Eva Manden, Little Moor’s post mistress, was worried about her mother. The old lady hadn’t been right since they’d closed the shop on Saturday afternoon. Eva had woken in the early hours of Sunday morning, alerted by an unfamiliar sound. She had found her mother wandering up and down the landing in moonlight, feeling along the walls with her crinkled hands.
‘What is it, Mother?’ she’d demanded. ‘Do you want the toilet?’
‘Out of my way!’ cried the old woman in an uncharacteristically strong voice. ‘I’m looking for a way out.’
‘Go back to bed,’ Eva soothed, moving to take hold of the woman in her arms.
Unexpectedly, her mother lashed out at her. ‘Get your hands off me, girl! I need to get out. It’s time. It’s nearly time!’
‘Time for what?’ Eva’s heart sank. Her mother’s voice sounded so young.
In the moonlight, the old woman’s eyes were glinting with an icy fire. Youth still lived there, and power. ‘Something I doubt you’ll be happy for. Something I deserve. They’ve come back, Evie. Like it or not, they’ve come back!’
Eva had pressed herself against the wall. Her lungs ached as if the air had been punched from her body. It couldn’t be. No. That was all over, over and done with. She only had to wait for her mother to die now. There could be no return.
The old woman looked at her daughter with clever, glittering eyes. ‘You can’t stop it. I know what you think, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’
Eva attempted to claw reality back. ‘Mother, you’re dreaming. Come with me. Come back to bed. I could make you a nice hot drink.’
For a few moments, the old woman stared up at the high window above the stairs. She drew in her breath slowly, tasting the air. ‘Can smell it,’ she said. ‘The smell of a man, of more than a man.’ Then her shoulders had slumped. Whatever brief energy had enlivened her had fled. ‘Bed, yes.’ Her voice had shrunk back to a whine. ‘And a nice cup of Ovaltine.’
Relieved, Eva led her mother back to her own room. Perhaps it had been an isolated episode. It had to be.
At lunchtime, the traveller had a visitor. He had been hanging around The White House in the hope that Lily and Owen would turn up and was therefore surprised, and even a little disappointed, when Owen arrived alone. The boy was wearing the same tatty jumper he’d worn the previous evening and a pair of very scuffed leather trousers, perhaps influenced by Othman’s own attire. He had also apparently brushed his hair. His flawless skin looked shockingly clean against the oily wool of his jumper.
‘Lily’s busy,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the car outside. I’ll show you around.’
The Winter car was a big, rounded vehicle upholstered in aromatic leather, with walnut interior trim. It smelled of age. Owen drove with the habitual terrifying confidence of the young.
‘Lily’s making a meal,’ he said, as the car bowled along one of the lanes leading from Little Moor. ‘A meal for you. For tonight.’ He grinned at Othman.
‘That’s nice. Where are you taking me?’
‘Just for a walk through the woods. They’re very ancient. That’s the sort of thing you want, isn’t it?’
‘Drive on!’ Othman poked his hand out of the car window, letting his fingers run through the whipping grass of the steep hedgerows.
‘You could cut yourself,’ said Owen. ‘Lose a finger. Are you afraid of blood?’
Owen parked the car in a passing-place, where a five-barred gate gave access to a field. The woods began just to the left of the gate. Owen and Othman walked down the lane a short way, until Owen led the way into the woods. He knew he was taking Othman to the High Place, even though he was trying to tell himself he wasn’t. The High Place was special to Owen; it had always drawn him. It was as if a quiet, insistent voice spoke to his inner mind, telling him what he should do there. The images came to him vividly, the circling, the chanting, the sexual communion with the earth. He had sensed he was taking part in something that had occurred in that spot for many centuries, and hoped Peverel Othman would pick up on something there, perhaps confirm Owen’s suspicions, and hopes, about the place.
Owen and Lily had discussed Peverel Othman in great detail after they’d left him on Saturday night. Both decided he must be an occultist, because there was a sort of smell around him that reeked of magic.
‘He is very handsome,’ Lily had said, which had surprised Owen. Lily had never commented on men other than himself before. Although he’d experienced a distinct thrill of jealousy at her words, he’d recognised a thread of excitement as well. It had been Lily’s decision that Owen should spend some time alone with the stranger. She’d seemed a little jumpy that morning, and had spoken vaguely of disturbing dreams. Owen was secretly relieved she hadn’t seemed too eager to see Othman again immediately.
Owen led the way along a narrow track, brushing bracken aside. The path widened as they drew near to the High Place, and Othman increased his pace to walk beside Owen. ‘The Eagers told me a little about you and Lily,’ he said.
Owen rolled his eyes. ‘I can imagine.’
‘No, it was quite complimentary actually. I’m sorry about your mother.’
Owen shrugged. ‘She was ill for a while. We’ve always had to look after ourselves a lot.’ They had reached the foot of the hill. Here, Othman paused, forcing Owen to turn and look at him. Othman was standing with his hands on his hips, his head thrown back. ‘This is interesting,’ he said.
Owen’s heart jumped in his chest. Othman did seem to have picked up on the atmosphere. He beckoned for Othman to follow him up the hill. ‘Wait till you see it properly,’ he said.
They emerged through the bracken and walked down to the centre of the hollow. Othman turned round a few times, nodding to himself. He was smiling widely. ‘Is this a place you and Lily visit often too?’
Owen wrinkled his nose, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. ‘Not really. That is, Lily doesn’t come here. It’s one of my places.’ He paused, physically restraining himself from saying any more. He had an urge to tell Othman about Daniel, how he had sensed something unusual and powerful about the boy, how he brought him to this place in the hope of making something happen. The only problem was he didn’t know exactly what he was hoping would happen. Although he suspected Othman might be able to advise him on these activities, he still shrank from betraying too much.
‘I see,’ Othman said. His voice was amused.
Owen felt himself blush and had to turn away, afraid Othman had helped himself to information from Owen’s mind. Daniel sometimes did that without realising it, betraying himself with an idle remark on something Owen knew he hadn’t spoken aloud, although Daniel always denied his talent when Owen mentioned it.
‘There are many places like this,’ Othman said. ‘Ancient sites throughout the world, where residues of power remain.’
‘You feel that, then?’ Owen asked quickly.
Othman nodded. ‘Of course. This was probably a pagan site a long time ago.’ He grinned. ‘Perhaps still is!’
Owen laughed uneasily. An image had come into his mind of performing his rites with Othman present. It was almost as if the thought had been planted there.
Othman moved closer to him. ‘You feel an affinity with this place, don’t you?’
Owen took a step away. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, let’s absorb its presence together, then. Close your eyes.’
Owen laughed again. ‘OK, if you want to.’
Othman shut his own eyes, but after a moment, opened them once more. By his side, Owen was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes peacefully closed, his lips slightly parted. Othman realised the boy was really quite beautiful. He looked like a dying saint, or someone inviting a kiss. He reached out and took Owen’s hand in his own. There was resistance at first, then a returning pressure. Othman ignored any presence that might reside in the land and instead tasted the flow of energy that flowed from the boy’s body. He sensed untapped strengths, and something that ha
d a flavour of familiarity about it. Before Othman could investigate this further, Owen pulled away.
My dalliance with these waifs might be short, Othman thought, but not without refreshment.
‘Well,’ Owen said. ‘Did you feel anything?’
‘I felt only you,’ Othman replied.
Owen smiled uneasily. Perhaps he’d been wrong about the man. ‘Oh well, let’s go. I’ll take you across the hills.’
Othman noticed that Owen kept his distance as they continued their walk through the woods. Not wishing to discomfort the boy, Othman kept up a stream of idle conversation, and by the time they left the cover of the trees and emerged into a field, Owen seemed more at ease. Othman realised he would have to tread carefully with this one.
At the brow of a hill, Owen paused. The fields swept down towards what appeared to be the grounds of a stately home. When Othman first caught sight of it, he experienced a sudden shock throughout his body. It was accompanied by a feeling of desperate longing. The sensations crashed over him like a numbingly cold wave. He gasped for breath, gripped by an unexpected vertigo.
Owen glanced at him. ‘Are you all right? You look weird.’
Othman shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. I’m out of condition, a bit winded.’ It was hard to maintain control of these feelings. He felt like weeping. Something must have happened at the house below, some trauma which had left psychic residue behind, which he had picked up on. Still, he was not usually affected so badly by such things. He felt that if he tried hard enough, he would be able to recall exactly what had transpired in this place, almost as if he’d lived it himself. That too was strange. He felt very uncomfortable, as if unwelcome memories were about to surface in his mind. A star had guided him here. Was this place connected with what lay waiting for him? For now, he must walk away, until he’d had time to think. Later, a visit to the house would be necessary, but not yet.
Owen followed him as he walked back down the hill. He looked puzzled. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Just ignore me. I’m fine.’ Othman forced a smile. ‘Who lives in that place back there?’
Owen laughed. ‘No-one! Didn’t you notice the state the gardens were in? The house is all boarded up. Everyone left a long time ago.’
‘Have you ever had a look round it?’
Owen shook his head, pulling a sour face. ‘No! Lily and I have never liked it. It’s called Long Eden. Crawling with ghosts.’
Othman was inclined to agree.
They went back to the car and Owen drove them out onto the moors. Here, they tramped around, climbing rocks and looking into caves. Othman felt his spirits restore. Owen was pleasant enough company, although he sensed the boy’s reticence and reserve. That only spoke of secrets to be uncovered. By the time Owen suggested they go back to the cottage to eat, Othman felt completely buoyant once more.
On the drive back to Little Moor, Othman wondered what the Winter house might be like. It could be large and look haunted, with ivy over the eaves, or small and cottagey, hugged by climbing roses. He dismissed the possibility of it being nothing more than a grey semi-detached house, bought by the mother from a district council. The reality, however, was none of these options.
It was a detached house, though not large, situated on a winding lane, where family homes were widely spaced. It was surrounded by tall evergreens and had rather a raddled appearance. Owen parked the car in a muddy drive at the side of the house, and when Othman got out, he could see a distorted, wire chicken-run behind the house, where a few ragged birds were scampering up and down. There was a kennel and a chain, but no dog, and a bare clematis hugged one of the walls. The back door was painted in an unsightly flaking turquoise colour.
Owen scraped mud from the soles of his boots on a piece of metal by the door and Othman did likewise. Then, they went inside.
The back door led straight to the kitchen which was steamy with the smells of cooking food. Pots bubbled on an old gas stove. Othman looked around himself with interest. The walls were bare brick, except for one that had been inexpertly whitewashed; splashes of white marked the brown tiled floor. Bunches of herbs hung from one of the roof beams, but were so dusty, it did not look as if they were used for anything. Three crates of apples under the table gave off an over-ripe smell, one of them occupied by an elderly cat, asleep among the fruit. A group of new kitchen units against one of the walls were the sole concession to modernity but, white as they were among so much dark and earth, they looked absurd and out of place. Their Formica surfaces were already scored by cutting knives, and the scratches had been stained brown by tea. At one time, someone had begun to turn this dilapidated house into a home, but the job had never been finished, and there was no sign of recent work. Strange. The twins’ mother must have lived here for several years.
‘Hope you don’t mind the mess,’ Owen said and went to open a door, calling ‘Lily!’ into the space beyond.
Othman stood in the middle of the kitchen, bombarded by the images before him. He sat down on a wooden chair by the table and Owen said, ‘No, don’t sit there. Go into the parlour.’ He gestured to show the way.
The parlour was surprisingly comfortable; a woman had made her mark here. Perhaps the mother had begun renovations in this room. The walls were covered in framed embroidered samplers and a large, welcoming fire was burning in the huge stone hearth. Again, the walls were of bare brick, but in this room, it was simply rustic, a decorative effect. A beautiful old Persian rug covered most of the floor, but around its edges the boards gleamed with honey coloured varnish. Othman threw himself into a well-padded chair and Owen offered him some wine. ‘Home made,’ he said. ‘But you’ll like it.’
Othman was not prepared to disagree, although he had a refined palate that objected to brutality. Owen poured out a glass of pale liquid from what appeared to be a crystal decanter. ‘We make it from apples,’ he said. Othman was pleased to find the wine tasted of fairly well-bred sherry.
Then, Lily came into the room. She looked enchanting, wearing a simple, long black dress, her hair held back with a silky scarf. She had painted her lips with a smudge of pale lipstick and her lashes were spiky with mascara. Othman’s heart warmed. He wished she had been with them for the afternoon.
‘Did you have a good time?’ she asked, sitting down on the arm of Othman’s chair. He burned with the proximity of her body. She smelled of soap and floral scent.
‘Yes, it was very interesting,’ he said.
‘Where did you take him, Owen?’ she asked.
Owen sat down on the rug at their feet. ‘Just for a walk around,’ he said.
Othman detected Owen didn’t want his sister to know exactly where they’d been, and wondered if he should pretend he didn’t realise this and tell her. Owen’s reaction might be interesting. Lily, however, jumped up from her seat before Othman could make a decision.
‘The food’s ready now,’ she said. ‘We’ll eat in here, shall we?’
The meal was wholesome, if rather sloppy. Lily and Owen kept up an inane chatter the whole time, plates balanced on their knees. When everyone had finished eating, Lily piled up the plates in the hearth, and refilled the wine glasses. Her cheeks had become slightly flushed. She curled up on the floor by Othman’s feet and, twirling her glass in her hands, said, ‘When are you leaving Little Moor?’
He smiled down at her. ‘Soon,’ he said.
‘Where do you live?’
He shrugged. ‘Actually, I don’t really have a home base at present. I prefer travelling around.’
Owen was lying on his stomach in front of them, his chin in his hands. ‘But how do you pay for that? Do you work?’
Othman paused. He did not appreciate the interrogation. ‘Sometimes.’
Lily uttered a squeal. ‘You’re rich, aren’t you!’ She seemed pleased with her deduction.
Othman shrugged again. ‘I’ve inherited money, yes, but that’s no excuse for being lazy.’
‘Oh,’ Lily said, havi
ng digested this information. ‘Do you have... a girlfriend, or a wife?’
Othman leaned back in his chair and blinked at the ceiling. ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘There was someone, a long time ago, but...’ He was unsure of what had made him say that.
‘Oh.’ Lily’s voice was soft. ‘Did... did something happen to her?’
Othman glanced down at her. ‘We just split up. These things happen.’
Lily giggled nervously and blushed. ‘Oh yes, of course.’ A silence came into the room.
‘There’s no-one,’ Othman said, and sat up straight again, with a sigh. He held out his empty glass to Owen. The boy gave him a studied, calculating look that went on for a few seconds too long before he got up and refilled the glass.
Lily extended a cautious hand and traced a pattern on one of Othman’s boots. ‘You are a very strange man,’ she said.
‘How strange?’ he asked.
‘Well, we don’t like people much, but you are different. We like you, don’t we, Owen?’
Owen was silent as he handed Othman a filled glass. He looked as if he wanted to have a discussion about this with his sister before committing himself.
‘O!’ Lily snapped in a warning voice.
‘You seem all right,’ Owen said grudgingly, sitting down on the floor again.
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