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“Sure.” I smile. Mom smiles back, but shakily.
Dad calls for us and we head outside. He’s standing by the car. The back seat and trunk are filled with musical instruments and paintings. Two other couples have already left in a caravan with the majority of the pieces that they hope to sell. Dad hugs Art, then me.
“Look after your brother,” Mom says, kissing my cheek.
“Of course he will,” Dad says. “Kernel’s the best brother in the world. He’ll take care of Art better than you or I could.”
Dad gets in and starts the engine. Mom hugs us one last time, then gets in beside him. And they’re off. Art, Sally and I wave after them. Mom rolls down her window, leans out and waves back, until they turn a corner. Although Sally’s right beside us, I can’t help but think as they roll out of sight — we’re alone now. Just Art and me. In a remote village. With a witch.
The day passes smoothly. School, playing with Art during lunch, dinner with Sally and some others. The villagers like to share meals. Here, it’s not polite to eat by yourself all the time. We often have guests over to eat with us, or go to a neighbor’s house.
Art doesn’t miss Mom and Dad. He eats, drinks, plays and behaves the same as always. Doesn’t cry when Sally gives him a bath. He does give her a sharp nip on her left forearm at one point, leaving deep marks, but that’s normal for Art.
“We should stitch his lips together when he’s not eating,” Sally says, rubbing her arm. But she’s only joking. Sally loves kids. Of course she’d rather not be bitten, but the whole village knows about Art’s biting habits. Sally knew what she was getting herself into when she offered to have us.
It’s strange not having Mom and Dad around. Things were different when we lived in the city. They often went out at night, leaving me with a babysitter. And they’d go on trips by themselves occasionally. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed staying with other people — I always got loads of treats.
But for the last year we’ve been together all the time. I’ve gotten used to them being at home every night. I feel like I did when I lost my favorite teddy bear a few years ago. It was a scruffy grey bear, nothing special, but I’d had it since I was a baby. It had been my constant companion, even when I’d outgrown my other stuffed animals. I took it to bed, on vacation, even to the movies. I felt like a friend had died when I lost it.
This is almost the same. Not as bad, because I know Mom and Dad will come back. But strange. Like something’s wrong with the world.
I’m uneasy when it’s time for bed. Sally’s spare bed is soft, but it smells damp, like my socks when they’re wet. Art goes to sleep immediately, delighted to be sharing a bed with me. But I can’t drop off. I’m tired — I woke early, knowing Mom and Dad were leaving — but my eyelids won’t stay closed.
I think about Mrs. Egin. I haven’t seen her since that morning when she witched out on me. I’ve taken the long way to school and back every day since. I’ve tried to laugh it off, make like it was no big deal. Told myself I imagined the curses and her stroking the patch of light.
But I know what I saw. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And although I’m not as scared as I was that first night, I’m still shaken, afraid to close my eyes in case she’s there when I open them, standing over me, cackling, a knife to my throat.
I turn from my left side to my right, then back again. I try lying flat on my back, then on my stomach. Nothing works.
Annoyed, I stop trying to sleep, hoping I’ll drift off by accident. I look around the small, cozy room, then focus on the patches of light. They look the same as ever, various shapes and shades. I count triangles, quadrangles, pentagons, sextants. . . . No, that’s an instrument. Sextuplet? I’m not sure. I think that’s right, but I’m not . . . maybe it’s a . . .
I wake suddenly. Hexagon! Of course. Can’t believe I had trouble remembering that. The brain can play funny tricks when you’re tired. I turn, yawning, looking for Art.
He isn’t there.
At first I think he’s just slipped farther down beneath the covers, but when I lift them there’s no sign of him.
I sit up swiftly, sensing danger, recalling Mom’s last words to me — “Look after your brother.” Flash on an image of Mrs. Egin sneaking in, stealing Art, putting him in a big black pot and boiling him alive.
My world is never truly dark. The patches of light mean I can see pretty well even on the blackest night. Mom and Dad used to try to convince me that the lights weren’t real, but if they’re imaginary, why do I have such fantastic night vision?
I get out of bed and hurry to the door, so certain Art isn’t in the room that my gaze glides right over him and I almost crash into him. Then my senses click in and I stop. Blink a couple of times to properly clear my eyes.
Art’s in the middle of the room. There’s a large patch of orange light pulsing just over his head. He’s playing with marbles that Sally gave to me earlier. He’s holding two of them up over his eyes. They’re orange-colored, like the light.
Art sees me and smiles, looking at me through the orange marbles. For a brief second I’m positive that somebody or something is in the room with us. I think I hear a soft growling noise. My head snaps left, then right — nothing. I look back at Art. In the strange orange light, with the marbles covering his eyes, he doesn’t look like my brother. I start to think that it’s not Art, that he’s been replaced by some evil spirit, that the witch has been here. I feel afraid. I back up to the bed.
“Art?” I say, very softly. “Is that you? Are you OK?”
A giggle breaks the spell. Art lowers the marbles. And I see that of course it’s him.
“Idiot!” I laugh weakly at myself. I go pick Art up and take the marbles away. Sally said not to let him have them in case he swallowed one. Art grumbles and tries to grab them back, but I tell him they’re dangerous. He understands that and snuggles into me, nuzzling my shoulder with his teeth, but gently, not like when he bites somebody.
I stand there with Art, feeling cold but happy, smiling at how silly I was. Art falls asleep in my arms. I carry him back to bed, tuck him in, then climb in beside him. Lying on my side, I stare at the orange light, still pulsing. It seems to have grown bigger, but that’s not unusual — the patches often change size.
I don’t like this orange light. There’s something creepy about it. It reminds me of the pink light that Mrs. Egin stroked. I turn my back on it and shut my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again. But I can still sense it there, hanging in the cold night air, lighting up the room with its ominous orange glow. Pulsing.
DING DONG
