The Warrior’s Princess. Barbara Erskine

hear the wind in the valley now, its gentle murmur growing louder as the branches of the trees began to move. The sound was coming closer, the whisper turning into a roar. She could feel the cold on her face. Then in her hair. Across the broad valley moonshadows raced across the dark swell of the hills.

      ‘Come to me, sweetheart. You don’t want to be caught in the storm. You’ll be safe here with me. We’ll go and hide in the house!’ She was shouting now as loudly as she could, hurling the words towards the thrashing branches.

      Then she saw her in the moonlight as the black clouds raced up the valley towards her. A girl with pale, flaxen hair, a long dress, colourless in the whirling shadows, her feet bare, her arms outstretched in desperation, her eyes huge in her frightened face.

      ‘Come on, sweetheart! I’m here!’ Jess was running towards her. She was only feet away now. In a second she would be able to reach the child, to draw her into her arms to safety.

      The moon vanished for a second. When it reappeared the squall had passed. The night was silent. The girl was no longer there.

      ‘Jess?’ The voice behind her was her sister’s. ‘Jess! Come inside. You shouldn’t be out in the dark alone.’

      In her sleep Jess turned over and reached for her pillow. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. Already the dream was gone.

       1

      The curtains were open. There were voices in her head. A lost child, crying; two children. Three …

      For a while Jess lay completely still staring, puzzled, at the narrow beam of sunlight as it moved slowly across the painting on the wall. Her painting. Her picture of the woods behind her sister’s house with the leaves touched to fire by the first frosts of autumn. There were magentas there and crimsons she did not remember seeing before, though she herself had painted it. Extraordinary, beautiful details; nuances of shadow that without that spotlight she had never fully appreciated. Why? Why hadn’t she studied it properly like this before? Why had she not looked at it in its full glory?

      And where were the children?

      Moving her head to glance out of the window a dizzying wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She groaned, the picture and the dream forgotten. Outside the window she could hear the roar of traffic in the distance as it surged up towards the lights at the High Street crossroads, briefly stopped and surged on again. When she dared to open her eyes again the sunlight had moved on and the picture was once more in its accustomed shadow.

      Raising herself with difficulty she squinted at her bedside clock. ‘Shit!’ It was midday. No wonder everything in the room looked different. With a groan she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her head spinning. How much had she had to drink the night before? Levering herself upright she caught sight of herself in the mirror and stared, appalled. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was straggly, her eyes, normally a clear blue-grey, were bloodshot and slightly swollen. Her gaze moved on down her body and she froze with horror. The pretty new blouse she had worn to the party was torn almost in two; her bra had been dragged down below her breasts; her skirt had been pulled up around her waist. Looking down at herself disbelievingly she ran a finger over the livid bruise on her thigh, the raw scratch across her belly. There were more bruises on her arms.

      ‘Oh God! What’s happened to me?’

      The words hung soundlessly in the room as she stared back at her reflection. Staggering slightly, she made her way to the door of the bedroom and clinging to the frame, she peered through. There on the coffee table in the living room were two wine glasses, stained with the dregs of red wine. The empty bottle was lying under the table. Whoever had been in the flat with her the night before, there was no one there now; nor in the kitchen, nor in the bathroom. The front door was closed. With shaking hands she examined the locks. No one had broken in. Whoever had been in here with her had not forced an entry. She must have asked them in.

      She had been at the end of term party at school, that much she could recall vaguely. Beyond that, nothing. What had she had to drink while she was there? Where had she gone after the disco? Who had she been with? She could remember nothing.

      The end of term disco had been in full swing when she had arrived. The sixth form college sports hall was a whirl of spinning lights and the noise astronomic. She stood in the double doorway, open to the humid air of the summer night, reluctant to step inside. She wanted to clap her hands to her ears, she wanted to turn and run, anything but plunge into the heavy mass of perspiring bodies with the overpowering smell of cheap scent, aftershave, stale tobacco, weed, sweat and booze. They hadn’t managed to frisk all the kids then. But what was the point. They were selling drink inside the hall and half of them were legally allowed to drink anyway.

      ‘Hi, Jess!’ A figure emerged out of the heaving darkness. Dan Nicolson, her head of department, stepped out onto the tarmacked parking area outside the hall and gave her a weary grin. ‘I’m getting too old for this!’ His lurid T-shirt belied his words; this was the one night of the year he let himself be seen at the college without more formal attire.

      She laughed. ‘I’ve always been too old for it, Dan. Since the day I was born. You’re looking very cool.’ His short mouse-coloured hair had been brushed to stand upright, his brown eyes were hidden by a pair of designer shades. ‘I hear you’ve drawn the short straw. You’ve got to stay to the bitter end?’

      ‘And tear the copulating kids apart!’ He glanced heavenwards. ‘Unless I can persuade someone else to do it. Can I get you a drink?’ He pushed the glasses up onto the top of his head.

      She nodded. The wave of noise coming out of the doors was too loud to fight. What it was like inside she could imagine all too well, but she had promised she would come and she had promised someone a dance. Ashley. Ash was her most promising pupil, the most promising for years. Destined to get Grade A in every subject he was taking, this young Jamaican was someone in whom she had invested a huge amount of time and effort and she could see him even now in the distance with his mixing desks on the stage, cranking up the volume. All she had to do was make sure he had seen her there, wave, raise her thumb in acknowledgement, shrug to show that there was no need to dance, something that was anyway all but impossible in that wall to wall crowd, then she could slip away.

      As Dan disappeared towards the bar somewhere in the depths of the hall, another colleague appeared at her side. ‘Hi, Jess!’ Will Matthews grimaced at the noise. ‘We’ll be in trouble for this with the neighbours.’ He gestured towards the doors of the hall with a half-empty bottle of lager.

      She and this tall, good-looking blonde-haired man had been an item for most of the three years she had taught English literature at North Woodley Sixth Form College in south London. Most, but not now. Will was senior master in the history department. He also coached basket ball, squash and athletics. In an open-necked blue shirt, jeans and a heavily engraved and studded leather belt he was, she noticed, the target of several pairs of lustful eyes amongst his teenage girl pupils.

      She and Will had been a perfect couple in so many ways, but there had always been something between them that was not quite right. Will’s ambition, perhaps; his assumption, engendered courtesy of an adoring mother and two younger sisters, that he was irresistible, his tendency to assume that his work, his career, his opinions all took precedence over hers, his probably unintentionally patronising attitude to the study of literature as a career and to her undoubted talent as a water colourist. That had all rankled with her and when he had asked her to move in with him she had realised that on top of all those irritations, she couldn’t bear to lose her independence, however much they loved each other. That had started them on the slippery slope towards the break up.

      There wasn’t another woman, at least she had never heard that there was anyone. It was purely his refusal to compromise and acknowledge her autonomy that had finally come between them, ended their relationship over the course of two or three short weeks and left her angry and uncomprehending and