Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  The front door was open. Best go out, as if he’d never been in.

  He strode down the hallway, and the instant he was through the front door, he was faced by hell.

  There were bodies everywhere. And should he doubt they were all dead, there was an arm, a head, a leg, a hand lying carelessly about. The lawn was patched with blood, churned with bootmarks and horses’ hooves. This had been a massacre. There were children here, servants, lying stiff and bent. All dead. That woman in long gown and headscarf with blood pouring from her neck and chest could be the lady of the house. A toddler by her had its head chopped off. Some lay on top of each other, some separate, sprawled out. Toby was paralysed with fear. All these people had been put to the sword. The servants called out from their meal, the family from the dining hall, the peasants from the fields, the stable boys… All taken to the front of the house. Surrounded by horsemen and armed men and attacked. He could smell the terror; it soaked into the ground like the blood.

  He turned into the hallway, collapsed onto his hands and vomited.

  He must get away from here.

  Toby got to his knees, drool hanging from his chin. And thought shoes. There were plenty out there. He rose and ran quickly out amidst the bodies, trying not to see. He wanted a pair for Far. There was a young man without a head, his legs bent as if trying to get up, shoes about the right size. But he was wearing house-shoes with buckles. There – a boy with an apron covered in blood, his shoebacks downtrodden. Useless.

  There was a pair. The limbs stuck out from a pile of bodies. The shoes looked good, perhaps too small. He’d take them anyway. One shoe came off easily, the other leg was stuck under an old woman who’d had an arm hacked off. He pulled the leg out – and it kicked.

  Definitely kicked.

  And a groan.

  It was alive. Toby rolled the old woman off the leg, pulled away a stable boy in leather apron and there was a girl. Breathing. He had taken one of her shoes off – but she was alive. How alive, he could not tell. Alive enough to kick, breathe and groan. He had to get away from here, had to get her away.

  He raced into the house, through the kitchen and out into the yard. From there across to the stable, where he turned the wheelbarrow out. And back he went pushing the barrow, across the yard, through the kitchen, into the hallway and out into the tip of bodies. He navigated round, in out, past legs, arms, splayed out forms. He skidded in the blood, and slowed, steadier. None of these could touch him. Though looking at a severed head, its bloody eyes staring – he wasn’t so sure. That lone hand could scramble crabwise with its pair and grasp him round his ankles, and hold him here forever, while other hands pulled out his teeth, his ears, his tongue…

  He whimpered like a kicked dog. Blood was pumping in his ears, and breathing like a broken bellows, he lifted the girl. She was blood-sodden. But bodies had been lying on top of her – so whose blood it was he couldn’t say. He laid her in the wheelbarrow as best he could. Her head rested against the back near the handles, her legs like two bent horns over the front. Blood dripped down her white stockings like red ribbon tied round her calves. Her black long dress, mourning clothes reminding Toby of the Queen’s visit, were soaked in blood, already drying in. She wore just one shoe.

  Toby looked around for the other, but couldn’t see it amidst the bodies. She would have to do without. And so would Far. He couldn’t stay any longer. He felt weak, sick, terrified. He was stained like a butcher fresh from slaughter. Where were the killers? Who were they? They could come back anytime, swords slashing for any they had missed. Eager to gather their spoil. Toby wheeled his load through the remains. He bumped over things he didn’t care to look at. At the door, he had trouble getting up the step and had to back over it, gazing out at the slaughtered. Might there not be another one or two, part alive, amongst those cut up bodies? There might. Why should he find the only one, without even looking?

  ‘I can’t do anything,’ he mumbled to himself, and perhaps to those who might still possess some life. Fear of charging horses and bloody swords forced him away. He pressed on down the hallway, into the kitchen. There he stopped. A little sense remained in him. He gathered up a flour sack and filled it with whatever lay on the table. And he was off.

  Terror-driven.

  Chapter 19

  The track as far as the forest had been flattened by lots of usage and peasant labour. Toby ran along it with the wheelbarrow which was well greased and balanced. He had never used one before but quickly got the knack of it. The girl had been heavy at first, but he had turned her sideways and she was a lighter load. Where he had to slow down to catch his breath, he didn’t stop altogether but walked as fast as he could manage, aware that horsemen with blades stalked the land, and bloody corpses could be in the act of rising up and following him.

  The sun was low, trapped in a furnace of red and gold cloud. In half an hour it would set. Then he’d never find Far. And he was desperately in need of him. Someone alive. Trust didn’t matter anymore. But a living, talking person to persuade him that corpses don’t walk. Or at least to be afraid with.

  In the forest, it was still light enough, and he’d cut enough markers to keep to the way. But it kept coming to him: that dreadful sight! The slaughter at the front of the house. He shivered, his teeth chattered. So much death in so few days. His father, those poor people, very nearly his own and Far’s. Would there be anyone left alive by morning?

  He had not had time to mourn his father. Too frightened for his own life. Though earlier that day, a lifetime ago it seemed, when off with Sly, striding through the forest, he’d felt happy. And now felt amazed that happiness could exist at all in this world. Or had ever existed.

  If so, it had since been chopped to bits.

  He stopped to examine the girl. It would be pointless carrying a corpse. She was breathing, though unconscious. He wondered who she was. Her hair was dark brown, her face very white, her nose thin, her lips bloodless. She was bleeding at the shoulder and at the calf. Somehow she’d kept all her limbs. Toby could do nothing to help her and so pushed on.

  In a little while he came to the holly tree. The evergreen leaves came low to the ground, making a sort of cave inside, where Far sat on the blanket, a scattering of food around him.

  ‘You’re back,’ said Far, plainly relieved.

  ‘And I’ve got company.’

  Far had crawled half out. He saw the wheelbarrow and its unconscious passenger.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Toby. And he told him what had happened.

  Far was silent while he spoke, biting a fingernail, his eyes cast down. He shook his head silently as Toby told of the massacre at the front of the house, thinking, Toby thought, of his own dead family, their slaughter. Were the two soldiers part of the same band of killers?

  It seemed likely.

  Toby finished. Neither spoke for a while. Frost was forming on leaves and twigs. Their breath was steamy. The sun had gone down but it was not yet dark.

  ‘How many dead were there?’ said Far at last.

  Toby held his open hands out. ‘I don’t know. Fifty maybe. Could be a hundred. Didn’t count.’

  Far nodded.

  ‘Best bring her in, and the barrow.’

  He lifted the branches as high as he could and Toby wheeled her in to their leafy cavern. Inside it was much gloomier. Soon it would be pitch dark. Far was looking at the girl in the wheelbarrow. He examined the material of her dress, turned over her hands.

  ‘One of your lot,’ he said. ‘Bet she speaks as lordy as you.’

  Toby grinned slightly. ‘I think she’s the daughter of the house.’

  ‘Most likely. Servants don’t wear dresses like that,’ said Far. ‘And her hands are like yours. She doesn’t wash her own clothes.’

  ‘Do you blame her for that?’ said Toby angrily.

  Far didn’t reply.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ Toby went on, ‘if I was born a prince and you a peasant. Th
ose decisions were made by God.’

  ‘Would you have brought her if she was a servant?’

  Toby hesitated. It was quite possible he wouldn’t. But he wasn’t going to admit that.

  ‘I saved you,’ he said.

  ‘You did,’ said Far. ‘And I’m grateful.’

  ‘She may have been born a lady,’ said Toby, ‘but her family are just as dead as yours.’

  Far nodded.

  Neither spoke for a minute or so. Both thinking on death.

  ‘I’ve got nowhere to go,’ said Far shaking his head.

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Toby. He looked at the girl in the wheelbarrow, head resting on the side, legs sticking over the edge. ‘And I don’t suppose she wants to go home.’

  ‘She can’t be very comfortable.’

  ‘No.’

  Toby lifted her and laid her on the ground. Far folded a flour sack and put it under her head.

  ‘She can have the blanket,’ he said.

  ‘Put it under her,’ said Toby. He lifted her and Far did so. Toby put her down and folded her in the blanket.

  He could barely see her face. Just an outline in the dark. Was this all in vain? Would she still be alive in the morning? Feeling chilly, he cupped his hands and blew into them.

  ‘We’re going to freeze,’ said Far.

  ‘I’ll bring some leaves in and some bracken before it’s totally dark,’ said Toby. ‘If we squish up, we might get through the night.’

  Chapter 20

  It was as black as his cell. And as cold. The bracken and leaves were little help, and made a racket as they rolled and twisted in their discomfort. Neither of them could sleep. They cursed and moaned. From time to time they talked, then relapsed into private miseries. It couldn’t be half as bad for Far, thought Toby resentfully. It must often be cold in a peasant’s hut, while he had never been cold in his life. Not for long anyway. There was always a servant to get another blanket, light a fire, draw the curtains. But here, he was stripped of rank. And of fire and of blankets.

  He tried to distract himself. To think of his father. Knew he should weep for him. But he was too cold. It had soaked through to his very heart. He grasped his knees to his chest, stuck his hands up his sleeves to his elbows – but the cold attacked, like biting insects that would never be full.

  He couldn’t see the girl or hear her. She was to one side of him, Far the other. If she were dead, then he could have the blanket. It was his anyway – and why wrap a corpse? He put his hand over her mouth, to check whether she was breathing. She was, lightly, and he resented it. So cold, so cold.

  ‘I can hear horses,’ whispered Far.

  Both listened. There was a distant galloping, the odd whinny. Was it approaching? Difficult to tell where they were. Some on that side, some on the other. How many? Who were they? Toby bit his lip and thought of the slashing horsemen at the estate. Who were they going to slaughter tonight?

  ‘They’re coming for us?’ winced Far.

  Toby punched him. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed.

  Closer came the sound of hooves, hard on the frosty ground. The fugitives dare not speak. It was like drumming, building up from that first barely heard beat to a furious dance. Now almost outside. Toby pressed his nails into his palms.

  Ride past! Ride past!

  Are they out for me, he thought? Come to finish the execution. Far was breathing rapidly, his teeth chattering. Men on horses had killed his family and then hung him from a tree. Thinking he was Toby. But here was Toby, as helpless as a babe.

  Fear galloped though their hearts.

  Past came the riders. And a shadowy light swept through their cavern. They must be carrying flaming torches. What houses had they set alight? How many had they put to the sword?

  They heard the cries of the riders, the snort of the horses. The rattle of stirrups and swords. Toby held his breath. He closed his eyes to block out the flashing light, he pressed his ears to block out the thundering hooves…

  And then they were dying away. Past. On to a more distant mission.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Far.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We’ll be murdered here. Hacked to bits like my mum and dad.’

  Toby moaned. ‘What can we do? Three of us and three shoes between us. Two can’t walk and one wheelbarrow.’

  He was thinking, I should save myself. I can’t do anything for these two. I’m the only decent pair of legs. What good would it do if the three of us died? How stupid to be killed because I want company!

  He thought of his father. How he needed his help! How he would never help him again.

  I must save myself, he thought. Without delay.

  Far yelled. ‘There’s a dog! There’s a dog in here.’

  Toby could hear it walking in the leaves. Smell its furry musk. A rough tongue was licking his hand. He felt along its fur with the other hand. The tail gave it away. The long, bushy brush.

  ‘It’s a fox,’ he said, stroking the animal. ‘It’s Sly. She’s come for us.’

  Chapter 21

  She had come to complete the journey. Perhaps she’d heard his thoughts. Perhaps she’d made his thoughts. For whatever reason she was here. And he knew he could trust her completely.

  Toby rose, stamped his feet and swung his arms to and fro. The leaves rustled under foot, his hand hit a bough.

  ‘You’re not going to leave me?’ said Far.

  Easily done. Harden his heart and go. How much help could he give? How much help did a peasant deserve?

  ‘Are you taking me?’ said Far.

  Toby stood tall, grasping a branch above him. ‘If I take you,’ he said deliberately, ‘I want respect. None of this talking back and questioning me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Far. ‘I promise.’

  ‘You promise what?’ hissed Toby.

  Far was gripping his ankles. ‘I promise, sir. I promise, master…’ He stopped, tried again. ‘I promise, your highness.’

  ‘Sir will do,’ said Toby.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Get in the wheelbarrow.’

  Far stood up and Toby helped him in. Moved him a little, hunted for the sack of food. He found it and gave it to Far.

  ‘What about her?’ said Far, adding quickly, ‘Sir.’

  Toby shook his head. ‘I can’t take two.’

  He gripped the barrow handles and wheeled the barrow through the leafy curtain, scraping his brow on the prickles.

  ‘She’ll be dead by morning, sir.’

  Outside, there was a little light in the air. Toby wiped his brow with the back of his hand, he could feel blood. He could just make it out on his arms. He felt his tunic, it was stiff – it must be covered in blood from his contact with the girl. She couldn’t last much longer. Ahead was the outline of the fox, her tail raised.

  Toby looked back into the depths. He hesitated.

  ‘Someone’ll help her, sir,’ insisted Far.

  Toby bit his lip. She was a girl. Not quite of his class, but well-born. He still had his honour. His father said, be princely.

  His father was dead.

  ‘I’ve done all I can for her,’ he said grimly.

  And he began pushing the wheelbarrow.

  Chapter 22

  Over the next hour the forest revealed itself. The trees and undergrowth returned, coated in a patina of frost. Toby soon warmed up pushing the wheelbarrow, while Far shivered. Toby realised the beast of burden sometimes had the best of it.

  They stopped by a stream to eat and drink. Toby washed his arms in the icy water. He splashed some on his tunic, enlarging the bloody stains.

  ‘I’m going to freeze to death,’ said Far.

  Toby was about to remind him to say ‘sir’ – but Far was such a sorry sight, lack of sleep heavy in his eyes, his teeth chattering, that he couldn’t find it in him. Besides, he felt less of a ‘sir’ now. Less in need to be lifted. The walking had done it, the warming up, the exercise and food in his belly. He
wiped his face in the cold water, washing away the remnants of the sleepless night. He felt quite human. And a little chilly himself after all that splashing.

  They set off once more. The sky was bright blue, the low sun seeping into the woods, the frost dripping off the trees. Sly was taking them by the smaller paths, as if knowing that horses couldn’t go that way. In places it was hardly wide enough for a wheelbarrow and the passenger added to his woes by being scratched by brambles. There was little Toby could do, the barrow had to go first and deal with whatever came.

  The path they were on met a wide ride, pitted by horses’ hooves. Sly peered both ways and scampered across. Toby looked one way, no one in sight. Then the other.

  A body lay out on the ride, just a few yards along.

  Toby left the wheelbarrow and ran to it. The corpse was of a middle-aged man, well dressed and presumably well-born. A puddle of thickening blood was on his chest. His head was back, his mouth wide open, full of blood. There was no sign of life.

  Toby was about to leave him when Far called out, ‘Get me his coat, sir.’

  ‘It’s all bloody.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m freezing, sir. Please.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Toby.

  And began pulling the man’s coat away. First one arm, then the other. He had to turn him to pull the coat away, and from the pool of blood underneath it was obvious the man had been pierced right through.

  ‘And his boots, sir. Please.’

  Toby took off the boots. They were soft leather, well made.

  ‘And the hat, sir. If you please.’

  The hat was lying a little way off. Toby picked it up and ran back to the wheelbarrow. He threw the articles to Far.

  ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he said, taking up the handles, and pushing across the ride into the side path where Sly awaited.

  Far put on the boots. They were a little big but certainly warmer than no boots. The hat was soft with a floppy pointed end. Far was able to pull it down over his ears. The coat was ample, the man had been quite stout. It fitted Far almost like a blanket, and had strings at the front to close it. It was handsome with embroidery, spoiled by the large bloodstain that covered a good portion of the front. Far though was pleased with his new wardrobe, his hands tucked deep into the sleeves. And he cheered up considerably.