The Beast Awakens

by Joseph Delaney

  They began following the raucous crowd, many of whom seemed to have been drinking already: they were singing bawdy songs, and stumbling around. Lucky walked with his head down, hands firmly in his pockets.

  Crafty noticed that in among the crowd there were groups of two and three wearing grey cloaks and hoods. He pointed them out to Lucky.

  ‘Are they some sect of the priesthood?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re a sect all right, but nothing to do with the Church,’ Lucky replied. ‘They call themselves the Grey Hoods – they’ve a religion of their own. They worship the Shole.’

  ‘That’s so stupid!’ Crafty said, astonished. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘It works for some people,’ Lucky told him. ‘Mostly crazy people …’

  Crafty was intrigued and wanted to find out more, but he could tell that Lucky was in no mood for talking.

  At the top of the grassy slope – Gallows Hill – they saw a big wooden platform upon which a gibbet had been erected. It was a vertical post with a horizontal arm, a noose suspended from it. Beneath the rope stood a barrel, waiting for Old Nell.

  The cart carrying the witch had just reached the platform. She was hauled off and pushed towards the steps. She shuffled slowly up, and when she reached the top the crowd began to jeer and shout in excitement. Crafty could see that Nell had been gagged, no doubt to stop her casting spells, and her hands were tied behind her back.

  Lucky was trying to get a better view, but that was the last thing Crafty wanted. He was beginning to feel sick at the prospect of witnessing this poor old woman’s death. Fortunately the crowd was too dense for them to see anything much. As Crafty gazed around, he saw people sitting down having picnics, taking advantage of the dry grass. Unusually for a Lancashire summer, it hadn’t rained for at least a week – though Crafty could feel a strong wind blowing in from the west, straight from the sea, and clouds were building. It was going to rain, and soon.

  On the platform men wearing black robes started making speeches while Old Nell stood calmly by, waiting to die. The speakers seemed to be priests, but the wind carried their words away and Crafty couldn’t catch what was said. Those nearer the platform kept cheering, so he guessed they were being given a list of Old Nell’s supposed misdeeds, the Church making it clear what her sins were and why she was being executed.

  The whole thing disgusted him. As far as he knew, she hadn’t done anyone any harm, yet here she was, her death to be used as entertainment. Everyone seemed to be treating it like a fun day out. At one point the crowd at the front surged to their feet and began clapping, but those nearer the back roared at them to sit down because they were blocking their view.

  After ten minutes of speeches they got on with the hanging. A hood was placed over Old Nell’s head, bringing back to Crafty the horrifying memory of being hooded when his father had led him through the Shole. It was all too easy to imagine what Nell was going through now. How terrible it would be – to know that in minutes you’d be strangled and, soon after that, dead.

  Next they stood her on the barrel, and positioned the noose around her neck. The crowd was in a frenzy now, screaming and shouting at the executioners to get on with it. Finally they tightened the noose – and kicked the barrel out from under Old Nell’s feet. Everybody but Lucky and Crafty clapped and cheered.

  Crafty watched as Nell’s legs kicked and her body twisted on the end of the rope. At one point a big gust of wind blew her ragged skirt up above her head, showing her undergarments. That got another big cheer.

  Suddenly Lucky jolted forward, away from Crafty. ‘Die, witch! Die!’ he screamed.

  Crafty gazed at him in astonishment, surprised by his hatred. What had got into him?

  But Lucky’s shout went down well with the crowd around them, and it was quickly taken up as a chant:

  ‘Die, witch, die! Die, witch, die! Die, witch, die!’

  Old Nell was still dancing at the end of the rope, but her movements were feebler now, hardly more than a twitching of the knees.

  ‘Why do you hate her so much?’ Crafty asked Lucky, unable to contain his feelings any longer. ‘She’s just a poor old woman – and even if she did have some magical ability, she didn’t use it to harm people. She just cured warts and toothaches. Do you really think she deserves that?’ he asked, pointing towards the gibbet.

  The body of the witch was still now. She was dead, and out of her misery.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Lucky said bitterly. ‘She foretold Donna’s death, and then she cursed all three of us. She said we should get what we deserved. Well, Donna was kind and helpful, and brave. Did she really deserve to die like that? To have her legs chopped off by a sadistic, reckless idiot? What do we deserve – the same?’

  Crafty didn’t reply. Lucky was furious, and he’d begun to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

  ‘And you know what?’ Lucky continued, his fists balled up tight by his sides. ‘Poor Donna won’t even get a funeral because she’s an orphan and has no family to care what happens to her body. They’ll just grind up her bones and use them in the frame of a new gate.’

  While he was speaking, it had finally begun to rain – great drops were being blown almost vertically into their faces. The people around them lurched to their feet, quickly gathering up their possessions and beginning to leave.

  Crafty and Lucky stayed where they were, and within five minutes the hillside was almost deserted. The men on the platform were lifting Old Nell’s body down from the gibbet. They still had a job to do, in spite of the torrential rain.

  Crafty and Lucky were already soaked to the skin but still neither of them moved.

  Lucky spoke again, more softly this time. ‘Don’t feel too sorry for her, Crafty. Tomorrow her family will come for the body and, if the rumours I hear are true, they’ll carry it into the Shole under cover of darkness. They say most witches come back from the dead if they’re buried there.’

  ‘How can witches’ families carry their dead into the Shole if they aren’t Fey?’ Crafty asked. ‘Are witches Fey?’

  Lucky shrugged, and a drop of rain fell from the end of his nose. ‘Some think that witches have their own resistance to the Shole. But it’s probably just talk.’

  Crafty hesitated, unsure whether to take Lucky into his confidence. But he was a friend, wasn’t he? So he blurted out the truth.

  ‘The Shole does bring people back from the dead – that’s a fact, not just superstition,’ he said. ‘And they don’t have to be witches, either.’

  Lucky turned to him. ‘You know that for sure?’ he asked, sounding disbelieving.

  ‘Yes. When I was trapped in the Shole, I was visited by a girl who’d died hundreds of years ago – maybe thousands, for all I know. I called her the Bog Queen because she wore a crown; she’d been sacrificed by her own people, then buried in the bog. Her real name was Bertha.’

  Lucky looked shocked. ‘What was she like? Weren’t you scared of her?’

  ‘No. She was kind to me. I spent almost a year shut up in a cellar, and during the last months, after my brothers died, I was mostly alone. My father’s job meant he was often away. She made my life bearable. I owe her a lot.’

  Lucky put his arm round Crafty’s shoulders in sympathy. ‘You’ve had a hard time, Crafty, and I’m sorry for it. But things here are bad too. As gate grubs, our lives are worthless – we’re at risk every day. And do you know what we have to do to make things better?’

  Crafty shook his head.

  So Lucky told him.

  ‘We have to kill Viper.’

  ‘You can’t mean that!’ Crafty protested. He hated Viper – of course he did – but he didn’t want him dead.

  ‘I do mean it,’ Lucky spat. ‘It’s either him or us. At some point one of us will be assigned to him again, and we’ll get hurt. Give him enough time, and eventually he’ll kill us both. He’ll either abandon us to die in the Shole – he’s done that with other grubs – or slice us up with the guillotine. We’ve got
to kill him first.’

  Crafty didn’t reply. What Lucky was saying shocked him. He knew he wasn’t capable of murdering anyone – not even Viper.

  ‘Come on,’ Lucky demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be the crafty one – now live up to your name. How can we do it without getting caught? You need to come up with some clever scheme.’

  ‘I’d like to try something else first,’ replied Crafty carefully, hoping he could dissuade his friend from such a reckless course of action. ‘I’ll go and talk to Ginger Bob and tell him what we think – that Viper is dangerous and reckless and –’

  ‘No!’ interrupted Lucky. ‘He won’t listen. Look what he did – telling you to collect the tools, even though it was so dangerous out there. And mancers always stick together.’

  ‘Let me try anyway. Please.’

  Lucky looked cross, but sighed. ‘Suit yourself. But when you’ve failed, we’ll do it my way. Deal?’

  Reluctantly Crafty nodded. ‘Why do you think Viper behaves the way he does?’ he asked. ‘Does he simply get pleasure out of killing gate grubs?’

  Lucky shrugged. ‘Who knows what’s going on inside his head. There are some people walking among us who look fine on the outside; but if you could read their thoughts you’d realize you were dealing with monsters. And there are other possibilities …’

  Crafty looked at him, but he seemed reluctant to continue. After a long pause he began again: ‘This is just speculation, but I’ve thought about Viper a lot during my three months at the castle. You know that crazy cult that worships the Shole – the Grey Hoods who were in the crowd earlier? They want the Shole to take over the whole world. They think that it will bring their dead families and friends back, and they will all live forever. The priests don’t like it, and the Church has persuaded the Duke to come down hard on them. Some have been imprisoned, and now they are allowed out in public only in groups no larger than three. But they seem to be getting stronger. Although they kept within the law, there were still a lot of them about today. I’ve always wondered if Viper was one of them …’

  ‘I suppose, being a gate mancer, he’d have opportunities to undermine the fight against the Shole,’ said Crafty. He’d never heard of this weird cult until today, but then, he had missed a lot during his year in the cellar.

  Lucky nodded. ‘I think so. He could give them bad information, pretending it was research. Also gate grubs are getting harder to recruit, and the death toll isn’t helping.’

  They left Gallows Hill and made their way back to the castle in silence. They had a lot to think about, and they were both still mourning Donna.

  Crafty spent the rest of the day in his room, pondering on all that had happened to him since he came to the castle. He wished he could talk to his father; his advice was always sound and wise. But now he was missing, and no one knew where he might be. Crafty wondered if the Duke’s son had recovered yet. If he had, maybe he’d be able to tell them what had happened and why the three couriers had left him and gone up the hill.

  Crafty sighed. Come back soon, Father … he thought. He didn’t let himself wonder if his father might never be coming back. But the fear was there in the back of his mind.

  The next morning Crafty walked into the Waiting Room to find Lucky at the table, his head on his arms.

  ‘Tired?’ he said, joking weakly.

  But when Lucky lifted his head and looked at him, Crafty saw that his cheeks were streaked with tears, his eyes red and swollen. Before he could apologize, the far door opened and the Chief Mancer came in.

  ‘I sincerely hope that we will not need your services today,’ he began, ‘but life must go on, and we must continue with our work. We are attempting to recruit a replacement gate grub, but it is proving somewhat … difficult.’ He looked worried.

  Crafty raised his hand, signalling that he wanted to say something.

  Ginger Bob looked at him, and gave the faintest of smiles. ‘Yes, Benson, what is it?’

  ‘Could I have a word with you, sir?’

  ‘Of course. Metaphorically speaking, I am all ears,’ he said, waiting expectantly.

  Crafty paused. ‘I’d like to speak to you in private, sir.’

  The Chief Mancer stared at him, and so did Lucky. They were both wondering why Crafty couldn’t just say what he needed to. But the truth was, Crafty was worried about Lucky. He wanted to talk to Ginger Bob about Viper, and having Lucky around might put him off. There was also the danger that Lucky might interrupt and spoil things, especially in his present state of mind.

  ‘Very well,’ replied the mancer. ‘I’m about to put a candidate through his paces, so come and see me this afternoon. Make it three on the dot.’ And he turned and left the room.

  ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t speak to him in front of me. What are you afraid of?’ Lucky said immediately.

  But before Crafty could think up an answer, the far door opened again and he gave a silent groan. It was Viper.

  ‘Come with me, Proudfoot. I have a job for you!’ he commanded.

  Lucky glanced at Crafty, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Now!’

  Lucky dragged himself to his feet, and reluctantly followed Viper out of the room.

  Crafty was simultaneously worried and relieved. He couldn’t help but feel glad that Viper hadn’t taken him, but he was very concerned about Lucky. Would Viper try to strike again immediately? he wondered.

  He grew ever more anxious as time passed and Lucky didn’t return. At first he tried to occupy himself by running through what he was going to say to the Chief Mancer. He knew he probably had only one chance to tell him how dangerous Viper was, so he had to get it right. He knew that Ginger Bob was a stickler for the rules, but surely he could be made to see how reckless Viper had become?

  Three more hours passed, and then, finally, it was time to go down and talk to the Chief Mancer – and there was still no sign of Lucky.

  Crafty knocked on the door and was invited to enter. The room was gloomy as usual, with a solitary candle flickering on the untidy desk. Ginger Bob pointed to a chair, and Crafty sat down opposite him. He couldn’t help glancing over towards the black curtain.

  ‘Did the candidate pass the test, sir?’ he asked, wondering if a new gate grub would be joining them.

  ‘Unfortunately he failed. Well, Benson, get to the point. What can I do for you? I’m afraid if you’re here to ask about your father, I’ve not heard anything. All three couriers are still missing.’

  Crafty’s heart plummeted. He’d been hoping, if the conversation went well, to ask about his father – but now it seemed there was no need. He had a job to do, and he’d better get on with it. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of things about Donna’s death …’

  Ginger Bob frowned, but gestured for him to go on.

  Crafty took a nervous breath, and made his first point.

  ‘Firstly, sir, I believe that each gate grub should have some sort of weapon to fend off aberrations from the Shole.’

  ‘A weapon?’ the Chief Mancer exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, sir – perhaps some sort of spear to keep attackers at bay. Or at least a knife –’

  ‘A knife? Preposterous! You are gate grubs, not warriors.’

  ‘But, sir, couriers are armed. My father carries a knife with a long blade.’

  ‘That is because couriers have to cross miles and miles of the Shole in order to reach distant Daylight Islands – alone, I might add – whereas gate grubs spend hardly any time on field operations, and rarely venture more than fifty yards from the nearest gate. You may also have noted that couriers are big men, strong and brawny. It is not for nothing that they call your father Big Brian. Gate grubs are small and scrawny. You don’t have the physique to use weapons.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, that’s because none of us live long enough to grow up and develop that physique.’ Crafty could feel himself getting cross. Ginger Bob wasn�
�t listening to him at all!

  Anger clouded the mancer’s face, and Crafty knew he’d made a mistake.

  ‘I don’t like your tone, Benson. Have you anything further to add? If not, return to the Waiting Room. I’m a very busy man.’

  Crafty should simply have left the room then, but he was angry too. The Chief Mancer had dismissed his suggestion about weapons out of hand. Something had to be said.

  So he said it.

  ‘I do have something further to add. Sir, I am unhappy about the way Mr Vipton conducts himself. Donna was the third gate grub he’s accidentally killed with the guillotine, and I believe that he has left others to die in the Shole. He’s been involved in too many fatal accidents – he should no longer be trusted. I would respectfully suggest that Mr Vipton needs a period of retraining before he is permitted to be in charge of another gate grub.’

  By now the Chief Mancer was on his feet. He looked ready to explode.

  ‘You have gone too far, Benson – much too far,’ he said, his voice low and dangerous. ‘You have spoken completely out of turn. How dare you criticize a gate mancer! This is a breach of professional etiquette!’

  He reached for the bellrope and tugged it, gesturing that Crafty should stand. Almost immediately there was a knock and, on being told to enter, two guards came into the room.

  ‘Take this boy down to the lowest, darkest and dampest of the cells. He is to spend the night there. Bring him back to me at dawn tomorrow,’ Ginger Bob ordered them.

  Crafty’s heart dropped like a stone. He tried to protest, but the guards seized him by the arms and marched him swiftly through the doorway.

  Down and down through the castle they went. He couldn’t believe that the dungeons were so much further below them. The corridors seemed endless, and all Crafty could hear was the drip of water and the stamp of the guards’ boots. There was a dark passage ahead of them – they had reached the last torch. The guard on his left pulled it out of the wall sconce and used it to light their way.