The rat sat on a chair, cleaning its whiskers. And then it was as if Mr Crease was with me. He clicked his fingers.
‘Are you listening?’ he said. ‘Great seers, and by that I mean mighty ones, can borrow the sight, but not the hearing, of an animal.’
How had it worked with Shadow? Barely conscious, I fought to stay awake, to concentrate on the creature.
‘Rat,’ I said, softly, ‘please…may I borrow your eyes?’
It stopped and looked in my direction. I stared into those gimlet globes and held the gaze until I felt it reel me in. The candle must have gone out for all was blackness. I became aware that my vision seemed split: one eye could see a shape stretched out on the bed, the other eye was watching the floor. The strangeness of the alternate views made my senses wobble. I had ignorantly believed that a rat would have clear sight, but I was looking at a greyish-blue, blurry abyss filled with indefinable shapes. Was that really me – purple, swollen? We were moving and I had no idea where we were or what we were looking at. Ahead was the glint of…something. I decided it must be a thimble, yes, a thimble, of that I was certain, and over there, a piece of silver brocade fabric. Out of it a spider emerged to scuttle on its way. There were more rats and there was nothing I could do; I was at the mercy of this creature whose sight I had borrowed. The rat might have lent me its vision but it had not lent me its will. Shadow was a spirit dog, susceptible to my thoughts. Not so this very much alive rat. How would my sight ever be returned to me? Where were we now? Behind the skirting?
I had to rely on my own hearing. There were sounds outside the chamber. I kept my body still as a soft tread approached. It must be Flora. I sensed she was near the bed.
‘Tully,’ she whispered. ‘Tully…’
I was about to speak when I heard her scream. Then came a hard collection of military steps, they clattered up the stairs and marched to where Flora was. The voice of my enchanting husband echoed in the bare room.
‘Shut your bone box for God’s sake! What the…’
I heard him stumble back, a chair thudding to the floor.
‘She is dead,’ he said.
I kept my breathing as shallow as possible. Every inch of me waited for a rough hand to prod me. To my surprise there was none. The rat opened its eyes once more and we were back in the chamber. I could just make out foggy, grey objects. I tried to understand what it was that we were looking at and finally I saw a pair of boots. I felt the warmth of breath on my neck. Someone was leaning over the bed.
‘Lord, she is dead,’ said Wrattan.
A pair of shoes passed uncomfortably close to my host.
‘She can’t be,’ said Captain Spiggot. ‘Hell! What now, Wrattan? Are you sure she is dead?’
I expected to be discovered and punished further for this deception.
‘Don’t touch her,’ said Flora. ‘Just look at her eyes – they’re white! Come away from her.’
‘Quiet, you little bitch,’ said Wrattan. ‘I need to think.’
Flora fell to the floor, not far from the rodent. It scurried, unnoticed, along the skirting board, feeling its way with its whiskers to the other side of the bed.
‘What shall we do with her?’ said my caring husband. ‘Bury her in a ditch?’
‘No,’ said Wrattan. ‘No – let me think.’
I was becoming terrified that I might start to tremble but then the candle went out.
Wrattan shouted, ‘Find another light, woman, and be quick about it.’
My host could see in the dark – not well, but enough to sense that the two men were now standing away from the bed by the wall. The light returned and with it a sheet. Flora screamed. I could see what was upsetting her. Other rats had emerged from the skirting.
‘I can’t look at her,’ said Flora, laying the sheet over me.
‘I suggest we leave her,’ said my loving husband. ‘We need not concern ourselves. I was once told about a man who had been found, eaten by rats, and no one to this day knows who he was. With luck, the rats will perform the same service here.’
Rain began to fall, tap-tapping the window pain. Wind rattled the glass and I heard a rumble of distant thunder. When lightning filled the room with its unearthly white light, the rat and I saw shapes hurry from the chamber. A clap of thunder merged with the slam of the front door. A key turned in a lock, a horse neighed and a coach pulled away. Then the only sounds were the rain and rats’ claws scratching on the floorboards.
I lay there for what felt an eternity, tugging weakly at the ropes. It was hopeless. It was then I thought my wits would leave me as well as my eyes. Again I could see the shape – my shape – on the bed. I felt fur brush past me, up my legs, creep over my skin. I could see parts of myself, and an earthquake shook my flesh. I began to sob as I had never sobbed before. The more I cried, the more I became aware that my own sight was returning to me. I could see clearly a huge rat sitting not far from my face, gnawing the rope that tied one hand to the bedpost.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, and gradually I anchored my mind.
I pulled that hand free, then the other, but I had lain so long spreadeagled on the bed that my lacerated body was stiff and I could barely move. It felt as if a day and a night had passed before I was even able to sit up and free my feet. With every sound the house made I thought Spiggot and Wrattan had returned to kill me.
In a great deal of pain, I at last stood upright, whimpering. The rats scurried away as I took the sheet and felt my way down the stairs, clinging to the banisters in the darkness. I wailed when the front door would not budge, but then a flash of lightning guided me towards a kitchen door. I pulled at it with what little strength I had and it opened. It was still raining heavily. Shoeless, and with only a sheet wrapped round my bare flesh, I hobbled down a gravel drive and onto a road.
Though my feet were cut with the stones I told myself to keep walking, one step after another, one step after another. Through the trees the sky was black, raw with rage and streaked with red. One step after another, and each was harder than the last.
Further down the road I heard horse’s hooves approaching and I stopped as the silhouette of a rider came towards me. It was too late, I thought. Wrattan has come again and now he will kill me.
So certain of it was I that I found myself once more weeping uncontrollably and I thought I cared little if I was dead, anything would be better than to be taken back to that house. The horse pulled up sharply, steam rising from its nostrils.
‘Who’s that?’ asked a voice that did not belong to Wrattan.
‘Help me, please!’ I said, sobbing. ‘Help me. I am from Queenie Gibbs’ fairy house.’
What possessed me to say that I do not know and at that moment I did not care.
The rider dismounted. ‘Miss Tully?’ he said. ‘Thank God.’
Was this a trick? How did he know my name? My eyes ran with tears and still I could not see his face.
He took off his coat.
‘It’s me, Miss Tully, it’s Ned,’ he said. ‘Ned Bird. I’m taking you home.’
I thought I was hallucinating. Ned had come to take me home? How was this possible? He put his coat round me. I was in so much pain that it was hard to think where the hurt stopped and where I began. Ned lifted me up onto his horse then pulled himself into the saddle behind me. He turned the horse and we set off at a mighty lick. I lost consciousness, dreamed we were flying and felt the world was laid out before me. When I came to myself and saw the lights of the fairy house, I wondered if I was indeed dead, for it looked as if I had arrived in heaven.