Primitive (Dark Powers Rising Book 2) by Fernfield Rebecca

Author:Fernfield, Rebecca [Fernfield, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Redbegga
Published: 2017-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The day is coming to an end when we get back to The Green and make our contribution to the pile. The houses are darkening, but there is enough light left to see the huddles of men and women circled around the stack of wood, branches and sticks that make up the bonfire in the centre. I stand with Pascha, Jey and the others in the growing darkness. Collecting the wood and running through the forest made me hot, too hot, but now, as I stand still waiting for the macabre spectacle to begin, I notice the seeping cold that clings to the wet leather of my moccasins and has snaked its way up my arms and across my back. I shiver and realise the pain in my bladder. “Jey, I need to pee!”

“Go then. I’ll wait here with Judythe and Pascha. I’ll be ok.”

I prod Pascha. “I have to go back to the house. Jey will stay with you. Ok?”

“Hah! Yeh. Do what you have to do,” he says with a smile, turns back to the others laughing and squints through the growing dark at the unlit mound.

The sun has almost completely disappeared although, through the twilight, I can still make out the way to our cottage. The lane seems deserted, but I hear the clack of footsteps. As they get louder a figure walks into view and up the sloped lane towards me. I recognise the cloaked woman instantly from the stiffness of her walk. She is rigid, stiffly held in place by the deeply frilled ruff clamped around her neck—an iron bracket of one thousand pleats. I stop and move onto the verge next to the stone wall of a neighbour’s house, hugging the shadows as far as I can. It’s her, the Watcher’s Wife, and I have to speak to her.

“It was you!”

She looks up startled.

“Who is it?” she asks, pulling her cloak around her as if for protection.

“It was you who came to my room!” I reply, and step out from the dark shadow of the wall.

“Shh! Be quiet girl.” There’s a warning edge to her voice, but it sounds more like fear than anger. “We can’t talk freely here.” Her low voice carries the warning to me.

She stands rigid and unreactive as she always does. Anyone seeing us would think only that she was carrying out one of her duties, perhaps enquiring after the health of a villager to report back to the Watcher.

She steps closer. “Come. We’ll walk to your house. We can talk there,” and she nods almost imperceptibly towards the cottage.

We walk quickly, quietly, up the path and I carefully unlatch the door. The house sits in darkness and there is not one whisper of sound from the rooms.

“Mother must be at the Bonfire. We can talk in the kitchen.”

As we enter through the inner door the warmth of the kitchen plays soft on my skin. I beckon for her to sit at the scrubbed table and open the door of the stove, letting warming light out into the room.

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