Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

“Hey, Davey,” a voice said. Mia didn’t have to turn round to know it was Jack. There were grunts and greetings and the laying down of bikes, but she didn’t turn around. Then she heard someone at her side. She twitched when he spoke.

“Come on, sis,” Davey said in a low voice.

“Oh, are you going on the swing?” It was Sarah. “Look everybody, Mia’s going on the swing.”

“No,” said Davey. “No, she’s not.” And Mia felt his hand on her shoulder.

Sarah laughed. “Chicken. Your sister’s always a chicken, Davey. She doesn’t do anything.”

“No,” echoed Sam Oakey. “ Anything .”

“She’s been on it already,” said Davey. “It’s my turn now.”

Mia turned and stared at him. He winked.

“She went really high,” he said. “Higher than me.”

The others stared at Mia, but she wouldn’t look at him. They didn’t say anything, either. She knew they wouldn’t question Davey. They never did question him, just followed him and tried to do what he did. She felt a stab of pride for her brother.

“Go on then,” said Jack.

Mia realised he was talking to Davey. She looked around as her brother backed off, then started to run. She opened her mouth to call him back; closed it again. She smiled as he raced, all boy, all freedom, towards the rope. It already felt better. He was doing that thing again, weaving his magic in the air between them. It was all right. It was his spell, Davey’s spell, not her own; but it was all right.

He ran towards the rope and he leapt. His fingers stretched out and the rope trembled.

Then Davey began to fall.

Mia screamed. He went so fast; how could he have gone so fast? There was only his hair, floating above his head, and the weight of him, and there must have been sound, but Mia hadn’t heard any sound at all because she had screamed so loud.

The others ran past her to the drop. The rope was still there, hanging quite still. Jack edged up and down in front of it. Then he turned and ran past Mia, his face white, mouth open. He grabbed his bike. “I’ll get someone,” he panted, and was gone, off into the woods.

Sarah looked over her shoulder. “Where’s he gone?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t like her voice. “Where?”

All Mia could do was look at her.

“We have to go,” Sarah said to Sam Oakey. “We can’t get to him. We have to get help.” She walked past Mia, slow but without pausing, and grabbed her bike. After a moment Sam followed. He didn’t look at Mia at all.

Mia stepped towards the drop. When she reached it, she looked down.

There was the tree trunk she’d seen before. Other branches, scattered about. There was an old car tyre she’d never noticed before. And Davey. Little Davey lay in the cleft, and his body was broken. She could see it in the way his back fitted to the shape of the branch on which he lay, a giant, twisted thing. His arm was bent in an unnatural way too, and Mia thought she could see blood on it. It wasn’t bleeding now though. She could tell from the look on her brother’s face that little Davey was dead.

She let out a sound, something between a sob and a wail. She stared at the rope, the evil thing that Davey’s spell hadn’t worked upon, and wondered where the spells went when they missed the thing they had been meant for. Old potions made of dust and dirt and hair. She felt sick. Bent to the ground, leaned further over the edge. Tried to see into the gaps between the old wood in the hole in the ground.

Then she looked from side to side.

The ground was sheer where she was, but a little further around there were breaks in it she thought she might be able to hold onto. She remembered she wasn’t supposed to— never does anything— as she hurried over there, threw herself onto her stomach and slithered backwards over the edge.

It was hard, but she held on tight, and kicked her shoes into the dirt face to make footholds as she eased herself down. She forced herself to think it through, deciding where to step next and how to hold on. It didn’t seem to take very long before she stood at the bottom, mud clumped to her shoes and smeared down her dress.

She saw the white shapes of Davey’s face and arms from the corner of her eye and looked away. Instead she headed for the tree trunk, her feet sinking into the ground. It was spongy, layers of old grass and rubbish. She looked down and saw something dark and long-legged skitter over her shoe. Shook it off with a little cry. She climbed over the branches and they didn’t feel dry like tree bark but clammy and damp like cool skin. When she took her hands away they were tinged with green.

She could see the gap where the cloak had fallen. It was dark. She would have to lie flat against the biggest branch and reach in with her hand. She shivered but didn’t hesitate, just threw herself down and let the wood dig into her belly and her knees and her chest. She put her arm down into the space and groped. Somewhere above her came the cry of a bird. She ignored it. It made her think of outside, of playing with the others, of watching Davey fly. She couldn’t think about that now. She had to think of this, the darkness under her, the sudden smoothness she felt under her fingertip. She stretched down, pressing her face into cold wood. Felt its clammy touch rub onto her cheek. She felt feathers; pinched the fabric between her fingers and pulled it towards her.

She slithered back off the branch, clutching the cloak, feeling its dry weight. She held it close, pressed tight against her body. Davey still lay where he had fallen. Everything was motionless; everything quiet.

Mia walked towards him, trying not to see how white his face had become. His jaw was sticking out; it looked as though it was unhinged. She wondered if he had shouted anything as he had fallen. If he had, Mia hadn’t heard; had been too busy with her own scream.

She held out the cloak, turned it so that all the feathers hung downwards, like they do on birds’ wings. She straightened it, tried not to see the black flakes falling to the ground. “You’re my brother, Davey,” she said. Her words seemed wrong in the empty air, too loud. It was for them, she thought. It was because her words were only for the two of them. She put the cloak over her brother’s face. Then she turned and ran back towards the slope.

When Mia got home and looked into her mother’s face she knew that no one had told her. The others must have run to their own homes and she felt a stab of anger. Their mothers knew, and Davey’s mother didn’t. It was unfair. The whole world was like that, out of kilter.

Then her mother ran to Mia and knelt down and put her arms around her, and Mia wondered if she had been wrong, if her mother had known after all. Then she realised her mother was saying something, over and over: what is it Mia, what’s wrong Mia, and she remembered the mud all down her front, and the wood-slime on her face, and knew her mother knew nothing, that she had only seen what she had read in Mia’s eyes, and the next thing was, that Mia was going to have to tell her. And Mia started to cry.

For a moment, Mia wasn’t sure what she’d been saying. Something about birds, and Davey, and the woods, and a rope. She knew her mother didn’t understand. She just kept stroking Mia’s hair and making shushing noises. Mia took a deep breath because she had to tell her, couldn’t let her not know any longer, and she opened her mouth to say that Davey was dead and then the door opened and she saw the thing that stood there and Mia screamed.

It was Davey, but not Davey. His face was white and expressionless; only his eyes stared, dark and bright. His hair was plastered tight to his head. Mia saw that his jaw didn’t stick out anymore and she looked at his arms and saw that they were wings after all; pitch black, inky black, and shining so brightly they looked wet. The wings hunched over his shoulders and hung long and powerful all around him.