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Morris can’t sleep.
He wants to. He wants to desperately. If he’s asleep, he doesn’t have to think about anything and that would be so lovely (even if he might dream and he doesn’t think dreams would be good either.) But he can’t. Every time he dozes off, he finds himself jerking awake, staring at the darkness around him, feeling sick and scared as though something might have crept up on him.
He used a sheet to cover most of the Veetons before they settled to sleep, the same sheet Doris always used to cover up the Veetacore when it was whole. There’s a few Veetons that poke out now and the only light in the house comes from them. They're only glowing very dully – more dully than before. The Veetacore was always duller at night but not normally like this.
He can see Jenny in one of the chairs, curled up tightly under the blanket he gave her. And he can see Charn on another chair. He’s not curled up. He’s sitting there and Morris isn’t sure if he’s asleep or not. Does Charn sleep? Surely he sleeps? He ate earlier, quite neatly too, despite the horrifying bone beak. So he must sleep too. Maybe he’s sleeping now. But maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just watching Jenny sleep and Morris pretend to sleep. Maybe he knows Morris is only pretending. Maybe he thinks that’s funny.
Jenny whimpers. It’s a very sudden, high-pitched little sound and Morris feels a burst of pity. She’s so little, Jenny. On the first night when Doris was still here, she’d asked Jenny things and found out that Jenny’s only small in her world. They are like Pelamot animals, they start small and get bigger. Older people are supposed to be wiser which Morris supposes is true here, really. Gorwen has been there longer than everybody and he is the wisest of them all. Jenny’s only new. She was scared that she might not be good enough for the book. She shouldn’t have to be scared of this too.
She gives another little whimper and Morris thinks he sees her shiver, even with the blanket and scarf and the gloves she’s still wearing. He wishes he’d had time to knit something for her legs but Charn wouldn’t let him. Charn said enough time had been wasted on her scarf.
Morris feels a flicker of hate. It’s a strangely warming feeling. Charn killed his pets – because they are dead, he knows it, Gorwen is miles away, he’ll never make it back in time to save them, they’re dead and gone. Charn killed Doris – dear Doris who always kept them all going, even when everything seemed terrible. Charn wants to kill him and he’s scaring Jenny and it isn’t fair, it isn’t right.
The warmth from the hate dies. What’s the use? He’s not strong enough to do anything. Charn is strong. Charn changed into something strong and they all stayed the same.
He is sure Jenny is shivering now and he stands up, carefully and quietly. Padding softly towards her, he gently puts his blanket on top of hers, tucking her in. He doesn’t need to be warm. He can’t sleep anyway and besides, he’s bigger than Jenny. She murmurs at the new weight of it and Morris looks at her and wonders what it’s like to be that little. Does she feel helpless, like him? Or does reading always make you feel brave and strong, even when you’re small?
“Morris.”
The voice hisses softly through the darkness and Morris feels the horrible chill of terror that always comes whenever he realises Charn has noticed him. He turns and stares at the shape, which is now rising from the chair, looming over him, stepping closer.
“She, she’s cold, I just wanted, I thought ... ”
He manages to keep his voice low but he can’t seem to stop himself babbling with panic. Charn laughs, low and horrible and Morris shrinks down. Don’t see me, don’t notice me, please ...
“Dear Morris,” Charn whispers. “Always looking after the little things. Picking up the tiny Pelamot creatures and naming them and trying to raise them until they get large. So kind, so nice.”
He makes it all sound like insults. Morris supposes they are. Even Doris used to get cross when he brought his friends home. Telling him that the house was barely big enough for her to tolerate him and Boris, let alone a hundred pets that cause damage to everything they touch. Even before Charn was like this, back when he was Horris, he had no sympathy for Morris’s friends. Now ...
“Tell me,” Charn murmurs. “What do you think the Veetacore will do to you when we say the spell my way?”
“Why would it do anything to me?” Morris asks then wishes he hadn’t. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants Charn to fade back into the dark and leave him alone. But Charn is here now, standing there and there isn’t any making him vanish.
“Stupid Morris. The Veetacore makes you all as you are, don’t you realise that? It fills this land with life and positive energy and goodness and you all live basking in it. When I change it, when I make it mine, you’ll all bask in different rays. You’ll learn to delight in the things I like, Morris, What do you think that will be like?”
His voice is still soft and it feels like it’s coming from everywhere. Morris feels sick. No, it can’t be like that, it can’t. He’s ... he’s him, he’s Morris the Keeper, he isn’t going to change, even if (when?) Charn wins, he’ll still be himself, won’t he? He can’t become someone else.
“I think you’ll stay the same for a little while,” the poisonous hiss continues. “Perhaps it will be slow. Do you think that will be better or worse? I remember for me, change was slow. It creeps up on you and suddenly, you’re a different person. Yes, I think it’ll be like that for you too. You’ll still pick up your little creatures only one day, you’ll wonder what will happen if you crush one. Just one. It won’t hurt if it’s just one, will it? And you’ll do it and you’ll find that you like it. And you might be scared the first time because you’re scared of everything but then you’ll do it again and again and slowly, gradually, you’ll become something else. I think I’ll like you then.”
A rustle of a robe and Morris feels one dreadful talon laid on his cheek, almost delicately. He wants to move but he’s frozen, paralysed. Charn’s words feel as though they are curling around him like smoke and his only thought is that it can’t be happening, it can’t, it can’t, it can’t.
Another talon joins the first, stroking his face. It’s feels affectionate, friendly.
“No,” he croaks and his voice is faint, pathetic.
“Yes,” Charn says. “You’ll become just like me, Morris. You’ll learn to love all that is dark and evil and one day, you won’t care about being any other way.”
“NO!”
He shouts it, finally breaking the paralysis, jerks back from that disgusting, horrifying hand. Charn laughs and Jenny gives a little cry, jerking in the chair.
“What is it?!”
Morris turns his back on Charn, kneels down beside her, takes her hand. She’s shaking with fear, woken from a sleep that might not have been comfortable but was sleep all the same, better than this.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m sorry. You should go back to sleep. Everything’s all right.”
She looks at him in the dark with her big eyes and he knows she doesn’t believe him. She grips his hand tight and he squeezes back hard and for a few seconds, they just cling together, terrified of everything and trying desperately to remember that they aren’t alone. Then Jenny sinks back into her chair, pulling the blankets up almost over her head, cocooning herself the way Frug should have been allowed to. Morris kneels beside her for a little longer, stroking the hair that emerges, making little hushing noises, waiting for her breath to settle back into what is at least relaxed. When she’s no longer trembling, he stands. He doesn’t look at Charn. He goes back to his own chair, sits down, stubbornly stares in the opposite direction.. He’s not cold any more, though he is shaking. Everything is hot, burning.
Never. He won’t let Charn do that to him. He won’t. Charn can call him stupid and weak but he’d rather be that than evil the way Charn is. He’d rather be kind and look after people and see that they are all right than rejoice in seeing them die. It hurts sometimes, it scary and this is scary but he won’t ever, he won’t ever.
The hate is back. This time, Morris clings to it tightly, letting it warm him.
In the darkness, Charn laughs.