by Jodi Taylor
No, Becky sloped off down the side of the building, through the back door and from there, presumably, straight to her own room. I didn’t care. I’d lost interest in the card. All my thoughts were now on Michael Jones and hoping he hadn’t had a belated fit of conscience and decided to let me go. I swallowed hard. Dr Sorensen, I was sure, would never give up, but suppose Jones thought he was doing me a favour by discontinuing the surveillance. Typical. You just can’t get the spies these days.
Or – and this was a grim thought – suppose everyone at the monitoring desk or station or whatever they called it had gone home? It was New Year’s Eve after all. Suppose that somewhere, a red light was flashing away to an empty room. Tomorrow was New Year’s Day and a bank holiday. The little light might still be flashing the day after that, but that would be far too late for me. And for the Year King too.
I sat on the bed and thought about him. Who he was. And where he was. Was he at the Three Sisters? Was that why the barmaid had panicked when I asked if they had guests there? What sort of state would he be in at the moment? Was he mercifully drugged, or drunk, or was he aware of everything going on around him? Veronica had said the king’s terror was a necessary part of the ritual. That fear made the blood taste richer. And what about me tomorrow night? Who would the stones find for me? Drunk. Dirty. Diseased. Would they clean him up first? Or would my terrified struggles with a soiled and sullied stranger make the ceremony that much more enjoyable for the watchers?
In a sudden panic, I shot to my feet and tried the door again, but sadly, no one had mysteriously turned the key while I hadn’t been paying attention.
I tried the window again as well but it was still unbudgeable and there was no window in the bathroom at all. I was forced to accept there was no way out of this room.
All right. Forget that. How could I prepare myself for whatever was about to happen tonight? I was already wearing jeans and a thick sweater. I pulled my coat out of the wardrobe and tossed it on the bed. If I could find an opportunity for escape – what would I need?
Money. I tipped my handbag on the bed, grabbed my purse, shoved it into an inside coat pocket and zipped it up. Gloves. They went into an outside pocket. What else? I didn’t have much else. No torch. No map – except for the one kindly provided by the Woodland Trust. I know they’re all for rural traditions but it seemed unlikely they would be involved in whatever was about to happen here.
Oh, and my house keys. How embarrassing to overcome massive odds, struggle all the way home and then be unable to get in.
I was already wearing boots. What about spare underwear? I whipped my last clean pair out of my suitcase and pushed them into a pocket as well. What can I say? My mother always insisted on clean underwear whenever I went out. Her thinking seemed to centre around what they would think at the hospital should I be involved in an accident while wearing less than pristine knickers.
So – money, warm clothes, sensible boots, clean knickers. That was me all set to go.
I sat on the bed and waited.
Chapter Six
I sat alone for so long that I began to think Veronica had changed her mind about forcing me to attend the ceremony – if ceremony was the word I wanted. Or that they had forgotten about me. That seemed unlikely. I knew people were assembling on the green because for the last hour I had been seeing the torchlight flicker across my bedroom walls and heard their murmuring as they tramped past. Someone had a drum, beating out a strange, hypnotic rhythm in the distance. Occasionally cymbals clashed and a high-pitched, female shout would go up and despite all my best efforts to stay calm, my heart would clench with fear. I’d refused dinner because I thought it might be drugged. It wasn’t, but I didn’t want to throw up when they … when the king died.
Unbelievably, I could smell frying onions. Carefully peering out of the window I thought I could see a burger stand set up on the grass. There was no hope for any of these people. I felt cold dislike settle in my stomach. A young man would die horribly tonight and they would be munching burgers and chips. I made up my mind that whatever was going to happen here tonight, I would do my utmost to prevent it. As if anything I could do would make any difference. There was just me and I was a prisoner – and soon to be unpleasantly inducted into Team Greyston. What could I possibly do? This was an ages old ritual, performed in secret, in a remote location, far from assistance of any kind. No one had the faintest idea of what had been going on here for millennia.
I used to have a touching faith in ‘the authorities’. That there was always some reassuring presence – the police, the government, the council – forces for good, who would sort things out and make everything all right again. Over the last twelve months I’d discovered it was usually ‘the authorities’ you had to watch out for. But there are degrees of danger. Sorensen was a problem, but he was far away. This threat was immediate and present, but there would be no help tonight. No welcome police car with sirens and flashing lights. The forces gathering here tonight would not be human. What could just one person possibly do? Especially when that one person was only me.
But – perhaps not just me. Perhaps there would be Michael Jones as well. I wasn’t sure what he could do, but I had faith he would do something. Unable to sit still any longer, I crossed to the window again and craned my neck for the headlights of an approaching car. I imagined him pulling up outside the Travellers’ Rest, pushing open the front door – I imagine locks meant very little to him – bounding up the stairs, kicking open the door, and rescuing me with one hand and the Year King with the other.
I stood at the window and stared and stared. Nothing happened. No car approached. No one kicked down my bedroom door. No cavalry galloped into town.
I heard the footsteps coming along the landing and briefly considered locking myself in the bathroom. I was certain it wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good but perhaps I could delay things a little. For instance, what would happen if the ceremony was an hour late? If the Year King wasn’t killed at the exact moment the old year rolled over into the new? Common sense said it probably wouldn’t make any difference. They’d been doing this long before clocks were invented and I was sure I’d read that long ago, the new year had been celebrated in March anyway. It was the blood that was important … and the intent … not the time of the ceremony.
I went back to the bed and sat quietly. If I gave them no trouble there was always a chance they might relax sufficiently for me to get away somehow. And people do tend to underestimate me. I know I’m not a Warrior Princess, but on the other hand, I’ve dealt with some bad stuff in my past. I might not be as helpless as they thought.
But – and this was what was really frightening me – what had Veronica Harlow said? ‘I recognised you as soon as you walked in.’ The one thought I couldn’t deal with was that I was supposed to be here. That this was my destiny. That this was something I couldn’t fight because I was supposed to be here. I’ve said before – I don’t know who I am and sometimes I wonder what I am. Tonight, I might be about to find out.
No. Never. Not in a million years. Whatever I was, I wasn’t this. Whatever Veronica Harlow and her family were, that was not what I wanted to be. I would keep quiet, do as I was told, seize the first chance offered, and if I died trying – well, I died, and that was the end of it, and what a lot of problems that would solve.
I had hoped they would send Becky, but it was Veronica herself who turned up, elegant in a long, black gown. One of us would be showing disrespect by showing up in scruffy jeans and I was happy to think it would be me. I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life serving a bunch of rocks.
And she was alone. Interesting. Granny was ill so did this mean that Becky was well under the weather having been slurping surreptitious wine all day? Which just left Veronica. Big, strong, dark Veronica.
I took my time, trying to delay events by going to the bathroom. ‘Leave the door open,’ she said, sharply. I washed my hands, slowly pulled on my coat, fumbled for my gloves and g
enerally did everything I could to put off the moment I had to leave this room, still hoping against hope that Michael Jones would show up, although if he was coming then surely he’d be here by now.
She showed no signs of impatience, waiting silently in the doorway, arms folded, and finally I could spin things out no longer.
We emerged out of the front door and into complete darkness. Even the streetlights were off. Everything was black with darker patches of blackness. I knew there were people out here because I could hear them. A crowd of people can never be completely silent and the sounds were unnerving in the dark.
We left the road and began to crunch our way across the frosty grass. She held my arm tightly. She was very strong.
Somewhere in the dark, off to my left, cymbals clashed. A great shout went up and suddenly there was light. A hundred flaming torches flared into life. Sparks flew skywards and the flames cast jumping shadows on the frost-white grass.
My heart sank. My vague plans for somehow overpowering Veronica and escaping into the darkness dissolved into dust. There were considerably more people here than I had expected. Hundreds of faces appeared in the torchlight. Strange, long faces, thick with chalk-white paste, roughly applied. Their eyes were heavily outlined in black. As if they were looking up at me from deep holes. And given their expressions, some of them might well be.
The few women I had met were obviously the acceptable face of Greyston. These others were the inevitable casualties of a too restricted gene pool. Women who, for one reason or another, were only allowed out on special occasions.
They had formed into two lines facing inwards, making a kind of human processional way, lit by torchlight. They waited in silence. No one moved or spoke. Not even the children. I couldn’t believe it – there were babies here.
I was pushed into place at the head of the processional way with my back to the stones, which made me uneasy. I could sense them behind me. Malevolent and expectant. I tried to turn around but Veronica pulled me back. I stood between her and Miriam. Of Becky there was no sign. I didn’t know whether she’d been relegated to the crowd or was passed out somewhere. No matter – there were only two of them present at the moment and their power would be diminished accordingly. Or so I told myself.
The night was freezing. I could feel the cold striking up through my boots. Inside my gloves my fingers were numb. The sky was crystal clear and each flickering torch had its own nimbus of light around it. The figures holding them were sharp black and white. I imagined this scene taking place, unchanged, down all the long years of history.
A big wooden X frame had been erected in front of the Three Sisters. It hadn’t been there this afternoon so I didn’t know when they’d put it up. I had a sudden vision of it being trundled across the green on modern wheels, like a cricket screen, and had to fight back hysterical laughter. Alongside the frame was a cloth-covered table. I could see three large bronze bowls – for the blood offering to the stones, I assumed, and in front of them, a sickle shaped knife, also of bronze. The urge to laugh left me.
And where was the King? I craned my neck. He wasn’t here. Had he somehow managed to get away? Had he got wind of his fate and escaped?
No. Here he came. The front door of the Three Sisters pub was flung open, sending a shaft of light across the road. A young girl, dressed all in white, wearing a flower wreath in her hair, skipped out. She was beaming with importance, thoroughly enjoying herself and thumping away on a hand drum. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman jumped up and down in excitement and waved. For all the world as if her daughter was appearing in a school play. Behind the little girl, four women, also in white, escorted a young man, wearing a long golden robe over which he tripped occasionally. Vital though he might be to the prosperity of the village and ensuring future harvests, it was interesting to see no one had bothered to take up his robe. After all, the next Year King might be taller.
His colour was a murky green, shading to a sickly yellow at the edges. It streamed around him, flaring with eagerness and sexual anticipation. He was excited, keyed up and thoroughly enjoying the attention.
They entered the processional avenue, walking slowly between the rows of silent, torch-bearing women.
Veronica pushed me to stand in front of the table and Granny joined us, granting the stones a clear view of their victim.
I opened my mouth to shout a warning and Granny took my other arm in a vice-like grip. A warning.
I ignored her, but as I opened my mouth to shout, around us, the women began to sing. A strange, discordant song in a minor key. A song not of this country. Or even of this age. The rhythm was compelling. An incantation to the Mother, perhaps, imploring her to receive this sacrifice. Their chanting spoke of cruelty and death. Their feet stamped a beat that chilled the blood. My head began to swim and much against my will, my own blood pulsed in response. Was this something in my genes? Something I couldn’t control? Did all women have this? A chilling thought on an already icy night.
No. Not me. I would not do this. I would not give in. I shook my head to keep it clear and made myself concentrate. Now that my eyes had adjusted a little, I could see gifts of all kinds placed around the stones. Small dolls, wreaths of dried flowers probably made way back in the summer, cakes, and long, long red ribbons that looked disturbingly like streams of blood.
An unearthly scream of exultation tore the air asunder, but not from any human throat. The stones themselves were giving welcome to their sacrifice. The air around them rippled. My ears hurt and I cried out in pain, twisting my head, desperate to escape that dreadful sound. The young man trod onwards unhearing.
Veronica stared at me complacently. ‘Yes, I knew you were the one. There’s really no point in you trying to deny it.’
Around us, the women took up the same cry, shouting, screaming, shrieking even. The noise reverberated off the buildings around the green.
Slowly, and to the beat of the drum, the Year King’s procession made its way towards the stones. For how many thousands of years had feet trodden this path? How many men had walked to their death? That this could happen now, in this day and age was wrong. Plain wrong. This was a left-over from a bloodier age. Something that should have died out centuries ago and sent scuttling back into the darkness from which it was born. It set my teeth on edge. Like biting into tin foil. A black malevolence had awoken this night. A bargain would be struck and a man would die.
From somewhere, Becky appeared beside me, wiping her mouth. I swallowed down my disappointment. She wasn’t as disabled as I’d hoped. Her mother stared at her, coldly disapproving.
I was handed over to two other women, one of whom I think might have been Joanna from the bus, and then the three of them, Granny, Veronica and Becky turned to face the approaching Year King, like some grotesque welcoming committee – all dressed in black and standing with their backs to the black stones. The Mother, the Maiden and the Crone. Relics of a darker age.
Had there once been a time when all stones demanded blood? A night when hundreds of men had died, right across the land? I thought of all the standing stones, the monoliths, the rings, the dolmens scattered around this country, right now standing silent and still in the moonlight. At least I hoped they were silent and still. Were they waiting for their turn? Were they patiently waiting for the return of the Old Days?
I looked away, bunching my muscles to run. I wasn’t doing this. I wasn’t doing any of it. I opened my mouth to shout a warning to the Year King, still happily making his way along the avenue of women and apparently oblivious of the fate in store for him.
I tried. I swear I tried. I shrieked, ‘Go back. Run away,’ until my throat hurt, but my shriek was only one of hundreds. There was nothing I could do. I tried to make ‘Go back’ gestures but even I could see he wasn’t interpreting them correctly. I stopped shrieking uselessly and tried to think of some other way of warning him but everything, the chanting, the stamping, the smell of the torches, the stones themselves, all of it was clouding
my mind. My head was throbbing in time to the beat of the drum. I could see only the stones. Even if I closed my eyes I could only see the stones. They were filling my mind.
I forced myself to look at them. It wasn’t my imagination – the stones were throbbing with anticipation. They were alive. They knew what was about to happen. Everyone here knew what was about to happen. Except the Year King himself, smiling and waving as he trod the path to his own death.
The women shrieked, the drums beat and the cymbals clashed. Their combined colours lit up the night. Flashes of blue and purple and turquoise exploded into the sky before dropping back again to merge into one throbbing mass of colour. Colour with a dark heart. I could see ribbons of red running through this sea of movement. Hysteria was in the air. The stones appeared to throb in time to their rhythm. They were alive. Everything was building towards a bloody crescendo.
I shouted again. ‘Go back. Get away while you can. They’re going to kill you. Run away,’ but even I couldn’t hear my own voice, let alone this young man still some way off. Joanna and her accessory had me in a grip of iron. There was nothing I could do. I twisted and struggled and shrieked. Anything to get his attention. Why couldn’t he realise what was about to happen to him? Why didn’t he try to run away?
If anything, he looked … well … jaunty, striding through the avenue of screaming women, waving, smiling, and giving all the appearance of a young man who was thoroughly enjoying himself. I couldn’t understand it. And then I had a sudden thought. Did he think he was here for a repeat of last year’s … introduction … to the life of a Year King? The ritual sex with a willing partner. Had he given any thought at all to the meaning of the word, ‘year’? Whatever he was expecting, it wouldn’t be to be upended by a bunch of frenzied women and have his throat cut. I thought of Veronica’s remark. That fear made the blood taste sweeter. More palatable to the stones.
