by Liz Williams
The entrance to the barrow lay ahead. Luna did not know why she had been so keen to come here: she had woken with it, full-blown obsession. Eyes snapping open in the morning and I’ve got to go to West Kennet, Sam. Got to. He hadn’t argued, bless him.
“All right. No worries.” Hitched up the piebalds and clopped along, arriving not long after noon. Once there, he’d left her to it: she’d taken food with her, bread and cheese like a ploughboy, and a bottle of water, and headed up the track. Now, boots clagged with slimy chalk mud, she was on the ridge itself, with the barrow looming ahead. An English Heritage placard, rather weathered, bore information about the site, but Luna didn’t bother to look at this and marched straight past. She would learn all she needed to from the barrow itself.
At the entrance, she paused. The barrow mouth was a black gash against the green and white of the down, and the rich corduroy texture of the fields. Its rim of stone – two huge slabs, with a third placed on top as a lintel – seemed organic, part of the landscape itself, rather than placed there by man, as though the land had cast the barrow up, out of itself. The dark mouth was inviting. She had not been expecting that.
Luna, being short, did not have to duck low beneath the lintel, or in the narrow tunnel beyond. She followed the passage down into the barrow, pursuing the dim light ahead. She could not tell where it was coming from. Occasionally she had to put out a hand to steady herself against the cool, rough stone, for the earth floor of the passage was bumpy and uneven. At last she stepped out into the egg-shaped final chamber and saw that someone had placed three tea-lights, burning, on a small rock ledge. Their flickering light cast puppet shadows over the walls; Luna raised her hand and made a bunny. When the barrow was dug, perhaps that ledge would have held a tallow candle, or some ritual item significant to the chieftain who had been buried here. His bones were long gone; the barrow fully excavated and its secrets revealed, or at least, those that were visible.
She left the little lights burning away and sat down, cross-legged, in the middle of the chamber. She closed her eyes, thinking back to the stuffy darkness of Ver March’s caravan, the underlying cologne and musk odour, the walls peeling back to reveal the ancient land. This did not happen now. Instead, it felt as though the walls of the barrow chamber were closing in, narrowing, but Luna, who liked small dark spaces, was not unsettled. Instead, she felt encased and enclosed, sinking down into the earth’s embrace. There was a rhythmic, muffled thump like the beat of a distant drum, or the world’s heart. She felt earth settle on her eyelids, on the backs of her hands, between her lips. It was like a blanket; it reminded her of the dry scratch of wool. Luna continued to breathe, steadily in and out, and the earth contained her.
This was all it was. She experienced no sudden vision, no revelations. She saw nothing except red-black dark and felt the increasing weight of the soil. But when at last she forced her eyes open and realised that only one small guttering light remained, she knew that something had changed within her. She did not know what it meant.
As she stood stiffly up, the light went out. Luna made her way to the mouth of the barrow in darkness, groping her way along, and when she reached the entrance she realised that twilight had fallen outside, too. A cold purple haze lay over the land, with a shine only to the west, over the cone shaped hill. She heard an owl cry out and that sound was comforting, too. She felt as though she had become part of the land, no inside or outside. But down by the hedge a square of yellow light showed that Sam had lit the lamp. She went down the chalk track towards it, under the emergent prickle of the stars.
Stella
Next morning, Stella was in the kitchen when someone knocked on the back door. She opened it, to find Laura Amberley standing on the back step.
“Hello. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if you were up. Am I very early?”
“It’s half eight. That’s just about acceptable.” Over her shoulder, she said to Laura, “I suppose you’ve been up for hours.”
“Since half five.” Laura was apologetic. Her beanpole figure followed Stella into the kitchen; she wore mud-stained jodhpurs and riding boots, a quilted sleeveless jacket with the stuffing coming out. ‘Exercising.” She brushed her fair hair back from her forehead; tendrils were coming down, like wild clematis. Her dark eyes were anxious.
“No rest for the wicked.” Stella poured tea.
“Mum said you’ve been in Ibiza.”
“Clubbing. Working. I had a series of gigs. It’s nice to be home, though.”
“Stel – I’m really sorry about your mum. I didn’t get a chance to tell you, you know I was in the States last year, and – anyway. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Stella did not know what else to say. She looked down at her mug and curled her hands around it. There was suddenly a very British silence.
“Anyway,” Stella said, to break it. “How are things with you? How’s the riding?”
“Okay. The riding’s going really well, although I pulled a tendon in my leg a few months ago.”
“Ow!”
“It could have been worse.” She gave a vague, loose-shouldered shrug. “It held things up a bit. Mum said she’d spoken to you about this apple day. She wants me to organise pony rides.”
“Yes, she did. I thought,” Stella said, “that we could have deck in the orchard, maybe. I’ve made a couple of phone calls. And if Ben’s coming down –” Good question, Stella thought. She’d spoken to Bee the night before, out of Serena’s hearing; been debriefed. But she didn’t want to quiz Laura about her brother’s relationships; it didn’t seem fair.
“He is. And Mum’s spoken to an orchestra.”
“An orchestra!”
“George Hazelgrove. She knows him through something or other.”
“God, he’s famous. Even I’ve heard of him and I don’t know much about classical music. Is she – she can’t be paying him, surely? I don’t mean you’re skint. Just that he must charge a fortune.”
“Apparently it was his idea. Proceeds to go to charity, and collecting boxes. He wants to do something based on Holst’s planets, because of the comet.”
“Outside?” Stella was thinking of autumn, dark nights, damp air, plus musical instruments.
“She’d have to have it in a marquee. You couldn’t risk it actually outdoors, because of the weather. I think she’s spoken to Tam Stare about hiring one.”
“He does that sort of thing, does he?”
“He does a lot of things.” Laura’s voice was very neutral. You don’t like him, Stella thought.
“Serena knows his sister, I gather. Dana.”
“Does she?” Still that studied neutrality.
“She says she’s a friend of yours.”
“She said that, did she?” Laura paused. “I think she’s really fake, actually.”
Stella perked up at this. Coming from Laura, who was legendary for seeing good in everyone, even the biggest local tosspots… Since she had given Stella an opening, Stella said, “Do you? Look, I’ll be up front. Bee thinks Serena thinks that Dana’s after Ben.”
Laura’s mouth turned down. “She is after Ben. Totally. Without question. Can’t think why.”
“That’s because he’s your brother. A bit famous. Very good looking.”
“No, I mean – she knows a lot of people. She’s got this knack of inserting herself into situations – you never quite know how she’s done it but suddenly she’s everywhere. Including in your house. I think they’re both after money. She and Tam. After what they can get.”
“Okay,” Stella said. “Thanks. That gives me some ammo for Serena, anyway.”
“Ben’s an idiot. I know it’s sometimes been rocky with Serena and he’s been – anyway, they’re really good together, when they’re good. And your sister has her own stuff – she’s got her career. Dana’s just a gold digger. She doesn’t really do anything, except a bit of modelling. But she’s sticky.”
“She’s –?”
“Sticky. Like when you brush aga
inst cobwebs or those strings that glue makes, and suddenly it’s everywhere? Do you have your legs waxed?”
“Sometimes. In summer.”
“It’s like that. A little patch off-piste and then it’s all over the place and it takes days to wear off. Dana sticks to people.”
She had best, Stella thought, think twice about sticking to Ben.
Bee and Nell were coming back on the 7.30 from Paddington, so would be into Hornmoon around ten, unless the train was late. It was the last train of the night from Paddington, infuriatingly early, but the alternative would be Bristol and an hour and a half drive at the end of it, plus the parking.
“I suppose,” Serena had said once, returning home for Christmas, “they think we’ve all got to get up at the crack of dawn and milk the cows.”
But now it was after four, and already dark. Stella was feeding the dogs when she heard the sound in the yard.
It was a clattering noise, like metal on stone, and if the half back door had not been open, she would not have heard it. At first she thought it was her relations, returning early, but there was no sign of the car. Nor was it Laura. Stella went out into the yard, tasting rain, but could find nothing. The dogs, accompanying her, snuffled busily about, but in a haphazard manner.
“Anyone there?” Stella called. It was all very quiet, apart from the rooks over in the chestnut trees, but she knew she had not imagined the sound. Wondering, she summoned Nelson and Hardy from their busy investigations and went back into the house.
Above the living room, the floorboards creaked. Stella froze. The Behenian stars never made a sound, and the dogs were downstairs. She could see all three cats occupying armchairs, to the detriment of anyone who might want to sit down. Stella went back into the hall and looked around. The umbrella stand stood by the rarely-used front door, full of umbrellas, few of which worked, and – result! – a golf club. No one in the family played golf, so Stella had no idea why this was here, but it was the sort of thing that found its way into umbrella stands and she was not about to look a gift club in the mouth. She pulled it out, in careful silence, like spillikins. It was a number 9 iron.
Iron. She liked the sound of that. She hefted the club in both hands and began to creep upstairs.
There was no one on the landing. Stella peered into the first bedroom, Bee’s. Jacobean oak, a moss green carpet, curtains embellished with gold Latin letters. Bee was tidy: everything was in its place.
Nell’s room, the spare bedroom, held her cousin’s big suitcase: Nell had taken a smaller bag to London. This was Alys’ old room, the one with the moonhorse, and it was rocking. Stella flattened herself against the wall and watched it. The moonhorse sometimes moved of its own accord, but this was too extreme: a wild unbalancing which soon enough slowed to a halt, not the moonhorse’s own steady unnatural gait. Stella waited until it stopped, then crept through the door.
She went through the whole of the first floor, but there was no one and nothing. Then, as she came out of her own room, she heard the creaking floorboard again and it was definitely a footstep, someone walking across the loose board in the room with the moonhorse.
Stella took a breath, raised the golf club, ran onto the landing and through the door of the spare bedroom. The horse was once more rocking from side to side. She heard a step behind her, turned, saw a figure looming over her. It was black-clad, hooded, huge. Something protruded from the sides of its head – stubby bone coloured horns. There was an overwhelming stink of blood and soil and shit. Stella flailed out with the golf club. It connected, but the figure struck out, a rock hard hand like a metal bar slamming against her arm, and threw her against the wall. The back of Stella’s head connected painfully with the plaster; she dropped the golf club. She saw myriad points of light, then something was between herself and the figure. It was a whirling mass of bees: she saw, with sudden pinpoint precision, their striped bodies, and heard them hum. She saw the figure turn and flee out of the door; footsteps pelted down the stairs. The bees, the mass of the swarm collapsing, resolved down into Dark. Across the room, the golf club was bent to form an L.
Stella and the spirit stared at each other.
“What was that?” Dark asked, at last.
“You know what? I was hoping you’d know.”
Stella had never taken a ghost to the pub before, at least, not knowingly. It wasn’t so much the thought of alcohol, although she felt that she could certainly do with a drink, as being in a place which was not empty of people. Firelight and company and booze: the perennial allure of the tavern.
With Dark, she had searched the house, feeling a great deal braver with the spirit by her side. They had found nothing, and the cats were still all peacefully asleep, the dogs excited, but not more than usual. Now that she’d seen what Dark could do, as well as his visible concern, Stella felt even more reassured by his company. He treated her with a kind of friendly gallantry: the kind of attitude you might expect from your sister’s long dead Elizabethan lover.
Why don’t we have the same sort of problems as other people? Stella had wondered this before. But she appreciated his presence. Dark was certainly attractive, but not in that dangerous subtext way that belonged to Tam Stare – to take one example. As they walked in silence down the lane to the Hornmoon Arms, with the new moon sailing above the chestnut trees, Stella undertook a brief mental review of recent partners and was not impressed by what she saw.
Patterns. Musicians, mainly. Young. Unruly hair, dark doe-eyed, skinny. They often seemed to be Celts – Irish, Glaswegian, Welsh. Although one had come from Padstow, which probably counted. Golden tongues, exciting to be with, completely unreliable. Poor Liam had been a bit softer than that, though, and look what had happened there. She’d been the unreliable one. Mentally, Stella rolled her eyes; she had not behaved as well as she’d tried to.
Girlfriends: a rather better track record there. Mel – that had been a pretty good connection, couple of years, but they both wanted to do their own thing and then Mel had gone off to Bali to do reiki. Stella pulled a face at the cliché but she wasn’t much better, was she? How about Su? At least that had made the six month mark, which was more than could be said for the fling with Katia. Going out with Katia had been like stepping into a kaleidoscopic centrifuge: dazzling until one was flung unceremoniously into the outer darkness, ears bleeding.
Perhaps, Stella thought to herself, it is time you grew the fuck up.
Next year would see her thirtieth birthday and maybe she should just stop gallivanting about all over the place, a gig here, a rave there. Waking up in someone’s tent or someone’s squat. Someone else’s bed, anyway. Regardless of recent events, Stella thought of Mooncote: enduring, of the earth, a place of sanctuary. The thoughts of the last few days, her decision to stay and help out with the apple day, her relief at having an excuse to stay put, were starting to coalesce into a sequence of firmer decisions. But she didn’t want to join the civil service or get married or bloody settle down either. She needed to decide what she wanted out of her life. She needed a breathing space, to figure things out.
“Dark,” she said. “Did you miss this place, when you sailed?”
“I always knew it was there,” Dark said. “Sometimes, yes. Dangerous days. Many times, I thought I was going to die –” he laughed. “Then of course I did. And I came back here.”
“Did you – see anything? When you died? Speak to anyone?” She had in mind the Egyptian hall of the dead, the place of going-forth-by-day. A Tibetan bardo. She knew, from Abraham, that the dead were cagey about such information. A guard placed upon the spectral tongue, perhaps. But Dark said simply, “No. I took a bullet in the heart, I think. A privateer; they boarded us.”
“Pirates!” Stella said with glee, immediately thinking of Johnny Depp, and then silently berated herself for insensitivity: they’d killed Dark, after all.
“I found the mark, later, a hole in my chest, but it’s gone now. The ball might have lodged there – it aches a little in w
et weather, still. I remember being on the ship, the salt blue air – then I was waking up here, in the orchard. It was summer. Bees were humming in the lavender; I could smell the box hedges in the knot garden. I went into the house and my mother was there standing over a butter churn. I knew something was wrong because, well, I’d been so far away and anyway I knew she was dead. But she smiled at me. “Ned!” she said. “You’ve come home.” I said that perhaps I had been dreaming and she laughed. “No,” she said. I remember the churn going up and down, up and down, and the light was all golden around her. “No,” she said, “it’s just life, that’s all. It goes on.” After that, things were different and the same.”
“Is your mother still here?”
“Sometimes. But rarely. And there are others. But you know that.”
“No mysterious fucker with horns, though.”
Dark smiled. “No. I didn’t recognise that.”
“Did you ever – fall in love with someone else? Another ghost? A human?”
“Not until now.”
“Bee,” her sister said.
“It’s hard to know what I can offer her.”
“I think,” Stella told him, “that if you are a part of the house, it will be enough.”
“And you, Stella? You are a musician, Bee says.”
“I’m – well, sort of. I’m a DJ. Do you know what that is?”
“Not really. Bee tried to explain but I do not think I quite understand.”
