Elementárni ~ 2.1

A/N: The chapters will be getting really long from here onwards, and for that I apologise. I managed to break through my block and realised that my plot's more complex than I'd first thought, hence the delay while I straightened some things out. I know there are a lot of unanswered questions here, but pwomises they'll be answered soon. ~P

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Chapter Two:

Acoustic Suppressions

Freight trains of lightning crashed through the darkening sky in perpetual disarray, whilst the wind whistled a tuneless melody. Electricity fizzled through the atmosphere, slicing through the clouds as cleanly as a butcher's knife. Warnings had been issued in Scarborough and adjacent areas, the meteorology department urging all people to remain inside until the natural hurling-of-bolts ceased. There was a high risk of getting struck and every bolt of lightning seemed to mark a spot nearer and nearer to the ground. It was dangerous. It was frightening.

And to a fourteen year old boy curled up against the window, it was breathtakingly gorgeous.

Hawk Mason placed a pale hand against the windowpane, dark eyes almost grinding through the glass as he took in the sky. His lips curled into a half-smile on his angular face. If he closed his eyes he could imagine the lightning, hissing and piercing through a cloudy abyss, up high where the atmosphere didn’t weigh down on anything. The wind whirling ... it felt so free. Hawk could almost sense the sheer adrenaline pulsating down his spine.

We’re in for one heck of a storm, he thought.

Dead, scrunched-up leaves swept up against the lounge window like miniature dancers, lashing and kicking at the glass. The wind lisped, causing Hawk to shiver. The cold was seeping into everything. It clung onto the heavy oak doors, on the carpet, on the apple-patterned wallpaper, and its nails dug into their skin.

Shifting himself so that his front pressed against the back of the sofa, Hawk leaned his forehead against the cold glass. Wisps of dark hair fell over his eyes and he pushed them back irritably, scrunching his nose up when he saw the clouds approaching: great, grey, heaving pillars that moved almost sluggishly through the hollowed-out sky. Cumulonimbus, probably, but he couldn’t be sure.

The fire crackled in the grate, warming his back, and its flames hissed. Hawk had been sitting there for most of the morning, trying to ignore the cold that rattled upstairs. It was a pity his aunt, Ann Bobby, wouldn’t let him light the fire in his room, though he couldn’t for the life of him see why she didn’t. ‘Children shouldn’t play with fire,’ she would say. Hawk frowned, breathing against the glass where it had fogged over. No matter how old he got, it seemed that he would always be a child. 

He pushed the curtains aside so as to be able to see better and registered vaguely how icicle-like they were, hanging so limply on either side of the window’s glassy lips. Like faded green leaves, frozen by Winter's malicious gaze.

I wish I had a telescope, he thought irritably. The window was hardly the best place to be studying the weather, but Hawk thought that the sky showed signs of thundersnow, just as it had been for the last few days, except that the devil was moving closer. He had told Ann Bobby as much, but she hadn't shown much of a response other than her, 'Oh? Yes. Of course it is.' It was as though, over the years, she had grown to tune out Hawk’s rambles, on the long road-trips that stretched out through the night, and the dreary days where the rain would constantly clash against the pavement. Even now she was busy, talking about goodness-knows-what as she chopped vegetables and banged pots against the kitchen counter. Hawk could hear the clangs clearly from the room across the lounge. But he only caught a word or two of what she said over the sound of the wind rattling against the pane, and the man on the television who was droning on about a hurricane somewhere on the West Coast of the USA.

‘Temperatures have dropped alarmingly quickly and meteorologists all over the country agree…’

‘Need to pack…’ Ann Bobby said distractedly, as she entered the room, nearly dropping the cat into the fireplace as she tripped over the carpet (Puss let out an angry yowl); and hanging the kettle by the doorknob, from where it fell to the floor with a clang. ‘...and of course I can’t take you along, which is rather unfortunate, but seeing as I’ve never left you alone before—are you listening to me, Hawk?’ She was compulsively straightening the pictures on the walls as she said this, dusting at them with her handkerchief. Ann Bobby had a tendency to dust when she was nervous.

‘Hm?’ Hawk said, absentmindedly tracing lines into the glass. ‘Yes, of course I am. Have you noticed that it hasn’t snowed yet today?’

‘… the worst storm to date since 1945. Statistics show …’

‘… not listening, Hawk,’ Ann Bobby was saying now. ‘You’d think …’

‘… wind succeeded in creating great chills,’ the television droned, ’which may result in frostbite …’

‘… been telling you for the last half an hour …’ Ann Bobby’s voice echoed in his skull.

‘… and it appears as though weather all over the world is climbing to extremes.’

‘Hawk!’ A hand appeared on his shoulder and Hawk jumped from where he had been sitting, ear pressed against the glass. He stumbled to the side, falling over the seat and hitting his head with a dull thunk on the carpeted floor.

‘Oof,’ he said, as jet-black sparks filled up his vision and the world rocketed to-and-fro. He watched the ceiling swim around for a bit, then everything cleared and a disapproving, glaring face swooped in and blocked the wooden rafters from view.

‘Would you like to tell me what exactly you were doing with your ear grinding into the window, Hawk?’ Ann Bobby said, red-and-grey hair falling in loose tendrils around her as she knelt over him. Hawk sneezed violently in response.

Ann Bobby sighed. ‘Alright, then. C’mon. Get up.’

Hawk grunted, and squirmed around on the floor for a bit. His legs were still sticking up in the air from when he had fallen, and he wiggled his feet a little, watching his neon shoelaces dangle above him like glowworms. He managed to propel himself so he was sitting with his back against the sofa, and stood up, rubbing at where his head had collided with the floor.

‘That hurt,’ he grumbled.

‘That’s usually what happens when your head hits the floor, Hawk,’ Ann Bobby called, sarcasm evident in her tone. She was halfway up the stairs now. ‘Come upstairs. I have a couple of things you need to do.’ Hawk followed her, stepping carefully around the brand new carpet that masked the creaking wooden planks, and into the passageway. It was less old-fashioned as compared to the lounge, wallpapered in soft greens and blues, pictures lining the wall above the staircase. Most of them were landscapes. Ann Bobby didn’t like hanging up pictures of people. ‘Besides,’ she’d always say, whenever Hawk asked her, ‘the only person who really matters to me is you, and you’re here all the time with me anyway.’

Hawk’s mother had died years ago, but that was something Hawk didn’t really remember, besides garbled visions of a black-and-white funeral. In fact, it was strange how little he remembered about his mother, considering he’d been eight years old when It had happened. It bothered him a little, but he’d visited her grave several times with Ann Bobby, and he knew her name was Reine. Pictures of her—Ann Bobby had none. She didn’t have any pictures of her brother either, a man Hawk barely knew, and had never really met. As far as he was concerned, Ann Bobby was his family, and that was all that mattered.

Hawk slid his hand up and down the banisters as he walked up the stairs, still lost in thought. He skipped the last few steps, taking them two at a time, and entered the narrow passage that led to their rooms. It was darker up here; Ann Bobby had forgotten to turn on the light. Hawk frowned. Strange. Switching the light on, he tromped towards Ann Bobby’s door, tapping his knuckles against the wood.

‘Ann Bobby?’ he said loudly. ‘You wanted me here?’

No reply. The silence was almost ghostly. Outside, the wind howled like an injured wolf.

‘Ann Bobby?’ Hawk repeated tersely, gritting his teeth. If this was Ann Bobby’s idea of a joke, then it was not funny, he thought. He turned the doorknob, only to find that it was locked. Pulse skittering, Hawk’s stomach contorted with fear. He banged on the door. ‘Open the door, Ann Bobby. I’m—I’m sorry I wasn’t listening to you earlier.' He rata-tat-tatted harder. When she didn’t answer, Hawk put his ear to the keyhole, straining his ears for a sound. Maybe his aunt was just ignoring him. He heard someone groan on the other side, but it was barely audible, as if the sound itself was muffled by a mass of feathers. Quiet thumps, the sound of metal scrabbling against wood, then—silence. It pierced through Hawk’s heart worse than fear ever could. He kicked at the door. Harder.

‘Open the door, Ann Bobby,’ he pleaded, trying and failing to keep the fear out of his voice. He was overreacting, maybe, but Ann Bobby had been acting so … strange lately; quiet and withdrawn. Had she been eating properly? What if she had fainted or—what if she was sick or weak and hadn’t told him because he’d been so caught up in himself?

She’s been acting weird and cut-off ever since the move to Low Wood, Hawk, the voices in his head whispered. And you're noticing now?

Hawk gritted his teeth, laying his palms flat against the door and pushing—pushing, trying to ignore the guilt. It's true, though, he thought miserably. He'd been holed up in his room and Ann Bobby had been jumpy ever since those two men showed up at their hotel in Cornwall—two months ago. He remembered trying to catch sight of their faces, as Ann Bobby hurried him by the reception, but besides their burly backsides, he hadn’t seen anything. Now, though, as he slumped against the door, he wondered.

What was Ann Bobby so afraid of? For as long as Hawk could remember, he and his aunt had always been moving, from place to place, one creaky, old house to the other. Shifty glances, fear pooling in her eyes, Ann Bobby never told him why, and Hawk had eventually stopped asking. We distanced ourselves from one another, he realised. I grew caught up in my books and Ann Bobby in her worries. He mentally berated himself for not paying his aunt enough attention, before scrambling to his feet and focusing on the door again. The wood was softer nearer the bottom, he knew, but he needed to apply force from as far from the hinge as possible. He curled his hand up into a fist and raised it above his head, but just then the door opened with a decisive click. It hung open, just slightly, and Hawk pushed it open impatiently.

'Ann Bobby, I—' Hawk began, as he stepped into the tiny room, but he forgot what he was going to say.

What on earth?

The window was open, curtains flying like ruffled feathers in a storm. An open suitcase was lodged into the space, half the contents spilling out—clothes, mostly. Hawk didn't waste time wondering how the suitcase had gotten there, or who'd put it there in the first place. No. He was too busy staring at how the bed's mattress had been ripped open, the pillowcase that Ann Bobby used to stuff with documents thrown into the fireplace, not burnt, but with a poker stuck right through it.

And Ann Bobby was nowhere in sight. Hawk swore vociferously, fighting down the urge to scream.

He rushed towards the window, stumbling slightly over the contents scattered on the floor, and pulled the suit-case so it lay on the floor. He pushed the glass upwards until he could see outside. A world that was dead. The sky was swirling with clouds, and the woods were visible in the distance, trees like cardboard cut-outs, swaying in the wind. Their naked branches clawed at the sky.

If Ann Bobby fell out of the window—Hawk gulped, visions of a broken body filling his mind. Blood spewing out, bones bent at odd angles. He'd seen people fall from heights in films, and it was never a pretty sight. Breathing heavily, Hawk lowered his eyes to the ground, leaning his body outside the window—but, no. His eyes didn't meet with those of a corpse, but the flower-garden that had withered, dead from cold. Frost covered the bare ground.

'What the hell?' Hawk said, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. The other was clamped tightly on the windowpane. His knuckles were turning white. Where had Ann Bobby gone? How could she have just disappeared? It was surreal. She couldn't have climbed out the window either; she was fit for a woman in her thirties, yes, but his aunt had never been the kind to scale buildings within the span of five minutes, and then disappear from sight. Hawk felt dizzy, incoherent, numb. Ann Bobby, he thought. Ann Bobby needed ... be ... found.

'ANN BOBBY!' Hawk yelled in a last-ditch effort. The world was swaying around him. Nothing was making any sense. The wind howled back to Hawk's cries, as if telling him that the world didn't have to make sense.

OK, Hawk, he told himself. Get a grip on yourself. Concentrate. Ann Bobby didn't jump. What happened, then? Kidnapping? But even then there'd have at least been a tussle—some noise.
Hawk shivered, the hair on his back stood on end, and he realised.

Someone had unlocked the door. 

~End of Chapter Two, Part One.~