Catherine Fisher - Darkhenge

I don’t know what goes on inside people’s minds. I’ve always tried to know. But there are too many defenses, too many tangles.

Too many masks.

There shall be great darkness.

There shall be a shaking of the mountain.

“THE BATTLE OF THE TREES”

The King was terrified. He clung to her arm. “Stop them. They’ll grow. The forest will grow,” he whispered. “Stop them, Chloe!”

How could she stop them?

Every seed was sprouting. And as she watched, an acorn split, sent a pale root splintering into the smooth shell, a shoot unkinking into the air. They grew rapidly, unbelievably. Saplings of every size and species shot up, snapping the chamber floor, cracking it into tilted slabs.

She pulled him back. “Trees can’t hurt you!”

“They’ll attack now. Our enemies.”

“ Your enemies.” She had to shout over the shattering of walls and roof, of leaves unfurling. One of the swiftest trees had reached the roof; with an almighty shudder the smooth mother-of-pearl broke and collapsed. Shards fell, sharp as glass.

“We’re finished,” he muttered. “There’s no way out. You’ll have to go with them.” He stepped back, away from her, hugging himself. “Go on, Chloe. Leave me here.”

She breathed out in frustration, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not leaving you.”

His brown eyes stared in astonishment.

“No one,” she said firmly, “treats me like a little girl. Not anymore.”

“But we’re trapped!”

“Rubbish!” She slid back between the thin trunks, twisting under branches. “None of this is real. It’s not happening. This is the Unworld. We can change whatever we want to.”

He had hold of her arm. “I can’t. But maybe you can.”

“Me?”

“Quick, Chloe! I can hear them.”

So could she. Seeds were splitting and cracking under their feet; the intruders were running down the spiral ramp, two shadows already huge and distorted along the pearly walls.

“Give me your mask,” she snapped.

“What?”

“Give it to me!” She went to snatch it; he stopped her. His hand was cold with damp and sweat. Shaking, he undid the birch mask and held it out; underneath was another, of holly leaves and red berries like one she’d once worn to a Christmas party.

“Right. Now get behind me.”

She slipped the mask on. It was warm; the beech bark scratched her cheeks and forehead, its sappy smell rich and cloying, and at once she felt as if she was looking out from the heart of one of the trees, as if bark was growing all over and around her, closing her in, a dryad, a creature of twigs and roots. She stepped into shadow, with a sudden conviction that if she kept still no one could find her. And if she didn’t speak. Because a tree had no words.

Copying her, the King crouched deep in a holly sapling. She could barely make him out herself.

She took small, tense breaths.

The footsteps raced down the spiral tunnel. Shadows grew, then paused.

A hand came around the corner, a delicate hand, burned three times on the back.

Then she saw the man.

Vetch paused warily at the foot of the curled ramp. In the pearly light his face was paler than ever, the mark on his forehead clear. He reached out and held both arms wide against the walls, blocking Rob’s way. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

Over his shoulder Rob saw a room of trees. They were so closely meshed they had split the walls and ceiling and were still growing. Branches creaked with tightening pressure; in places shafts of pale moonlight glimmered down from above. Showers of dust fell, light as eggshell, and then fragments of bone white chalk, and soil.

“The roof’s going to collapse,” he breathed. Then, “Where are they?”

“They’re in here,” Vetch murmured. “Both of them.”

He stepped into the room, circling. Then he reached out and touched the nearest tree with his scarred hand, fingering the bark, the dusty green lichen. He looked up. “Call her, Rob. Call her name.”

Inside the mask, Chloe took a sharp breath of astonishment.

Behind the man in the dark coat was a boy. His hair was filthy with mud and his face smeared with lichen. The expensive green top and jeans were snagged and ruined. But she knew who he was.

He turned away from her.

“Chloe! It’s Rob! It’s all right, we’re here. He can’t hurt you now, Chloe! We’re here to take you back.”

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She felt as if she had truly rooted, grown into the ground, become a dumb, rigid thing. Her eyes flickered to the King; she could only see the holly mask. Behind its eyeholes was a gleam, barely visible. She knew he was watching her. All she had to do was speak.

All she had to do was say one word.

“They’ve gone!” Rob’s voice was an agony, but Vetch didn’t move.

“Not so, Rob.” He slid the skin bag from his coat and dipped his hand in, bringing out a thin hazel wand; he began to move into the trees with it, touching each in turn.

“If she was in here she’d answer,” Rob snapped. But there was a terrible disbelief in him, because what if it was true, that she hated him, that he was the reason she might not want to go back? For a moment he saw her as she had been for three months, askew in the bed in the nursing home, and then swinging on the swing in the garden when she’d been four or five, small, cute, her hands chubby, her fingers tiny.

He couldn’t bear it; he blundered after Vetch.

Into something soft.

As the poet’s wand touched the tree, it was not a tree at all, but a girl in a brown dress, a dress that trailed on the floor. Her hair was long and she wore a birch mask of peeling bark; her fingernails were sharp and painted, her hands hennaed with patterns of leaf and shade. For a moment she was a creature out of some legend; then he knew it was Chloe, and a great sob of relief went through him.

But as he grabbed her, she jerked back.

“Chloe! It’s Rob!”

“I know very well who it is.” Her voice was flat and scathing.

Shocked, he reached out.

“Don’t touch me, Rob,” she snapped angrily. “I don’t want you here. No one asked you to come.” She folded her arms as if barely containing her fury. “You always come and spoil everything. ”

He couldn’t believe this. It stunned him. She wasn’t relieved, wasn’t even pleased to see him. And yet it was just like her. Like Chloe. With a cold shock he realized that something Mac had once warned him of had come true, that over the months of her coma he had made a new Chloe in his mind, a softer, friendlier Chloe, with no tempers or scorn, a Chloe that had never existed, a Chloe that he preferred to the real one.

Confused, he said, “We’ve come to rescue you.”

“I don’t want to be rescued.”

“Yes you do. You must!”

She glared at him through the mask, an alien creature, her eyes green.

Vetch glanced around; now he reached in and hauled the King out of the holly bush. The King pulled away, then smiled sourly, brushing down his velvet clothes. “Tell them, Chloe,” he said. “Tell them you’re with me.”

“Shut up. All of you!” Then she turned on Vetch. “Am I dead? Is that it?”

The poet’s calmness seemed to still her. After a moment he said, “You’re not dead.” His voice was gentle; he took a step toward her and she didn’t back away. “Your body lies in a coma, a long way from here. This is Annwn, where hidden things are clear, where memories surface. Rob has come to take you home.”

Impatient, she shrugged. “How long?”

“Three months.” Rob’s throat was dry; he swallowed. “You were riding Callie. You fell. Near Falkner’s Circle. You must remember.”