Rat Song

Chapter 11

William returned home with his body and heart aching. A patchwork of purple bruises covered his limbs and back, and his legs throbbed with every step he took. Yet, despite how much pain his injuries caused him, he knew the children had suffered far more than he ever would.

He'd never heard anyone scream like Peter had, writhing in pain as the rat forced its way back down his throat. The other children hadn't been fazed by his suffering in the slightest, pinning him as forcefully as they'd attacked William.

Perhaps calling them children was a misnomer. After all, Emma never would have harmed a fly, but the creature wearing her skin showed no qualms about bludgeoning him with a rock. Burdock had been right that William never would have believed the truth if he hadn't seen it for himself. Had the children become powerless passengers in their own bodies, or could they fight to regain control? If he took too long to free them, would anything remain, or would the rats leave their bodies empty, lifeless husks? He'd already mourned Emma once. He couldn't bear—

William dug his nails into his palms. He wouldn't allow himself to think like that. Once he told Burdock what he saw, they'd find a way to save all of them.

He just had to pray that his parents wouldn't pry into why he'd returned home without any kindling first.

With the evening's stew still boiling on the hearth, Mother had busied herself with brushing Emma's hair. Blond tangles relinquished dirt and dead leaves as she worked out the knots, each stroke gentle yet firm. "You had quite a time in the forest, didn't you?" she said, gently extracting a ladybug from her hair. "I haven't seen such knots since the day you came home."

"We got a little carried away playing a game," William said, his gaze drifting to where Father crouched in front of the hearth. With every piece of wood that he fed to the flames, his arm twitched as if he longed to thrust William into the fire.

"I got the biggest stick," Emma said proudly.

William swallowed a sigh of relief. In his rush to escape from the children, he hadn't gathered any wood before running home. Emma had found him fetching a pail of water from the well with his arms filled with kindling, assuring him all the other children had gone home.

It shamed him to admit it, but William hadn't once considered doubling back to ensure the children returned home safely. He'd only excused himself to bring home water from the well so he could steady his trembling hands and hammering heart before his parents could notice. They were already bound to question him about his missing guitar, which he'd left behind in his struggle against the children. The last thing he needed was to invite more questions.

"You were gone for hours, yet your brother didn't return with a single twig." Father thrust the last of the fuel into the fire before rising to his feet and pinning William with a sharp glare. "Even Emma manages to do what she's told, and she's half your age. You ought to be ashamed."

William knew better than to respond. Any attempts to defend himself or contradict his father would be met with harsh words if he was lucky and the belt if he wasn't.

"Nothing to say for yourself, boy? Look at me." Father grabbed William's face. His fingers dug into his cheeks as he turned his head and forced him to meet his eyes. "What was so important that you couldn't complete a simple chore?"

Mother glanced up from brushing Emma's hair. "He's hurt, Philip," she said softly. "After such a bad fall, he's lucky he made it home without help."

William hadn't dared to tell his parents the truth. Stumbling over a tree root made for a much more believable story than being viciously attacked by Emma and her friends, to say nothing of the rat he'd seen crawling back inside Peter.