In The Grip Of Old Winter (11 page)

Steam rose from a bubbling
pot on the AGA. Vegetables, some chopped, the rest in jumbled piles, lay upon
the kitchen table. His stomach tingled. Where had everyone gone? He stepped
into the kitchen and shut the door. In the silence, the pot bubbled with loud
pops
and
slurps.
He tip-toed through the kitchen and into the hallway.

He heard voices coming from
The Hall. Grandma’s voice sounded loud and clear, though he didn’t catch the
words. Then mum’s voice, soft and low, the way she spoke to him after he’d
woken from a bad dream.

Grandma hurried out of The
Hall and jumped when she saw him. “Oh Peter, darling, there you are. It’s... oh
dear, go in, go in...” and as she ran to the kitchen, she called over her
shoulder. “Here he is. He did hear us calling.”

Dad lay on one of the sofas
and mum sat beside him with her hand on his forehead. She glanced up at the
sound of Peter’s footsteps. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Your poor dad’s
had a terrible accident.”

Granddad stood by the fire
and gave Peter a quick nod.

Dad’s right trouser leg
circled the top of his thigh in a loose roll. He still wore his sock and boot.
A red gash, to the side and just above his knee, oozed blood that soaked into a
towel under his leg. Steam rose from a large bowl on the floor beside the sofa.

Grandma returned with a pile
of towels. She knelt down by the bowl, dropped the towels and reached into her
apron. “I’ve brought some camomile leaves.” She scattered a stream of dry
flakes over the water from a small brown box. “The flowers have a soothing
scent. Now then,” she placed the box next to the towels. “I’m going to bathe
the wound.” She picked up one of the towels and plunged it into the water. “I’m
afraid this is going to sting.” The soaked towel splashed water onto the rug as
she lifted it out and wrung it hard. “Try and hold still now.” She placed it
over the gash and dad’s body tensed and his face grimaced as he gasped with
pain.

Mum smoothed his hair and
held him close. Grandma dropped the towel back into the bowl and the water went
pink. Then she wrung it out and applied it again. A red circle on the towel
under dad’s leg expanded as blood and water dripped from the gash.

Granddad came and stood next
to Peter and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered as if he might be in
church. “Your dad slipped off the ladder. Didn’t fall far, but when he landed
his leg caught the blade of an old potato harvester that was outside the barn
door...”

Grandma interrupted. “I said
to put salt on the rungs before he went up. And I don’t know how many times
I’ve told you to move that useless piece of machinery. I always said someone
would get a nasty cut off of it. Horrid, rusty old thing, it’s been sitting
there being useless for years.”

Dad groaned as grandma dabbed
at the gash. Mum leaned forward to watch, her face clouded with concern. “It’s
still bleeding.”

“It’s very deep,” said
grandma. “I don’t know what’s best to do.”

Granddad said, “He needs
proper medical help.”

Mum reached across the table
behind the sofa and picked up dad’s mobile. “It’s no use, the screen’s
smashed.” She pressed the button on the top. “Nothing’s happening. Have you
tried the land line again?”

“A moment ago, still off,”
said granddad.

“Have you looked for Almina?”
asked grandma.

Granddad rubbed his nose. “I
think she’s gone for a walk. I saw her come out of the back door when I was
clearing the path, but she went into the woods on the other side of the house.
No sign of her when I called. I don’t think she’d be of much use.”

Grandma dropped the cloth
into the bowl of bright pink water and used the sofa as a support to stand. “I
know she said she had a mobile phone. I remember her saying so last night.” She
picked up a corner of her apron and wiped her hands. “Uncanny, the way she’s
never here when she’s needed.” From the apron pocket, she pulled out a thick
wad of gauze and placed it over the wound. “I’m doing my best, but it needs
looking at properly and I don’t think the bleeding will stop without stitches.”

Mum held the gauze in place.
“What can we do?”

Grandma faced Peter and gripped
hold of his arms. “Now, my love, granddad suggested this and I agree, that I’m
going to have to ask you to run for help. Will you do that for me?” Peter
nodded.

“I know granddad would go,
but I need him here to carry water from the kitchen. And we can’t drive your
dad’s car in this snow.” She placed her hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Farmer
Brunt lives down the lane about a mile away. At the end of our track, turn
left. Follow the lane until you reach a gap in the bank with a gate across. His
yard is on the other side of that gate. When you see him, explain what’s
happened here. If his phone’s working, tell him to ring for the emergency
services. If his phone’s out as well, ask him to drive the tractor down, or
whatever he can use in this weather, to carry dad into town.” She pressed her
hands into his shoulders and lowered her voice. “Make him understand that this
is an emergency. Tell him to hurry.”

Grandma picked up the bowl
and gave it to granddad. “Boil up some fresh water and if you look in the larder
you’ll find some sandwiches I made for later. Give some to Peter and fill the
thermos with whatever he wants to drink.” She clasped Peter’s face with both
hands and kissed his forehead. “Quick as you can now.”

Mum, her face white with
strain, gave a watery smile. “Thank you, Peter. Wrap up warm and take care not
to slip.”

Peter followed granddad out
of The Hall and down the passage to the kitchen.

As granddad poured the pink
water down the sink, he beckoned Peter closer. “Almina followed when you left me,
but then Richard appeared from the barn. I saw them talking and thinking that
Almina had given up the chase, I went back to clearing snow.” He ran fresh
water into the bowl, left it to soak and then filled the kettle. “The next
thing I hear is a terrible cry.” He placed the kettle on to the AGA. “Almina
must have heard it too, I mean she was so close, in fact I think she... well I
don’t know, but I think I catch a glimpse of her as she runs behind the house -
though it might have been... Anyway, by the time I reach the barn, she’s gone
and your poor dad is lying in the snow, bleeding fit to die.”

***

“Did Almina push him off the
ladder?”

Granddad opened the larder
door and disappeared into its dark interior. “I don’t know. I didn’t see.” He
re-appeared with a large plate of sandwiches. “Take as many as you want. What
drink do you like?”

“Hot chocolate.” Peter picked
out six sandwiches and laid them on the table.

Granddad opened and closed
cupboard doors. “There’s some tin foil... Ah, here.” He handed Peter a long
thin box with a strip of foil that poked out along one edge. “Is your backpack
handy?”

“It’s by the front door,” and
Peter ran to fetch it.

Back in the kitchen, granddad
unscrewed the top from a thermos flask patterned in red and green tartan. “I
wish I knew where Almina went. She won’t go far. She likes warmth and comfort,
not long cold walks.” He spooned powdered chocolate into the flask. “Farmer
Brunt lives the opposite way from where I saw her heading, so I’m hoping your
paths don’t cross. Keep an eye out, she’s acting very peculiar.”

The kettle on the AGA
whistled and granddad added milk to the flask and then poured in hot water.
“Stay to the lane. There won’t be no traffic. You can’t miss the farm.”

Peter wanted to tell him
about the skin-walkers and the carrier’s attack, but it didn’t fit now with
this new emergency. He folded a square of tin foil around his sandwiches and
dropped them into his backpack.

Granddad handed him the
flask. “You should make it before the light goes, but I’m thinking you should
take a torch.” He strode to the sink and reached across to the window sill
where a large black torch stood on its lens. “Here you are, put that in there
too.”

Peter drew the drawstrings
together and slung the backpack over his shoulders. He didn’t want to see
Almina, but he feared the carrier more. If he hurried and kept out of sight, he
might make it without being caught by either of them.

Granddad opened the door and
they stepped outside together. “Stay here a moment,” and he shuffled through
the drifts to the back of the house.

Big, round snowflakes floated
down and the cold against his cheeks made Peter wince.

Granddad hurried back. “No
sign of her.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out ‘til you
reach the woods. Don’t be afraid now. Dad needs your help. Remember, left at
the end of the track. Fast as you can.”

Peter set off at a run. The
backpack bounced up and down. His boots sank into the snow and before he had
covered half the distance to the trees, his thighs and calves ached. He slowed
and took long strides instead, which made it easier. When he reached the trees,
he glanced back and granddad waved from the kitchen door. Peter waved back and
saw, at a small window underneath the battlements, a pale white light. As he
stared, it faded. He faced the track and hurried into the trees.

Why would Almina push dad off
the ladder? She wanted the seal-amulet, but dad didn’t have it. Did Almina know
about the spae-wife? It didn’t seem possible, whole centuries separated them.
Bear talked of time shifting forwards and backwards, he said the skin-walkers fought
the spae-wife in Leonor’s time. If time mingled from past to present to future,
then Almina might know about the spae-wife. Perhaps she was the spae-wife, but
Bear wanted him to search for the spae-wife in Leonor’s and Oswald’s time. His
head hurt from thinking it through.

Leonor existed in this time
too, though unaware of the effect her presence produced on those who met her
now.

Peter glanced to the right.
He hoped to see the old tree and the charred branch. He wanted to return to
Leonor’s time and do as Bear asked, but he must help dad first. He concentrated
on the track, the sooner he reached Farmer Brunt, the sooner he’d be back.
Anxiety sharpened his breathing. The charred branch offered an escape route and
the further away he journeyed, the more vulnerable he became to attack or
capture.

He peered into the shadows
and watched for any sign of movement. His ragged breathing and the heavy tread of
his boots might be the last sound on earth.

The track sloped down as it
cut through the high banks. The trees towered above his head and where the
banks had crumbled, thick roots pushed through the soil. Mounds of snow lay in
uneven heaps where gaps between the branches exposed the grey sky.

Peter reached the lane. A
thin layer of unbroken snow covered its surface. No vehicle had passed to leave
their tyre marks in its pristine whiteness. He checked left and right and
listened. Darker shadows hung along the lane. He remembered that yesterday it reminded
him of a tunnel. He turned left and hurried along.

He kept to the middle and ran
until his legs ached, when he slowed to a quick walk. At every turn, he glanced
behind and noticed the line of uneven prints left by his boots. He dreaded the
thought that he might see someone or something dart behind a tree, but all
remained still and he tried to break his fear when he repeated the advice dad
once gave him; ‘Remember, that when you are alone and scared, someone who sees
you might be even more scared. Be the scary one and you won’t feel so bad.’

“Be the scary one,” Peter
repeated out loud. “Be the scary one.”

The banks sloped upwards at a
steeper angle and the light dimmed. A mile didn’t sound that far. At home he
cycled a mile to school on his three-gear bike, but he’d done it so many times
that he never noticed the distance. Even blindfold, he’d know the journey. This
unknown route, as it twisted and turned, kept him alert. A mile went on for ever
when you didn’t know the way.

Ahead, the lane turned a
sharp corner, the way forward blocked from sight by the steep right-hand bank
and the trees that grew there.

Peter stopped to catch his
breath. Beyond the corner, the shadows deepened, though that might be his
imagination, for the view through the trees made it hard to see.

His breathing stilled. He
expected to hear bird calls or the rustle and scrape of some woodland animal as
it foraged amongst the trees. Unusual for there to be such complete silence and
it frightened him for being unexpected. He wanted to hear familiar sounds, be
comforted by what he knew and understood.

Ever since he arrived at the
old house, the ordinary drifted in and out of a mist that sometimes revealed
the everyday as he knew it, but then shrouded everything familiar and replaced
it with strangeness.

He gripped the backpack’s
handles and started off once more. Farmer Brunt’s farm must be close. Each step
crunched on the thin layer of snow and he slowed his pace to make less noise.

With a rumble like distant
thunder, a deep growl echoed through the trees.

Peter stopped and his heart
beat hard. He crouched and peered into the gloom. If he ran, and he wanted to,
then whatever made that noise might hear him and give chase. Wherever he
looked, shadows lay like night, but none of them moved or slipped from view to
hide in some darker place.