Edges of the World: An Anthology of Otherness

by Ward,Matthew

  "Dad didn't tell you I was coming?" asked Kerren. That wasn't like him. Getting her back to Trekerris after five years away was a definite victory, a palpable hit against progress. She'd have thought he'd crow the tale to anyone who'd listen.

  "No. But then we've not seen your tas down here for a little while now. You know how he is. Loves his solitude a little bit too much, does old Davey." Tomas studied her face, wrinkles creaking into a concerned expression. "Everything alright, cheel?"

  "I don't know. I tried calling him on Thursday. He didn't answer."

  The Thursday night ritual, the only contact they'd had in five years. Half an hour on the phone, both of them talking, neither of them saying much. But then, there were so many topics to avoid. Her leaving. Mum leaving. The lighthouse. Especially the lighthouse.

  "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Monday's storm took out half the lines in the village. Probably took his down too. You know how exposed 'tis up there."

  Kerren did. She'd hardly slept as a child, what with the winds whistling about the keeper's cottage. The Sigh of the Sea, that's what her dad had called it. The voices of the drowned dead calling out for their loved ones on shore. No wonder she'd had nightmares.

  "That's what I thought, but then this arrived with the morning post."

  She fished a piece of paper from her pocket, and held it out. Tomas stared at it, then plucked it from her hand. "Kerren. Come home. I need you." Tomas frowned and turned the paper over. "Well, your old tas is a man of few words. Not like him to ask for anything. Stubborn, just like the rest of his family."

  "When did you last see him?"

  "A week back. Came into the village to stock up. Seemed cheery enough. By his standards, leastways. This isn't you back for good then?"

  Kerren shook her head. "No. Shouldn't have come at all, really. My desk's already creaking under case files. I just want to make sure he's alright. I'm going up to the lighthouse next." She gestured at the notice board. "I saw the cutting by the door. They trying to shut down the Torch again?"

  "Aye. They reckon it's obsolete. No respect for tradition. There's been a lighthouse on Trekerris Point since the time of King Arthur."

  Kerren laughed. "Don't try that one on me. I'm not a tourist. King Arthur's a myth."

  "Maybe, but the lighthouse is real. It's stood watch over some real lonely nights, and will again. There are some things that technology can't replace."

  "It'll have to do it without a Morgan, once my dad packs it in."

  Tomas shook his head. "Like I said when I put you on that train five years ago, I'm not getting involved. It's between the two of you."

  Kerren shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well… I don't suppose you've a free room?"

  "Don't fancy kipping up at the Torch? Aye, we can put you up. Tourists are few and far between at this time of year." He shot her a sly glance. "Your old room's still up there, if you want it."

  Memories flooded back. The attic room in the Highwayman's rafters. Her refuge when the wailing around the cottage grew too much, when her dad's promises of the light keeping evil spirits at bay seemed a lie. Some winters, she'd spent more time with Uncle Tomas and Aunt Nessa than her father.

  "What do I owe you?"

  "Owe me? Don't be daft. You're family, girl. It'll be nice to hear a young voice about the place. Not many of those in Trekerris these days."

  A flicker of sadness touched Tomas' expression. He'd had a daughter, once. Kerren and Jenny had never been friends, not exactly – the age difference had been too great for that – but Kerren had admired the older girl, all the same; for her confidence, for a smile that charmed anyone who saw it... but most of all for her voice, which could have lured the stars from the sky. Reverend Smallwood had been forever on at Jenny to join St Morwenna's choir. She'd always refused, preferring to sing older songs that had no place in a house of Christ. The wild songs of old Cornwall.

  One night, a month after her seventeenth birthday, Jenny had gone out walking and never come back. The police heaped their suspicions on a stranger, a man who'd fled nearby Boscastle after passing dodgy banknotes, but they'd never caught him, much less proved his guilt. Some thought Jenny had lost her way in the dark, or her footing on the treacherous cliff side around Bothack Head. Old Mab in the village reckoned she'd been taken by the spriggans, the Ladies of the Green. Then again, Old Mab blamed everything on the spriggans: unseasonal weather, sour milk, rises in Council Tax, her chosen nag falling at the first fence in the Newton Abbot steeplechase... And then there were the rumours that Jenny had simply eloped and never once looked back. Kerren didn't believe it. The Cavells were as close a family as she'd ever known. She couldn't imagine Jenny upping and leaving without a word.

  No, Jenny Cavell was long dead. Ten years now, or near enough. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  "How's Aunt Nessa?" asked Kerren, changing the subject as much for her benefit as Tomas's.

  His lips cracked into a smile. "Keeps herself busy, you know. Knows everything about everyone from here to Tintagel."

  "She about?"

  Tomas shook his head. "Likes to walk along Bothack Head when the weather's nice."

  Kerren didn't have to ask why. Even ten years on, hope had strange power. "I don't know how long I'll be around, but I'll make sure I say hello."

  "She'd like that. You're welcome to stay as long as you want. No need to make a decision now. See your tas, see how things are, take it from there. I'll help you get your bags in. In fact, hang on 'till Nessa's back, and I'll come up to the Torch with you."

  "It's okay, I'll manage."

  "Don't need anyone's help, is that it?" Tomas held up a hand to forestall Kerren's reply. "I'm not judging, just saying."

  "I didn't mean it like that. It's just... This is something I have to do alone. You understand that, don't you?"

  "No witnesses to the row, eh? At least let me help you with your bags. Last I remember, you didn't travel light."

  Kerren decided to yield with good grace. "Okay. Thanks, Uncle Tomas."

  "For nothing." He gazed sadly at her for a time, perhaps reflecting on Old Davey's good fortune to have a daughter back, if only for a bit, when he knew his would never return. "It's good to have you home."

  *******

  Half an hour later, Kerren was back in the car, heading north along the old road to Arthur's Torch. It wasn't even really a road, just a grassy track wending a corkscrew course along the headland, past the stone circle known as the Dancers, then meandering onwards to the lighthouse. It was the kind of road where you prayed you met nothing coming the other way. The towering gorse left little room for manoeuvre.

  Evening had come on, the blue sky slipping away first into violent orange, and then to a dark and brooding red. Uncle Tomas had wanted her to stay for something to eat. To Kerren's relief, he'd stopped just short of insisting. The last thing she wanted was to argue – especially as she was still halfway certain an argument awaited her at the lighthouse.

  Kerren kept the window open as she drove, savouring the sounds of the sea: the distant crash of waves, the squawks of roosting birds. The sounds of her childhood. She hadn't realised just how much she'd missed them. What she hadn't missed was the unruly gorse. Lightkeeper's Briar, they called it in the village, with beautiful blood-red flowers unique to the headland. Its thorny branches pressed close against the car, tapping and scraping, the thin reedy shrieks sounding as if the car were being torn to ribbons.

  By the time she reached the Dancers, the gorse pressed in so close as to make the road practically unnavigable. Even in the dimming light, she saw that it only grew worse ahead. Beyond the gravel lay-by – a concession for tourists wanting to visit the standing stones – the tangle encroached even further, leaving room for maybe two people to walk side by side, but nowhere near enough for a car.

  "Should have let Tomas give me a lift."

  But Kerren doubted that even the venerable Land Rover could have forced a path through that tangle. The gorse didn't merel
y press in from the sides, but from above as well, its branches stretching across the road like tangle arches, forming a thorny canopy. Admitting defeat, Kerren pulled into the lay-by, not yet ready to give up. If she couldn't walk the remaining mile up to the lighthouse, she had no business calling herself a Morgan. Five years in the city hadn't changed her that much. Besides, the postman had gotten through to Arthur's Torch – the letter in her pocket proved that.

  Kerren fished a torch from the glove compartment, and stepped out into the dying sunlight. She spared a glance at the Dancers before continuing along the road. She'd never seen them so overgrown. Gorse wended around them like climbing ivy, its red flowers sombre in the dying sunlight. She remembered Jenny spinning a tale about the circle; that if you stood in the centre of the five stones and spoke the proper words, you'd wake up in another world. You'd have needed a machete to stand in the circle now. A machete, or perhaps a chainsaw.

  If anything, Kerren made better time on foot than she had in the car. The air felt cool beneath the gorse, just crisp enough to be pleasant, without being cold. The moon was a bare sliver in the sky, but the torch beam picked out a clear path. For a time, she forgot her worries about what awaited her at the lighthouse, and lost herself in the joy of the walk.

  That joy lasted until Kerren reached the next bend, and had her first glimpse of Arthur's Torch. It stood tall and silent, a pale spire almost invisible against the night sky. The sight provoked unease, though it took Kerren a moment or two to realise why. The light was out. Why was the light out? In all the years she'd lived in Trekerris, the glow of Arthur's Torch at dusk was as reliable as the sun rising in the morning. To see it cold and dead…

  Kerren picked up her pace, her worries come crashing back. Her dad would never let the light fail. It was his calling, his purpose. It came before friends, before family. If there was no light…

  No. She wouldn't think that way. There were dozens of reasons that the light could have failed. The wiring in Arthur's Torch was older than her dad, and more patched than original. He was probably labouring to fix it at that very moment, spitting and cussing by torchlight. Kerren redoubled her pace, glancing up at the lighthouse whenever a gap in the gorse allowed, willing the light to flare into brilliant life. It never did.

  More and more, her thoughts returned to the letter. Come home. I need you. The words took on greater urgency with every step.

  Kerren was all but running by the time she reached the last bend. Five minutes more, ten at the most, and she'd be there. She glanced again in the lighthouse's direction. This time, she saw only mist billowing inland along the sunken road.

  "That's all I need."

  Sea mist was hardly unusual, especially at that time of year, but Kerren could have done without it. At least she had a more or less straight run down to the lighthouse. It wasn't like she'd get lost.

  As she walked, the mist grew thicker still. The sound of the waves had gone, deadened beyond a whisper. The world beyond the gorse was a mystery, hidden beneath the white-grey shroud. The torch was no use. The mist glowed as the beam passed over it, the light revealing nothing she couldn't already see.

  Clicking the torch off, Kerren pressed on towards the lighthouse, trusting to the line of the hedge to keep her on track. Still the mist thickened, a billowing blanket, cold and clammy on her skin. She forced herself to walk slower. One misstep on the uneven road and she'd tumble into the waiting gorse, or fetch herself a sprained ankle – things were quite bad enough without that. Besides, her dad would never let her hear the end of it.

  With vision cheated, sound took on new meaning. The scuff of her shoes along the road, the rustle of shifting branches and, above it all, her own breathing, now as loud to Kerren as a roaring wind.

  A few steps more, and Kerren's straining ears detected a new sound. Faint at first, so faint that she thought – hoped – it was her imagination at work. It wasn't singing, not exactly. There were no words; just deep, breathy notes pulsing rhythmically through the fog, a slow and mournful shanty sung so slow it began to break apart. Kerren had heard that sound before. She'd woken from it in cold sweat more times than she could recall. The song from her dreams. The Sigh of the Sea.

  It was all around her.

  "No. No. This isn't happening."

  The thud of a footfall sounded behind her. Clicking the torch back on, Kerren spun around. She saw a silhouette on the road behind, hazy and indistinct in the mist. It drew nearer.

  "Dad? Dad, is that you?"

  No reply. Kerren gripped the torch, and took a step towards the shape. Better to force a confrontation now than be glancing over her shoulder all the way up to the lighthouse. Probably Tomas, following her up here despite all his talk of respecting her wishes. Or else it could be one of the lads from the village come to play a trick. Couldn't it?

  She took another step. The mist parted, drawing back from the shape. The torch beam picked out a thick fisherman's jersey, riddled with holes and tattered at the edges. Kerren twitched the torch higher, jamming her free hand in her mouth to muffle a shriek. The face was half eaten away. What remained was blue and bloated, pocked with purple lesions. Glassy eyes, white as a fish's belly, gazed back at her.

  The corpse took another lurching step. Kerren froze in horrified disbelief, her eyes taking in other details. The barnacles encrusting its brow. The seaweed tangled in the bulging, split fingers. The gorse branches wound about its arms and legs – sometimes through its arms and legs – the red flowers stark against the waterlogged clothes and the swollen, rotting flesh.

  The sigh of the sea swelled around her, the deep, mournful notes rumbling through her bones. She wanted to run. She had to run. Her legs wouldn't cooperate.

  Around her, other silhouettes loomed through the fog. The corpse shuddered forward. The gorse twitched and clawed at the air, the branches reaching out like twisted, thorny fingers. The corpse was close now. Close enough to touch. Close enough for the sweet, choking smell of decay to wash over her.

  A gorse branch wrapped around Kerren's torch-hand. Blood welled up through the scratches, the pain breaking the spell. Crying out, she staggered back – away from the horror of the corpse, away from the clutching gorse. The mournful song grew louder in her ears, fresh voices rising to thicken the dirge. The mist shifted. Kerren glimpsed another figure behind the sightless corpse – a rough humanoid shape surrounded by a halo of writhing gorse.

  No. Not surrounded by gorse. It was the gorse, twisted into parody of a human being. The creature paused, tilting its misshapen head. Then it collapsed into a seething mass of branches, and surged forward like a striking snake.

  Choking back a cry, Kerren fled, her fears of sprained ankles forgotten in the desperate need to escape. The lighthouse. She had to get to the lighthouse. The heavy door. The thick, stone walls. She could reach them. She had to reach them.

  The song deepened as she ran. All around her, the gorse rustled furiously, as if caught in the teeth of a gale. Kerren tried to shut out the sounds, tried to ignore the rising sense of panic.

  Something tugged at her foot, and she sprawled headlong onto the road. She landed hard, scraping the skin from her left palm, the torch spinning from her grip away into the fog. Twisting upright, she looked back the way she'd come, expecting to see gorse branches wound about her foot.

  Nothing. Just a grassy tussock. She almost laughed with the mundanity of it. Then she scrambled to her feet, and ran.

  At every step, Kerren expected to feel branches clutching at her shoulders, or to see a rotting body stumble onto the path ahead. She tried not to think about what any of it meant. For her dad. For Trekerris.

  She thought of Jenny Cavell, missing these ten years. Was this what had happened to her, one lonely night? Was she to share Jenny's fate? Kerren drove the thoughts from her mind, and concentrated instead on where she placed her feet.

  One step at a time.

  Just keep moving.

  At last, she caught her first glimpse of Arthur's
Torch since the mists had come down. Kerren took the iron fence at a dead run, grabbing the uppermost rail and vaulting over the gate like she'd done so many times as a child. The pale lime-washed flank of the lighthouse towered above her, dark and silent, but no less reassuring for all that. Safe. She was almost safe.

  A moment later, Kerren stood at the front door, breaths shuddering in her lungs. She fumbled in her pockets for her keys, hoping like mad that her dad hadn't changed the locks in the years she'd been gone. The key turned. The door creaked open. Kerren ducked inside. A mass of writhing gorse surged over the garden gate. With a yelp, Kerren slammed the door closed, and threw every bolt she could find.

  The door shuddered. Kerren fumbled for the light switch. A bulb glowed into dim life above her head. It wasn't much, serving to shape the shadows rather than banish them, but better than nothing. The door shook again. Chunks of plaster tumbled from the wall, smashing at Kerren's feet. Branches forced their way through the cracks around the frame. Thorns scrabbled for purchase on the inside of the walls.

  With a screech of tortured wood, the door flew backwards into the mist-laden night. The gorse-creature was a flailing silhouette, framed in the ragged space left behind. The sonorous notes of the sea-born dirge, no longer muffled by the door's timbers, echoed around the hallway.

  Kerren ran for the spiral stairs, the animal part of her desperate to find higher ground. "Dad?" she shouted, her voice raw in her throat. "It's Kerren. You up there? Dad!?"

  No answer.

  She took the stone steps two at a time, ignoring the doors passing away to her right. Behind her, the scrape of thorn on stone grew louder. The gorse-creature was close behind.

  At last, Kerren reached the ladder. Willing her limbs to a last spark of effort, she hauled herself up through the heavy wooden trapdoor and onto the lamp room's polished floorboards. She slammed the trapdoor closed, shutting out the sound of the gorse-creature's threshing. Stumbling away, she cast around for something – anything – she could use as a weapon.