by Jane Godman
* * *
The road up to the village was steep and narrow with grassy banks topped by grey, drystone walls rising tall on each side. The little settlement itself was neatly tiered to fit the contours of the mountains. Green hills, part hidden by spring’s soft shroud, climbed up to shyly kiss the unyielding crags beyond. It was a bleakly beautiful place with high, narrow cottages built from local slate and dolerite chimneys bleeding smoke into the midday sky. Sheep-flock clouds competed with the pewter plumes to see which could make the heavens seem bluer. Ceri and I bought ice cream wafers at the tiny post office and sat on a wall in the weak sunlight to eat them.
“When your uncle spoke about the Taran lights, you looked worried,” I said. She gave a little start of surprise. “You shouldn’t let old ghost stories frighten you, you know.”
Her eyes were downcast, so I couldn’t read her expression. “But Gwladys said they come in search of fresh souls and gather up children while they sleep,” she whispered, with a surreptitious glance over her shoulder as though she expected a howling, shrieking cavalcade to bear down on us from behind.
“Gwladys talks utter rot sometimes,” I said, and Ceri laughed nervously.
“But,” she said, as though examining a thought, “I don’t just see the lights. I can see the hunters, as well—the figures inside the lights. They are on their horses, and they have dogs with them. Have you seen them, Lilly?”
“I have only seen the lights once. That was on my first night here,” I replied evasively.
“I meant the hunters.” Her steady gaze reproached me.
“Yes, I saw them, but they really are just tricks of the light.” I tried to reassure her as I would any child her age.
But Ceri was not like any other eight-year-old. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Lilly?” she asked, in her funny, young-old way. The solution dawned on me just before she could answer her own question. We said it together: “They are hunters.” Viscous, black nightmares poured into my mind, filling my soul and staining it with darkness.
I was recalled with some relief from my thoughts when a young man, probably just a few years older than me, with a slightly distracted air about him, came down the hillside toward us. As he drew level, the heavy pack he carried on his back broke loose and fell onto the ground nearby, clattering as its contents spilled out into the road. We rushed over to help, gathering up the classic rambler’s accoutrements and listening to his stammered thanks as he clumsily shoved everything back into place.
“Oh, I say, that’s awfully kind of you!” He exclaimed as I charged off down the road, giving chase to an enamel mug that threatened to roll down the steep slope and into a ditch. “I can’t think what happened there!” He gave me a shy smile as I handed the mug back to him.
He hauled the offending pack up onto the wall where we had been sitting, and we shook hands as he thanked us again.
“I’m Matthew Fisher,” he said, and I introduced myself and Ceri in return. “Do you live around here? Jolly picturesque, isn’t it? My home is in Chester, which is very pretty and historic, of course, but nothing compared to this. And, my goodness, when you spend every day cooped up in an office, poring over the books—I’m an accountant, you see—it does you good to get this mountain air into your lungs. I’ve been indulging myself with a well-deserved, extended holiday through the northern counties of Wales, and I liked this valley so much I decided to camp here so that I could do some rambling in the surrounding area.” It seemed natural for us to fall into step together as he talked. “I’d only been here a night when I had the most ridiculous accident involving my tent. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was burned to a crisp. Quite beyond repair. Fortunately, the landlord at the Slater’s Arms is a decent chap and he was able to recommend a room in the house next door that is clean, comfortable and reasonable, so I’ve been able to stay on without too much disruption to my plans.” He struggled to get his overloaded pack onto his shoulders as he talked. While Ceri came to his aid once more, I couldn’t help wondering how successful he was at rambling. Or accountancy.
Before long, we were accepting an invitation to join him for a glass of lemonade at the cafe. The tables in this tiny establishment were covered with blue-and-white checked cloths, and each had a jam jar full of wildflowers in its centre. Mrs Jones, the proprietress, greeted Ceri with pleasure and clicked her tongue sadly at me over the death of Mr and Mrs Taran. The conversation among the other customers was conducted entirely in Welsh, which, since they eyed me with interest as they talked, made me feel at a distinct disadvantage. I suspected that my foolish revelations to Mrs Price and Gwladys about my burlesque career may have provided fuel for the gossips.
“How are things down there?” Mrs Jones jerked her head in the direction of Taran House as she poured fresh homemade lemonade into three tall glasses. Ceri was chattering away in answer to a question Matthew had asked about the house, and I hid a smile. That would teach him to try to make polite conversation with an eight-year-old. “It must be awful hard on Mr Gethin, seeing the little girl and being reminded every day of her mam and what might have been.”
I tried to look wise, as though I knew exactly what Mrs Jones meant. “It’s been a difficult time,” I said. Hopefully that covered everything and didn’t reveal my ignorance.
“Shocking, it was, when she went off with Mr Bryn.” Mrs Jones shook her head. “Mr Gethin loved the ground she walked on and she…” Her lips tightened. “Well, no good comes of speaking ill of the dead. But she was a flighty madam, if you ask me! Aye, and she saw the pound signs because the house and the money came to Mr Bryn. And the baby conceived on honeymoon, they said, and then born a month early.” Her expression invited me to add my own interpretation to her words. “But what good did it do her in the end? Dead in a ditch in a foreign country. But Mr Gethin…” She shook her head and piled biscuits on a plate. “I don’t think he ever got over her, not really. It must be terrible hard on him, having her daughter forced on him.”
Damnably inconvenient…Gethin’s words came back to me, and I looked across the room at Ceri’s animated little face. That invisible cord that drew me to her tightened painfully.
Matthew Fisher was handsome in a conventional way, with dark blond hair and regular features. There was an endearing clumsiness about him that seemed to explain the problems that all too frequently beset him. His blue eyes, when they rested on me—which I flattered myself they did quite often—were openly approving. It was pleasant to be admired, but, I decided regretfully, it was a complication I could do without. Until I managed to unravel my feelings for my enigmatic employer, I should probably steer clear of any other romantic entanglements. Nevertheless he was an easy, charming companion, and the hour we spent in his company temporarily drove thoughts of phantom huntsmen and dark dream stalkers from my mind. When we parted, he asked if I would meet him at the cafe again in a few days. I agreed.
We walked out of the cafe together, and Matthew stopped, looking up toward the mountain. “I say, have you heard some of the stories they tell about this place? Enough to curdle your blood! They say anyone who spends the night up on that part they call ‘the chair’ will wake up the next morning either as a poet or a madman.”
Ceri, keen to show off her superior knowledge, elaborated further. “And they also say that if more than one person stays up there overnight, one of them will not come down at all. He or she will be dead,” she explained helpfully.
“Nonsense, of course,” Matthew said. “But I’ll take jolly good care not to get stuck up there at night, all the same!” With a cheery wave, he set off for his lodgings.
Ceri skipped along beside me as we commenced the downward journey back to Taran House. “He liked you,” she informed me slyly, watching my face.
“Stop matchmaking, miss!” I grabbed her and tickled her until she squealed for me to stop.
“Is it normal for people to have the same dreams?” Ceri asked with an abrupt return to our earlier conversation. Sh
e trailed a hand through the fronds of bright green fern that peeped between the stones of the wall.
I debated how to answer her. She had an understanding that was far beyond her years. I had to strike a balance between honesty and reassurance. “I’ve never heard of it before,” I said. “So I expect that means it doesn’t happen very often. It makes us special. I think we should be glad we have each other.”
She stopped, and her little face was troubled. “I’ve always known I was different. But I couldn’t tell anyone. Until now…” Her voice trailed off, but she smiled and I gave her a quick hug. We walked along hand in hand, and it was just as we were about to enter the tree-lined drive that a large, ungainly figure emerged from the bushes and loped over to us.
He was a pitiful excuse for a dog, a bag of bones covered with mangy fur. I made a movement to put Ceri behind me, but she evaded me and the mutt ambled up to her, shoving a friendly nose into her hand. She giggled delightedly, her eyes shining, and I looked at the godforsaken creature in a new light. He was black as midnight and, when he had some flesh on him, must have been a formidable sight. He allowed Ceri to scratch behind his scarred and balding ears, and sighed happily as she did. When we turned back along the lane to return to the house, he obligingly accompanied us.
“Well, he can’t come in,” I said in what I hoped was a forbidding tone. “Mrs Price will have kittens.”
“It’s not her house. It’s mine,” Ceri reminded me. “And if I want Shucky to come in, he can come in.”
“Shucky?” I asked, regarding the ill-favoured animal with dislike.
“He just looks like a Shucky,” she replied cryptically. The newly christened member of the household lolled his tongue and wagged his tail. If I didn’t know better, I could almost have imagined the wretched hound was laughing at me.
* * *
I lay back in the steaming water with a contented sigh and closed my eyes. A tiny part of me, still scarcely acknowledged, felt warm and restored. Through my blossoming relationship with Ceri, old wounds were maybe—just maybe—beginning to heal. And the house was…I searched for the right words. To say it felt like home would be going too far. Taran House and I were starting to get used to each other.
A slight noise disturbed my reverie, and I opened my eyes in an attempt to locate its source. It was the faint, but distinct, scratching of tiny claws scurrying across wooden boards. It came from the attic above me. Mice! With a sigh, I sat up and, trying to ignore the relentless shuffling sounds, hurriedly finished my bath and returned to my room. The nursery was upstairs, and I didn’t want any rodent infestations in Ceri’s territory. I would speak to Mrs Price but—given the housekeeper’s staggering inability to do anything to actually keep the house in good order—I thought there was a strong possibility I would end up setting traps myself. The thought made me grimace.
I had just finished dressing when another noise—a loud, ungodly wailing—from within the house itself, drew me hurtling full tilt from my room. Mrs Price was standing in the centre of the hall, clutching a very ugly hat in one hand and a matching, somewhat mangled, bow in the other. Gwladys stood nearby, wringing her hands and casting worried glances about her. She saw me on the gallery and hailed me with relief.
“Oh, miss! Thank the Lord! Poor Mrs Price has had such a nasty shock. Have I to fetch the brandy?”
I hurried down the stairs and Ceri, who had also been drawn by the sound, caught up with me, slipping a timid hand into mine. “My new hat! My best hat!” The housekeeper whimpered pitifully, holding out the object toward us.
“Is that what all this fuss is about?” I made the mistake of allowing a note of laughter to enter my voice. “I thought someone was being murdered at the very least!”
Mrs Price’s already sunken eyes narrowed further, like currants pressed too far into a bun. “Aye, that’s it, Miss High and Mighty! You look down your nose! Go ahead and mock a poor working woman when one of her precious possessions is wilfully ruined. Aye, wilfully! That devil dog you brought into this house has done this!” She shook the hat at me. “Well, the accursed creature will have to go, and if I had my way, I would have it shot.” She covered her face with her hands. Gwladys patted her shoulder ineffectually, while casting pleading eyes in my direction.
“He is not a devil and he is not going anywhere!” Ceri cried out, fury on behalf of her precious new friend lending her confidence. Letting go of my hand, she stamped her foot, bravely squaring up to Mrs Price. “He’s my dog, and I’ll decide what happens to him!”
Mrs Price had, by this time, worked herself up into a frenzy of emotion that craved an outlet. Her face twisted with fury and she took a step toward Ceri, her hand instinctively lifting ready to give the little figure before her a backhanded slap.
“Mrs Price.” My cold, clear voice stilled the older woman’s forward motion. She turned to look at me. “Don’t you dare raise your hand to her.” I amazed myself with my calm. Ceri, recognising a protector in me, scurried back to my side.
“I’ll not be taking any orders from the likes of you! No better than you should be and boasting of it to a God-fearing woman like myself!” Mrs Price rounded on me with the indignation reserved for those who consider themselves righteous. “You want to get back to taking your clothes off for money, my girl, and leave running a gentleman’s house to your betters!”
“Miss Ceridwyn is in my care, and, as long as that is the case, I am responsible for her. Nobody else has the right to chastise her and anyone who lays a finger on her will have me to answer to.” I said, drawing myself up to my full height and standing my ground. “And if you don’t like it, you know where the door is!”
To my eternal surprise, she took me at my word. Turning on her heel, she grabbed up her hat—minus its pitiful bow—screwed it onto her head and, without a backward glance, stalked out of the very door I had just pointed at.
Ceri danced around me in delight. “You sent her packing,” she squealed joyfully. “Oh, Lilly, you are the best governess ever!” I had a lowering feeling that her uncle was most unlikely to agree with her assessment of my skills. And what were we to do now? My culinary accomplishments were limited even in comparison to those of Mrs Price. And Gwladys, who was watching me with an expression of mingled awe and commiseration, was not, I imagined, going to be much help in that department. “But why on earth did she want you take your clothes off?” Ceri’s face was a picture of bewilderment.
Shucky wandered in a few minutes later, wet from a frolic in the river, and shook himself vigorously so that we were all sprayed with droplets of muddy water. Then, with a heavy groan, he threw himself down onto the silk-upholstered couch that I had painstakingly cleaned that very morning and ecstatically rolled on it.
“You are a horrible creature and a disgrace to dogs everywhere,” I told him crossly as the three of us dragged him back out into the yard to dry off. “Look at the trouble you have caused!”
If truth be told, however—given a choice between Shucky and Mrs Price—I believed we had emerged with the better bargain.
As time went by, Shucky and I reached an uneasy understanding. His manners still left much to be desired. We had many a lengthy stand-off about where his bones should be buried and who owned the bed in my room. But his devotion to Ceri was touching. She was certainly a much happier child when the strange, awkward animal was around and, oddly enough, I found my own measure of comfort in his company.
Chapter Four
The narrow, stretched staircase is so coal-black that I can’t see the top from where I stand now, poised on the first step. Fear—my silent, dark-robed companion—slides her gruesome fingers into my chest and twists them, vile and serpentine, around my heart. She thrusts her hateful hand into the small of my back, propelling me forward. The silence is absolute. Nothing but the pounding of my heart and my gasping breath. I glance over my shoulder. A faint pad of footsteps. Too close to be the Hunter. Yet my own feet are fleet and noiseless. There is another presence here, but I
dare not pause to examine the thought. It doesn’t matter how fast I run, it will never be fast enough.
As I swiftly ascend, the walls on either side of me begin to crack. Foul-smelling filth pours through the crumbling plaster. I must go on. Ceri is waiting, and he, of course, is gaining on me. My searching hand connects with Ceri’s and we commence our desperate, familiar flight.
I spare an upward glance and, despite the darkness, I see. He awaits us at the top, staring with empty sockets, cavities of night where no life sparks. I sense his smoky, snickering triumph. He has tricked us. We are running toward the Hunter.
* * *
It was Ceri who noticed it. She was looking out of the nursery window and drew my attention to the fact that there was an odd commotion going on down by the gates. Together, we went out to investigate. The gypsy caravan, a riot of red and green edged with gold scrolling, listed dangerously into the ditch that ran parallel to the road. An elderly shire horse remained stationary between the shafts—one of which had splintered like a broken bone—with a look of long-suffering patience on his face. Lazily, the steed pulled up a few meagre tufts of grass from along the top of the wall and chewed them thoughtfully. If he could, I think he’d have sighed.
The man who descended from the driver’s seat was tall and gaunt with hollows beneath his cheekbones and a sallow complexion. He spoke to the horse in a harsh tongue that was unfamiliar to me. I did not need an interpreter, however, to tell me that he was cursing the unfortunate animal. A young woman leapt down from the caravan’s rear and proceeded to scold the man in the same language and manner that he had used toward the horse. She was beautiful with dark, flashing eyes and a restless energy that burned the air about her. Their clothing belonged to a bygone era.
I was tempted to try to sidle away again without being noticed, leaving them to enjoy their argument in privacy, but they had already seen us. Anyway it was not in my nature to turn a blind eye.
