The Gorgon's Gaze Page 3

  Godiva sniffed as if to say there was no room for two opinions on that subject and set off upstairs. She paused briefly outside a door, hand hovering but not touching the white-painted wood.

  “This is my room. And this…,”—she took a few steps down the hall—“…is yours.”

  Connie walked through the open door and put her suitcase down. A narrow iron-framed bed stood against one wall, a metal table under the window, and a set of coat pegs hung over a big leather trunk, like the one which Uncle Hugh had struggled home. The room had a bleak, cell-like atmosphere. Only the faded wallpaper—pink roses climbing a trellis—made any attempt at softening the impression.

  “You’re to hang your things on the hooks and put the rest of your belongings in the trunk,” said Godiva. She ran a finger over the surface of the table and gave a pleased smile when it came away with no dust.

  “All right.”

  “Don’t you say ‘all right’ to me in that sulky tone, young lady. You say ‘yes, Aunt Godiva.’”

  “Yes, Aunt Godiva.”

  “That’s better.” Godiva approached her great-niece and, using the finger that had just checked for dust, stroked her under the chin. “I know it will be hard at first, Connie, but you have to believe that it’s all for the best.” She must have read doubt in Connie’s eyes. “I wish you would trust me. I really do know what you’re going through because I went through it myself. First step to your recovery is to recognize that what you feel is unnatural—it’s like an illness. If you acknowledge that, then you’ll be well on the way to recovery. I’ll leave you now.”

  The moment the door closed, Connie threw herself down on the bed and let the tears that had been building inside her flood out. She’d tried so hard to be brave, not letting Evelyn see her distress as she packed away her things in her beloved attic bedroom in Shaker Row. Now Connie was alone, she gave in to her despair. She already hated her great-aunt. There was something funny about her—she obviously understood more about the Society than she admitted. It was almost as if she knew the truth.

  Being taken away from the Society was bad enough, but what was really scaring Connie was the thought of how Kullervo would use her isolation to his advantage. She’d have no chance to learn how to defend herself. And then there was her new companion. When she’d agreed to be Argand’s companion, she hadn’t realized what difficulties lay just around the corner. For both of them to be complete, she’d need to see Argand regularly; if she didn’t, they would both suffer. Entering into a bond made them part of each other—that was what was so special about the relationship between companions. As a universal, she could have fleeting encounters with as many creatures as she wished, but to be bound to a particular companion was something else entirely. It was like the difference between friendship and marriage—she and Argand now belonged together and should not be parted.

  There came a gentle tap at the door.

  “Yes?” Connie wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

  Hugh put his head around the door.

  “I thought you might be a bit upset so I’ve brought you a present.” He held out a beautiful curved shell. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll miss a view of the sea when you’re here; but at least with this, you’ll be able to hear it.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Hugh.”

  “Don’t mention it, my dear.” He placed it on the quilt and left.

  Col was in the paddock behind the cottage grooming his horse, Mags, when his grandmother found him. She leaned on the fence to regain her breath, still flustered by the news she had just heard from Evelyn. Col was whistling softly, oblivious to everything else when he was this near to the eight-year-old chestnut. Mrs. Clamworthy didn’t want to disturb them but this couldn’t wait.

  “Col?”

  He looked up, stopping mid-stroke, surprised to find her so close. “What’s the matter, Gran?”

  “It’s Connie.”

  “It’s not Kullervo, is it?” Col asked quickly. The name tasted foul in his mouth.

  “No, dear. But it’s almost as bad.”

  Col dropped the brush. “Tell me.”

  “Connie’s been taken away from us—away from Evelyn, the Society, everything.” Mrs. Clamworthy seemed close to tears. Her hand was quivering as it rested on the top of the fence.

  “By who?”

  “Her parents have sent in her great-aunt and uncle. Now that Godiva Lionheart’s got her claws into Connie, I dread to think what will happen.”

  “Connie’s left without saying good-bye?” Col couldn’t believe it. Only yesterday they had been talking about summer vacation, making plans.

  “She had no choice. They carted her off to Chartmouth to that house of theirs right after they arrived last night. None of us are allowed to see her.”

  Mags nuzzled Col for some attention; he patted the horse distractedly.

  “But they can’t do that! What about her training? What about Kullervo?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re all thinking. Your father said they wanted nothing to do with him when he dropped Evelyn at home yesterday evening—Godiva is virulently opposed to anything or anyone to do with the Society.”

  A new suspicion struck Col. “What was Dad doing with Evelyn, Gran?”

  Mrs. Clamworthy blushed slightly. “That’s their business and none of yours. Now hurry up, I want you to take a message to Mack for me. He doesn’t know yet how it all ended last night.”

  Mags turned off the road and picked up his hooves, carrying his rider further into Mallins Wood. Even though they were the bearers of bad news, Col couldn’t help but feel his spirits lift a little. They both loved riding under the trees. They looked forward to galloping together through the many different parts of the wood: lofty green halls of beech; dark, mysterious tunnels of oak with acorns crunching underfoot; white-columned cloisters of silver birch on the sandy ground. Not only were the trees so diverse, but they changed so much with the seasons. One visit, Col and Mags would brush through the freshly minted greens of spring, next they were beneath the riotous leaves of summer, wading hock-deep in brazen autumn or spooked by skeletal winter.

  Over the years spent in Mallins Wood, Col had taught himself to ride and jump, climbed trees, made dens—it had always been the most amazing playground. Though he thought he knew it well, he had never lost the sense that it was a place of mystery, somewhere truly wild. He could feel that the wood was alive with creatures, hiding in tree and earth. Connie had often said that it was bursting with life. If she had been here, she could’ve told him what the creatures were. He pulled Mags to a halt and looked around him. And this was what they wanted to cut down and cover in tarmac—sacrificing Hescombe’s last remaining piece of the great forests that had once covered the area. He felt the loss almost like a physical pain.

  Who would benefit, he asked the trees angrily? Oh, yeah, the Axoil terminal would be able to send its tanker trucks rumbling to the highway much more efficiently. Col had also heard commuters to Chartmouth complaining about the slow road.

  But where are we to go to escape the cars if all of this has been concreted over? he wondered.

  The trees rustled as if approving his sentiments.

  Mack Clamworthy was sitting outside a tent, his motorbike parked under a sycamore. Mallins Wood was beginning to fill up with other encampments, ranging from tents like Mack’s to caravans scattering children, dogs, and deckchairs haphazardly around them. Overhead, two men in brightly colored cotton clothes were perched in the treetops stringing bunting through the branches, small bells attached to a line ringing in the breeze. The sound of hammering in the distance betrayed the activities of tree-house builders.

  Mags plodded into the clearing and stopped by the campfire.

  “Oh, hello, son.” Mack yawned, rubbing his unshaven chin wearily. “Come to join us, have you? We’re already digging in to give the police a hard time moving us—so the more the merrier.”

  Col did not reply but slid from Mags’s back and let
the horse wander off to graze.

  “Have you heard about Connie?” he asked his father.

  “No, what?” Mack asked without much sign of interest, poking the fire with a twig.

  “She’s been taken away from Evelyn—and her family is refusing to let her have anything to do with the Society.”

  Mack shot a surprised look at his son but then continued his probing of the embers. “That’s a shame.”

  “It’s more than a shame—it’s a disaster. What about Kullervo? How can we protect her if no one from the Society’s allowed near her?”

  Mack frowned. “What a mess. I bet Evie’s upset.”

  “Not as much as Connie.” Col paused. “Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” He slumped down opposite Mack on an upturned bucket.

  “Nothing—I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t exchange two words with them. Evie’s told me how the family’s been hassling her about Connie.”

  Col scuffed his sneakers in the leaf-litter, looking down at the ground.

  “So what’s this about you and Evelyn, Dad?”

  Mack got to his feet and stretched.

  “Sleeping outdoors—nothing like it,” he said, yawning again.

  “Dad?”

  “She’s a friend—known her for years. Look, Col, I’m sure Dr. Brock and the others will think of something for Connie. Forget about it for the moment—you can’t do anything. Why don’t you come and meet some of the others here and take your mind off things? I know where we might get a hot drink. Follow me.”

  Col trailed after Mack in a dark mood. Forget about it, his father said. But how could he? Mack always seemed so confident, so big—dominating every room, every gathering, brushing obstacles aside as if they didn’t matter. Col felt he could not grow in the long shadow his father cast. It was just as well that Mack was usually on the road and left Hescombe well alone. That was until he started going out with Evelyn Lionheart. Col was not sure he welcomed the prospect of seeing more of his father.

  Mack stopped outside an old white bus decorated with rainbows. He knocked on the door and it was flung open by a wild-eyed woman with a mass of red hair.

  “It’s you, Mack!” she exclaimed with relief. “I thought it might be the police again.”

  “No, Siobhan, just me—and I’ve brought my boy this time.”

  Col stepped out from behind his father and looked up at the woman with interest. She seemed to him like a dash of red energy in this calm green place.

  “He’s a rare one,” Siobhan said admiringly, her hands on her wide hips. “Eyes of one of the little people, he has, but it seems only us Irish talk about them these days.”

  Col shot a look at his father to ask if she knew about the Society; Mack gave him a slight shake of his head, before replying:

  “Yeah, he looks weird, doesn’t he?”

  Thanks, Dad, thought Col sourly.

  “I wondered if Rat might like to meet him—they must be about the same age,” Mack continued.

  Siobhan shouted lustily over her shoulder into the dark confines of the bus: “Rat! Rat! Where are you, you lazy bit of no good?”

  A pale face, surrounded by the rumpled hair of someone who had just got up, emerged out of the darkness. It was a boy: thin and wiry with light brown hair, blinking at the morning with sleepy eyes. His nose was sprinkled with freckles and his red-tinged ears stuck out prominently on either side of his sharp face.

  “What’s your boy’s name?” the Irish woman asked, pushing Rat forward.

  “Col,” said Mack, slapping his son hard on the back.

  “Well, Col,” she said, “this is Sean, but everyone ’round here calls him Rat ’cause of our name being Ratcliff, you see.”

  Col did see—sort of. He and Rat eyed each other warily for a moment like two strange dogs, until Col smiled. Rat grinned back.

  “So, Mack, you’ll be wanting tea?” Siobhan said, standing aside. “You two get yourselves off somewhere—but not too far, mind. And don’t get into any more trouble, Rat!”

  “Ma!” Rat protested.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you get up to—I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Rat pulled on some boots and jumped out of the bus.

  “Come on then,” he said with a casual toss of his head at Col. “Let’s go and see the tree-houses.”

  Col followed on his heels, fishing around for a safe topic. Soccer? Would a boy living in a bus follow any teams? He did not seem the type, somehow. Wanting to make a success of their first conversation, Col wondered what they would have in common.

  Rat suddenly stopped and put out an arm to hold Col back. Col paused. What was Rat playing at? Then Col saw the reason for himself. They were standing in a grove of beech trees, a light green canopy overhead and a copper floor covered with last year’s leaves. There, in the clearing, stood a deer, its front right hoof lifted delicately like a ballerina poised at the barre. The two boys stared for a moment into the liquid brown eyes of the creature, hardly daring to breathe. A wind rustled the leaves above; the deer twitched its tail and was gone in two bounds.

  “I like this wood,” Rat said simply, beginning to move again.

  “So do I.” Col hurried to fall into step beside him. “Hey, Rat, if you like animals, do you want to meet my horse?”

  4

  Cassandra

  Late in the afternoon, the gate bell rang. Connie watched from her window as her aunt, who had been determinedly rooting up seedlings from the flower borders all day, rushed to see who it was. She returned a few minutes later, marching in front of two girls. She was holding her house-keys like a prison warden escorting visitors to see an inmate. Connie’s heart lifted. It was Jane and Anneena, her best friends from school. She ran down the stairs two at a time to meet them in the hallway.

  “It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed.

  “And you.” Anneena hugged Connie and gave a significant look over her shoulder at Godiva. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, this is my great-aunt. Aunt Godiva, this is Anneena Nuruddin and Jane Benedict.”

  “Young woman,” rapped out Godiva sharply to Anneena, “do you have anything to do with the Society?”

  “The what? You mean Connie’s thing?”

  Godiva nodded.

  “No, no, I don’t.”

  “And you?” Godiva turned on Jane.

  “Me neither.” Feeling Godiva’s gaze drilling into her, Jane hid shyly behind her shoulder-length blonde hair, letting it flop over her face.

  “Good, then I’m pleased to meet you, girls. As Connie will tell you, there have been a few changes to her life recently, but you at least are welcome to continue your friendship with her.”

  “Er…thanks,” said Anneena, clearly wondering what right Godiva had to say with whom Connie could be friends.

  “I expect you’d like to go into the garden?” said Godiva, ushering them out as if trying to tidy up the mess they made of her hall.

  “It’s okay, I’ll take them up to my room,” said Connie.

  No sooner had Connie shut the door than Anneena burst out, “Col said you’ve been taken away from Evelyn.”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “Why?”

  “My parents are worried about me. They want my great-aunt and uncle to have a go at making me normal.”

  Anneena gave a snort. “Normal? What’s wrong with the way you are?”

  Connie shrugged, but silently she agreed with the question.

  Jane was examining the shell from Hugh. “So you’re living here? For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you’re still here in September, you’ll be close to Chartmouth School.”

  “My aunt plans to home-school me.”

  “You’re joking?” asked Anneena.

  “Am not.”

  “And she wants to make you normal? She hasn’t a hope.”

  There was an awkward pause as Connie bit her lip to stop herself from crying. Anneena a
nd Jane gave each other a quick look, then together pulled Connie into a hug.

  “You two have got to save me, okay? I’m not allowed to see Col or anyone, so it’s up to you.”

  “’Course we will, Connie,” said Anneena returning the squeeze. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you help us with the Hescombe Festival? Dad’s organizing it this year. If you say yes, then that’ll give you lots of opportunities to get out and about with us.”

  “Sounds great,” said Connie, sitting down on the bed next to her friend. Everything always felt full of possibilities when she was with Anneena. The future seemed less bleak already.

  “This year the Festival is going to be really big news—it might not be your sort of thing. We’ve got Krafted coming.”

  “Who?”

  Anneena rolled her eyes. “You know, the band—they’ve only been number one for the last three weeks.”

  Jane touched Connie’s arm. “Don’t worry, I hadn’t heard of them, either.”

  “Don’t you two ever listen to the radio? You can’t go five minutes without hearing one of their songs.”

  “A slight exaggeration, Annie?” teased Jane.

  “Yeah, well, you get the idea. It’s the first time the music festival has managed to attract a real headline name. There’ll be loads of other bands as well—it’ll be amazing.”

  “Why are they coming here?” asked Connie curiously. She knew about the festival, of course, but it was no way as big as Glastonbury or any of the other summer gigs.

  “Because of the campaign. Didn’t you realize that the new road passes right by the fields used by festival goers? Krafted’s drummer is from Chartmouth, and he’s dead against it. We’re going to use the festival to try and stop the tree-massacring council.”

  “Always so balanced, isn’t she?” whispered Jane wryly.

  Anneena ignored her. “The tickets were sold out the moment they went on the Internet.”

  “And what can I do to help?” Connie asked. She was beginning to catch some of Anneena’s excitement. Perhaps it really might make a difference? She was desperate to save the wood—now maybe they could.