Chris Wooding: The Fade

'Go and sit down,' she told him. 'It'll be ready in a moment.'

He nibbled her ear and she squealed and hit him with a wooden spoon. Chada and I laughed as he hurried over to the table with his hands over his head, mumming fear.

Our house was small, cosy and shadowy, with thick walls and small windows. The stove kept out the steady chill of the cavern outside, and lanterns brightened the corners. We had a couple of jinth bitches who slept at the foot of my bed, though Papa kicked them out at mealtimes because they got too frisky and knocked things over. They were hunting now, patrolling the farm for ground-bats and rackles.

Chada was swinging his little feet and kicking the underside of the table, tormented by the scent of Mama's cooking. I told him to stop, and he stuck his tongue out at me. Then Papa told him to stop and he did. Then I stuck my tongue out at him in snide triumph, and Papa caught me doing it and cuffed me.

'You're the older sister,' he said, as I rubbed my head and pouted sulkily. 'Set an example.'

Chada just looked smug. Only one year younger than me, but he was such a baby. He had Papa's look about him, while I was more like Mama. Sometimes he was fun to play with, like the time when we had gone down to the pool at the bottom of the grove and named all the fish and made up stories about them. But he could so easily throw a tantrum, and then I hated him. The tiniest thing would turn him into a scrunched ball of shrieking fury.

Mama started dishing up the food, and Papa had to glare at Chada to stop him grabbing at it before it was all served. There were roasted tubers, great hunks of basted fungus, spore-bread and a plateful of eels and crunchy arrow beetles. We were poised to eat the instant Mama sat down, but as usual she said: 'Ah! Ah!' and held up a finger the moment we dived for our plates. Then she made a great show of arranging herself, shuffling in her seat and flicking her hair, while we writhed in hungry agony. After she decided we had suffered enough, she kissed Papa on his bearded cheek and said: 'Eat.'

We went at it ravenously. We were always starving at the end of the turn, worn out from playing and from helping Papa and Mama with the farm chores. We helped them feed the lizards and collect the eggs. We followed them as they tended to our small herd of yoth. We went to the stream, checked the traps for crabs and then tottered back with buckets of fresh water.

Our farm was far from anywhere, and I wished for other girls to make friends with; but we were happy. I had no cares but the cares of a child, and there were no troubles so terrible that Papa couldn't deal with them. We had little money but our needs were small. Our lives were simple, slow, honest.

At the end of the turn, Papa would tell us tales while Mama dozed. Sometimes he frightened us with stories of the White-skins: those narrow-faced men, pale as pearl, who would steal children away if they were naughty. Then Chada clutched at me and I pretended not to be scared. Papa would crank up the tension and at some point he would lunge at us, yelling: 'The White-skins are coming!!!' We would shriek and laugh and the fear would be gone. Then Papa would gather us up in his huge arms, we would snuggle into his chest, and he'd promise that the White-skins would never get us if we were good.

In that, at least, he was mistaken.

We all heard the jinths, their rapid, popping cries coming from somewhere down by the stream; but it was only Chada who thought that something was wrong, and nobody listened to him.

'They've found a rackle,' Papa said, head tilted as he listened. 'Sounds like it's leading them a good chase.'

One after the other, the jinths fell silent.

'See?' Papa said, settling back to his food. 'They got it. One less vermin to bore into my sweet-puffballs.'

Papa's sweet-puffballs were the pride of his crop. When dried and powdered, they made sugar, which we never grew tired of. Usually just the thought of it was enough to distract Chada, but not this time. He kept fidgeting, uneasy. He'd heard the warning in the jinths' cries that the rest of us hadn't.

'Don't worry, Chada,' said Mama. 'It was just a rackle.'

'Can I go see?'

'Finish your meal first.'

Chada knew it was useless to argue, so he began stuffing food into his mouth.

'Chew your food, dear,' Mama said patiently. 'You have to get one lot out of the way before the next lot goes in.'

Papa harrumphed and pushed back from the table, chair legs screeching noisily across the stone. 'I'll take a look.'

'Oh, leave it,' said Mama. 'The jinths are excited, that's all.'

Papa got up and went to the window. Chada watched him intently. I was more interested in my food, having been convinced that there was no cause for alarm, so I didn't witness Papa's reaction to what he saw. The first I knew of what was to come was when Papa turned away from the window, looked at Mama, and said, very calmly: 'Get the children out of here.'

She didn't question him. She got to her feet, pulled out Chada's chair, and lifted him. 'Come on. Out the back.'

'I'm not done!' I protested.

'Do as your father says,' Mama told me, holding out a hand for me to take. There was a briskness in her manner that barely concealed the terror beneath.

'What's happening?' I demanded, but I went with her towards the back door because I had picked up on her alarm.

Father had taken a long-hafted axe from the corner where it leaned. He looked over at me, the hollows of his face shadowed by the lantern overhead.

'The White-skins are coming,' he said.

I'd never felt fear like I did in that moment, and I never did again. Some part of me, even then, had always thought that the White-skins were make-believe. They certainly hadn't stopped me misbehaving from time to time. The White-skins simply couldn't be. A life of such primal horrors was insupportable to a five-year-old.

But with those words, the White-skins came crashing into reality.

We hurried to the back door, which let out onto a little fenced garden patch. Mama had to put Chada down to open it up, and then she ushered us both through. At the same moment, the front door burst open and the White-skins rushed in.

I still see that frozen instant in my nightmares. The press of narrow faces, sharp and pale and cold, like a swarm of chi-rats. Those blank, dead eyes. I see the cruel tips of their blades. They were just as I had imagined them.

Papa roared and swung an axe into the chest of one of the invaders. Another pointed towards Mama and jabbered something in a horrible, piercing tongue. They'd seen her in the doorway, heading out back. But they hadn't seen us. She was blocking us from their sight with her body.

She looked at me with tragedy in her gaze, and I knew, before she shut the door in our faces, that she was saying goodbye. She thought she would never see us again.

How I wish that had been true.

My first instinct was to pull at the door, to get back into the house, but Mama had locked it. I couldn't understand why she'd abandoned us. I was bewildered, on the verge of tears. There were crashing noises and cries coming from inside. Indecision held me for a few heartbeats longer, then I grabbed Chada's hand and we ran.

The garden patch was too small to hide us, most of the plants having been pulled up recently. Only a few bulbroots and the aerial cups of burrow-vines were left among the neatly hoed rows. Papa had worked hard to get the soil right here, using compost full of bacteria that broke up the rock into a form that was kinder to plants. Only last turn I had helped him sow the seeds for a fresh batch.

Beyond was a copse of phosphorescent mycora, ten or twelve spans tall, that Papa had planted before I was born to provide light for another garden, where he grew those rare plants that needed it. We headed for that, Chada toddling fast to keep up. He was whimpering softly, but he was content to be led for now, putting himself into my care.