A Different Kingdom

by Paul Kearney

  'Did you get it?' Michael squeaked.

  'It got away,' Mullan said, tapping the shotgun. 'But I frightened the living shit out of it, that's for sure. It was just a stray, Mike. Go back to bed.'

  He did, but he locked the skull in the bottom of his wardrobe first, listening to the men pottering in the yard, checking on the horses. He hoped none of them would venture far from the farm before dawn. It was Michael's monster, but if they could see it then perhaps it could ... Perhaps it was real for them, after all. A werewolf wandering the fields. He dosed his window tightly and drew his curtains against the blue night, longing for sunrise.

  IT WAS NO use, of course, him trying to tell his grandparents that it had not been a dog in the yard that night. He made an attempt, but found that halfway through his description of the creature he had seen—clearer than any of them, too— his grandfather began smiling indulgently whilst exasperation glittered over his grandmother's face, and so he ground to an ignominious and stumbling halt. He left, hearing his grandmother from outside: 'That boy's imagination... spends too much time alone... needs someone his own age.'

  He spent the day at school, thinking of wolves, of the Horseman he had seen twice, of Rose ... of the girl in the wood who had shown him the way home.

  The year continued to turn at its usual rate despite the weird events that shaped it. His astronomical growth rate slowed a little. He began to fill out, became less of a scarecrow. His grandfather looked at him appraisingly one evening as his wife was fitting some of Sean's old clothes on him, and told him with a twinkle in his eye that wherever he was going, he was going in a hurry.

  For a while the happenings that Michael had come to think of as belonging to the Other Place became less frequent, and his life drifted back towards normality. Occasionally, though, he would see a dark figure at the edge of the woods in. the evenings, sometimes mounted, sometimes afoot. He never dared approach, and so could not be sure who it was. And he would feel watched, sometimes, when in the woods alone, as though there was a face to be seen behind him if he could only spin around quickly enough. He gradually grew accustomed to the idea that he was seldom truly alone when near the river or in the trees, or near the bridge. Sometimes he wondered if it were Rose's ghost that was haunting him, but he thought the sensation too strong for that. And he did not believe her ghost would snap twigs or giggle as it watched him, as this presence did. He thought again of the willowy, dark girl who had saved him from the wolves.

  An. armistice of sorts was wordlessly signed between himself and Aunt Rachel. Rose's name was never mentioned again in the house. It was as though she had never existed. Her room was cleared out, her things boxed away in the attic, her clothes given to the St Vincent de Paul. She became a taboo subject. The closet skeleton.

  SUMMER CAME AGAIN, and through some shenanigan or other Pat managed to wangle a massive, glinting horsebox for a day, a monstrosity of a thing which awed the entire family and came complete with a greasy, fag-smoking, flat-capped driver called Aloysius, or Ally to his friends. And we are all friends here, he assured them with a nod and a wink and a leer at Rachel which made her glare at him and heft a Thermos flask thoughtfully. The family piled on board along with Felix, Pluto—the other carthorse, thick-limbed and amiable—and, the chestnut mare, which had been nominally christened Trigger but was mostly called Fancy. Then they were off for the coast, to the long sands for a picnic and a damned good gallop as Pat said, until his wife nudged him for swearing in front of the child.

  They rattled along like a lost component from some circus, the old Bedford as noisy as a rocket and leaving about as much smoke behind. Felix and Pluto clamped and stomped and blew down their noses nervously, but Fancy seemed to take it in her stride. She put her nose to one of the side slats and sucked the rushing air in through flared nostrils.

  In Rasharkin they picked up a foursome of cousins or great-uncles and aunts or something. Michael was not sure. He did know that he was forced to leave his seat in the tack compartment of the vehicle and take up a cramped position in the space at Felix's broad rear to make room for them all, the great dinnerplate hooves clumping and shifting in front of him.

  The rear ramp was lowered and the wooden gates hauled open half an hour later. He found himself joined by a brace of children his own age (and half his size, which was usual these days), and surmised that they had picked up another gaggle of distant relatives at their last stop. It never failed to amaze him when he saw people he had never seen before (or hadn't for years, which was much the same thing at his age) greet his grandparents with grins and smiles, hugs and claps on the back, and find that they were brothers or sisters. That they had grown up in the very place he called his home, moved away long years in the past and separated themselves by insuperable distances of forty miles or more.

  Mullan pushed into the stall rear that Michael and the silent children occupied. (They were staring at him shyly, their best clothes already hayseeded and beshitted. Both girls, to be ignored.) The old man's Peterson was dangling unlit in his mouth. He braced himself against the lurch and swing of the farting lorry by pushing against Pluto's massive behind. He looked disgruntled.

  'World and his bloody wife is climbing on to this thing. We'll not make Portrush with this load Mike, you mark my words.' But they did.

  There was a collective sigh at the front and the sunlight slanting and shifting into the horse-smelling rear brought with it a distant rush and hiss, a smell of salt, a tang in the air that galvanized the dancing dust in the sunbeams. The two girls suddenly began bouncing up and down with their ringlets hopping on their shoulders. 'The sea! The sea!' they chorused. Michael glared at them with distaste and the horses shifted restlessly, snuffling at the unfamiliar odour.

  'Have a look, Mike,' Mullan said, and a horny hand helped him off the cramped and perilous floor to peer out one of the side slats.

  They were driving down the flank of a hill, the road cutting into it and opening out on Michael's side to a steep slope of marram grass and pale sand. Other, smaller sandhills tumbled and crept

  to a white—as dazzling as sun on water—stripe of beach that was fringed with the breakers of the Atlantic, beyond which was the deep, vast blueness of the sea itself. Gulls called overhead and the salt tang filled Michael's lungs. Behind him, the horsebox was a clamour of voices. He stuck his nose farther out the narrow gap, drinking in the air, listening to the sound of the foam hitting the beach, and laughed aloud.

  The lorry made hard going of the sand until they off-loaded the horses, Felix throwing his head up like a colt, and put their shoulders to its rear. Even then they would have had a time of it if Mullan, reeking of smugness, had not thrown a line round Felix and Pluto's shoulders and got the big animals to haul the machine out of the ruts its tyres had carved for itself. There was much laughter at that, though Sean seemed not to know whether to laugh or scowl. He settled for shaking his head ruefully, and the lorry chugged on without further event, though the driver was prudent enough to make everyone disembark before continuing along the beach, and they trudged in its wake with the two ringleted girls on Felix's broad back, looking a little like the retreat from Moscow.

  There were others on the sands, car windscreens glinting like beetle wings in the bright sunshine, tartan rugs sprawled with red-faced, lotion-slimy people, Thermos flasks dotting their picnics like blunt-nosed artillery shells and their children digging happily, rearing up ephemeral castles. Kingdoms in the sand.

  The Fays came to a straggling halt the lee of a slab-sided dune, and then began the battle to organize what was in effect a campsite. Agnes, Michael's grandmother, started to take charge, she and her sisters and their children unloading hampers and rugs and balls and buckets and spades and bathing costumes and windbreaks. Whilst Pat and the male members of the family (Michael included among them, not one of the children, he noted with immense pride) rubbed the horses down, for the ride had sweated them up. The mare in particular was white-eyed and prancing. There were to
o many people about, Mullan complained. She needed a bit of peace. He led her off the side of a dune. Pipes were lit, matches fighting the sea breeze. Pat took off his boots and rolled up his trousers. The giggling girls hid naked behind towels as their mother slid swimming costumes up their thin legs. Michael leant on Felix's rump and stared out to sea. It was a long way from the trees and the smell of leaf mould, the river and the looming bridge. It was clear out here, open and empty, a place to lose cobwebs. Rose had always loved the seaside.

  Mullan brought the chestnut back and saddled her up, looking at Michael enquiringly. Michael nodded, bridled Felix and then hauled himself on the great back, kicking him forward. The pair of them sauntered through the sand, Felix's huge hooves throwing it aside in sweeps, Fancy stepping through it as though she were wearing a frock she refused to muddy. Mullan's Peterson lurched up and down in his mouth, scattering ash to the breeze. Children stared and pointed, parents peered from underneath shading hands. Michael and Mullan ignored them loftily.

  Mullan had a struggle with the chestnut mare at first, for she was fresh and the sea wild seemed to intoxicate her. She pranced and danced and pirouetted whilst Mullan cursed atop her and Michael grinned from Felix's back. After a time, though, she settled and picked her away alongside the carthorse amiably enough.

  'Speed and to spare in this little bugger,' Mullan grunted, the sweat inching down below his cap. 'Needs a firm hand.' He spat copiously and the breeze shunted it away. They rode in silence for a few moments, the horsebox already the better part of a mile behind them.

  'Mike, remember that dog I shot at a while back— the one that was prowling in the yard?'

  'What about it?'

  'Hell of a thing that was ... Steady, lass, steady.'

  'Why?' Michael asked, though he knew.

  'It was damned big, for one thing. Big as a bloody calf. Like a St Bernard or a wolfhound or something. And I could have sworn I had the barrel lined straight up with it when I let rip.'

  'From the hip,' Michael said off-handedly, though he thought his ears would visibly prick up if he paid any closer attention to what the old man was saying.

  'From the hip, aye. But it was a matter of a few yards. I could have sworn I hit it straight on. It should have been blown to bits.'

  'Would have been a hell of a mess,' Michael said.

  'Mmm.' Mullan seemed lost in thought. 'Exactly. I'd have thought the spray would have got him with at' least a few pellets, but not a drop of blood was there. As if they had gone straight through the bastard ... Mike, you asked me a long time ago about dogs hanging round the sheep or in the woods. Have you been seeing anything out of the ordinary then?'

  Michael almost laughed. Where should I begin? he wondered.

  But no. It had gone too far for that. Once upon a time he might have told Mullan, but it was too late now. Rose was mixed up in this thing, he was sure, and he did not want to bring her name into anything, even though it would be easier with Mullan, he being a Protestant and not related. Strange, that.

  'Nothing,' he said shortly.

  'What about that skull you dug up? Your grandmother said it was a huge great thing."

  'It was just a dog's skull. Probably one-of the old farm dogs that are buried down by the river.' He felt a chill rake his backbone as he wondered if what he was saying was close to the truth.

  'I see.' Mullan seemed put out. He bared his teeth for a second around the stem of his pipe.

  'I only ask, see, because it's been on my mind again lately. There's something in the woods is scaring the sheep. They keep to the southern edge of the bottom meadow and they've chewed the grass down to the roots. There's good grazing yet on the side of the field that borders on to the trees but they won't go near it. Your grandfather can't understand it. Him and me is thinking of waiting in the woods a few nights to see if we can't bag whatever is wandering about in there.'

  'No, you can't.' The words were out before Michael could stop them.

  'Why, Mike? You tell me why. You know something about this, it's plain.'

  'I don't. I don't know anything. Wouldn't setting traps be better than sitting there all night?'

  'You've a point there,' Mullan said. 'Need bloody big traps if we're to catch the dog that was in the yard that night. If it was a dog.'

  Michael looked at him sharply, but the old man's eyes were narrowed, his thoughts elsewhere.

  They reached a long, shining stretch of empty sand and there Mullan's pipe disappeared into a pocket. He kicked his mount in the ribs and shouted wordlessly. Immediately Fancy took off like a chestnut rocket, throwing up scuds of sand behind her. The old man bent low over her neck and hallooed back at Michael, who was bumping up and down on Felix as the carthorse lumbered into a trot, then a rolling canter, his back tilting like a ship in a heavy sea. The air whistled past Michael's ears as Felix picked up speed, an equine juggernaut that sprayed sand. He guided the horse over to the firmer footing nearer the sea, and there was water splashing under Felix's hoofs. Ahead Fancy was hock deep, a seahorse, neighing shrilly, Mullan yelling like a boy. The water exploded around them in a deep furrow as they galloped, ploughing the waves.

  THEY RODE OUT of the river in a thrash of spray, the chestnut labouring up the steep bank. The land levelled off then fell to a long slope of hazy forest that stretched for miles into the afternoon sun. Immediately before them was a glade, barely a hundred yards wide, woodsmoke rising blue from thatched buildings shrouded in trees. A bell tolled in the quiet and dun-robed figures paused to watch the newcomers.

  Michael slipped off the exhausted horse leaving Cat clinging to the saddle, yawning. Around him Ringbone and his men were sidling out of the river dip as silently as voles, the jet eyes of the fox masks catching the sun. They fingered their spear-throwers nervously, eyes wide and white in the paint and filth of their faces.

  Ringbone set a hand on Michael's shoulder and looked at him, questioningly, asking in the forest patois if this place was safe.

  His three companions hung back, murmuring. A Christian bell and men in robes. This was a Brothers' retreat all right.

  Michael nodded and made encouraging gestures. It was maddening the way the language was leaving him the nearer the edge of the wood came. Ringbone felt the frustration, too. They had shared so many things together and now could no longer speak the same tongue, but must mime like lunatics. It was Cat who, exasperated, spoke quickly to the fox men in their own language. Michael glared at her. 'What did you tell them?'

  'That they can camp near the river, at the wood's edge if they choose, and be eaten by the wolves or they can seek the sanctuary of holy ground along with us.'

  Michael grunted. The fox men looked sullen, Ringbone touching his ivory neck charm uncertainly,

  'I'm damned if I'll sleep under a tree tonight, anyway,' Cat said, and kicked the mare forward to where a trio of long-skirted figures was approaching. Old men, bald-pated.and full-bearded, the sunlight behind them throwing their faces into shadow. Crosses made of unsquared twigs swung from their waists. Michael stared at her. She hated the Brothers, always had. Even Nennian she had distrusted, but she was willing enough to partake of their hospitality now that the Forest-Folk had shunned her. She made him feel oddly ashamed.

  'Pax vobiscum.'

  The fox men backed away at the sound of the secret language, the Church tongue of magicians. Michael shrugged and joined Cat.

  'Et cum spiritu tuo,' he mumbled. A priest had taught him that in the depths of the Wolfweald a long time ago. It fell off his tongue like a flint, but the Brothers smiled as one, faces crinkling.

  'A Christian couple—in odd company, it is true. And you have travelled far. Enter the Retreat ad be refreshed.'

  Michael looked back but Ringbone and his men had disappeared in a twinkling. Must be back in the trees. Damn fools. And yet he could not blame them. The Brothers and their Knights had been responsible for much of the violence in the wood. For a moment he thought of returning to the depths of the trees.
Ringbone was his friend, after all. But it was himself and Cat the beasts were after. To return would be folly. He cursed under his breath, and hoped the proximity of the Retreat would keep the night's evil from them. Then he sighed and knelt before the tallest of the Brothers of the Wood, the one who had spoken, and felt a leaf-light hand on his head. A blessing.

  'In nomine Patri... '

  They would have peace tonight, at any rate.

  The community was a mere circle of thatched huts huddled against the loom of the surrounding forest. The chapel was the only substantial building, logwalled and chinked with clay. The others were a sprinkle of wattle and daub and turf with birch bark and sod roofs. There was the pungence of a herb garden, orderly rows of cabbages and an orchard with bee skeps silenced by the season. Michael was sure he could scent the strong whiff of fermentation. Cider it would be, cloudy and potent. There was no wine to be had. The blood of Christ would come from the juice and pulp of apples, His body from barley bannock.

  'We eat no meat here,' one of them had said. But it was good to tuck into fresh vegetables and fruit, bread that could be torn between the hands, butter and buttermilk. They must have a stretch of pasture here somewhere, off in the trees. No need to fear the wolves with the chapel rearing its blunt tower above the wood, the crucifix hovering over every corner. For a moment Michael envied the Brothers their faith, and remembered going to mass at home, the heady incense that made him think of Byzantium, the red flicker of the sanctuary light. Childhood.

  His forearm twinged, itched. Smelled. Ringbone's poultice had been disagreeable but effective. He was aware of how he smelled. Cat, too, for that matter. They smelled of the forest and their own overworked bodies, of horse and old rain. The Brothers were as clean as pins. He longed for a bath. Still some manners left, he thought with a smile.