Kronos Read online

  ‘Come now, girl,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t go worrying about what Volk says – he just loves to scare people, is all, loves to keep them awake at nights. He don’t mean nothing in what he says.’

  ‘No!’ she insists. ‘It’s all true! I felt him. I did! It was like I had become smaller than the eye could see, like looking down on myself. Out there in the shadows of the trees, lost I was, lost in all the ivy and the dead things that make the earth soft. I could hear them, Barton, I could hear the worms eating!’

  Ann’s breathing becomes laboured and it makes me think of Old Ma in those last few days, propped up in bed, chest making a noise like a dog in pain whenever she tried to drag one more breath inside her. It panics me to hear that and I hop over to my sister, holding her tight until she begins to calm down.

  ‘That’s it, girl,’ I say. ‘Whatever it was has gone now. Long gone. Get your breath and don’t cry.’

  After a moment or two she does. Holding onto the wood of the table as if she’s scared she might fall off if she doesn’t.

  ‘I went back to Petra,’ she says. ‘To where I’d left her. And what I saw …’

  Her stare goes somewhere else – looking inside her own head, I guess. It’s a bang on the door that brings her round. She flinches as if whoever it is is hitting her and not the wood.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’ll get it.’

  I hop over to the fire, grab my sticks and, with their support, go and answer the door. It’s Dr Marcus.

  ‘How is she?’ he asks, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Confused,’ I answer, feeling – I don’t know why – that I want him to leave so I can keep my sister to myself.

  He nods. ‘Can Isabella look after Ann for a bit? There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘Isabella’s not here,’ I tell him. ‘She’s over in the fields helping Pa.’ She’s always helping, I think to myself: ever since the accident it’s only me that sits around here all day.

  The doctor thinks for a moment and then nods again towards his horse. ‘Ann will be all right for a while. Come over for a minute.’

  I don’t like to leave Ann but she’s still staring into space, and Marcus is walking across to his horse.

  It feels like I have no choice and that makes my anger burn even hotter as I make my way after the doctor.

  ‘She’s had a terrible shock,’ I say. ‘I should be keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ says Marcus. ‘I’ll make sure of that before I leave. First I want you to look at something for me.’

  There is a sack hanging off his saddle. He pulls it down and unties the neck. Inside looks like nothing but earth, then the late sun catches something bright in there. He pulls it out. It’s a short necklace, a plaited knot of silver at the end. I know it, of course, have seen it dozens of times.

  ‘That’s Petra’s,’ I say. ‘Where did you find it?’

  Dr Marcus nods and drops it back into the sack. ‘With what’s left of the poor girl,’ he says and, while I’m looking into that sack of dirt, I find I recognise something else. A finger bone. And suddenly I’m falling all over again.

  Seven

  Carla Loves to Dance

  MY HAIR SMELLS of egg and tomatoes. What a waste of good food.

  Mind you, if I have to stay here much longer I’ll be glad of it. Do you think a girl can survive by sucking her own hair? Knowing my luck, hair-sucking will be another offence against God (who I’m told frowns on most things) and I’ll be beaten all over again. Not that I mind the beating so much. All you have to do is smile while it’s happening and most men soon lose their stomach for it. The stocks, though, and the smell of sun-cooked egg – that’s what I hate. My back feels like it’s been folded in half after the first few hours. Come evening I know I won’t be able to unbend if I try.

  And all because I do so love to dance.

  And what’s so wrong about dancing, Sabbath or no?

  Yes, it was in the churchyard. Yes, it would have been better had I not been with young Tom the coachman (but he is such a pretty young thing and the best dancer I know). Maybe it was the lack of clothes. But it was a lovely evening and clothes just get in the way when you’re having a really good dance.

  I try and get comfortable but all I get for my trouble is a tomato seed in the eye. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat a tomato again. This experience has put me right off them.

  What’s that? Hooves? Another traveller … I can still taste the last one. But then, he did try and burrow under my skirts and what did God give a girl teeth for if he didn’t want her to defend herself?

  This isn’t just a man on horseback, though: the sound is too heavy. This is a coach. Which means that either my luck is improving or the day is about to get worse. This is about usual – I never seem to be able to enjoy a quiet life, things are either really good or really bad.

  I spit out the mouthful of hair that I was currently enjoying and try and look up as the coach draws to a halt a few feet away. It’s no good, I can’t see a thing.

  I hear the coach door open. Someone climbs out. The toes of a pair of boots move into my line of sight. They’re very nice boots. I hope their owner deserves them.

  ‘What are you in trouble for?’ he asks, and his voice sounds foreign but is gentle. A good sign, not conclusive but enough to give a girl hope.

  ‘Dancing on a Sunday,’ I tell him.

  There is a pause. I guess he’s wondering whether to believe me or not. I don’t altogether care. Who is he to judge me? Either he will try and take advantage of me while my hands are bound or he won’t. Either I will have to kick him really hard or I won’t.

  Then he draws his sword and I realise that maybe I’ll have to do more than kick him. The metal whistles through the air and I cry out as the stocks shake around my wrists and neck. What does the idiot think he’s doing?

  Then I realise that the stocks are no longer fastened. He has released me.

  This doesn’t mean I still won’t have to kick him, of course, but it does mean I’m less inclined to do so. So far he’s turned out to be my sort of man.

  I open the stocks slowly and let them fall to the floor before carefully standing up and straightening my back. I really want to cry out – this hurts so much – but I don’t. Never show a man you’re hurting, that’s what my mother told me and I’ve stood by it. I push my hair out of my eyes and take my first good look at him. He’s nice, older than Tom but with the same long blond hair.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, determined that we should at least try and set out on civilised ground.

  He says nothing, just walks back to his carriage. Rude bugger.

  Still, Carla, I say to myself, what you’re looking at here is an opportunity. Do you want to go back to the village where they’ll take one look at you before pelting you with spare food or do you want to find something better? My mother, as well as being a woman of sound advice, gave birth to no idiots. Life around here has consistently proved to be overrated. I run after him.

  ‘Please?’ I say, not quite sure how to ask.

  He stops, half in, half out of his carriage. He closes the door slightly, not wanting me to see inside. Keep your secrets, I think, as long as I get a lift.

  ‘We’re heading east,’ he says.

  ‘East is good,’ I reply.

  He says nothing, just climbs inside his dark carriage and closes the door behind him.

  ‘Come on,’ says the driver, a small man with a tall hat and quite the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen. He holds out his hand and helps me up beside him. He has a hump, I notice – it makes him sit awkwardly in the seat. I hope he doesn’t catch me looking. I wouldn’t want those eyes of his to turn sad.

  ‘I am Professor Grost,’ he says, holding out his hand.

  I take it. ‘Professor?’

  ‘I profess to be,’ he replies with a chuckle before flicking the reins and driving the horses on. This is a joke he’s told many times, I guess. Something to hid
e his awkwardness with strangers.

  ‘And him?’ I ask, indicating the carriage below and behind us.

  ‘He is Kronos,’ says Grost. ‘And he loves picking up strays like you and me.’

  I sniff at my dirty hair. ‘My name’s Carla,’ I say, not that either of them had asked ‘and I’m glad you stopped. I don’t think I could have borne to stay there any longer.’

  ‘Don’t thank us until you know where we’re going,’ he says.

  ‘East, he said.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Grost, with a smile. ‘East.’

  I can tell he’s trying to be clever. Or funny. He’s being neither but I feel no malice about it, he is not trying to be superior, he just isn’t very good with strangers. We sit in silence for a while, driving further and further away from the village where I grew up. I am quite determined not to miss it. Since mother died it offers nothing but men telling me what they think I should do. They never succeed, and they certainly wouldn’t approve of what I am doing now. Which is as good a reason as I can think of to keep doing it.

  After a while the sky begins to darken and Grost looks for a place to sleep. It’s all the same to me, I decide, and tell him so. We’ve long since left my old home behind us and as long as there is somewhere soft to rest my head I don’t much care where it is.

  Eventually Grost settles on a clearing that offers shelter but also enough light for us to see what we’re doing as we build a fire.

  Even though we have stopped for a few minutes, the coach door stays closed and Kronos is hidden. This angers me and I head over there to force him out.

  ‘No,’ says Grost, grasping my wrist. He is seemingly only too aware of my intentions, despite my not having stated them out loud. ‘He stays in there. That’s that.’

  ‘What makes him so special?’ I ask.

  Grost smiles. ‘You’ll see soon enough, I’m sure. Until then don’t worry about it – just help me get this fire lit.’

  He goes back to the rear of the coach where he pulls out food to cook on the fire. I stare at the dark windows. My saviour is quite mad, I decide. Perhaps I have been a little foolish to throw in my lot with the pair of them. Oh well, foolishness is a hobby with me and it hasn’t killed me yet.

  Once the fire is burning and Grost has strung a small pan of ingredients over it to stew, we sit down and he tells me a little about themselves. They travel a great deal, he says, up and down the country (and sometimes beyond). Kronos used to be a soldier, but Grost makes it sound like he still is. Though it’s certainly not the Irish he’s fighting. Perhaps he’s a mercenary? I ask.

  ‘No,’ says Grost. ‘Not in the sense you mean, anyway. Though we do sometimes get paid for our work. Or take what we want from those who have no more need of money.’

  I must look concerned at that as he shakes his head and a look of panic crosses his face.

  ‘That didn’t come out right,’ he insists. ‘We’re not thieves …’

  ‘Why should I care if you are?’ I ask. ‘I have nothing to steal.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he says, ‘we’re not thieves. Or mercenaries.’

  ‘You tell me lots of things you’re not,’ I say, ‘when it would be much simpler just to tell me what you are.’

  ‘You’d think so,’ he agrees as he stirs the stew with a stick, ‘but people tend to react badly when I do that.’

  ‘I’m not like other people.’

  ‘No,’ he nods, ‘Nobody ever thinks they are. Still …’

  The coach door opens and Kronos steps out. He has a dreamy look about him, as if he has only just woken up.

  ‘We are vampire hunters,’ he says. ‘Is dinner ready?’

  Eight

  Barton Counts Himself to Sleep

  ANN DOESN’T ASK me about the doctor’s business outside and I see no good reason to tell her. He gives her a quick examination, his voice all soft like honey. He’s a charming man, that Dr Marcus, I’ll give him that.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her that sleep won’t fix,’ he tells me. ‘Her nerves need time to settle.’

  He takes his leave and I sit down with Ann to wait for the others to come in from the fields.

  Now that the tears have stopped she seems to be half asleep, her voice all on one note as she wonders what happened to her friend. It takes me a while but eventually I realise she’s forgot. I don’t know what to do or say to that, seeing her young face all confused as she stares out the window.

  ‘I wonder when Petra will come back,’ she says. ‘It’ll be dark soon and she won’t want to be in the woods then, not when the moon is out.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ I say in the end, deciding it’s better to play along than to correct her.

  Eventually Pa and Isabella return and I tell them what’s been going on, I don’t want Ann listening, though – I don’t want her to hear what I saw in that sack the doctor carried. She makes life easy for me.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she says. ‘Probably got too excited. What with Petra and the sun, and my birthday.’

  Her birthday. It’s tomorrow, something I had forgotten and wish she hadn’t remembered. How are we to pretend that everything’s all right?

  ‘Aye, love,’ says Pa. ‘You get to sleep – don’t want to spoil your day tomorrow, now, do you?’

  I give him a look of disgust at that but I realise it’s different for him and Isabella: they didn’t see what was in that sack. I do my best to describe it once Ann has gone to sleep.

  ‘But surely you imagined it,’ says Isabella and that’s the one thing likely to get my fury up. She’s treating me like a stupid girl. This is what happens when you’re forced to give up who you are: people forget who you were.

  ‘I’m not one to imagine things, sister,’ I tell her, ‘If I tell you that’s what I saw then that’s what were in the sack and you can accept it as if you saw it yourself.’

  ‘Sorry my love,’ she says, knowing she’s gone too far, ‘but you’ve got to admit it’s a lot to believe. Petra rotted away before his eyes?’

  ‘I’ve heard worse,’ says Pa, throwing another log on the fire as if it can help banish the darkness in his words as well as the darkness in the house. ‘There’s things out in those woods that would make God Himself afeared.’

  ‘Oh hush with your scared talk, father,’ says Isabella, never one to believe in something she can’t hold in her hands. ‘You’ve no more seen anything out there than I have.’

  ‘I’ve heard tales,’ he says. And he’s right, too, as much as I don’t want to admit that there might be something in it. There’s always been those who say the forest is dangerous.

  ‘Aye, and you remember what mother used to say: “There ain’t no tale without ale.”’ She looks over to where Ann is sleeping. ‘For her sake we’ll have no more about it. The doctor didn’t say it were catching …’

  ‘The doctor didn’t say a bloody thing!’ I reply, getting a little tired of being told what to do by my younger sister.

  ‘Well, that proves it, then,’ says Isabella, always quick to keep on top in an argument. ‘If there had been something to worry about he would have said, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t let us all die of it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says Pa (and how I wish all the fight hadn’t been knocked out of him when Ma died).

  ‘It would be a different story if you’d been here, not me,’ I say. ‘If you’d seen the muck in that sack …’

  ‘Maybe,’ Isabella agrees. ‘And maybe sitting here all day is starting to make you imagine things.’

  I actually clench my fist at that. I’m seconds away from striking out at my own flesh and blood. It’s not enough that I have to lose my legs, I have to lose their bloody respect and all. Pa sees how angry I am and steps between us.

  ‘Now then,’ he says, ‘we won’t have none of this. There’s no falling-out in this family – we stick together like always. I dare say Isabella’s right …’ I make to interrupt but he holds up his hand. ‘Whatever the truth of it there’s nothing ca
n be done now. We’ll have a nice day for Ann tomorrow and everything will be as normal as can be. She’s had a bad time of it and she needs her family by her.’

  Both Isabella and I nod at this. He’s right and we know it. It don’t stop the anger, though, so I go outside for a smoke.

  Out in the cool air I begin to wonder if Isabella is right after all. It’s so quiet and calm that it’s hard to believe there could be anything in the dark to harm us. I take a slow pipe and try and breathe the anger out with the smoke. I’ve always had a temper on me and it’s the one thing that got stronger after I fell. I need to fight it, I know that: it does no good raging away at family and friends. God, how I wish I could burn cooler.

  That night I lie in my cot and try to think about anything but the sight of that finger bone, all gnarled and flaking like a branch taken from the fire. It’s the sort of thing that keeps a man from sleep, that is. The sort of thing a man can’t help but imagine as his own, however much he holds his hands up in the moonlight to count carefully.

  Next morning and Ann is bright as summer, as if the night’s sleep has washed away all memory of the day before.

  ‘Look!’ she says to me, holding up her wrist to show off the silver bracelet that Pa’s given her. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  It is. As beautiful as it were on Ma’s wrist. I remember how it caught the light as she lay dead in her sickbed, the only sign of life in a room of death. ‘Aye, sister,’ I say. ‘But not as beautiful as you.’

  Ann sticks out her tongue at me and for a moment it feels like we’re both children again, chasing around our mother’s skirts, me yanking her hair, her running off to tell.

  ‘I’m going to go and show Petra!’ she says and runs out of the house.

  What to say? I call after her but her head’s full of summer air and sunshine and she doesn’t hear me. I reach for my sticks but I wouldn’t get further than a few feet after her at that speed. Damn it!

  ‘Let her go,’ says Pa. I look at him and he’s sitting in a single beam of light from the rear window. It shows up the tears on his cheeks. ‘She’s so like her,’ he says. I don’t have to ask who he means.