! And then when it couldn’t stand any more, you threw it down in that ditch!’

‘What’s come over you?’ The landlady was beside Makepeace now, a strong arm around her, trying to restrain her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘THE BEAR!’ bellowed Makepeace.

‘A bear?’ Mistress Bell looked at the strangers in bafflement. ‘Oh! Mercy. Did your dancing bear die, then?’

‘Yes, and how we’ll make a living now, I don’t know!’ snapped the shorter man. ‘This place is cursed — nothing but bad luck, invisible devils, crazy girls—’

The taller man spat bloodily into his hand. ‘That little trull knocked my tooth out!’ he exclaimed incredulously, and gave Makepeace a murderous glare.

‘You didn’t even wait for it to die before you ripped the ring out of its muzzle!’ screamed Makepeace. Her head was singing. Any moment now, one of these men would take a swing at her, but she did not care. ‘No wonder it came back! No wonder it’s raging! I hope you never escape it! I hope it kills you both!’

Both men were shouting, and the landlady was trying to calm everybody down at the top of her voice. But Makepeace could hear nothing over the green-black buzz of anger in her brain.

Makepeace tugged hard at the stool, and the short man yanked back. She yielded to the motion, guiding the stool upwards so that it smacked into his nose. He gave a squawk of pure rage, and let go of the stool, lunging for an oaken walking stick that rested against his pack. The landlady sprinted away, screaming for help, and Makepeace found herself facing two men with bleeding faces and fury in their eyes.

Their wrath was nothing, however, compared to that of the Bear as it charged out of the marshlands.

Makepeace was looking the right way to see it, or almost see it. The Bear was a dark, smoky pucker in the world, four-legged and hump-backed, larger than it had been in life. It galloped towards the trio with frightful speed. Translucent holes marked its eyes and its gaping maw.

The impact knocked Makepeace off her feet. She lay on the ground stunned. The darkness that was the Bear towered over her. It took her a moment to realize that she was staring up at its great, shadowy back. It stood between her and her enemies, as if she were its cub.

Through its murky outline, she could still see her two foes, stepping forward, one raising his stick to strike at her. They could not see the Bear. They could not guess why the downward strike fell awry, batted to one side by the swipe of a great, shadowy paw.

Only Makepeace could see it. Only she could see how the Bear’s rage was burning it away, how it spent itself in every motion. It bled wisps as it roared its silent roar. Its flanks seemed to steam.

It was losing itself, and it did not even know it.

Makepeace pulled herself up on to her knees, dizzy with the bear-reek and the song of its rage in her blood. Reflexively she put out both her arms, encircling the raging shadow. All she wanted in that moment was to stop the wisps escaping, to hold the Bear together and stop it melting into nothing.

Her arms closed on darkness, and she fell into it.

‘She’s been this way for days now,’ said Aunt’s voice.

Makepeace did not know where she was, or why. Her head throbbed, and was too heavy to lift. Something was trapping her limbs. The world around her was phantom-vague, and voices seemed to float to her from a great distance.

‘We cannot go on like this!’ said the Uncle-voice. ‘Half the time she’s lying there like one dead, and the other half of the time . . . Well, you’ve seen her! Grief’s turned her wits. We need to think of our children! They’re not safe with her here.’

It was the first time Makepeace had heard him sound frightened.

‘What will folk think of us if we cast out our own blood?’ asked Aunt. ‘She’s our cross to bear!’

‘We’re not her only kin,’ said Uncle.

There was a pause, then Aunt gave a great huff of a sigh. Makepeace felt Aunt’s warm, worn hands gently grip her face.

‘Makepeace, child, are you listening? Your father — what’s his name? Margaret never told us, but surely you know, don’t you?’

Makepeace shook her head.

‘Grizehayes,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Lives . . . at Grizehayes.’

‘I knew it,’ whispered the Aunt-voice, sounding awed but triumphant. ‘That Sir Peter! I knew it!’

‘Will he do anything for her?’ asked Uncle.

‘He won’t, but his family will if they don’t want their name dragged through the dirt!’ said Aunt firmly. ‘It wouldn’t look good to have someone with their fancy bloodline put in Bedlam, would it? I’ll tell them that’s where she’s bound if they do nothing.’

But the words were just sounds again, and Makepeace sank into a dark place.

The next few days swam by indistinctly, like pike through murky water. Most of the time the family kept Makepeace bound up in a blanket like a swaddled babe. Whenever she was lucid enough they unwrapped her, but she could not follow what they said, or help with anything. She tottered and stumbled, and dropped everything she tried to pick up.

The smell of cooking pies from the kitchen, usually homely and familiar, now made her feel sick. The scents of the lard, the blood of the meat, the herbs — they were too much, they were blinding. But all the while, it was the smell of the Bear that haunted her. She could not scrub away the dank, warm reek of its mind.

She tried to recall what had happened after she reached for the Bear and the blackness swallowed her, but her memories were a dark swirl. She thought she remembered seeing the two travelling men, though. She had a murky image of them bellowing, their pale faces striped with blood.

Beasts did not have ghosts — at least that is what she had always thought. But evidently they did, now and then. By now it had probably burned itself away into nothingness in its quest for vengeance. She hoped it had been happy with that bargain. Why had it left her so sick? Perhaps, she thought hazily, mad ghost-brutes could infect you with fever.