Beastkeeper (15 page)

The cave smell of old stone grew stronger as she walked, the candlelight bouncing and guttering like a will-o'-the-wisp before her. The single candle was just barely enough to light more than her face and a footstep or two of her path. The shadows seemed all the darker for the little bit of buttery light.

Sarah tiptoed faster, the shadows clinging to her shoulders like shed ghost-skins. A breeze riffled through the hallways, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine needles and forest mulch. It moaned sadly about her legs. “Hush, you,” Sarah said out loud, to prove to herself that she wasn't the least bit frightened. The wind obediently quieted down, and soon the only sound was of Sarah's footfalls soft in the castle dust. At every turn, she marked the wall, leaving a trail of chalky arrows behind her.

From the outside, the castle appeared to be nothing more than a single ruined turret, but like the forest, it was bound by its own strange rules. As she'd expected, it was bigger on the inside, full of twists and turns that led into deeper and darker places. Sarah smiled grimly. She was finally beginning to understand the rules of this place, and that took her one step closer to finding an answer.

Sarah found her grandmother's room only after the first candle had sputtered out and she'd had to light the spare, fumbling in the dark. She knew as soon as she stepped in front of it that this was the one. It had a Nanna-ish air to it: imposing and regal. She raised the candle to the polished wood, and the door gleamed deep and blood-dark as fallen berries. The handle stung her palm, it was so cold, but it turned easily, and the door swung open with barely a whisper.

She took a moment before crossing the threshold. Wandering around the castle was one thing, but actually invading her grandmother's private room was another. No excuses would work if she was caught. Sarah cupped one hand around the flame to hide her actions and stepped forward.

No bells rang. No magic spells flared into life. No bats or birds or demonic creatures leaped from the shadows to attack her. Sarah let out the breath she'd been holding.
Of course nothing happened. It's just a room.

A room far bigger and more lavishly furnished than her own. There was a vast four-poster bed in the center of it, covered in layers of thick blankets and stitched silk. The colors bloomed and gleamed in the orange light. One side of the bed was slightly sunken, but the other half was pristine. Sarah edged to the sunken side, and made for the writing desk that was pushed against the wall there. It stood on spindly curving legs and had a great many drawers. Sarah went quickly through each one and found some old yellowed paper, candle stubs, string, a collection of white feathers tied in a bundle, three pencils worn down too small to hold, a handful of coins with holes in them, and a monogrammed handkerchief with lace edges.

Sarah finally found what she'd been searching for when she pulled a small carved wooden box out from under the bed. It was patterned with blue and green vines, with tiny birds—each no bigger than a baby's pinkie nail—hidden in the twists and coils. The paint was faded and mostly rubbed away to the bare wood, but it must have been beautiful when it was new. It had no lock, but it took Sarah only a few moments before she worked out how to open it. She had to run her fingers along the vines in a certain way, and press two birds at the same time. The box clicked in a most satisfactory way, and the lid sprang open.

Inside was a folded square of silk, water-spotted and crumbling, and on that lay a small key, carved from dark horn and no longer than her finger. It looked too small to open the cage, but it was a match to the ivory one her grandmother wore around her neck.

Sarah grinned and snatched it up.

*   *   *

Her grandmother caught her just as she was headed to the main castle door. Luckily Sarah had long since looped the key on the little teddy-bear chain, and now it pressed against her breastbone, digging into her skin like a sharpened claw.

She felt her grandmother's fingers catch at the back of her neck seconds before the old woman spoke. “And where do you think you're off to?”

“I—I still haven't finished the vegetable garden,” Sarah said. Her heart pounded so fast in her chest she was sure it was about to bounce right through her rib cage and go hopping off into the forest like an India rubber ball. Nanna was sure to know where she'd been, and what she'd taken.

The fingers released their grip, and Sarah risked a backward glance.

Her grandmother was frowning, and wisps of her white and gray hair had come loose to frame her face, echoing the lines that bracketed her pinched mouth. “Hmph,” she said. “Well, get going, then. And don't be late for dinner.”

“I won't.” Relieved to have escaped so lightly, Sarah fled around to the back of the castle. She looked this way and that. No one was watching her. No one had followed.

Cautiously, Sarah approached the hut. Dusk was falling in long silvery tiger stripes, and the first of the forest owls were already swooping over the clearing, their wings like sails. A few night insects were beginning to burr and creak, and the last of the day birds was sleepily calling. Sarah shoved open the door and hurried inside. Quickly as she could, she pulled her silver necklace free and undid the clasp, and slid the horn key off the chain.

“Back again?” growled the beast.

“Shh,” Sarah replied. “Quick.” She knelt before the cage door. In her hand, the key looked disturbingly small. Too small for the lock it was meant to fit, and for a moment she wondered if she'd wasted her time today, if all this had been for nothing. But the tiny horn key trembled and grew, and before she could think twice, Sarah was unlocking the door.

She hopped back and pulled it open.

The beast stared at Sarah.

Sarah stared back. “Well?” she whispered. “What are you waiting for?”

“Where did you get that key?” he said.

“Does it matter?” Sarah felt herself flush. Even though she was doing it for a good cause, she couldn't help feeling a little bad about stealing. It just wasn't something in her nature. “Bring your paws closer.” He did, and Sarah unlocked the first of the manacles. The chains fell dead and heavy into the rotted straw and bone chips. “Come on, and the other. Don't you trust me?”

“Trust
you
?” He laugh-roared. “I could bite your head off if I wanted.”

“But you won't.” Sarah inserted the key and twisted. The manacle had to be forced open, it was so rusted.

The beast stretched out his paws, shaking off the last of the chains. “How can you be sure?”

“Because.” Sarah got up from her knees and waited for the beast to squeeze through the tiny door. “You're still a human,” she said, as he wriggled first one shoulder through and then the other. “You talk, you think, you reason. You're just beast-shaped, is all.”

“So trusting,” said the beast, when he had finally slithered free. Out of the cage, he seemed bigger, fiercer, his mane rippling and lamp-eyes flashing.

Sarah noticed that the tips of his horns were wicked sharp, and his old yellow teeth were even longer than she'd remembered. “Maybe.” She turned her back on the beast, and flung open the shack door. “And maybe that's a good thing, you know?”

Her grandfather fell silent as the greeny dusk light flooded in. He paused to nudge Sarah's hand with his wet nose, as if to say thank you, and then, with a giant leap, he bounded out of the confines of his home, and streaked out toward the gloamy forest without a backward glance.

Sarah swallowed. In her hand the key began to shrink, until it was once again just a little twist of blackened horn. She held it tight and walked out, and hurled it far away, to be lost forever in the weeds and rocks.

There. It's done. And now all that's left is to find that stupid raven and get it to talk.
A curious thrill spread out all over her body, making her scalp and fingers and toes tingle. “Raven!” she yelled. “Freya!
Grandmother!
Where are you?”

But it was not the white raven grandmother who came at her beckoning. Instead it was Inga, wrapped in her cloak of iron-dark fur, her hair streaming behind in a storm cloud, who thundered out from the castle. “Foolish, stupid, useless child!” Nanna screeched, as she took in the scene. “Incompetent, liar, and thief! What have you done?”

The tingle died, to be replaced by a sinking fear. “I set him free,” Sarah said. “I had to, don't you under—”

The slap cut across her words, her grandmother's palm striking her face so hard it sent her sprawling to the ground, her cheek on fire, fierce tears of pain already gathering in her eyes.

 

12

WOODS-WALKING

“GET OUT OF MY SIGHT,”
Nanna hissed. Her voice stung like a winter gale.

Down on the ground, Sarah slowly lowered her hand, and tried to look up at the woman who was all she had left as human family. Her grandmother's face was hard and cold as a knife edge. Her knitting-needle gaze seemed to stab right through Sarah, piercing to her bones. Sarah rose to her knees. “I'm sor—”

“I don't want to hear it.” Nanna's voice was dead, utterly emotionless. “Leave.” She turned, and the hem of her fur coat swept bare inches from Sarah's nose. Nanna walked away.

For a few heartbeats more, Sarah stayed on her knees in the tanglehead grass, the dirt blackening her jeans. She dug her fingers into the earth, and fought against the harsh sob that lurched up her body.
I won't cry.
A few more beats, a few more breaths, and Sarah raised her dry eyes. There was no sign now of her grandmother. The dusk had given way to the velvet night, and a half-moon grinned low, just peering over the castle walls.

The night held its breath, and then the first few sounds began trickling back in. The high strange calls of the night birds, the rustling branches, the
click-click
of the things that moved in the dark.

A fox screamed like a ghost-woman, and Sarah jerked. Quickly, she got to her feet and ran for the castle doors. They were closed, and as much as she rattled and banged, they would not budge.

Rage swept over Sarah. This wasn't how family were supposed to treat each other. Her mother would never have locked her out in the cold, no matter what she'd done. This wasn't normal. If this was how her dad had grown up, she wasn't surprised that he'd never wanted to come back here. That he'd never talked about this other family full of cruel magic and lies. He must have been beyond desperate when he'd driven her up here.

Sarah missed him. Missed her mother so fiercely that it made her whole body ache. She wanted them both to come and gather her back into their family and wipe away the awfulness of this year. As if it was a bad dream she'd woken from in the middle of the night, and hot chocolate and warm arms would melt the memory of it.

She slammed her fists against the hard black wood until her knuckles were scraped raw and the bones bruised, but no one came. She put her back to the vast door and, shivering, looked out onto the wall of the forest. It flickered green and black and silver, the leaves like dancing glass.

It was that, or perhaps spend the night in the revolting shack where Grandfather had been caged. In the morning, maybe Nanna would see reason. Sarah curled her hands into fists and marched straight to the moonlit forest. Her eyes slowly adjusted. Under the light of the half-moon, she could see fairly well. The shadows were deep blue as spilled ink, the edges of the leaves limned silvery sharp against them, but she could make her way through the undergrowth.

Even the spiderwebs caught the filtered moonlight and shone.

She walked, hoping to find the wide road that she remembered walking with Alan. He'd help her—let her sleep on the rainbow-throw-covered couch, perhaps even talk to Nanna in the morning.

Only, once again, the forest played its twisting tricks on her, leading her this way and that until her head was too muddled to think straight. All around her the wind whistled, seeming to change direction with every gust. From far away came a lonesome yowling and howling. Some beast was singing through the night.

A deeper song joined the first, and the two creatures yipped and ululated. Even the shrieking foxes were drowned out.

Sarah took another turn and pushed her way through a stand of whippy saplings, only to see the low stone wall of the vegetable garden, with the castle hulking overhead. Her heart sank.

Sarah sat down on the garden wall and put her face in her hands. The night had grown chillier, and the traipse through the forest had left her sweaty. Her soaked clothes cooled. She shivered in the dark, her hands pressed hard against her cheeks.

Move
, she thought.
You can't sit here feeling all sorry for yourself. What good's that going to do?
She got to her feet and trudged to the back of the castle. It looked like she had no choice but to spend the rest of the night in the filthy, stinking hut.

She stopped when she came to the rusted-out car, with its sleepy hens clucking softly to themselves. The hens would be warm. And while the car might be full of chicken poo and old feathers, it was a more appealing bed than the hut. Carefully, she clambered in and sat down in the midst of the surprised hens. They squawked and shifted in consternation, then seemed to decide that she was no great threat and tucked their heads away.

There's no way I'll get any sleep in here
, Sarah thought, just before her chin nodded onto her chest and her eyes closed. A moment later she was softly snoring.

*   *   *

The light stung her eyes. Even with her eyelids tight shut, the morning sun seemed to cut right into her head, red and harsh. Sarah curled up smaller, shifting an indignant hen, and covered her face with her arms. Her throat hurt. Her knees ached. Her skin was shivery and damp.

Finally she couldn't ignore the curious pecking of the hens, and Sarah squinted one eye open and groaned. It was the crack of dawn. Not that the resident rooster had noticed. He'd started crowing hours before the sun rose.