Emily Rodda - Shadowgate

Her fingers jerked. The cup fell onto the table, spun and lay still.

Then she fell back, clutching her chest.

Barda exclaimed and jumped up, the stool tipping and falling behind him.

Stunned, Lief stared down at the table—at Bess’s fallen cup. From its lip, the last drops of wine trickled onto the purple tablecloth—gleaming red wine, mixed with a pale sludge of white powder.

‘She drank the poison herself!’ he whispered. ‘But how—?’

Then he looked up—up at the tree that stretched above them. Kree was back on his perch on the lowest branch. He was very still. But his yellow eyes were gleaming.

I can make the table turn and stop again with the slightest tap of my foot .

So Bess had said. They had all heard her, including Kree. No doubt Kree had reasoned that the slightest tap of a strong beak like his would work just as well.

And so it had. Lief remembered the moment when the girl on stilts had fallen. Both Bess and Barda had looked towards the crowd. And that had been the moment Kree had been waiting for. While their attention was distracted, he had flown down from his perch, hopped under the table and done what he had to do.

The table top had turned. The cups had been reversed. Bess had drunk her own poison.

Masked Ones from the edges of the crowd were running towards them, realising that something was wrong. They stood gaping as their leader lay back fighting for breath.

Barda had sprung to Bess’s side, and was bending over her. ‘It must be her heart!’ he shouted. ‘She needs air!’

He began tearing at Bess’s mask.

‘No!’ Bess muttered, her hands moving feebly, trying to push Barda’s away. ‘No…’

With a tiny click, the top of the golden ring on her little finger fell open like a lid. A few grains of white powder still clung to the sides of the cavity revealed within.

This ring is worn by the leader of the Masked Ones…

Lief stared, Bess’s words echoing in his mind. Words he now truly understood.

In the hand of the leader lies the gift of life… and death .

‘Lief! I cannot get her mask off. My fingers are too clumsy. Help me!’ Barda’s voice was agonised.

Lief moved stiffly to his side. He knew that it was useless. He knew that Bess was doomed. But still he grasped the feathers at the base of her mask and pulled upwards with all his strength.

Bess shrieked in agony.

Startled, Lief looked down at his fingers.

They were red with blood. Blood was streaming from beneath the torn rim of the mask’s base, trickling down Bess’s neck, soaking into the silk of her purple dress…

He met Barda’s horrified eyes.

‘The mask will not come off,’ he muttered, through chattering teeth. ‘It is part of her. Joined to her. It will not…’

He backed away, holding his bloody hands out in front of him.

A woman in the crowd screamed hysterically.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted the voice of the fox-woman behind them. ‘Get away from her! Bess! Oh, Bess!’

In seconds, the members of the Masked Ones’ inner circle were pushing Lief and Barda aside, clustering around Bess, trying to hide her from the gathering crowd.

But it was too late. Everyone had seen.

‘Blood! He tried to pull the mask off—and her skin tore away with it!’ a high voice shrieked. ‘The mask has grown into her face! Oh—oh, horrible! Horrible!’

There was a chorus of shuddering groans, wails of horror.

Lief looked around him. Everywhere, terrified people were tearing off their own masks and throwing them to the ground, trampling them underfoot. Faces were revealed, strangely shocking in their nakedness—faces old and young, pretty and plain, filled with disgust, with horror, with fear.

The man who had worn the bear mask was small-eyed and red-faced. Foam had gathered at the corners of his mouth.

‘It is the same with all of them!’ he howled, pointing at the Masked Ones gathered around Bess. ‘Freaks! Sorcerers! Kill them!’

The crowd surged forward, then halted, wavering. Silence fell.

The members of the inner circle had turned. Every one of them held a long, narrow knife.

Shoulder to shoulder they faced the bareface crowd, and their eyes were filled with loathing. Proudly they lifted their heads—their heads covered by the masks which were part of them.

The masks of their adulthood, Lief thought dazedly. Put on at the age of eighteen. Bonded to their flesh, forever… forever…

In the stillness, the village clock began to chime.

One… two…

Lief looked over the heads of the Masked Ones, beyond the tree to where the clock tower stood, shining in the moonlight. The hands of the clock were pointing straight upwards.

Midnight.

The skin of his face and neck seemed to warm and prickle. The memory of Bess’s voice whispered in his mind.

Wear it for one hour—till midnight. That will be enough .

He looked down again. The eagle-man, Quill, met his eyes. ‘You had better join us, Lewin of Broome,’ Quill said quietly. ‘Like it or not, you are one of us, now.’

Yes .

Lief took a step forward. Then, suddenly, his arms were seized, and he was jerked back. Bewildered, he turned his head from one side to the other. Jasmine and Barda each held one of his arms. They were holding him, shaking him, calling to him.

Lief recoiled. Jasmine and Barda had taken off their masks. Their mouths seemed to writhe horribly as they shouted. Their naked faces were beaded with sweat, creased and twisted with horror.

They were ugly—disgusting. It made him sick to look at them.

He struggled vainly to free himself. Barda and Jasmine were still shouting, but he could not understand what they were saying. The chiming of the clock filled his mind.

Five… six…

‘You see?’ roared the voice of the red-faced man. ‘See the boy in the bird mask? Bess the witch favoured him! She changed him into one of them! And so she would have changed us all, at last! Turned us into freaks, like herself!’

Shouting angrily, the crowd surged forward again. Some had armed themselves with rocks, and with flaming sticks from the fire.

‘Burn them!’ a woman shrieked.

The Masked Ones stood their ground.

‘Rust!’ Quill said.

Rust cupped her hands around her mouth. Her fox-face gleamed in the candlelight as she drew breath. Then she gave an unearthly, high-pitched screech.

It was like the weird cry Lief and Jasmine had heard in the forest camp of the Masked Ones. And now they knew its purpose.

For from the fences around the field the giant moths rose in a cloud.

Like thousands of scraps of paper whirling in a breeze, the moths swarmed towards the one who had called them in.

But there were no red boxes ready to receive them. They could not land. Confused, they swooped over the crowd, a fluttering mass of white.

The air was thick with them. Their wings brushed hands, shoulders, faces. The markings on their wings swelled and glowed scarlet. They spat, and their poison burned where it fell.

Many people staggered, screaming in pain. Others dropped their weapons, covered their heads and began to run, heedlessly trampling the fallen ones in their panic.

Run, you ugly barefaces, Lief thought, watching in satisfaction. Leave us to ourselves!

With part of his mind he was aware that the clock was still striking.

Nine… ten…

Soon…

With a shock he felt himself thrown to the ground, held fast. Barda pinned his shoulders down. Then, horribly, he felt Jasmine’s fingers tearing at his face.

‘No!’ he moaned. ‘No-’

Jasmine loomed above him. She was breathing in great, sobbing gasps. Her brow was beaded with sweat, and tears were pouring down her cheeks. But her mouth was set in a hard, straight line.