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Not for the first time, Jane thought that she should have just said “the hell with it” and worn knickers.
For the last thirty minutes, she'd perched carefully on the bit of the cart that wasn't covered in hay or mud, its driver alternating between peering at her and the horses, unable to decide which one might cause him more trouble. In all likelihood, any form of trousers would have sent him around the bend.
“What brings you up here?”
Jane almost jumped at the sudden address, having spent most of the ride in absolute silence. “My brother.”
“Your brother?” Rheumy eyes peered suspiciously at her, followed by the sound of a hacking cough. From the back of the cart, Jane winced. “You don't look like a local.”
“I'm not,” Jane said, clutching her bag tighter as the cart went over a bump. “Neither is he. He came out here for his art.”
“Aye,” the man said, tone shifting into something less hostile, but still cautious. “Another one of them painters. We get a fair amount of them around here, always coming up to look at trees everyone's seen a thousand times.”
“Something like that,” Jane said, trying to keep from laughing. “He said he was staying in the cottage here.”
“The old Fenton place.” She could see him spit as she said it. “They all stay there.”
“Oh?”
“Can't see why,” he grumbled. “Nothing good ever comes out of it.”
“You don't particularly like art?” Jane asked delicately. It wouldn't do to irritate the man to the point that she'd have to walk the rest of the way, but such a dire pronouncement demanded some sort of response.
“Oh, I like the paintings just fine.” His voice dropped, muffled, almost too low for Jane to make out, but she thought she heard him add, “it's what comes after.”
“I should have warned you about old Seton,” Michael said, passing over a glass of something brown that made Jane wince as she sniffed at it. “He's a bit of a character.”
“If you wanted someone to grimace at you and mutter under their breath, Michael,” Jane replied, taking a sip, “you could have stayed at home. Father would be more than happy to oblige.”
“Of course he would.” Michael sniffed at the thought. “And you could be at home with Mother, having her drag you out to her latest cause.”
They exchanged smiles.
“Your Seton didn't seem to care for this place,” Jane said.
“He doesn't care for a lot of things.” Michael shook his head. “You should have heard him talk about the others before me. Every last one of them seemed to be mad as a hatter by the time they left.”
“Well, if you stay cooped up here by yourself all day long, I shouldn't wonder,” Jane said, eying a covered canvas on an easel. “Is that your latest?”
“Did Father already dispose of the painting I sent you?”
Jane shook her head. “Of course not,” she said, smiling. “It's proud display.” Father might gripe and grumble about the path Michael had chosen, but every visitor was detoured to see Michael's watercolor of their house hanging in the hall. It was rather a good depiction, as if one moment in their life had been frozen and put into a frame.
“Proud?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “Well, then perhaps I should give this to the old boy when it's done.”
He knocked back the rest of his drink and rose to his feet. His hands plucked at the sheet and cast aside, revealing...
“I don't know why I was expecting something more dramatic,” Jane said. She peered at the painting, a quite ordinary watercolor of a hill, some trees, and a blue sky above. “I'm assuming it's somewhere around here?”
“Up on Poplar Hill,” Michael said. “So named for... well, I suppose you can guess.”
“Poplars,” Jane said. Something at the back of her mind twinged, a little pain that passed through. A headache, she supposed, from the heat or the journey. “You must have been up there an awful lot to paint it?”
“I keep trying to.” Michael frowned. “But every time I think I've gotten it right, a little voice in my head tells me it's not.”
“Well, I'm sure you'll get it right eventually.” Jane took another sip. “Perhaps we might take a little trip back out there tomorrow. You can try getting some inspiration again.”
“I suppose so,” Michael said. He smiled at her. “I do appreciate you coming down to see me,” he said. “I haven't said that, have I?”
“You don't need to,” Jane said. “But it is nice to hear.”
He'd made up his bed for her that evening, much to her protest that it was fine, Michael, she could just go back to town and stay in the--
“And have us both face the wrath of old Seton twice more?” Michael scoffed. “No, thank you, I think we'll do fine here. Besides, I've slept in on this old sofa a number of times.” He patted out at it, sending up a cloud of dust that belied his point.
“Michael--”
“Jane,” he said. “You're my guest and more importantly, my sister. The least I can do is this.”
It was surprisingly easy to fall asleep that evening. She'd thought she'd be too distracted by the new environs, the drip of a pipe somewhere in the cottage, the sagging corner of the bed, but instead, she'd drifted off, exhausted.
There was a faint humming, a whistling at first, something high and cheerful around her.
“Hello?” she called out. “Is someone there?”
No one answered. A second whistle joined in, then a third. There was a rustling as well, now, the sound of wings, perhaps, a flock of birds taking to flight and underneath it, a low hum or perhaps a chant of some sort. It sank into her head, echoing around it, a maddening drone that she could not block out even when she raised her hands to her ears.
The fog was thick around her, too dense for her to make out more than a centimeter or two ahead of her. Her feet, when she moved them, moved slowly, as if they were stuck to the ground, sloshing about in puddles. Was it raining?
“Michael?”
She moved another step, stumbled over something dark on the ground. Jane bent down to pick it up.
It was a black umbrella, the handle fitting neatly into her grasp. She didn't move anything, but it opened at her touch, spreading to cover just her at first, before it continued, a shadow growing impossibly wide over her.
And under her, she realized, as her feet lifted off the ground, rising into the grayness. She couldn't stop herself from drifting away, carried upon a wind as the shadow enveloped her. There was nothing to cling onto, nothing to hold, not a roof or a chimney, just the feeling that she would not be able to touch down again, not unless she willed it.
“Mary,” Jane said.
The ascent stopped, and then she was falling, a sickening plunge back down and she didn't know when she would hit or where, just that when she did, she would--
Wake up, she thought, and she had.
Outside, the sky was already blue, the sun high in the sky. She must have overslept, whatever strange dream she had keeping her eyes shut for far too long.
She stumbled out of bed, her nightgown clinging to her body, wet with sweat. Jane looked back at the state of the bed and winced. Bedclothes everywhere, wrinkled and tossed about, and something black in the middle of it all.
Jane picked it up curiously.
A feather, she thought. Now where did that come from?
There was a knock against the wall and Jane jumped at it, startled.
“Sorry,” her brother said, apologetically from the doorway. “But it's rather late.”
“No,” Michael said. “I still can't get it right.” He bit the end of his pencil.
“You keep doing that, Michael,” Jane said, “and you'll end up swallowing it. And then where will we be?”
“Here on a lovely summer day,” Michael said, “having the picnic my sister packed for us.”
Jane laughed. “Me? I think you had more to do with it than I did.” She looked around, smiling at it all. “I can see why you chose this spot, though. It's quite picturesque.”
“Apparently, it's also very popular,” Michael said. “The last fellow that stayed in the cottage came up here all the time as well.”
“Have you seen any of his work?”
Michael twirled the pencil in his fingers. “No,” he said. “I don't think any of them left any of their work behind.”
“Well, surely, you must have seen some of it somewhere,” Jane said. “Otherwise, why choose to come all the way out here?”
“You're going to laugh,” Michael said. “If I tell you the reason why.”
“I won't laugh,” Jane said. “And if I do, it will be with the greatest of respect.”
He poked at her with the pencil. “Jane.”
“Michael.”
“I dreamt of it,” Michael said. “I saw this place in my mind and when I woke up, the name just was there as well.”
“How odd.” Jane said. “Maybe you saw a painting someone did here before and just remembered it.”
“Maybe,” Michael said. “I'm rather glad I did. It's perfect.”
“Practically perfect in every way,” Jane said.
Michael stilled. “What?”
“Oh, just saying--” Jane stopped. “Never mind. I don't know why I said that.”
“I don't either,” Michael said. He shook his head. “Well, whatever. It's still not right,” he said.
“We'll just have to come again tomorrow,” Jane said. “I'm sure I can bear it.”
Stay awake, don't rest your head
Don't lie down upon your bed
While the moon drifts in the skies
Stay awake, don't close your eyes
Yes, don't close your eyes, Jane thought, you cannot dream, you need to stay awake.
But children should sleep. The hum sank into her head and all cares and troubles fled, leaving her mind in the mist.
It was like floating on the sea, bobbing up and down, nothing jerky like the carousel horses, but a soft, gentle rocking as they were carried off in a pea green boat, stars above, gleaming dull and red. And below them, far in the depths, Mary lay dreaming too, sleeping until her voice was called and she would rise and--
“I still can't get it right.”
Jane, on her back, staring up at the blue sky that seemed to stretch on forever, not a cloud in sight. “You will,” she said. “I have faith in you.”
“I'm glad someone does,” Michael said. “If I'd asked Father to come up here, he'd probably just say it was a waste of my time to keep trying to do something I'm not good at.”
“You're tremendously good at painting,” Jane said. “Even Mother agreed.”
“Mother would agree with anything that Father opposes,” Michael grinned, flopping down next to her. “But thank you. I don't know what possessed you to come down here, but I'm grateful you did. I'd started getting a bit lonely.”
“What possessed me?” Jane giggled, feeling light. Perhaps it was the tea or the warm summer air, everything just feeling so marvelously right and wonderful. “You're the one that asked me to come.”
“I didn't ask you,” Michael said, laughing as well. “You don't need to make up excuses to see your brother, you know.”
“I'm not making anything up.” Jane propped herself up on one elbow. “If you don't want to admit that you sent that card to me, asking me to come down, that's quite all right, but--”
“Jane,” Michael said, his voice quiet. “I didn't ask you.”
“Well, I didn't ask you either.”
It was a lovely summer day and Jane was shivering.
Where did they all go, she sometimes wondered? The women that had waited at the day until She came and made them all leave. Strange that she never truly thought about what must have happened to them.
Strange that one never wonders at the fate of those that Mary plucks from the ground like a leaf and sends spinning in the wind, carried far away, high into the sky, so high that their skin turns cold and frost forms around their mouths.
Never you mind, the hum said cheerfully. You have me. I'll always take care of you from the moment your eyes open to the day when the last star fades from the sky and we all dream below once more.
But--
Though the world is fast asleep
Though your pillow's soft and deep
You're not sleepy as you seem
Stay awake, don't nod and dream
Her eyes closed once more.
“I still haven't quite gotten it--”
“Michael,” Jane said. “You've said that before.”
Michael blinked. “I have?”
“You have,” she said, clutching the ends of the blanket in her hands. “We've done all of this before.”
“We have.” This time, not a question, but a statement. “You didn't pack the picnic, did you?”
“You didn't send me the card.”
Their eyes both flickered to the sky, the trees, everything standing perfectly still and unchanging. “Michael,” she said. “I remember. Do you?”
“Yes,” he said. “They didn't.”
“They never will,” Jane said. She reached out her hand and he took it. “Where are we?”
“I don't know.” Michael swallowed. He tugged at her hand and they walked, feet sinking into the grass. Jane looked down at her stockings, white, but where they touched the grass, green stained upon them.
They reached the trees. Michael extended his arm, brushed her fingers against one of them and they came away wet, brown and black streaks upon them. Where his hand had been, there was a blur, as the tree smeared.
“Do you hear that?” Jane said, pulling him away, his face pale with shock. “Do you hear it?”
There was a whistling, a high pitched sound, something laughing and singing.
They stumbled back, turned around to find the direction of it, but it was all around them.
“Jane,” Michael said. “We didn't ask for her this time. We didn't ask her to return.”
“I don't think she cares,” Jane said. “I don't think she ever did.”
She could see now the cracks in the sky, where things had been brushed over a hundred times, erased and remade, lines that she hadn't seen until now.
There was a shadow across the sky, darkening at the edges as well, the world closing in and the laughter was louder now, something ringing in their ears as they hugged each other tight.
“I'm sorry,” Michael said. “I shouldn't have--”
“I'm sorry, too,” Jane said. It was foolish, she thought, but she kept one hand on her brother and another reaching towards the sky as if she could will herself out somehow, as if there was someone who would just pull them free, save them from--
Something caught her hand and tugged, a strong calloused grip and she did not fight it, only clutched Michael tighter with her other arm. “Stay with me,” she said. “Don't let go.”
“I won't.”
The darkness was all around them, only a pinprick of light remaining but they were rising towards it fast, no cold wind carrying them away, but warm flesh that would not let go even as the shadows tried to wrap around them, whispering stay, you'll be safe here, you can sleep and dream and I'll love you as a son and daughter.
“No,” she said.
The whistle turned into a shriek, wind and wings rushing towards their head, and with the sound of a pop, they fell back down to the ground.
The wooden boards beneath them creaked as they landed together. Jane looked up, still panting, tears streaking her face. Beside her, Michael was shaking.
“I told you,” Seton said, picking up a brush coated with something thick and black. “It's what comes after that's the problem.”
Once he'd finished coating the entire canvas, leaving no bit of the original image intact, Seton had taken it from them with the same firm hand he'd used to pull them out of it.
“You'd best leave,” Seton said to them, as they stumbled after him like ducklings, too terrified to lose sight of him. “I'll take care of this like I did with the others.”
“The others?” Michael asked, his voice cracking. “You mean, there's more?”
The door to the shed opened with a groan of metal and they stared inside. There were canvases piled up, dozens of them, and each and every one of them had the same swathe of black across them, blocking whatever they used to be.
“It's the only way,” Seton said, spitting off to one side. “She'll keep trying until she can get out.” He eyed Michael. “You think you were the first, lad, that called for Her?”
“But she came without any of this,” Jane said. “She didn't need--”
“You think that was all of Her?” Seton shut the door, locked it. “Oh no, lass, that was just the bit you can see without losing your mind. If you saw the real one, the one that waits for the door to be opened, you'd never sleep again. “
Jane shuddered. “I don't think I can anyhow,” she said. “Not after that.”
“You will,” Seton said. His voice was quiet now and he sounded tired. “You'll close your eyes and dream of it for the rest of your life.”
She looked at Michael, saw the same dawning recognition on his face. “Is that why you--”
“We never stop being Her children,” Seton said.