by Roger Taylor
There was a nerve-tearing sound like fingernails drawn down glass and the air in front of Rannick began to shimmer and glow. The sound grew in intensity, until it was finally topped by a great cry of triumph.
Nilsson staggered backwards as the shimmering mass crackled into flickering life. A pungent smell assailed his nostrils, then, as if in obedience to Rannick's cry, the light split and divided into great tendrils which surged through the shattered windows of the farmhouse. It seemed to Nilsson that they were like living things, so purposeful was their movement.
Like serpents, he thought.
Almost immediately, the interiors of the rooms were ablaze.
Nilsson watched as flames and smoke poured out of the windows and rose through the gaping roof. It was almost as if they were trying to escape from the horror that had just entered the house. Silhouetted against the scene stood Rannick, his arms held wide, swaying from side to side as if to some unheard music.
Then he sank to his knees and slumped to the ground.
* * *
Chapter 30
Farnor ran and ran. The presence of the creature possessed him like a raging fever. He did not see the streams he ran through, the walls he climbed, the fences he slithered under. His mind knew only fear, and his body carried him towards security using reflexes that were older even than the mountains that now stood by, indifferent to the terror that so filled his world.
And yet as he fled he sensed that no matter which way he ran, he could not avoid the creature. It was all around him. And it was more vivid and powerful than it had ever been before.
Then it became worse. Save for a vague, flickering remnant somewhere, he lost even his own sense of being. The world was rasping breath and pounding heartbeat, and ... the power ... moving.
Flooding in from...?
Despite his terror, part of him was drawn towards it. Drawn to reach out and stop it. But some deeper instinct pulled him back. He could not stem such a torrent.
And still he fled on, desperately, unhindered by this inner debate; indeed, scarcely even noting it.
Then came ... light? Lights! Moving, shifting lights. Flames! He could feel their heat beating on his face, and ... surging up from within him as if he himself were making them.
A spark of consciousness returned to him. Nightmare. He was dreaming. Soon he would crash out of this terrible flight into the security of his bedroom.
But this revelation affected nothing, for always lurking in the terror of a nightmare is the possibility that one might not indeed awaken. Still he had to flee; flee towards and through these surging flames; flee from the terror at his back; flee until he came to his home.
Then both the flames and the terror faded. As they did so his awareness began to return more fully. It was no nightmare, it was real. And still his body propelled him violently homeward. He must wrap the security of familiarity about him if he was to quench this torment.
A familiar, not unpleasant smell reached him.
A hint of autumn in the air.
Burning.
Something was burning.
It brought him to a halt by a gate. He leaned on it breathlessly. There was nothing to be burned on the farm.
Suddenly, more tangible fears rose within him.
Fire! There'd been a fire in one of the outbuildings. And he hadn't been there! With a cry, he clambered over the gate and began running again.
As he neared the farm, his fears began to be realized. A column of smoke was rising above the small hill that separated him from the farm. Despite his exhaustion, he forced himself on.
What had happened? Visions filled his mind. The barns? The stables? The work-shed?
He reached the top of the hill and stopped.
The rain had flattened his hair against his head and ran in streams down his face.
And his world was no more.
A dreadful numbness began to spread through him.
Where had stood the clutter of buildings with the solid block of the farmhouse at its heart—a sight as timeless and immutable as the mountains themselves—stood now a grim mockery of that sight. The buildings were there, though they were different now. Their perspective had been changed. Changed because what had been the farmhouse was now a gaping maw, jagged with shattered walls and blackened rafters. Fires burned here and there, and dense wreaths of smoke swirled in leisurely vortices about the broken carcass, like predators at a battlefield, before finally twisting upwards and rising into the air to disappear into the grey, rainy sky.
And from somewhere came a noise which, though familiar, Farnor could not identify.
Farnor's mouth worked as he searched for words of denial that would dismiss this sight from his vision.
But none came.
Instead a silent cry of reproach rose up within him.
Move your legs. Get down there. Find out if your mother and father are safe. Find out what's happened.
It seemed to Farnor as he ran towards the smoking ruins that he was in fact motionless and that the house was approaching him, like some injured friend seeking help.
He clambered over the wall and ran round into the yard, calling out.
'Mother! Father!'
But there was no reply, except for the sound of the falling rain splashing on to the waterlogged ground and gurgling along gutters and down pipes into the collection butts. And too there was the noise that he had heard on top of the rise. Though much louder than the rain, it seemed to be coming from a great distance. It was the animals clamouring, panic-stricken, to escape their pens. He hesitated, looking from side to side indecisively, as if debating whether he should attend to these demented creatures or continue to search for his parents.
'Mother! Father!'
He called several times, but there was no response until a single fretful bark pierced the din.
One of the dogs was standing by the blackened, smoke-streaked gap that had been the front door. It was sniffing at what appeared to be a pile of debris.
Farnor ran over to it.
The dog's tail was dragging along the ground, but it wagged guiltily as he approached, as if it were in some way responsible for the devastation of the farm.
As he reached the dog, the feeling of numbness spread to possess Farnor totally and for a long, timeless interval he stood staring at the shapeless mound that the dog had been sniffing. Then, slowly, he knew it for his father and mother.
As if he were looking at a picture in a book, Farnor noted his father's twisted frame. He was like a broken toy, not a person. And next to him...
'Mother,’ he said.
He knelt down beside her and shook her gently as if she might simply be sleeping out in the rain, not knowing that her house had burned down.
'Mother.'
He put his arm around her shoulder and lifted her into a sitting position.
'Your dress is all wet and crumpled,’ he said, quietly, fingering the soiled fabric awkwardly. ‘And you've dirtied it too. Look.'
Shaking his head in imitation of his mother's frequent gesture, he ran his hand over the circular stain just beneath the line of his mother's ribcage. Then he looked at his hand. It was covered in blood. He laid his mother down gently, and touched the bloodstained palm curiously with his other hand.
Slowly, he stood up and walked across the yard. Then, quite deliberately and very calmly, he opened the doors of the various stalls to release the distraught animals.
Some brushed him aside in their panic, but others remained where they were. The dog tried to round up some of the escapees dutifully, but after one or two appealing looks at Farnor, who was standing watching them vaguely, it abandoned the attempt.
Farnor went to the gate. It was wide open. Patiently, he pulled it shut and secured it, then he leaned back against the gate post and slid down it until he was sitting on the ground.
The rain continued steadily, and gradually the fires died out and the heavy coils of smoke changed into pale grey wisps. Occasionally some too-charre
d timber would succumb to the depredations of the fire and the water and tumble apologetically into the rubble.
Farnor sat staring fixedly at the house for a long time without moving. A few pigs and hens were wandering aimlessly about the yard, but most of those animals that had not fled had retreated to their opened pens in the face of the rain.
Once or twice his lips moved, but no sound came. The dull afternoon light began to fail. Then, for no apparent reason, he stood up, climbed over the gate as he had done almost every day of his life and walked into the darkening evening.
* * * *
Gryss staggered as Farnor slumped into his arms.
'Marna!’ he shouted, urgently.
She was by his side almost immediately. Taking in the scene at a glance, she pushed the door to with her foot and moved to help Gryss support the collapsing Farnor. They manhandled him along the hallway and into the back room, where he was dropped into a chair.
Gryss took Farnor's chin in his hand, lifted his face up, then prised open his flickering eyelids and peered into his eyes.
'What's happened to him?’ Marna asked, anxiously. ‘It's shock, by the look of it,’ Gryss said. ‘Fetch me some water.'
When she returned, Farnor was recovering consciousness. He was talking desperately but incoherently and he was struggling to rise from the chair while Gryss was trying unsuccessfully to restrain him.
Marna watched for a moment, then shouted angrily. ‘Farnor, sit down and be still, will you?’ Farnor started, but did as he was told. Gryss gave her a grateful nod.
Marna however did not notice. She was pointing, and her face was full of alarm. ‘Look,’ she whispered, as if afraid to attract Farnor's attention.
Gryss followed her gaze. It took him to Farnor's hands. He reached down and took hold of them. Farnor offered no resistance.
Gryss frowned. ‘Blood,’ he said, flatly.
Marna brought her hand to her mouth, and the alarm in her face became fear. She did not speak and for a few minutes the room was silent as Gryss busied himself with cleaning and examining Farnor while he was still compliant.
'It doesn't seem to be his—the blood,’ he said eventually. ‘He seems sound enough apart from his arm and being wet and cold.’ The information did little to ease either his or Marna's anxiety, however. Inevitably, she voiced hers.
'Whose is it, then?’ she demanded. ‘And why's he in such a state?'
'How the devil do I know, Marna?’ Gryss said irritably, then, with a flicker of self-reproach, he laid a hand on her arm in immediate apology.
He pulled forward a chair and sat down in front of Farnor. ‘What's happened?’ he asked gently.
Farnor's eyes livened a little at the sound of his voice. They drifted to Marna and then back to Gryss, and a pleasant, surprised, smile appeared on his face.
'What's happened, Farnor?’ Gryss asked again, his tone anxious now.
He opened his mouth to speak and then realization spread across his face. He stood up with a terrible cry.
'It's all gone,’ he said hoarsely. ‘All gone! Black rafters and sodden ashes. All gone!’ He slumped back into the chair, and looked about agitatedly. ‘And the animals are all loose.'
Gryss's eyes widened. There must have been a fire at the farm. ‘What's all gone, Farnor?’ he asked, trying to keep the alarm from his voice. ‘One of the barns? One of the sheds? Burned down?’ Despite himself he took hold of Farnor's shoulders and shook him. ‘Where are your parents, Farnor? Did they send you for help?'
Farnor screwed up his face in concentration. ‘They're gone too,’ he said eventually. ‘Father's broken. Mother's asleep. She'll catch cold,’ he said plaintively. ‘She's soaking wet.’ He stared at his hand. ‘And her dress is all stained,’ he muttered. ‘She won't want to be seen in that state.'
Gryss had heard enough. Whatever had happened, it was serious, and little more was to be gleaned from Farnor. He turned to Marna. ‘Fast as you can. Get to Yakob's, tell him to come straight away and to bring horses. Don't waste any time answering his questions, just get him here. We have to go to Garren's.'
'Shouldn't we raise the Cry if there's a fire?’ Marna asked.
Gryss shook his head, and flicked his thumb at Farnor. ‘I don't think so,’ he said. ‘This one's been out in the rain for a long time. Several hours, I'd judge. Go now,’ he said, taking her arm and directing her to the door. ‘Get Yakob, quickly.'
When she had gone, Gryss looked down at the now motionless Farnor. His every body sign showed deep and profound shock. What the devil had happened to bring the lad to this state?
Concern yourself with matters of the moment, he reprimanded himself. Farnor had to be made dry and warm and given a sleeping draught before Marna returned if his chilled frame was to be protected from infection and further shock. The truth of what had brought him here would be found soon enough at Garren's.
Even as he busied himself about this task however, possibilities drifted through his mind. Happiest of these, though holding small comfort for all that, was the possibility that something had happened to Farnor that had made his mind succumb to the pressures he had been under of late. Perhaps when he and Yakob went to the Yarrance farm they would find nothing other than the brightly shining sunstone lighting the yard and Garren and Katrin anxiously waiting for the return of their son.
But he tried to give this no more credence than the other, more sinister and ill-formed notions that were plaguing him.
He had scarcely finished installing Farnor into his own bed when the cottage door opened and Yakob strode in with Marna, red-faced and out of breath, at his heels.
The two men looked at one another for a moment. Yakob seemed tired and worried, but he did not look like someone who had hastily dressed.
'Couldn't sleep, either, eh?’ Gryss said.
Yakob nodded. ‘Too many dark thoughts,’ he replied. ‘What's happened now?'
'You've brought the horses?’ Gryss asked. Yakob made no attempt to press his question.
'We'll talk on the way, then,’ Gryss concluded. He drew the sheets up tight against Farnor's chin, and dimmed the lantern by the bed.
'Marna, you keep an eye on him,’ he said.
There was a momentary hint of rebellion in Marna's eyes, but she allowed it no rein. Someone would have to stay with both Farnor and Jeorg lying here in enforced sleep.
The night was cold and damp as the two men rode towards Garren's farm. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. A bright moon began to emerge from behind hulking clouds, transforming them for a while into a towering, silver-edged mountain range.
The moonlight lit the road and enabled Gryss and Yakob to make as much speed as their age and unskilled horsemanship would allow. Gryss recounted Farnor's vague tale, but bluntly refused to answer any of Yakob's questions. ‘We'll find out the truth soon enough,’ was all he was prepared to say. Indeed, it was all he was prepared even to think at the moment.
He sniffed as they entered the lane that led up to the farm, then he grimaced.
'What's the matter?’ Yakob asked.
'Smoke,’ Gryss said.
The lane, shaded by trees, was quite dark and they were obliged to travel at a slow walk. As he peered ahead, however, Gryss thought he saw brightness in the distance. His heart rose. It was probably Garren's sunstone lighting up the yard in anticipation of Farnor returning home.
But as he reached the gate he realized it was merely the moonlight shining on the remains of the white front wall and contrasting with the darkness of the lane.
'No,’ Yakob whispered in horror as they gazed at the gaping destruction that had once been the Yarrance farmhouse. ‘No, no!'
Gryss closed his eyes tightly, as if they would not focus properly.
The smell of charred and sodden timber filled the air, and small tendrils of smoke floated out through the shattered frontage. The moonlight gave them the appearance of some ghastly plant.
Gryss, his stomach turned to lead and his head unnatu
rally clear, climbed down from his horse and fumbled with the gate latch.
The gate opened silently and easily as he pushed it, mute and poignant testimony to Garren Yarrance's thorough and conscientious life.
'This happened hours ago,’ Yakob said, still speaking softly, almost as if he were in a holy place. ‘Why didn't Farnor come sooner?'
Gryss raised his hand. ‘We must find out what's happened to Garren and Katrin,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
Farnor's words came back to him. ‘All gone ... Father's broken ... Mother's asleep ... her dress is all stained ...'
He started as something nudged his leg. He looked down. It was a pig. It eyed him beadily and then turned away.
'All the stalls are open,’ Yakob said.
'Yes.’ The palms of Gryss's hands were sweating with fearful anticipation, and his mouth was dry. He beckoned to Yakob to dismount. ‘Stay by me,’ he said.
They walked towards the farmhouse. It looked dead and haunted in the moonlight. The sight was at once so familiar and so alien that it disorientated Gryss horribly. He knew that, like Farnor, he too was now suffering from shock.
Yakob caught his arm and pointed, but Gryss had already seen the shadowy mound by the front door of the house. As they drew near, the shadow moved and an ominous growl reached them. Both men froze, then Gryss reached into his pocket and took out a small sunstone lantern. It flared into life, banishing the moonlight and turning the world into a small, night-bounded sphere.
The dog, crouching by the bodies of Garren and Katrin, blinked at the light then stood up, its hackles bristling and its upper lip drawn back to reveal its cruel teeth.
'No, no, no.’ Yakob's voice trembled as his gaze looked past the dog and at the bodies.
Gryss could hardly speak; his tongue felt dry and distended in his mouth. Part of him wanted to dash forward and lay into this stupid dog with feet and fists, but his quieter nature ached for it in its futile vigil over its erstwhile master and mistress.
Handing the lantern to Yakob, he crouched down and began to make soothing noises to the dog, calling its name and holding out his hand gently. Ironically, though the dog's diligence was keeping him from tending his friends, he was glad to have his mind occupied with a simple task. It dispelled the sense of unreality that had descended on him, just as the lantern had dispelled the ghostly moonlight.
