Trading with Death by Ann Girdharry

Part One
    Behind us, in the silence of the woods, a
dry twig snapped. The skin on my arms prickled into gooseflesh and
I shivered as if caught in a chill wind. Since morning the air had
hung motionless, devoid of the slightest breeze. I grabbed Dalvar’s
wrist and, as I felt her fragile bones, my fingers loosened their
over-tight grip.
    “Get a move
on, slow coach,” I said, forcing a smile.
    My little
sister gazed up at me with those big, brown eyes of hers. “Why,
Taka? Do you think somebody’s following us?”
    I swallowed.
“Of course not, silly.”
    It took a
concentrated effort to prevent myself glancing back one more time.
I stared straight ahead down the path, scanning the gloomy edges of
the trail. On either side, tall pine trees stretched to a distant
sky. Their dense trunks and dark branches obscured the light to
leave us a dimly-lit track. Underfoot thick needles created a
springy mat, damping out the sound of our illicit foray; everyone
knew to avoid the forbidden woods and in the school yard we all
joked about it but the track cut the journey time home almost in
half, and with Dalvar’s waning stamina I’d gauged it to be
worthwhile. If she could save a bit of energy, maybe it would help
her to get better.
    Dalvar’s
footsteps already dragged slow and heavy. I tugged the woolly
cardigan a bit more firmly around her shoulders. She coughed, at
first once then twice; that horrible, grating cough that keeps us
awake at night. I held my breath hoping it would stop but instead
it turned into a full bout. My stomach tightened as my little
sister pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. It was the one with a
pattern of yellow flowers that mother had made from an old dress.
Afterwards, when Dalvar straightened, she screwed up the
handkerchief quickly, trying to conceal the fresh, red stain.
    “Don’t worry,
Taka. I’m all right.”
    I pulled her
head into my chest and held her close, so she couldn’t see my eyes.
Why her? Why her and not me? I would beat my arms until they were
blue, chop wood until my palms bled and much more, to trade places
with her. Although I know wanting doesn’t work and neither do
wishes because I tried those things and every time my heartfelt
pleas fail I have to run and hide down by the river and cry in my
secret place, where no one can find me.
    Behind us,
another twig cracks and I guess it to be twenty, maybe thirty paces
away, closing in.
    “Don’t look so
worried. Let’s carry on,” Dalvar says, sticking out her chin in
that favourite gesture of hers.
    Her grit
amazes me. I think it’s only her spirit which keeps her going,
makes her insist on continuing at school, though now she can only
manage once a week, not twice a week like earlier in the year.
    “The woods are
safe, Grandma told me,” she said, continuing ahead of me down the
track.
    I give no
reply. Grandma died when I was three, so more than a year before
Dalvar was born. I can hardly remember Grandma myself, just the
sound of her voice and her silver-grey hair always tied in a neat
bun. My sister talks as if she’s had conversations with Grandma and
no one corrects her, not even father. I know we say nothing because
we all know that although she’s only six, Dalvar might not be with
us for much longer.
    Dalvar’s dark
brown hair falls in a single plait down her back. Tied with her
favourite pink ribbon, the plait swings from side to side as she
walks.
    She calls out
in a sing song voice, “I know you all think I’m making it up, but
I’m not. Grandma told me the woods are safe. She told me lots of
things and in fact…” she glances behind, scanning my face, “in
fact, there is something that lives in the woods and I know
what it is.”
    Despite
myself, I almost stumble, taken by surprise, knees wobbly. I so
hate it when Dalvar starts talking spooky. I began to get a
terrible sick feeling in my stomach as fear tried to take me over.
I pushed it down as hard as I could. Just keep going, I told
myself. Then