Hob's Hill

Three

A sparrow's cheeping drifted through her subconscious. It wasn't happy cheeping. They were flustered or distressed. Something must've happened to their nest, Ellie wondered. She thought she'd spotted a new one in the oak outside her window just a day or so ago.

BANG!

She sucked in a deep breath by reflex, jolted by the noise. Pain welled in one of her eyes.

Bang!

Knitting her brows, Ellie winced. The familiar sound of a hammer on wood. Grammy must've nagged Granddad into finally fixing that loose plank in the kitchen. But did he have to do it now?

Her eyelids fluttered and rolled up. She blinked, her focus painful and slow. Dust motes languidly drifted in a shaft of light just inches from her nose. Fatigue dragged at her. Her fingers and toes tingled, leaden sludge snaking up their tips. Smothering heat  purged her body of sweat.

And what was that smell? Dust. Mildew. Rotting wood. Stifling and baked in like a neglected shed. She wrinkled her nose.

Then it struck her. The heat, the odor, neither would've been tolerated by her grandparents. She should've heard the squeak of the small ceiling fan down stairs, or smelt the breeze from an open window.

Ellie tensed.

While those thoughts gripped her, she heard a familiar sound that warmed her. Maggie's tinkling laugh danced nearby. Her chest tightened. She lolled her head toward the sound. A shock of bright light blinded her. Recoiling from a new wave of pain, she swallowed tightly and tried again. Tentative, she tested her sight against the harsh light, blinking through the blurriness and pain. She had to see, and confirm, Maggie's presence.

Someone watched her. Surrounded by a halo, a small, dark haired silhouette sat three feet away. Ellie drank in the image, pulse throbbing, hoping beyond hope.

This translated out of her mouth as a slurred moan, "Magzh...?"

The laugh tinkled again. "No, dearie. Hold on a moment." The figure turned her head and beckoned someone far off, "She's just fine – stop your tinkering and come see. She wakes."

The tone of the girl's voice further denied similarities with Maggie. This waif was Irish, with the pitch of a wee whippet. Far younger than Maggie's thirteen years. Ellie placed her at a minimum of five, or six.

There was a clatter of something being dropped, then feet galloping up steps, growing louder with their approach. His eagerness pounded violent creaking from the floor planks.

Breathless, the new voice asked the girl, "That right?" He was just outside Ellie's frame of sight.

Ellie's gaze flicked to the door. That person, that strange deep yet squeaky voice–

Rain... lighting, and the tree. Then someone pulled me out of the mud. Him?

He sniffed and changed his tone, "Not that I care. The sooner she leaves, the better."

He poked his head in, hesitant and curious, not unlike an owl peering out of his cubby.

Ellie blinked rapidly, vision adjusting to the brightness – which as it turned out, came from a window behind the girl. Afternoon sun. Her stomach knotted. How long had she been out? Hours? Days? Had Mags been found yet? Were her grandparents worrying themselves sick over both girls gone? She'd better get up. Better ask if either happened to see Maggie while she'd been unconscious.

But as she tensed to raise her head, nothing happened. Her body made it clear, keeping her eyes open was the limit. How was she to get home? She took in a lung full for calm, reminding herself she didn't have to be up and about to ask questions.