by Peter
I so, so, so want to call her. Maddie would listen to me. She’d talk me out of these terrible imaginings. Or – or if I am going mad, she’d take care of me. She always has. I bet she’s giving the local rozzers gyp.
But what if that mayor won’t let ’em search for me? It was his bloody wife giving me the eye that made me nip down the Valley out of her way. She looked like an elephant wearing face-powder. Mind, if it had been that receptionist in that last hotel I wouldn’t have minded getting my end away. Besides, I couldn’t stand listening to any more of that bollocks about the gateway to the Otherworld. The tour-guide might have Maddie fooled with all that choosing our fate in the Otherworld shit. I mean, if you crawl under the bridge you face your own dragons or come out into the Summerland. Tir na bloody nÓg. Your own choice, the sodding guide had said. I only wanted a quiet fag.
But slugs are swarming up my nose. I’m choking! I can’t breathe. I’ve got to open my mouth.
And a wasp stings my tongue.
IN THE ENDLESS noon of the Otherworld, Maddie pleaded through her tears. All around was paradise: friendly beings in lush green meadows, and the sea sparkling under the bluest of skies. And she couldn’t touch any of it. She stood in a crystal bubble.
“It’s not his fault,” she wept. “He tried so hard but nobody would give him a chance at a project that might actually get off the ground. And it seems so unfair, now Bella and I’ve got this fabulous new contract thanks to the Chamber of Commerce. Let me go and rescue him, please! I can’t leave him there.”
“It’s your life,” said the ageless queen in the beautiful gown. “You’re the only one who can decide what path you will take.”
“HELP ME!” I keep trying to croak but the words can’t struggle past my agonised tongue. What air I can get whistles round the swelling.
Again that creepy whispering in the grass. I strain to see what’s making it. It looks like the earth’s walking beneath the grass, and suddenly I realise it’s the leeches, red and leaking my blood. All those ones that were piercing my body, she’s sent them all away with just a thought. The end of the torture. I’m so grateful to her for just being there. My Madeleine.
She kisses the hollow of my neck. Instantly my breath comes easier. The pain’s going, leaving hardly a memory, only snapshots, not the feel of it. Suddenly green leaves shade my skin.
“Are you all right, Jimmy?” I can see the concern in her eyes. Maddie gestures, and all at once I’m free. I didn’t think I’d be able to walk after all this time but I float effortlessly towards her. We hug for the longest time, and nothing hurts at all.
Then I remembered how long she’d left me there, tortured day and night. A wave of anger scalds out from my heart. “Don’t you care about me at all, you daft cow? Fuck knows how long I’ve been stuck here yelling my head off.” A little dig to make her guilty, not too much, just a cocktail-stickful, but nice and vinegary so she’ll know her place. “Where the hell have you been?”
She backs up, shocked, almost tripping on a tuft of grass. The sun’s behind her now, right in my eyes. “What’s the matter, Jimmy? Have you bumped your head? You’ve only just stepped under the bridge.”
I give her my best glare. “Don’t you fucking lie to me!”
“You did, Jimmy, no more than a second ago. I was right behind you.”
A ghostly silhouette floats onto her. Into her. It makes her denser, somehow. Gives her – what’s the word? Gravitas. The warrior maiden’s anger forms a shield. Suddenly, my Maddie’s more real than I’ve ever seen her.
Another phantom bursts through her, the old one, kindly arms wrapping her in comfort and protection. She begins very gently to shine.
I’m so stunned I can’t move.
“They’re not lizard doilies, Jimmy. They’re tapestries of dragons and Merlin and the Celtic triple goddess, and they’re beautiful. They’re made with love and pride, not like you and your corner-cutting crook of a boss with your substandard buildings. Bella’s a friend, not someone who uses you like Billy uses you, or you used to use me. But no more. Our first order’s more than paid our overheads. I know you’re in debt so I’ll buy the house off your hands.” She twinkles her fingers in mockery, and the light seems to swallow her. The last thing I hear is a derisive, “Ta-ta.”
GOD KNOWS WHY they thought they’d bring me a newspaper with that in it. For one thing I can’t read it ’cause it’s in French, and for another, that’s a photo of my wife – my ex-wife – with a giant cheque with lots of noughts on it. It drives me nuts.
All three of them come back to haunt me: the three dragons. Woman the warrior, woman the caregiver, woman the wise. They tried to feed me this bollocks, that I’d brought it all on myself.
True, at some time, some age that felt long enough for the whole galaxy to revolve on its axis, Madeleine the mother came to let me go. “Ta-ta!” Cheeky bloody cow. I swear one of these nights I’m going to go round there and bash her face in just to teach her that if I can’t have her, no one else will. I’ll read her the riot act right enough.
But not just yet. I’m in some kind of a hospital with some Frog copper standing guard when I have visitors, but Billy says he knows this lawyer.
The Satan Stones by Misha Herwin
THE SATAN STONES loom up out of the twilight. The King Stone is tall and proud against the lowering sky; at its side lies the Queen Stone. A perfect circle hollowed out over the millennia, it frames a glimpse of the rising moon. Darkness steals up from the ground, the Stones grow dark, their shapes silhouetted against the brightness of the moon.
Backlit by this silvery light a girl comes across the field. Dressed in a white robe, her hair flowing freely down her back she is crowned with a wreath of flowers. Her feet are bare, her eyes blank. As she nears the sacred site she is joined by others. Cloaked and masked, they merge into shadow, watching as she moves up the slight incline. When she reaches the Queen Stone, she bows her head and kneels before it and their voices rise in a chant of welcome. The girl lifts her arms. Her wrists are seized and bound. There is a sudden flash of steel. Blood drips on stone, seeps thick and warm into the waiting earth.
Music sounds. Low, threatening. Credits roll. Written in script jagged as lightening, they are smeared by stains of scarlet like a dying hand clawing at glass.
But the girl goes willingly. She does not fight her destiny.
Remote in hand, Alexa stares at the screen. The curtains in the lodge house are drawn against the dark. A log fire burns in the hearth, the lamps cast a warm glow around the sitting room and yet long cold shudders slither up her spine. Out there in the darkness there is something otherworldly, unknown. It comes with the night and the impenetrable silence that presses against the house.
Her phone lies on the coffee table in front of her. She has only to pick it up and she will hear Sam’s voice, but she doesn’t want to talk to him. He will try to rationalize away her fear, but if it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be feeling like this. He was the one who pressurized her into coming this weekend. He should be here, not a time zone away in New York.
This cottage was his idea. As soon as it had come on the market he had to have it, worrying at her until she agreed. He’d wanted it since he was a boy living in the village and going up to the Hall to see his cousin Kit.
She’d love it, he told her. It would be their own weekend retreat, the magical place where they would escape from the rush and bustle of their lives, hers as a top divorce lawyer, his as a media consultant.
Alexa catches her lip with her teeth, breathes in an angry sob. They had such plans, but once the lodge was theirs Sam seemed to have lost interest. The week before they took possession he told her he would have to be away on business, but he still made her promise to go ahead without him.
Which is why she is here. Alone in the dark watching Kit’s latest film, his most recent foray into the horror that has made his name. Alexa chews at her lip. She should have known better. Kit’s films are always disturbing, but this
one is based on the ancient stones that stand somewhere out there in the fields, not too far from the lodge, which makes it more relevant, more personal, somehow. Is this why she is reacting so strongly? Alexa shakes her head and reminds herself that she is a rational being and there is a perfectly good explanation for her sudden burst of fear. She’s tired after a long week and so has fallen for the age-old cliché of Neolithic stones and sacrificial maidens. Damn Kit for making such a good job of it. Her nails dig into flesh as she shakes her head to clear her thoughts.
In the oak tree opposite the lodge, an owl hoots. Car headlights sweep round the corner. Is it Kit coming home to the Hall? If it is then he should bloody well stop and come and see if she’s all right. Leaving that DVD like a calling card, for her to watch was a pretty mean trick.
The car drives past at speed. Alexa grits her teeth. If that is Kit, then she’ll go up there tomorrow and tell him that she wasn’t impressed by being abandoned on her first night. She might even, after a glass of wine or two, confess that for a moment his film scared her. They’ll laugh about it and she’ll tease him for using every corny trick in the book to curdle the blood. As Kit likes to think of himself as sophisticated and radical, that will really get to him.
Alexa rubs the tops of her arms where her grip has bruised the skin; she stretches her legs and wriggles her toes, wincing as the blood flows back into her feet. Smiling wryly at her childish reaction to what is only a film, she walks into the kitchen and pours a large glass of wine. She does not, however, let herself look out through the un-curtained window, where two fields away she knows the Satan Stones stand.
She sleeps with the light on, but she does not dream.
In the morning the January sky is blue and the shrubs in her tiny garden glisten with frost. There is no message or text from Sam. Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and nibbling toast, Alexa watches a robin pecking at the bare earth then draws in her breath as a small black and white cat appears. Holding its tail like a question mark the cat strolls down the path towards the unsuspecting bird. Fearing for the robin’s safety, Alexa jumps up and taps on the window. The cat turns its head in her direction. Its green unblinking eyes hold her gaze. She is the first to look away and when she does she sees that the robin has flown.
Baulked of its prey, the cat turns its attention to the grey haired woman coming down the drive towards the lodge house. She is wearing a long flowing skirt and battered coat and carrying a basket over her arm. Thinking it must be one of Kit’s odd friends Alexa raps on the glass and waves. The cat, as if preparing itself for a visit, sits down on the path. Alexa knocks again, but there is no sign that the woman has heard her. She has reached the stile and is climbing over it into the field that stretches out in front of the cottage.
Where is she going? What is she doing? And what gives her the right to ignore a friendly greeting?
Fuelled by a sudden flash of anger, Alexa goes to the back door, takes her jacket off its peg, shoves her feet into her boots and strides out into the crisp cold. The cat gets up and twines itself around her legs, but of the woman there is no sign.
“Great,” Alexa says to the cat. “And I thought people in the country were supposed to be friendly.” The cat gives her an inscrutable look and stalks off towards the house across the road. Once the mirror image of their lodge it now looks slightly shabby, the windows small and secretive, the garden overshadowed by the oak tree where the owl roosts.
“Is that where you live?” Alexa says as the cat sits down by the front door. “Grief, I’m talking to a cat. One day out here in the wilds and I’ve lost it.” Hastily she goes back into the house. Glad that she had not opted for a Sainsbury’s home delivery, she makes a note of what she needs and sets off for the local supermarket.
After the stillness and emptiness of Oakley, the small country town is bustling with Saturday shoppers. Walking down the aisles of the supermarket, Alexa is soothed by the familiar routine and when the shopping’s been done she feels calm and in control. She drives back along the narrow lanes and as she reaches the lodge she has to slow to avoid the figure coming towards her. Although the sun is at her back, the woman’s hand is shielding her eyes as if she is looking out for someone. Alexa brakes and the woman walks over.
“Hello. I’m your new neighbour,” Alexa says lowering window. She thinks her voice sounds foolish in the still winter air.
The woman looks at her with eyes as green as the cat’s. She says nothing. Alexa opens the door and scrambles out. She feels cross, flustered, wrong footed somehow although she has done nothing but be perfectly pleasant. “I’m down for the weekend. My first night in the cottage. Alone.” She tries a smile but her mouth won’t quite obey. “I’ve been watching Kit’s film. Apparently it was all based round the Stones.”
“The Devil’s Ring and Finger.” The woman’s voice is low and husky.
“Oh yes, that’s what they’re really called. I forgot. Sam, my partner, showed me them on the map.” She’s gabbling. “He’s from round here you know and he thinks it’s really exciting to be living so close to an ancient site.” Again the disconcerting silence. “Oh well must get on.” Alexa moves towards the boot. “Shopping.” She gives an apologetic shrug.
“Have you seen them?”
For a moment Alexa is confused. She has the strangest feeling that this woman knows all there is to know about her and yet she is sure that she has told her nothing.
“No. I told you. Didn’t I?”
“You should.” The woman is holding out her hand.
“I don’t think,” Alexa begins, but already she is letting the boot lid drop. The woman’s grip is warm and firm; her fingers close round Alexa’s, tight as manacles. As she is led across the field, images of blood dripping onto stone cross Alexa’s mind and she drags her feet, glancing behind her, half hoping for rescue.
“Don’t be afraid. There’s no moon,” the woman says and Alexa takes comfort in the hard bright sunlight, the rough tufts of grass, the splodges of cow pat that seem so safe and ordinary.
The Stones stand on a slight hillock. They seem smaller, less powerful than in the film, but as the two women approach, something passes between them, like the pulse of an electric current. Alexa’s hand grips the woman’s.
“You feel it.” The woman is smiling.
“Feel what?” Alex’s mouth is dry, her throat tight. “The evil?” she manages.
The woman stops, her eyes crinkle, she is laughing. “The Stones are not evil.”
Alexa swallows. “Then why are they called the Devil’s Ring and Finger?”
“Because they are powerful.”
“You mean because people were sacrificed on them.”
“Oh no.” Once again there is a trace of laughter in the woman’s voice. “They bear the name of the horned god because within them they hold the gift of life. The ebb and flow of the seasons, the sowing and the ripening and the harvesting of crops. What sacrifices there are, are the ones we women make for our people and our land. See, feel.” She stretches out her hand and Alexa finds that she is touching the rough surface of the upright stone. Her fingers explore the uneven planes, dig into clefts and crevices gouged out by the centuries. And then she is at the Queen Stone where the hollowed out centre is smooth and sensuous as marble. She half closes her eyes, her breath slows, and she is seized by the desire to slip within that circle, to slide back into some primeval time when everything was simple and clear cut, when all that mattered was the giving and taking of life.
A cloud veils the sun bringing with it a chill breeze, then it moves away and the warmth returns. Alexa blinks hard in the harsh light. Turning her head sees she is alone.
She walks slowly back to the lodge trying to make sense of what has just happened. Part of her feels that she has been given some sort of message, a message she does not understand. Logic however tells her that the woman is one of Kit’s crazy, drugged up hangers on, who has somehow managed to involve her in her fantasy.
&n
bsp; “I’ll get you for this Kit,” she promises, sending him a text. Then she unpacks the shopping and makes coffee. Checking her phone she finds no message from Sam. She swears briefly then settles down to work. The divorce she is working on absorbs all her attention. Celebrity parents fighting over the custody of their children; it is high profile and very acrimonious.
After hours of work, eyes aching, she rests her head in her hands, raking fingers through her hair. Cases such as these make her glad that she and Sam have decided not to have a family. Children are nothing but a distraction. She has her career, he has his, plus a couple of kids from his last but one marriage. The eldest boy he hopes will one day inherit the Hall, for Kit is unlikely to provide an heir; after all, the house and estate has passed through the family for centuries.
Alexa stretches and leans back in her chair. It is later than she thought and the house is still and silent.
The sudden sharp cry takes her by surprise. Her hands fall protectively to her stomach. Senses alert she turns her head. Nothing. Not a whimper.
Then it comes again. A faint gasp followed by the desperate sobbing of a baby left alone in its cradle.
She is on her feet and opening the bedroom door before she remembers that there is no child in this house. And there never will be, she tells herself with grim determination as she checks the TV, radio and laptop. She throws open the door and steps out into a clear star-splintered night. Silence. She stands and listens, frowning in concentration, hands balled into fists, straining to hear from which direction the cries are coming. Nothing. The icy air sears her throat. Behind, the lodge house windows blaze with light, the kitchen door stands open tempting her back. Alexa hesitates.
A small black shape charges across the flagstones. The cat butts against her legs purring and fussing, until she lets it guide her out of the garden. The stile is slippery with frost; the rough grass crunches under her feet. The moon hangs low over the tops of the trees lighting her way towards the dark outline of the Devil’s Ring and Finger.
