Catherine Fisher - Darkhenge

“No rope.”

“I have rope, Goddess.” He pulled the strap of the crane-skin bag over his head.

Clare threw down the spade in disgust. “That bag of sorceries gets you through everything. What would you do without it, Vetch?” Her eyes were cold. “I suppose he’s told you what it’s made of, Rob? The skin of a woman turned into a bird?”

Vetch smiled his sad smile. “Not by me, Goddess.” He took one step.

And the trap opened. It opened like a mouth under him, an archaeologist’s trench, a goddess’s chasm; he gave a great cry and turned, flung himself at the edge, but it was too late; his fingers grasped only leaves, vines, pieces of rock that slithered in and fell under him, crashing to impossible depths.

“Rob!”

Rob was down. Something soft was thrust into his hands, he grabbed again but there was nothing, nothing but the slide and slither of soil, the bounce of rocks, the thud of a body far below.

And the roar of the gale.

On the other side of the wide crack Clare stared at him in fury. “Give that to me.”

He leaped up. His heart was thudding in his chest, the bag clutched tight against him. “You finally killed him.”

“I very much doubt that. The bag. It’s useless to you.”

“No.” He put his hand inside, found a scatter of small, soft pieces, whipped them out. In the dark he couldn’t see what they were—cloth, or maybe petals, or paper. Light, barely there.

Clare said furiously, “Rob, don’t you dare—”

He didn’t wait. He opened his hand and the petals streamed out in the gale, a brilliant arc. They wafted up and shimmered and transformed; they became silver coins, and grains of wheat, and feathers and letters and crystals and finally beans, small green beans like the ones in the fairy tale.

Clare screamed in rage.

But the beans hit the ground and grew; they smothered over her in seconds, the stalks streaking up the black wall, and Rob didn’t hesitate; he threw himself onto them, grabbing and tugging and finding a foothold, scrambling over her as she ducked, climbing, hauling himself up.

Toward the sky. Toward the stars.

Toward the two tiny faces that stared down at him.

Far up on the summit, high in the cold gale, Chloe turned to the King. “Have you got a weapon?”

He drew the knife reluctantly, the starlight on its blade. Frost crystals formed on it instantly.

She nodded. “Good. I’m going on, and I’m leaving you to stop him. If he manages to get up here, cut the beanstalk.”

As she turned, he pleaded, “ Chloe …” The word made a cloud of icy breath.

It stopped her, but she didn’t look back. Only her hair gusted in the gale. Three lanky birds—cranes or herons—flapped down out of the sky and landed beside her; one squawked through its thin beak. She looked over at it.

“Surely you can do that for me.”

The King licked dry lips. “He’s your brother....”

She was silent. Then she said coldly, “You heard me. I said, cut him down.”

The Battle

of the

Trees

E. EADHA: POPLAR

She came downstairs one day and pushed a notebook into my hand.

“What do you think, Mac?” she said, nervous. It wasn’t like Chloe to be nervous.

I don’t think any of us had any idea she was writing stories; she kept them secret, up in her room. I lit a cigarette and sat in the armchair and turned the pages—later she complained the paper smelled of smoke.

She has talent. Well, I told her so, but then children’s imaginations are vivid. Perhaps her mind is lost in those stories, their transformations and treacheries.

Dan came five minutes ago. A gale’s raging on the downs, and there’s still no Rob.

As I was talking to him the window slammed so hard we jumped. I went over. The glass had shattered.

It crunched under my feet like diamonds.

Leaves and ivy gusted inside.

I was with my king

in Heaven’s battle,

when Lucifer plunged

to the depths of Hell.

THE BOOK OF TALIESIN

He climbed grimly, the bag hanging off his shoulder.

The wall was utterly smooth, so there were only the slithering bines to grip onto, and they were weak, soft, green growths. But they matted quickly, growing behind him and twisting in rapid corkscrew movements up his legs, so that every step was a dragging of his weight out of their clutches.

He risked a glance down and saw nothing but leaves; above, stars burned in the sky over the black parapet. He had to lean his head right back to see it, and that made him giddy and terrified, so he gripped more tightly and scrambled faster. Under the frantic sweating of his hands the new leaves were slippery, icy with frost. They tore, gave way, came off the black stone in great swathes of stems.

Gabbling prayers under his breath, his hair in his eyes, Rob climbed. He knew he was climbing for his life, that if he stopped, his weight would drag the whole slithering mass away. And the bag was heavy. He hadn’t known that—Vetch carried it so easily—but it hung from his back as if the forest of the Unworld drew it down, called it, pulled at it.

He stopped and slung it up, one knee chest high, the other foot wedged in a clot of branches.

Talons swooped at him.

With a yell he grabbed tight.

A scream rang in his ear.

The bird was huge, an eagle, or some sort of hawk. He only saw its tail, a flash of one yellow eye, but the gust of it knocked him against the wall with a bruising smash.

Red bean flowers fell in showers on his face. He clutched, screamed, “No!”

It had to be Clare. She had transformed herself into it, a cruel hooked beak that came back again and swooped, so that he cowered and banged his arm; the bag fell off his shoulder and slid to his wrist, a bone-breaking weight. “Vetch!” he screamed. And then, “Chloe! Help me!”

Nothing.

From the corner of his eye he saw the bird circle, come again. He turned his head, flattening his cheek against the wall, took a breath, let the strap slip, grabbed it, dropped it, grabbed it, and hugged it to his chest, just as the hooked beak dived, the talons flashed.

Pain raked down one wrist in a red slash.

One-handed, he clung to the wall.

If she came again she would knock him off. He would fall. Plummet, far down.

“Rob!”

The voice was just above him. A shape hung out, then an arm, a hand, beckoning and groping. Without hesitation he flung himself up at it, the bines snapping under his weight, hauling himself into the grip that caught his collar, his sleeve, that heaved him head first over the frosted black basalt of the parapet onto a slippery floor of marble.

He rolled, lay gasping.

“Inside!” The King knelt over him, looking anxiously at the sky. “Quickly, before the bird comes back!”

They were on a vast shiny balcony. Behind it a doorway rose, made of three black sarsens, one across the top of the others. They were carved with jagged spirals, and above them the inky wall went on upward, as if it reared through the clouds right into the real world again.

Painfully Rob threw the bag through the dark doorway and scrabbled after it. Like a shadow the King dived after him, rolling inside just before the hawk swooped, screeched, and came to rest on the black stone balustrade.

She sat there

The raging wind flattened her feathers and lifted them and flattened them again. Her eyes were remorseless circles of yellow wrath, and she stared unblinking at Rob. He couldn’t move.