faces, clothes in tatters, ’sacs half-torn or half-cut from their backs. Silence fell but for a
whispering all around them, so they did not know which way to turn.
Jack’s hand was on Katherine’s arm, her hand on Stort’s. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Jack. Friends as one.
‘We’re stronger together,’ whispered Stort, ‘that’s why it’s abated.’
‘What is it, exactly?’ murmured Jack. ‘If I knew, maybe I could protect you both from it, though my stave’s gone dead. Look!’
They looked as best they could in the near-darkness of the night. Normally his stave had a shine or shimmer where it caught the light, however faint, sometimes of a single star, but now there
was nothing. They could not even see the stave.
‘Scholars have spilt much ink over the definition of this phenomenon,’ said Stort. ‘It is not unique to the Malverns, but for reasons unknown it manifests itself very
powerfully here.’
‘So if we stay like this, in a closed circle, we’re keeping it at bay?’ said Katherine.
‘A distinct possibility,’ said Stort, ‘but not for the reason you think. It is, I believe, a manifestation of collective thought and actions through time. Hills such as these,
perhaps
particularly
these, have been stripped of life by generations of humans and, I fear, hydden. We have taken from the Earth and not given back. We did not harvest, we stole and
diminished our world forever. The Scythe may be our own thoughts of shame and guilt at what we’ve done, resurrecting long-lost trees only to have them scythed down again.’
‘Not us,’ said Jack, ‘but our ancestors.’
‘In the Mirror, Jack, we are them as well, for all reflections meld to one. The Scythe is not good or bad, nor in any way judgemental. It is what has been; it is what has become. It rages
along at the very edge of the future, which is why, if we cannot find escape from it now, it will consume us. We will cut ourselves down with our own thoughts.’
The hissing began again, circling them, still giving them no direction of escape.
‘But . . .’ murmured Stort.
‘What?’ said Jack.
‘It has been reported of the Scythe that those who experience it sometimes disappear, as if cut down and carried into a different time from their own. There was one report, in a
seventeenth-century manuscript which . . .’
He stopped abruptly.
The hissing was growing louder and more specific in location – not far in front of them.
‘Which
what
!?’
‘Which said that one hydden in a company of, well, um, three actually, was suddenly gone with the shards.’
‘Shards?’ repeated Jack looking about in the swirling darkness for a clear sign of the danger they heard so clearly. ‘What are
they
, for Mirror’s sake?’
In his movement his hand slipped from Katherine and hers from Stort. Stort, too, turned, and the circle was broken.
The hissing immediately turned into a roar once more and refocused some yards behind Jack, from where it started to advance, the trees thick again about them, mounting up so hugely that panic
overtook them and they could not even move.
Their throats dried, their hearts hammered, their feet were heavy weights too great to lift from the ground. Even their arms were paralysed and their hands, so that they were unable to raise
their staves to defend themselves. The so-far-unseen Scythe swung and re-formed to something visible. It manifested as a razor-thin slit of steely light in the sky, that looked so sharp it would
turn to slivers whatever it touched, so vast it seemed to reach to the ends of the Universe. The sight of it overwhelmed them with fear.
They tried to cry out but no words came.
Their hearts stilled, their eyes were wide with terror, their last moments come.
It was then, from the corner of their eyes, they caught a movement of russet light through the old trees, accompanied by a drumming of paws. Then out of the roar of the night the growing bark of
a dog. Georg appeared,
whispering all around them, so they did not know which way to turn.
Jack’s hand was on Katherine’s arm, her hand on Stort’s. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Jack. Friends as one.
‘We’re stronger together,’ whispered Stort, ‘that’s why it’s abated.’
‘What is it, exactly?’ murmured Jack. ‘If I knew, maybe I could protect you both from it, though my stave’s gone dead. Look!’
They looked as best they could in the near-darkness of the night. Normally his stave had a shine or shimmer where it caught the light, however faint, sometimes of a single star, but now there
was nothing. They could not even see the stave.
‘Scholars have spilt much ink over the definition of this phenomenon,’ said Stort. ‘It is not unique to the Malverns, but for reasons unknown it manifests itself very
powerfully here.’
‘So if we stay like this, in a closed circle, we’re keeping it at bay?’ said Katherine.
‘A distinct possibility,’ said Stort, ‘but not for the reason you think. It is, I believe, a manifestation of collective thought and actions through time. Hills such as these,
perhaps
particularly
these, have been stripped of life by generations of humans and, I fear, hydden. We have taken from the Earth and not given back. We did not harvest, we stole and
diminished our world forever. The Scythe may be our own thoughts of shame and guilt at what we’ve done, resurrecting long-lost trees only to have them scythed down again.’
‘Not us,’ said Jack, ‘but our ancestors.’
‘In the Mirror, Jack, we are them as well, for all reflections meld to one. The Scythe is not good or bad, nor in any way judgemental. It is what has been; it is what has become. It rages
along at the very edge of the future, which is why, if we cannot find escape from it now, it will consume us. We will cut ourselves down with our own thoughts.’
The hissing began again, circling them, still giving them no direction of escape.
‘But . . .’ murmured Stort.
‘What?’ said Jack.
‘It has been reported of the Scythe that those who experience it sometimes disappear, as if cut down and carried into a different time from their own. There was one report, in a
seventeenth-century manuscript which . . .’
He stopped abruptly.
The hissing was growing louder and more specific in location – not far in front of them.
‘Which
what
!?’
‘Which said that one hydden in a company of, well, um, three actually, was suddenly gone with the shards.’
‘Shards?’ repeated Jack looking about in the swirling darkness for a clear sign of the danger they heard so clearly. ‘What are
they
, for Mirror’s sake?’
In his movement his hand slipped from Katherine and hers from Stort. Stort, too, turned, and the circle was broken.
The hissing immediately turned into a roar once more and refocused some yards behind Jack, from where it started to advance, the trees thick again about them, mounting up so hugely that panic
overtook them and they could not even move.
Their throats dried, their hearts hammered, their feet were heavy weights too great to lift from the ground. Even their arms were paralysed and their hands, so that they were unable to raise
their staves to defend themselves. The so-far-unseen Scythe swung and re-formed to something visible. It manifested as a razor-thin slit of steely light in the sky, that looked so sharp it would
turn to slivers whatever it touched, so vast it seemed to reach to the ends of the Universe. The sight of it overwhelmed them with fear.
They tried to cry out but no words came.
Their hearts stilled, their eyes were wide with terror, their last moments come.
It was then, from the corner of their eyes, they caught a movement of russet light through the old trees, accompanied by a drumming of paws. Then out of the roar of the night the growing bark of
a dog. Georg appeared,
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