The Bog

by Talbot, Michael

  Now, seeing it at a distance, his courage returned to him, and instead of being frightened, he became intensely curious about the thing. His burning passion to understand every unknown facet of the world returned to him, and he could not help but think that there had to be a simple and rational explanation for what he had experienced. He knew that he would not rest until he had discovered the truth of the thing.

  The thunder rumbled again, and casting caution to the wind, he started off around the lake to follow it.

  “It sounds like rain,” Grenville said.

  Melanie looked up at him, frowning. “It certainly rains a lot here.”

  “Get used to it, my dear,” Grenville returned companionably. “This is England.”

  On any other occasion she might have smiled at the remark, but as it was she was losing patience with just about everything. Her head continued to pound as the strange and oppressive influence of the bog-myrtle wine continued to course through her, and she looked at her watch. David had been gone for almost an hour and she had had enough. She looked at Brad and saw that he almost seemed to be dozing, except his eyes were open.

  “I’m going out to see what’s keeping David,” she announced.

  At first Grenville looked as if he might make a move to stop her, but then apparently decided against it. She stood and discovered she was still much drunker than she had realized. Walking was not going to be easy. Summoning all of her abilities, she negotiated the drawing room, walked through the vast and dark entrance hall and out onto the grounds of the estate. To her surprise, neither David nor Julia was anywhere to be seen. She called out their names and still heard nothing. She walked down to the balustraded terrace that overlooked the lake. Again, she called their names, but her ears were only met with silence and the mounting rumble of the thunder.

  Well that’s torn it, she thought to herself with irritation. She could not believe it. She never would have thought David would do such a thing, but clearly he had gone off somewhere to be alone with Julia. She stormed back to the house, fighting to keep tears from flooding her eyes.

  She strode back into the drawing room and looked down at Brad. Under the influence of the bog-myrtle wine she found him even more attractive than usual, and her gaze lingered as it traced over his face, down the open buttons of his shirt. She caught herself when she realized that Grenville was watching her carefully.

  She grew embarrassed for a moment, but then composed herself. “Brad, will you please drive me home?”

  Brad looked up at her, dazed. “What about Professor Macauley?”

  “He can go to hell!” she cursed, not caring any longer about propriety.

  Grenville took the remark in stride. “There, there,” he soothed. “I’m sure they’re just off walking somewhere. They simply lost track of the time.”

  “Well, he can just walk home when he gets a mind to,” she retorted. “Come on, Brad. We’re taking the car.”

  Brad stood up, still blinking worriedly. “Doesn’t Professor Macauley have the keys?”

  “I have a set,” Melanie shot back. She turned to Grenville. “Thank you very much for a lovely evening,” she said with all of the pleasantness she could muster.

  “Yes, thank you,” Brad echoed.

  “My pleasure,” Grenville ended as he nodded to the butler to see them to the door.

  On the drive home it started to rain, lightly at first, but then in torrents. That’ll teach him, she thought to herself angrily. When they reached the cottage and Brad pulled the car to a stop, she looked over and saw that the younger man was feeling very uneasy about the entire situation.

  “Would you like to stay the night?” she asked innocently, thinking mainly of the weather, but after she had said the words she felt an overwhelming urge to jump on top of him and begin mauling him. This took her completely off guard, for although she was beginning to recognize that she was drawn to him in a way, her sexuality had never been channeled in such an overt and aggressive manner. She mentally rebuked herself and remembered her violent reaction toward Katy when Katy had suggested such a thing, but even as the thought passed through her mind, a second voice in her head kept shrilling, It would serve David right, it would serve David right.

  To her continued surprise she wanted suddenly to see Brad with his clothing off, to run her fingers through the hair on his chest, and again she fought to constrain her own libido. She recalled once more Julia’s warning that bog-myrtle wine was a powerful aphrodisiac, and she wondered if there could possibly be any truth to the matter.

  She looked at Brad and thought that even he seemed to be lighting an inner onslaught of desire. He looked at her lips and then into her eyes.

  “Thank you, but I really should be getting back to the camp.”

  She looked at him for a moment longer. “Very well,” she said conjuring all of her will. “Then I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow night when you come over for dinner.”

  “Yes,” Brad returned stiffly. Then, in his silly and utterly self-effacing way, he started to get out of the car as if he had every intention of walking back to the excavations.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Going back to the camp.”

  “Well, take the car.”

  “But—” he stammered.

  She started to get angry. “Don’t be an idiot!” she said, getting out of the Volvo herself. The rain instantly started to drench her hair. “Take the car and we’ll get it tomorrow.” And with that she slammed the door and Brad reluctantly drove off. She went into the house.

  Mrs. Comfrey had left the living room lights on for them. Upstairs, Melanie found that she had also thoughtfully built a fire in the fireplace in their bedroom, no doubt on account of the poor weather, but as she looked around the room she saw that there was no sign that David had come home yet. As she proceeded to take off her wet clothing, a black and agonizing depression started to swell up in the pit of her stomach. How could he do this? she thought to herself. How could their marriage mean so little to him that he could meet that... that harlot, and cast everything that they had worked so hard to build to the wind?

  The rain continued to pelt down and the lightning cracked, and every time the house creaked or groaned with each renewed assault of the storm, she grew deathly still and listened, hoping it would be David. She began to regret leaving him stranded in the rain, but still she felt that it had been the right move. Nonetheless, with Mrs. Comfrey and the children fast asleep, and David gone and God only knew where, she began to grow afraid.

  It was while she sat arranging her stockings in front of the fire that she heard the distinctive squeak of the gate at the front of the house. She sat up, her ears pricked. Was it David? She hoped it was, but suddenly she tingled with the fear that it might not be. She remembered Ben’s disappearance, and then Winnifred Blundell’s, and a shudder passed through her. She had had a bad feeling from the start about coming to this place. And now, feeling alone and dispirited, she was gripped with the terrible realization that it could be almost anyone or anything that now approached the house. As she sat listening carefully, she was swept with another horrifying thought. She did not remember locking the front door.

  Suddenly something crunched on the gravel outside.

  It now occurred to her that if it was David he would have reached the house by this time. But whoever it was was hesitating, lingering for some unknown reason on the walk. Her only thought became to get downstairs and to latch the front door before it reached the house.

  She pulled her nightgown around her and ran out into the hall. As she raced down the stairs she heard another crunch of gravel and she realized that it was now done deliberating and was heading straight for the door. As she ran frantically through the now seemingly endless living room, the seconds seemed to tick by slowly, almost as if in a dream. The thunder cracked, and her hand reached out as she sprinted the last few feet that divided her from the latch. She reached it and silently engaged the lock just a fracti
on of a second before whatever was on the other side slowly tested the knob.

  She paused, not knowing what to do next, when she heard another crunch of gravel and realized that it had started around the side of the house. It was making its way to the back door, which was probably not locked either. Whoever the unseen intruder was, its footsteps were heavy, and she could trace its steps clearly as it plodded toward its goal. She raced toward the back door, but as she approached one of the side windows it hit her that the curtains were not drawn, and the prowler would see her if she continued. She flattened herself up against the wall beside the window and was horror-stricken when she heard the footsteps also pause. She realized that just inches away something was peering into the house.

  The lightning flashed and she held her breath, not daring to move. Finally the thing started again, this time with renewed determination in its stride, and she broke into a run in a mad attempt to reach the back door before it did. Thunder shook the house again as she crashed into a kitchen chair and lunged desperately for the door. Again the passage of time was dreamlike. With aching slowness, her hand stretched out frantically through the darkness, every fiber of her body praying that she would reach the latch in time. But she did not. She watched in horror as the knob turned and the door flew open.

  Melanie let out a scream. But, standing rain-soaked in the darkness beyond was only Brad. The lightning flashed behind him and she could see that he was thoroughly drenched by the downpour. Also, even in the dim light, she could see that he had a peculiarly brazen gleam in his eye.

  “I decided to come back,” he said.

  For a moment Melanie was so out of breath from her panic that she could not speak, and her heart was beating so rapidly that it felt as if at any moment it would come bursting right through her rib cage.

  “Oh, Brad, I’m so glad it’s only you,” she gasped when she had finally composed herself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I frighten you?”

  She nodded. “I’ll say.” And then, still holding her heart, she pursed her brow. “Why did you come back? Did you forget something?”

  He shook his head and smiled strangely, and another thought occurred to Melanie.

  She looked beyond him into the darkness. “I didn’t hear the car drive up.”

  “I hid it. I didn’t want Professor Macauley to see it.”

  She looked at him, bewildered, wondering why he should care, when suddenly he stepped forward and ran the back of his hand down along the side of her neck and then placed it firmly on the bare skin above her breast. With his other hand he started to unbutton his rain-soaked shirt.

  Her first impulse was to pull away, to respond indignantly to his presumption, but she found her will quickly receding. He pulled her to him and kissed her passionately, the warm, sweet taste of his tongue flooding her senses as it probed deep into her mouth. Then he lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs.

  She could not believe that she was going along with it, but she felt oddly powerless to do anything but acquiesce to the incredible desire coursing through her.

  In the bedroom he placed her gently on the bed while he finished taking off his clothing. She watched as he undressed in front of the fireplace, admiring his trim and muscular body flickering golden in the lambent light of the flames. My God, she thought, what was she doing? What if David came home? But then, as he approached her and slowly slipped her nightgown off, her desire exploded and she became lost in sensation.

  It was new and exciting making love to someone else. She enjoyed sex with David. She knew every portion of his body with comfortable intimacy, but Brad’s body was novel and foreign and she explored it hungrily. He was vigorous in his lovemaking, but attentive to her silent cues, and soon they were locked together. The pleasure she felt was intense. She ran her fingers through the thick mat of hair on his chest, his mouth continuing to engulf her own as the bed started to rock with the rhythm of their lovemaking.

  In time he started pumping faster, groaning loudly with pleasure, and some distant part of her worried about waking the children. He continued to groan, and as his ardor increased she noticed that the sounds he was making became more animal-like, and this surprised her. His movement hastened and her own pleasure intensified, but still he continued to moan ever more loudly until at last when she looked up at him, still golden in the light of the fire, he seemed like some wild thing baying over her with his head tilted back in an almost mindless ecstasy.

  He pumped madly, letting out a primal and guttural howl as he climaxed, and as soon as he had finished she thought she heard something. Downstairs the front door slammed. My God, she thought, David is home. She looked up in a panic at the man hovering over her. But at the same, almost orchestrated moment that he had climaxed and the door had slammed, the naked form that one moment had been so palpable and so intensely real, vanished, instantly and without a trace. She looked madly toward the fire and noticed that even his wet and discarded clothing was gone, and, inexplicably, she was totally alone in the room, her legs parted widely and her body still covered with the sweat and fluids of their lovemaking.

  SIX

  Hovern Bog:53 B.C.

  Valeria stared listlessly into the flames leaping up from the small tripod of beaten brass, and the smell of scented wood filled the tent. She tossed a handful of verbena and other herbs into the fire and carefully watched the smoke that issued forth. The smoke turned black, and again the augury was unfavorable. It was a very bad omen.

  She knew that she should tell her husband, but how could she? How could she explain to him that she had had indiscreet relations with one of his subordinate officers, let alone that the man had vanished afterward as if by artifice or sorcery? She had heard of such spirits that prey on the weaknesses of women, and she was grateful that the thing had at least not harmed her, for they were known not only for their carnal appetites, but for their ferocity. And at least this much about the thing was evident to her husband, given the other events that they had witnessed in the valley.

  She had hoped her offering of the comb might appease the thing, but it was now obvious that it was not to be so easily placated. She had no other choice but to do what she had done almost constantly since they had arrived in the valley, and that was to pray.

  She added some more scented wood to the fire and lowered her head. “Oh, chaste Diana, if there is any way that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my sins, and deliver us from this evil—”

  Her husband entered the tent behind her. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she said, turning to him, her eyes red from crying.

  “Praying, but I thought I heard you ask for forgiveness for your sins.”

  “We have all sinned, Divitiacus. Is that so strange a request?” she said evasively, and then hated herself for not having the courage to tell him the truth.

  “I suppose not,” he said, accepting the explanation. From his expression she could tell that he had his own troubles to think about.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Two more men have vanished,” he said. “I will, of course, have two more of the villagers put to the sword, but I have no hope that it will do any good.” He paced anxiously through the tent, wringing his hands together in exasperation. “I just don’t understand, first the horses and now my men, almost a dozen in all so far.”

  “And don’t forget the girl,” she added.

  “And the girl,” he conceded begrudgingly, and then laughed a short, scornful laugh. “I don’t know what good they think it does them sacrificing their people to the thing. It still just devours them and waits hungrily for more.”

  “But at least they have some control over who dies next.”

  He looked at her harshly.

  “And it’s only one at a time. Look at you, you’re beginning to lose two and three men a night now.”

  “So what do you suggest that I do?” he demanded angrily.


  “Perhaps we should start giving it men. Or perhaps we should have slaves brought in for it.”

  “We’re Romans!” he cried.

  “But Divitiacus,” she argued, “at least then you could decide who dies next.” She looked around with a tormented expression. “It’s too hellish going on the way we’ve been doing, not knowing who it’s going to take next; each evening not knowing which face will vanish during the night. It could be one of us next. Or both.”

  “But Caesar—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Caesar has decreed that we reject the local religions.” She looked out over the moors. “Well, Caesar does not know what is going on in this valley.”

  “Nor would he ever believe me if I told him,” Divitiacus added bitterly. “But I have another plan.”

  Valeria looked at her husband hopefully.

  “Their local tribal chieftain, the one who lives in the fortification on the edge of the lake—I think we should go to him.” Divitiacus’s eyes darted hither and thither as he mulled the thought over. “You know, when we first came into this valley I thought that the man was a coward and not worth the fight it would take to draw him out of his battlement. I mean, he just remained in his fasthold and didn’t even come out to challenge us. He doesn’t even have an army.” Divitiacus’s expression became optimistic. “But I’m beginning to think that he holds the key to this thing. At least, he doesn’t seem to fear the creature. And it never seems to harm him. I think we should pay him a visit.”

  “The two of us?”

  “Yes, the two of us. Not as members of the invading army, but as fellow patricians, as diplomatic emissaries wishing simply to raise a glass or two with him and perhaps negotiate some sort of understanding. I’m beginning to think that he knows more than we may have suspected. I’m beginning to think that he may be the key to this entire thing.”