Young Writers Society

4

Mistletoe

My triumph lasts precisely a minute. After that, the fear hits like cold water.

I keep walking, pushing it back, ignoring it, but a wall of dense brambles forces me to stop and scout a new route, and suddenly my legs won’t move. They’re shaking like twigs in a wind tunnel, and my breath comes in gasps, fogging the air. It’s so much colder here. Too cold to think.

The trees blot out the moon. Any meagre light comes from within the forest – the will-o-wisps dancing just out of sight, glowing faerie rings, stray lanterns hanging from branches to mark the Road. It’s not enough to see detail by, but enough to sketch lines into the landscape. It makes me feel half-asleep, like I can’t fully open my eyes.

I feel more alone than I have for hours. The faer boy isn’t following – no point, now I’ve declined his offer three times. I know others must be watching. The smell of leaf-mould and pollen makes my head swim, but the scent of enchantment is stronger still, like incense.

I tuck my hands into my armpits. Try to think about what Mum would do.

Mistletoe, says a voice at the back of my mind. Neutral ground.

I nod vigorously, as though the suggestion came from outside of me. Maybe it did.

So I retrace my steps through the soil, using my phone as a torch – better to create your own light in the Faerlands, so you’re not tempted to follow someone else’s. I watch the beam flit over the dirt and the tree trunks and the spidery branches above, straining to make out clumps in the trees. I spot several birds’ nests. Nothing else.

A memory springs up. Winter. Gran taking us out into the woods to harvest mistletoe berries, making us shin up trees and press seeds into crevices in the branches. Violet was a stronger climber than me, handier with the knife.

“What do we need it for?” Violet once asked, scarf tucked over her nose.

I made lip-smacking noises. “It’s so you can go kissy kiss kiss with the faeries.”

“None of ‘em’ll be kissing you, you runny-nose pup,” Gran said. “It’s got power, mistletoe. Wherever it grows, nobody’s got dominion. It’s free land. If you’re under mistletoe, you don’t have to bow to anybody.”

“It makes things safe, then?”

“No,” Gran said. “Just safer.”

I’ll take safer. Chills keep rising on my arms, and will-o-wisps blur the edges of my vision. Something nips my leg, but I tell myself it’s just a twig. I worry about my phone battery, but it’s not gone down by much. Then I just worry about the light, about drawing attention to myself. When something runs over my foot, I tap it off. Darkness drenches everything.

But some of the coldness fades, and the will-o-wisps don’t cluster as strongly. I have to go slower, putting my hands out before my face, taking high steps so as not to trip on the roots. But it’s safer. The shadows hide me as well as anything else.

And then a rent opens in the canopy, and I see a tangle of mistletoe.

My heart lifts. It’s not just that – if the moon is passing through, the trees must be thinning. Another twenty meters and I can make out new lights in the distance. Not the blue-orange of will-o-wisps, nor the inconsistent bobbing of overhead lanterns. They're diamond-hard, gathering in small clusters. A village.

I make straight for it. Most villages – the ones in the outer Faerlands, at least – are placed on neutral ground, because it’s easy land to build on. Good for trading, too – always better to haggle on equal footing, in a place where you can give your honest opinion on the goods. Only a madman would sell where someone else held dominion.

Or a madwoman, in mum’s case.

I keep walking, lifting my eyes at each passing tree, keeping the mistletoe in my sights. The village is small, a scattering of wattle-and-daub houses, spooling dirt paths and crazy fencing. Goats watch me from between the gaps, and a horse neighs loud enough for me to make out. I spot a face at one of the windows, but it’s gone when I look next.

The paths are marked with leaning streetlamps. The light glares, fiercely electric, which means there must be enough abair in the village to run a generator. It doesn’t seem to be plentiful, though. The houses – the ones still awake, at least – are lit by candlelight, and smoke trails from several chimneys.

I eye it wistfully. It’s safer, definitely, to sleep outside. But the wind nips at my face and neck, and I ache all over.

It’s neutral ground, whispers the voice again. And you have things to trade.

I walk until I come to a house of reasonable size – there’s a sign outside, written in a language I can’t place, but it gives it the look of a B&B. The gate hangs open like a beckoning hand. A candle sputters in the window.

I walk up the path and knock three times. A cat slinks out of the shadows, fixes me with a stare, then walks off. Its footsteps are too heavy for its size.

Then the door opens. A woman. She looks less human than the faer I met on the Road, but not by much. Head-on, she is only grey and thin. It’s only in my peripheral vision that she becomes cobweb-haired, her face flashing with too many eyes.

“Hi,” I say. I lick my lips, fighting the impulse to bow. “Can I trade for a room for the night?”

I miss what she says the first time, because her voice is like crumbling leaves. I gesture to my hearing aid. I’m not sure if she understands, but she speaks louder nevertheless.

“There are beds,” she says. Her accent is impossible to place. “If you have wares.”

She sniffs the toffee and fruit bread in turn, recoiling and shaking her head. We go through half the contents of my bag before she accepts two triple-A batteries.

“These are good,” she says. “I will give you best room and breakfast for these. A good breakfast.”

As I step over the mat – it smells of clay inside, and something like tea – an idea flickers through me. It doesn’t feel like my idea.

“Rather than breakfast,” I say, “could I get an answer from you?”

She looks uncertain. “Depends on question.”

“Have you heard anything about a woman?” I say, trying to keep my face neutral. “A human woman. She sells dresses from Dun – makes them herself, like. She disappeared yesterday.”

Her eyes flicker. “Our - our yesterdays are not same.”

“Well - okay, yes, but – here it might be a few days ago, or even longer, I don’t know. But have you seen anything? She’s only a bit older than me, but with black hair, brown skin--”

“I seen no woman,” the faer says. She jerks her head towards the stairs, her fist closing tight around the batteries. “You can come now, please. Your room.”

The staircase is narrow, steep, and squeaks like a tormented shrew. She scuttles up without pausing for breath. I dig my hands into my pocket, wondering whether I can press her for answers. Wondering whether I dare to.

The room sits at the very top. She flicks her wrist through the air – the coals stir in the grate, and candles flare to life in the chandelier overhead. Most of the woodwork is human-made, engraved and sanded with tools, but I spot faer furniture too. The bedside table is a raw tree stump, rough-hewn and crudely lacquered, probably by hand. The faer sees me looking.

“This is the best room,” she whispers, a flush creeping up her neck.

“It’s lovely,” I say. “I, uh, love the traditionalism.”

She looks a surprised, and pinkens further. She’s not used to lies, I realise – probably doesn’t even recognise how they sound. Most faers never realise how easily they grow in a human mouth.

And with that, another idea forms.

“The artwork’s lovely, too,” I say quickly, before she can turn away. I point to a sloppy, finger-painted canvas on the wall opposite. “Did you do that one?”

She pauses, halfway to the door. “Yes. With berry paints.”

“It’s great. Really beautiful.” I glance over her hollow, colourless face, trying to muster the expression Lewis wears whenever he gets chatting to girls in bars. “Not the only beautiful thing around here, come to think of it.”

The faer turns peony, fiddling with her own hands. I wonder if I’ve overdone it, especially when she starts towards the door, but then she stops.

“There is faer in the village, one who sells cheeses,” she says, in barely more than a whisper. “He saw riders, three yesterdays ago. He can give you a better answer, maybe.”

She darts out onto the landing before I can say thank you, pulling the door shut after her. I lean against the bedpost, mulling the words over. Her footsteps fade down the stairs, too many for something with two feet.