someone was staring back at him. He flinched back and landed hard on an elbow.
It was the tinker lady, he realized, once he got over his initial fright and his heart returned to something like normal.
She had passed through the village just yesterday, with her load of pans and pots and bright new ribbons for sale.
There would not have been many buyers for her; Five Hands was a poor place at the best of times, the past year had been a bad one, and strangers were suspect.
She had been pretty, once, with long brown hair tied back with one of her own ribbons, the yellow skirt she wore fluttering gaily about her calves as she passed down the main road and into the forest.
Now her eyes were wide and staring, lips parted in a snarl. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist and her neck was bruised and swollen, her head twisted enquiringly to one side as though to ask him a question, and she was very, very dead.
Ricky lay sprawled in the dirt before her and felt the blood pound through his head and ears.
He was young, but not stupid, and he had a very good idea of what would happen if Scrout should find him now.
He raised himself up once more, his breath rasping harshly in his throat, feeling his testicles draw up into his lower abdomen at the thought.
Eventually he stood, still tottering with shock, and realized that he was still clutching the fragment of yellow in one of his fists, darkening rapidly with the sweat from his hand.
She stared up at him, and Ricky could see the layer of dust on her eyeballs, a gritty grey sifting of powder that concealed the colour of her eyes and turned her into a blindly staring statue.
He dropped the scrap of material down onto her, and it lay against her dark hair. The bright colour looked obscene, conspiring with the dust and cobwebs in a gloating mockery of the morning light.
He knew he should close her eyes, they always closed dead people’s eyes - but he could not bring himself to touch her.
What if she tried to touch him back?
“Oh, stop it,” he whispered. “Just stop.”
He whispered a quick prayer to the Goddess, and hastily backed away. He had limped almost to the end of the yard when he stopped short, struck by a new and horrible thought.
He’ll know you were here , a dry, matter-of-fact little voice informed him.
The overgrown tangle in the yard meant nothing – he came here to hide her, after all.
True. And Scrout didn’t like kids running near his house at the best of times. Wasn’t he more likely to check the back when he came home? To make sure his nasty little secret was still a secret?
“Let him check,” he whispered. “He won’t know who it was. I’m not the only youngling in the village.”
You’re the only one that leaves little round holes in place of a footprint , the voice responded.
Ricky shuddered, and turned to look, feeling his neck creak reluctantly. Sheer terror had stiffened every muscle in his body.
Sure enough, a neat little row of impressions wound their way through the dry soil. Ricky moaned, a hopeless little sound in the back of his throat, and felt his bladder begin to contract.
Stop that!
“He’ll kill me. He’ll know it was me and he’ll kill me.”
No. Move fast, though – there be not much time left.
It took him nearly twenty minutes, first arranging more branches to hide the woman in her nest once more, then using a leafy branch to obliterate his prints, working frantically, and by the time he was finished he was covered in sweat and dust, and whimpering in the back of his throat, certain that he would turn and find Scrout standing behind him.
In the end he slipped away from the side of the house not five minutes before Scrout left the shed and ambled his way home.
Ricky hid against the side of the house opposite, hardly daring to breath until the man stumbled through his door and closed it behind him. Then he doubled over and vomited into the
It was the tinker lady, he realized, once he got over his initial fright and his heart returned to something like normal.
She had passed through the village just yesterday, with her load of pans and pots and bright new ribbons for sale.
There would not have been many buyers for her; Five Hands was a poor place at the best of times, the past year had been a bad one, and strangers were suspect.
She had been pretty, once, with long brown hair tied back with one of her own ribbons, the yellow skirt she wore fluttering gaily about her calves as she passed down the main road and into the forest.
Now her eyes were wide and staring, lips parted in a snarl. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist and her neck was bruised and swollen, her head twisted enquiringly to one side as though to ask him a question, and she was very, very dead.
Ricky lay sprawled in the dirt before her and felt the blood pound through his head and ears.
He was young, but not stupid, and he had a very good idea of what would happen if Scrout should find him now.
He raised himself up once more, his breath rasping harshly in his throat, feeling his testicles draw up into his lower abdomen at the thought.
Eventually he stood, still tottering with shock, and realized that he was still clutching the fragment of yellow in one of his fists, darkening rapidly with the sweat from his hand.
She stared up at him, and Ricky could see the layer of dust on her eyeballs, a gritty grey sifting of powder that concealed the colour of her eyes and turned her into a blindly staring statue.
He dropped the scrap of material down onto her, and it lay against her dark hair. The bright colour looked obscene, conspiring with the dust and cobwebs in a gloating mockery of the morning light.
He knew he should close her eyes, they always closed dead people’s eyes - but he could not bring himself to touch her.
What if she tried to touch him back?
“Oh, stop it,” he whispered. “Just stop.”
He whispered a quick prayer to the Goddess, and hastily backed away. He had limped almost to the end of the yard when he stopped short, struck by a new and horrible thought.
He’ll know you were here , a dry, matter-of-fact little voice informed him.
The overgrown tangle in the yard meant nothing – he came here to hide her, after all.
True. And Scrout didn’t like kids running near his house at the best of times. Wasn’t he more likely to check the back when he came home? To make sure his nasty little secret was still a secret?
“Let him check,” he whispered. “He won’t know who it was. I’m not the only youngling in the village.”
You’re the only one that leaves little round holes in place of a footprint , the voice responded.
Ricky shuddered, and turned to look, feeling his neck creak reluctantly. Sheer terror had stiffened every muscle in his body.
Sure enough, a neat little row of impressions wound their way through the dry soil. Ricky moaned, a hopeless little sound in the back of his throat, and felt his bladder begin to contract.
Stop that!
“He’ll kill me. He’ll know it was me and he’ll kill me.”
No. Move fast, though – there be not much time left.
It took him nearly twenty minutes, first arranging more branches to hide the woman in her nest once more, then using a leafy branch to obliterate his prints, working frantically, and by the time he was finished he was covered in sweat and dust, and whimpering in the back of his throat, certain that he would turn and find Scrout standing behind him.
In the end he slipped away from the side of the house not five minutes before Scrout left the shed and ambled his way home.
Ricky hid against the side of the house opposite, hardly daring to breath until the man stumbled through his door and closed it behind him. Then he doubled over and vomited into the
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