Lak raised his arms in triumph. He wiped his hands in the deer’s blood. He smeared it across his face. He paid homage to the spirit of the deer, thanked the Sun God and his ancestors. He took the baby out and held her to the deer’s teat. He squeezed.
“Suck, my sweet,” he whispered.
He squeezed. She sucked. He saw the milk spilling from the teat, from the edges of his sister’s mouth. He saw her swallowing. He licked his lips, tasted the blood there, grinned.
The baby drank hungrily, pressed close against the deer’s still-warm belly. The dog lapped the blood at the deer’s skull. Lak lifted the baby from the teat, laid her in her bearskin in the sunlight. He opened the deer’s flesh with the axe and cut strips of meat away. He ate the meat, chewed hungrily, the blood dribbled from his lips. Deer meat, sweeter and tenderer than that of the bear. He threw pieces for the dog. He ate until he felt that his belly would burst. He put the baby to the teat again. He squeezed and she sucked.
“Ayeee!” he called softly. “Ayeee!”
The sun shining into the hollow became stronger. He lay with the baby and tickled her. She gurgled softly and smiled. He made her drink once more, then he drank hims4f, sucking at the teat. He shoved strips of meat into his pouch, then lifted his sister and moved on again out of the hollow, back on to the crags above the ice. He moved quickly, with hope in his heart. The baby slept, contented.
Behind them, the great dark birds spiraled from the sky, flapped heavily down into the hollow.
We were at the kitchen table, with the story.
“Jeez, Kit,” she said. “How do you do it?”
I laughed. “Magic.”
She thumped me in the ribs. “You,” she said.
“Drive you wild, eh?”
“Drive me wild.”
“What’ll happen to them next?”
I shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Dunno? How can you not know?”
“Just how it is. Stories are living things, like Burning Bush says. Might be something terrible waiting for them at the next crag. Might be no more food. The baby might die. Lak might fall off a cliff.”
“Jeez, Kit. I thought you just made them do what you want them to do. Plan it, then write it.”
“Sometimes it’s like that. But when the people in them start to live . . . you can’t really keep them in control.”
She flicked through the pages of the story.
“I know what I want to happen,” I said. “I want to keep them safe and get them to the family again. But . . .”
“But there’s bears out there, and vultures. All kinds of dangers.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Poor souls. Still, I suppose it’s just a story in the end.”
I shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so.” I laughed. “But Lak’s mother comes to me at night.”
“Lak’s mother what?”
“She comes to me at night. She tries to give me gifts. She tells me to bring her son and her baby home.”
“Jeez, Kit.”
“It’s really like she’s really there,” I said.
“Brilliant,” she said. “Dead scary.”
“See?” I said.
“See what?”
“Magic. Telling stories is a kind of magic.”
“You’ve not shown Burning Bush yet.”
“No. When it’s done. Anyway, it’s not just for her. It’s for John Askew.”
“Him?”
“Yes, him. I told him I’d write a story and he could do the illustrations for it.”
“If he comes back again. If the worst hasn’t happened.”
“Yes, if he comes back again and the worst hasn’t happened.”
“Let’s hope,” she said.
“That’s another part of the magic,” I said.
“What is?”
“I think if Lak and his sister’re safe, then Askew’ll be safe. And if he’s safe, they’ll be safe.”
She stared at me. “Jeez, Kit. What d’you mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’m sure it’s true.”
“Poor lost soul,” said Mum.
We looked out. There she was, Askew’s mother, with the baby in her arms, walking aimlessly through the frozen wilderness.
“Poor soul,” Mum said again. “You’d not do anything like that to us?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“I know. But there’s still the fear, whatever you know. Come on, eh? Let’s go.”
It was Sunday afternoon. A visit to Grandpa again. We got into the car, headed out of Stoneygate. I carried Askew’s picture rolled up in my hand. I carried the ammonite in my pocket. I carried all the stories in my head.
We sat down in a little group around him. We drank tea. He stared at us and through us. But he sat straight, his hands didn’t tremble, there was light in his eyes.
“Dad?” said Mum.
He blinked, refocused, smiled at her, at each of us in turn.
He touched my dad’s arm. “Hello, son,” he whispered, so frail.
I saw the tears in Dad’s eyes as he held him.
Grandpa touched each of us, whispered each of our names. He lifted his tea with skinny cupped hands, sank back in his chair.
“All wore out,” he whispered.
He laughed, a little weak noise in the back of his throat. He winked, slowly, unsteadily, laughed again.
“Been off with the fairies again, eh?” he said.
“A long way off,” said Mum.
“Ah, well.” He drank again.
“I brought this for you, Grandpa,” I said.
I unrolled the drawing, held it before him.
“Well, I never.”
His eyes searched the drawing’s darkness. “Little Silky,” he whispered. “Just as he was.”
“It’s for you, Grandpa. They can hang it by your bed for you.”
“Nice. Nice.” He smiled, lost in the drawing. “Little mischief,” he whispered.
Then leaned forward, put his fingers to his lips.
“Comes to me at night, you know,” he said. “Comes and sees me in me dreams. Comes to keep me safe.” He winked, raised his finger. “Don’t tell this lot here, mind. They’ll think I’m crackers.”
We laughed, with tears in our eyes.
He fell asleep. We watched his eyes shifting and flickering beneath their lids. I imagined Silky in there with him, keeping him safe. Dad talked to one of the doctors. Yes, it might be possible for him to come home for Christmas. We sat and watched him as the darkness deepened outside. I put the rolled-up picture in his lap.
When we left, he was singing in his sleep.
“When I was young and in me pri-ime . . .”
At home, Askew’s mother passed us, coming off the wilderness.
Mum touched her shoulder, held her arm. “He’ll be all right,” she said. “I’m sure John’ll be all right.”
Mrs. Askew lowered her head. The baby’s face shone from within the thick warm coverings that held her.
“Come in and have some tea,” said Mum. She shook her head.
“Not now,” she said. “Get this one home into her bed.” She looked at our faces. She reached out and gripped my hand.
“Bring him home,” she whispered. “Bring my boy home.” Her fingernails and her rings dug into my skin. “Bring him home.”
Then she hurried homeward through the dark.
The Snow Queen night. The moon shed its light onto the wilderness as we walked to school. It stunned the light from stars. It made snow luminous. It glittered in our eyes. It cast shadows into the gardens of Stoneygate, into the ruts and depressions of the frozen earth. Our own shadows moved silently at our side. We held our collars tight and sent plumes of silvery breath into the air. There were dozens of us, families coming out from Stoneygate to watch the Snow Queen slide a sliver of ice into Allie’s eye and sow evil in her soul. Young children giggled in excitement, clasped the hands of parents. Old people walked tentatively, took careful steps, used rubb
er-tipped sticks to keep them safe. Beyond its fence, the school gleamed with warm electric light.
Inside the doorway, fifth-graders dressed in silver foil and silver slippers passed out programs. We read that this was not a suitable play for young children on their own. The lobby had great paintings and photographs of glaciers and ice floes. There were paintings of polar bears and penguins. The humps of whales burst from clearings in the ice. Maps showed how the Ice Age once held the northern world in its grip. Fur-clad people hunched in caves around blazing fires beneath paintings of the beasts they feared, hunted and worshiped. Music played: squeaky violins and whistles, sometimes a distant wailing voice, sometimes a roaring beast.
Chambers stood there, directing us inward. He smiled, shook my parents’ hands, told them I seemed to have pulled myself together after the troubles with the game. Dobbs winked at me, shook my parents’ hands as well, whispered that the school had great hopes for me. We filed into the hall: dim lights inside, rows of chairs facing the brilliantly lit ice world on the stage. Then all the lights went down, left us all in deepest darkness. A gasp of mock-fright from the children, then The Snow Queen began.
Two children who’d taken a wrong turning became lost in this world of ice. They wore red and green, they held hands, they looked around in fascination and fear. They talked of the home they’d lost, their loving parents, the green hills and valleys around it. How had they gone so wrong? The boy wept and the girl comforted him, then scoffed at him for his weakness, his lack of courage. She pointed across the mountains: It’s that way, she told him. She was sure it was that way. The boy whimpered. How could she know that? How could she know? They quarreled. She threatened to leave him on his own. She grinned down at him. “Look at you,” she whispered. “Just look at you.” Then the Snow Queen came to the edge of the stage in her sleigh, and the look that passed between her and Allie sent a shiver down my spine.
She stepped down from the sleigh and wrapped the children in her arms. She cooed at them, comforted them. She told them that there was no need for fear. She wrapped them in white furs. She stroked their cheeks, their hair. “Such pretty children,” she whispered.
“Children often take the wrong move,” she said. “They go wandering in winter. They seek the deeper snow, for their snowmen, for their games. They take the wrong path. They become lost souls. They find themselves in my kingdom.”
The boy whimpered, looked down, chewed his trembling lips. “Who are you?” Allie whispered.
“I am the Snow Queen. I rule the ice and snow and bitter winds. I am the queen of frozen hearts. Touch my cheek, feel the ice there.”
Allie reached out, touched the Snow Queen’s perfect white skin.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
“Touch my lips, feel the frost there.”
Allie touched and sighed.
“My brother’s so scared,” she said. “He wants so much to be home again.”
They looked at the silent trembling boy.
“No need for fear,” said the queen. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Allie.
“Look into my eyes. See the endless winter there.”
“Yes,” said Allie.
The Snow Queen smiled.
“So pretty,” she whispered. “Such clear clever eyes.”
She wrapped Allie in her arms, led her away from the boy.
“Many children come,” she said. “They shiver, whimper, whine and cry. They want green valleys, cozy villages, little homes with fires burning.” She fondled Allie’s cheek. “I dream of a winter child, a child who wants to stay with me.”
She reached down, lifted a jagged piece of ice, held it before Allie’s face. “See how beautiful it is?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Let me rest it on your cheek. Feel its perfect bitter cold.”
“Bitter perfect cold,” said Allie.
The Snow Queen snapped a tiny fragment from the ice.
“Turn your eyes to me, my child.”
Allie turned her eyes. The music squeaked and wailed. The Snow Queen gently slid the ice into Allie’s eye.
And Allie’s evil started. She learned the magic: how to make small things disappear, then larger things. Her evil grew. She became bored by her brother. She pointed her finger at him and sent him from the world.
During the intermission Mum went on about how wonderful Allie was, how terrifying. Beyond her, through the knots of adults drinking tea, I saw Bobby Carr. He leaned in a doorway, watched me, smiled softly. He winked, beckoned me with a backward movement of his head. I turned away. He was a disease, like Allie said. He kept on watching, smiling. I made my way through the people toward him.
“What?” I whispered.
He raised his eyes and grinned, then stared at me. “You’re dead,” he said.
“Eh?”
“Askew’s back. You’re dead.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere. And he’s asking about you.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Asking. About. You.” He smiled. “And. You’re. Dead.”
I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out into the corridor. I shoved him against the wall, against a painting of an ancient valley of ice.
“You’re a disease,” I said. “Where is he?”
“Somewhere.”
I shoved him hard against the wall.
“He’s come back full of Hell,” said Bobby. “And he wants to see you.”
He took out a drawing from his pocket, unfolded it.
“He gave me this for you.”
I turned it up to the light. It showed both of us, Askew and me. We were in a cave. We were almost naked. We had knives in our fists and we faced each other across a blazing fire. The names of the dead were scratched into the walls. From the edges of the dark, dozens of skinny children watched.
“If you tell, he’ll kill us both,” Bobby whispered.
“Kill” I said. “Ha!”
“Yes, kill. Him and Jax. Tell nobody.”
“You worm,” I whispered.
Then I saw Chambers watching us from the far, dimly lit end of the corridor.
“Tell nobody,” Bobby said again; then he hurried toward the lobby and the night.
“All right now, Christopher?” said Chambers, coming toward me.
I shoved the drawing into my pocket.
“Yes, sir.”
We heard Burning Bush calling that the second half was about to start.
“It’s scary stuff, eh?” said Chambers.
“Yes, sir.”
He contemplated me. “It’s very strange, Christopher. This desire we have to be scared, to be terrified, to look into the darkness.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked along the corridor through which Bobby had disappeared.
“It can of course lead us astray, Christopher.” He looked into my eyes again. “As you know very well yourself, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled. “Keep the darkness on the stage, eh? Keep it in books. They’re the places for it, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” He touched my shoulder.
“Come on, Christopher. Time for Alison to terrify us again.”
We pushed through the door. I saw Mum searching the crowds for me, fear beginning to haunt her eyes.
The play began again, but I was lost in my own thoughts, my own fears. I felt the sweat on my palms and the quickened beat of my heart. I knew that Askew would call me soon, that he would choose the time and place. And I knew that eventually I would go into the darkness with him, that it would be my task to bring him home.
Past midnight. Couldn’t sleep. Sat at my desk, tried to write Lak’s tale, tried to get him across the crags, to find the warm cave of his lost family. I couldn’t write it. I stared out into the wilderness. I squinted, saw the shapes of skinny children playing by the river in the moonlight. Stopped squinting, the skinny children disappeared. Looked up at the
three drawings: me; Silky; me and Askew in the cave. Whispered my grandpa’s song: “When I was young and in me pri-ime . . .” Fingered the ammonite, the pony, the fossil bark. Closed my eyes, saw Silky flickering at the corners of my mind. Prayed for Grandpa. Smelled woodsmoke, bodies, sweat, opened my eyes again, saw her, Lak’s mother. She crouched in the corner of my room in her animal skins. She held out the colored pebbles to me. Her mouth opened, closed, silently formed the words: Bring my son back. Bring my baby back. I looked away, looked back, she didn’t disappear. Looked out, saw the dark hunched shape, the black dog. Askew.
I watched. He didn’t disappear. I pulled my clothes on, tiptoed out into the night. No sign of him. I hurried across the crackling snow toward the river.
“Askew,” I whispered. “Askew!”
No answer. I looked around me. Nothing. Pulled my jacket close.
“Askew!”
Across the wilderness, the one light in our street was the reading lamp on my desk, shining down on the tale of Lak, illuminating the hunched form of his mother crouching against the wall. I shivered.
“Who’s this?” I heard.
“Who’s there?” I said. “Askew?”
There were little whispers, little giggles, little thin voices.
“Who’s this? Who’s this? Who’s this?”
There were children all around. I saw them at the corner of my eye. They peered at me. They were skinny, half-naked. Pale bodies, great staring eyes in blackened faces.
“Who’s this?” they whispered to each other. “Who’s this?”
They giggled.
“Kit Watson,” they whispered. “Christopher Watson, aged thirteen.”