Red Dragon – White Dragon

by Gary Dolman

  The hollow is the same; the crag is the same; even the call of the raven, jarring the serenity of the moors, is the same. But now across the years, he hears again the soft voice of his mama and feels her warm, safe hand encircle his own.

  In his other hand he brandishes his sword – his first real sword. He is a warrior at last.

  The raven cries again.

  Across the years there are three men ahead of them; standing by the narrow track that is the only way through the marsh they call the Fogy Moss. Even though he has seen but ten years, he can somehow sense that they are feral and vicious. He feels his mama’s hand squeeze his own and knows that she too is afraid.

  The men suddenly cease their whispering and watch them, smirking as they approach. He grips the handle of his sword.

  “Good morning to you,” his mother says. Her voice sounds noble and commanding, but for the last ten years it has been his world and he can sense her fear.

  The men stare and smirk and do not answer her. Her hand grips his, tighter and tighter as they walk.

  And then they are past.

  There is no danger after all. His mother’s hand relaxes.

  A sound of boots. He hears the sound of heavy boots pounding on the path and then he hears a scream.

  It is his mama. His own mama is screaming. The turf lurches up to him. It lies cold against his cheek.

  His mama screams again. Her screams pierce his very soul. He stirs and struggles up. There are the men and they have his mama. They are carrying her, writhing and threshing, towards the rocks.

  “No, Mama!”

  She can’t reply. She is held fast with a hand pressed tight over her mouth. Bewildered, he looks around for someone, anyone, to help her, someone to make them stop. But the moors are empty, save for the raven perched on the rocks, watching.

  His sword! He sees it. The sun has picked it out lying in a hagg and it glints as if it truly were magical. He is fully ten years old and he is a man, as fierce as his father.

  The men are laughing now and jeering. His mama has been pushed to the floor. Her shoulder is bare and she is kicking out hysterically at the men, kicking at her skirts.

  He is a man, a man from a long line of warriors and he will save her. It is his duty.

  He grasps the wet steel and runs, screaming like a fiend, charging down the path to her rescue, the rescue of his own dear mama.

  And then he sees her eyes. They are wide and full of fear. They are his whole world and they turn his rage to ice.

  As she writhes and kicks on the moss, she screams words at him:

  “No, run, get away! Get away from here!”

  He stands, confused. She is his mama. Why does she want him to go? Go where? She loves him. Doesn’t she?

  No! He is a Lowther and a Lowther will always do his duty. He shrieks the battle-cry of his fathers and rushes at the men.

  But they stand and roar with laughter and he stops. Then a hand is on him, clamped on his wrist like a band of iron. It is hot, rough and calloused, even more than his father’s; it is like no hand he has known. The fine steel is ripped from his grasp as if it were nothing more than a toy and a face, full of hatred and a fury that is beyond the ken of his ten short years is against his own.

  The mouth of mossy, broken teeth is moving, bellowing words he somehow cannot hear and then he is spun round and he feels the steel of his own sword like ice against his throat.

  The world goes silent, holding its breath. His mama stops kicking, stops writhing and lies still. She is sobbing now, her slim, white legs stark and naked against the rich green of the moss.

  And he stands, shivering, and he feels his own warm piss seeping down his breeches, watching as each man takes his turn.

  “You must never, ever say anything about this to a single, living soul, and especially never to your father. Do you hear me? Promise me it. Promise me it, now!”

  She grabs him by his shoulders and shakes him and shakes him until, sobbing, he does. The men have gone now, his breeches are cold and the moors breathe once more.

  “I’m fine. I’m really quite fine. These things can happen to a woman. It was unfortunate, that’s all – it was a simple misfortune. I wish you hadn’t seen it. It was just the will of the Fates.”

  But she is his whole world and he knows that she is not fine. He knows that she is somehow broken.

  She pats his head and stands, awkwardly and unsteady. Her eyes search the line of the high cliffs of Sewingshields for anyone else who might have witnessed her misfortune. But there are none – none save for the Fates themselves, the raven and the restless spirits of the place.

  It is many days before he ventures once more beyond the Edge of the World, to where the cliffs of Sewingshields fall sheer to the moorlands beyond. Like his mother, and like the Emperor Hadrian before her, he knows now that those moors are fit only for the raven, the barbarian and the cruel, heathen gods.

  His mother no longer takes him to sail his coracle around the loughs, or to catch frogs and newts in the boglands of the Fogy Moss, or even to play in the ruins of Sewingshields Castle rising from its island there. She no longer goes anywhere or does anything except to stay in her room and weep and weep and weep.

  And in his own private moments, when his father and the servants and the portraits of his ancestors cannot see him, he weeps too. He weeps for his lost blade of fine steel that has been cast away by his tormentors. He weeps for his mother’s misfortune that has somehow taken away her soul and left her a shivering slough. And he weeps because even though he is from an ancient line of warriors, he is a pitiful coward who pissed himself when he should have been a man.

  But then one day his mama does go out and it is again to the high moors of the Great Whin Sill. She calls him and takes him by the shoulders and weeping, she shakes him as she tells him how she can’t be a prisoner for the rest of her life.

  She can’t. She can’t. She can’t.

  She smooths the tears from her red, bloated face, stands up tall and tells him that they need to search for his little, lost sword. She tells him that she needs to face her demons.

  So once more, he feels her hot, trembling hand encircle his own and they march together up the lanes and the paths towards the high crags. They march and they march and she chatters and she chatters, faster and faster, until at last, she stops.

  To the west, the silver-grey kidney bowl of the Broomlee Lough lies pressed into the fell. Ahead, framed between the jagged edges of a breech made long ago in the long grey line of Hadrian’s Wall stands the low, ruined tower of Sewingshields Castle.

  His mama stands still, staring at the ruins and staring at the Fogy Moss that surrounds it; staring and staring as her eyes grow red and her grip grows tighter.

  “Mama,” he says and tries to tug his fingers from hers. “Mama, please, you’re hurting me.”

  She looks at him and although he is only ten years old, she is his world and he senses her soul writhing in agony.

  She whispers, “I’m so very sorry,” and wraps her arms around him, shuddering as she sobs.

  “Why are you sorry, Mama?” He is suddenly terrified but he doesn’t know why.

  She stands, tall and proud once more. She walks forward, forward to the Edge of the World, forward to the brink of the cliffs, and steps off.

  “Mama, my Mama!” he screams and rushes after her.

  And she is there, just out of reach, caught by the branches of a scrubby rowan tree clinging to the crag. She stares up at him, her face a deep, grey pit of pain and despair, and slowly, so very slowly, she slips away.

  It is a full day later when they find him, still clinging to the body of his cold, dead mama. She was still alive when he had found her, lying limp across the rocks at the foot of the crag, but even though he had begged her, even though he had begged God himself for her not to die, he had watched as the yellow-grey mark of death had appeared on her cheek. He had watched it gradually spread over every part of her lovely face and he had listen
ed as her gasping, tortured breaths finally ceased.

  Chapter 19

  As Atticus and Lucie Fox bicycled side-by-side up the rough, stony lane leading to the short terrace of cottages Sir Hugh had pointed out the previous day, the faint sound of angry voices carried to them on the afternoon breeze. They glanced in alarm to each other and Atticus reached under the crossbar of his bicycle for the reassuring presence of his walking cane.

  The voices quickly grew louder as they approached and were distilled into three. They were all the voices of men and very soon they came upon their source. Two men were facing one other in an obviously heated altercation across the lane ahead.

  The solitary man they knew immediately as John Lawson, Sir Hugh Lowther’s land steward, but the other two they did not recognise. A large heap of smashed furniture and other household articles lay scattered across the grass in front of the neat, little end cottage and they realised that this must be the same tied-cottage that until so recently had been occupied by Samson Elliott.

  “What’s going on here, Mr Lawson?” Atticus called as they braked to a halt in front of the group. The argument ceased abruptly and the two strangers rounded on the Foxes.

  “Who are you? Are you this ’ere Colonel Lowther?” the older and broader of them snarled. He pushed his thumbs behind the lapels of his threadbare jacket and swelled like a blowfish as he glared at them.

  Atticus reached down and eased his cane from its clips under the crossbar. He met the man’s gaze steadily.

  “No, sir, my name is Fox. I am a privately commissioned investigator working on behalf of the colonel, as is my wife.”

  He held the man’s glare for several more seconds before turning to Lawson. “What’s going on?” he repeated.

  The land steward stepped forward, glaring menacingly at the others and tugged respectfully at the brim of his hat.

  “I heard the sound of banging and crashing as if the Devil himsel’ were here, Mr Fox – begging your pardon, Mrs Fox – and I hurried over to find these fellows. They were turning ower Samson Elliott’s cottage and smashing up his things like it were the Bristol Riots.”

  “I see,” said Atticus. “You gentlemen being kinsmen of Mr Elliott, I presume?”

  “We’re his brothers, aye. We’re ’is only flesh and blood and we’re ’ere to see to him and ’is things as is proper. You ain’t going to stop us, Mister; it ain’t again’ the law.”

  “I have no intentions of stopping you, Mr Elliott,” Atticus replied curtly, “although Mr Lawson here may well have.”

  He turned back to Lawson. “Let me explain what these men are about, Mr Lawson. Rest assured they are not rioters. You see, it is a Gypsy custom that once one of their fellows dies, all of their possessions must be immediately destroyed and burnt. Unless they do so, they believe that the deceased’s spirit might return and reclaim the property as their own. Their body is usually burnt in their vardo – their caravan.”

  Lawson looked aghast. “What sort of heathen, ungodly practice is that for this day an’ age?”

  “A very ancient one,” Atticus replied, “and one with some practical merit to it too. For example, if it happened to be a disease or an infection that had caused the Gypsy’s death, the germs would likely be destroyed in the flames and therefore prevented from being passed on to contaminate others.”

  Lawson was still indignant. “That’s as may be, Mr Fox, but they were breaking the colonel’s property along with Elliott’s.”

  “Then let me suggest a simple compromise,” Atticus proposed. “Go with Elliott’s brothers into the cottage, explain to them how it is tied to the Lowther estate and point out exactly what is estate property and what belonged to Samson. They may then, of course, dispose of that in whatever way they see fit.”

  Lawson nodded doubtfully. “It still doesn’t sound right to me, Mr Fox, but aye, I’m willing to do as you suggest.”

  Atticus turned to the Gypsy brothers. “Your brother’s vardo is being held as evidence by the police. You must get the permission of the detective superintendent at Hexham before you can touch that. His body is held by the Hexham coroner but it is due for release.”

  Then he addressed all three. “Mrs Fox and I are here at Sir Hugh Lowther’s personal expense to try to ascertain exactly who is responsible for Samson Elliott’s death. Do any of you have any objection to our quickly examining his cottage for clues?”

  Lawson answered immediately. “No, sir, I’ve none at all, of course.” He glared another challenge to the Elliott brothers.

  “No, I don’t suppose we do, so long as you don’t take nothing of his,” the elder conceded finally.

  “You have our word on it,” Atticus assured him, then on a sudden thought asked, “Tell me; how did you find out about your brother’s death so quickly?”

  “It was right easy. This Sir Hugh Lowther has kin in Westmorland – gentry, the same as he. He sent word to them and they sent one of their servants down to Appleby with the news. We were there for the Horse Fair. It was where poor Samson was bound when he was murdered.” The brother hesitated. “They said it was some madman that killed him, a lunatic that lives on his own in a hovel near to here.”

  “We do not yet know for sure it was he.” Atticus’s response was guarded.

  “Come on, Mister Investigator or whatever y’ are, it was him all right. Once we’ve sorted out Samson’s affairs here, we’ll be going to pay a little visit on this madman. You never know, with a little bit of persuasion, we might just be able to get him to admit to what he’s done. It’ll save you the trouble and Lowther a lot of, ah, personal expense.”

  Atticus was horrified.

  “Mr Elliott, let me remind you that we have a system of justice in Great Britain which is admired all around the world. That justice declares that a man is considered entirely innocent of a crime until and unless he is proven guilty in a court of law before a jury of his peers. That principle is sacrosanct and you must never, ever take the law into your own hands.”

  The brother allowed his eyes to slowly rake Atticus up and down, lingering for a moment on the thick, pewter and ebony walking cane he held so tightly in his fist.

  “Well ain’t that nice and dandy for Great Britain? So why don’t you and your wife take note of your own lecture and go back to where you came from?”

  Atticus was all at once incensed. A tick in his neck began flashing the warning that his careful arguments might yet turn into a raging spew of bile. He drew a deep, slow breath and forced himself to be calm, to think and to speak rationally.

  Lucie glanced at him warily. She knew the warning too.

  “But my husband and I are not taking the law into our own hands, Mr Elliott,” she smiled. “We are properly commissioned investigators who are scientifically examining the facts of the case. Our conclusions will then be properly presented, firstly to the constabulary and secondly to a judge and a jury.”

  “Well our way is quicker and surer and we don’t need science or a big, fancy bag.” The brother leered at her. “I wouldn’t mind taking you along with us though. We could do with a bit of sweet company to help us pass the time. How would you like a bit of Gypsy, my darling? They tell me we’re much in demand amongst the fine ladies.” He grinned at his brother.

  Atticus’s gaze was murderous. “Be warned, Elliott, you go too far now!”

  The other smirked insolently and his gaze crept down Lucie, his eyes taking in every detail of her. Atticus indignantly sidestepped to shield her and Elliott’s eyes flickered up to meet his.

  “Look at this, Elliott,” Atticus hissed, rubbing irritably at his neck. “We took an impression of a boot print close to where the body of your brother was discovered.”

  Reaching inside his investigations bag, he carefully lifted out the plaster impression and held it up for the brothers to see.

  “What in God’s name sort of boot is that?” Lucie forgotten, the two brothers stared, wide-eyed at the cast.

  “It is called a sabaton
, Mr Elliott, and it was the iron footwear of a knight of the Dark Ages. Uther Pendragon, the lunatic to whom you refer, is not able to venture much out of his cottage at present because of the fragility of his mind, but did Samson ever tell you about the legends of King Arthur hereabouts?”

  The brothers nodded in unison, almost comically, with mouths gaping like the audience at a phantasmagoria.

  “I of course do not… really… believe the stories, but many do. Many people believe that your brother’s killing was the work of the spectre of King Arthur, awoken from the spirit realm.”

  He tapped the cast softly with the heavy end of his cane.

  “This plaster impression would seem to support that notion. There are those who would hesitate before venturing up towards the moors of Sewingshields at present. They might well be afraid of who, or what, might find them there.”

  The older brother crossed himself and the other swallowed hard. Even John Lawson looked visibly shaken.

  “We’ll leave you to your work then,” murmured Atticus. “Good day to you all.”

  He put his arm around Lucie’s waist and shepherded her around the two brothers and towards the entrance of the little, white cottage.

  Chapter 20

  The waters of the lough, urged on by the stiff, moorland wind reach and grasp at his feet as he stands transfixed at its edge. Memories of the place reach and grasp at his mind, ripping it and clawing it open.

  He is fourteen now, a warrior from a long line of warriors. His father is beside him and his voice is sharp and rebuking.

  “Your mother is dead. She has been for nigh on four years now and no amount of blubbing or wailing will cure it or bring her back. Get a grip of yourself, boy! I don’t like it any more than you do. If I could have taken her place I would, but I can’t and what’s done is done.

  “It was the will of the Fates, that’s all, boy. It was the will of the Fates.”