The Ghostly Past

Chapter 26

Her body seemed almost to hang for a moment before she fell. She heard Oliver yell her name, heard her own frantic scream rip from her throat.

Her arms and legs pedalled futilely, hands scrabbling to reach something, anything to slow the drop, but there was nothing. She fell like a stone, hitting the ground and rolling through the long grass and brambles, unable to stop.

Momentum carried her off another small drop. She felt a sharp pain in her leg, as her head then collided with a tree, a dull thunk the last thing she heard before losing consciousness.

She had a dream. She was riding a horse, she could feel it strong and solid between her thighs, feel the leather of the saddle, the reins in her hand.

The heat of the sun was blistering and yet did not bother her in her loose flowing clothes. She was a man, she knew that. The roads were rough, dirt tracks, the horse's hooves kicking up dirt as they trotted. By the side of the road were huge plants, cacti of sorts, laden with fruit.

Before her, or him, two men rode, both in armour and red surcoat type garments, the scarlet cloth embroidered with a great white cross. The armour looked incredibly hot and cumbersome for the men on their horses, yet they rode on.

Behind her, was a great train of other men, servants perhaps, some riding, some walking and two carts of baggage. She felt excited, hopeful and as one of the knights turned to glance at her, he smiled broadly and she felt her mouth grin also.

The dream seemed to melt away as she woke.

Her eyes flickered open. One of them felt almost glued shut. She forced the eyelid to lift, feeling the dried blood over it crack. Blood?

Clara tried to take stock of her body, but she couldn't feel her limbs. Everything felt numb, stiff. Sunlight fell upon her. She was lying on dry earth, and ahead of her she could see trees and brambles. A bird landed on the ground nearby, gazing at her with its beady black eyes. She lacked the energy to shoo it away.

The daylight surprised her, and she wasn't sure why. She couldn't remember what had happened. The details came back slowly, the ball, the kiss, the revelations. She remembered Oliver's distress, leaving the party and the terror of running into the forest.

It was morning she realised. She must have been lying there all night.

But then where was Oliver. He'd seen her go over the top. Surely he wouldn't have fled and left her there alone? Unless he'd gone for help and they were all looking for her now?

She had to hope for that.

She was so cold. It was hard to tell where and what her injuries were when she was so cold and weak that she couldn't move.

The sunlight on her face was a blessed relief, thawing her a little, enough so that she managed to move her arms, raising her hand to her face. There was a scratch on her cheek, bruises on her arms beneath Oliver's now torn jacket. There was a bump on her forehead, a raised lump from which a small trickle of blood had run down her face. She could taste it as the dried blood flakes off her lips.

As the first sensations of shock shifted, pain started to set in. Her head hurt, badly, throbbing. Everywhere seemed to ache. Her leg was almost agonising though, the pain building as the icy numbness seemed to lift a little.

There was a jagged branch partially embedded in her leg. It hadn't gone all of the way through but deep enough to cause enormous pain. Blood oozed around the outline of the wood, startlingly hot on her cold flesh. It stained the ground around her, her already shredded tights wet with it, the hem of her dress soaked where it had bunched up around her frozen form.

She let out a small whimper as she tried to move, and the branch twisted a little, a fresh trickle of blood leaking out.

The sight of it made Clara dizzy and nauseous, her head spinning, ears ringing as if she were about to faint. No, she told herself stubbornly. You can't let yourself faint again.

The only reason she hadn't bled to death was the branch itself sealing the wound, she realised dimly.

"Oliver?" She finally called out, her voice weak.

There was no answer.

That wasn't a good sign.

With very small careful movements, she dragged herself into a sitting position, leaning against a tree. Her vision was swinging before her eyes, and she groaned, trying to not empty the contents of her almost empty stomach.

She'd fallen a long way she realised as she looked up. Her leg wouldn't carry her, she could barely move without passing out from the pain. The only way to move was to drag herself, slowly and painstakingly, up the bank and find a way up the drop.

It took a long time. The pain was all encompassing, taking over her every thought. She was still icy cold, dizzy and weak, her thoughts scattered. Finally, she reached where she had fallen from.

"Oliver?" She called out again, exhausted, her vision fading in and out.

Someone was lying on the ground. She dragged herself the final feet towards him, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

She reached Oliver, her heart breaking. He was sprawled on his side, his whole body damp, his wet shirt practically translucent. His skin was pale, too pale, as if the previous night had robbed it of its rosy glow. His limbs had stiffened, eyes closed. She knew that if they were open, their colour would be clouded over.

Despite this knowledge, she still reached for his wrist, searching for a pulse and finding none.

He was gone.

Tears ran down her cheeks. There was no sign of injuries. He had frozen to death. The spirits had killed him. She didn't understand. How could they? He was supposed to be part of a cycle, of a curse. It wasn't his place to die first.

Poor Oliver. He'd seemed so kind, so fun loving. He didn't deserve this. They should never have pulled him into their worries for the curse. If they hadn't he wouldn't be out here, dead.

The tears turned into sobs and she lay on her side beside the body, her body wracked as she wept and then fell into a semiconscious doze, her eyes barely open, her mind and body too weak to support themselves any longer.