Darkwater

ten

The Bear Garden was cold. And so was she. The tramp was late.

She glanced up at the house, uneasy and defiant. After sitting in her room for an age telling herself not to be reckless, she’d grabbed her shawl, sped down through the kitchens and out into the smoky purple twilight. Maybe Azrael was afraid of what she’d find out. The yew trees beyond the terrace were already black shapes, monstrous. Small statues of dancing bears capered on columns of stone higher than her head. She didn’t like them, or their stony stillness. She kept thinking the one by the gate had turned its head to look at her.

An owl hooted in the wood.

Sarah paced restlessly up and down, trying to keep warm. Her breath smoked and the sky in the west was clouded. It must be getting late. She had no idea of the time; none of the clocks in Darkwater Hall ever worked, even though she’d wound the library clock herself. Tonight was All Hallows Eve—the Night of the Dead. She didn’t want to be out in it. If he didn’t come now, she’d leave the food and go in.

There was candlelight in the laboratory. As she glanced up at it she saw the window shutters being closed; for a second she caught Scrab’s stooped outline.

Then a stone rattled on the path.

The tramp was very quiet. He crept in through the gate like a shadow, slightly breathless, the dog slinking behind.

“That you, girlie?”

“Yes. Over here.”

She’d put the food on the bench in a little wicker shelter she sometimes sat in; there were a few of them around the gardens.

“There’s none but us?” The tramp sounded wary.

“No.”

He came inside and sat down, smelling of wood smoke and onions. It was darker in here; she crouched by his feet, wrapping the shawl tight about her shoulders to keep warm. “I’ve brought bread and potatoes and some cheese. It’s in the sack. Now tell me what you’ve got to tell, and be quick.”

He rummaged in the dirty sacking, smiling his toothless grin. “Ah, yes. Tonight’s that night, eh?”

She stared, struck by a thought. “You won’t sleep out in it, will you?”

“I sleep where I like. On the beach, or his lordship’s woods. Maybe a barn. Maybe the church porch.”

“But tonight . . .”

“Oh, I’ve seen many a Hallow night.” He rubbed his red, coarse face with a broad thumb. “None of it ever hurt me. But here”—he glanced around, uneasy—“this is a chancy place.” He nodded at the box hedges. “Look at it. No gardeners, not that you ever see. But the place is dug and hoed and kept like a palace.”

Sarah nodded. “I’ve noticed.”

“Servants in the house, is there?”

“Just a cook. And Scrab.”

“Ah!” The tramp shook his head. The name seemed to alarm him. “That feller! Summoned up from some hole under the furniture, him. Who needs servants when you can magic your own vermin?”

Taking out a piece of cheese he began to eat it, sucking at it in a way she found disgusting.

“Look, say what you came to say. He told me not to talk to you. He might send for me.”

The tramp’s eyes were bright. “He’ll be too busy tonight. So he knows I’m here?”

“He saw us through the telescope.”

“He would.” He swallowed the cheese. “I suppose he’s got around thee. Has he told thee how he got this place?”

“He won it from my grandfather.”

“Aye. And I dare say he’s full of remorse and wished to God it had never happened?”

“So he says.” Sarah felt unease grow inside her like the cold.

“You believe him?”

She shrugged. “My grandfather was . . .”

“Thy granfer, girl, was a fool and braggart.” The tramp looked mournfully out at the darkening garden. “And a good ’un.”

“You knew him?”

He gave a toothless wheeze. The dog yapped, and he caught its muzzle quickly with one hand. “Loved him. Oftentimes he’d speak to me, riding by. He let me make hay and help with the shearing. ‘How’s tricks, old villain,’ he’d roar, and then drink from the same cider keg as all of us.”

“Azrael says”—Sarah pulled cobwebs off her dress—“that he was cruel. That he didn’t care for the people.”

The tramp glanced at her sidelong. “His lordship should know about cruelty.” He took out a stinking old pipe and began to fill it with some peculiar weed. When he spoke again his voice was low. “I was there, that night.”

She stared up at him. “Where?”

“The Black Dog, out on the moor. I was sitting in the corner. Let me tell thee what really went on.”

The sky was dark now. Far down on the cliffs late kittiwakes gathered. The garden dimmed, minute by minute.

“Trevelyan was drunk. Azrael was buying. Strong stuff. Cider. Brandy. I watched how he poured it into thy granfer’s tankard, filling again and again. The old man got worse and worse. That’s the truth, girlie!”

Cold, she waited. He lit the pipe with a tinderbox, and puffed on it noisily. A tiny red ember glowed in the dark.

“I suppose he told thee different.”

“Yes.”

“Then tha’ll have to choose who to believe. Anyway, they started the cards. Azrael’s idea. He kept raising the stakes. Kept winning. Every hand turned out his way. The other players dropped out. One of them muttered he’d seen the black arts before, and wanted no part of it. Red as hell it was, with the fire and all, and a strange crowd in there that night. Outside, the wind was roaring, fit to burst.”

Sarah stood up. She knew what was coming. She walked to the doorway and stood with her back to him, staring tight-lipped at the dark garden. The bears watched her, peering over the hedges.

“It was Azrael,” the tramp said carefully, “that made the last wager.”

“No!” She turned. “My grandfather had a pistol . . .”

“No gun, girlie. ‘This time,’ Azrael says, all light and keen, ‘we bet everything. House. Estate. Life. Even thy immortal soul, old man. On the turn of a card.’ He and thy granfer sat at that table as if they were only mortals left in Christendom. No one spoke. It was as if some dread lay on us. I remember the fire catching Azrael’s face; dark it was, eager. I’ll tell you this too, he’s not changed. Not a line, not a wrinkle. In all these years.”

He puffed at the pipe. Sarah glared. “Go on!”

“Nothing else to say. Trevelyan nodded, befuddled as he was. They drew the cards. Thy granfer’s hand shook so much he could scarce cut the pack. He turned a king. We all knew how it would be, though. How can you play with the devil and win? When Azrael turned the ace the whole room stopped breathing. Thy granfer just stood and staggered to the door. Holding himself stiff he was, his face as if he was already in hell. The door crashed behind him. He never said a word.”

Sarah turned back to the garden, so he wouldn’t see her dismay. She had no idea what to believe. In the darkness the columns seemed empty. “Why would Azrael lie to me?”

“Why should I, eh? He’s not like us. He’s the Father of Lies.”

“Oh stop all that!” She stormed out onto the grass and turned on her heel to face him, quivering with anger. “I know him! I don’t know you!”

He was a dark outline. Only the pipe glowed, its redness rising and sinking with his breath. “Take care with him.” The tramp stood heavily. “He’s not brought thee here for any good purpose. Has he tried yet, to win thy soul?”

Fear shot through her.

“No. At least . . .” She shook her head. “It was a sort of joke . . .”

“No joke, girlie. Not with Azrael. He’ll try again. He’ll offer thee anything tha wants, and in the end he’ll win thee.”

He looked at her closely. “Maybe he’s won already.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Then come with me now. I’ll take thee home. To thy father.”

The tramp stepped forward. The dog barked, nervous. She didn’t know anymore whom she was angry with. She didn’t know what to do. Bewildered, she saw suddenly that it was night, purple and mothy. The sun had long gone. It was All Hallows Eve.

“No,” she breathed.

“Tha must! Don’t go back to the house, girlie! ’Tis what he wants!”

She thought of her father. The slovenly cottage. Cleaning the privies at the wretched school. And then all the books fell into her mind, the rows of chained, forbidden knowledge, and Azrael sitting by the fire feeding his cat with warm crumbs, saying, “To change metal into gold, Sarah, think of that! Think of the wonder of that!”

The dog yelped, a sharp warning.

“I can’t,” she muttered.

The garden crackled with movement. The bears had gone, as if they had slithered off their pillars; now she could hear a rustling all around her. Shadows merged into lithe shapes, panting, gathering. The tramp swung the sack hastily over his shoulder. “Come with me. The chance won’t come again.”

“I can’t.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

He looked at her, close. “’Tis worse than that. You do believe me. But you’re still not coming.”

She couldn’t answer.

Dogs howled. The uproar rang from the wood, and the tramp swore and plunged the cold pipe in his pocket. “God help me,” he muttered, “I’ve heard that hell-sound before. Come on, girlie, unless you want to suffer for all eternity!”

“Leave me alone! Just go!” she yelled, almost crying with fury. “Quickly!”

He ran.

But from the wood the hounds were racing, black shapes lean and lolloping. The tramp crashed through the hedge, clanging the gate behind him. All the night was a sudden bedlam of noise, a breathless panting. As she stood rigid with terror the hounds came at her, streaming around, closing in, sniffing her dress, growling, a savage, spectral pack, tails upright. Cold rose from them, icy wisps of smoke. The red coals of their eyes burned into her. She felt sick, almost faint.

“Sarah!”

Azrael was coming. He rode over the lawn on his pale horse, forcing a way through. Reluctant, growling, the pack split before the trampling hooves; one dog leaped up at him and he kicked it down.

“Put your foot in the stirrup!” he yelled.

She reached up and grabbed; he pulled her quickly and she swung up behind him, clutching his coat.

Around them the hounds were a snarling blackness. Another growled and leaped up, its teeth snapping at her hand, and broke into a sudden earsplitting howl that made Sarah sure the horse would rear and throw them. But it snorted, and shook its head, and Azrael urged it on so that they galloped over the lawns, across the empty flowerbeds, up the steps to the door, where Scrab waited in a swirl of mist and candlelight, all the shadow hounds streaming after them.

Breathless, Sarah jumped down.

“Go inside,” Azrael snapped.

The hounds were racing away. Far off in the woods the crashing pursuit brought rooks flapping out of the treetops like dark snow.

“Don’t hurt him,” she whispered.

Azrael smiled. “What do you think I am?”

Hopeless, she said, “That’s just it. I don’t know what you are.”

He leaned down. “Don’t you? I warned you. I don’t like trespassers. Now go in. This is Hallowe’en, remember?”

He turned the horse away, and she knew he had been laughing at her. She ran up the steps, fast. In the wood the hounds erupted into a hoarse baying.

They had found the scent. Someone yelled in terror.

She pushed past Scrab in fury.

“Get out of my way,” she muttered.