The Death of Yorik Mortwell

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

The Matron, passing by, put her hand on Susan’s shoulder. “ ’Tis a beautiful song, my dear,” she said. “Where did you learn it?”

Susan smiled wistfully. “My brother taught it to me, ma’am.”

The Matron nodded sadly, stroked Susan’s hair, then moved on.

Susan continued humming the tune as she cracked one egg after another.

Watching his sister, Yorik sang quietly:

No will-o’-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there’s none to affright thee.

Then he saw Master Thomas.

Or rather, he saw Master Thomas’s eye, peering from a crack in a doorway far on the other end of the cavernous kitchen.

Master Thomas was watching Susan.

The crack closed.

Yorik rushed through the wall. He darted through another wall and then another, to a corridor where Master Thomas’s round form was bumping up a stairway. But something about the round form was too round, too humped. Something about Master Thomas had changed.

Yorik followed.

Then Yorik realized why the form was wrong. He realized he could not get too close to Master Thomas, not yet.

He must not let the Dark Ones know he was there.

Two of their blobbish shapes squatted on Master Thomas’s shoulders. Yorik could hear them making urgent, murmuring sounds. From this distance, Yorik could not tell what they were saying.

He followed as close as he dared. They were no longer in the dingy, peeling, threadbare part of the Manor. The carpets were thicker now, the floors polished. Mirrors hung on the walls. Glistening silver and paintings could be seen. Doorknobs shone.

They were climbing. Yorik crept up long, wide staircases with marble banisters, keeping Master Thomas’s hurrying form ahead of him. Once, he sensed a Dark One looking back, and he leapt through a wall into a musty sitting room.

Then Master Thomas went along another corridor, turned, opened a door, and went inside.

Yorik poked his head through the wall, just enough to see into Master Thomas’s lavish quarters.

Master Thomas was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in front of him, rocking back and forth. He was crying fat tears that streaked down his face and plopped into his lap. His weeping face was torn with misery.

You must kill her, said the Dark One on Thomas’s left.

She knows your secret, said the one on the right. She knows what you did. She will tell your father.

Then the two chorused together: And when your father knows, he will banish you. You have always disappointed him. You are useless and weak. He wishes your sister still lived, so that the Estate could be left to her instead of you, you worthless failure.

Master Thomas moaned.

“No,” whispered Yorik.

Instantly the Dark Ones turned their hunger onto Yorik.

The ghost-boy! they chattered. He is here!

Yorik stepped through the wall into the bedroom. “Leave him alone,” he said.

Look, they whispered to Master Thomas. Look! The ghost of the murdered boy has come for revenge!

Master Thomas sniffed. He blinked in confusion.

Look, fool! screamed the Dark Ones. Then they began to make noise, a high, whining, and monstrous sort of singing.

Though Yorik knew that Master Thomas was not aware of the Dark Ones on his shoulders, something about that piercing song seemed to direct the boy’s attention. Master Thomas peered into the dark corner where Yorik stood.

Their eyes met. Horror sprang onto Thomas’s face.

“No!” said Yorik. “Wait, the Dark Ones, they—”

But it was futile. Master Thomas leapt to his feet. “Yorik!” he said. “No!” He stumbled backward.

Run! screamed the Dark Ones.

Master Thomas ran through a set of doors onto his balcony.

Yorik wished he had Erde with him. She could do something about the two Dark Ones. Not knowing what to do, not wanting to scare Thomas further, Yorik began to leave.

Then, through the doors, he saw that Master Thomas was standing on the stone balcony railing.

The Dark Ones screamed of ghostly terrors, of a wrathful Yorik coming to seek vengeance.

Master Thomas wobbled on the balustrade. He seemed to think he could escape by leaping to the next balcony. But Yorik could see that it was too far, and Master Thomas, never a graceful boy, was going to fall.

Yorik ran onto the balcony, wondering if somehow he could tear the Dark Ones away before something awful happened. They were hissing more whispers into Thomas’s ears, urging him on with You fool, you useless, cowardly, stupid, hated waste—you must jump!

Yorik reached hopelessly for Thomas as the Dark Ones shrieked in triumph and vanished.

Master Thomas fell through the night.

Yorik raced to the balcony’s edge and looked over.

Far, far below lay the body of Master Thomas. Yorik, having had one himself, could see that the boy had a broken neck.

Twelve-year-old Master Thomas lay on the hard, cold ground, dead.

Chapter Eight

The Princess had established herself on a sort of throne, which she had cultivated from the low branches of a sycamore.