from Eresthahan, the land of the dead, and spoke to me, relating the
manner of their deaths. I was not afraid of the dead. They were thin ghosts, nothing more, blown by the night wind, gone when morning came. And sometimes the voices of the moor and the dead, the
voices of stars and moons, overwhelmed me like a tide until all I could do was hide my face in the thorny branches of the scrub and wait for it to go away.
We were part of Moon Moor. So when the thing appeared that stole my sister, it came as a rupture in the world itself.
At first we saw it as a light in the sky, very high up. I remember my sister’s panicked face and then the thing growing, glowing over the stones, accompanied by a roar. It landed not far
away on the moor: an insect that changed its shape to reveal three people. At the time, as far as I can recall, I saw them only as other predators, and perhaps I was not wrong. They were not human,
but ghosts: with no sense of the connection to the world that I had, not even as much as the voices from Eresthahan, insubstantial as they drifted across the face of the moor. Later, when I became
grown and self-aware, I saw them more clearly in my mind’s eye. They were tall and had pale hair and white faces, and they wore green armour that shone in the light from their carrier beetle,
a light that was itself a kind of watery iridescence. They must have been some kind of spirit or demon, for many are said to haunt Moon Moor. But they were also female.
One of them spoke in a hard harsh voice. Even if she had spoken in Khalti, I wouldn’t have understood her then. Two of the ghosts ran after us. My sister ran in one direction and I in
another, dodging between the towering blocks of the stones. Our pursuers were too large to fit into the burrow.
The ghost who chased me was quick. I darted into the scrub, but she was at my heels and her hand closed on my hair. I stumbled and she dragged me backwards. It hurt, but I was used to pain. My
hair caught on the thorns and it slowed her down enough for me to be able to twist round in her grip and sink my teeth into the ball of her hand. Her blood tasted wrong: metallic, true, but rank
and somehow old. Perhaps the blood of ghosts rots in their veins and does not renew itself. I don’t know. It hurt her, though, for she shouted out and struck me. But my teeth were still
embedded deep in her flesh and I would not let go. She punched me in the side of the head and I tore part of her hand away as I fell. She was shouting and grunting, blood pouring from the wound
I’d made, and I took to my heels and ran as fast as I could. The burrow was not far away and I threw myself into it and waited.
Nothing more to tell. The ghost did not come and drag me out, and she’d have had a hard job of it if she’d tried.
But my sister did not come, either. I waited, and grew cold. I thought I heard her screaming, but it was a thin, distant sound like a night bird and I could not be sure. I did not dare crawl out
of the burrow and look, in case the ghost was waiting. I have never blamed myself for this. Children are as they are: fiercely selfish, or they would not survive. They live in bloodmind, they are a
different kind of creature from ourselves, and there is no use in applying the same standards. So I do not blame, but I do regret.
I never saw her again. Next morning, I searched the whole moor, first making sure that the insect had flown away. There was no sign that it had ever been there, except for some long black marks
and flattened scrub, and spots of blood where I had savaged the ghost. I licked them but they had dried, and the rotten taste was even stronger. There was nothing else, and I know I searched hard.
They had flown away and stolen her with them, or eaten her so entirely that nothing was left. I kept a watch all the same, knowing of the night birds who spit out a mass of bones and hair in a
little ball. I think I half expected to find one of these little
manner of their deaths. I was not afraid of the dead. They were thin ghosts, nothing more, blown by the night wind, gone when morning came. And sometimes the voices of the moor and the dead, the
voices of stars and moons, overwhelmed me like a tide until all I could do was hide my face in the thorny branches of the scrub and wait for it to go away.
We were part of Moon Moor. So when the thing appeared that stole my sister, it came as a rupture in the world itself.
At first we saw it as a light in the sky, very high up. I remember my sister’s panicked face and then the thing growing, glowing over the stones, accompanied by a roar. It landed not far
away on the moor: an insect that changed its shape to reveal three people. At the time, as far as I can recall, I saw them only as other predators, and perhaps I was not wrong. They were not human,
but ghosts: with no sense of the connection to the world that I had, not even as much as the voices from Eresthahan, insubstantial as they drifted across the face of the moor. Later, when I became
grown and self-aware, I saw them more clearly in my mind’s eye. They were tall and had pale hair and white faces, and they wore green armour that shone in the light from their carrier beetle,
a light that was itself a kind of watery iridescence. They must have been some kind of spirit or demon, for many are said to haunt Moon Moor. But they were also female.
One of them spoke in a hard harsh voice. Even if she had spoken in Khalti, I wouldn’t have understood her then. Two of the ghosts ran after us. My sister ran in one direction and I in
another, dodging between the towering blocks of the stones. Our pursuers were too large to fit into the burrow.
The ghost who chased me was quick. I darted into the scrub, but she was at my heels and her hand closed on my hair. I stumbled and she dragged me backwards. It hurt, but I was used to pain. My
hair caught on the thorns and it slowed her down enough for me to be able to twist round in her grip and sink my teeth into the ball of her hand. Her blood tasted wrong: metallic, true, but rank
and somehow old. Perhaps the blood of ghosts rots in their veins and does not renew itself. I don’t know. It hurt her, though, for she shouted out and struck me. But my teeth were still
embedded deep in her flesh and I would not let go. She punched me in the side of the head and I tore part of her hand away as I fell. She was shouting and grunting, blood pouring from the wound
I’d made, and I took to my heels and ran as fast as I could. The burrow was not far away and I threw myself into it and waited.
Nothing more to tell. The ghost did not come and drag me out, and she’d have had a hard job of it if she’d tried.
But my sister did not come, either. I waited, and grew cold. I thought I heard her screaming, but it was a thin, distant sound like a night bird and I could not be sure. I did not dare crawl out
of the burrow and look, in case the ghost was waiting. I have never blamed myself for this. Children are as they are: fiercely selfish, or they would not survive. They live in bloodmind, they are a
different kind of creature from ourselves, and there is no use in applying the same standards. So I do not blame, but I do regret.
I never saw her again. Next morning, I searched the whole moor, first making sure that the insect had flown away. There was no sign that it had ever been there, except for some long black marks
and flattened scrub, and spots of blood where I had savaged the ghost. I licked them but they had dried, and the rotten taste was even stronger. There was nothing else, and I know I searched hard.
They had flown away and stolen her with them, or eaten her so entirely that nothing was left. I kept a watch all the same, knowing of the night birds who spit out a mass of bones and hair in a
little ball. I think I half expected to find one of these little
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