Young Writers Society

5

Snapdragon

Something wrenches me backwards. There’s a hand on my face and an arm over my throat, pressing hard against my windpipe so that I can’t scream, can’t cry out, can’t do anything but kick and struggle as blackness eats across my vision. My foot hits the notebook; I hear it skid down the banking, maybe to be washed away—

My hand reaches up behind me, finds a handful of something soft and curly. I pull hard, coming away with a clump of white hair. A blow to the temple knocks me dizzy, and then I’m on the floor, face down, somebody’s body weight pressing me into the ground.

“I’ll be quick about this,” a voice says. “Where are the riders going?”

I’d guess it’s a male voice, but it’s hard to tell. One of my hearing aids fell out in the struggle – I can see it, in the grass next to an icon-carving. I feel off-balance, I can taste soil, and my vision is full of sparks.

He twists my ear hard. “Where are they? I shan’t ask again.”

I grit my teeth. “You just did.”

He twists harder, his nails digging right into my skin. “This information was meant for me. Return it, or I’ll rip your ear off.”

Something clicks - the other buyer, the one who found the cheese seller before me – and unease prickles through my body. I wish I could crane my head around to look at him.

“I’ll give you three questions,” I hiss. “I’ll answer them truthfully. But only three – and if you don’t get the answer you want, you leave me alone.”

“Very well.” His grip doesn’t loosen on my hair. “Where are the riders going?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to specify which riders you mean.”

He shakes my head a little, not hard enough to hurt. “The riders whom the cheesemaker told you about. Where are they travelling to?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat. “No cheesemaker told me about riders. I talked to a guy who sells cheeses. His abair do the making.”

“You little rat,” he mutters. His voice is a child’s in a temper. “You think you can steal from me?"

“Maybe. Ask your last question.”

His fingers tighten. “You’ll answer honestly?”

“I will.”

“As you say. What is your name?”

My stomach drops. Something presses at my throat, the words rising, pulled upwards by a promise – and god, am I really, truly this stupid? I bite into the grass to keep from speaking, clogging my mouth with mud. He’s saying something else, but I can’t hear—

Can’t hear.

The faer loosens his hands from my hair, to reach round and pry the dirt from my mouth. I wait until his weight eases off my back, and then I move.

I throw my head back, straight into his face. A sickening crack of bones, a scream, and I scramble up, twist round and hurl my whole weight onto him. My hands find his face – hair – I plug two thumbs deep into his ears, just as my mouth opens—

My name spills into the cold air, as quick and quiet as I can make it. I bow my head so he can’t read my lips, speaking into my scarf.

At once the tension leaves my bones. My arms are jelly - he rips my hands away with ease, shoves me hard onto the ground. But he doesn’t launch himself at me, hit me, tear my ears. He took my offer. I answered his questions, and I did it honestly.

So we only sit, panting, and stare at each other.

He’s strange in the moonlight. Grey-skinned and white-haired, with sharp, empty eyes and a crown of snapdragons woven into his hair. From the neck up, he’s starkly faer, and his edges blur when I don’t look at him directly. But his clothes are mismatched and badly sized – a vast canvas jacket, a shapeless dress, cherry-patterned leggings, a clumpy pair of Adidas trainers.

“Rat,” he spits. Blood drips from his nose. “You’ll regret this.”

“I already do.” I wipe my hands on the grass. “I’ve got half your fucking earwax up my nails.”

I crawl through the grass towards the carving. It’s detailed and well-maintained, touched up with dark paint, and I don't understand how I didn’t notice it when I first approached the stream. My hearing aid sits between two of its knotted feet, and I snatch it up quickly, inclining my head to the icon’s pitted eyes. The aid whistles when I fix it into place, but my hands are trembling and I can’t sort it out now. I’m picking my way towards the banking, casting left and right, looking for a flutter of pages, of blue ink—

The faer follows after me, his eyes burning into my back.

“Leave me alone,” I say, loud above the feedback. “You agreed.”

“I’ll leave you alone.” His voice is cold. “I’ll certainly leave you alone.”

There’s a gleam to his words, like a knife catching moonlight. I turn just in time to see him grasp a stone from the floor. He hurls it, overarm, and it smashes into the carving, taking a chunk out of its spiked head.

My body goes cold. The faer flashes a sickled smile, and then he steps into the shadow of a tree and disappears.

I’m alone.

Alone, with a broken icon, as the trees begin to writhe.

I scramble down the banking, scooping up the sandy notebook and pushing it under my arm. I shoulder my pack and run, even as the roots stir in the earth, making it roil like water – even as the brambles shift and net the gaps between the trees, and the branches reach down to lash at my face—

A twig whips across my forehead. Blood pours down into my eyes, and I trip and slam into the wavering earth. My teeth click. I try to claw my way upright, but the grass twines around my legs, and I can’t rip through it fast enough—

The smell of soil and vegetation hits like hot air. I raise my eyes.

A creature of the forest looms over me, drenching me in shadow. There’s something spider-like in its appearance, in its twisting roots and long, sprawling legs, but the thickness of its limbs puts me in mind of an ape. It’s a mass of roiling roots and creaking wood, its face sunken and full of twig-teeth. It stares me down with two pitted eyes, the twins of its broken icon.

“Help me,” I choke out – the words are dragged from my throat, barely mine. “Help me—”

The forest-faer descends, teeth bared – I taste soil and decay, hear the hideous crack of branches, feel leaves scrape through my hair—

And then there are two arms on my shoulders, and I’m lying on cool grass in shadowy silence. The snapdragon faer is leaning over me, still with that sickle-smile. His eyes are scraps of hot metal.

“Still want to be left alone?” he asks.