Watford Tales

Hunting Lodge

Baz

My parent's hunting lodge is deep in the woods. Even though the house in Hampshire was isolated it never felt that far away. This house feels like it's so far away, it's unreachable. Like we're at the bottom of a glass fishbowl, cut off from the rest of the world.

It's good for hunting. The woods around are teeming with game, and I've nothing much else to do other than hunt, so I'm full of blood. Which just makes me miss Simon more.

I'm bored. Father's not really speaking to me, even though he sent for me. He and Daphne go off to the Coven meeting the first night, leaving me home with my siblings. I'm not yet of age, my birthday's not for another month, so I can't go. As soon as their car pulls out of the drive the twins, Bryony and Martina, come creeping out to the great room where I've built up the fire in the massive stone fireplace that dominates the room. They're five, and supposed to be in bed. Vera tucked them up hours ago.

"You're supposed to be in bed," I tell them. They're both wearing these fuzzy sleepsuits, with feet. Martina's is pink and Bryony's is yellow. They're not identical, although some people think they are. I've never had any trouble telling them apart. They're both dark haired, with delicate pale skin, but Bryony has the thinner face, her eyes are huge and serious. Martina's face is softer, her eyes are wider set, her mouth fuller. Her hair has a bit of a wave to it. It's not completely straight like Bryony's (and mine).

"We want to be with you," says Bryony, looking at me steadily.

"We miss Mordelia," Martina chimes in.

"We want cocoa," Bryony adds.

"All right," I say. It's not like I have anything better to do.

We go into the cold dark kitchen and find milk and a pan.I heat the milk with my wand and stir in cocoa powder We carry our mugs back out to the fire. Daphne keeps afghans and pillows in this big wood chest by the fireplace and I dig those out and we all wrap up and stare at the flames and drink our cocoa. The firelight plays over bear rug on the floor in front of the hearth, the huge set of antlers fixed above the mantel. My family has been hunting here for generations.

"Tell us a story," says Bryony.

So I do.

I dig back, deep into my memory, and find the stories my mother told me. They're right there, waiting to be told. Simple childhood tales, like any parent tells their kid. The princess, locked in the tower, waiting to be rescued. The young wizard, who has to slay the dragon and save the village. The brownies, who come in the night, wash the dishes and leave little treasures for the children.

They're asleep before I run out of stories, and in the end I curl up on the sofa and sleep as well. Of course I dream; vague, half nightmares of Simon, Father, Mordelia. A goblin bearing down on me with his sword, the Humdrum, with his stupid red ball. I wake in a sweat. The fire is embers. My sisters are sleeping, Martina curled in a chair with her thumb in her mouth, Bryony on the other end of the sofa with her butt in the air. I hear the crunch of gravel in the driveway, a sound I find strangely comforting. My parents are back from the Coven meeting.

They come in and survey the scene. Daphne smiles at me. Father just proceeds to the kitchen. I follow them in there. Father turns on the harsh overhead light and sits heavily at the kitchen table. Daphne makes tea, then puts a bottle of whiskey beside my father's cup. He splashes some into his tea, then looks over at me, the bottle in his hand. I nod, and he pours a shot into a second cup of tea which he hands to me.

It's quiet in the kitchen. The clock ticks. We drink our tea. I feel the heat of the whiskey hit me in the back of my throat, my belly.

"Basilton," he says at last, breaking the silence.