10.1
A sudden torrent of rain drums on the window, like the
patter of many rushing footsteps, jerking me from a restless sleep.
In the mornings following Mother’s death, there’d always be
a second or two upon waking when I would forget her passing, before the
memories would reinstall in my brain and shatter the fleeting, blissful
ignorance. This time, when my eyes crack open, my mind instantly snaps to
Conrad, to what I’ve done to him, as if my brain very much continued to wrestle
with this whilst my body slept.
That’s why I notice immediately he isn’t in my arms.
I sit bolt upright, no less awake than if a bucket of water
had been splashed on my face. My eyes struggle to catch up and penetrate our
starlit bedroom—
A shuffle. Something stalks towards me, along the shadowy path
between the dusty boxes. A cold draft prickles against my face. A pair of
glowing blue eyes open, white-less, pupil-less, splitting the dark.
“Kitsune!” I gasp.
Heart pounding, my vision finally adjusts, as if charged by
the adrenaline surging through my veins. Yellow hair appears above the azure
eyes, and a soft voice whispers beneath them.
“Hen. I don’t feel right.”
Conrad collapses into a heap of arms and legs, floorboards
creaking under the sudden strain. Shaking off the moment of terror, I rush to
his aid and hoist him back onto the mattress. His skin is fiery, hotter than a
fever. His eyes are shut, lids tinted with blue—I gently lift one, allowing the
magical light to pour back into the room and confirm that I saw exactly what I
thought I did: the eyes of Kitsune in the place of my brother’s.
“I’m sorry,” I say, backing into the corner, hands
trembling, hating every breath I take, hating that I don’t understand anything
of the crisis I’ve caused. How am I ever going to get Conrad out of this?
-Win.
It’s the hopeful voice, whispering in the back of my mind. But
it doesn’t know what it’s talking about anymore. How can I possibly beat
Kitsune? I’ve pitted myself against a power far beyond myself, and look where
that’s already landed me—landed Conrad.
-But if you hadn’t
challenged Kitsune, if you hadn’t chased after the impossible, you’d never have
known . . .
What good is knowing? What good is it, knowing Kitsune owns
Mother’s soul, if the cost of saving her is one I can’t ask Conrad to pay?
He’ll never sacrifice the souls of three people, and even if he somehow does,
he’ll never forgive himself—he’ll destroy his own soul in the process. And yet if
he doesn’t fulfill the deal, Kitsune will take his soul anyway, and I’ll lose
them both. He’s locked onto a path of self-destruction, and I did that to him.
-So then don’t play
Kitsune’s game; play yours. Bring the fight to him.
Now I know the voice in the back of my mind is not one of
hope, but of sheer insanity, because not for one second do I think that I am
capable of bringing anything to
Kitsune, much less a fight. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I’m in way over my
head—
An eruption of blue light snatches my attention. I glance
down, assuming Conrad must’ve opened his eyes again. I might’ve preferred that.
The light emanates from Conrad’s palms, which are by his
sides, pointing up at the slanting thatch roof. His tiny fingers are curled
into two cups of flesh, and held within them, blue light flashes like a bizarre
combination of electric and flame. For a second I think that the flashing is
shapeless, meaningless, but every so often it pauses for the briefest of
moments, and I catch the contour of an intricate symbol suspended in midair above
his hands, at his fingertips. The symbols perpetually flip from one to the
next, sometimes too fast to distinguish, sometimes almost slowing long enough
to memorise. As the magical pictograms continue to reel, the darkness repeatedly
breaks along with it, so that the room blazes into focus again and again and
again, until I feel so sick I have to close my eyes and cover my face with my
quivering hands to shut it all out.
I should’ve seen this coming. I knew Mother had accepted
Kitsune’s deal when she lived on Shinpi farm. I don’t know why, whether Kitsune
tricked her, or if she was trying to save someone else’s soul, like how we now have
the chance to save hers. I have no idea. What I do know, is that something
about accepting Kitsune’s deal changed her. She was able to use magic.
Gazing into Conrad’s sleeping face, despair and unease rages
within me. I fear that when he wakes up—if
he wakes up—he might not be my little brother anymore.
With all hope of drifting back to sleep well and truly extinguished,
I lean back into the corner, try to ignore the magic flickering in my brother’s
hands, and wait for daybreak.
#
Conrad’s hands stop flashing shortly after sunrise, allowing
a golden glow to claim the room instead.
His eyelids are also no longer tinged with blue. I reach
over to gently lift one and confirm his eyes are definitely back to normal,
when he stirs with a slight moan, and they open of their own accord. A rush of
relief. I recognise the cheerful gaze pointing up at me.
“Good morning Hen!” he chirps, unperturbed by me leaning
over him the second he wakes.
“Er, hey.”
He groggily palms the sleep out of his eyes. After seeing
magic dance in those palms for hours on end, I want to call out a warning of
some sort. But how do I put that into words? I settle for guiding his hands
away from his face—his skin has returned to a natural temperature.
“How are you . . . feeling?” I ask, probably for the first
time in a long time. It’s hard to tell if that’s why he’s immediately excited,
or if it’s just his default setting shining through.
“Well, obviously I feel great!” he says, beaming, exposing
every one of his teeth. “Your idea worked, Hen! We found the lonely spirit! You
did see him, right? He’s a huge fox,
and he has lots of tails, and beautiful blue eyes, like me!”
“Yeah, but—
“And I spoke to him! He can talk! Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah, well—
“You won’t believe what he told me. It’s the best news ever.
He said he knows where we can find Momma’s soul! We made a deal together! All I
had to do was touch his tail and then . . . and then . . .”
His voice trails away as he realises this is as far as his
memory will take him.
“Do you feel . . . different?” I ask, finally able to get a
word in.
A small crease forms on his forehead. He stares back at me,
as if waiting for me to rephrase my question.
“We had to carry you out of the forest. You sort of . . .
fell asleep,” I finish lamely.
“Oh, yes . . . I was very tired, wasn’t I?”
I’m not sure how to answer. He seems very much his ordinary
self and it feels wrong to disturb that. The huge grin stretches once more on
his face, igniting his eyes. “We’re going to find Momma,” he says with awe.
“Conrad, listen to me. Did Kitsune—
“He said we can call him Kit!”
“Fine. Did Kit
tell you how to—how we might go about . . . finding Momma’s soul.”
“Um,” he says, prolonging the sound as he stares up into his
brain. “He said he told you how.”
My hands clench into shaking fists.
“Did he, Hen? Did he
say how we’re going to find Momma?”
A clutter comes from downstairs, turning our heads.
“Daddy’s up!” Conrad says, wiggling out of bed. “We can tell
him the good news!”
“No!” I shout, too loudly. He jumps, and stares back at me,
mouth ajar. “Listen,” I continue, calmer, slower, making each word count. “You
can’t under any circumstances tell Father about what happened last night. Not
about the spirit, about Mother, about any of it.”
“But why?” he whines. “Won’t he be happy that we can find
Momma’s soul?”
“Conrad, please. Think about the story he told us. About
those children that disappeared. If Father knows this stuff is real, he’ll think
we’re in danger. He’ll take us back to the city like that,” I say, clicking my
fingers.
“No he won’t, not if we can see Momma again,” he pouts, defiant,
tears welling in his eyes. Before I can stop him, he scurries between the
mounds of boxes and out of our bedroom.
I bolt after him.
#
We join Father in the living quarters, where once again he’s
busy lighting the hearth, likely to dispel the thick, dank scent of rotten wood
that clings in the air following the heavy rainfall.
“Hey, kids,” he greets us. His growing cheeriness has not
yet ceased to surprise me. He really does love being back here. I pray that
isn’t about to come crashing down.
Conrad and I sit on opposite edges of the firepit; he
continually looks like he’s about to tell Father something, but cannot decide
the right words to do so. I shoot him pleading looks, which as my nerves grow,
turn into harsher looks of warning. Whenever Conrad catches one of these
glares, he simply answers back by sticking his tongue out at me.
“Daddy, guess what,” he finally says. I steel myself,
waiting for the storm to break.
Father looks up, fumbling with a piece of flint.
“We went into the forest last night!”
I know immediately that this is the worst thing Conrad could
have possibly said. If he’d started with something else, like the spirit or the
magical tree, for example, then Father would’ve brushed him off, since he
always comes up with stuff like that. The evidence of our journey into the
forest, however, is painfully obvious; both of our legs are flecked with mud, our
hair is tousled and riddled with scraps of foliage, our hands thick with grime.
Father rounds on me, eyes dangerously wide as they comb over
my appearance. Conrad must catch his expression.
“Wait, Daddy, my story gets better!”
“Explain,” Father says to me, ignoring Conrad’s attempt to
derail his anger.
My brain scrambles for a way out. I can’t deny that we went
into the forest. But maybe I don’t have to. An idea sparks.
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say, shrugging slightly. “Conrad
thought he saw something in the forest, so he climbed out the window. You know
how he gets.”
Conrad gasps, flinching, as if physically struck by my lie.
“And you just let
him?” Father asks me incredulously, glancing at Conrad.
“Well, he’s really fast and I was half asleep,” I say,
letting the story tell itself. “I also thought about trying to wake you up
first, but that might’ve taken too long.”
He’s already heard enough. He rounds on Conrad, pinching the
bridge of his nose. “Conrad. How many times have I told you not to wander off
whenever you please?”
“But I didn’t—“
“How many times?” he says more urgently. “Go to your room.”
“But Daddy, we saw a spirit, and it said—“
“Go to your room!”
Father shouts. The words echo into a dreadful silence. This is exactly what I
counted on, for Father to predictably dismiss the problem rather than face it
head on. By sending Conrad away, I’ve bought myself more time. But how much?
Conrad stamps all the way up the stairs, across the balcony
and back into the bedroom, lips pursed.
“That boy’s imagination will get him into trouble one day,” Father
mutters to himself, striking the flint with a steel rod so that sparks shower
into a nest of kindling.
“He went upstairs a little too easily,” I point out. “Aren’t
you worried he’ll just climb back out the window again?”
Father swipes at the flint but misses completely. “Go and
sit with him, please. I’ll bring up some breakfast.”
When I reach the balcony overlooking the living quarters,
Father calls up to me.
“Henrik,” he says, stoking a young fire. “Thanks for looking
out for him.”
I offer a small nod in response, and return to the bedroom.
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