The Sword of Sighs (The Age of the Flame: Book One), Page 2

  “I wanna shoot bad guys,” she said.

  “’Course, you do. Don’t we all? Go right ahead, kid. Hit ’em right between the eyes.”

  Grinning and giddy, Sarah picked up the small air rifle. It was tacky with sugared thumbprints and syrup stains. She rested the butt against his shoulder and peered down the barrel. Taking aim, she made her finger into a hook over the trigger. With a creaky twang, the first bad guy popped up and Sarah pulled the trigger.

  Bang-dead!

  The sneering face dropped out of sight.

  Twang!

  Another bad guy.

  Bang-dead!

  “Another one down. Nice work,” said the rifle-range man. “One more and you get a prize.”

  In the back of her throat, Sarah could taste the popcorn she had eaten earlier.

  “Go on, kid,” he said. “Get some more. Up the body count. S’important. S’a numbers game. Shooting bad guys.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sarah heard herself say.

  Twang!

  Bad guy number three.

  Bang-dead!

  “Have I won?”

  Dad was at her side, firm hand steady on her shoulder.

  “You sure have, kid. Here’s a teddy bear for you to take home.”

  He gave her the bear. It was plain and brown with one of its eyes coming loose and the stitching starting to show. She loved it all the same, hugging it tight all the way home, as tight as her Dad hugged her when he put her to bed at night.

  That was then, though, thought Sarah. This is now.

  The fairground was all wrong now, all changed by the passing of time. She was surrounded by dead things that had once been stalls and fairground rides. The vivid paint of the past had flaked away, and the bulbs adorning their exteriors had been shattered. There was the helter-skelter, its colours faded away, crawling with mites and woodworm. The structure wailed as wind blew through the holes in it. There was the big wheel, creaking, rusty and old. The waltzer was an empty shell, and the whirring, burring dodgem cars were all silent and still. The horses on the merry-go-round seemed to be staring at her. She didn’t like it sometimes, but this was her special place. Good memories came from it, even if the place itself had gone bad. She came here when she felt sad and wanted to remember.

  Remember Dad…

  Sarah heard shouts from the trees and ran further into the fairground. There would be time enough for day-dreaming later. She knew Mom would have a fit if she ever knew Sarah was walking around these old rides all by herself. It was creepy. Especially when it got dark. And she hoped that would scare Trianna, Geneva and the others away. Fear of ghosts, or fear of getting their perfect faces and clothes dirty.

  Where to hide, she thought, if they come in here for me? Where’s the perfect place for me to hide?

  After a moment or two, she remembered, smiled, and ran to the perfect place.

  The Hall of Mirrors.

  The shadowed surfaces within twisted and turned in on themselves, creating silvered portals to distorted worlds that were like and unlike this one. A painted sign reading Danger! crunched under her feet as she ran in. Her five pursuers were not far behind.

  Five, she thought, just like in the dream.

  Inside, Sarah ran on until she could no longer hear their shouts and cries. Tired and short of breath, she stopped, looked around, and found that she wasn’t sure which way she had come in. She had passed so many mirrors. Turning back, all she saw was shadows, some light and swaying versions of herself. She walked around and around, trailing her fingertips along the dust-streaked glass. It did not break at any point. She did not touch on empty air. The way back was closed.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Nothing answered.

  It was then that she heard their voices again, coming towards her, closer and closer. She could see the way ahead, so she thought, and so Sarah went on. There was a light and she chased it—a slight flame reflected in the dark glass, dancing away each time she drew close. Passing more and more mirrors, she glimpsed herself seeming to sway, swirl, shrink, and swell along the way. Beyond the reflections, Sarah thought she saw places: strange cities with soaring spires, rolling plains peopled by shaggy stampeding beasts she could not name, great airborne castles passing through mountainous clouds, and gigantic trees reaching up into scintillating skies of amethyst, turquoise, and emerald. Each time, she stopped to push vainly at the glass walls, trying to see if there was a way to retreat back out into the light of day. But then the voices came through again. Trianna. Geneva. And the others. Haunting her and hunting her through the dark. Sarah went on and on until her feet hurt, until she wanted to cry. Until she became too tired to care anymore. Then she lay down in growing roots of shadow to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Sarah dreamed she was at the graveyard where she used to go with Dad. She had been the spotter. Before Flag Day, she would run around the graveyard, checking whether there were markers on the graves for all of the veterans. Dad and his friends would then put bronze shield markers on the graves that were bare. Some read Grand Army of the Republic. Others, Spanish American Expeditionary Force. Filipino Expeditionary Force, too. Every war America had fought in, they commemorated.

  Sarah was carrying one of the markers through the graveyard. It was a grey day and darker clouds were hurrying in.

  “Dad?”

  No answer. No one in sight.

  “Mick? Al? Boots?”

  No-one hollered back. The wind was picking up. The flags at each of the graves were snapping viciously. Sarah felt the marker in her hands growing heavier. Shuffling around, describing a grubby circle in the hissing wet grass, she bent her back and pulled hard at it. The base of the marker went along, inch by inch, gouging a deep divot, spraying up soil. Sarah’s spine was aching. She strained as she hefted the marker along in little jumps.

  Yank-thump-yank-thump-yank-thump

  Then she couldn’t move it, not one inch more. Her fingers were red and sore. Sarah slumped to the ground. Dad and his friends would be along soon. They wouldn’t forget about her.

  Wouldn’t leave her behind.

  Then, she heard them. Voices. They were coming from under her feet. She could hear sounds too. Scraping, scratching, scrabbling sounds. Fingers scratching away at wood. The wood of coffins.

  “You got a light on you, kid?”

  “Dying for a smoke down here, we are.”

  “Those goddamn choppers’re worth more’n me.”

  “Where you goin’? Why?”

  “Come back, Moon-pie, don’t leave y’r ole Dad down ’ere.”

  On her feet, screaming, Sarah ran.

  She ran and ran. She ran down through the rows of graves and markers. She ran to her left. And then to her right. Her eyes searched the ever-fleeing horizon for the gate, for her Dad come to rescue her from the voices. But she saw nothing but more graves and more markers. The cemetery was a necropolis, the dead lying in state for as far as she could see. All of them were chattering. Some barking, baying, and yelling. Banging their withered fists on the undersides of their coffin lids.

  “Wasn’t my time. Not my time, dammit.”

  “C’mere. Come closer. Lemme out. I’ll show you a secret.”

  “Gonna hurt you real bad ’f you don’ dig me out, kid. Cut you up into little bits.”

  All of the voices, all the same. Sarah put her fingers in her ears. She closed her eyes and opened her lungs, screaming and screaming, louder and louder. Desperate not to hear this. Needing this not to be.

  All the dead. All the Dads. All of them her Dad.

  She fell to her knees in the grass, feeling it dig in like wet needles, everything piercing her. She could hear it, see it, feel it—all of it. Never going to go away. Never going to stop. Sarah opened her eyes. Looking down, she saw what had not been there before.

  A grave, unmarked. The name on it she knew. Her name.

  Then there was a sound she knew. She closed her eyes.

  Bang-
Dead!

  Chapter Three

  Blinking, wiping away the nightmare she’d had so many times, Sarah sat up, looked around and shivered. The ground underneath her was not dry, dusty, and hard as it should be, but cold and wet. And there were trees—gnarled, twisted things with branches that were thick with skin-like layers of moss, mould, and lichen. It was still night, she could see that much through the few spaces in the canopy overhead. Through these spaces came slim beams of bluish light that allowed her eyesight to adjust. She saw the knotty undergrowth of tangling tree roots and bracken. There was little space for grass to grow, only patches of mulch and shallow bog. Looking down at herself, she saw that she was dirty and stained from the fight but the dirt was that of the palm tree grove and the fairground, not this place. Shakily, Sarah got to her feet and peered into the depths of the forest. She could see no break in the trees, only further beams of light seeping through here and there. She sat down hard upon a great tree root and rubbed her hands and bare feet against the growing cold. The air was damp and ripe.

  This place was very old. Aeons old. Ancient.

  “How did I get here?”

  Silence weighed heavily upon the forest, and Sarah knew she would get no answers sitting on a tree root in the dark. Brushing herself down, she got to her feet, fighting the urge to cry, to shout, to scream, to run in fear through the dismal place. Sarah walked on into the forest.

  The going was not easy, nor pleasant. The damp and cold of the forest made her dirty clothes cling to her. Her feet and ankles were soon soaking from squelching through mud, mulch, and puddles of bog-water. Brambles, branches and twigs nicked her face and snagged her sleeves and pants until she was sure she looked like a scarecrow. She followed the light that pierced the leaves, hoping that if she kept going long enough, there would be something else for her to follow. An animal crawling out of the undergrowth, perhaps. A night-bird taking flight. Something to lead her to the edge of the forest and to the outside world. There was no other way for her to find out how she had got there. Or where, exactly, she was.

  Her stomach rumbled, and despite the dampness, her mouth was growing very dry. But there was no clean water in this place; she would have to keep going.

  Something has to happen soon, she thought. Something has to show me the way.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was not so much a house as a hut that she came to. It squatted low on a mossy bank of piled earth and the windows were small, grubby squares. It was made from white wooden logs partially plastered over with grey clay. Light streamed from the windows and smoke from the chimney. Sarah was very tired and hungry, so she walked away from the path of moonbeams she had been following through the forest, climbed the squelching bank of earth, and knocked at the stunted door. The door opened to reveal an old woman clad in loose Hessian clothes that had seen better days. She was stooped at the shoulders, and her features were long, pinched, and narrow. Pearl-like eyes peered from the many wrinkles that made up her face. In her hands was a broom of silver birch, which she set aside as soon as she laid eyes upon Sarah. She smiled and stood away from the threshold, spreading out one arm.

  “Please, child, do come and warm yourself by my hearth. It is cold and wet in the forest, and you look hungry. I have warmth, water, and food for you. Please, child, come in. Do come in.”

  Sarah hesitated, eyeing the old woman and the way she smiled as if she were suddenly the hungry one. Then the odour of roast meat wafted out to her, and she stepped inside. The old woman closed the door behind her. Sarah heard the sound of a crude bolt being driven home but didn’t much care. She saw a plain bed by a fireplace, over which a steaming pot of stew was coming to the boil, and a small table with two chairs. There were books on the table, old and leather-bound, as well as scattered bundles of herbs and flora. The old woman must have been doing something with the bundles when Sarah disturbed her.

  “Sit. Sit. Please, sit. Welcome to my humble home, child. Won’t you tell me your name?”

  “Sarah Bean.”

  “I am Yagga. Have you heard of me?”

  Sarah shook her head, hoping she had not offended the old woman.

  Yagga shrugged. “Some in the Thirteen Worlds have, some haven’t. It doesn’t matter.”

  “The Thirteen Worlds? What do you mean?”

  “The Thirteen Worlds. Each one of which hangs above our heads, resting on the bows and branches of this place, where the roots of all Worlds grow and the Paths to and from them all lead. This is the Wood Beneath the Worlds. Which World did you come from?”

  This is like a dream, Sarah thought.

  “America ... Earth.”

  "Earth-Earth-Earth ... ah, yes, the Twelfth World, I think, or maybe Eleventh. Have you been to the Thirteenth? No, no, you can’t have done. It’s dark and lonely out there, and those who go to the Thirteenth never come back. Not very nice there. No, it’s not very nice at all.”

  “Do you come from ... a World?”

  “Me? No-no-no-no. The Wood Beneath, this is my home. I look after the trees, care for them and tend their roots. And now I have someone to help me, which is wonderful!”

  “Help you…? No, look, I’m sorry, you’re very kind, but I need to get out of here. Get back home. I don’t know how I got here, but I need to get back to the Twelfth ... to Earth.”

  “There is no getting back.”

  “But you just said there were Paths.”

  “And there are, but you will not tread them because you are staying here with me.” Yagga’s voice became hard. “You have crossed over my threshold, and you may not cross back out without my blessing, which I will not give. I could do with a maid, someone to keep the place in good order, clean and tidy for me. You will do well enough.”

  “But I can’t. My Mom and sister will be worried about me.”

  “Then they can worry.”

  Whoever she was, Sarah thought, she must have gone mad living alone down here. Sarah went to the door, opened it and took a step forward. Pain surged up from her foot as it hung in mid-air, a fierce sensation of pins and needles that soon became blistering agony. She collapsed to the floor, gasping. Cold sweat broke out all over her body, and she hugged herself tight as the pain subsided in gradual waves.

  Yagga's shadow fell over her. “I’m sorry, dear, but I can’t let you leave. Whatever sent you here to me, sent a blessing, and I mean to keep you, whether you like it or not.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The days and nights that passed were sad, slow things. Yagga put Sarah to work. She slept on a thin mattress woven from straw and reeds and was awoken each morning by Yagga rapping her across the shoulders with her walking stick.

  “Up, up, up. Get up. Morning is here. Time for your chores if you want food and water today.”

  Each day, the tasks were different but depressingly familiar: scrubbing out the fireplace, mopping the floor, picking bad grains from the rice and meal that Yagga brought home. Never meat, Sarah thought, just thin rice gruel and bland porridge to subsist on, along with tepid water.

  “There are no animals in the Wood, child. Only the trees and a few things that fall through to us from the Worlds, just like you did to me,” Yagga said with a smile.

  Only I didn’t fall, thought Sarah, I was taken. Brought here. Somehow. For some strange reason.

  She cried at night, keeping as quiet as she could. She missed Mom; her sister, Kiley; and her boxer pup, Malarkey. She missed kisses, comfort, and loving hugs. There was none of that here, just Yagga’s crazed mumbling, guttural snoring, and that stick smacking across her shoulders every morning until she was sure she could feel bruises blossoming. She cried at night, and when Yagga left the hut to forage, she cried again, though it was so dark outside it might as well have been night still.

  She only knew the difference between day and night because Yagga said it was so, in the beginning. Then, one day, Sarah saw the White Rider for the first time. She had been outside, sweeping leaves, moss, and mould away from the hut with a broom that h
ad seen better days, much better days, when she heard the thunder of hooves. She stopped and turned in the direction of the sound. There was a light, dim but growing steadily more brilliant with every second. Out of the dark of the Wood it came, blazing like a small sun, and Sarah thought of being in its path. Images of racing trains, speeding cars, and the shriek of brakes hit too late by the driver flooded her mind as the light resolved into the form of a man on horseback. A knight in armour fashioned from the essence of fire. No smoke or fumes rose from him, only flickering iridescent tongues that did not seem to touch the wood of the trees or to ignite it.

  “… O Flame, Thy Fire rising …”

  He is burning, she thought, just like I did, this knight is made of the same Fire.

  He was passing her—intent on his Path, streaming with glimmering trails of golden motes—when he turned his head to her. She felt his unseen eyes appraising her. A pleasant warmth passed through her as he moved on, burning then glowing, and then finally dwindling into the distance, following his Path.

  But for a moment, he had stolen a glance at her.

  Why?

  Maybe he recognised something in me, she thought, as she bent back to her sweeping. Maybe we are the same because we burn with the same Fire.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, when she swept the hut, Sarah found a doll in a corner.

  A small doll stitched of old sacking, wedged inside a crevice. She set her broom down, took the doll out, and brushed it down. It had a chipped button for an eye and traces of thread holding it together. There were felt stumps where cloth ears had once been. She could feel that it was stuffed with grain of some kind, probably the bad ones Yagga had her pick out until she couldn’t tell white from black. Though she was sure she could feel something sturdier in there, like a length of knotty root. Someone’s attempt to give the doll a crude skeleton? she wondered.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something she could call a friend.

  It’s like the bear I won at the rifle range when Dad was still alive, she thought.