Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  Just a doorway to Sylvia.

  But not to me. Oh God, not to me.

  ‘Come on,’ she sang. ‘Where next?’

  I watched her pass through, amazed that she could sense nothing. Rigid in my determination to conquer, I followed her, trying to block out the shadow, to refuse it entry into my brain.

  I couldn’t. It overwhelmed my defences, enveloping me in a black cloud. Huge atavistic fear, searing thirst, gut-wrenching despair. I could feel the interweaving strands of emotion like filaments of rot, tightening around me, meshing in my lungs, my veins, my bones. How could Sylvia possibly not feel this?

  I lurched for the open space beyond and swallowed my nausea, forcing my fists to unlock, my pulse to slow.

  ‘Fascinating place,’ I said, before Sylvia could comment. My voice was totally calm. ‘I can see why you were captivated by it.’

  ‘It could be a gold mine, don’t you think?’ She was utterly oblivious, because I’d had years of practice, learning how to show nothing. All I needed to learn now was how to feel nothing. It wasn’t going to happen. I’d never learn to block out something this terrible.

  ‘It has so much to offer,’ continued Sylvia. ‘We could do wonders.’

  The hair still prickling on the nape of my neck, I followed her out into the chill relief of the open air. Outside was safe. No echoes, just cleansing wind, washing round the tumbled walls of an abandoned kitchen garden.

  ‘I’m going to have all this for herbs.’ Sylvia was off again, amidst a sea of last year’s nettles. ‘Isn’t that a good idea? … old recipes … herbal remedies … alternative medicine centre … aromatherapy … wine…,’

  She chattered on while I was still struggling with the dark anguish behind us. No! I forced myself to tune in again to her enthusiasm.

  ‘…yes I know that elderflower was awful, I don’t know what went wrong, but Mike could do it, chemistry and all that. Oh, and there’s a real well. Look.’ She heaved at corrugated iron, on which “Caution!” had been scrawled in yellow paint.

  I helped her shift the sheet, and found myself staring down into an abyss. Masonry, green with slime and sprouting ferns, descended into blackness. A pebble broke loose and clattered for a moment, finishing with an echoing splash.

  I pulled back sharply.

  ‘What is it?’ Sylvia looked up, all consternation. ‘Oh Kate, how awful! You’re sensing something, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes! A bloody big hole and I don’t want to fall down it.’

  ‘I thought, a ghost or something? It would be horrible if something nasty had happened here. Anyway, where next?’ She turned to get her bearings, spoilt for choice. ‘The orchard—oh I must restore that. Medlars and quinces and so on, you know. And there’s a row of cottages through there—well, a couple are still habitable, so we can do them up, like the lodge, for holiday lets. And the pasture, down to the road. Dewi rents it at the moment but I was thinking, Jacobs sheep. And wild boar. Alpaca! But you must come and see the workshops at the back. You know, for a proper craft centre. We’re a start, me and Mike. If we could get some others, basket makers and things like that ‒ I’ll show you. Let me think, what’s quicker? Through the woods, or back through the old house—’

  ‘The woods,’ I said. ‘I’m enjoying the fresh air.’

  ‘Oh yes. The woods. I get hopelessly lost in there. Mike had to come and rescue me once.’ Sylvia opened a gate at the top of the walled garden and we passed through, following one of the many tracks that wound between tangled oaks and holly and mossy boulders.

  In a clearing, a sculpture, ten feet tall, perched on a rock over us. Glad to have something to distract me, I stopped to look at it. A reach of gnarled bough, transformed into an abstract image of soaring flight. ‘Michael’s? It’s a falcon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes! That one’s called “Windhover”. He’s put his pieces all over the place. That’s what’s so wonderful. Llys y Garn is just perfect for them, isn’t it?’

  She was right. Michael made a living, these days, producing exquisitely crafted furniture, but his real delight lay in these massive chain-saw sculptures. I’d seen a couple before, in the tame surroundings of a Home Counties park, but out here, among the rocks and the trees of their origin, they came into their own, organic and complete.

  ‘Hello.’ Michael appeared, coming down from the woods, a freshly discovered length of wood in his hand. ‘Doing the tour?’

  ‘I’ve barely shown Kate half of it.’ Sylvia bounded to him? ‘What’s that, darling? What’s it going to be?’

  Michael turned the piece of wood against the light, exploring its angles. ‘I haven’t decided yet. It will tell me when it’s ready.’

  Looking from the yearning sculpture, liberated on its rock, to Michael, studying wood for a spirit within that only he could feel, I understood why he’d risked the mockery of colleagues and his children’s wrath, to follow his true calling, out here in the forsaken wilds. Perhaps his enthusiasm for this place really was as strong as Sylvia’s, if more muted in its expression.

  ‘You can show Kate our workshops, while I make a start on lunch,’ she said, giving him a hug, which he returned with a peck on her cheek, holding his new find aside to avoid impaling her.

  He smiled at me, as she skipped off. ‘What do you make of it so far, Kate?’

  I fell in beside him. ‘It certainly is a huge undertaking.’

  Michael chuckled. ‘Sylvia wants solar panels, but she generates all the energy we need, don’t you think? And the ideas, of course.’ We were strolling towards the estate buildings whose backs lined the drive.

  ‘Let me guess.’ I peered into a two-storey coach house, currently housing crates and a wrecked tractor. ‘Shop? Art gallery?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Michael smiled. ‘Do you think you can manage all this, Kate? It’s a monster, I know.’

  ‘Can I rely on your backing? You know how business works. Sylvia believes the fairies do it all.’

  ‘I never have the heart to rein her in. But you’ll make it work for her. Here’s her pottery.’ He opened the door of the first workshop, with kiln and wheel, shelves laden with glazes, clay splattered on the stone walls and the concrete floor. Sylvia had dabbled with ceramics during her housewife years and after the divorce she had taken it up more seriously, almost making money.

  ‘She’s loving it here, isn’t she,’ I said.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Michael. He gazed fondly round the chaos.

  ‘Thanks for all you’ve done for her.’ We moved on to his workshop, rich with the scent of resin and fragrant wood chippings. ‘She had such a shit time with Ken, but you’ve made her shine again.’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘I’m the one to be grateful, for what she’s done for me.’

  I thought of his widowhood, the awful nightmare of watching a wife slowly die. ‘You must have been through hell,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I got very low. Rock bottom.’ He drew breath, then shrugged off the memories. ‘But Sylvia pulled me up again, into the light. If she shines, she shines on me.’ His glance fell on another of his sculptures, perched in the trees above his workshop.

  I looked up at it, an arcing, leaping form. A hare? High-kicking, joyful chaos. I hugged Michael’s free arm, laughing. ‘It’s Sylvia!’

  Michael smiled.

  The hare and the windhover. Joyous release was what Llys y Garn meant to them. The horror in the Great Hall came back to me, the hopeless sense of release denied, like a negative image of their affectionate delight. But I was going to fight it, and somehow I was going to clamber up onto that liberated plane with Sylvia and Michael. Until then, I dreaded to think what sculptural form my spirit would take.

  Chapter 4

  Llys y Garn now had an office. It was the former library, adjoining the drawing room. Some of the lofty bookcases remained, but in place of antique volumes in hand-tooled calf-hide, mahogany desks and padded armchairs, I had box files, a computer – with broadband – and a telephone.

&
nbsp; When it rang, I rushed to it, praying that one of the fifty builders I’d contacted was getting back to me, offering a date earlier than August. My first business goal had been to get the lodge cottage up and ready for letting by Whitsun, but our efforts with paint stripper and Polyfilla were going to be wasted without some professional input. Surely someone was available.

  ‘Good morning. Llys y Garn Enterprises. Can—’

  ‘Give me Chris.’ The voice was deep and aggressive.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Yeah. Chris. Get him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.’

  ‘Chris Callister.’ He slowly enunciated each syllable. ‘Tell him Tyro wants him. Now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Christian doesn’t actually live here. This is his mother’s house.’

  A wheeze of sinister mockery. ‘Actually. His mother, eh? Then tell her—’

  ‘Mr Callister isn’t here, hasn’t visited for months, and I have no idea where he is. London, probably. If you have any other contact numbers for him, I suggest you try those. Good morning.’

  I put the phone down, ordering myself to laugh. Tyro. The name suggested a pantomime villain, but pantomimes involving my nephew Christian were never entertaining. I didn’t want him or his sinister contacts anywhere near Llys y Garn. The idea that they had our number was enough to make me uneasy. For the first time, the isolation of the property unnerved me.

  I was alone in the house, for once. Sylvia and Michael were delivering a consignment of pottery pigs and candle-snuffers to a shop in Pembroke, leaving me to hunt for stray receipts and builders.

  There could be people out there, prowling in the woods, creeping up to the house, and what could I do about it? For that matter, they could be in the house, and I’d never know. There could be an army of Christian’s underworld friends or enemies loping around its labyrinthine ways, slithering up to the office door…

  The growl of a vehicle, turning in at the lodge, had my pulse quickening. Calm. It was probably Sylvia and Michael returning. But instead of rumbling on up the track, the engine stopped and a distant door slammed. I forced myself to laugh at my own fears, and marched resolutely down the long drive, to investigate.

  A Land Rover was parked up by the open lodge door. I’d seen that Land Rover before. I recognised the owl painted on the door. It, and a garishly decorated campervan, had been standing outside a house down the valley, where a bunch of grubby, New Age travellers, in patched leather jerkins and dreadlocks, had been repairing a porch.

  Odd-job men. Builders, of sorts.

  ‘Hello?’ I looked into the lodge and called, in a tone of neutral authority. ‘Someone here looking for me?’

  A figure ducked under the kitchen lintel. ‘Hi, I’m Al Taverner.’ He proffered a hand in greeting. ‘Sylvia asked me to do some work here.’

  ‘She did?’ I swallowed my exasperation with my cousin. ‘She must have forgotten to mention it.’

  ‘Well, she was just on her way to Pembroke, so maybe she didn’t have time.’

  ‘She asked you this morning? What about the Old Rectory? Weren’t you working there?’

  ‘Just finished.’ He grinned. ‘She caught us as we were packing up. Said we could come straight here. Gave us the key. Sounded pretty keen for us to get started.’

  ‘Well… yes.’

  ‘The others will be here soon. I was just taking a look at the work needed. Should be simple enough. No load-bearing walls involved, and the stonework’s good. Sorry, and you are?’

  ‘Kate Lawrence. Sylvia’s cousin.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’ A polite nothing, but it was, I discovered, quite true. Very nice to meet him. An eccentric wardrobe, maybe, even a hint of beads, but nothing remotely unsavoury. He was shaggy in a romantic, Cavalier way. Thirtyish, I guessed; not much younger than me. Long legs. Eyes to die for.

  There it was. I found him attractive. Astonishing. It had been a long time since I’d allowed such feelings in. So I was still alive then.

  Al was nursing an iPad, which didn’t quite match the hippy image. ‘So you’re planning quite an enterprise here. Holiday cottages, crafts, rare breeds.’

  ‘Sylvia told you her grand ideas.’

  ‘She’s a life-enhancing lady. Great aura. You can sense the life force in her. And in this place.’ He thumped a lintel. ‘Good vibes.’ He caught me looking at him dubiously. ‘Nice atmosphere,’ he corrected.

  ‘As long as holidaymakers think so.’

  ‘They’ll love it.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you can bring it up to standard.’ Doubts had strangely evaporated. Al and his crew would be quite sufficient for our needs.

  Whatever those needs were. I was amused and embarrassed by the warmth of my response, but what the hell. Peter and I were separated. Why shouldn’t my libido assert itself again?

  On the other hand, all that New Age gibberish about auras and vibes and feeling the force was discomforting. Llys y Garn already had a resident weirdo. It didn’t need more.

  The campervan, towing a clattering trailer, arrived and Al’s gang emerged, just as I remembered them – grimy, hairy and generally suspect. Not in the same league, but then one has to take the rough with the smooth. The very smooth.

  There was a burly stone mason called Thor, and a whiskery plumber called Nathan. A gangly, unfocussed youth, Pryderi, was something unspecified. Hod carrier, maybe. I understood there would have been more but Tim and Baggy and Gary were ‘doing stuff’ elsewhere and Joe and Padrig were hiking in Peru. Of course they were. There were two women, as well – Molly, a shamanesque earth mother in henna and beads and Kim, a waif with nose studs and a penny whistle. Neither were geared for heavy labour, so I guessed this alternative company wasn’t quite so alternative in some respects.

  When Sylvia and Michael rolled up a few minutes later, Sylvia bounced out as if the circus had arrived in town. ‘Oh wonderful, you found us. Now Al, do you think it will be all right? Have you looked up in the woods yet? For your camp? That’s if you really want to. If you prefer to stay in the house, we have plenty of room—’

  ‘A place to camp will be great,’ said Al. ‘We’ll take a look around later.’ He shook hands with Michael. ‘You must be the artist.’

  Michael chuckled. ‘Joiner, maybe.’

  ‘Artist!’ insisted Sylvia. ‘He’s a genius, really. Now, you can camp anywhere you like. Absolutely anywhere. Don’t worry about thinning out the undergrowth. It needs it anyway.’

  ‘Excuse me, they’re camping here?’ I asked, because it was nice to be kept informed.

  ‘Oh yes, well of course, why not?’ Sylvia beamed. ‘We have so much space.’

  ‘They have a yurt,’ Michael whispered in my ear.

  ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘What will you do about water?’ Sylvia was rubbing her hands. ‘There’s a tap—’

  ‘Al said there’s a stream,’ said Molly. ‘That’s all we need. Earth, water and air.’

  ‘What about fire?’ I asked.

  ‘We provide the sacred fire,’ said Molly. Definitely a priestess.

  ‘As long as you don’t set the woods ablaze.’

  ‘We do no harm,’ said Molly. ‘We honour the spirit in the trees.’

  ‘But that’s lovely,’ said Sylvia. ‘Worshipping trees rather than Mammon.’

  ‘We don’t worship trees,’ said Molly. ‘We worship the spirit in them, in all things.’

  ‘And so we should,’ agreed Sylvia, promptly. ‘The world would be much better if we could only feel the spirit. Kate knows better than anyone. She feels it all the time.’

  I cringed.

  ‘You feel things, don’t you, ghosts and so on.’

  Silent mind-control failed to shut her up, so I had to speak. ‘What Sylvia means is that I sometimes have a feeling for atmosphere. Sort of feng shui. Like the lodge here. A lovely atmosphere, isn’t it?’

  They all agreed that it w
as very positive.

  ‘It’s a great relief,’ said Sylvia. ‘Because Kate feels quite weird things sometimes. If something awful has happened, you know. And I’m so glad nothing really horrible has ever happened at Llys y Garn.’

  She was looking at the others, so she remained immune to my glare.

  Al considered me, quizzically. ‘You feel things? You pick up the vibes?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Sylvia. ‘Like that poor old man who burned…,’ She caught my expression, at last, and hugged me contritely. ‘I’m sorry, oh so sorry, darling. Kate hates to talk about all that.’

  The gang regarded me with hungry interest. Michael, too, studied me with a puzzled smile, unacquainted with family gossip. As a corkscrew worked its way through my innards, I smiled with tolerant exasperation.

  ‘What, you some kind of, like, medium?’ asked Pryderi, aroused almost to animation.

  ‘No. Sorry. I don’t see ghosts; I don’t talk to spirits; I can’t tell the future. Feeling a place is nice or nasty is just about it. Lunch, anyone?’

  Everyone seemed satisfied. As we trooped up to the big house, they turned to more mundane topics; the proper construction of yurts, the work needed on the lodge, recipes for sesame seeds, the correct use of the pole lathe…

  I followed, trying to empty my mind of the sickening images Sylvia had resurrected. Apart from that unguarded faintness at the moment of Leo’s suicide, I had learned to conceal my demonic feelings, but I hadn’t possessed the same skill at the age of eight, when our old neighbour died in a fire. My response had been so obvious, the whole world knew about it. Sylvia learned that something very shocking and uncanny had happened, that I’d had a horrible time and I was terribly upset. She didn’t know about all the guilt and fear, the bullying and shouting, the nightmares and bedwetting – and I was determined that she never would. Which I’d manage more easily if Sylvia stayed off the subject. The trouble with eternal buoyancy is that it has a very short memory.

  When everyone finished the lunch Sylvia managed to conjure up out of nothing, I left them to inspect the workshops. I needed time and space to forgive her. I allowed myself one revenge bite, though, when she returned with Michael.