Foxlowe

5

See, Blue would understand what I did, because like all of us, once she was old enough she’d learn about the Time of the Crisis. The Time of the Crisis isn’t Blue’s story, but mine. Freya would tell it to me after a Spike Walk. She’d be lying next to me, stroking my hair, kissing the broken skin. Freya’s breath in my ear was just soothing sounds like the wind over the roof tiles, but slowly she formed words that wrapped themselves around me like a familiar blanket. I could tell it off by heart even before I knew what the words meant. It’s Freya’s voice, not mine, but I can’t help that: the Time of the Crisis was her story first.

The Time of the Crisis must always be remembered, so we are vigilant, and learn from our mistakes. This was the time before the rituals became solid and clear, and we were trying to decide how to live best.

It began with Green. Green came to Foxlowe very early one morning, while the stars were still out, and the dogs, the goats, even the chickens were still sleeping. It was the Bad’s favourite hour, black and cold as stone. So when Green came, it latched onto her easily, red and slimy, like organs ripped out. Freya knew it by the glisten of the blood and the way it screamed. It filled the house, and we all shrank from it, driving some to pack and become Leavers, the cries so full of spite that they ran away into the night.

Freya hoped that the Bad would leave once the sun became stronger, but instead it screamed and howled and scratched at her, it gnawed at her breast, it made her bleed. No one wanted to hold it, no one wanted to touch it. It was shut away in the attic until we could decide what to do. Freya knew it was the Bad, but the others were too afraid to say it. We survived it by wrapping it tight so it couldn’t rage too hard, and not looking it in the eye, or touching it too much.

Freya felt the Bad all over the house. It made her weak. It made her cry and feel tired even when she hadn’t done any work. The others tried to help, with food, and chores, and making things for baby Green, like shadows on the walls with their hands.

Things got worse. The rush of Leavers after Green’s birth had weakened us. Freya was seeing things that could not be real: her mother standing at the foot of the bed, her father holding a small child’s hand. There were whispers in corners. Secrecy. The Bad began to swell and grow in potency, inside the walls.

It was Richard who suggested we take baby Green out to the Standing Stones for Solstice. The group gathered up blankets and bottles of moonshine and set out with the baby wrapped in a quilt. Freya followed, hoping the air and light would deliver her strength. At this time, we would spend Summer Solstice at the Stones and meditate, feel the Stones at our backs, and watch the double sunset, a gift only we can see. So we sat around the Stones, and talked, and ate, and tried to ignore the Bad in Richard’s arms. It was screaming, feeling the power of the Stones, but was holding on.

As we watched from the Stones, the sun dipped behind the hill called the Cloud, and shadows stretched across the moor. The Bad crowed in triumph, and we were afraid. Freya was cast down by the tiny hope that had flared in her, only to be extinguished again. Then the sun was reborn. It reappeared between the peaks of the Cloud, before sinking again. This is too much for the Bad, light renewed just as darkness sets in. It fled.

Freya held Green and kissed her, and loved her. This was the end of the Crisis, and Foxlowe became stronger and happier. We understood how the Solstice could help us.

But the Bad will always remember it lived in Green. It’s still there, little traces inside the veins, little worms in the stomach. This is why the rituals are so important. Summer Solstice to drive the Bad away, and the Scattering to protect us when the sun is weak.

6

After we brought her back into the kitchen, muddy and cold, I never had a bad word or look for Blue again. In the years that followed we expanded, me and Toby, to let Blue in, and she became another Foxlowe ungrown. We taught her the best places in the house: the middle landing with its blue pool, the yellow room, the back stairs and corridors full of mice and cobwebs, and the empty rooms that sat decaying there, with their treasures of broken furniture and walls on which to draw in charcoal and chalk. By the time she could run, she made a good chaser with quick dodges and a hard grip, and wasn’t afraid to slide down the banister or jump from the windows. When she was very little, she bit and kicked like we did, but me and Toby would attack each other if she was hurt by one of us, and because we rarely touched her, she stopped raging that way. When me and Toby fought, Blue took the side of whoever was left with the reddest skin, the deepest scratch.

We didn’t need to teach her the way she had to live, like other new people who came. She was almost like me, almost a born Foxlowe girl. She learned our language and the rituals, Freya said, as new. It was how it should be for everyone, Freya said. We didn’t have to explain that blood family didn’t matter, because we were the only family she knew. We didn’t have to warn her about the outside, because she couldn’t remember it. I think she remembered her first Solstice somehow, because Blue always had ice fingers and toes. Freya would rub her feet under the sheets before she went to sleep. Gooseflesh, even in the summer. She could never get warm. Sometimes I watched her holding her hands in her armpits, or curling her fingers around a steaming mug, and wondered if her skin remembered lying on the icy ground, that night, with the scarf unravelled and the Bad all around her.

One day around five summers after Freya brought her to us, Blue disappeared. She’d slept in the attic with me like always; her drawer was too small for her now, and she lay with me on the mattress, and Freya sometimes slept on the rug, wrapped in her coat. I woke up alone, and when I found Freya in the kitchen, we both thought Blue had been with the other.

—Why don’t you take better care of her? She’s not a doll, Freya said.

She was sketching at the table, brushes and paints in a jar. Ellen and Libby were brewing tea and they looked around.

—What’s that, said Ellen. —Little one lost?

—She’ll be around, said Freya, but she swiped her brush in the jar, making black clouds there, and got up.

We searched the downstairs first, and the obvious places: the ballroom, where Egg and Pet were ripping up sheets for rags, the yellow room, where Libby said Blue liked to nap in the afternoons. —No she doesn’t, said Freya, but Libby showed us the chair Blue curled up in, how it was out of the draughts. The back corridors with their empty rooms were quiet, and the staircases. In the big upstairs rooms, peeling wallpaper and rotting books, we found Valentina lying on her stomach and writing in a notebook, wrapped in a blanket.

—Not seen her, she said.

—October gone too? asked Libby. —Maybe they’re together.

—No, we’re playing hide-and-seek, said Valentina, turning over a page.

We tried the studios, and found Richard hauling sacks of clay, new delivered, ready for the pottery wheel, his tweeds covered in dust.

—Oh, he said, —I saw her in the gardens this morning.

—On her own? said Libby.

—Well, yes, he said.

Freya went to the window and cupped her hands around her face. —Green used to wander around all the time, she said.

—No, Libby said. —Toby was always with her, or you.

—She’s fine, said Ellen, —I’m sure she’s fine, but she went to the window too, and cupped her hands there, so she and Freya looked like they were speaking to someone, silently, on the other side of the glass.

It started to rain, and we went out onto the back lawns to search for her, calling her name, tripping over the leaping dogs. Raindrops turned into sheets. Toby showed up, in a thick red jumper that stretched in the drench, the sleeves flopping down to his knees. Valentina twisted one of them, splattering the grass, and said, —Inside, kiddo, don’t want you catching cold. And Toby smiled his smile that was just for her when she noticed him, not half and crooked like the ones he gave to me, and obeyed.

—She must have gone back in, said Richard.

—We’ll stay out and look here, Freya said, squeezing my hand. The others waded back to the house, some giggling and shrieking, others glancing back at the gardens and the moor beyond, brows creased.

Blue’s name got lost in the rain when we called her.

—She’ll be fine, said Freya. —Sure she’s back in the house, drying that hair of hers.

Something about Blue’s hair — the bright red had faded as she grew, but it lived in glints and streaks in the brown, and it was glossy, lovely like Libby’s was — irritated Freya, and for her Blue’s hair was always that hair of hers. All of her worry seemed to have drained away, and she stood smiling, cupping her hands to catch the rain.

—My Green, haven’t you noticed?

—What?

—It’s just you and me! First time in ages!

She gripped my wrists and we spun around, throwing our heads back so our mouths filled up with rain, and spouting the water out like fountains. Screaming happily in the wet gusts, we slid around on the muddy grass, throwing clods at each other and for the dogs to catch. Numb skinned, we gasped and pushed streaming water out of our eyes, ran and whooped across the back lawns, through walls of nettles, not feeling the stings in the wet. We darted straight into the copse and stood panting under the cover of a clutch of trees. I called for Blue again.

—Let’s race, Freya said, and sprinted out towards the Standing Stones. The rain plunged in bursts when we rushed into spaces not covered by the trees, the soil churned under our feet, released its scent, making me hungry. Freya caught me and scooped me into a hug. I breathed in her skin, knowing I might not get her all to myself again, perhaps for years or ever.

—Well, she’s not here, said Freya, panting.

—She might be at the Stones, I said. I didn’t want to go back to the house yet, to the Family.

—Past the stone wall? Freya said.

—She might, I said.

Blue wasn’t allowed past the stone wall alone. But she loved to clamber onto the Standing Stones, or try to loosen them with all her weight. Once, leaning down so his hair brushed her cheek, Toby had told her that he could move the Stones around like empty boxes, arrange them in patterns, that she could do the same when she was big and strong. Then we lay against the biggest stone, me and Toby, our feet resting atop one another, shuddering with laughter, watching Blue’s toes slide on the grass, trying to shift the ancient markers, their stone roots running deep.

We were both quiet for a while, thinking about Blue getting bigger. Then we headed for the stone wall, made long before the Founders’ time, spilling rocks onto the moor like broken teeth. From there we looked back at Foxlowe, lying under the rain like something glimpsed at the bottom of the fountain. Candles were lit in the storm-gloom, and the small shapes of dogs huddled against the back walls, shaking out their fur.

—Looks just like when I came, Freya said. —It was raining then, and I came this way, over the moor. She smiled at me, a full, open smile, and squeezed out my hair for me. —Come on, tramp, she said, and we set out towards the Stones.

—What’s a tramp? I said. I had to shout over the rain and the rumble of the sky.

—An outside thing.

—Why am I one?

—You’re not really, she said. —You have a lovely big home and everything you’ll ever need. You’re a scruff, that’s all. Sometimes, Freya said, —sometimes I wonder how you’d look, if we, if you were outside, all scrubbed and dressed like them.

Then Freya was quiet, so I asked if we could play All The Ways Home Is Better, and I remembered them all, in the correct order:

1. We are FREE

2. We are a NEW BETTER KIND OF FAMILY

3. We have a NEW BETTER KIND OF EDUCATION

4. We are CONNECTED to the ANCIENT WAY OF LIVING and to the ANCIENT LANDSCAPE

5. We are SAFER because we know THE BAD and call it by name.

Beyond the stone wall, our copse merged with the moor and turned into a steep climb. You could hear the outside roar from here: a strip of road, the edge of the world. Today the rain cloaked the sound, and we climbed in silence, tugging at grasses.

The Standing Stones were eight stones, green with algae and moss, so they seemed to grow out of the grass. The Stones were as tall as Dylan, broad and solid, immovable. From here we could see the double peak of the Cloud, and the moor rolling down in valleys all the way to the road. We ducked under the barbed wire — disgusting, illegal, Freya called it. And there was Blue, sitting on the centre stone, with a man and a woman on either side of her.

I wrenched free of Freya’s hand and ran, kicking up clods of earth, slipping into the Stones. I knew Freya would overtake me so I wouldn’t have to speak to the outsiders.

The man smiled at me. He had a shaved face, his skin shiny where his beard should be, and wore a bright plastic jacket. I looked back for Freya, but she was walking slowly, her hands rammed into her skirt pockets, and then I lost her behind one of the Stones. The outside woman had lifted Blue into her arms. They’d wrapped something plastic around her, a brutal zip cutting under her chin.

—She was out alone, the woman said. Her hair was done in a way I’d seen before, an old Leaver had it like that, in sausages. Dreads. —In the rain, she said. —We were here taking photos and—

Blue stretched her arms out to me, and the woman put her down.

—She doesn’t like to be carried, I mumbled. Blue was chattering. —It’s raining, I got wet, my legs are all covered in mud, look—

The man was staring at my feet, so I looked there too, mud-caked in my socks. I wanted to tell him I hadn’t known we were coming to the moor. A pair of boots from Jumble fitted me almost perfect.

—Is that your mum? the woman asked, and I looked to see Freya coming, shook my head.

Freya’s cheeks were red, and her hands, released from the pockets, fluttered between her hair, her skirts, and wiping the rain from her forehead. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t see what I’d done. It was right, wasn’t it, to run to Blue, and I hadn’t spoken to them, just answered questions. Freya ducked her head as she came close, and tugged at Blue.

—All right, the man said. —You from the big house, are you? That commune place?

—Are these your kids? the woman said.

When Freya spoke her voice was different, soft and sorry. —Thank you, she said.

—She was out all by herself, the woman said, angry.

I waited for Freya to tell them she was a Founder, you can’t speak to her like that, but she was looking at the ground, so I said, —She ran away. We live just behind that rise. Foxlowe.

—Foxlowe, the man repeated.

And then the three of us were striding, breaking into a run, catching glimpses behind of the outside people, who were calling after us, hands held up to their eyes, still calling to us, until their voices faded. I grazed a Standing Stone as we rushed away, sharp pain in my elbow. When we reached our stone wall, Freya lifted Blue over roughly, knocking her bare legs against the rock. She tossed the plastic zipped thing into a bed of nettles in the copse.

We didn’t speak the whole way up the back lawns to the house. The rain had drained away into drizzle. Blue’s hand was sticky in mine, and I wondered if they’d given her outside food, like the chocolate we’d had once, brought by Ellen from a shop run. I lifted Blue’s palm to my lips and licked, but I couldn’t taste anything. I scrambled to make sense of all the details, assembled questions to ask her when we were alone. I’d seen outside people before, out on the moor, knew some of them by sight, the people who lived on the farms, and yelled at us if we jumped their fences. I’d never spoken to one though, or seen Freya with one so close, seen her turn into someone else, someone afraid. I tightened my grip on Blue’s hand. On the other side of her, Freya strode, her face closed. Blue knew not to speak — we’d taught her, me and Toby, to be quiet when our nails dug into her skin, for times like this. I drew blood this time, spooked by Freya’s lost voice and stooped back.

Meeting that night dragged on for hours. Cocooned together in the patchwork blanket, the warm weight of a dog across our laps, Toby, Blue and me nodded asleep, woke to more words and circling arguments, or were pulled awake by our own names spoken, calling us back to listen. The smell of coffee and smoke and, later, that day’s leftovers, potatoes and leeks, reheated and passed around in mugs, floated over us.

Libby was speaking. —Never formalised things, about the children—

—But that’s the point, Ellen’s voice. —A new, better kind of education, a real childhood, no formalising—

—But when it comes to safety, to custody—

—But as far as the outsiders are concerned, it is all official. Richard’s voice, faster than I was used to hearing it, less bored. —Everything is in order, but we want the children’s experience to be that—

—They’ll come here, Freya said. The glass in her throat was back, and anger thrilled through every word. —They were worried, they had that look. He knew us, knew the house. They’re going to interfere.

—But they were right, Libby said.

Raised voices to this. Words that came up frequently at Meeting were thrown. Freedom. Safe. Outside.

—Should be more careful, Libby shouted over them. —The road is right there, the town is right there, there are walkers—

—Better to be more remote. Egg’s voice, this.

—We can’t help where Foxlowe is, Richard answered.

Freya’s voice moved closer, as she joined Richard on the floor.

—We need to be near the Stones, she said. —This is where we should be, and need to be. It can be remote, if we block out as much as we can.

Later, Freya, Blue and me were in the attic, getting ready for bed. I plaited Blue’s hair into thick braids, and asked her why she’d gone out on the moor alone, but she had shrunk into herself, smoothing her thumbnail over her top lip. Freya was sloughing dried mud from her boots with a knife.

—Blood will out, she said, a phrase of hers she often threw at Blue, never at me. We didn’t know what it meant, but Toby thought it was a threat to cut her.

Then, Freya asked me, lightly, —Have you talked to Toby?

—Course, I said.

—About those outsiders?

I had told Toby all about Freya’s sudden shrinking. He hadn’t said anything, just raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

—No, I said.

—Good, Freya said. —It’s not good to talk about outsiders. It pollutes the atmosphere.

Blue’s hair was still damp and I sucked my fingers to take away the clammy chill.

—So, Freya said. —What shall we do with this girl?

I took my fingers out of my mouth and hid them in Blue’s hair. She had started to twist into my lap.

—It’s up to you, really, said Freya. —You were responsible for her this morning.

—I don’t know, I said.

—Now, Freya said. —You do know, don’t you?

—We can ask at Meeting, I said, thinking of Libby and how she would talk Richard around, away from Freya’s suggested punishments.

—This is just about us, the three of us, our little family, said Freya.

Blue was burying her face in my neck now. Freya put down her boots.

—We could cut off her hair, I said.

Painless, and Freya would like it. That hair of hers.

Blue shook her head into my throat. Freya smiled, and shook hers too.

—I see, she said. —Clever girl. You’re kind to her. But pain, you see, it’s important, to drive the Bad out.

—Blue doesn’t have the Bad, I said. —She was just exploring.

—Can’t take any chances, can we? Freya said.

I was silent.

—I think it will have to be the Spike Walk, Freya said.

Of course I knew it would be the Spike Walk straight away, but Freya liked to tease it out. When it was me, she’d come and sit on the bed and ask me how I thought I should be punished, and I’d suggest ways, but it was always the Spike Walk in the end. Somehow it was worse to play the same game for Blue. It was her first time.

It was still a damp night, and the others would have taken their work into the kitchen, sewing and sketching by the aga, with the dogs lying over their feet. So we took her down there, crying now and clinging to my waist, and I stood at the yellow room end, whispering Just think about tomorrow there’ll be honey coming from the shop run we’ll have honey cakes Blue just think about that, and Freya stood at the ballroom side, pushing Blue back to the Spikes whenever she had done one Walk, telling her, —Now, run the nail along the same scratch, that’s it, until it bleeds.

The next morning, Freya wrapped Blue’s arm in a clean rag with wild garlic and lavender packed into the cuts. At breakfast I gave Blue my share of the new honey, and the Family stroked her arm or her back as they passed. Ellen clanged pots around, until Richard said, —Is there a problem? and Freya said, —No, no problem, and the others drifted out of the kitchen, touching Blue’s shoulder or her other arm as they passed, while she nibbled on the honeyed bread, and snatched her head away when I reached to smooth her hair.