The Walls of Woodmyst

by Robert E Kreig

  They were honourable to their word. Their vow had seen them fulfil many deeds with Alan for the benefit of the community. The Chief offered them positions on the council and they accepted.

  Richard Dering was often referred to as the wise man of the group. It was true that he came up with many ideas others had not considered immediately, but his wisdom did not venture far beyond this area. Richard was not much of a thinker. He was more of a take action person.

  The Chief chuckled when he thought back to a time when Richard proved his wisdom. A storm had hit hard during one summer and Richard, being the a soft-hearted individual, decided to bring his small flock of twenty or so sheep into his dwelling to keep them safe. He was still cleaning sheep shit out for two weeks afterwards and the smell of piss still faintly lingered in the corners of his bedroom.

  Beside him sat Michael Forde, a lean man with dark, short-cropped hair. He was making eyes at a number of the female serves who were returning smiles and looks of their own. Sybil often said that Michael was a man that would not have trouble finding a wife. The problem was, Barnard told her, Michael was having too much fun not being married. Tonight, by the looks of it, would be no exception.

  The last man sitting at the table was Hugh Clarke. He was the Dogman of Woodmyst and possessed the knowledge of how to communicate with animals without words or whistles. A flick of the eyes or a tilt of the head, a movement with the hand or a placement of the body instructed his hounds what to do and how to do it.

  A good band of men, the Chief thought. He loved them as brothers. He was glad to have them as his close friends.

  He leant back in his throne and sculled his mug dry.

  The minstrels had started playing faster, merrier music. Some children and drunken folk had taken to the rug on the floor to dance. Others remained seated at their tables to laugh at the display.

  The festivities picked up. Jollity and happiness filled the room as others stood to stomp their feet and clap their hands.

  Some of the infants grabbed hands and spun around and around until they fell down. A few of the drunken dancers spun around and around until they threw up.

  Ale was poured and spilt.

  Music was played.

  The fire blazed.

  Laughter sounded.

  “My lords! My lords!”

  The music stopped as someone shouted from the door. The people froze.

  “What is the meaning of this disturbance?” asked the Chief.

  “Pardon my intrusion, Chief Shelley,” a young guard called. He wore armour complete with a sheathed sword at his side. He was breathing heavily from his haste. “We have company on the north-eastern border.”

  Chief Barnard Shelley rode alongside his trusted councilmen. They crossed the open fields between the eastern wall of the village and the ridgeline of the hills, passing small farms on the way.

  Ahead of them, perched on top of the hills, a lone figure stood. In the light of the moon and stars, they saw the dark hooded cloak wafting back and forth as the cold, tender breeze swept down from the mountains and across the valley floor.

  Something seemed unnatural about this figure. It didn’t move, apart from the effect of the wind. It didn’t retreat or attack. It simply stood its place.

  The Chief unsheathed his sword as they drew closer to the stranger.

  His councilmen mirrored his action, revealing their own blades to the night.

  The horses’ nostril flared as deep breathing was made with each stride. The thunderous hoof-falls echoed across the surrounding hills as they ascended the mild slope towards the lone figure.

  Still, it didn’t move. Its identity remained hidden by the dark hood as it stood its ground.

  Unmoving.

  Unchanging.

  Unnatural.

  One of the horses gave a guttural cry of excitement as they flanked the figure on all sides.

  It kept its composure. It continued to face the village as if oblivious to the men that had it trapped.

  “Speak your purpose,” the Chief ordered.

  The figure remained silent. The cloak flapped softly as a sudden gust blew through the gathering.

  “Speak, bastard!” the Chief barked.

  Alan stared at the figure intently, scrutinizing the movement of the cloak in proportion to the positioning of the body.

  “Are you mute?”

  “Wait, Barnard.” Alan slid from his horse.

  “Be careful, Alan,” cautioned Lawrence.

  Alan gave him a quick sideways glance and a smile as he approached the cloaked figure. He paused when he was within arm’s reach and cocked his head to the left, then slowly to the right.

  In one swift motion and without warning, he sheathed his sword and grabbed the cloak with his hand, ripping it off the figure and revealing what was beneath.

  Tied to a wooden stake was the body of a slain man.

  At least, Alan assumed it was a man.

  The skin had been peeled away and his arms had been taken along with most of the flesh from his torso.

  It appeared the body was recently killed. The blood and tissue were fresh.

  Moist portions glistened in the moonlight.

  The corpse’s eyes turned upwards, staring blankly into the sky.

  Its jaw had been torn from its hinge and left to dangle wide open in a silent scream.

  Chapter Two

  The Great Hall had been emptied except for the Chief and his six councilmen, four elders, the mutilated body and two guards who stood sentry on either side of the large oak doors, which had been shut. The body was laid upon one of the tables near the fireplace and the men gathered around it.

  “Who would have done such a thing?” Michael asked as he stared at the flayed body. “What purpose does this serve?”

  “Do you feel confused?” asked one of the elders, his cloak wrapped tightly around him as he drew nearer to the fire. “Do you feel a lack of control? Perhaps you even feel fearful, Master Forde?”

  “I am not a coward, Eowyn,” Michael objected.

  “That is not what I said,” the old man corrected. “I am merely stating that we, here in in this room, are confused. We have no control over this circumstance. And, yes, I am fearful at this moment. I believe we all are.”

  Eowyn turned to face the men who were all looking to him as he spoke. “If we are feeling this way, how do you think the people of Woodmyst are feeling? Word travels quickly in a village of this size. I don’t believe one eye will close this night. And if any do manage to sleep, I don’t believe their dreams will be pleasant ones.”

  “You are saying that those who have done this,” Richard pointed to the body, “did so to simply scare us?”

  “I believe so, yes,” Eowyn replied.

  “Task accomplished,” Richard said. “I almost pissed myself up there on that hill.”

  “I believe it’s a warning of something to come,” said another elder, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “This is just the beginning.”

  “We should send riders,” another elder suggested.

  “No one leaves the village tonight, Frederick,” Alan said.

  “I mean in the morning, of course. We should send riders to the other villages nearby.”

  “Already done,” Barnard replied. “I ordered riders out when I first heard of this. We’ll also double the guards on the towers and check the bells to see that they are ready to signal if need be.”

  The bells were long cast iron chimes that hung from the ceilings in the towers. Guards would hit them with iron hammers to produce a loud clang that resonated across the valley surrounding Woodmyst. It was a signal for farmers to abandon their crops and flocks in order to seek refuge behind the gates of the township, a signal for villagers to gather at the Great Hall for their protection and safety, a signal for the warriors to take position on the wall to defend their families and friends.

  “The bells are fine,” Peter informed the Chief. “Lawrence and I went around to each tower four day
s ago. They are all fine.”

  “Check them once more for me, please Peter. Check that there are hammers in the towers. I need to be sure.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  “What about this one?” Hugh Clarke queried. They returned their attention to the corpse lying on the table.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” the Chief said. “This one is a victim of foul play. We should build a pyre tomorrow and burn the poor soul.”

  “Such a shame we do not know this one’s name,” Eowyn said. “It would be a better sending away if we were able to mention a name to the gods.”

  “A sending away is better than rotting on the ground,” Hugh said. “Name or no name.”

  “I’ll have the serves wrap the body in linen and green silk,” Barnard told the men. “We will send this one away as if it were one of our own.”

  “From where did he come?” Catherine asked as she placed a loaf of bread onto the table. “Who was he?”

  “We do not know,” Alan answered as he broke a piece of bread off. It was still steaming after not being out of the oven for very long. He took a mouthful and started huffing and puffing. “Ooh! Hot!”

  “Break me some off, Da,” pleaded a small blonde girl sitting across the table from him.

  “Why?” he mumbled with a mouthful of bread.

  “Because I want some,” she giggled.

  “Good enough.” Alan broke off another piece and shoved it into his own mouth.

  “Da!” she complained with a chuckle.

  “You’re teaching the girl bad manners,” Catherine scolded.

  “Mmph,” he managed as he chewed the chunks of bread in his mouth.

  “Here, Linet.” a boy, not much older than the girl, offered as he tore a portion from the loaf and handed it to her before taking a piece for himself.

  “Thank you, Tomas,” she said, and bit into the bread.

  “Barnard wants a ceremony for the stranger,” Alan told his wife. “We’ll build a pyre today and hold the service before dusk.”

  “What will the elders say?”

  “I’m not sure. We can not tell if the stranger is a women or a man. Perhaps there are words that can be said for this type of circumstance.”

  Catherine stoked the embers in the oven with a long poker and left the iron door open so the heat could fill the room. She then sat beside her husband and tore a piece of bread for herself.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “there are no words that can be said. Perhaps this poor soul will pass into the gods’ care with our good wishes.”

  Alan nodded as he gave this thought. His eyes moved from his son to his daughter and then to his wife. He gave a wide grin before moving in to her and kissing her on the nose.

  “One can only hope that would be enough, my love.”

  Hugh Clarke walked with his dogs across the open fields towards the hilltop where the mutilated corpse was discovered. His four hounds jogged back and forth around him as he traversed in a direct path to his destination.

  Every now and then, the dogs ran wide to something of interest on the ground, sniffing the area, tilting their heads to listen at sounds carried upon the cold breeze before racing back to their master.

  Waterfowl spooked by the hounds’ movement fluttered from their hiding place in the tall grass and into the sky. One of the dogs stopped to watch them fly across the sky some distance before landing to rest on the southern bank of the river.

  Small flocks of sheep bleated and ran uphill to the north or towards the riverbank to the south, stopping at a distance they considered safe to watch the man and his dogs crossing their pasture. Hugh ignored them as he strolled on the grass, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the hill where the cloaked, lone figure stood only a few hours before.

  The sun had managed to climb a fraction above the mountains’ peaks and felt warm on his face. The morning fog had retreated to the water’s edge to his right, leaving soft, silvery dew on the lush green expanse about him.

  He ascended the hill slowly as his dogs danced around and sidled up to him for a position of favour. He obliged them by patting them on the heads as they passed by him.

  A short whistle emitted from his lips when he reached the place where the body was found. The dogs sat and watched him closely, obediently.

  Hugh approached the stake that still pierced the ground. Peter Fysher had cut the ropes that held the carcass in place the night before. They now lay on the ground at the base of the wooden pole.

  Hugh picked one of the cuttings up and dangled it between his fingers and thumb. He pointed to one of the dogs with his other hand. The dog rose and approached him. It sniffed at the rope and then at the turf. Nose to the ground, it headed north. As it slowly moved off, Hugh looked at the ground at the base of the stake.

  Round hoof prints from horses and boot depressions from men were visible in the grass. Closer inspection told him all the indents were made by his own group. The horses had come from the village and the people from the horses.

  The dog stopped moving a few paces away and sat. Hugh strode over and looked at the ground where a small patch of turf had been disturbed. Some grass had been ripped out of the ground, exposing fresh dirt. Something had been dragged a short distance across the ground here.

  Blood stained the green vegetation here about. But not enough, in Hugh’s mind, to say this was where the body had been slain. He surmised this was where the body was attached to the stake before being positioned in the ground so it appeared to be looking down upon Woodmyst.

  He searched a little more, calling the other dogs to him. They continued north a way but found no sign of tracks, blood or trail of any kind. To continue more would lead him into a grove that bordered the pasturelands from the hill’s end all the way to the forest in the west. There would be no hope of finding any trail in there.

  It was as if spirits had carried the corpse here and placed it on display before floating away.

  Peter Fysher bundled the wood he had collected together with twine. So far he and Alan had gathered twelve bundles, each about the thickness of a man and half the height if stood on their ends. They were placing the wood onto a wagon hitched to Alan’s horse.

  The sun climbed high in the morning sky. They must take what wood they had gathered back to the eastern gate of the village by midday. Afterwards, the men of Woodmyst would gather to construct the pyre.

  “We need at least another twelve of these,” Peter said.

  “I know,” Alan agreed. “We’re running out of time.” Alan finished tying another bundle and threw it onto the wagon. His horse tossed its head impatiently with a snort. “It’s all right, boy. You’ll be free soon.” He rubbed his hand along the steed’s neck as he moved towards a pile of cut branches the men had collected from the forest.

  Alan laid two strips of twine onto the ground and started placing wood across them. Peter had managed to get a head start and was stacking the wood several layers high. He brought the twine up and around the edge of the pile and tied the two ends together. This forced the wood to collect tightly into a bundle. He repeated the process with the other piece of twine at the other end of the bundle.

  Peter hoisted his new bundle of wood onto his shoulder and carried it to the wagon while Alan continued to stack his branches. His thoughts drifted to the body they had discovered during the previous night. In particular, he started to wonder who was responsible for the act. Questions his wife had asked him during breakfast haunted him and he also needed to know the answers.

  “Who do you think killed this one and then left him on the hill like that, Peter?”

  “I don’t know.” Peter placed two strips of twine on the ground. “I have heard stories from travellers from other villages about ghouls from the north.”

  “Ghouls?” Alan asked. “Why have you not spoken of these things before?”

  “I just thought they were stories,” he answered as he started piling wood together. “Like the ones we tell our children to make them
eat their carrots and beans. I didn’t think they were serious.”

  “What do these stories tell?” Alan hoisted the new bundle onto his shoulder and headed for the wagon.

  “Well,” Peter began, “about two years ago, I was in Oldcastle buying oats and barley. One of the peddlers there told me a couple of towns had been attacked by ghouls. He said they were places in the west within the realms of Melamwen and Kailibard.”

  Peter carried his bundle to the wagon and threw it on board. He grabbed two more pieces of yarn draped over the side of the wagon and returned to the pile of wood where Alan was stacking branches.

  “The peddler told me the towns were destroyed and almost nobody was left alive,” he continued. “There was never a sign of the ghouls ever being there. No trail to follow. Nothing.

  “But one thing made me think of these stories just now and that is the body we found. The peddler told me before the attacks, a body was always discovered. Perhaps a warning.”

  “You think this was done by ghouls?” Alan asked as he tied the last strand of yarn to his bundle.

  “I don’t know,” Peter replied. “It is probably a coincidence, my friend. I’ve never heard anyone else mention such ghouls. The peddler may have just been spewing cow dung.”

  “I hope so,” Alan said as he hoisted his bundle of wood onto his shoulder.

  Between the back of the Great Hall and the wall that bordered the northern edge of the village, were crowded many huts. It was here where the serves that aided the Chief and saw to the menial duties within Woodmyst lived.

  In one of these structures, two young female serves wrapped the body in fine linen, weeping as they did so. They never knew the individual they prepared for the pyre but something within them both expressed great sorrow.