Authors: Alison Littlewood
Path of Needles (36 page)
‘Christ,’ said Cate, ‘is he in there?’ She took a step towards it, put up a hand to cover her face.
Alice knew it was too late; she’d never get close.
Cate whirled to her as if she’d heard her thoughts. ‘I have to call Fire,’ she said, ‘before this spreads. I followed
the smoke here; I should have called them sooner.’ She moved away, started barking instructions into a mobile.
Alice did not go with her. The heat was strong on her face but the cooling breeze lifted the hair from her neck. She knew what she thought she’d seen, but couldn’t be sure she’d seen it. The thing in the heart of the fire had been a many-coloured bird. She remembered Levitt’s words:
I’m going to follow her
. And then,
the stories
are
real. I made them real, don’t you see?
She rasped the line from the story: ‘How splendid it was with its red and green feathers, and its neck like burnished gold, and eyes like two bright stars in its head.’ The bird in ‘The Juniper Tree’, the bird of all colours; the bird that made everything happen.
She shook her head. It was the effect of the smoke, that was all; it had made her see things,
feel
things that weren’t there. Things that couldn’t have been.
There’s one feather missing
, he’d said.
One transformation left
.
Now he had joined his sister at last, though not in the way he had intended. It was all gone, the place he’d created, the dreams he had spun; even, in the end, the blue bird itself, and Alice felt inexplicably sad. Her hand went to her pocket, but of course the feather was not there; Levitt had taken it, had clutched it to himself as he had fallen.
One feather missing
. And he’d found it, if only in death.
Alice turned her back on the fire and saw the trees standing around her. They shifted in the wind, sighing
their secrets to each other across the clearing. She couldn’t gather her thoughts, didn’t know what had happened; she only knew that something magical had gone, passed from this place and into another, some place she couldn’t follow.
She heard Cate’s voice. ‘They’re coming,’ she said. ‘They’re bringing help. You’re safe now.’
Alice did not answer. She tilted her head and looked at the sky. The blue was fading from it too; night was drawing in. The air was growing colder and she shivered despite the heat from the fire. The woods had fallen quiet. There was no fluting from the trees, no squabbling of rooks or sweet trilling of a blackbird. There was no sound except the crackling of the flames; there was not a trace of birdsong in the air.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Outside Alice’s window, it appeared to be snowing. Large flakes billowed and dashed themselves against the glass. They gathered on the sill and did not melt. She crossed the room to look at them.
The apple tree was losing its blossom. The grass below was speckled with white, the petals dampening in the dew. The tree’s branches were dark against the distant woodland, where an early mist hung in the air, draining it of colour. Already she could sense the sun’s heat, waiting. Soon it would burn through the shroud hanging over the wood and summer would begin.
In her garden, purple irises and bright larkspur were replacing springtime greens and yellows. Soon the woodland would be full of people once again, walking and laughing, their shouts filling the air; it would no longer be a place for the dead but for the living. Only the stories would remain, stories of Chrissie Farrell, Teresa King, Ellen Robertson, and a long-forgotten child. Alice allowed herself
a moment to think of them. Bernard Levitt had sacrificed them all to some story he had carried inside himself, tales of his past that had never been told, and instead, had festered. She closed her eyes, leaning against the glass. When she opened them again she saw that there was something lying on her windowsill.
Slowly, she opened the window.
There was a feather on the ledge, half hidden by fallen apple blossom. She reached out, then drew back her hand without touching it. The feather was impossible: it had two colours she had never seen together on any bird: a pale, clear blue and a deep, bloody crimson.
She drew a breath, reached out again and picked it up. It had been left for her, a gift. She placed it in the palm of her hand and saw what it truly was: not one feather, but two.
She looked out again over the woodland. She half expected to see two bright shapes flying above it, forming new shapes in the air, weaving new songs between them, but there was nothing.
One feather missing
, he’d said.
One transformation left
. And at the end he had grasped it, the feather from the blue bird; he had held it in his hand. She closed her eyes and remembered how she’d staggered from the hut, the cloak that had wrapped itself about her feet. Had that been with him too, in the end? Had she thrown it within his reach? She tried to remember and found she could not. When she closed her eyes, though, she could see the hut, and it
was burning: livid flames, white smoke, and a many-coloured shape hovering within it. A bird, its feathers of crimson and green and gold, its eyes like stars.
She shook her head. It had been an image from a story, nothing more; she knew her mind had tricked her into seeing it, just for an instant. He’d said he needed her power; he’d said he needed her to believe. What made her sad now was this: she had not believed, not really. All the years she had loved the old stories, and in that moment when she’d staggered from the hut they had failed her, and she had failed them. Levitt had killed them for her. When she’d looked back into the fire, she had known: there was only smoke and blood and violence. Levitt had been deluded, and he had died. The thing she had seen was nothing but a mirage.
And then Cate had said something to her, as she’d helped her from the fire. She hadn’t been able to hear properly, but she’d seen it on her lips:
Did you see that?
the policewoman had mouthed, and hadn’t there been something in her tone? Wonder, perhaps? Had it been Alice’s belief he had needed in the end, after all?
She closed her hand over the feathers. She didn’t need to look at them again. She could picture the bird she had seen in her hallucination, its vivid colours, the bright band of gold about its neck. It was the bird from ‘The Juniper Tree’, the story taken life. Perhaps Levitt had followed his sister after all, in one way or another. She doubted it would make him happy. Whatever happened,
he would take his own darkness with him. He could never escape from that.
I have to know if she blames me.
Maybe now he knew.
Alice picked up her coat, hanging over the chair, and slipped the feathers into her pocket. Levitt had died believing the blue bird had picked Alice out for death, but perhaps he had been wrong after all; at the end, the bird had helped her. Maybe, if she tried, she might be able to find a way of believing it had meant to do it.
She slipped on her coat and thought of the way the blue feather had been a comfort to her, the way her hand would travel to her pocket to feel its smoothness. She didn’t need it any longer. She was no longer Alice who was lost, who wandered through a story of someone else’s making. She would create her own story now.
No, she didn’t need the feathers, but she would take them for Cate. The last time she’d seen her Cate had been passing, visiting a house nearby, and she had sounded happy.
‘I decided to stay,’ she said, as if this would come as a surprise to Alice, who had never known she’d thought of leaving. ‘I’ve found a house, not too far from here. I’m going to do it up: it’s going to take ages.’ She had said this last with glee, as if it were something to be treasured. And then: ‘I suppose I just decided that something can happen anywhere. Sometimes you have to decide that
this
is where your life begins.’
She’d had no idea what Cate had been talking about, but she had caught the girl’s enthusiasm and found herself smiling back; and then they’d been laughing together, helplessly. Yes, she would give the feathers to Cate. Perhaps she would need a little magic for the path ahead. It felt right somehow. Something that was bound up with the dead girls – Chrissie, Teresa, Ellen – and their ending, moving on with Cate. It seemed to fit. And everything would move on, at one with the fading of springtime and the coming of the summer: not a happily-ever-after, but a new beginning, the year renewing itself, leaving events behind as if they had never been.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The settings I have used in
Path of Needles
are half real, half invention. The lane at the edge of Newmillerdam exists, but there is no house positioned quite like Alice’s – I rather liked the idea of her living somewhere in the land between reality and fantasy. Where places are real I have used them fictitiously, and I can only apologise for turning some beautiful locations into the scene for horrors … the Heronry, Newmillerdam and Sandal Castle are all lovely places to visit. The old arboretum with its juniper tree is pure invention, but the new one, along with the lakeside path, make for a pleasant walk and are much more peaceful than Alice finds them.
Path of Needles
was born of my love of fairy tales, and there are many books I have found invaluable on the subject. I spent many an hour as a child buried in Hans Christian Andersen’s stories, and still have my copy of that book, so beautifully illustrated by Michael Foreman. That has since been supplemented by various collections by the
brothers Grimm, Italian folk tales gathered by Italo Calvino and Angela Carter’s
Book of Fairy Tales
, among others. The blue bird’s tale, as mentioned in the text, can be found in the
Green Fairy Book
edited by Andrew Lang. The ‘Be bold’ inscription is taken from ‘Mr Fox’, a delightfully grisly story in Joseph Jacobs’
English Fairy Tales
. ‘The Juniper Tree’ was collected by the Grimms, while Perrault’s ‘gentle wolves’ verse comes via a translation by Robert Samber from 1729.
The Classic Fairy Tales
edited by Maria Tatar gives an interesting taste of how some of the stories have evolved over time and geographical distance, and some of the interpretations that have been placed upon them. Other interpretations can be found in
Fairy Tales, Their Origin and Meaning
by John Thackray Bunce.
The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood
by Jack Zipes contains many varied versions of the story and there are some fascinating articles on fairy tales and their meanings, including
The Path of Needles or Pins: Little Red Riding Hood
, by Terri Windling at her Endicott Studio website.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As ever, heartfelt thanks to everyone at Jo Fletcher Books for helping to turn my dreams into actual pages, including Nicola Budd, Ron Beard, Lucy Ramsey, Steve Cox, Mark Thwaite and Caroline Butler – and particularly, of course, Jo Fletcher.
Path of Needles
has led me into new territory as a writer, and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to those who have provided signposts along the way. Particular thanks to Des Booth for advice on various points of police procedure, and to Paul Finch for bearing with the questions – any errors remain entirely my own. Thanks too to Astero Booth.
I’ve also been given invaluable guidance in more technical lands … Wayne McManus, you are, as ever, a web genius; and thank you to Mark West for the wonderful videos.
For friendship, laughs, advice and from time to time a supporting shoulder, I’d like to thank members of the
British Fantasy Society and the gang at FantasyCon. Thanks too to Roy Gray, Andy Cox and Peter Tennant.
My appreciation also goes to everyone at the Richard and Judy Book Club, and to everyone who lent their support to
A Cold Season
in their websites, blogs and publications, or by simply sending kind words – thank you so much. For the beautiful hardback edition, thanks to Pete and Nicky Crowther.
Last but not least, love always to Fergus, my parents Ann and Trevor Littlewood, Ian, Amanda and Callum, and to Liz and the Beadle clan.
Table of Contents