Dark Light

by Jodi Taylor

  My throat felt rough and tight. ‘Iblis, I knew it. I’ve been cursed, haven’t I?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘No wonder you kept falling over. And dropping things. And breaking things ...’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ I said crossly, wiping the sweat off my face. My hair was plastered to my forehead and my top was sticking to my back and now it seemed I was under the influence of some sort of magic talisman. I would have been very happy to have had Iblis dismiss my claim of being cursed but he hadn’t. Somehow, that was most chilling of all. Up here, alone, watching Michael Jones slowly disappear from view, it suddenly seemed very real and very frightening.

  ‘Heed my warning Elizabeth Cage and wait for me.’

  I looked around at the featureless moorland and Michael Jones, still striding along, showing no signs of the fatigue and thirst I was feeling, and tried not to feel overwhelmed.

  ‘I can’t leave him, Iblis. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.’

  He made no argument which I appreciated. ‘Then stay out of sight.’

  I looked around me again and, just for one moment, allowed the panic to creep in. ‘Iblis, I don’t know where I am.’

  ‘That does not matter. I will find you.’

  The line went dead.

  I slipped Jones’s phone in my pocket feeling a little more cheerful now that I knew help was on the way.

  It would do no one any good if I passed out from fatigue or dehydration, so I took this moment to rest and get my breath back, which turned out to be a very good move because in the sudden silence, I could hear the cheerful trickle of water just off to my right. I dropped to my knees and ignoring everything I’d ever read about cholera or leptospirosis, I had a good drink. The water was ice cold, tasted slightly peaty and did me the world of good. I splashed some on my face and neck.

  Looking around, water still running down my chin, I could see I was quite high up. Almost as high as it was possible to climb on the moors, and on all sides the land sloped downwards. I thought I could see the outline of a rough path. A sheep track perhaps. Whatever it was, I could see it winding its way down the slope, becoming broader and more defined.

  Reinvigorated, I set off again. The ground underfoot was firmer as I descended and the going much easier. Now I was out of the grass and rough bracken I found I could pick up more speed. The track became wider and rutted. I could see tyre tracks. Then there was a gate with a cattle grid. Then there was a lane on the other side. The moors slowly turned into green fields. Tall hedges on either side of the lane shut out the light. Now everything was downhill and I picked up the pace.

  At the end of the lane was a T-junction. A signpost informed me it was six miles back to Rushby, seventeen miles to Rushford, and three miles to Greyston. My heart sank, but I couldn’t help a certain grim satisfaction that I had been right.

  I turned towards Greyston and broke into a trot. I couldn’t see Jones but I was almost certain he was ahead of me somewhere. There was no reason for him to have gone back to Rushby.

  At long last, I was heading back towards civilisation. The green fields were filled with sheep and cattle and their hedges neatly trimmed. I saw an occasional roof amongst the trees. And then I heard a car coming towards me. I considered flagging it down and asking for help, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be seen just yet. Suppose they were from Greyston. Come to meet Jones. And it was going in the wrong direction anyway. I stepped back into the hedge and let it pass me by.

  A hundred yards down the lane on the right-hand side of the lane was a brand new shiny metal gate. A notice informed me these woods were private property and trespassing was forbidden. Which made me hesitate. Jones laughs at me sometimes, but I was almost certain the path I could see winding through the trees led in the direction I wanted to go. And I should get off the road. That car had been a warning. I didn’t want to be seen, not until I understood what was going on here, so I clambered up over the gate, averted my eyes from the penalties for trespassing, and set off down the broad avenue between the trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After the sun and wind of the moors, being under the trees was actually quite pleasant. I jogged silently along, relieved by the cool shade. The soft ground was much easier on my poor, battered feet. And it was downhill. There was birdsong and dappled light all around me. I breathed in the scents of damp earth and leaves and listened to the tranquil sounds of undisturbed woodland life. This was an old wood, showing signs of careful management. The trees around me were a mixture of evergreen and deciduous. I could see holly and yew, mixed with oak, birch, ash, and others I didn’t recognise. I found myself looking for beech trees and thinking of Iblis. Which made me wonder how long it would be before I could expect to see him.

  I jogged onwards and downwards, following the path, watching where I put my feet, all my thoughts on what I would do when I arrived at Greyston. And then I stopped. I don’t know why I stopped – but I did. I stopped dead. I think I stopped breathing. The hairs on my neck began to rise. Drawing in a long breath, I tried to look around without moving my head. Without moving anything. Because it was very important not to let them know I was here. That thought was in my mind before I knew it. Closely followed by – not let who know I was here?

  I had run into what I thought was a modern part of the wood. Almost a plantation. Gone was the woodland tangle I’d been seeing for the last mile or so. Here, all the trees stood in neat rows. There was no undergrowth, no ivy scrambling up ancient tree trunks. Young trees stretched away into the dim distance.

  Except – they weren’t trees.

  They weren’t trees.

  They weren’t trees.

  My mind was struggling to make sense of what my eyes could see.

  They weren’t trees.

  I stood alone among things that weren’t trees. I could hear my own breathing. Feel my skin tighten with dread.

  Because they weren’t trees. They were men. Or rather – they had been men. Once upon a time, all these had been young men. Men of all different shapes and sizes and colours. All naked. Pale and bloodless. And all with a huge, dark, gaping wound across their throat. Like a bloodless smile. Their eyes glittered. They had no colours for me to read. No expression. No one spoke. They stood and watched me.

  I couldn’t think of anything better to do than just to stand still. My instinct was to run but where would I run to? They were all around me. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing, very loud in the silence.

  I stood stock still and waited. I knew who these men were. Who they had been and how they’d died. What had Veronica told me? She’d said they always buried the remains of the old Year King up in the woods. They’d been doing this for literally ages. These woods must be full of bodies. The bodies of men ritually murdered, their blood flung at the stones and then what was left of them – the bits not required for ceremonial purposes – dumped up here in the woods, without reverence or respect, to wait in the long, dark silence of time for their day of revenge. I was trapped, alone, in a wood full of dead vengeful men.

  There were hundreds of them, stretching off into a distance that had nothing to do with measurement. Row upon row. Silent and still. Some were more distinct than others. Some – the older ones I guessed – the ones who had been here for a very long time – were merely a dark shape. How many of them must there be up here? One a year for how many years? How many centuries? There must be hundreds and hundreds of them. Thousands of them. And I was surrounded. By dead men.

  The world blurred and whirled away from me and I knew I was lost. If I fell or passed out they would be upon me. I leaned forwards, hands on my knees and tried to breathe. At every moment I expected to be seized by a hundred hands. To feel their ice-cold fingers digging into my warm flesh.

  I managed a whisper. ‘Please. Don’t hurt me.’

  The lack of reaction was chilling.

  I tried again. ‘You must let me go. I have to get to Greyston.’

  It w
as exactly the wrong thing to say. Nothing moved but their glittering eyes. I felt my heart pound. My head swam. I was hyperventilating and it was making me giddy. They were all around me. They weren’t letting me out. I didn’t want to die here.

  ‘Please – you must let me go.’

  Again – nothing.

  And then – from somewhere – I found inspiration.

  ‘There is a man down there who needs help. I must help him.’

  For a long time, nothing seemed to change. I waited, panting with fear, trying not to cry, or panic, or scream, or anything. I didn’t know what to do. Or how to get out of this. And I didn’t even want to think about what they could do to me. Or what they wanted to do to me. If they thought I was one of the women from Greyston …

  ‘Please … please let me go. I have to save him.’

  My eyes filled with useless tears. I was furious with myself. Now was not the time to cry. I rubbed my eyes so hard it hurt and when I looked again, the path was there. I could hardly believe it. There it was, stretching before me, twisting through the trees and out of sight.

  I wasted no time, setting off at a jog and very definitely not looking to left or right. I had an impression of movement all around me. I wasn’t alone. I was all alone in this wood and yet I wasn’t alone. In the worst possible way, I wasn’t alone.

  I could hear my own feet on the path, but everything around me had fallen silent. Now there was no birdsong, no woodland noises, no wind rustling the leaves. It was worse than silence – it was the complete absence of sound. And worst of all, whatever wasn’t making a sound was all around me.

  I moved faster. I couldn’t help it. Anything to get away from whatever was in this wood. I had no idea how far I still had to go. Not much further, surely. Please don’t let it be too far. Please ….

  The trees ended abruptly, as did the sense of something around me. Were they unable or unwilling to leave the shelter of the woods? There was no time to think about that now as I found myself on the slope above Greyston and looking down. I hadn’t realised before, but the whole village was in a giant basin, surrounded on all sides by green hills which, in turn, were crowned with thick woodland. From here, it was very easy to see how isolated and apart this place was. Just one road in and the same road out.

  I had an excellent view. There, clear as day, I could see the pub, the cottages, the green, the Travellers’ Rest and the remains of the stones themselves. At the moment, however, it wasn’t the stones I was looking at.

  Jones had been right about Greyston. It was awful. Gone was the immaculate, perfect English village. The beautifully kept village green had disappeared. Coarse, dead tussocks of brown grass spoiled the smooth lawn I remembered.

  The pub roof sagged and not in a picturesque way. The neat wooden tables and chairs outside were gone and replaced by cheap white plastic furniture, all piled up higgledy-piggledy.

  There were cars here now. The village was choked with them. The neat verges had been churned up with rows of them parked any old how. Some of them looked as if they’d been there for a long time. One or two were up on bricks.

  There was litter everywhere. Dirty plastic bags had been blown into the hedges and flapped forlornly. The hedges themselves were overgrown and straggly.

  The windows of Alice Chervil’s shop were empty. I wasn’t even sure if it was open. The same for the village hall, which had a lost, forlorn look about it. The air of quiet prosperity had completely disappeared. Probably never to return because I couldn’t imagine tourists pouring in to see a grubby and unkempt village with a damaged stone.

  Two of the stones still stood but Granny’s lay on the ground, dark and dead and half hidden in the long grass. The other two looked diminished. I wondered about Miriam. Was she still alive? And if Becky was still the Maiden, how happy would she be about that?

  Slowly and carefully I eased back under the trees again, telling myself it would be unwise to make any sort of move until I could see exactly what I was dealing with.

  A semi-circle of women stood in front the stones, exactly as they had done before. Again, they’d smeared their faces with thick, white, crumbling clay. Somehow, it looked worse in daylight. Their huge black eyes and mouths made them not of this world. They were drinking. I could hear the clink of bottles. Some of them were very, very drunk. Some were dancing – if that was what you could call their wild cavorting. I could hear a drum beating and some sort of pipe music – harsh and discordant.

  This was a very different ceremony from the one I’d seen at the end of last year. Now, long tables of food and drink had been set up and each table was garlanded with summer flowers. Some women wore matching wreaths in their hair. Even the burger stall was here again. I could smell the frying onions. Four bonfires had been lit and their dark smoke rose lazily in the still air.

  If I had been anywhere else I would have said this was a wedding. Of course it was. They’d got their Year King back and tonight was his wedding night. I didn’t have long to think of some way of getting him out of this. I wished and wished for Jerry. Or Iblis. Or anyone. And then I remembered Jerry’s phone. I fished it out. No signal. Yes, now I remembered Becky telling me there was no signal here.

  I don’t think it was my imagination, but there seemed fewer women than I remembered. Had some of them left the village? Or was it simply because I was looking down on them rather than being among them? Their blue and turquoise colours were swirling around, mixing and merging, and every now and then there would be a huge purple spike of excitement.

  A welcome breeze lifted the hair off my sweaty neck and I sat back to think. There might not be as many of them as there had been, but there were still many more of them than of me. And not one of them had any cause to love me. In my mind, I saw Jerry’s headlights stabbing through the dark, heard the roar of the car engine, heard the sharp crack as they clipped the stone, saw Miriam fall, her stone broken. The sun was behind me now and I was in deep shadow. I shivered. What could I do? What could one person possibly do?

  My diversion through those haunted woods must have been some sort of short cut or perhaps the women feared to let him walk through the woods, because only now was Jones arriving. He was walking slowly across the green towards the stones.

  I knelt up and peered around the tree trunk. His jeans were plastered with mud below the knees and he limped very slightly, but other than that, he looked completely normal. A huge cheer went up at his appearance. The women began to ululate. An uncanny sound that echoed around the basin and among the trees.

  They parted to let him through. I held my breath but no one touched him. If he was to be the replacement for the old Year King then he might have only minutes left, but – and I was almost certain of this – if they were calling him this year’s king, then he was safe, because this would be his wedding night.

  Whooping and laughing, they closed up behind him.

  He came to a halt in front of the stones and waited. The women fell silent. His colour was very muted, visible only as a bright outline. There was no movement and no sound down there.

  I moved carefully around the trunk for a better view and waited to see what would happen. My first instinct was to run down and … I don’t know … save him somehow, but Jerry’s words ran through my brain. ‘He’s in no danger.’ Well, he was, but not any immediate danger. I suspected it was induction, rather than execution they had in mind for him, and if I was right then they would all of them die before they let anything happen to him. I, on the other hand, the cause of their failed ceremony at the end of last year, would probably not receive a warm welcome.

  I lowered myself to the ground and using my forearms, inched forwards through the long grass. I could see Veronica and Becky, both clothed in black. Becky stood before her usual stone, the slender Maiden. She’d grown taller since I’d seen her last. Her face was expressionless but her colour said plenty, shot through with acid orange resentment. Far more so than on the last time we had met.

  Veronic
a had obviously been demoted. She was standing in front of the fallen stone. Miriam’s old stone. The Crone. She too stood, silent and still, her hands clasped submissively before her. Her colour was as still as she was and much harder to read. I left it for the moment because she wasn’t the important one here.

  The dominant position in front of the central stone, the Mother, was now occupied by Alice Chervil, her colour blazing in a triumph of purple with only a very little blue and turquoise around the edges. This was not good news. The reasons for her aggressive hostility towards me were now very obvious. I had been Veronica’s choice, brought in from the outside. With me and her daughter Becky, Veronica would have retained control over the … I wasn’t sure the word coven applied here, but I couldn’t think of any other word. Whatever I called it, though, Veronica would have remained in charge. Becky was her daughter and I would have been no more than a puppet, easily controlled and manipulated.

  Veronica must have been delighted when I turned up, bedraggled and lost, but instead, her plans had backfired spectacularly. She’d bitten off a lot more than she could chew with me, and now she was paying the price. Miriam, I suspected, was dead, Veronica’s prestige had plummeted and Alice had seized her opportunity. I have to say though, if I was Alice Chervil, quiet though she was, I would not have turned my back on Veronica even for a moment. For now, though, she and Becky were standing silently by their stones as Alice ran the show.

  The three of them must have collaborated to bring Jones back here all the way from Rushby. That surely had taken a great deal of power and cooperation. Much more than only one person could manage alone. And then there was this witch’s ladder thing that Iblis had found. They would have had to work together on that as well. I wondered vaguely which of them had hidden it in my porch and how long it had been there. A movement below brought me back to what was happening.

  In contrast to Veronica’s and Becky’s quiet black gowns, Alice had chosen to mark the occasion with long, theatrical robes in silver and gold. They flowed around her, dragging on the grass. I was pleased to see they were already extremely dirty around the hem. On anyone else they would have looked ridiculous, but such was the power emanating from her at this moment, they actually enhanced her appearance. I half expected to see them embroidered with mystic runes and had to remind myself that getting off on a power trip and wearing silly clothes didn’t make anyone less dangerous.