Crik by Karl Beer

eat,’ replied Jack, agitated with how passive she took his captivity. ‘Untie me.’
    She ignored his demands. Leaning back in her chair, she opened her mouth in a wide yawn. ‘I wonder what time it is. I tend to lose track in here.’
    ‘What’s wrong with you; take these bloody ropes off me before he comes back.’
    ‘I tried to keep count once,’ she said, ignoring his struggles. ‘I tapped the table every second until my fingertips bled. Another time I repeated my mother’s name, until the words became so muddled in my head I don’t know what I was saying.’
    The same damp smell he had smelt when he first entered the house, cloyed the air, making him gag. Peering into the dark room, he spied rags heaped on the floor. White sheets reflected enough candlelight to make out a crude bed. Beside the bed was a rusted basin. He presumed the girl slept on the sheets, and used the large bowl for a toilet.
    ‘I left home to find some mushrooms for my mother.’
    Looking back at the girl, Jack noticed, behind the harrowed lines and sunken cheeks, how young she was. Horror, as thick as winter stew, rose up his throat; the girl was only a few years his elder, not a thirty-year-old woman as he had first surmised.
    ‘Storm clouds brewed on the horizon, making me hurry,’ she continued, oblivious to his scrutiny. ‘I followed an old path my grandfather cleared out; the stone flags he used were still visible after so many years. The path dips, and then skirts a few hills, before leading into a meadow, where I collect mushrooms. This time the path led me astray?’ She frowned. ‘Instead of leading me south, the stone flags turned to the east. I should’ve turned back then, but my curiosity got the better of me.’
    Remembering how the trees and foliage had negotiated his own path eastward during his escape from the wolves pricked Jack’s attention.
    ‘Years of mud and intrusive weeds had half buried the path,’ she continued in her vacant, cracking, voice. ‘Had my grandfather also placed them? A divergence in the path, which had until then gone unnoticed. It took me through unfamiliar parts of the wood. The animals changed from the small birds and squirrels I befriended near to my home. Larger shapes now swooped through the trees, tracking my every step. Frightened, I wanted to turn back, although when I did, I found the path extended before me, with nothing behind but forest floor. Nightmarish shapes, half glimpsed in the trees, kept me on the path. Stepping from the cobbled stones would have meant sure death. The bog ended the path.’ Memories clouded her face. She refused to look at Jack. When she again spoke, her voice clipped the air like shears, ‘Smoke rose from the east, drawing me through the wet mud, until I found this house. Krimble opened his door to me, and despite his fearsome appearance, I trusted him enough to enter. He gave me some of his tea, and here I am.’
    ‘Won’t your mother be looking for you?’
    Anger compressed the girl’s lips into a thin line. ‘Of course she would.’ She leant forward. ‘Can you tell me where we are? The path, which led me astray, would appear normal to my parents, leading them to the meadow. My father, with all his tracking skills, could not follow a bewitched route.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘Your fat friend is stirring.’ When she returned her stare to the flickering flame, her sorrow dulled the reflected light.
    Jack turned his head as Bill slowly opened his eyes. Opening his mouth, Bill coughed up tea. With a groan, Bill leant his head back, cracking it against the chair.
    ‘Careful,’ said Jack, alarmed.
    ‘What happened?’ asked Bill, his skin waxy in the poor light.
    ‘You drank drugged tea,’ said Jack.
    ‘The drug will wear off soon,’ said the girl, with some sympathy. ‘You’ll have a headache for a while, but there’s no lasting effect. Close your eyes until the dizzy spell passes.’
    Surprise at hearing a girl’s voice brought Bill