by Pat Walsh
Up ahead, the rags tied to the bushes near the Hollow hung like dead hands, limp and dripping in the steady rain. Robin walked past them without as much as a glance. William hardly dared to breathe until the Hollow was safely behind him. Robin disappeared around the next bend in the track. William clambered back onto the grass verge and broke into a run. Robin was waiting for him by the fork in the track leading to the abbey. He was the same skinny, lank-haired boy William had met in Weforde. Whatever William thought he had seen earlier, it must have been all in his mind, conjured out of fear and the failing daylight.
“Thank you for the food,” William said awkwardly. As strange as the boy was, he had been kind enough to share his bread and cheese with William, and such rare generosity should not be ignored.
Robin’s eyes gleamed. “It’s my pleasure. I hope you enjoy it.”
William opened his mouth to say he would, when he noticed a dark patch on the causeway, just a few paces away. He turned to look more closely and was disturbed to see that it was blood, mixed with small clumps of reddish fur. He crouched down beside it and picked up a tuft of fur between his thumb and forefinger. He turned it slowly and caught his breath. It was the same shade of red as the hob’s fur. Fear squeezed the breath from his body and it was several moments before he realized that it was not quite the same, but a shade or so paler and not as coarse. It was fox fur. He glanced back down at the blood. There was a great deal of it, but strangely, there was no sign of the injured animal and no trail of blood to show where it had gone.
William noticed something else on the bloodstained ground. Carefully, he picked it up and to his surprise saw that it was a bundle of oak twigs, tied with a length of wool. A cold chill of foreboding crept over him. He looked up at Robin and saw that the boy was staring at the abbey with a strange expression on his face.
“What do you suppose this is for?” William asked, holding up the oak twigs.
Robin glanced at them and took a step backward. “Who knows?” He seemed ill at ease and anxious to be on his way.
William dropped the fur and the twigs and stood up. He wiped his blood-smeared fingers on his cloak. Robin started to walk up the causeway to the track.
“I am sure the monks would give you lodgings for the night if you asked them,” William called after him. “You could continue your journey in the morning.”
“I told you, the rain and the dark do not trouble me,” Robin said sharply. He glanced from the patch of blood to the abbey buildings, and for a couple of moments his gaze lingered on the church tower. William thought he saw a flicker of fear cross the boy’s face.
“I’m sure we’ll meet again, William,” Robin called over his shoulder.
William grimaced and thought, I hope not. He stepped over the bloodstain and sprinted down the track toward the abbey gatehouse, splashing through the puddles and floodwater. He looked back when he reached the abbey gate, but Robin had disappeared into the darkening forest, and the trackway was empty.
*Attention, readers! See this page for a timetable of daily life
at the abbey and a glossary of terms.*
Text © 2010 Pat Walsh
Excerpt from The Crowfield Demon copyright © 2012 by Pat Walsh.
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