Read Online Someone Else's Conflict by Alison Layland - Free Book Online Page A

sad about when we came here?”
    â€˜â€œI don’t remember.” She looked at the youngest boy who was polishing the old woman’s shoes. “Do you remember feeling sad?”
    â€˜The little boy shook his head. He couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t lived in the cottage in the woods. The girl realised she only had a few vague pictures in her head of her home, and after a few days those had gone too. They continued, strangely content. The oldest boy couldn’t remain content for long. He wanted to know who he was. He tried and tried to remember why they were there, why they had been sad, but it was no use. The others began to get annoyed with him for fretting. He never dared ask the woman they had come to know as Grandmother.
    â€˜One day, he was collecting firewood and he cut his hand on a thorn. He saw his own blood drip onto a leaf. He looked up and saw the black and white flash of a magpie watching him. The bird spoke and the boy nearly dropped his bundle of sticks in surprise.
    â€˜â€œWhat’s the matter, young man?”
    â€˜â€œWe’re happy here, Grandmother looks after us, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”
    â€˜And the magpie said, “She wants children. She wants to keep you here as her own. She’ll care for you, but she’ll never let you remember in case you decide to leave.”
    â€˜â€œI want to go back. I want to remember.”
    â€˜â€œYour memories will bring you sadness. Are you sure?” said the magpie.
    â€˜â€œI want to be myself,” said the boy.
    â€˜The magpie told him not to eat the food the old woman gave him. He would have to leave that very night – he would have no choice, as the old woman would know. She was at her most dangerous in her raven-winged night, but if the boy waited until morning she would trap him.
    â€˜The boy’s cut began to scab over and as the blood dried the magpie’s voice became a bird’s screech as it flapped off. The boy ran back to the cottage and called the girl and the youngest boy to him. But to his dismay, he couldn’t remember what the magpie had told him. Soon he had forgotten what kind of bird had spoken, if it had happened at all. The girl huffed and went back to her spinning, and the little boy went out to dig some potatoes for their meal, singing to himself. The older boy was sad; not the deep sadness they’d been running from, but regret that he couldn’t remember something beautiful, and his friends wouldn’t help him remember.
    â€˜That evening he caught the cut on his hand as he was feeding the fire and he watched a bead of blood well up. He felt lightheaded.
    â€˜â€œI don’t want any supper tonight, thank you,” he told the old woman. “I’m not feeling well.”
    â€˜She peered at him. “Did anything happen while you were out?”
    â€˜â€œNothing,” he said, and she seemed to believe him.
    â€˜He went to bed and she brought him a bowl of steaming broth. “You must try and eat something to keep your strength up.”
    â€˜He nodded and put the bowl to his lips, but only pretended to drink. “It’s too hot. I’ll drink it once it’s cooled.”
    â€˜The old woman bustled off to watch over the other two and he rolled over and tipped the contents between the bed and the wall. When she came back he feigned a wan smile. “Thank you. I feel much better now.”
    â€˜But he felt worse. He tried to sleep, but was plagued by images of houses burning, people he loved whom he knew were no longer there. He felt a deep sadness and had an urge to leave; he worried at the cut on his hand to keep himself awake. He tried to hold back his tears in case the old woman heard, and was grateful when the other two came to bed and he eventually heard the beating of wings that he feared but was waiting for.
    â€˜When all was quiet he got up, pulled his coat around him,