Once...

by James Herbert

  When the spiders had fled he had collapsed completely in the doorway, so weak again he feared another stroke was coming on. How long he had lain there, he had no idea, but it was the elf who had roused him and pressed a thimbleful of some sweet liquid to his lips, urging him with soft, kindly words to drink. Whether or not it was only in his mind, he had felt the potion sink into his body, then spread as though travelling through veins and arteries and even airways, reaching every part of his system, from toes to fingertips.

  ‘It will help you as you sleep,’ he remembered Rigwit had told him.

  How he had got from the doorstep up to his bed was patchy – he’d insisted on locking, then bolting the front door, top and bottom, even though the elf had assured him the danger had passed for the night, and he remembered the long crawl on hands and knees up to the bedroom, Rigwit encouraging him all the way. But from there on, there was nothing. He had no recollection at all of pushing the chest of drawers against the bedroom door, nor of having climbed fully clothed into bed. He noted that his feet were bare and presumed Rigwit had pulled off his boots and covered his body with a bedsheet. Mercifully, sleep had swallowed him whole and had not even allowed a dream or two.

  Thom rose from the bed, his body stiff, but his left arm and leg more mobile that he had expected. He drew circles in the air with his elbow, loosening the muscles of his left arm, then raised his left knee chest-high a few times, bending forward to meet it. The movement was awkward and hurt a little, but otherwise he was fine. Looking down at himself to examine his clothes, he saw the small dark patches, alien blood and squashed pulp, and his sweatshirt was torn in several places. He declined lifting the material to examine the skin beneath.

  Instead, he went to the window and looked out at the woodland beyond. The day was grey, a vast blanket of light cloud filling the sky, covering the sun and dissipating its glory. The woods seemed very still, and when he listened, no bird calls came to his ears.

  With some dread, Thom went to the stairs and looked down, expecting to see the small carcasses of spiders he’d killed; and see them he did. He was shocked, for another part of him had not expected them to be there, had thought all the spiders were imaginary, an illusion sent to the cottage by the wiccan, Nell Quick. And hadn’t Rigwit said they couldn’t harm him? Didn’t that suggest they had been real only in his mind? Thom was confused. He had seen them, felt their scurrying legs on his own flesh yet they hadn’t stung or bitten him. At least, not until the very end . . . Lying in small scattered heaps was evidence of their existence. Maybe it was Rigwit’s persuasion that they couldn’t harm him that somehow nullified their effect at first. If the elf hadn’t arrived in time to convince him, who knows what his own mind would have accepted.

  Thom trod gingerly on the stairboards, his bare feet avoiding the splats and leg-curled bodies, and at the bottom he warily opened the door to the kitchen. It was the same in there, empty of any living creatures but the broken shells and pulp lying in heaps all around, a spider’s graveyard whose sinister grimness was not lessened by daylight.

  By the book – now closed, he observed – lying on the table was a jug containing the same juice that had revived him so well before; at least, he assumed it was the same. Rigwit, who obviously had closed the book, had left it there for him.

  He called the elf’s name, but there was no response. Thom was frustrated, but presumed that although he was the guardian of the cottage, Rigwit did not actually live there. It seemed he came and went as he pleased.

  Guiltily (because he should have remembered sooner) he tried to ring the hospital where Katy Budd had been taken in Shrewsbury, but all he got on his mobile phone was the usual static. He resolved to drive into town later and visit the hospital. The next thing Thom did was to drink the juice straight from the jug, almost finishing it all before he felt satiated. He felt the same reaction as the first time, a sudden invigorating zest for life, his mind clearing of negativity, his strength returning. Unlike any hardcore drug, repetition did not appear to diminish the effect. With new-found enthusiasm, Thom swept the cottage free of squishy corpses, stripped and tossed his soiled clothes into the big rubbish bin hidden away round the back of the place, and took a long hot bath, scrubbing his skin hard with a brush, then soaking till the water cooled. Once dried, he realized he was famished, but quickly donned a midnight-blue short-sleeved shirt, medium-blue jeans, and soft black ankle-boots, before cooking a huge breakfast of bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes. He finished off the remaining juice in the jug and, wiping his lips with a tea-towel, he thought he could now take on the world.

  The feeling was not to see him through the whole day.

  He called her name in vain.

  Thom had left the cottage earlier that morning and gone into the forest in search of Jennet, walking through glades he had visited with her, along paths they had walked together, but there was no sign of her. In fact, there were no signs of faeries at all. Nor of the animals that they had come across in such large numbers.

  The woods seemed empty, barren, devoid of life save the flora itself.

  Thom needed to see her, needed Jennet’s comforting arms around him, needed her to explain to him what was going on, for his return to Bracken had become a nightmare, the events of the past week beginning to weigh on him both in a mental and physical way. Whatever relief he’d had from the juice that morning was wearing thin, the enthusiasm and strength beginning to wane. But it wasn’t the only reason he wanted to find Jennet.

  He knew he loved her. He could hardly think of anything else but her: the terrible events, his suspicions, the monster that had nestled on his body to steal his vitality, the attack by wasps and its consequences, the spider invasion, all remained in the periphery of his mind when he thought about her, her loveliness, her nature, the mere image of her overriding all else. If it hadn’t been for Jennet he might have easily packed his bags, climbed into the Jeep, and left Bracken for ever. Well, maybe not. Maybe he would have stayed on until after Sir Russell had passed away. He owed that much at least to the man who was, after all, his grandfather.

  Sir Russell was of the old ways, respectable and duly respected, someone whose set opinions and traditional values would never allow birth out of wedlock to be acceptable. Maybe he was a relic of the past, part of an era that was never quite as pious and honourable as it pretended to be; anyway he was Thom’s paternal grandfather and in the end that was all that mattered. Despite the rejection, Thom felt sure that Bethan – and perhaps even his father, Jonathan, Sir Russell’s son – would have wanted him to be there for the old man as death drew close, or at least, to be around, even if at a distance. Besides, he was curious to discover just what game Nell Quick and, so it seemed, Hugo were playing. What had he, Thom, done to incur their rancour?

  He went on with his search, continuing to call Jennet’s name, his heart filling with dread as his echoes died away and only silence remained. There was no movement in the undergrowth, not even a shaking of leaves to indicate a fleeing animal, and no butterflies fluttered among the long flowers, no birds perched on branches or flew over the treetops. There was a strange quietness in the forest.

  Finally, when he reached the lakeside, he cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted:

  ‘Jennnneeet!’

  Calm ripple-circles made by feeding fish spread here and there over the glass-still surface. But nothing rose from the lake’s depths.

  He called again:

  ‘Jennnneeeet!’

  Once more, in despair:

  ‘Jennet!’

  Thom sank to his knees, resting on his heels. He waited. Disconsolately, he waited. Surely she hadn’t deserted him? Not when he needed her so much. He leaned sideways, rested a hand in the grass. Eventually he sat, chin on his knees, hands around his ankles. He shivered. Despite the season, the forest felt cold. And he felt alone.

  After an hour or so, he returned to the cottage.

  THOM HAD gone back to the cottage and broo
ded for the rest of the day, asking himself questions that appeared to have no answers, dwelling upon his relationship with Jennet, wondering about her unexpected absence that day. He thought of Hugo too, his so-called lifelong friend. Was he really involved in some kind of devious plot with Nell Quick? If so, why? And what was the purpose? It was as perplexing as it was tiring, and eventually Thom went upstairs and laid down fully clothed on the four-poster bed, his mind in turmoil, occasionally questioning his own sanity. Faeries, elves, witches, magic potions? Was he going crazy? He did not ponder too long, for soon his eyelids were drooping, his body relaxing. His last thought before sleep stole in and claimed him was that later he would drive to the hospital to see how Katy was faring. Then he was asleep . . .

  It was the rumble of distant thunder that woke him. His eyes opened smartly, no flickering, no slow-rising from the depths of sleep, just sudden wakefulness. He was surprised to find the room in darkness and quickly turned on the bedside lamp so that he could look at his wristwatch. 9.45 pm. Shit! He had meant to drive in to Shrewsbury and check on Katy. He’d have to find a call-box and phone in, or drive to a better reception area for his mobile.

  Thom left the bed to go to the window. It was late, but it shouldn’t have been this dark. There were heavy clouds over the forest, but they didn’t appear to be thunderous. Nor was it even raining. The sound of faraway thunder came again.

  Curious, Thom left the bedroom and climbed the staircase to the roof. A strong breeze hit him as soon as he stepped out the door, ruffling his hair and clothes. The small figure of Rigwit was sitting on the parapet, looking outwards, over the woodland. Thom went to him.

  ‘Where were you all day?’ he asked, watching the elf’s profile, his voice almost pleading.

  Rigwit continued to gaze into the distance. He seemed agitated and even in the dusk of night Thom could see the distress in his expression. ‘There have been many counsels throughout the woodlands today. The faerefolkis have been gathering to discuss what is to be done.’

  ‘I tried to find Jennet.’

  ‘You couldn’t, not this day. The undines have gone to ground. Or should I say, to water. They’re very afraid.’ He turned his small face to Thom. ‘As are we all,’ he said ominously.

  Thom shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. What’s happening, Rigwit, what the hell is wrong?’

  ‘It’s the wiccan. She’s unleashed powers she does not understand and cannot control.’

  ‘Nell Quick?’

  Rigwit nodded. ‘She’s a vain foolish woman who is not aware of her own limitations. She will wreak havoc this night. The faerefolkis are trying to find ways of restraining the malign forces she has released, but I fear it is already too late. I think all we can do is hide ourselves away until it has passed.’

  Rigwit shuddered and Thom reached out to clasp his narrow shoulder. The elf was shivering.

  ‘Why too late?’ Thom asked, the breeze growing stronger so that his words seemed to be whisked away.

  The elf turned away again and nodded towards the horizon.

  ‘Look,’ he said, his teeth chattering.

  And Thom looked.

  The wind hit him the moment he swung open the front door, pushing against him like some gigantic invisible hand, almost forcing him back inside the cottage. In the short time it had taken him to leave the rooftop and race down the stairs, the breeze had grown into a gale.

  Bending into it, a forearm over his eyes, Thom ran out into the dry storm and such was the sound of the wind, he failed to hear Rigwit’s cries from behind.

  ‘The book! You must take the book with you! It’s your only hope!’

  Realising it would be quicker by foot, Thom ran across the clearing and on to the track that eventually would lead to Castle Bracken, the wind whipping at his clothes and hair, leaves flying across his path, and into his face, branches bending before its increased might. As he ran, the vision he’d had from the rooftop remained stark in his mind.

  The clouds were heavier in the distance, with a thin light of yellowish-white from a sun that had long sunk from view silhouetting the low hills of the horizon, the light vignetting abruptly to dark grey the clouds themselves. But directly over Castle Bracken – he had seen lights in some of the windows – there hung boiling black clouds, their turbulent edges defined by flashes of inner lightning. Even as he had watched, a lightning bolt forked through the air to touch the mansion’s roof itself. It was eerie and it was frightening, for it seemed that the big house had been singled out for attention, the dark rolling clouds directly hanging above it like a baleful portent. It was this and a dreadful feeling of impending disaster that had sent Thom down the stairs and out into the woods.

  The wind set up a howling as he ran, growing stronger by the moment, bending not just branches but the young saplings also; it tore into his face like stabbing fingers, as if deliberately trying to blind him. He kept his right arm up, glad he knew the path so well, for it was growing darker by the second, the summer sun too far below the horizon now to have much influence. Already his breath was coming in harsh dry heaves and although his left leg was fine at present, he knew it would not be long before he was limping.

  A leafy branch lashed at his face and would have struck his eyes had not his forearm protected them. Other branches waved at him from the sides of the path as though jeering his progress, their rustlings like angry voices. Crazily, the wind did not come from just one direction: one moment it was in front of him, slowing his stride, the next it was behind, speeding him along; at other times, when it appeared to come from all directions at once to whirl around him, it was like being buffeted by a whirlwind. There was moisture in the air – single raindrops constantly splattered against him – but there was no downpour. At least, not yet. He prayed he would get to the Big House before it did, for the track would quickly become slippery, the open field he would have to cross, a quagmire. Something tripped him and he sprawled headlong.

  He rolled as he struck the earth, softening the impact, but still jarring his shoulder. When he looked behind to find out what had tripped him he saw a vine stretched across the path like a cunningly laid tripwire. Quickly, he pushed himself to his feet and set off again at a trot, gradually building up to a run.

  Now even the thinner but more mature trees were bending or being rocked by the storm and occasionally, the whole woodland was lit up by distant lightning, the slow rumbling that followed growing louder each time. In the glare, the woods became a ghostly monotone, all greys and deep sharp shadows, the branches of many like arms held erect as if to frighten. Thom had never known a storm like this, had never known the woods to be so alien, so lowering. He had always regarded this place as his special homeland, but tonight he felt a stranger here, confused and fearful of what he might come upon. It was fortunate he knew the path so well.

  He pressed on, panting hard, gulping in lungfuls of charged air when he could, beginning to tire, but determined to make it to Castle Bracken as soon as possible. To him, the jet-black clouds over the mansion presaged death and he could not understand why. He already knew that Sir Russell was dying, so perhaps it was a natural reaction; yet he had the strangest feeling of being called, almost as if a voice inside his head was screaming a warning, yet compelling him to come. As he ran he glanced up at the sky between the shifting treetops.

  The clouds looked angry. They were a darker grey, not yet as black as those over the Big House, but barging into each other, pregnant with unshed rain. Something caught Thom’s ankle again and this time he fell heavily, crashing to the ground, only his hands preventing serious injury. Oddly, as he tried to rise, he still felt a grip on his ankle.

  He gave a small cry of terror when he caught sight of a grimy hand protruding from the earth, its short skeletal fingers curled around his leg. Another hand appeared near his face, bursting from the cracked soil as if on a spring, dirt flying off its thin flesh as the fingers wriggled in the air. Thom wrenched his foot away from the one clinging to his ankl
e, kicking back at the empty fingers as he did so. The hand did not retreat; instead the whole arm, an undernourished child’s arm, rose from the soil, followed by the top of a small, bald, grimy dome. Bleached hate-filled eyes that had rarely seen the sun blinked away dirt as they came into view, then the mouth, set in a vicious leer, spitting earth as the complete face presented itself. Thom recognized it as one of the brown creatures from the underworld near the lake, a slow-moving thing with sharp claws and nasty intent. It, too, received a smart kick from Thom’s boot, but its expression never changed and it continued to rise, emaciated shoulders following a long thin neck.

  Another lightning flash revealed a scene that might have come from an old black and white horror movie, with hands and shoulders appearing all around him, colourless except for greys and blacks in the coruscation, a scene where the dead rise gleefully from their graves. And just as corny, thought Thom as he lashed out with his boot again.

  The face leering next to him was just asking to be smashed, and he duly obliged, only he used his fist for added effect. The thing’s head rocked back, but annoyingly, the leering grin remained. Maybe it was because he had encountered these earth-dwelling creatures before and had easily eluded them that he was not as afraid as he should have been, or maybe he was too intent on reaching the house to take on more dread right then. As he rolled over to get to his feet, two arms shot out of the ground on either side of his head and pulled him down.

  His face hit the earth with a definite thud, a whiteness briefly spreading across his vision. He felt the hands tight around his head and neck, yanking him down, the pressure too strong to break. He tasted soil as his face began to sink into the earth and he cursed himself for underestimating these dirt-dwelling monsters.