BEYOND
HOPE
M A R T Y N J . P A S S
Martyn J. Pass is the author of several bestselling books including ‘The Brink’, ‘The Wolf and the Bear’ and ‘The Unfinished Tale of Sophie Anderson’. He lives in the United Kingdom.
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through his email - [email protected].
ALSO BY MARTYN J. PASS
AT THE DAWN OF THE RUINED SUN
WAITING FOR RED (With Dani Pass)
SOUL AT WAR
HAGGART’S DAWN
THE UNFINISHED TALE OF SOPHIE ANDERSON
THE TRIDENT SERIES
TRIDENT: DEAD SIEGE
TALES FROM THE BRINK SERIES
PROJECT – 16
THE BRINK
BEYOND HOPE
THE WOLF AND THE BEAR
BEYOND
HOPE
M A R T Y N J . P A S S
Copyright © 2017 By Martyn J. Pass
The right of Martyn J. Pass to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Martyn J. Pass
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, thanks go to my proof reading team, Tim Mason, Dani Pass, Sam Wood and Brenda Pass. I can’t let a book reach the shelves without owing them a great debt in finding my little gremlins!
Thanks also to Emma Smart and Michael Hillman for their horse-related advice.
Thanks also to those who’ve been following along with the ‘Tales from the Brink’ series as it’s taken shape. You guys put up with a lot, I have to admit. Thanks for your comments, reviews and emails. Keep ‘em coming.
BEYOND
HOPE
CHAPTER ONE
“Don't hang around, Sarah,” said her father as she mounted the eager Cleveland Bay that snorted out a cloud of hot breath into the winter morning. “Just deliver the mail and hurry back; Roger says he saw traces of Calderbank's men on the trail last week.”
“I know, Papa,” she replied. “I'll be as quick as I can.”
“And you've got the parcel for Mr. Stapleton?”
“Yes Papa.”
“Good girl.” He patted the flank of the horse. “Be safe.”
“I will. Maybe Mickey will have some new books for us, eh?”
“Make sure to bring them back if he does!” he laughed. “Now be off with you.”
Sarah pulled her scarf up over her mouth and winked at her father before tugging on the reins and giving the beast a tap with her heels. The Bay trotted forward, making its way out of the stable and into the winter cold, taking the familiar path that led them away from the ivy covered cottage and into the dense woodland that surrounded it. The gate was open at the east side and as they slipped into the shadowed path, Sarah stole one last look over her shoulder, seeing her father waving her off before he disappeared back into the house.
“It's a cold one, Ziggy,” she said, patting the neck of the Bay. “May even be the coldest yet.” The horse shook its head and let out another snort of steam. Sarah checked that her rifle was secure in its patchwork leather holster and was glad that she'd taken the time to oil its mechanism the previous night. The last thing she wanted was to ride headlong into a group of Calderbank's men with a frozen gun.
They moved along through the trees, dappled by the broken morning sunlight that managed to penetrate through the dense pine fronds and give the compacted bridle path a golden covering. The thud-thud of the horse's hooves was the only sound Sarah could hear with the exception of the odd songbird that dared to serenade the unforgiving winter. She reached up and fastened the neck of her thick winter coat a little tighter, fumbling with the buttons through her riding gloves and refusing to take them off and expose her hands to the cold. Then, when she felt settled into the ride, she pressed harder against the Bay's flanks and felt the horse surge forward, out of the woods and into the open fields of Pine Lodge.
If she was honest, the long ride to deliver the mail to the Abbingdon settlement was perhaps the hardest part of her week. In summer it hadn't been too bad; the ride through the thirty or so miles of empty farmland and abandoned ghost towns under a warm sun had bordered on being pleasant. Even autumn hadn't been too hard, despite the cold and the desolate change in the trees and shrubs, but winter had proven to be a real challenge to her, making the ride much more difficult by the driving winds, the endless rain, the heavy snow and the bitter cold. Ziggy didn't seem to mind as long as he was moving, but for her it meant getting more and more numb in the saddle, feeling her legs freeze up until the pain became too much, forcing her to stop and boil water for a cup of tea.
At first she'd tried riding harder, making herself sweat every mile. But then one day a jump had gone wrong; Ziggy had changed his mind at the last possible moment and thrown her from the saddle. She'd landed hard on the ground, narrowly missing an enormous rock which, if it hadn't killed her, would surely have broken something. A fractured bone so far from home was a death sentence. The fear calmed her impatience after that, making her more cautious but no less cold.
When the familiar route reached a path that came down from the hillside, she turned Ziggy eastwards and followed it, trampling the dying weeds that had tried to grow across the well-travelled walkway. The route took her down into a narrow valley where a stream trickled along from the north, passing gently over the smooth stones and pebbles that gathered in piles at a bend. She led the horse across it, splashing through the icy water and onto the other side before turning south to follow it onto the land of the Marston family. The stream was a kind of boundary marker for another mile or so but the real edge of Farmer Marston's land was the rusting wire mesh fence that, for the most part, was still standing. Where time had finally laid many of the posts to rest through rot and corrosion, wooden barricades had been built and in one place, the spot Sarah was riding for, a tall gate had been fitted between them. It was here that Marston's fair-haired daughter, Gail, was waiting for her with a basket in her hands and a broad smile on her rosy face.
“Good morning, Sarah,” she called out as she brought the horse to a halt near the gate. Sarah climbed down and looped the reins around one of the wooden slats.
“This isn't a good morning,” she replied, rubbing her hands together and blowing into them. “It's freezing out here.”
“Ma sent you this to warm you up.” Gail passed her a clay mug and Sarah took it from her, breathing in the delicious aroma of hot fresh coffee before sipping from the top. It scalded her lips but she didn't mind - being warm by any means was far more important to her than a little pain.
“Oh my,” she groaned. “That's lovely.”
“And this?” Gail handed her a paper parcel stained with grease. Sarah unwrapped it and smiled.
“Ma is a good woman,” she said.
“We know your Papa is struggling. We're grateful for what you do so this is just our way of helping. I hope you don't mind.”
Sarah bit into the bacon sandwich and let out a muffled moan. They hadn't had hot meat for such a long time, not since early autumn and the taste of it brought tears to her eyes. There was only so much dried fruit and nuts a woman could eat and th
e tough, stringy jerky they had in the pantry was barely edible now. The vegetable patches they had out back were now just beds of weeds since they’d given up growing their own crops when the horse breeding had brought in plenty of wealth. Now she almost regretted not keeping them going.
“Mind? How could I mind?” she said between bites. “I'm grateful too, you know?”
“I hope they feed you when you get to Abbingdon,” said Gail. “They'd be lost without you.”
Sarah felt herself blushing. She'd never understood if Gail looked up to her or just envied the freedom her Papa gave her when it came to travelling the countryside. Not that she'd ever given her father a choice; from the day she'd learned to ride and fire a rifle she'd ignored all the dangers and headed out on Ziggy as often as she could. If she wasn't indoors, reading by the fire, then she was out on that Cleveland Bay, traversing the open fields or skirting the ruins of the city. Rather than fall out with his daughter, her ageing Papa had instead refocused her roaming heart on carrying the mail from the village to the Abbingdon settlement and back again once a week and sometimes even further afield. It seemed to work and now, a good many years on, her father had tamed and refined her urges, making her one of the best couriers around.
“They look after me,” she replied, saddened by the final mouthful of sandwich that she wished would last forever. “Nowhere near as well as you guys do.”
“Ma says you need more meat on your bones,” laughed Gail.
“How rude of her!”
“What are you reading at the moment?”
“I stumbled on this very dull book about a man and his wife who absolutely hate each other,” said Sarah, sipping some more of the wonderful coffee. “I was about to give up on it but the husband died and it suddenly became interesting. What about you?”
“I haven't really read much since Joe left to work in Abbingdon. I've had a lot of chores to do around the house.”
“Well don't let your reading slip,” warned Sarah. “It's important.”
“I won't. Oh!” she cried. “I have the packet for you, I almost forgot.” She handed her the bundle of letters in a coarse hessian sack and Sarah put them into the mail bag with all the others. “Dad says that you're to return with something, a parcel maybe.”
“Does he want it tonight?”
“He says tomorrow will do. He says it's nothing important.”
“I'll be round at sun up then. I'll be riding with Papa to Hooper's Farm tomorrow; he wants to see the labour market.”
“I can't stand the idea of us 'buying' those... criminals. I hope no one thinks of employing one in the settlement.”
“Papa doesn't like it either,” said Sarah.
“Then why does he go?”
“I think he's looking for someone. At least, that's my best guess.”
“Family?”
“I don't think we have any left now. Just me and Papa. Maybe a friend? I don't know, Gail.”
Sarah reached over the fence and gave the girl a hug. She smelled of lavender soap and her hair was still damp from washing. As she undid the knots that tethered Ziggy to the gate, she gave the girl a broad smile before climbing back into the saddle.
“Take care,” said Gail, gathering her things into the basket.
“I will.”
Then she turned the horse and retraced her steps back towards the path and the road to Abbingdon.
It was always a long ride across the fields, climbing the hills to get a better view of anything that might be lurking up ahead. Often Sarah would sit on the crest of a rise, staring out at the ruins of the old world, watching as the new one reached up from the ground with hungry green hands, wrapping gnarled leafy fingertips around buildings and cars, reaching in through broken windows and open doors, slowly pulling and tugging, dragging the past down into history. It was both beautiful and ugly; a living, breathing contradiction of the past colliding with the present and creating a future that could only be imagined in dreams or in the pages of her books that glowed in the fire light. Here and there a sign would still be standing or a piece of old road would still bear some white painted symbol from the forgotten age of automobiles and airplanes and computers. They were things she'd only ever read about, having been born long after the disaster and a good few years beyond the deadly days of the radiation cloud that had swept across the South. Papa had been there and still bore the scars, talking very little about those times as a young man when the world came to the very edge of oblivion before turning back. He preferred the stories of his youth, the pages and illustrations of a forgotten age, of dragons and knights and space men, of crime and justice and technology; a make-believe world built to numb the senses to the real one the way a narcotic might. Sometimes, Sarah wondered if fiction was just as addictive and maybe even as dangerous.
She rode onwards, crossing the land that made up Pine Lodge with its scattered farms until she reached the border between it and the neighboring settlement of Rivington with its tower and scarred moorland. She drove the horse on just as the sun reached its zenith, hoping to arrive at the lonely roadside pub in time to ask Sandy if he had any mail. If he did, she hoped he'd be kind enough to give her some sandwiches to take with her.
The area she lived in was wild and green and filled with a kind of nature that seemed foreign to most people who travelled in and out of Pine Lodge. Whenever she met someone from another part of the country they always seemed to stare about at the out-of-control woods and overgrown fields like they were on another planet, like they'd stumbled into an alternate dimension where life was pleasant and alive with colour. It never induced them to stay, but she suspected that the place itself was carried away when they left, taking a little piece of it with them wherever they ended up.
As she neared the pub, the feelings of guilt and shame reared up in front of her and she almost turned away, back to the road. She hated living like this, hand to mouth, hoping that her next meal wouldn't be the dry hunk of bread in her pack and the last of Papa's strawberry preserve. The farm was struggling, it was the plain fact of the matter but she just couldn’t seem to see a way to turn it around. The 'gifts' she received for carrying the mail were welcome but she wished one day to be able to walk into the pub and put something valuable on the bar to pay for her lunch other than the fickle offer of carrying the post.
The stable boy was outside when she approached and Ziggy instinctively turned his head towards him, knowing from memory what would come from that pale lad's hands. As Sarah drew up alongside the whitewashed stone building, the horse let out a soft whinny and dipped his head.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” said Charlie, taking the reins from her hands as she climbed out of the saddle. “How are you?”
“I'm well, thank you Chucky,” she replied. “You've got this young man wrapped around your fingers.”
“He's a beauty, that's for sure. Have you come for the mail?”
“Aye. Has Sandy got some for Abbingdon?”
“I think so. He's at the bar talking to the stranger.”
Sarah raised her brow and drew the rifle from its holster, slinging it over one shoulder along with the mail bag, neither which she ever left unattended, even with the young stable boy.
“Stranger?” she asked.
“He rode in this morning on the most beautiful Shire I've ever seen. Come and look at him.”
She followed Charlie around the back of the building to where a sturdily built stable had been constructed, capable of holding six horses whilst their owners slept in the rooms above the bar. The road was a busy one and more often than not riders heading east or west would stop there on their way to catch up on local news or barter for a clean bed for the night. It was also one of the last places to boast at being able to make old-world drinks from family recipes such as cocktails, six different tea blends and four different kinds of coffee. Where they got such exotic ingredients was beyond her, but she did hear of plantations in the south managing to produce a fair crop in spite of all the pr
oblems they would undoubtedly face.
As Charlie led the horse into an empty stable, the grunts and snorts coming from the enormous Shire horse at the far end could already be heard. Sarah walked towards it, admiring the long, lean head, the glossy black coat and the amazingly muscular back. It was at least seventeen hands tall, maybe more and it looked at her with a kind of easy going gaze.
“He belongs to the stranger? He's magnificent!”
“I knew you'd appreciate him,” he said.
“What did he want?” The boy shrugged. “How long has he been here?”
“About a half-hour.”
Sarah rubbed the beast's nose before turning away and heading towards the door. The stallion was just what Papa needed to stud with; there hadn't been a breed like that on their farm for such a long time and Sarah knew she couldn't leave the pub without speaking to the owner. She hurried through the front entrance and sidestepped someone stumbling out to take a leak in the gutter around the back.
The smoky roadside pub was always lit with a warm glow from the large open fire which warmed even the weariest traveller. It was regarded as one of Pine Lodge's most important features, respected on all sides as neutral territory in the cooling volcanic mess that was mankind's survival. Her Papa had seen some of that heat, facing the roaming gangs and raiders with his own father who'd died years before Sarah was born. Now that conflict had become more of a wild frontier of uneasy peace, sometimes violently interrupted by the occasional outburst or murder, but mostly it was an existence marked by mutual respect for the greatest enemy - Death. Once people were done with brutally killing each other, the only clear victor was going to be Death himself and people on all sides of the great battle to survive realised it was he who should be subdued first. Places like that pub were the embassies of that foreign nation of peace.
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 1
