The Sweet Far Thing
Page 228

“Gemma! Come on!” Felicity and Ann beckon from the hall. Kartik and I have the expanse of the room to travel. Kartik has his knife at the ready, and I’ve got the fireplace poker.
“Gemma, your right!” he shouts.
I turn to my left, and the winged beast clutches at my hair with its claws.
“Ahhh,” I screech. Turning quickly, I jab it with the poker. Injured, it pulls back, and Kartik drags me toward the doors, which we shut behind us with the full weight of our bodies. Ann grabs an umbrella from a stand and shoves it through the handles. I place the poker through the other side.
“I…said…your right,” Kartik pants.
“Mary, Mother of God,” Brigid mumbles. Several of the little ones cling to her skirts. They cry and whimper, say they don’t like this game anymore.
“There, there,” Brigid says, trying to give comfort where there is none.
Cecily, Martha, and Elizabeth cower together, their screams uniting into one long howl.
“Gemma! Use your magic! Gift us to fight them!” Felicity pleads.
“No!” Mother Elena yells. “She mustn’t. It cannot be trusted now. There is no balance to the dark. No balance.” She pricks her finger and uses her blood to mark the door. “It will not hold long but it will give us time.”
“What do we do now?” Ann asks.
Kartik answers. “We stay together and we stay alive.”
The hall is dark. Every lamp has been extinguished. Mrs. Nightwing and Miss McCleethy light two lanterns. They cast long shadows that dance devilishly on the walls.
“The chapel. We should be safe there,” Mrs. Nightwing says, casting an uncertain glance toward the doors. I’ve never heard her so afraid.
“We shouldn’t go out there,” Kartik says. “That’s what they want. They could be waiting.”
The girls tremble and whimper, huddling together for protection. “What is happening?” Cecily asks through tears.
Mrs. Nightwing responds in the voice that tells us we should wear our coats and eat our turnips. “It is part of our pixies game,” she says.
“I don’t wish to play anymore,” Elizabeth cries.
“There, there. You must be a brave girl. It’s only a game and whoever proves bravest shall have a prize,” our headmistress says. Mrs. Nightwing isn’t a good liar, but sometimes a bad lie is better than having nothing at all to hold. The frightened girls want to believe her. I can see it in their quick nods.
The creatures inside the great room begin to break through the doors, and the girls scream anew. Sharp teeth show themselves in the wood; they get to work, biting a section into splinters.
“We can’t stay here with those things,” I say to Kartik and Nightwing.
“Follow me to the chapel, girls!” Miss McCleethy says, taking the lead.
“Wait!” Kartik says, but it’s no use. There’s another loud crash from inside, and the girls run for Miss McCleethy. They join hands with Brigid and Fowlson. In a long snaking line, they follow Miss McCleethy as if she were the Pied Piper of Hamelin, and my friends and I fall in behind.
I have traipsed across Spence’s lawn and through its woods hundreds of times, but never have they seemed as frightening as they do now with only Mrs. Nightwing’s lantern and our fragile courage to light the way. The air is so still it is suffocating. I wish my mother were here. I wish Eugenia had stopped this twenty-five years ago. I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish it had not fallen to me, for I’ve failed so horribly.
When we reach the woods, my fear rises. A thin layer of frost covers the ground. The flowers are dead, strangled on their stalks. We can see our breath in the dim light.
“I’m cold,” one of the girls says, and she is shushed by Brigid.
Kartik holds up a hand. We hold our breath and listen.
“What is it?” Fowlson whispers.
Kartik nods toward a copse of trees. The shadows move. My hand strays out, searching for the trunk of a tree, and it comes away covered in frost. A snort comes from just behind the tree. I slide my eyes toward the sound. A horse’s nose peeks out from behind the large fir. Steam pushes out its nostrils. There is something odd about the horse. It’s as if I can see its bones glowing beneath its skin. It pulls forward, and I can see the faint outline of its rider. A man in a billowing cape with a hood. He turns toward me and I gasp. I cannot see his face, only his mouth, and the hint of jagged teeth there. He points a bony finger at me.
“The sacrifice…”
The horse rears high, its hooves dangerously near my head, and I scream for all I am worth.