Norgie sat in silence, any fight in him had disappeared. Any thoughts of escape gone with it as he watched almost dreamily as his blood began to run in a steady flow. His vision blurred, the images in the cellar becoming dark and unfocused, yet he felt more than saw the presence of another person shuffle into the room.
Struggling to remain conscious, he let his head fall to the side, resting his jaw on his shoulder as he peered up. He could make out the silhouette of a hooded creature, its face hidden beneath the dark peak of a cloak.
“This one’s blood will do nicely,” said the newcomer. Its voice sounding dry and gravelly as if the words passed through a parched throat, yet the speaker was female. It brought to Norgie’s mind an image of the old witch in a ‘Hansel and Gretel’ book that he had read as a child and which had given him nightmares.
“Let him bleed out. We’ve work to be done,” she croaked.
“Tak...tak...tak.”
Norgie gave up to unconsciousness, not wanting to remain in the present and longing for blissful sleep to steal him away.
Chapter 1
The Song
The sky above Gloucester was dull and grey, much like the city itself and much like Elora’s mood. She sat with her backside growing numb on a cold stone bench in the city centre, fussing with the frayed hem of her denim jacket and working a thread loose.
The grating sounds of the tone-deaf busker nearby played on her nerves. Even the people passing by gave him a wide berth, as if he exuded a harmful disease instead of music. In truth, he gave neither.
In search of distraction, Elora’s violet eyes picked out a pale maple leaf as it tumbled across the street. At the mercy of the wind, it danced over the shoppers and tourists before catching in the frame of a coffee shop window, where it flapped about as if struggling to free itself. She could free it, she mused, concentrating on the leaf to take her mind away from the painful noise.
Air was the easiest of the elements to manipulate - that’s what her uncle Nat had told her when she was a child.
Closing her senses to the city life, she focused on the leaf. Taking in its sharp edges, its brown stem, brittle skin and veins. Pursing her lips, she gently hummed the rhythm of the wind. She felt it on her bare arms, a light breeze playing in short waves and swirling randomly about the cobbled street. As she hummed, she matched the wind’s rhythm, altering it imperceptibly and raising it ever so slightly in pitch. Never taking her eyes from her target, she enticed a thin tendril of air towards the leaf, picturing in her mind the leaf coming free, released from the window frame and dancing once more upon the breeze.
It took a moment for the leaf to react, and when it did the movement was subtle, a gentle tug in the opposite direction that may have been her doing or it could have been a natural eddy where the wind reflected off the glass. She was about to apply more pressure when a hand suddenly fell on her shoulder, snapping her out of her reverie.
“What’s got your attention so hooked?” came a gravelly voice. Elora was so wrapped up with her attempt at freeing the leaf she hadn’t realised that the singer had ceased his wailing and had come over to join her. A glance back at the window showed that the leaf had gone. Whether it was by her doing or not, she couldn’t say.
“Nothing,” she replied, irritated.
“So, what do you think, am I improving or what? It can’t be long before I’m spotted for the talent that I am.” He slouched beside her, laying a battered guitar across his lap.
“It was definitely something,” she reassured him – and it was something, just not the something he thought it was.
She had met Ben last summer, when she had first tried her hand at busking. He had stopped her halfway through a song and demanded that she find her own spot to perform. An argument had ensued, but Ben had a permit from the council; she didn’t. Luckily, she had stayed long enough to hear his dismal attempts at singing which sounded like a cat being strangled. If his aim was to sound that bad, then he had succeeded. She listened until he had finished torturing the song and his audience, then struck a deal with him: she would re-string his guitar and let him strum the chords while she sang, and they’d split the takings. Doubtful at first, he had soon acquiesced when he found that they were making enough money to buy more than a cup of tea. But, a few months on he was still determined to go solo, refusing to give up his dream – and giving everyone else a headache.
Ben counted the change in his grubby cap, stubby fingers pushing the four copper coins around. “They’re a bit on the stingy side today. Don’t think we’ve even made enough for a custard slice.” He stuffed the miserly change in his pocket. “Real shame them being so tight. I had plans tonight.” He flicked the low E-string on the guitar causing a dull thrumming sound. It was out of tune again.
Elora nodded, waiting for the inevitable question. “Real shame,” she agreed.
Ben scratched his unshaven chin. “Course, when we stick to the usual numbers, we never make that much.”
It was true. The public could be hard-hearted when it came to buskers. The weather could make a difference. People seemed to be more generous when the sun was touching their faces. But those facts were obvious, and she already had an inkling where Ben was going with the conversation.
“Unless...”
“No, Ben. Not happening,” she said, before he could even ask.
“But we made a killing last time.”
“No.”
“We made more from that one song than we made all summer.” He strummed the guitar, its sound grating through her and doing nothing to help his argument.
“No.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to sing the song: she enjoyed the thrill it gave her. It was the consequences she didn’t like. The last time she sang it, Nat, her uncle and sole guardian, had found out and for some reason he had thrown a furious tantrum about it. The song was in a language only he understood and according to him, it had dangerous ‘powers’. She couldn’t say whether she believed it or not. It certainly influenced the people listening. They became silent and more importantly, generous. And, she did feel something odd when she sang it but ‘powers’? What on Earth did her uncle mean?
She turned back to Ben. “Why so desperate? We’ve had low takings before.”
Ben glanced forward, picking at the guitar’s scratchboard. “Gonna be a dad, aren’t I? The missus told me last night. Said it was about time I got myself a proper job.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Thought if I came home today with a tidy penny and some flowers, she might let me carry on busking.”
“That’s amazing, Ben. Congratulations. But you know she’s right. Maybe it is time to grow up and move on.”
“But...”
“Your singing is shocking and not in a good way.”
Ben looked hurt and she felt a sudden pang of guilt, yet he needed to hear it. He must realise, surely nobody could be that deluded? There was a long silence while he seemed to take in her words. Then he seemed to brighten. “What’s up with you, anyway? You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.”
“Nothing,” she answered.
The truth was that Elora had worries of her own. Her uncle Nat was acting strangely – even more strangely than usual and he was an extremely strange person to begin with. However, she wouldn’t discuss these things with Ben. She barely knew him and anyway, she wasn’t planning on staying in Gloucester for much longer.
After a moment of awkward silence, she gave in. “Fine, I’ll sing it but not here. And not to keep you in the job - your missus is right, you really need to get yourself a proper one. But, I do think you should take some flowers home.” She smiled at seeing his scruffy face lighten up and felt her mood lift.
Elora’s footfalls were light as she led the way from the busy city centre, the tarmac giving way to flagstones then to brick paving and finally to stone cobbles. This was the part of Gloucester she liked, away from the drab modern office blocks and shopping malls, towards the cathedral where the ancient buildings seemed to belong to a different world.
