Chris Wooding: The Fade

'You're the older sister,' I heard Papa say again, and for the first time I felt the weight of that. Chada was under my protection. He was my responsibility now.

We ran into the copse, dodging between the curved stems of the mycora, dazzled by the bluish-white light that radiated from the underside of their caps. But I knew from many games of hide-and-find that this was the first place a searcher would look, so I kept pulling Chada on, through the copse and out, up the slope towards a cluster of jagged rocks that thrust out of the ground. Papa had told us to stay away from them after Chada had cut his hand open on one of the edges, but I knew Papa wouldn't mind now.

Beyond the rocks was a thick wedge of scrub sandwiched between two sheer cliff walls. Tough lichen bushes and red web-fungus clustered around the grey humps of uneven boulders, rising over our heads. We plunged into it. The foliage resisted us, scratching and pushing; sticky tendrils tugged at our clothes and hair. I forged on, towing Chada behind me, until we reached the foot of the cliff. There, behind a spray of stiff, spiny fungi, was a narrow cave.

Chada shook his head, tugging at my hand, but I knelt down before him. 'It's safe,' I said. 'It's my secret place. I come here to hide when I want to be on my own.'

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be reassured, and we went inside. The cave was shallow, little more than a scratch in the rock face, barely big enough for the two of us. It was dark and cold, but I had padded it with an ancient blanket that stank of mould. We squeezed in, and I let the fungi spring back into place to cover the entrance. We were invisible now. And so we waited.

Time passes slowly to a child. Later, I could sit still for a whole turn watching a doorway for the arrival of a target or observing the movements of guards around a house I was to penetrate. But to a five-year-old patience is not something that comes easily. We sat together on the blanket, my arms around my brother, and the only sound was our breathing.

My shocked thoughts unjammed gradually, and my imagination began to take over, offering suggestions and theories both hopeful and terrible. What if the White-skins had killed Mama and Papa, and were even now sniffing us out? Were the White-skins waiting silently, hoping to lure us out when we thought the coast was clear? Or had Papa slain them all with his axe, and was wondering where we had gone?

I realised suddenly that our jinths must have been killed by the White-skins, and that was the thing that set me crying at last. Chada joined in, and we sniffled and wept together as quietly as we could. Had it been our naughtiness and disobedience that had brought the White-skins down on us? Was it all our fault?

Still there was no sound from outside. No clue as to what had happened down at the house. Not knowing was the worst of it.

I peered out of the cave, but the scrub was too high to see through. Something rustled and I shrank back, fearing that the White-skins were stalking through the grass nearby. I looked back at Chada. He stared at me, seeking answers, seeking guidance. I felt his need, but I couldn't provide.

Then: the clattering of a door, the sound of their shrill voices, our Mama's screams.

Chada's breath quickened. He clutched at my arm, and I pressed him back against the wall of the cave. Mama was shrieking, hysterical, calling the White-skins names I had never heard before. I heard her struck, mid-sentence, and she began to wail. It was a sound of awful, wrenching despair, and it made me shrivel inside to hear it.

Where was Papa? I asked myself. Why wasn't Papa there to save her?

But of course I knew the answer to that.

They were squabbling between themselves. Mother's cries had quieted below audibility. I strained to hear, trying to learn what was happening down there; but all I could catch was nonsense.

It was no good. I had to know. Chada was depending on me. I have no idea where that stupid, suicidal courage came from. Maybe it was the desire to protect her in any way I could. Maybe I just wanted to be with my Mama, so she could make the decisions again, so she could somehow make it all right.

'I'm going to find Mama,' I said to Chada. 'You stay here.'

He shook his head, mute.

'Stay!' I hissed. 'You'll be safe. I'm just going to take a look.'

He just stood there. I took that as agreement, and headed into the scrub.

Now that I could hear the White-skins, I was less afraid of one of them lunging out of the undergrowth to snatch me up. But still I went slowly, hardly daring to breathe, until I came to the sharp rocks. From there, I could see glimpses of movement through the copse of luminous mycora. They were in the garden patch.

Mama began to scream anew. She was struggling. I knew there was nothing I could do to help her; but I couldn't just leave her, either.

Go back. Chada needs you.

But Mama was screaming.

I scanned the area and then slipped from the rocks, scuttling a short way to the safety of the mycora copse. There, drenched in light from above, I wriggled between the stems until I could peep out and see into the garden patch.

They were holding her down in the dirt. Three of them. Two others stood about, watching. Another was weeping over a corpse that lay half in and half out of the back door, belly opened to the air. I could see a little way into the house, enough to see other bodies. I couldn't tell if any of them were my father.

Mama was thrashing and spitting. Her clothes were torn and hanging off, her lips bloody where she had bitten her attackers, her face bruised. Despite their best efforts, they couldn't render her harmless. No matter how they pinned her, she used teeth and knees and elbows and nails. I thought they were trying to imprison her, to take her away. Mercifully, I didn't understand.

Fight, Mama! Fight! I willed her. I thought that there was still hope of a saviour. Maybe my father was only unconscious, and would revive any instant. Maybe one of our distant neighbours would come. Maybe the fabled Eskaran Army would save us.

Then Mama twisted, and got her arm free, and she plunged her thumb deep into the eye of one of her assailants. He recoiled with a high, ululating wail, gore leaking dreadfully from the socket. Mama had his eye in her hand, and with her teeth gritted she crushed it between her fingers and it burst like a spore pod.

The White-skins went into a frenzy. One of them hit Mama across the face, another went to aid his wounded companion. Then one of the bystanders walked over to where they were holding Mama, and in one quick movement he drew a dagger and thrust it into her neck.

'Mama!'

At first I thought it had come from my own throat, that the shock and horror had forced the cry from my lungs. But then I turned to my right and saw Chada behind me, his face slack, body trembling. He'd followed me.

The White-skins turned towards us, speared us with freezing gazes. I shrieked and ran, pulling Chada with me. We didn't get far. Irresistible hands swept us up and dragged us, howling, back to the garden patch.

Mama was watching us. The soil around her was sodden with her blood, and her tawny hair was black with it, but a flicker of life held within her as she lay there with the knife in her throat. Long enough to meet my tearful stare. Long enough to ask: Why? Why did you come back?

Then she relaxed, and her eyes went flat.

Chada and I were incoherent with fear, faces running with tears and snot. Two of the White-skins gripped our arms while the others argued about us. But the argument was a short one. One thing about the White-skins that Papa hadn't mentioned in his tales: they only took girl-children to be their slaves. Boys tended to grow up violent.

I could barely see through my hysterical grief as they pulled Chada away from me and one of them drew his sword. I screamed so hard I thought my throat would give, but nothing could stop what was to come.