When he had several small, limp bodies, he went back to his room where the wizened-faced owl was licking her lips in anticipation. Tim fed her three of the mammals and ate two himself.
The following morning he was driven to the doctor’s. In the waiting room, he felt like regurgitating the pellet of bones and fur, but held it down until he was ushered into the surgery. As soon as he was standing in front of the doctor he let go and vomited the bolt of waste matter on to the desk. As expected, the doctor jumped backwards out of his chair.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. At once he examined the pellet then made a phone call. Tim was to be taken to the hospital for observation.
After a check-up, the boy was found to be in a weak condition, with worms and various other intestinal infections caught from the raw meat he had been eating. He was admitted to hospital.
His plan was working. At last he was out of the clutches of the Megowl.
Tim’s mother was distraught. She was convinced that her son was going mad.
‘Is it because his father and I got divorced?’ she asked the doctors. ‘Is that why He’s been eating these horrible things?’
The doctors were of the opinion that Tim was indeed deliberately trying to get attention.
‘He probably feels rejected by his father,’ they told her. ‘And, as you say, you’re very busy yourself, trying to earn a living. It’s not an unusual situation. He needs to stay in our care for a while, until his physical health improves. Then we’ll sort something out to help him mentally. He’s not mad. He just needs some care and attention...’
That night Tim had the first real rest he had enjoyed in a long time. Snuggling down between starched white sheets, he felt cosseted by the hospital and its staff. The nurse called by every so often and there were three other patients in his room. It was like a fortress to him: a clean, stark fortress which would not permit entrance to a foul creature of the darkness. Tim was sealed inside a safe haven and he hoped that by the time he went home the Megowl would have either gone away or died of hunger. He thought of her vicious white face, ringed with feathers, and buried himself deeper under the bedclothes. She would be very angry. She would be spitting poison by now. He fell asleep.
Tim was kept in hospital for a fortnight, during which time he talked with the psychiatrist. He told the man that he had been having nightmares and after these dreams he ate things like mice and other small creatures. He still could not speak of the Megowl, for she had hypnotised him permanently, so that there was a blockage between his brain and his tongue. Every time he even attempted to tell someone about her, he experienced a kind of seizure during which his lips and tongue were locked and would not move. So he did the best he could, by laying the blame on nightmares.
The doctors were still convinced that the problem arose from his parents’ divorce. His father was informed of his illness and came to visit him.
‘I’m sorry to see you like this, Tim,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s our fault—your mother’s and mine—but sometimes people have to go their separate ways.’
‘I know all that,’ Tim said. ‘You told me before.’
‘Yes, well, it doesn’t change with time. It’s unfortunate you’ve taken it so hard—but I can’t change, nor can your mother. We’re as we are, and that’s that. What I can do is see you a bit more. Would you like that?’
It was better than nothing and Tim nodded.
His father placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We can start by you coming to stay with me for a while,’ he said. ‘Susan, my new wife, has agreed that we need to see more of you.
‘Would you like to come to Lancaster for a holiday?’
‘I’m not deserting Mum,’ said Tim fiercely.
‘I don’t expect you to. She agrees that a holiday will do you good and though we’re divorced she still trusts me with your welfare. You are my son, after all. It’ll just be for a holiday—nothing more. Then you can go back to your mother to live, but we’ll still see a bit more of each other. What do you say?’
Tim nodded dumbly. He knew it would get him out of the house and away from that terrible creature.
That night, the night before he was to be collected by his father and driven to Lancaster, there was a scratching on the hospital window pane. As if in a dream, Tim got out of bed and slowly crossed the room. The other patients who shared the room with him were fast asleep. He lifted his hand and pulled back a corner of the curtain. There on the sill sat the foul creature which had caused him so much misery. Her grey-white features sneered at him, as if to say, ‘Did you think you could escape this easily?’ She bared her white, even teeth and hissed some ugly words. Tim reached up, mesmerised, for the window catch. His fingers pulled at the handle but the window had not been opened for quite a time and it was stiff.
The Megowl screeched at him, jabbing the glass with her face, ordering him to pull harder so that she could get in. Her feathers were fluffed in fury and her owl-eyes blazed.
Just as Tim was about to give the handle a good hard wrench, a voice from behind him cried out,
‘What do you think you’re doing, young man?’
Tim whirled, to find the night sister watching him, amazed.
‘I...I...er...nothing, Nurse.’
‘Get back into bed,’ she said, straightening the curtain, ‘and let’s have no more nonsense.’
Tim did as he was told.
Later that night there were more scratchings at the window, but Tim heard nothing. He had claimed that he could not sleep and the nurse had given him a strong sedative.
The next day his father took him to Lancaster.
Away from the Megowl, Tim gradually began to recover. He still looked fearfully at the window at night and waited for the scratching sounds which meant that the creature had caught up with him again, but the sounds never came. His father’s flat was in the middle of town. There was the comforting noise of traffic well into the night, running below the bedroom window. In the centre of a city, amongst modern houses, machines and industry, the idea of a supernatural creature, especially a being of the woods and fields, seemed faintly ridiculous.
Tim stayed with his father and Susan for several weeks. He found Susan pleasant and willing to please him, but he had little real interest in her. She was not his mother and she had no children of her own, so she treated him like an adult, which suited Tim fine.
The day Tim went back home, all his fears came rushing back. His mother was enormously pleased to see him, but he could hardly keep his attention on what she was saying. ‘And how did you get on with... with Susan?’ ‘Oh, okay. She was all right...’
Tim then noticed his mother’s worried look.
‘She wasn’t you, of course,’ he added quickly. ‘She was just someone else. You’re my mum.’
His mother looked relieved to be told this and Tim was pleased he had said it.
Once his mother had satisfied herself that he was glad to be home, Tim went on a search of the bungalow. It was past Halloween—he had deliberately remained with his father until after that date—and he hoped the Megowl had gone. It should have set out to trap some other adolescent by now but Tim wanted to be sure. He looked in all the likely places—under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the curtains—until it seemed certain that the creature had fled in search of a new slave.
With an enormous sense of relief, equal to that of his mother when she learned he was well again and had missed her, Tim went back to his normal life. November the fifth arrived, with all the excitement of Bonfire Night, and then the days fell away like leaves from the trees, until it was December.
December crawled by, for both Tim and his mother were looking forward to Christmas. Deborah had met a man she liked, a divorcee like herself with a daughter and son both younger than Tim. They were all coming to stay for Christmas and arrived on the evening of the 24th.
Tim liked Edward, his mother’s new friend, and though the children were shy he wanted to make friends with them quickly. He knew it was
important to his mother and he had never had the pleasure of young companions living in the same house. Everyone said ‘hello’, smiled a lot, and went to bed early.
In the early morning Tim woke to hear noises in the kitchen. He crept downstairs to find Edward looking very sheepish.
‘Sorry I woke you, Tim,’ said Edward, ‘I’m afraid I was a bit hungry and raided the fridge. I made myself an egg sandwich... I’m sure your mother won’t mind.’
He held it up for Tim to see.
Egg sandwich...Egg. Something suddenly clicked in Tim’s mind.
Leaving a surprised Edward, Tim dashed out of the kitchen and went straight to the airing cupboard. Flinging the door open, he reached underneath the tank and found his old shoebox. Even as he pulled it out he could feel a movement coming from within.
The Megowl had laid its egg inside the box and left it to be incubated by the hot water tank.
Tim grabbed the box. Then he ran out of the house in his pyjamas and bare feet and along the lane to the main road. There were sounds coming from the box. He held the lid on tightly, his chest heaving with the exertion of the run in the cold morning air.
The thing inside the box began to struggle. Tim stopped, pulled out his pyjama cord from his trousers and tied the lid down firmly. He could not allow it to look at him. Once it looked into his eyes, he would be its slave again. Then, one hand holding up his pyjama trousers and the other clutching the box, he finally ran the last few yards to the road.
He waited.
A car went by.
The chick inside the box began gnawing at the cardboard.
Another car went by.
It was furious. It scratched and tore at the bottom of the box. In a few moments it would be free.
An open-backed Land Rover came into sight. Tim waited until it was level, then threw his burden with all his might. The shoebox and its contents landed in the back of the Land Rover and were taken away along the winding road, out of sight.
He was free at last!
THE SILVER COLLAR
My daughter Chantelle actually dreamed this tale on the eve of her marriage to Mark, her husband now of 20 years. I have merely wrought her base dream into the written word. Readers will be pleased to know Mark is not a vampire but a fine family man and a son-in-law of whom we are all proud.
The remote Scottish island came into view as the sun was setting. Outside the natural harbour, the sea was kicking a little in its traces and tossing its white manes in the dying light. My small outboard motor struggled against the ebbing tide, sometimes whining as it raced in the air as a particularly low trough left it without water to push against the blades of its propeller. By the time I reached the jetty, the moon was up and casting its chill light upon the shore and purple-heather hills beyond. There was a smothered atmosphere to this lonely place of rock and thin soil, as if the coarse grass and hardy plants had descended as a complete layer to wrap the ruggedness in a faded cover, hiding the nakedness from mean, inquisitive eyes.
As the agents had promised, he was waiting on the quay, his tall, emaciated figure stark against the gentle upward slope of the hinterland: a splinter of granite from the rock on which he had made his home.
‘I’ve brought the provisions,’ I called, as he took the line and secured it.
‘Good. Will you come up to the croft? There’s a peat fire going—it’s warm, and I have some scotch. Nothing like a dram before an open fire, with the smell of burning peat filling the room.’
‘I could just make it out with the tide,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should go now.’ It was not that I was reluctant to accept the invitation from this eremite, this strange recluse—on the contrary, he interested me—but I had to be sure to get back to the mainland that night, since I was to crew a fishing vessel the next day.
‘You have time for a dram,’ his voice drifted away on the cold wind that had sprung up within minutes, like a breath from the mouth of the icy north. I had to admit to myself that a whisky, by the fire, would set me on my toes for the return trip, and his tone had a faintly insistent quality about it which made the offer difficult to refuse.
‘Just a minute then—and thanks. You lead the way.’
I followed his lead. The path was obviously not well used and I imagined he spent his time in and around his croft, for even in the moonlight I could discern no other tracks incising the soft shape of the hill.
We reached his dwelling and he opened the wooden door, allowing me to enter first. Then, seating me in front of the fire, he poured me a generous whisky before sitting down himself. I listened to the wind, locked outside the timber and turf croft, and waited for him to speak.
He said, ‘John, isn’t it? They told me on the wireless.’
‘Yes—and you’re Samuel.’
‘Sam. You must call me Sam.’
I told him I would and there was a period of silence while we regarded each other. Peat is not a consistent fuel, and tends to spurt and spit colourful plumes of flame as the gases escape, having been held prisoner from the seasons for God knows how long. Nevertheless, I was able to study my host in the brief periods of illumination that the fire afforded. He could have been any age, but I knew he was my senior by a great many years. The same thoughts must have been passing through his own head, for he remarked, ‘John, how old are you? I would guess at twenty.’
‘Nearer thirty, Sam. I was twenty-six last birthday.’ He nodded, saying that those who live a solitary life, away from others, have great difficulty in assessing the ages of people they do meet. Recent events slipped from his memory quite quickly, while the past seemed so close.
He leaned forward, into the hissing fire, as if drawing a breath from the ancient atmospheres it released into the room. Behind him, the earthen walls of the croft, held together by rough timbers and unhewn stones, seemed to move closer to his shoulder, as if ready to support his words. I sensed a story coming. I recognised the pose from being in the company of sailors on long voyages and hoped he would finish before I had to leave.
‘You’re a good-looking boy,’ he said. ‘So was I, once upon a time.’ He paused to stir the flames and a blue-green cough from the peat illuminated his face. The skin was taut over the high cheekbones and there was a wanness to it, no doubt brought about by the inclement weather of the isles—the lack of sunshine and the constant misty rain that comes in as white veils from the north. Yes, he had been handsome—still was. I was surprised by his youthful features and suspected that he was not as old as he implied.
‘A long time ago,’ he began, ‘when we had horse-drawn vehicles and things were different, in more ways than one...’
A sharp whistling note—the wind squeezing through two tightly packed logs in the croft—distracted me. Horse-drawn vehicles? What was this? A second-hand tale, surely? Yet he continued in the first person.
‘…gas lighting in the street. A different set of values. A different set of beliefs. We were more pagan then. Still had our roots buried in dark thoughts. Machines have changed all that. Those sort of pagan, mystical ideas can’t share a world with machines. Unnatural beings can only exist close to the natural world and nature ’s been displaced.
‘Yes, a different world—different things to fear. I was afraid as a young man—the reasons may seem trivial to you, now, in your time. I was afraid of, well, getting into something I couldn’t get out of. Woman trouble, for instance—especially one not of my class. You understand?
‘I got involved once. Must have been about your age, or maybe a bit younger since I’d only just finished my apprenticeship and was a journeyman at the time. Silversmith. You knew that? No, of course you didn’t. A silversmith, and a good one too. My master trusted me with one of his three shops, which puffed my pride a bit, I don’t mind telling you. Anyway, it happened that I was working late one evening, when I heard the basement doorbell jangle.
‘I had just finished lighting the gas lamps in the workshop at the back, so I hurried to the counter where a customer was
waiting. She had left the door open and the sounds from the street were distracting, the basement of course being on a level with the cobbled road. Coaches were rumbling by and the noise of street urchins and flower sellers was fighting for attention with the foghorns from the river. As politely as I could, I went behind the customer and closed the door. Then I turned to her and said, “Yes madam? Can I be of service?”
‘She was wearing one of those large satin cloaks that only ladies of quality could afford and she threw back the hood to reveal one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen in my life. There was purity to her complexion that went deeper than her flawless skin, much deeper. And her eyes—how can I describe her eyes?—they were like black mirrors and you felt you could see the reflection of your own soul in them. Her hair was dark—coiled on her head—and it contrasted sharply with that complexion, pale as a winter moon, and soft, soft as the velvet I used for polishing the silver.
‘“Yes,” she replied. “You may be of service. You are the silversmith, are you not?”
‘“The journeyman, madam. I’m in charge of this shop.”
‘She seemed a little agitated, her fingers playing nervously with her reticule.
‘“I...” she faltered, then continued. “I have a rather unusual request. Are you able to keep a secret, silversmith?”
‘“My work is confidential, if the customer wishes it so. Is it some special design you require? Something to surprise a loved one with? I have some very fine filigree work here.” I removed a tray from beneath the counter. “There ’s something for both the lady and the gentleman. A cigar case, perhaps? This one has a crest wrought into the case in fine silver wire—an eagle, as you can see. It has been fashioned especially for a particular customer, but I can do something similar if you require...”
Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales Page 28
