Camdeboo Nights (12 page)

The drive back to Nieu Bethesda was easier. The siblings didn’t speak to her, instead discussing people she did not know, although she often caught Szandor’s gaze darting in her direction when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Weird and creepy. The trip back home couldn’t end fast enough.

Once they crested the pass, Sonja spoke. “So, Helen. I hear from Arwen that you are also studying art.”

“Um, yes.” The statement had taken her by surprise.

“Who are your favorite artists?”

“Dali, Monet, Van Gogh... I also quite like the Pre-Raphaelites, too.”

“Mmm, then you should come over to see some of my art books. I had a friend who owned a bookshop. He found many priceless treasures for me. I even have a Kelmscott Press original.”

Helen stiffened, sensing a trap. Why would the aunt suddenly be so keen to have her over?

“That’s very kind of you to offer. I’ll take you up on this when...when things are more settled.” Helen hoped she sounded suitably vague without giving offense. Until the mystery of the previous night was solved, no way would she set foot in either of the Wareing households, Arwen or not.

* * * *

Later that evening, Helen was reading quietly in her room when she thought she heard a pebble strike her window with a soft
clack
. Her stomach lurched. What if? She daren’t hope. The sash window slid open easily and she leaned through onto the balcony then slid out onto the bleached wooden surface.

It was fully dark out, and a thin sliver of moon sliced through the branches shading the roof. Helen peered down into the garden. Nobody. She sighed, stepped back and looked to her left to see Trystan’s too-pale face on the far side of the balcony.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Shhh, not too loud,” he said, a finger to his lips.

“What are you doing here?”

“I–” He frowned, looking down at his long-fingered hand clasping the railing. “I wanted to know if you’d like to go for a walk.”

“I dunno if I should, not after last night. What about tomorrow?” Helen asked, checking back inside through the diamond-shaped panels of glass of the door she’d neglected to use.

“Oh.”

The disappointment in his voice caused a sharp stab in her chest.

He shifted, looking as if he would drop off the balcony. “I, uh, have to be somewhere tomorrow.”

“The afternoon?”

“I’ll only be back later.”

“Damn.”

In the ensuing silence, the cricket chorus swelled and Helen glanced away. They’d been staring at each other without speaking.

Her cheeks grew warm. “I’m sorry. Lemme just go fetch my jersey. I’ll say goodnight to everyone.”

Helen smothered her misgivings. Although her instincts cried out against the course of action she’d chosen, part of her thirsted for any experience that could be called truly hers, that was not somehow tainted by the expectations of others.

Besides, the boy was so thin and seemed so sad. How could he be dangerous? He was hardly taller than her. If push came to shove, she could easily overpower him. She also had the insane idea that she wanted to make him smile.

He helped her climb down the fig strangling the side of the house. Trystan’s skin was cold when he gave her a hand, making her think of her brother’s reptiles, but she didn’t ask him why. It seemed rude to do so. He didn’t let go of her hand, either, when they slipped through the side gate and into the road.

“Where do you stay?” she asked.

“Oh, about,” he said. “Have you seen The Owl House at night?”

“No.” Okay, so he was being evasive. She’d not press him. Not yet, at least.

They walked in silence for a while and still he didn’t let go of her hand and she fancied that she saw small, faint sparks of blue-green tingling at her fingers.

Trystan had taken some trouble with his hair this evening, which appeared to have seen the business end of a brush, and fell loose in waves over his shoulders. His skin gleamed beneath the stars, as if it possessed its own fire, his features fine, making her think of some of the porcelain dolls Anabel kept in the glass cabinet in the sitting room.

Okay, this was weird, she had to admit, but it felt good–this stolen moment–and she resolved to enjoy the walk with this strange angel.

The air held the balm of the day’s heat. Nieu Bethesda slept and distant, out in the fields, she was certain she heard some sort of night bird call, its voice sweet and trilling. The trees lining the streets created dark blotches blanking out the stars. She would never have been able to walk around like this back in Cape Town.

The Gat River gurgled in its bed when they rounded the corner nearing their destination. Geese honked next door but The Owl House carried its own silence, its blank white shutters keeping the world out from the mysteries contained within its walls. Helen had visited once or twice during the day. She’d never considered coming here at night and now, she began to wonder at the wisdom of this decision because the structure seemed heavier, a bastion for a vast, invisible castle.

The Owl House vibrated in her vision, fuzzy at its edges. Trystan let go of her hand when she approached, keeping a respectful distance.

“Aren’t you coming with me to have a closer look?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Been here plenty of times. I prefer this view. Go to the arch there by the fence and look into the yard.”

The moment her hand touched the fence she recoiled, almost as if she’d experienced a sharp burst of static.

“Just my imagination,” she mumbled, aware of Trystan watching. Was he testing her?

Careful not brush up against the cacti growing by the fence, she peered into the enclosed garden. The collection of cement camels, owls, pilgrims, mermaids and bottle-skirted hostesses was pretty darn weird during the day. At night, beneath the stars, the statues were absolutely alien. Helen possessed no better way to describe what she saw. Graceful sun worshippers arched backward, balanced on a toe. Had that peacock just shifted? What must this place have looked like when Miss Helen was still alive? She’d read that some sculptures had been painted bright colors, that most of them had been covered in glass. Now naked gray cement shone through. An incredible sadness pervaded this place, as if it waited for the magic to return.

But the magic was still here. It thrummed beneath her fingers, twining into her sinews to whisper its secrets in her heart, a fierce joy at still being, despite the attrition of the years. How many people came here and felt it, as well?

She held up her hand to watch the tiny sparks wiggle about her fingertips. Then she turned to look at Trystan, to see him haloed with a faint blue-green corona. She blinked, and the world shifted back to shadows within shadows beneath a star-studded heaven. Unbidden, tears tracked down her cheeks but she smiled.

Chapter 14

Taking a Stand

Plainly put, Etienne’s weekend sucked. He’d managed to stay out of trouble on Friday and most of Saturday, until one of Odette’s friends took it upon herself to arrange what she termed as a “little surprise” for him.

They ambushed him during the late afternoon while he was walking back from the library with a stack of DVDs he planned to watch, still smiling at the quiet reigning over the school grounds.

One moment he walked along the brick-paved path leading to the dorms, the next, he had all his breath knocked out of him when someone rugby-tackled him.

With a wordless roar of anger, Etienne fought back, biting and kicking, but there were too many assailants, jeering and laughing while a boy much bigger than him pushed him to the ground.

His attackers were the usual suspects among the boarders–Emma, Cedric, Robert, Jannie and Anton. During the week they’d hang back but saw their chance when Odette and her crowd weren’t around.

“C’mon dwarf! Fight back!” Emma taunted. “Or else I’ll tell Odette you wimped out so she can sort you out.”

“Oh, look,” Robert said. “He took out some movies from the library. What a nerd.”

“What’s he got?” someone asked.

“Damn documentaries. How boring. Why you so interested in World War Two, dwarf? D’you know Hitler used to burn people like you in the ovens, slow-roasted dwarfs with all those dirty Jews, gypsies and
moffies
.”

Etienne cringed but kept still. He’d learned long ago not to try to snatch at anything taken from him by force. He lay motionless, ignoring the stones pressing into his flesh and the burning of his elbows and knees where he’d managed to remove a fair amount of skin.

Part of him wanted to scream and rage but bitter experience held him in check.

“It’s all rubbish,” Robert said.

“It belongs in the bin,” Emma said.

Their laughter made them sound like a pack of hyenas. Mercifully, they left him alone, talking and sniggering among each other. Etienne kept his eyes closed, hardly daring to breathe. A clatter of plastic farther along informed him someone had tossed his DVDs in the promised receptacle. Not even they would dare damage school property, although chances were good some of the discs could be damaged anyhow. When he was certain they had disappeared around the corner, Etienne opened his eyes and sat up, first brushing the worst of the dirt off his jeans and t-shirt. Both knees of his jeans had rips in them that would be a bitch to fix. Blood stained the edges of the torn fabric pink.

His hands and elbows stung something furious and, where he’d brushed his shirt, small traces of blood darkened the fabric.

“Well, nothing of my person totally broken,” he said.

His next problem was the bin. He was too short to look inside, let alone reach for his movies.

“Buggeration!”

They’d known, of course. The only good thing was that they hadn’t decided to throw him into the bin as well. He’d have to climb in, possibly risking damage to hundreds of rands worth of DVDs, in order to retrieve the films. Etienne also wasn’t about to go looking for someone to help him, either. He’d never hear the end of it, then.

The school’s bins were old oil drums that had been painted a cheerful blue to match the colors and had been cemented to the ground, no doubt to forestall mischief. He couldn’t knock the bin over. Etienne muttered a few oaths beneath his breath, reached to grip the rim then pulled himself up.

After scrabbling furiously with his feet, he was able to teeter on the edge before he tipped, to land among the detritus of orange peels, apple cores, half-eaten sandwiches, soft-drink cans...and worse. Something had died in here, its stench decidedly ripe with the sickly sweet signature of rot.

Etienne gulped back his retches and searched for the DVD covers among the filth. The good news was that none of the cases had opened. He wiped off the worst of the gunk, then realized his predicament.

How the hell was he supposed to climb out with the boxes? If he threw them out, they might break open. If he shoved them down the front of his shirt, he’d most likely crack them in his efforts to get out. He needed both hands if he wanted to pull himself back out onto the lip, so tucking them beneath an armpit wouldn’t work either.

Most of the garbage had already compacted with his entry, so there was not point trying to stack stuff to aid in his escape.

“Jesus, Etienne, you should think before you act, sometimes,” he said, darkly. Deeply annoyed, he was about to toss the movies out while hoping for the best when a loud bang reverberated through his metal prison, followed by another. Unsure at first and dazed by the racket, it took him a few heartbeats to figure out that someone beat the oil drum which contained him.

His ears rang with each strike and even when he pressed his hands over his ears, it did little to relieve the agony.

They
must have waited to see what he would do. Stupid, stupid, foolish Etienne!

All he could do was crouch in the garbage to wait out this latest assault, until they grew bored with their dismal sport. He longed for that moment to come. After what felt like an eternity, the blows stopped. Hands clamped to his head, he crouched for a while longer, hardly daring to breathe or stir.

He waited until the laughter grew distant then decided on the lesser of the evils facing him, throwing the discs so they landed on the grassy verge. Etienne scrambled out after. He grabbed the DVDs and ran, grimacing at the stench clinging to him.