by Heide Goody
“This way round is no good at all,” said Bastian. “I think we need to turn him over so that his bottom goes in first.”
“I'll need to get down into the hole and hoist him up from underneath,” said Manfred.
They struggled for some moments, Manfred pushing and Bastian pulling, and eventually succeeded in turning Lionel over.
“What are we going to do?” said Bastian. “It seems impossible to get all of his hands and feet below the level of the ground. I suppose it would be unseemly to, you know, jump up and down on them and squash them into place?”
“Yes, it most certainly would,” said Manfred.
“Can you hear something?” said Bastian.
They both listened.
“Someone's coming!” hissed Manfred. “Jump up and down, squash these bits into place and get some soil over the body. Quickly!”
“There,” said Stephen and pointed.
Potter sat on a rock, sketching in a book. With the hood of her borrowed habit drawn up around her neck, the wind swirling around her, she was the very picture of purposeful concentration and contemplation.
“She looks content,” said Stephen, and felt a jolt of horrified realisation run through him. “Do you really want to drag that poor woman back down to Hell?”
“Want’s got nothing to do with it,” said Rutspud and then yelled, “Potter, what in the blue blazes are you playing at? I've been searching for you all over the place! You could have got us all in trouble!”
The elegant woman looked up from her sketching.
“Oh, is it time to go back down? I was coming right along, but I just wanted to capture the beauty of this place. Look at the views, sir!”
“Views? Views!” Rutspud gazed at the horizon. “No, much too empty in my opinion, which is of course the important one here. In case you'd forgotten, I'm the one in charge.”
“Steady on,” said Stephen, but Rutspud ignored him.
“If you'd be kind enough to tear yourself away from the views,” said Rutspud, “we need to be getting back, just as soon as we've found my missing arm.”
“It's over there, sir,” said Potter.
“What?”
“It's over there,” said Potter. “It's been helping me.”
“Helping you?”
“Holding my spare pencils, pointing out interesting things to sketch, that sort of thing.”
“Sometimes I think it's not really my arm,” grumbled Rutspud. “What's it playing at, being nice?”
“Here it is,” called Stephen, as he spotted it crawling through the snow.
“Grab it then. Be firm,” called Rutspud.
Stephen looked at the spindly arm, and wondered if it could sense the slight tingling of fear and revulsion that he felt confronting an animated limb. It reared back, wiggled its fingers and lunged at his ankle, making him jump back with a squeal. Clearly the thing was toying with him. It seemed to quiver with mirth at his overreaction. He made a grab for it, annoyed now that it had made him feel so foolish.
“Hah! Got it!”
He wrestled it into a cloth bag that he pulled from his pocket.
Rutspud held Potter's sketch pad and flicked through it as they walked back down the hill.
“You've drawn everything,” he said.
“Well, I'm always sketching, sir” she replied.
“Are you?” Rutspud murmured. “I never noticed you doing it before. Look! This has got to be a Meat and Mead Thursday, you can tell by the way Boudicca's grinning.”
Bastian and Manfred were flattening the last of the soil and snow on top of the unfortunate Lionel.
“His foot's still sticking out!” hissed Bastian.
“Jump on it a bit more! Quickly now, those voices are very close,” said Manfred, picking up the shovels, and moving off.
“I tried that, it's still sticking out!”
“Pile snow on it!”
“It’s not working!”
Bastian looked around for anything that might help. He spotted a bucket, quickly upturned it over Lionel's foot and ran after Manfred.
“Into the hide!” Manfred hissed.
They both ducked into the partly-constructed hide, and crouched behind the skeletal supports that would eventually become the rear wall.
“Nice work, so far,” whispered Bastian, looking round.
“Thank you,” whispered Manfred. “The base is complete, I think that with another two days' work, we can have the rest of the structure in place.”
“I see Brother Henry is making sure his home comforts are taken care of,” said Bastian, holding up the jug kettle with a raised eyebrow.
They fell silent as they heard several voices from the path outside.
“One of them sounds like young Trevor,” said Bastian.
“Stephen, you mean,” said Manfred.
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Who’s that with him? A very … girly voice.”
“Brother Terry?”
“Hmmm,” said Bastian. “I know what you mean, but, no. What do you suppose ‘Meat and Mead Thursday’ is?”
“No idea,” said Manfred from the other side of the hide, where he was sitting on the edge of the floor that jutted over the cliff. “This gives us an excellent view down.”
“I think I’ll be happier when we’ve glazed over that viewing hole.”
“But look. Look!”
Bastian went over on his hands and knees to join Manfred at the edge. Bastian was not a man to be afraid of heights but, knowing that while he peered directly down through the hole in the floor there was nothing beneath his body but a couple of inches of plywood and some supportive batons, gave him a buzz of trepidation.
“One of them’s on the nest,” said Manfred.
“Can you tell which one?”
“I think it’s the female. The male’s comb is larger.”
“It's really a special sight,” breathed Bastian. “The birdwatchers will be thrilled to have such wonderful access.”
“And you’ll be thrilled to have access to their wallets,” grinned Manfred.
“Hey, it’s not always about the money.” smiled Bastian in reply, and was surprised to realise that he meant it.
“Naturally, we’ll have to strictly regulate access to this hide,” said Manfred. “Even once we’ve got the counterbalance rods in place, this place won’t be able to support more than three or four – ah.”
Bastian heard the worry in that single syllable.
“Ah?” he said.
Manfred grimaced. “Now,” he said slowly, “I don’t want you to panic.”
“Panic?” said Bastian. “Why would I panic?”
“My designs were carefully calculated. I was the assistant chief structural engineer on the Mönchengladbach Velodrome, you know.”
“Why would I panic?” repeated Bastian.
The wind blew across the structure and the floor groaned loudly beneath them.
“We haven’t put in the counterbalance rods yet. We’re not pinned to the clifftop.”
Bastian screwed up his face in an attempt to keep a lid on the fear and anger that had suddenly bloomed within him.
“Have you killed us, Manfred?” he croaked.
Manfred tried to give him a reassuring smile.
“All we need to do is move – very slowly – to the back of the –”
There was a sudden snap, and the floor tilted beneath them both. Their eyes met as they realised that the whole of the bird hide was pivoting on the cliff edge. They flung themselves back towards the other side, but the thing had already started its slow but unstoppable slide over the edge. The two monks managed an ineffectual paddle for a few moments before they dropped away, wood cracking, splintering and smashing against the rocks as they screamed and fell.
Bastian screwed his eyes shut. The hide fell apart around him. He heard parts of it smashing into the rocky cove below and …
Bastian opened his eyes. He was surprised to find that he hadn't fallen to his dea
th. There was a painfully tight pressure on his hands and wrist above him and a great weight pulling down on his habit but he wasn’t dead.
He looked down at Manfred who was gripping the edge of Bastian's habit and swinging in the breeze.
He looked across at the female yellow-crested Merlin stilt in its nest which was eyeing him with interest.
He looked up at his straining arm and saw that his hand was still gripped tightly around the handle of the kettle and the flex, connected to a chain of extension cables leading over the lip of the cliff, was wrapped around his lower arm.
He started to laugh.
“Manfred! You'll never guess what's holding us up?” he shouted.
Manfred managed a grunt.
“Please tell me it's something solid and dependable,” he said.
“It's the electric lead to the kettle,” said Bastian.
“So, not particularly solid and dependable.”
Stephen stood slightly behind Potter and Rutspud as they examined her sketch pad together. He found himself strangely reluctant to see the pictures of Hell, even though they seemed to be describing it with fondness. Ahead, Mama-Na and Whitehouse efficiently pulled foliage and patches of snowy turf over the pipe.
Stephen gave a start as a wet nose nuzzled his hand.
“Jessie! What are you still doing here?”
Rutspud turned and gave a low growl at the sight of the dog.
“I thought you'd left on Owen's boat,” said Stephen.
“Why's it got that rope in its mouth?” asked Rutspud.
Jessie dropped the rope at Stephen's feet and tugged his sleeve with her teeth.
“She wants me to go with her.”
Rutspud and Potter looked at Stephen blankly as he crouched and spoke to Jessie.
“Is there someone stuck down a well, or an old mine shaft?” he asked.
“That dog just rolled its eyes,” said Rutspud.
“I need to go and see what she wants,” said Stephen.
“Tesla should be switching the machine on any moment,” said Rutspud. “I’ll stay and oversee things here. But I’ll have my arm back before you go.”
Jessie eyed the wriggling limb as Stephen handed it over.
“Don’t you even dare think it,” growled the demon.
“What about the bird?” said Manfred from below. “Is it unharmed?”
“It looks all right,” said Bastian from above. “Ooh, no. No, no, no.”
The bird had flapped from its nest and fluttered barely a foot to come to rest on the top of Bastian’s kettle.
“What?” wailed Manfred. “What’s happening?”
“Go away,” said Bastian. “Go on.”
He tried clicking and even blowing at the bird, but it simply adjusted its position on the plastic kettle.
“It’s pecking the plug connecting us to the extension lead,” said Bastian. “It’s coming loose.”
“Brother?” called Manfred.
“Yes, brother?”
“I would normally say that my soul is ever prepared for death, but considering that we’ve just concealed the death of Brother Lionel and buried him in non-consecrated ground …”
“My thoughts exactly. Oh no.”
“Oh no?”
“I can see something shiny. I think it’s exposed a wire.”
“It probably shouldn't do that,” said Manfred. “It could hurt itself.”
There was a sharp electrical crackling sound, and a foul burning stench filled the air. Bastian was momentarily blinded by the flash and blinked to clear his vision.
“What was that?” called Manfred. “Oh. Something's fallen into your hood, brother. It looks like ... oops. That rare bird of ours, there seems to be a very good reason that it's rare.”
Stephen looked down the edge of the cliff.
“Hello?”
At first all he could see were jagged chunks of wood tossed in the surf below.
“Hello?”
“Down here,” called Bastian.
Stephen edged closer and saw Bastian swinging on the end of a thin cable. He realised that Manfred was hanging just below him. They were clearly in need of some urgent assistance.
“Hold on, brothers! I'll fasten the rope to something and help you as quickly as I can.” Stephen looked around for something solid to use. “By the way, Bastian, I don't want to alarm you, but your habit seems to be smouldering.”
A few minutes later, Bastian and Manfred were back up on solid ground, massaging their aching shoulders.
“I knew those abseiling workshops would pay dividends. Well done for your timely intervention,” said Manfred, and then sighed. “I just wish we could report a happy outcome for the bird, which is most definitely dead,” he said, examining the charred remains still inside Bastian’s hood.
“There is another bird, isn't there?” asked Stephen.
“Yes, the male bird is still alive, I believe,” said Manfred, “and the eggs as well, of course, which we may have to rescue.”
“I saw a bucket back there,” said Stephen. “Let's go and get it so we can put the eggs in it to carry them back.”
Stephen saw a strange look pass between Bastian and Manfred.
“No, no, let's not do that,” said Bastian. “That bucket is just not right. I even think it might have a hole in it. I think we should return to the monastery and prepare more carefully for the precious eggs.”
“If you say so,” said Stephen. “We’d best start looking for the male bird.”
Much later, Stephen caught up with Rutspud, Potter, Mama-Na and Whitehouse on the slopes between St Cadfan’s monastery and the sea.
“Where have you been?” said Rutspud.
“Bird-related emergency,” said Stephen, and looked ahead. “I’m impressed. I can’t even see where you’ve buried the pipe.”
“Here,” said Whitehouse and crouched with her palms on the snowy ground. “Feel it, young man?”
Stephen placed his hand on the snow and could indeed feel a soundless thrumming beneath his fingers. Gallon after gallon of seawater being pumped into an over-heating Hell.
Ridiculous, he thought happily.
“So that furry monster took you to rescue those other monks?” asked Rutspud with a shake of his head.
“Dogs can be noble and loving creatures,” said Potter. “I had a beautiful spaniel with just the same warm, brown eyes.”
“Horrible,” said Rutspud with a shudder.
“Mmn arf arf nu!” declared Mama-Na exuberantly.
“And Mama-Na had one too,” said Potter.
“Gng mmm.”
“Until the winter her tribe were particularly hungry ...” Potter added quietly.
“Have you got your sewing things, Potter?” said Rutspud. “I want to get this arm of mine back on.”
“Back in the cave, sir.”
In the rapidly dimming light, the party made their way back up to the monastery. Potter fell into step with Stephen.
“Bird-related emergency?” she asked.
“The last male of a critically endangered species,” said Stephen. “The yellow-crested Merlin stilt.”
“Extinction of an entire species is such a tragedy,” said Potter. “Sadly, in my day, we could see that man's encroachment on the land was causing problems for the natural world. I’d like to think that in the decades since, man has become a better steward and learned to look after his world.”
Stephen shifted uncomfortably.
“Well … er …”
“No, of course,” said Potter with a wry smile. “Man is man. I'll wager that the majority of Britain is not as tranquil as this lovely corner you enjoy as your home.”
“No, that's certainly true. It is tranquil here. Perfect almost,” said Stephen, gazing across the Irish Sea at the burnished red of the sunset.
“Rutspud was actually impressed with my artwork,” said Potter. “He says he's got a painting project that will employ my artistic talents.”
“Intrigu
ing,” said Stephen. “What's the project?”
“Some sort of box that needs to look as though it's packed with scientific marvels.”
“I'm sure you'll do an excellent job,” he said.
“The exhaust pipe’s in place,” called Rutspud, pointing.
“Keep your voice down,” said Stephen. “Most of the monks should be heading for chapel, but we should still take care. You never know who we might bump into.”
Stephen looked at the pipe filling the frame of the cellar window. Among the dark and shapeless stonework of the recently discovered cellars, this new addition was barely visible.
“It's actually quite discreet. I'm impressed,” said Stephen.
“What's that sticking out of it?” asked Whitehouse.
“Where?” said Rutspud.
“It looks like feathers.”
“It is! I can see its comb!” A smile barely made it onto his lips when it was dashed aside by a horrifying thought.
He looked at his watch.
“Would I be right in guessing that Tesla is a man of precision and careful timing?” he asked.
“Definitely,” said Potter.
“Damn,” he said softly. “Duck!”
A blast of steam erupted from the window. Even from a dozen yards away, Stephen could feel the heat on his face. Something bounced to the ground as they crouched there, but it was a few moments before the steam had died down enough for them to investigate.
“Oh no,” Stephen said.
The steam had melted all the snow for yards around and had boiled the bird instantly. The few feathers that still clung to its carcass were clumped around cooked flesh.
“Well, that’s it,” sighed Stephen. “The last of a very rare breed of bird.”
“Rare? Looks well done to me,” said Rutspud, poking it hungrily.
“Shrn mm kuk-kuk,” said Mama-Na.
“No, you’re right,” said Whitehouse. “It’s not a duck.”
“Hilarious,” said Stephen miserably.
Chapter 8 – The day Rutspud got his new arm
In the cold light of morning, three monks inspected the corpses of the world’s only yellow-crested Merlin stilts. The male and female lay side by side on the kitchen table, one steam-boiled and featherless, the other flash-fried and charred at its wingtips.
