Nykur Read online

  Nykur

  ✽✽✽

  G D Iversen

  Chapter 1

  The crashing noise of falling objects broke the silence of the old farmhouse and the quiet musings of Hugh in his room. He sprung from his bed and crossed the landing, taking the stairs two at a time in his haste.

  “Dylan?” he called as he ran, his bare feet slapping against the cracked tile floor with every step. The living room was unlit, so he passed without hesitation. Only the faint noise of the television came from within. From the kitchen came the cries of his younger brother. He threw open the door to find him stood by the sink. The front of his clothes appeared wet and the surrounding floor was scattered with pans and pieces of Dylan’s favourite train mug. The boy’s crying persisted. Hugh dropped to his level and took his shoulders in his hands.

  “Dylan? Are you hurt?” he asked. His brother shook his head and began to sniff as his tears subsided.

  “I tried to get a drink from the tap but I knocked the pots on the floor and now my cup is broken,” he said, and his statement of the fact brought on a fresh wave of crying.

  “It’s ok, it’s ok. I can clear this up.”

  “But Hugh, I’m hungry.” He fixed Hugh with wide eyes.

  “Has Mum not got up yet?” Dylan shook his head again. Hugh straightened and tried to summon some energy. He could not deny the ache of hunger deep in his own stomach; they both needed a meal.

  He found a damp tea towel left on top of a stack of old letters on the counter and dropped it on the mess of shattered ceramic to soak up the water. With some disgust he gathered the fallen, dirty pans, and reset them in their stack next to the sink. He then finished clearing away the broken cup. Much to Dylan’s dismay, he insisted that it could not be repaired.

  There was nothing new in the cupboards; only dusty sauces, herbs and some tinned fruit graced the shelves. The fridge proved no better, harbouring assorted fruit juice and some vegetables that pooled in their own mould. Dylan sat waiting at the table, tracing his finger on the cover. The bread bin housed many empty cellophane wraps, but in one Hugh uncovered an end piece of bread and without too close an inspection put it in the toaster. He warmed some beans and put them on the toast for Dylan with a cup of squash. He sat watching his brother eat, his hunger clear by the lack of complaint or any pause to speak. When his own stomach growled, he pushed his chair to cover the noise and crossed his arms tighter.

  “Where’s Mum?” Hugh asked his brother as he cleared the plate.

  “She’s in the living room,” Dylan replied. Hugh’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “My clothes are still wet.”

  He took his little brother upstairs and helped him remove the wet clothes, but finding no clean pyjamas in the drawers, persuaded him he would be warm enough to go without. He tried to settle his brother in bed, but in his distraction found it difficult.

  “I want you to stay in bed. It’s time to sleep,” he said.

  “Are you going to get Mum up?”

  “Yes, so don’t come downstairs. See you in the morning, go to sleep.”

  Dylan watched his big brother cross through his messy bedroom and retreat through the door. The house was quiet again.

  Hugh navigated the exposed floorboards of the landing piled with clutter in every corner and edge as he returned downstairs. This time he made a beeline for the living room. The glare from a sports programme was all that lit the otherwise dark and silent space. Its sole inhabitant was in the furthest corner, positioned within an old armchair dull with wear and stains. A woman in deep repose, his mother, was half sprawled and slumped to the side. The light from the television screen touched upon one pallid cheek. She appeared to be at rest, but Hugh knew better.

  His entrance had still yet elicited no response from the figure in the chair, so with one hand he felt for the light switch, flicking it on.

  “Mum wake up,” he said, and watched as the eye he could now see closed tighter against the flood of light. “You need to get some food, there’s nothing in the house.”

  He waited for a reply, but only the sound of the television continued. Spotting the remote on the floor he turned it off, placing it on what small space of coffee table he could see between its cover of old magazines and assorted paper and food wrappers.

  “Wake up!” he shouted. His chest rose and fell with every breath. He was looking for any sign from his mother that she would get up, make some food, do anything. Her eyes had relaxed, but still shut out the world.

  Outside, the cool evening breeze pushed its way through the darkening canopy of leaves that shaded the sparse woodland path below. The gentle collective rustle of leaves did not mute the sound of breaking twigs and crushed undergrowth beneath the worn, leather boots of the old man, who took just one more step before dropping to a crouch position.

  “Stay there, Sanna.” he breathed, craning for a better look between the last line of trees in front of them. The man took in heavy breaths as he surveyed the land ahead. A well-aged, stone farmhouse occupied the far end of the space before him. It was overgrown grassland, dotted with detritus and a rusted play frame. Unkempt ivy crept over the windows of the house, of which a few lit windows brightened an otherwise grey vista, and in parts the exterior stone crumbled.

  Behind him came the sound of hooves imprinting in the ground. Sanna reached his shoulder and exhaled warm breath against the back of his neck.

  “No closer. They might see us.”

  He made a careful scan of the area around the house, taking an interest in what appeared to be outbuildings and a shed of some description. Beyond them, a driveway merged its edges with the land. There was a hefty nudge at his back. He turned and placed a weathered, four-fingered hand against the dark grey of her velvet muzzle. The horse dipped her white head and let his scarred hand run up the length of it to meet her dark forelock before she raised it again sharply and fixed him with molten eyes.

  “I know, I know. Just one moment.”

  He looked again at the house and saw movement by what must be the back door. A teenage boy huddled in an oversized sweatshirt was struggling with a rubbish sack. He put it in a dustbin and paused for a moment, inhaling the night air. His mouth fixed in a grim line as he returned inside.

  “I think we might have found somewhere to stay.”

  Chapter 2

  With some reluctance, Hugh peeked around the bedroom door of his Mother who was curled foetus like in imitation of sleep. He opened his mouth to speak and go through the standard procedures of a school morning, but on seeing her static form fully clothed under the bedsheets, he decided otherwise. He went to his brother’s room.

  “Are you awake?” he asked, registering the faint flicker of an eyelid and the twitch of Dylan’s mouth. With no reply, he gathered up the dirty clothes that lay about the floor around the bed. He knew from yesterday that his brother was out of clean clothes.

  “You need to get up. I’m going to school today.”

  “I don’t feel well,” Dylan said. Hugh studied him, trying to detect any trace of a lie. He knew of his dislike of Monday mornings.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Headache and my throat hurts,” Dylan replied, forcing a weak cough to back this up. Hugh closed the distance between them, placing a hand across his forehead to test the temperature. He noticed it was warm, warmer than usual he wasn’t sure, but another feeble cough was enough for him to give in.

  “Get some sleep. I’ll bring up some medicine before I leave.”

  After a quick breakfast, he darted back upstairs to give Dylan a cup of water and Calpol, trusting him to take it. It was all he had time for.

  Outside, a gust of unseasonable wind put his carefully tousled hair out of place the moment he stepped onto the drive. He glanced up at the sky, squinting at the bright summer sun before throwing his pack onto his shoulder and setting off for the bus stop, head down, shoulders hunched. His morning commute to the bus stop was often his favourite part of the day, being the only peaceful one. It gave him the space and quiet for thinking, musing over whatever took his fancy. He never felt under any pressure to rush or walk fast. The straight road of the village allowed a clear view of the bus stop from almost the bottom of his drive. If the bus arrived before he did, he still wouldn’t break into a run. He was beyond caring in the way that most people would. He could be late without consequence, not attend without rebuttal. Others might take notice and intervene after a time, maybe then his mother would act on his account, but he attended by his own choice, he enjoyed the company and the change of setting.

  A large stone stood in the path of his foot. He kicked it as he reached the bus stop, watching as it skimmed past the red trainers of his friend Kain.

  “Morning Hugh,” he said with a smile, slapping him across the shoulder with forceful good humour.

  “How’s it going?” Hugh replied with a dip of his head. “Where’s Ben?”

  “Still asleep probably knowing him.”

  The bus appeared and with it, the sight of Ben dashing from out of a side street and running towards them. Kain broke into a laugh.

  “Here he is. Come on Ben, you can run quicker than that.”

  Ben reached them just as the bus pulled up. He was too busy catching his breath to speak. The double doors drew apart and Kain moved between the two younger girls with them to get first in line. The three of them took seats at the back of the bus, Kain occupying two as he sat slouched with his legs spread.

  “Busy weekend then?” Kain asked him.

  “Not really, just spent it at home with
Dylan. I was meant to see Liana, but I slept through most of Sunday in the end.”

  “Has she been messaging you a lot?”

  “Now and then.” He replied. Kain stared into his eyes for a few seconds, his dark eyebrows drawn together. Through the window, Hugh watched the trees and hedgerows fly past in an unfocused blur.

  “I know you don’t do parties but you should’ve come to Gaz’s Saturday, it was lit.”

  “It was,” Ben said, rooting around in his rucksack for food. “It was well worth the grief from my mum when I got back, put it that way.”

  “Yeah well I would’ve but I had to stay with Dylan.” Kain didn’t reply, he was too busy scrolling through his music collection.

  “Hugh, you want to come to mine after school? I got some new FIFA cards.”

  “I can’t, Dylan’s ill; maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there,” Kain said. “Only a few more days boys, then we won’t have to bother with school for the summer.”

  Hugh sat back and rested his head against the seat. Now that he’d dealt with the ritual questions, he could relax.

  The school day passed with no major event, and when the bell rang, Hugh made a solitary journey home. Dylan was in the living room still in his pyjamas and dancing to garish music from one of his favourite cartoons. When he saw Hugh in the doorway, he froze as if playing musical statues before skulking to the sofa to sit.

  “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be ill.” Hugh said, looking over the empty cups, crisp packets and DVD cases that lay in evidence of the day’s activity.

  “I am ill, but I was feeling a little better,” Dylan said in a small voice, his hands twisting around each other. Hugh exhaled in exasperation.

  “I’m not stupid, you know,” he told him, gathering up the rubbish to put in the bin. Dylan followed him to the kitchen. “Has mum been up today?”

  “Not for long. I tried to wake her up when the phone was ringing but she didn’t want to.”

  Hugh put a load in the washing machine, sticking it on high. He expected his mother to be up within the next couple of hours. All he wanted to do after a day at school was kick off his shoes and relax, but Dylan had other ideas. He fetched his old wellies and pulled them on.

  “Let’s play outside. Come on, we can go in the woods.”

  “You’re in pyjamas,” he said.

  “I don’t mind. Please!” Hugh was less than enthusiastic about the prospect, but he knew from experience that his younger brother was a lot easier to settle when he’d had the chance to run off some energy.

  “Ok then. But not for too long.” This was all the encouragement Dylan needed to see him racing out the door, leaving Hugh to take a last sip of water before following him into the sprawling land that backed onto the farmhouse. He faced a sea of green from what remained of the small patio on which he stood. The paving was in dire need of re-levelling and long shoots of dandelions were pushing through the gaps. The area of land that had once passed for a decent garden had since reverted to a wild state. Grass of all varieties had grown without restriction and reclaimed any landscaping efforts that once were. There was some sparse play equipment, once loved, a wooden frame that Hugh himself had once enjoyed. They were now hidden amongst the jungle of growth, finding them being half of the fun.

  “Why don’t we play in the garden?” Hugh called. “We don’t need to go into the woods.”

  Dylan was already close to the trees that lined the border of the land they called home. They formed a tall, dark sentry that contrasted with the blue sky overhead.

  “I want to,” Dylan replied. “It’ll be cooler in there under the trees, won’t it Hugh?”

  “Should be,” he said, catching up with his brother at a jog. Dylan’s happy face turned up to his, flushed from the heat of the day.

  They met with the small space between the trees where bare dirt marked a crude path leading into the woodland. Dylan skipped ahead, stopping at intervals to check the undergrowth for any interesting finds. Hugh was distracted by his phone until he noticed his brother taking an interest in a partially concealed side path that passed among the ferns and through the boughs to their right.

  “Does this go to the river Hugh?” he asked.

  “If I remember right, I don’t want to be out here for too long though.”

  Without further conversation, Dylan bolted down the path. Hugh put away his phone and kept his brother in sight as he followed what he could see of the track. It curved to the left, a break in the thick mass of trees revealing a clearing. Beech trees stood at its edge, their highest branches not quite meeting overhead, letting the sunlight brighten the dirt in the open space. At its other end was the river, cutting its route through the woods like a vein. The ground sloped down to the bank, meeting the water where it flowed wide and shallow over a rocky bed, with thick woodland encroaching on the opposite bank.

  Hugh had been here before. In a time when going to the woods would elicit as much excitement as Dylan now enjoyed. His dad had brought him here when Hugh could rely on him, before it had ever entered his mind that things could change. Dylan rushed to the river’s edge and looked into the water. Hugh moved to join him but caught sight of what looked like the remains of a fire, a small patch of ash that marred the blackened ground.

  “Is there fish in here?” Dylan called. Hugh scuffed the ashes into the ground with the toe of his trainers. “Hugh?”

  “I guess, maybe some,” he said. Dylan was content for a few minutes throwing sticks and stones into the flowing water.

  “If we throw enough in, we could stop the water!” Dylan shouted.

  “Like a dam, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hugh helped Dylan to find the best sticks with which to build their dam, pausing at a patch of scattered dry logs, an involuntary memory of helping his dad to collect firewood. He turned away, looking for long branches he could drag across the ground. This occupied both of them for a time, but Hugh’s unwillingness to get his feet wet proved a limit to their progress. Dylan kept up his attempt with bright optimism, throwing sticks increasingly far to extend his blockade to the far bank, but his aim was not accurate and his mind soon became distracted. It had been thirty minutes and Hugh was reaching the end of his tolerance for kid's play after school.

  “We’re going back in a minute. It’s getting late.”

  “Ok, but I need to get something first,” Dylan said, running towards the nearest trees on a hunt for a wooden sword. Hugh studied the river in front of where he stood. He could see the rocks and the weeds that existed under the water. Further on, the river was dark; smooth where it didn’t meet high rocks beneath that mottled the surface. He watched the water pass without a sound until a faint thud made him look up. He saw a white horse stood amongst the trees straight ahead of him. It stepped forward under the eaves of a broad oak, giving each a clear sight of the other. Her white coat shone as if slicked with oil and the length of her mane and tail were dark grey in contrast. She fixed him with a cold, curious stare.

  Behind him, Hugh heard the onset of crying from Dylan. He turned to see him emerging from the trees clutching his knees and heaving with large, wet sobs that shook his body. He rushed to his side, seeing that he’d fallen in some nettles. He wasn’t able to stop his tears, and with no dock leaves nearby he reassured his brother they would head straight home and come back another day. He held his hand as they made a slow walk back to the path they’d come in from. When Hugh looked back to the river, the horse had gone. The clearing was empty.

  Chapter 3

  Hugh stopped by Dylan’s room and gathered him some clothes from the rough pile of the washing he’d done the previous day. He didn’t bother to check on his mother, leaving her bedroom door undisturbed. He was, however, grateful to find that she’d been out last night and fetched some supplies; It made providing breakfast for him and his brother a lot easier. He left home with the promise of returning soon, and that it wouldn’t be long until Dylan had him for the summer break.

  He’d long missed the first bus, so sat on the ground, fiddling with his laces and thinking about his friends. Light footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and when he looked up, he saw Liana standing almost over him, arms crossed.