Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  They entered the hamlet through a rusted gate, its locking pole dragging along the cobbled ground in a jarring screech. It lodged, finally, between the mud separating the stone slabs. Too rusted to lift, the pair attempted to squeeze through the gap.

  Hans passed between the metal and wooden post with little effort. ’I’m stuck,’ Max said in a pant virtually matching his panic at the banshee commotion.

  ‘Try to let some of the hot air out.’ Hans smirked and quickly snapped a look to see if there was anyone worthily of embarrassment from the ridiculous situation. After a few sharp tugs, Max got through the gate. Both men straightened their attire, shared a silence and coughed.

  It was a small hamlet, settled on a raised mound. As they walked, Hans took note of the filtration system irrigating rainwater from the village centre down to the forest. ‘Explains those weeds being as big as the trees.’ Hans removed his goggles from his backpack and without applying the full head strap, he placed one of the eyeholes over his spectacles and adjusted the zooming ring to follow the flow of the water.

  ‘What does?’ Max fumbled at his own pair to take a look.

  ‘See the gullies running down from the houses on the edge of the forest?’

  ‘No, oh, just a second, yes, yes of course, how clever.’

  ‘Yes...’ Hans said suspiciously, ‘frightfully so, isn’t it? The bogs circling us must make it difficult for the forests nasties to come in the night hunting for humans. I’ll go as far to say this location was picked by the settlers on purpose.’

  ‘You think a bog would stop one of those Banshees?’

  ‘No, perhaps not, but it would slow the bugger down.’

  ‘It’s so strange, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no guards, no law enforcement anywhere in these villages outside of the city.’

  Hans put away his goggles. ‘They take care of their own, each villager is a guard for the village.’

  ‘What if someone disobeys, or commits a crime?’

  ‘They’re punished,’ Hans said. ‘It’s all about community out here, old boy, they share everything, the food they grow, the jobs – everyone chips in.’

  ‘So, it’s the mob in charge?’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’ said Hans.

  The few scattered houses for residents collected randomly around the hamlets hump. It contained a sand bricked well housing a water pump gleaming with a suggested level of pride. Hans removed his boots. ‘Be so kind as to hand me the rag you’ve got hanging from your backpack?’

  Max threw it over. ‘Any longer in the forest and I’d have lost my marbles.’

  Hans cleaned the mud from his boots. ‘Curious a herbalist such as yourself, Maximus, doesn’t enjoy the tranquillity of a forests.’ Before throwing back the rag Hans flipped it over and gave the water pump a shine. ‘Funny.’

  ‘What?’ Max asked, his expression wary, clearly wondering what insult or suspicion of his choice in craft was coming next.

  ‘It’s bronze.’ Hans continued to shine the tap until the top reflected both of their warped bodies.

  ‘Why? Most taps are.’ Max threw a pair of his soiled underwear into the dirty water.

  Hans peered in, watching his colleague’s thick hands kneading the white cotton briefs in the murky water. He wanted to comment, to say something of the domestic lunacy taking place before him, but instead he opted to distract himself. ‘Look around you, Max, these houses look like they’ve been put together overnight.’ Hans shivered at both his thought and what he was ignoring.

  The houses around them looked designed by distinctive builders using differing materials. No one house was the same apart from their size, all doors were closed, shutters across windows, and the muddy streets were empty.

  Max studied them while giving his glasses a rinse in the cloudy water.

  ‘You seem a lot less panicked,’ said Hans. ‘The morning light managed to calm those nerves?’

  Max placed his glasses back on his nose and wrung out the briefs, rolled them up and bashed them on the side of the trough.

  ‘It’s just nice to be in a place where I know folks dwell, for a change.’

  ‘Rather than bloodthirsty beasts, you mean?’

  Max looked back toward the forest. ‘I can’t lie, inspector, I’ve seen my fair share of dark forests and their bleeding cherry trees.’

  Hans tutted and looked at his watch; the dial read half past eight. ‘Yes, me too, old boy.’

  ‘So where is everyone?’ Max asked. ‘Chickens? Usually, you expect to see chickens waddling around getting chased by children.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re all at Mass?’ Hans pulled the lever, releasing the dirty water to the well below. ‘See a church anywhere, old boy?’

  Birds squawked from the circling trees, accompanied by a breeze rustling the branches.

  ‘Do you think the witch has them?’

  Hans let out a sigh, purposefully prolonging it to delay answering the herbalist’s question. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but the product of a controlled education. Hans had never understood the importance of his upbringing until he joined the King’s Academy. The sheltered lives of servitude he’d discovered, many trained in the dogmatic faith of talking snakes and preaching contradictions, he used to wonder if they all pretended. On his first assignment to the Lowers, he discovered for himself the real reason they all prayed, and nobody fabricated their desire for a better lot in life. Preachers walked the streets; polished shoes traversed muddy puddles, their clothing tightly woven, a crust above the Sootrail-stained rags gathered around to listen to their fearful words about witches eating children. The priests with the collecting tins, going door to door peddling their Penny for a Sin Tax. Not one Lower robbed them of those tins.

  At the top of the village hump was as an ash filled pile. Hans got closer. ‘Good heavens,’ he said, ‘they’ve been burning books.’

  ‘What?’ said the herbalist.

  ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’ Hans fingered the pages of one half burnt.

  ‘No, not the Vulgate? Seriously?’ said Max, startled.

  ‘And the Mother’s guide.’

  ‘Blasphemy.’ Maximus attempted to find any still intact, and opened his bag.

  ‘Pointless Max darling, just leave–’ Hans stopped. He had noticed smoke coming from one of the distant houses. One door, one window, a thatched roof with patchy charcoal smoke drifting from the chimney. Behind was a large corn field, only the corn had deformed and browned.

  ‘Oh great.’ Max said, with a sigh of relief. ‘There’s life in this village after all.’

  Hans grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘Not so fast old boy, we should be cautious–’

  ‘–of someone keeping themselves warm, making a pot of tea?’ Max replied with a quizzical look spread across his naïve chops.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ Hans said while placing a firm hand on Max’s solar plexus. ‘Consider for a moment in your detective mind, how quiet the rest of this village is, at such an hour, and the house, look at it.’

  He looked at it.

  ‘The field, look at it.’

  He did. ‘The crops dead.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Hans carried on walking slowly and Maximus matched the inspectors pace.

  Removing his goggles, Hans placed them over his head and adjusted the magnification. The door was slightly ajar; dirty window panes reflected little of the November light, and one of the shutters had come away from its hinges; the wind knocked it back in its framework like a drunk attempting re-entry.

  The scent of marshmallows had returned. ‘Ready yourself, Max.’ Hans unsheathed his knife.

  ‘Hans, it’s the witch, isn’t it?’ Distracted by something on the ground, Max bent down.

  ‘What is it?’

  Max got up and handed Hans a cherry stem. Both men traced the path in front of the them to the house and saw dozens of the stems, scattered along the path, all leading to the house.

>   Hans gripped his nervous companions arm. ‘I’m going to let you in on a little secret Max. There aren’t any witches. There never have been and there never will be.’

  ‘Why have you got your knife out?’

  The fool had a point. Hans felt like saying touché but thought better for it.

  Getting to the house, a sickly scent appear, matching the fungi. Hans reached in for their masks and handed Max his. The door had been painted blue a long time ago, several chipping patches of paint remained. Hans gripped his knife and slowly pushed the door open.

  The room was dark with specks of the orange fungi covering scattered wooden furniture, a large armchair and more cherry stems. Next to Hans he noticed a family portrait. The orange fungi had attached itself, looking as though finger marks left it. Hans pulled out a tube from his pocket, careful to extract some from the tip of his knife. Father, mother and a little girl, below them a bookcase, the leather bindings on all of the books had been torn off, lots of empty spaces filled with dirt and to the right a stove riddled with rust, it hadn’t been used in years. On a floral wallpaper next to the door were drawn a number of symbols, some were made with charcoal, too dark to see with thick lines but one had been drawn with the orange fungi, it was a pyramid with an eye at the centre. Hans shivered at it, wondered if he’d seen it somewhere before. As he tried to recollect the memory a voice came from in front of the large armchair, whispering.

  Hans crept closer, aware of the sounds of his own body, he struggled to calm them together with his nerves. He peered over the chair’s high back and although gripping his knife he checked to make sure it hadn’t vanished.

  Sat on the floor, in front of a burning fire was a ginger haired little girl, the same girl from the forest, Hans realised. As he approached, he heard the girls whisper,

  ‘Sic enim dilexit Deus mundum ut Filium suum unigenitum daret ut omnis qui credit in eum non pereat sed habeat vitam aeternam...’

  It was a sweet voice, an evidently rustic voice, uneducated, speaking the Mother’s tongue with remarkable precision.

  ‘Hello there, young lady.’ He approached cautiously.

  The girl looked up at him, her face dirty with some of the orange dust.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Hans asked in a gentle tone.

  The girl didn’t answer. He removed his handkerchief and hesitated to wipe her cheeks. She moved away from him.

  ‘It’s ok,’ Hans said in his most calming voice to date, ‘we’re here to help you.’

  Inside Hans’ pocket was his tracker, ready to emit their signal to any nearby Royal Airships. Hans fingered it. The little girl got to her feet. Behind Hans, cumbersome footsteps slapped their way into the house, accompanied by heavy breathing, and the girl’s expression changed; her eyes focused on the doorway behind him and on the fire place was a shadow of a man holding a gun.

  Hans flipped to face him. ‘Hey!’ Hans shouted, ‘my pistol, well, at least you found it.’

  Max pointed the gun at Hans, aiming square between the inspectors eyes. ‘Give her to me,’ he said, in a cleaner, crisper voice, ‘and I promise there will be no bloodshed.’

  ‘Now, Max, old boy, don’t do anything stupid.’ Hans moved the little girl behind him, out of the sights of Max’s gun and pressed the tracker button in his pocket, in the sequence, Dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dash, dash, dot. Worry washed over him, hoping he hadn’t just ordered a dozen fresh fish, rather than a quick getaway.

  Hans placed his knife on the ground, and tucked the girl further behind him. Raising both hands, he pleaded, ‘Max, listen, if it is your real name, and listen well. She’s no more a witch than I’m a flying trapeze artist. Her parents and everyone else in this village have been murdered.’

  ‘Yeah, by her and some evil curse.’

  ‘No, Max, curses don’t exist. What they taught you in conditioning is nonsense, my friend. Look at her; she’s just a little girl.’

  ‘I never attended conditioning, trust me Hans, she’s a witch, you saw what happened back at the cherry tree.’

  ‘Max, put down my gun before I put you down.’

  It was just as Hans had feared, the fool’s foolishness had turned dangerous. ‘I knew your acting was too good to be true, Max, let me guess, Vatican City? Did Mother send you to spy on me?’

  ‘Does it matter, traitor?’

  ‘Traitor? I don’t think I’ve ever been bestowed such a roguish title. You flatter me, old boy. Come on, let’s go outside, if you’re going to attempt to execute me, you’d best do so in the sunlight. I’ve seen your shooting, you’ll need all the help you can get.’

  Hans shuffled out of the house with the girl behind him, looking up to the empty sky, wishing they’d hurry up and ignore his particulars for once.

  ‘Hand her over, brotherhood scum!’ Max ordered.

  ‘An awfully good threat, how your tone has changed, I’m impressed old boy, and I do hope, for your sake, you’re far tougher than the blundering buffoon you’ve been pretending to be these last few weeks. If not, perhaps you should ask yourself if you’re sure you want to keep custody of a witch and member of the deadly brotherhood? Who knows what curses we might bequeath upon you.’

  ‘Well it’s a good job I brought two gags then isn’t it.’ Max tossed them over at Hans’ feet. ‘Put hers on, then hand the little girly over to me.’

  ‘Why don’t you...’

  Above them, the airship Kestrel Star ripped out of the clouds, hurtling toward the village. A rope ladder sprung down from the ship’s hull, running along the floor toward them. Hans grabbed the girl and jumped around the side of the house, missing the gunshot fired from Max.

  No gun or knife. A rock, by his feet – he threw it at him. It missed, and Max dived behind a gate to another house. The ladder drew closer as Hans peeled back his coat to reveal his airmen harness. He attached the locking latch to the girl. ‘Hold on.’ Another bullet whizzed past them, burrowed deep in a stack of hay.

  ‘Come out, Hans; there’s no use in running, I’ll inform the rest of the guard of your treachery.’

  Hans leapt out, grabbed the rope, and his hat flew off his head. Max fired off another shot, it missed by an inch as the airship rose up above the trees. Hans’ boots kicked the treetops as the ladder retracted up to the ship. The little girl hung on tightly to her rescuer, Hans climbed the rest of the ladder.

  On the deck, he brushed off his jacket and unbound his harness. ‘Mr Crawford, turnabout. You need to kill him, or he’ll blow my cover. How many bombs do you have?’

  The ship’s captain at the helm nodded back at Hans. ‘We only have three.’

  ‘It’s enough.’

  The Kestrel Star arched backwards and twisted to face the village, starting its bombing run. It approached and unleashed all three bombs, and as they fell to the earth the little girl broke away from Hans and looked over the side of the ship.

  The first bomb hit a house; the second hit the village stables, and the third – she looked away clearly having seen enough. The village was engulfed in fire as the Kestrel Star returned to the clouds.

  The navigator in the crow’s nest peered through his sextant. ‘Where to, Captain?’

  ‘Due west, Mr Walsh, back to the city.’

  ‘The city?’ Hans cried. ‘We can’t go back there; I need to take this girl to Gateshead, drop her off with the others.’

  The captain looked down from the raised platform at Hans from behind his helm wheel. ‘Others? We are the others, Hans.’

  ‘But what about the Nightingales?’ said Hans. ‘Aren’t they out here, in the moorland?’

  ‘You think the Nightingales want to be found? I’m sorry, Hans, we’re under orders, coming out here to help you has already cost us enough suspicion as it is. I have to take you back.’

  ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’ The captain smiled.

  Typical, Hans thought. ‘Fine, she stays with me.’

  The littl
e girl sat on the deck, her knees to her chest.

  Hans looked over to the only female crewmember. ‘Catharine?’

  She tied off a rope. ‘What?’

  ‘My dear, would you be so thoughtful as to give this little one a fix up suitable for the city for me?’

  Catharine spat over the deck. ‘What do you think, we female plonks side-line as nannies?’

  A few of the other crewmembers laughed.

  Hans smiled.

  ‘Clean her yourself.’ Catharine returned the grin with a gum filled smile. ‘There’s a trough on the lower deck.’

  ‘Catharine.’ The captain pointed his finger at the girl.

  ‘Fine, I’ll take her,’ Catharine said.

  ‘My chambers, if you will.’ The captain nodded at Hans, he nodded back.

  Catharine saluted, took the girl and obeyed her orders.

  Hans produced a box of Kentish Black cigarettes. Empty; he threw it over the side.

  ‘Hans, here.’ The captain flung him his own. They weren’t Hans’ brand, Pulstar 500’s, but good enough, at least for now.

  He let out the smoke; accompanied by the anxiety he felt coursing through his veins. Another cloud of smoke accompanied his.

  ‘You care to tell me who we just canned with five hundred pounds worth of barrel bombs?’ The captain placed the cigarette box back in his top pocket and took another draw.

  ‘Some herbalist,’ Hans said, ‘and not a good one.’

  The captain’s eyes widened as they tracked a passing cloud.

  ‘Another one of Mother’s, with a head full of crap,’ Hans said.

  ‘I see. And what does Mother do with these so-called witches?’

  Hans took a final drag from his harsh Pulsar and flicked it over the side of the ship. ‘Trust me, Charles, you don’t want to know.

  CHAPTER 4

  Francis Barknuckle found what he’d been searching for. He remembered seeing them scattered across the moorland plains back when he helmed the Holloway. Large rocks, fabled weapons from the giants who once used the vast open space as a gladiator arena. Their blood-stained surfaces were poisonous to any creature curious enough to lick their surface; but what animal goes about licking red rocks? He hated them – not rocks, he loved rocks, especially this one with its rounded top to protect him when buried in his camp. It was the moorland beasts he disliked, not in a hateful way – many of them barbequed with salted seasoning tasted lovely – but in a way you’d look down upon a weak crew member who refused to climb the ropes because it was colder the closer you got to the edge of the troposphere.