The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 4

Mia led Davey along the path to the woods. He huffed and puffed, kicking at loose sticks. She turned and put a finger to her lips. “It’ll be great, Davey. You’ll see.” She smiled at him, and it must have been a good smile because he tossed his head and half smiled back.

She picked her way down the path, following old footprints and bicycle tracks. There weren’t any feathers, she noticed that as she went, and that was a sign; the ravens had gifted the feathers just for her, and for her alone. Now they were done, and it was up to her, Mia, to do the rest.

She carried a bundle under her arm. It was bulky and Davey had cast odd glances at it as they set off, almost as though he knew.

The others hadn’t been near the woods and that had been another sign, a good one. This was a thing for her and her brother, the one she had been dutiful for, had thought of all the time she had been making the cloak. That was why it would work: because she’d put herself into it, and all the care for him she could muster. Davey would see that. He would appreciate the time she’d spent, her caring.

She led the way to the swing and Davey turned on her. He shrugged. “Well? What is it?”

Mia ignored his words. She took the bundle and unrolled the fabric. She straightened it. And the cloak shone, but it wasn’t like she’d imagined, some soft, glowing, magical thing. There were spaces between the feathers and in the bright light of day you could see the gaps after all, dull and glue-spotted. Feathers were falling off, or had split when she’d rolled it. At the top, where she’d tried to make a collar, you could see it was only a waistband after all.

Little Davey wrinkled his nose. “What’s that?”

“I made it for you, Davey. So you can fly. It’s special.”

“It’s a skirt.”

“No, Davey, it’s not. I mean, it was a skirt. Now it’s a cloak, and I made it for you, because—”

But Mia could no longer think why she had made it. She looked at the thing in her hands and saw it was a sorry thing, a poor thing. It wasn’t something you would present to someone as a gift. Not something that could hold magic within it.

“It stinks.”

“It doesn’t.” But Mia realised it did stink, a mixture of animal and glue that almost burned her nostrils. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. She turned the cloak, trying to make the feathers catch the light. Some of them did and she looked at Davey, hoping he had seen. She started when she saw his eyes. He was rolling them, as if looking at something ridiculous. He was rolling them at her and the start of something painful rose in her chest.

Davey started to laugh. He put his hands on his hips and leaned into it, and she heard how he was forcing the sound out, making it as loud as he could.

“You idiot,” he said. “Oh, you idiot. Wait till I tell the others.”

Mia’s cheeks flooded with heat. “Davey, no.” She looked down at her work. It was already ruined. Feathers fell from it to the ground. And then she heard something coming towards them through the woods: the ching, ching of a bicycle bell. She looked at Davey in alarm.

“Go on the swing,” he said.

“What?” Mia glanced at the old rope hanging down over nothing.

“Go on the swing and I won’t tell.”

Davey smiled a slow smile. Mia wished, harder than she had ever wished before, that he would turn into something else: anything else.

The sound came closer. She looked down at the feathered mess at her feet. She couldn’t bear the thought of the others laughing at the work of her hands, throwing it between them, scattering the birds’ gift. She picked it up and ran towards the swing. She heard Davey calling her name but she didn’t stop, just went faster and faster over the ground. Then, when she was almost at the rope, she skidded to a halt and threw the cloak of feathers into the drop below. She watched it fall, spreading itself as if it was trying to take off. And then it hit a fallen tree trunk before slipping down into a gap among the earth and the slime and the beer cans and the spiders and the cigarette butts, and she wanted to cry.

“Hey, Davey,” a voice said. Mia didn’t have to turn round to know it was Jack. There were grunts and greetings and the laying down of bikes, but she didn’t turn around. Then she heard someone at her side. She twitched when he spoke.

“Come on, sis,” Davey said in a low voice.

“Oh, are you going on the swing?” It was Sarah. “Look everybody, Mia’s going on the swing.”

“No,” said Davey. “No, she’s not.” And Mia felt his hand on her shoulder.

Sarah laughed. “Chicken. Your sister’s always a chicken, Davey. She doesn’t do anything.”

“No,” echoed Sam Oakey. “Anything.”

“She’s been on it already,” said Davey. “It’s my turn now.”

Mia turned and stared at him. He winked.

“She went really high,” he said. “Higher than me.”

The others stared at Mia, but she wouldn’t look at him. They didn’t say anything, either. She knew they wouldn’t question Davey. They never did question him, just followed him and tried to do what he did. She felt a stab of pride for her brother.