by Brian Hodge
That son of a bitch, was the first thing she thought. Doesn’t drive one mile since we came here and now he takes the car? Thinks he’ll drive it to London?
For the rest of the night, the mood in the Rose & Thistle was glum. She remained by the fireside, listening to talk and awkward condolences, clutching her thick pullover sweater tightly about her, and fearing if she left the fire she’d freeze.
And by last orders, word had it that, peculiarly enough, the authorities still hadn’t recovered Alain’s head.
Late in the night, unable to sleep, Kate left the bed-and-breakfast before its walls grew more claustrophobic. Earth and sky and stone seemed the only things lasting enough tonight, so she walked in their company. Around her the town lay in stillness so deep it felt as though her heartbeat might wake it.
She was more than a mile along to the church before she even knew she was going there, and quickened her pace once she did. The town behind her, meadow and pasture rolling away to either side of the lane, she felt the deep age of the land as she rarely had during the day. Now and again, something would rustle, out of sight, on the other side of hedgerows and stone fences. Foxes, maybe. Once, a vigilant border collie.
Near the church she spotted a sheep, strayed from its fold, thick-shagged and four-horned, a breed she’d never seen back home. She knew in her heart that a sheep was all it was, but as it stood against the fence, munching vigorously on grass with the moonlight glinting off eyes like wet glass, it seemed less beast and more facade for an intelligence that lurked and watched, biding its time with inhuman patience.
The church’s bell tower and faces rose black against a few moonlit gray clouds as she ascended the hill. Below the eternally grinning visage of the Green Man, she used the key entrusted to her by Crenshaw. This was the first time she’d entered without a camera dangling from her neck.
Kate turned on only as much light as needed to prevent collision with anything; would’ve brought candles had she known the night would end here.
Step back, look up, and there he was, Pan in bestial glory.
“Go on. Move,” she commanded. As its maker’s descendant, who was more entitled to see this happen? “Move. Prove it. What are you waiting for?”
Nothing. Neither shift of cloven hoof, nor waggle of tongue.
Down the aisle, to the altar, to her knees. It seemed that at some point tonight she should offer a prayer for Alain, but no time or place had seemed right earlier. Now that they were she couldn’t think of what to say, or where to send it.
“Why are you crying?”
She thought she’d heard someone enter. Suspecting who it was before his voice confirmed it.
“Is that what I’m doing?”
Jack allowed her her space, coming no closer than the first congregational stall and sitting inside. “Saw you from the trees. Thought I’d pop in.”
“Don’t you ever sleep in a bed? Or anyplace with a roof?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“Well, you can’t for much longer. In another month you’ll freeze to death out there.”
“Won’t I just,” he said, with his broad merry grin — vagabond, madman, whatever he was. “But, death … its longevity? Exaggerated a bit, you ask me.”
“Not in my experience.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. What a sight she must’ve presented, no longer feeling capable of even seducing the village hobo.
“Why are you here, Kate?” he wondered. “Not tonight, I don’t mean tonight. Not even asking you, really. Just … Blackburn’s granddaughter: Why her, why here, why now?”
If there were reasons they were beyond her, beyond Jack too, but the faith he held in their being was touching. He left the oaken stall to wander, hands trailing over wood and stone, caressing each surface as though an immortal beloved.
“I’ve seen a lot of Britain,” he said. “Seen it thrive, seen it fall. Rise, fall again. One group taking it from another, ‘til they lose it themselves. What it is now? A ghost of someone’s old dead ideas of glory. But no matter who’s mucking about on top, it’s always been the land itself that holds the magic. Can’t kill a thing like that, now, can you? Drive it deeper underground, maybe, but never kill it.”
He’d done it so smoothly, she nearly missed the way Jack had begun talking as someone who’d witnessed more history than was one person’s due.
“Don’t know much of America. I know it’s there,” he said. “I’ve wondered if any of you ever look this way and realize it’s your own future, too. Are you that far along yet?”
“Yeah,” she said. “We just pretend we don’t notice.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He began moving closer. “Let me tell you a story. Used to be an island, there did. Full of forests so deep and thick, you could drop in something big as London is now, never find it again. Not everything that lived there stuck with either four legs or two. Good days, those. But nothing stays the same forever. People come in, they bring their own ideas along, chase out the old if they don’t murder it first.
“What you had here over six centuries ago were amongst the last people to remember the forests as they’d been. Put yourself in their place. Got no use for any pale dead god all the rest are only too eager to kill you for, if you don’t convert. Not when the forests gave you all the gods you’d ever need. Gods that were old before that pale dead one was even born. So what do you do?”
Was he insane? Or merely eccentric?
“Hide in plain sight?” she said.
“Now you’re thinking like a wily pagan. If the Church steals the faces of your gods and turns them to devils, who’s to say you can’t steal them back, and right under the Pope’s nose.
“But they didn’t stop there. When time came to build, they found themselves a likeminded man who knew stone so well it was said he could talk it into making room for a soul. So that’s where the old gods went.” He lifted his hands as if to seize the church and wrap it around him. “Geoffrey Blackburn sealed them in, on every side.”
It made a fine story. Now, if only it were true.
“Why bother with that?” she asked, because it was fun to play along, and meant she didn’t have to think of Alain. “Why couldn’t the gods take care of themselves?”
“Because their time was up. For a while, at least.” Jack’s furrowed brow creased deeply. Was it only poor lighting that he looked worse than he did before? “The other day, I told you of the Celts, their reverence for the severed head? One of the women from those final days, she could work a real magic with heads. They’d talk to her. Sing for her. See where she couldn’t — even into the future. They saw what was coming. Had two hundred years of bloody Crusades by then, and they’d already come home to the west. Wasn’t a time to be clinging to gods that would get you killed, and the gods of the woods loved their followers too much to let that keep happening to them. Rather sleep than see it happen. So sleep they did. Waiting for a better time to wake again.”
It was such an Arthurian notion, she thought, the once and future king become once and future gods. Again, if only it could be true.
Kate was about to excuse herself, time to go back to the B&B, when Jack straightened to his full bearish height and smiled down at her, such a peculiar smile, protective and courtly and wistful.
“I should be saying goodbye to you now, Kate Blackburn. I’m glad I have the chance. Didn’t expect I would. You don’t mind if I call you by that name instead?”
She told him of course not, asked where he was off to. Jack turned at the waist to gaze toward the narthex and doors.
“Autumn, nearly over. Winter, nearly here. Said it yourself already, Kate. Time for me to find someplace to freeze.”
She went to him, near tears again, gripping him by shoulders stout as oak boughs. For one night, for one lifetime, she’d seen enough of delusions and death. She hit him, cursed him, trying to beat sense into him, then he pulled her close to still her arms, like a child, and stroked her hair. She breathed in the scent of him, so
rich and green and woody it had to come from someplace far deeper than the shabby fibers of his clothes.
“I watched you from those same trees, when you were a wee girl,” Jack whispered. “‘She’ll be back,’ I told myself. ‘She’ll be back one day.’”
Then his mouth was upon hers, with a kiss that tasted of time and seasons, loss and renewal, and if her intellect yet resisted, her body knew, and her blood. These obeyed the cycles of the moon already, didn’t they? They knew that if she plunged into him, and he into her, there awaited for her wonders of which she could scarcely conceive. And conceive she would, if the time was right.
But not tonight. When he pulled his mouth away it broke her heart.
“No,” he said. “Not as I am now. Not half-dead.”
Half-dead? Even now he was more alive than most she knew. “Then when?”
“Come spring. When I live again.”
So easy for him to say. He would be the one for whom those months meant nothing. What a long, terrible, cold winter hers would be.
“I’ve one more thing needs doing,” he said. “You won’t like it. I’d rather you not watch.”
She wouldn’t be dissuaded. He could do no worse than she’d seen already.
Solemn, Jack left the church a moment. When he returned she understood his concern, and despite her resolve, she still had to avert her eyes. Mangled by glass and steel, yes, it was, but the head was recognizably Alain’s.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’d be a fool not to,” Jack said. “But he did lose it by accident, nothing more. I’ll not be a fool, then, and waste it.”
The head was bled clean by now, and he set it aside while grappling with the altar. He struggled, strained, and with a deep grinding of stone it shifted, tilting up and to the side. If doubts still lingered, this did them in. No one man could lift this hollowed limestone block.
Beneath the altar was concealed a round cavity, a shallow well. When he dropped the head inside, she winced at the rattling of its moist heft against dried old ivory domes and mandibles. Jack heaved the altar back, the shadow of its base sliding slowly across Alain’s upturned face like the fall of his final night.
Jack nodded out over the menagerie of spirits. “To give them dreams,” he said. “To strengthen them against the winter, ‘til I see them again.”
In the narthex, as the doors swung wide into the moonlit dark beyond, she wanted to cling to him, possess him, to know more and listen to everything he could tell her about … well, where she had come from wouldn’t be a bad start.
“Why you?” she asked instead. “Why did you get the job of staying up to watch so much of it die around you?”
While it seemed a hideously lonely vigil, if he regarded it that way, you’d never know it. Could he even feel such a thing as loneliness?
“Who better?” he said. “Who else tracks time the way it was meant to be measured?”
Just past the doors, he stared up at the pattern of leaf and hair and face carved above them centuries before, by bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh.
“Not a very good likeness, really. I’m much better looking.” He laughed with her, and in that moment she knew that, no, even a god was not beyond loneliness. Else why had he told her any of this, and who else could he have told?
“Called me Jack-o’-the-Green, too, they did. And I think, deep in his heart, Crenshaw knows exactly who I am … and that’s what scares him so.”
He drew his pitiful coat about him, looking to the sky, to the vast ocean of stars. Above them, Orion, the Hunter. It was his season. She could always find Orion.
“Best go, luv,” he said. “Not nearly as much forest as there was once. And I have to go deep, where I’ll not be disturbed.”
She imagined him in sacred hibernation, fetally curled or regally prone, beneath a blanket of brittle leaves, hair and beard dusted white with frost, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. Waiting for warmth.
He drew a huge breath, held it, let it out in a noisy gust and broad grin. “I’ve a splendid sense of smell, Kate. And I smell a great wildness coming. Maybe not next spring. Nor the spring past that. But it’s coming. The land always takes back its own.”
He left her soon after, a bulking shape made smaller, darker, with every stride toward the treeline. She lost sight of him even before he entered. Heard the crack and crunch of his passage, then even that was gone.
She returned inside the church, intending to lock up, and got as far as turning out the lights before she knew its floor was all the bed she would need tonight.
And swaddled by spirits, she did not sleep alone that night, dreaming of longer days and the fall of empires, while warmed by the breath of goats.
Far Flew the Boast of Him
Grown men, they may have been — and now post-mortem — but they reminded him of children.
All the slaughter in the world, and here they’d gone out for a weekend’s lark to pretend to wreak more. Like young boys playing at war games. All the barrels of blood that had seeped into England’s soil, and here they’d gone out for a day of make-believe, pretending to shed it all over again.
Well, that blood was certainly real enough now, wasn’t it? And there would be no pretending otherwise, not with nearly three dozen new widows left scattered from London to Newcastle.
At least all were now assumed to be widows by anyone who could afford to be brutally realistic. Only just over half the bodies had so far been found, and as long as there’s no corpse then there’s always hope … but Hellboy could not imagine anyone who wasn’t nervously fingering a wedding ring, or awaiting news of a missing father, son, brother, lover, was expecting a single one of those poor dumb bastards to come walking in from the border country here near Scotland.
Divine intervention, it seemed, was always in much shorter supply than diabolic.
“The Battle of Lindisfarne,” this fellow was saying. Survivor on account of absenteeism. Trevor Copplestone, his name, or something close to that. “June eighth, 793. That’s what we … they … had come up here last weekend to reenact.”
“‘Battle’ of Lindisfarne? How do you figure that?” said Hellboy. “There wasn’t any ‘battle’ to it. There’s no battle when the other side’s unarmed.”
“Ah — so you know Lindisfarne, do you?”
“I may look dumb,” Hellboy said, “but that’s just a disguise.”
“Well, then … battle of ideologies, call it,” Copplestone said. Working hard at keeping his stiff upper, but the strain was showing. “The sword of the monks’ lord and savior, matched up against the swords of boatloads of raiders whose sole idea of a guarantee into the afterlife was a good death. Wasn’t much of a contest, was it?”
“No. It wasn’t. And whatever it was that your friends ran into up here last weekend…? That wasn’t much of any contest, either.”
You had to imagine that by now Trevor Copplestone was feeling like the luckiest man on either side of Hadrian’s Wall. A bad sausage in last Friday evening’s helping of bangers and mash at a pub near his Northumberland hotel flattens him for the next twenty-four hours, knocks him off his pins and into bed every moment he’s not crouched over his toilet. Certainly in no condition to troop out and play Viking with his friends.
Maybe Copplestone looked more imposing when he had his period gear on, his chainmail or jerkin or helmet or whatever he decked himself out in for these weekend outings, but here and now he did not look the part. A big enough frame, and a well-trimmed beard and a shock of hair that the sea breezes stirred, but inside his jacket he was a soft-looking man. Doughy in the middle, and the beard grown to hide his burgeoning jowls. A man shackled to a desk forty or fifty hours each week who looks out his window, if his office even has one, and dreams of living in an age when the cloud-thickened welkin would’ve been the only roof that mattered.
He hadn’t been alone. A historical reenactment society, they called themselves. Study up on their favorite bloodbaths, choose up sides, then pick a weeken
d to go out and pretend they’d been there. Grand fun, but evidently they’d always come back alive before. Full of beans as they invade the nearest pub, and the worst argument they’ve got to settle is who buys first round.
All history now.
Hellboy had the feeling that it would be a good long while before Trevor Copplestone felt any urge to pick up his sword again. Some new look of haunt and harrowing in his eyes that wouldn’t have been there eight days ago … survivor’s guilt, or just the fact of everything that had once been academic and safely within the realm of pretense hitting him full in the face, to leave its indelible mark: This was what it was like to lose friends and comrades by the score. This was what it felt like to walk home dragging their memories like heavy chains. This was what it was like when there wasn’t even enough left of some of them to bury.
This was history, the genuine article. They’d learned it, and still they’d been doomed to repeat its most enduring lesson.
“This one meant something more to you guys,” Hellboy said. “It had to. Otherwise, where’s the fun?”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Yeah you do. Reenact Lindisfarne, and half of you don’t even get to fight. All you get to do is wear a cowled robe and fall down and pretend to die. I don’t get that. It’s over too quick. And they wouldn’t even grant you guys permission to stage it where it really happened, because they found the idea too tasteless. So you stayed here on the mainland and settled for a plot of ground just barely in sight of the real thing. That’s an awful lot of trouble to go to for something over so quick.”
“So why Lindisfarne,” Copplestone said, “when there must be hundreds of other battles better suited to keeping us all busy, and for a longer stretch of the day — that’s what you’re asking?”
“It might help get to the bottom of what happened.”
