Her long spindly grey hairs had been scrapped back knotted and clipped into a pin, her hollow cheeks and long jaw thrust upwards, the woman’s waxy yellow skin was thinning in places, stretched to cover her façade and yet there was enough for wrinkles to fold on her forehead. Small black eyes pierced through the dim candle light that flickered around the dusky room. Her hooked nose lowered towards her snarling, leering mouth creating the effect of a bird beak. Shrivelled old hands rested on the arms of the wooden chair, she rocked forwards and backwards slowly, coaxing life into the rocking-chair until it had built enough momentum to continue on its own. Turing pointedly towards the fireplace, she started a blood curling howl, the sound reverberating off the walls shaking the glass window panes and erupting into a merciless cry lasting for minutes on end before falling away leaving the woman panting for air. A shadow stirred. It was dark, a canny light being thrown onto the walls, every move made being bounced around with the candle light. Slowly, almost fervently Ophelia lifted her head and stared with large brown eyes drinking in the scene. She had woken later than she thought, the old woman feasting on her slumber to finish the sculpture occupying the centre of the room. It was made from stainless steal and the metal had been twisted and bent into a rim, stretching from every angle inside chords of string and lace had been tied. Corkscrews hung every meter or so along the string and they acted like chimes as a small gust of wind crept through the broken window and into the building.
‘Isn’t it wonderful’ the soft caw hissed in the atmos and Ophelia shivered, wriggling against the rope tying her limbs together.
‘Don’t move child,’ the old lady stepped from her seat and towards the metal spider web with a hushed awe. ‘you shall be free soon enough. But until then you remain here with Granny Lydia. Yes? Good.’ The gentle tones couldn’t have been more of a lie as her frail hands stroked the steel perimeter. Lydia moved with a heavy limp to the kitchen, the large slabs of stone echoing her steps as she faded from sight. Ophelia whimpered, visibly shrinking away from the artwork as if it had slapped her. From across the hallway she heard the sing-song voice of Grandma Lydia as she shuffled about the tiny space. She would be slumped against the wooden stove, her ancient hands fumbling to strike the match and light a fire. There would be no warmth from the orange sequins, only the knowledge that tonight she was going to die. It brought no comfort as she gagged on her own vomit in silence to hear the lyrics sung by Lydia:
‘Hush little baby don’t you cry, mommies going to buy you a mocking bird, if the mocking bird does not sing mommies going to make you a demons ring.’

Charlie stood up. Then he bent over closing his eyes against the pain and lowered his shorts. The cane came snaking down onto his bottom striking his lower back at the same time. Tears swelled to his eyes but he blinked them back, Charlie McHarvey would not cry in front of anybody. Defiantly not his class mates and even more so his teacher –Mr Bran – who glared at Charlie outwardly annoyed that he had had no reaction with the weapon. Silence stretched between them before Charlie straightened and returned to his seat, bracing himself as he sat down. The lesson continued without any further interruptions before the bell chimed for the end of the school day. The class filed out in silence and Charlie joined them, ducking away from view of Mr Bran and meeting with Lilly. Lilly stood by the apple tree, her green eyes twinkling in the summer sun, her olive skin perfectly smooth and soft. Their lips brushed together, Lilly’s hand wrapping around Charlie and his hand snaking down her legs. She pulled away, holding him at arms length and studying him.
‘Why do you do it?’ she asked at last, sounding exasperated. Charlie blinked once, twice then licked his chapped lips.
‘To keep him from ruining your perfect body’ he tried to move closer but she stopped him, shaking her head in disappointment.
‘I expected better than that Charlie McHarvey a lot better’ she turned to leave, her hand clasping at her back and her long blonde hair swinging in the movement. Charlie grabbed her arm, spinning her back around.
‘You expected better? What’s wrong with you! You go and do all that stuff with Al and leave me to cover for you, I take the blame and I take the punishment and all you have to say is you expect better? I don’t know why I loved you. You’re just a whore like the rest of ‘em, hook line and sinker is that it? Is that what I was, just bait, your get out of jail free card? Well I’m not anymore Lilly Birch. I leave tomorrow at first light and I aint coming back for no one.’ Charlie fumed at her before turning away and stalking off towards the hills. Lilly gapped after him but didn’t move. She’d known him for nearly fifteen years, her whole life and now he was leaving without a goodbye.

Dusk came in thick and fast. The colour drained from the sky, the rich orange and crimson leaking from the large chamber now turning into a bodiless mass of grey stretching as far as the eye could see. It was as if a sickness had over come the land. Lydia returned from the kitchen, her left hand was cradling a small figure, her right hand clasping onto the doorframe for balance. Ophelia looked up, terrified her black hair caught in the dried blood scalping her smoky ashen skin, her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath coming in short sharp gulps. Lydia smiled, her yellow fangs tormenting the girl and she placed the object down beside her. Ophelia pulled away, her mouth clamped around the gag in her mouth, the one thing stopping her from being heard. Her eyes rolled madly in their sockets as she focused on the thing beside her. Grandma Lydia had already slunk back to the kitchen, she’d be leaning over the large black cauldron stirring the final ingredients to the potion. The thing beside Ophelia was motionless; it was small too, about the same size as a doll. Looking closer she saw it was a doll. Except it was alive. It was sleeping, its eyelids closed against the wicked happenings of life, tiny black eyelashes fluttering against the thick soft cream skin. It was a baby. No older than a couple of months it wiggled. There was no rope tying the child’s arms and legs to its body, there was no material shoved into its mouth to stop it from screaming and breathing. It had cloths on, something odd because normally it would be a baby naked not a fourteen year old girl. Ophelia moved closer, trying to touch the thing before her. It was beautiful, so perfect and delicate.
‘He’s your one Ophelia. The one you had last month, remember that?’ Lydia had returned and was watching them, she was laughing quietly as if she had just heard a funny joke. Ophelia was right then, not very old, one month. She remembered well enough. Her stomach had been swollen for nearly three months, growing bigger and increasing in pain. She hadn’t known what was going on, but then one day blood came down her legs, the pain became to intense and she was crying, silently screaming in agony as she pushed and pushed. Lydia had helped her. It was witchcraft, it must have been. It took two days, two days and two nights to give birth to that. She looked at the baby again. She hadn’t given it a name, she’d nearly died. She thought she had died at one point because she remembered the world swimming in front of her and a bright white light, the pain like fire as it burnt through her body paralysing her and her legs had been ripped open. Now, as she lay there bound and gagged she looked at the long scar over her stomach skin. It came up to her chest. Lydia had said she’d opened her up and cut the baby out before stitching her back together. Ophelia was terrified that that was true. If it was then she could have anything in her now. She felt sick and closed her bruised blue eyes.
‘What’s wrong girl? Feel sick? Not happy? Give him a name’ she moved over to them both and lifted Ophelia into the air, holding the girl as if she weighed nothing, her long nails digging into the skin and trickles of blood ran down her sides and thighs. Then, she pulled down the material covering her mouth; Ophelia opened her jaws and gulped down the air as if she’d been starved of it for her whole life.
‘that’s it, drink it in child, drink it in’ Lydia laughed wildly and put the girl on the floor again. She was filthy, her ash skin hidden under dirt and grime that came from years of not washing and lying on a floor crusted with urine and dust, coal black stains printed on her body, spiders and cockroaches scurrying away from her as she lay there.
‘help me’ she stammered weakly, her throat on fire from the effort of talking after nearly a decade of not being used.
‘no one to help you here my dear’ Lydia smiled, almost kindly as she gazed out the window. The glass was cracked, in places there was no glass at all. It had been blown out by the bombs or wind.

Charlie walked head bowed over the fells. The wind was strong up here at this time of night, a sliver of silver moonlight winked at him from the yawning skies above. It was just past midnight and Charlie grazed over the grass as if it were day time. Yesterday’s events played over in his mind, Lilly asking him for a favour while she an Al missed out on lessons, him covering for her, telling lies that got the skin shredded from his body as if he were a pig ready for slaughter. It was how he felt. He’d felt like he was going to die for nearly a year, the same time his only parent had passed away. They called it “a tragic accident” how he slipped in the river and cracked his head open. But Charlie had been there, he’d watched from the trees, the ferns and pines sheltering him from view of the killer. His father had been pushed. Pushed and killed by his best friend. The very next day the butcher had found Alistair hanging from a tree. Suicide they said. It probably was, the man was a slut and everyone knew it, he did bad things that shouldn’t even be thought of and dad had known that. But they’d been friends, something had changed that morning. Dad had only ever fished when he had a problem, now he was dead. Charlie quickened his pace, his mind now flashing backing to that night, the night when all the truths came out. He had had a sister, a little sister name Mia, and she was cute and never did anyone any harm. She was deaf and couldn’t walk; her mind was the age of a three year old and always would be. She was murdered by Alistair. She was only seven; Charlie had been eight at the time. They lived on a farm, now, after a year with only Charlie the whole place was dead. It was something from a story, the old pig shed had caved in, straw blew as it willed and the pastures had become over grown. The house was okay as far as you’d go. There were no windows and the wooden roof was rotting, the steps were cracked and the kitchen smelt like rotting cheese. There were no beds, just straw and hay on the floor where he had slept. In the end Charlie gave up living there altogether and moved into the forest, he's built himself a tree-house, it had cost him a beating every day at school to turn up scruffy with mud stains and grass in his hair but it meant Charlie had avoided the death trap his home held. By morning the villagers would have arrived, they would burn down the weeds and fertile the soils, someone else would buy the land and a new family would start all over.
‘Just the way the wind blows’ Charlie muttered softly as he continued to cross the fells, on the edge of lights vision he could see Wolf fell. By any luck he’d be there by tomorrow afternoon.

‘Lilly, Lilly are you okay darling? You seem awfully quiet’ Mrs Birch gave her daughter a worried glance as she stood from the table and moved towards the fire place, poking the embers with a long iron stick, the fire replied by spitting out a bit more heat and some red hot ashes.
‘I’m fine mam. Just, just a bad day at school that’s all.’ Lilly didn’t look up as she continued staring at the words before her. She’d been reading the same page for nearly thirty minutes now and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
‘Cold out there, autumns on its way no doubt there’ Mr Birch came into the room stamping his large boots on the floor. He had just finished putting the horses to keep and looked ready to collapse. He was a big bloke, six foot five with short curly blond hair; he had friendly brown eyes and a large bushy beard. He was on the plump side, his belly spilling over his trousers and his shirt sleeves ending at his wrists. On the contrary his wife was small and pale as a mouse with long lavishing red hair and freckles. Lilly took a mixture of the two people on her own body. She was already taller than her mother and her blond hair was slowly darkening into a deep crimson red. She had freckles under her eyes and was considered the best looking girl in the town.
‘I’m sure it is love, come now, nice and warm by the fire,’ Mrs Birch led her husband to a chair and sat him down before turning back to her daughter. ‘Darling, it’s a bit late now, perhaps if you had a bad day you should go and get some kip?’ Lilly nodded without a word and left, trudging up the stairs to her room. It was small and bare, a bed took up most the space and in the corner was a chest of draws containing her clothes. An old mirror reflected the tiny room from on top o’er the draws. She moved to the only window there and kneeling on her bed stared out at the fells. She watched as the moonlight fell on the old shadow of a farm. For a moment she thought she saw Charlie as he walked across them but she knew he would already be long gone. When he said he left at dawn he meant he’d be lost from Pennyton and straying onto new worlds. She couldn’t help but wonder if he would see the new world, knowing him he would some how manage to hide himself away on a ship and see the amazing free land. Her heart panged as she stripped and climbed into her bed. By eight am tomorrow morning the whole village would know that Charlie McHarvey would never return.

Dawn light stretched over the lands, the night had brought on a winter chill not rare for the season. Dew had gathered on every blade of grass as well as Charlie, he was damp through but that didn’t matter. It was going to rain today, you could feel it in the air. The clouds were dark and miserable as they strut across the sky, the sunlight being lost behind the floating sheep as he walked. His feet ached, he suspected blisters had formed under his heels explaining the swollen sore with every step. Easing himself down onto the compact earth he allowed himself a brief nibble at the dried meat he had packed and a swig of the water before pulling of his boots strapping them to his back pack and moving on. He had walked faster at night, the coldness had edged him on and already he was looking at wolf fell. The place was lonely, it was unusual for a villager from Pennyton to come here and there were tails of wolves and witches living here. Now though, as he watched the first drops of rain begin to fall he could see how those myths had begun. He moved almost silently for the whole day, the rain had got into every inch of his skin and come night fall he was escalated to find a small abandoned cow shed to sleep in. Laying down his pack he stripped of his clothes and hung them carefully from nails that projected from the wooden walls. Then, satisfied that he was safe from any night creatures he let himself drift of to sleep. He found him self waking with a start. He had heard a scream, he was sure of it. Having lived his whole life with a younger sister who had nightmares every other night he knew when he heard a girl screaming and it wasn’t his dream because he was positively sure he hadn’t been dreaming. Lifting his head he fumbled in the darkness to find a piece of timber. Striking it against the dry wood the match flared into life, the pathetic flame wavering, the wind outside was howling like the wolves and the rain was coming down in sheets, horizontal sheets. If someone had been screaming they had to be close by. Using what little light he had Charlie dressed himself into his still soaked clothes, the white shirt clinging to him and his trousers sticking like glue. He shuffled into his boots and grabbed his pack. Then, with the last light the match had to give he pulled lose a long black stick. He metal was cold against his flesh; it shone as the match died and Charlie was left in darkness that seemed fixed on him. He loaded the gun, he didn’t need light to do that, for over three years he had looked after the gun as his own now he had the chance to put it to use. Staring out into the hungry black he saw nothing. He had a feeling midnight had been and gone so first light shouldn’t be to far off yet he had a horrid feeling that what ever screamed wouldn’t be alive by then…

She had named the baby boy after her own historical one, a name Shakespeare used in his plays and, from what little she knew of the man, named a son from although if he had had a son he would have had it before he wrote plays so it might have been the play was named after his son. Either way Ophelia didn’t care as she looked into Hamnet’s face. He had fallen asleep against her leg and for a while she had been carried away in dreams as well. She was on the fells, past the forest and by the cow shed. There was a boy there and she screamed for him but nothing happened he didn’t come to save her. She woke with a start. She was panting like a dog, it was midnight, and she could tell from Lydia who stood by the metal web her waxy skin glowing, contained within a dull blue bubble that sat a couple of inches of her skin. She was talking, her speech getting louder and faster as the ceremony went on, and by dawn someone was going to be dead. She knew that as well as she knew that Lydia was evil and she would never escape her. She knew it like she loved Hamnet, the mother and son bond still strong even after witchcraft had crafted him. There was the sound of guns from somewhere on the fells, Lydia stopped chanting and threw her head up lividly.
‘No, I will not be stopped!’ the old woman leapt at the glass window and disappeared into the night without it shattering. She sped through the air and over the forest trees in search for who ever fired the missile. Ophelia wondered if it were the boy she had seen in her dream. Without hesitation she thought madly of a warning. Get out of there, drop the gun, throw it away and come quickly please. Through the forest, if you’re in the trees she won’t find you. She kept thinking it not knowing if anything were actually to happen.

Charlie watched the black as it howled around the cow shed, he didn’t get scared by what could be out there and “what ifs” but he was growing rather timid from the voice crying out to him. He was unable to tell whether it was coming from close by of far away but whoever it was needed him. Charging out into the downpour Charlie skirted towards the trees, their dark silhouettes just visible in the black cape of night. He was running as hard and fast as he could when he heard the wild cackling. It was mad, totally unreal and belonged to a witch. There was no question about it. He was being chased by a witch, he ran faster until he tripped. The ground underfoot went from slippery greasy grass to hard turf of a woodland. Scrambling to his feet he flung himself against a tree and listened, his breathing the only sound for a while. Whoever had called him said he would be safe in the trees, but he had no means of light and he hadn’t a map of the forest. Bent double he finally straightened up and moved slowly with his hands out stretched to feel anything in his way. From above there was a sudden wild screech as if someone had discovered an awful secret. Charlie wondered if it was the witch. Who was the witch keeping secret in her hide-out because that was surely where the cries for help had come from, who are you? Where are you, I need you to help me! Who ever it was he was rescuing had heard him, a small glowing ball of light appeared from behind a bush at his feet and floated harmlessly beside him. Hesitantly he followed the light; it guided him around the forest without getting him lost before stopping. Charlie had been so focused on the light and watching his feet that he nearly cried out at the sight. The cottage was nestled amongst the tall Ferns that sheltered the place from the wind and rain. Its front garden was tiny and held a mixture of weeds and other deadly looking flowers. The stench of pigs and blood climbed from the chimney where smoke was spiralling. The house its self was broken and horrible. It was worse than the farm house. There were windows shattered by a large blast or on a windy night, bricks were missing from the wall and the thatched roof no longer existed. As he moved closer he noticed all the bark had been stripped from the surrounding trees and that there were no “pretty” flowers around, a cold chill shivered down his spine, it was a warning. Giving the sky a weary look he dashed to the door. It opened before he got there and he stopped. What if the witch was already back? What if this was a trick to kill him, but then, who wanted him dead? Anyone had the opportunity to kill him in Pennyton waiting till now was stupid. Genuinely afraid for the first time in his life Charlie stepped into the house.

Filth lined every surface from floorboards to doors. He left footprints of cleanliness as he deldged into the living room. An arm chair. A cot. The same as the house...terrified he backed into the kitchen. Empty. The only thing that the kitchen held were a few logs and kindling for a fire. He noticed the pink chalk against the wall. He hurried up the stairs wondering what it was he was looking for. He was mad for doing this. Without doubt, totaly mad. But the upstairs was differerant. For starts there was a bed, it looked hard and uncomfy but it was a bed. And the floor was red with blood, not black with grime. It was the girl that stod out most. She was like a black dot on a white cow. Her eyes budlging and wild. I raced forwards and untied her. "Thankyou." she whispered to Charlie as he helped her to her feet. She wass till naked and Charlie looked her over. "You're filthy!" he remarked dissapointed at not being able to see her properly. She stumbled forwards, exploring her limbs usage. He helped her hobble down the stairs and outside. She pointed to the tree's and they hurried under the cover. Ophelia had Hamnet in her arms. Charlie offered to carry the baby as he handed her some clothes from his pack. They were to big for the girl but she took them greatfully. "His name is Hamnet" Ophelia told him pointing towards her son. She was smiling sadly. The pair were walking towards Wolf fell as if nothing in the house had occured. Ophelia wasn't going to tell Charlie what had happened. Not at all. Not yet.

Days passed, weeks, months before they reached the coast. Charlie and Ophelia had had pently of time to talk. Charlie had told Ophelia about Mia and Alistar, Lilly and his father. About himself. Ophelia had talked of her past, not that there was much to say. They'd made an agreement. Never to leave each other. The two fourteen year-old worked hard to built a small log cabin in which to live. Villagers helped with the building and, seven months after being rescued from the witches home in Pennyton Ophelia settled into the world of her, Hamnet and Charlie. The trio grew up, by the time Ophelia was sixteen she'd fallen pregenant. The village held the wedding of Charlie McHavey and Ophelia. Hamnet grew to the age of seven before passing away with scarlet fever. But Ophelia and Charlie were happy together. For now...

Impressum

Texte: The contense of this book belongs to me and only me any attempt to reproduce this will have legal action taken against.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.02.2010

Alle Rechte vorbehalten

Widmung:
For Ruby. You always appreciated my work.