Free Bone Jack by Sara Crowe Page A

morning I woke up and there was a black feather on the pillow next to me. It must have caught in my hair when the bird flew into me, that’s all. But still.’
    ‘But you were OK,’ said Ash. ‘Nothing bad happened.’
    Dad laughed. ‘No, but it nearly did.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Something and nothing. It was a couple of weeks later, during the Stag Chase. I was the stag boy and I took a route along the length of Stag’s Leap. Then … well, have you ever had that feeling that your body is intent on doing something even though your mind is screaming “no”?’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Ash. ‘I think so, a couple of times.’
    ‘Well, it was that. I found myself standing at the very edge of the Leap, looking down. I don’t even know how I got there. Must have zoned out or something. And my body wanted to launch into the air, to jump. It was such a powerful urge I can even feel it now, just thinking about it. Crazy. So I was standing there, sort of frozen between wanting to jump and knowing I mustn’t, and this dread that my body might just do it without my permission. And I wasn’t alone. I thought I could see these other boys there, like shadows, only in colour. I don’t know what. They were angry, full of hate. Smashing darkness at me. Trying to force me off the edge.’
    ‘But you didn’t let them. You were OK.’
    ‘I was OK because Tom Cullen saw me standing there, all freaked out. He grabbed me, hauled me back from the edge. He saved my life. He really did. Then he just ran off and left me to finish the race. So I did. And I won. Except I didn’t win really, did I, because Tom had caught up with me and then let me go. I told the organisers but Tom denied it. He never did admit to it. Told me I’d got mountain fever or something and that I’d imagined the whole thing.’
    Dad looked straight ahead, his expression hidden by the dark.
    For a moment Ash considered telling him that he’d be the stag boy this year. But Dad was talking to him at last and Ash didn’t want him to stop, didn’t want to put himself at the centre of the conversation. And maybe he should take Dad’s experience as a warning anyway, a sign that there really were dark forces at work in the mountains, just like Mark said, vengeful wraiths set on killing stag boys. Mark. He remembered the note Mark had left taped to his bedroom window. Perhaps he should take everything more seriously and do what Mark wanted, pull out of the race, stay at home, stay safe.
    ‘Strange things happen sometimes, Dad,’ he said.
    ‘Yeah, I suppose they do,’ said Dad. ‘When I was out in the desert, I kept coming back to that day up on Stag’s Leap. I don’t know why. I hadn’t thought about it in years, then suddenly I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Seems like everywhere I go I’m surrounded by angry ghosts. They came for me all those years ago and now they’re coming for me again.’
    ‘But we’ll be OK, won’t we, Dad? We’ll get through all this.’
    ‘I hope so.’
    Then Dad fell silent again and they crossed the fields in cold moonlight. Half-formed questions drifted through Ash’s mind but he was too tired now to ask them. His eyes half closed. Feet dragging. He yawned, longed for his bed and sleep. Dad put his arm around his shoulders and they trudged home, side by side.

FOURTEEN
    It was daylight when Ash woke. He checked the alarm clock. Gone nine o’clock already. Up too late last night trailing Dad around the mountains and now he’d overslept, messed up his training schedule for the day. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his clothes, hurtled down the stairs two at a time.
    He stopped in his tracks in the kitchen doorway. Dad was in there, standing by the cooker. Fully dressed, clean-shaven, making scrambled eggs and toast. A fresh bandage on his injured hand. He still looked thin and tired but otherwise he seemed almost his old self.
    ‘Morning,’ said Dad. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’
    Ash hardly dared reply in case his words