by G. P. Taylor
‘And should we not get through?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes it is difficult,’ the driver said with a smile that contorted his face, as if he wanted to speak the full truth but could not. ‘You’ve seen what is happening. Since the sky-quake and the coming of the comet all kinds of beasts seem to be roaming the world. Only last week a coach was set upon by beasts with red flaming hair dressed in armour.’ The driver spoke as if he didn’t believe his own words. ‘All that was left was splinters – not one man left alive.’
‘Filling his head with stories?’ Barghast asked.
‘Only saying what went on,’ the man replied.
‘And we’ll be protected by these?’ Barghast asked, pointing to the holly sprigs and crude pictures daubed upon the carriage.
‘Best not travel without them – then we can say we did what we could.’ The driver pulled up the collar of his coat and double charged the blunderbuss. ‘Will be an interesting journey and one I will be glad to end. Billingsgate Dock an hour before eight and I’ll be done’.
‘London,’ Barghast said with anticipation in his voice. ‘Not the kindest of places.’
‘I hope to find my friends before they are found by Demurral,’ Raphah said.
‘Demurral – an old fox and twice as cunning,’ said Barghast.
‘You are wiser than I thought.’
‘We are all here for a purpose. I feel as if another hand plays us like a card. None of this has come by chance.’ Barghast stepped inside the coach. ‘You travel above?’
‘Beadle insists upon it,’ Raphah replied. ‘Said he could escape if the beast attacks again. Didn’t want to tell him he’d been sharing a table with the creature.’
‘Better to share a table than your mind. I take hope that soon the beast will be dead.’ Barghast drew close to Raphah so that no one would hear what he would say. ‘When I put Bragg to the earth, I took a handful of soil and held it to my face. I wanted to know what it would be like. You will never know how I have waited for that time.’
‘Carriage!’ screamed the coachman as he cracked the whip for the off.
The yard burst into sudden life as the gates of the inn were thrown open. Lady Tanville took her seat, followed by Ergott. He looked even sourer faced, and his lips pouted like a fat trout. Beadle clambered up the steps of the coach and onto the roof. He took his place behind the luggage and beckoned Raphah to follow as a large owl flew overhead.
‘There is one thing,’ whispered Barghast. ‘Should Ergott be transformed, he must be killed and killed quickly. I fear that he searches for your friends and that he knows who you are.’
Within the minute the coach was under way. The horses jumped and clattered, as if they knew what was to come. Around their feet the hounds barked as the mist from the vale wisped about their feet.
Raphah took his place by Beadle’s side and pulled the coat around him to keep out the approaching night. From the off, the bugler kept the blunderbuss at the ready and held a sprig of holly in his hand. As they left the inn and made their way to the road to London, all kept silent.
‘He’s near,’ Beadle said. ‘I can always tell when he is near.’
‘Demurral?’ asked Raphah, not surprised by what he heard. ‘I too can see his work in all that has happened. He will be a day behind. We can get to London, find them and be on our way. Let us pray that we are protected from what is to come.’
In the carriage, Ergott sat quietly and stared at Lady Tanville. He tried to smile and show warmth in his manner. She replied by looking coldly, staring at him with her piercing eyes. Barghast sat back in his cape and laughed to himself, quite pleasured by the entertainment of their mutual anger.
‘So how will you search for the lost children?’ he asked Ergott to distract him.
‘I am to meet someone and together we will seek them out. My dowsing rods will take me to where they are. That shall not be a problem,’ he said.
‘Then what will you do when you find them?’ Barghast said as he teased with the wolf whistle, every now and then putting it to his lips.
‘They will be returned to their rightful place and all will be well,’ Ergott said.
‘And if they should not want to go?’ Barghast asked.
‘There will be no doubt of that. I have been asked to recover many things and never have I failed in my duty.’ He stopped speaking and looked at Lady Tanville as he thought of something to say. ‘You look for something. I could find it for you – for free, gratis and with no charge.’
‘I know where to look and I know what I am looking for. I don’t need splinters to find it for me.’
‘You sound as if you are a sceptic, Lady Chilnam. Could I give you a demonstration of my abilities?’ Ergott asked as he took the pipe from his pocket and stoked it with an even stronger brew.
‘Let him entertain us while we journey,’ Barghast said, raising his eyebrow. ‘It is a long way to London and the night will soon be upon us. Continue, Mister Ergott, and I assure you we’ll both be enthralled.’
‘Very well,’ said Ergott as he sucked upon the pipe and took from his travel bag a small silver cup. ‘First of all, I take something that belongs to the one I seek and tear from it a small portion.’ Ergott took a piece of cloth from his pocket and dropped three threads within the cup. ‘Then we add some fine wine and a powder, the secret of which I am not at liberty to say.’
‘You said you weren’t a magician, Mister Ergott, and yet you act like one,’ Tanville sniffed.
‘On the contrary, Madam. This is a science and not magic,’ Ergott said as he took a small flask of wine, poured some into the cup and then sprinkled it with some white powder that looked like a pinch of salt. ‘Finally I place this lens upon the cup and concentrate my intention upon it.’
‘And what happens next?’ Barghast asked politely as Ergott took the lens from his pocket and sealed it upon the rim of the cup.
‘This!’
There was a fizzing within the cup as Ergott’s brew effervesced momentarily and then became still.
‘Look!’ he said as he held out the cup. ‘All I need to know will be shown to me.’
From within the cup, the deep red of the wine cleared instantly. It shimmered like a looking glass glazed with snow. They could all see the view of a town as if from the eye of an eagle or other bird that soared high above. Ergott held the cup in one hand and with the other took his wand and held it above.
‘Is this the town?’ he asked the cup, keeping an eye upon the movement of the wand. In turn the wand bowed to the cup touching the rim. ‘Show me more,’ Ergott said as the vision then changed to that of something looking down from the rooftop. ‘Is this the street?’ he asked. Again the wand responded and touched the rim. ‘And more,’ he said to the cup. The scene changed to that of the front door of a house. ‘Is this the house?’ he asked, and before he could even finish the question the wand had tapped the rim.
‘But how do you know which street and in which town?’ Tanville asked.
‘Simple,’ he replied. ‘I ask the wand and it will show me. Right for yes and left for no. It is just a process of elimination. I take a map of the city and hold the wand above and within the hour will have the place they are hiding.’ He unfolded a map of London and dowsed the wand across it as the carriage rolled back and forth.
They didn’t speak for the rest of that evening. Ergott sat in the candlelight dowsing the map and making notes as he went. It was as if he sat in a cloud of vapours that clung to him and made the carriage lamp dim.
Lady Tanville dozed. She thought of Isabella and how she would be returned to the castle, her portrait turned to face the wall and kept from roaming the night. In her mind she looked from her bedroom window across the gardens to the gate beyond. She tried to count the yew trees that grew in each avenue of flowers and formed peculiar boxed hedges. In her counting, sleep came to her quickly and she closed her eyes.
Barghast kept watch. He looked to Ergott and spied the map, keeping note of w
here Ergott had looked upon the page. He saw that in several places he had scored it with a cross, marking where he thought the wand had told them the children were hidden.
The carriage drove on into the night. Leaving Peveril, the road dropped from the hills and went towards the great forest. To the east was a vast lake and to the west a deep marsh. The road was straight and well metalled. Upon the mile stood a row of small houses. Beadle counted them as they went by. Each one was the same. A small chimney sat on a tiled roof, two windows and a door upon each front and a fire lit within. They were the houses of the road-makers. Built to mark the way, they gave Beadle a feeling of being safe. He snuggled contentedly in his coat, knowing he was never more than a mile from them.
By the time they had driven for five hours, the horses became weary. The road was overwhelmed by a wall of high trees that stood like ancient pillars before them. Branches reached up into the sky and rattled in the wind like sabres. It was as if they were speaking to them, telling them to turn back and go another way.
Beadle held on to Raphah’s arm, hoping to be reassured that all was well. Raphah slept soundly. The coach slowed to walking pace as the bugler called the hounds in close. The forest rustled with noises from within. Eyes stared at them from the darkness as the horses pranced nervously.
The last mile-house was now some way behind. Beadle turned back and looked at the fading glow from the window – a sign of a welcome fire now disappearing into the night. A cold draught blew against his face and rattled the branches of a nearby oak. There was a distant creak and the splitting of a limb as a branch fell unseen. The horses gained pace, not by command but by their own desire. It was as if they knew something was there, something was watching. They quickened their gait until the carriage rocked as if at sea. The hounds followed, their yelps silenced as they kept guard. They ran on, not wanting to cry out, hoping to keep step, not wanting to fall behind.
Ahead, the forest grew thicker. The road was darkened by overhanging branches that formed an impenetrable tunnel against the night sky. The coach rattled over broken stones that crunched like skulls beneath the wheels.
Beadle wrapped himself against the dark. He hated it more than anything he knew. For Beadle, the dark was full of fear, not that he knew why; it had always been the same. He would see things in the shadows; tufts of grass would become monsters, hanging branches the limbs of dead men. It was as if the creatures that inhabited the night had freedom to haunt his very soul. He couldn’t resist; he was helpless.
Hour after hour, as the coach went on, Raphah slept. Beadle peered out occasionally from his hiding place. He wanted to keep completely covered so that nothing could touch him, snatch him from the carriage and drag him away. The forest moaned and chirped. Eyes flashed from dark places, lit by the coach lamp as it went by. The driver kept on, the bugler at his side, the hounds nearby.
Beadle thought he must have fallen to sleep. In his dream he saw Demurral on his horse, cantering through the night. Not stopping, not waiting, always going on. Day and night went by. The sun rose and set. Demurral continued on.
It was the slowing of the wheels that woke him from his sleep. He could hear the squeaking of the cork against the metal rims as the carriage slowed and slowed. He pulled the coat from his face and looked out. The thick black of the forest that had covered the land like a cowl had thinned to a sparse wood.
Beadle could see the moon high above him. It lit many paths through the trees. He stood up and looked ahead. Far in the distance he could see the staging post where the horses would be changed. They would rest for a while and then be off again. The hounds began to bark and chatter, signalling a brief mark of civilisation in the realm of the forest. A spiral of smoke went up into the night air. Beadle could smell burning pine that scented the damp wood as the wind rustled the leaves from tree to tree.
‘The Green Man,’ the coachman shouted as they drew closer. He turned the horses towards a large stable built onto the side of a chalk house that glistened with old flints. ‘Half the hour and then we set pace.’ He shouted as two men came from the dwelling, torches in hand, to welcome them.
It was only in passing that Beadle noticed the black horse tethered to the door of the barn. He gave it but a fleeting thought as he noted its huge size and deep mane. He pushed Raphah in the ribs, waking him from his sleep, and together they left the carriage and followed Barghast and the others into the house.
Beadle took a piece of flint from the outer wall and unthinkingly put it into his pocket. They were all welcomed and stood by a warm fire that lit the room. Each was served by a young girl and given small beer and bread and cheese.
On the hearth wall was the head of a man carved in wood. He had a growth of beard that swept about his face and turned to oak leaves. Within the beard were birds and animals, each carved to an unbelievable likeness. Beadle stared at the face of the man whose warm eyes looked upon them all.
‘Is this the Green Man?’ he asked the girl as she filled his cup again.
‘’Tis he,’ she said as she turned and went away.
The minutes went quickly by. The fire was warm and took the chill from their bones. Outside the horses were changed and harnessed and the hounds made ready. It was Lady Tanville who first noticed that Ergott was not with their company. She looked about the room and couldn’t see him, nor could she remember him coming from the coach.
‘You look troubled,’ Beadle said.
‘Did you see Ergott?’ she replied.
‘He’s not here,’ Barghast said, and he went outside to look for Ergott.
From the side barn, he cold hear voices in conversation. He walked quietly towards them, his steps parlous and slow. Ergott stood by the barn door, his back to the night and his breath snorting in grabbed staccatos. He nodded and mumbled as Barghast attempted to hear what was being said.
Ergott stopped and turned as if he knew Barghast was there. ‘Cold night, Barghast,’ he said, and he stepped from the barn and into the light of the tallow torches that sparkled against the flint and chalk walls.
‘You alone?’ Barghast asked as he looked into the empty barn.
‘Quite. And you?’ he asked.
‘We make ready. It’s time to leave,’ Barghast said. He looked into the darkness of the barn and then walked towards the coach, expecting Ergott to follow on.
The carriage took on its guests as the bugler called the hounds and the driver made ready. There was a sense of foreboding as they all took their places. Nothing was said, but there was urgency in their ways. The driver looked towards the road and the dark forest beyond. Raphah looked down upon the yard outside the Green Man. He looked for Beadle and wondered what kept him from the journey.
The house stood like a chalk-flint chapel. Its walls glowed in the light of torches that appeared to have been placed in a circle against the approaching forest. Beadle sat by the fire in the empty room, a small mug of beer in his hands. He roasted his feet against the side of a burning log and thought of Whitby. Outside he could hear the calling of the hounds and knew in his heart he should soon stir and be on his way.
The fire reminded him of the scullery where he had lived those many years. He would sit by its hearth, drink beer and dream. He would be alone with his own thoughts, wrapped in a ragged blanket and with a plate of cheese. Snatching that most pleasant of moments when Demurral slept and the house was silent, he would be very happy. He would steal a log from his master just for the occasion. Fire made him feel that way, fire and beer. Beadle pulled the chair closer for a final warm, knowing he would soon have to stand and make ready for the off. It was like the morning, when the bed keeps you to sleeping and begs you not to welcome the world. Just another minute, he thought to himself, hearing the baying of the coach hounds.
‘Beadle … Beadle …’ whispered a voice from the shadows behind him. Beadle knew it well. It was the voice of Demurral.
For what seemed to be a lifetime, Beadle stood before the fire unable to move. He fidgeted in his
pockets, turning a piece of string in his fingers as he slowly began to twist his head to where the voice had spoken. In his heart he hoped someone would walk in and break whatever spell was over him. Outside he could hear the coachman making the final preparations.
The voice spoke again. ‘I followed you, Beadle. Told you I would never let you go. My journey is your journey – it’s you who has led me to the place. From each other we can never escape,’ it said darkly.
Beadle took courage from his beer and turned. There in the shadows was a tall hooded figure. Its face looked sallow and had the covering of a growth of grey stubble. Its eyes shone from beneath the dark hood. He knew he need not ask its name. It was Demurral.
‘Will you travel with me to the city?’ Demurral asked.
‘How did you get here?’ Beadle replied.
‘Followed you. Watched you, and the Ethio. Know you too well,’ he said slowly.
‘I travel another way now, master,’ Beadle replied, knowing in his heart he would have to run. From the yard he heard the bugler call the hounds again and Raphah shouting his name.
‘Don’t think of running – I’ll only follow you wherever you go,’ Demurral said as he reached out for him. ‘One day you’ll have to face me. I know Raphah has the Chalice of the Grail, and it’s mine, Beadle. Get the cup and you will live, betray me and you will die.’
Without thinking, Beadle threw the dregs of his beer in Demurral’s face and set off to run. He crashed into the door, fell upon the stone steps and into the mud, and scrabbled to his feet. Demurral was close behind, ordering him to stop. The horses bolted at the commotion. The lead mare reared up and then set off in flight as if she knew who was chasing her.
Raphah was thrown from his seat, slipping on the footplate behind the luggage rack and gripping on as the coach bolted forward. The hounds gave chase as Beadle ran behind as fast as he could, Demurral getting ever closer.
Deus Ex Machina
MIDNIGHT came with the chiming of a clock. It crept ino the warehouse through a broken window high in the roof. Thomas stood barefoot and listened to the first strike, which seemed to come from a street close by. He sighed desperately as he looked down at the boots he had cut from his feet. Kate had not stirred since she had attacked him. He knew not whether she slept or feared opening her eyes to the world. Since the ghost of Isabella had gone, he had picked at the lock with the knife. His fingers were now numb with cold and his hands were sore, bruised and bleeding with his desire to escape. Thomas looked at the pyx of Gaudium and then to Kate. He twisted the knife into the lock repeatedly, his hands frantic to pull the tumblers and be free before Galphus returned.
