Kate Bush's Arc

Chapter 8 of 21

Kate knelt in the wet leaves in front of the shape that had been her brother. Will's eyes looked back at her from a face that was not his. He tried to speak. His mouth opened and closed. No sound came out. The pale woman had taken his voice for good this time. Above the ridge, the moon watched. Kate knew the pale woman would come. She had minutes, maybe less. Ollie crouched beside her. The black cat sat at Will's feet, tail curled tight. The collie stood watch at the edge of the brush, ears forward. Kate took Will's hand. His fingers were cold and human. "Tell me how to fix this," she whispered. "Tell me what to do." He shook his head. He could not. Kate pulled paper from her coat pocket. It was the list of questions she had taken up the hill weeks ago, folded soft at the creases. She flattened it on a stone. She found the stub of pencil at the bottom of her pocket and pressed it into Will's changed hand. "Write," she said. "Anything. One word." His fingers shook. He gripped the pencil the way he used to grip a spoon when they were small. He pressed the tip to the paper. He drew one shape. A bird in flight, wings back, a curve of tail. A swallow. Under it he scratched two words in a hand she knew: night flight. Then the pencil slipped. His hand had gone stiff. He looked at her, desperate, and tapped the drawing twice. Kate did not understand. Night flight. A swallow at night. She thought of the migrating birds that passed over Copsefire in autumn, the ones her mother had watched from the porch. She thought of the story the elders in town told about swallows carrying names home. She looked at Ollie. Ollie's face was pale. "The glade," he said. "The one my sister spoke of. The dead who forget their names go there. If we can get him there before dawn, before the swallows go, they carry the name back." He was guessing. She could see he was guessing. But it was more than she had. Something moved on the path behind them. Not a voice this time. A step. Soft, careful, close. The collie's hackles rose. The cat stood. A tall shape with long ears showed at the edge of the mist, still, watching. Not the pale woman. One of her things. Kate folded the paper and pushed it deep in her coat. She hauled Will up by his arm. He could not run. She had known he could not run. "Then we walk," she said. "North. Now." Ollie took Will's other side. The cat went first. The collie went last. Kate did not look back at the shape in the mist. She had her answer, and she had her direction, and for the first time in three years she was moving toward her brother instead of away.