35. Peter

Lauren had told him not to eat the berries, but he thought he knew best. She lived in a house in the town, he was the one who knew the outdoors. She’d told him the plants spoke to her, but that was nonsense. She was making it up, the same as she made up stories to tell him about wood nymphs, wily foxes and old grizzled witches. None of it was true.

So he ate the berries and, later, after she had gone home for tea, he’d crept up to the cave and was sick. So sick it felt as though everything inside him was being forced out. The front of his body pulled hard against his spine, his pelvis jerked upwards. He bent over and the hot bile rushed out of him, over and over. His dad stroked his hair, wiped his forehead with damp moss.

Later he was empty. He lay in the cave and heard whispering coming from the woods. He saw stars through the cave mouth, shooting across the sky with tails of red and green. He turned his back and the cave tipped sideways. He slept, then woke again.

Someone was arguing with his dad outside.

‘You can’t have him. You can’t ever have him.’

‘It’s too late, he has my mark.’

‘Fuck your mark. You’re not having him. Go!’

Peter curled into a ball. There was a tussle at the cave mouth. Someone was trying to get in, but his dad was fighting them. They were both shouting and Peter covered his ears.

He opened his eyes just a crack and peeped. His dad was standing over the other person. He looked huge, much bigger than he normally did. The other figure was cowering, retreating.

‘You know you can never beat me,’ his dad shouted, ‘I don’t know why you keep trying.’

The figure hissed. Gradually it faded, disappeared into the dark of night. The hiss became words which hung in the air after the figure had gone. ‘One day. One day.’

Peter’s dad stood silhouetted at the mouth of the cave, watching until the night settled. A sheep called on the hills and its lamb answered. An owl flew over, and the stars were still in the sky. Peter felt the tension leave his limbs and sleep came to cover him like a warm blanket.

His father came into the cave and crouched next to him. He felt Peter’s forehead, then lifted his wrist and felt his pulse. Peter’s eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open.

‘Am I going to die, Dad?’ he said sleepily.

‘No Peter. No, you’re not going to die.’