‘Then let’s wait,’ I suggested eagerly. ‘Wait for someone to leave the food and the villagers to come and collect it. The villagers can tell us if Josselin is in there or not and we don’t have to go into Shyam at all.’
‘There are nearly three hundred dead in there, Harry, barely a hundred left alive.’ Dowling pushed me forwards. ‘This is the work of God, that ye believe in him whom he hath sent. You are sent by Him, and I believe in you.’
What an extraordinary thing to say. Was the butcher deranged? I followed him betwixt the great boulders, still leading my reluctant steed. We came to a small, wooden bridge, beneath which trickled a narrow stream. Beyond the stream we found a well-worn path, broad and bare, of grass. To our left, visible around the corner, tucked into a cluster of sycamores, stood three cottages in a line, walls and roofs covered in ivy.
‘This is the Town-head,’ Dowling murmured, standing still. ‘The western end of the village.’
‘You’ve been here before?’ I asked.
‘I read a map.’
No one moved, no one called out. We approached the front door of the first cottage, Dowling calling out cautiously. No one replied. He pushed the door with his finger and it creaked slowly open. Dowling poked his head in, then withdrew.
‘Empty,’ he announced. ‘And a mess besides. Someone has ransacked the place.’
He walked to the next house, again announcing his presence before opening the door. And the third.
‘Empty.’ He turned to face me. ‘I wonder if they have abandoned the whole village after all.’
We headed east, back past the bridge. It didn’t look abandoned to me. Deep ridges carved through the soil, freshly cut. We passed another six cottages, still and quiet, all of them empty.
We came to a church, grey tower partially hidden within a ring of linden trees, like an army of grim angels guarding the passage within. We walked the path between gravestones, many of which appeared freshly chiselled, the ground trimmed short. A small porch framed the door, upon which perched a small cross. Dowling stepped inside while I waited, listening for any strange noise amidst the cacophony of nature. Dowling tried opening the door.
‘It’s locked,’ he frowned.
‘If there were a hundred alive last Friday, who is to say they have not all died by now?’ I hated the fog and the mist. I yearned to be able to see what might be hiding in the distance. I thought I heard a man’s voice, distant and pitiful.
‘The food baskets were empty,’ said Dowling.
‘Animals,’ I replied.
‘Animals,’ Dowling repeated, catching sight of something. ‘There is a pool or a pond over there, with trees around it.’
But they were not trees.
Around Shyam pond, someone had erected steel cages, each one made of thick iron, the shape of a birdcage hanging from a seven-foot wooden pole. And in each one a man, crouched with knees up to chest, for there was little room inside the dreadful contraptions. Twelve of them stood in a great circle about the green water.
Flies enveloped the first, crawling about the dead body inside with great intent. The flesh already peeled from the skin of its cheekbone, revealing a pocket of ripe, squirming maggots. The next few were also dead, in varying stages of decomposition. In the fifth cage was a woman, her green dress sodden and rotting. She too had been in here for several weeks at least. A great, black cockroach emerged from her yellow hair, an unnatural sight triggering unusual cramps within my stomach.
I heard someone groan, then saw a movement from across the pond. Not all of these people were dead. I rushed about the circle. A thin man lifted his chin and squinted against the white sky. His eyes were dull and unseeing, lips cracked and dry. The next two were living too, though barely.
‘What black deed is this?’ I exclaimed, bile rising in my throat. The fog clung like a shroud, hiding what other atrocities? I fought to stop myself from running back the way we came.
‘Someone did this to deter others,’ Dowling’s voice sounded unusually shrill. ‘We are in the centre of the village.’
‘Well, at least we must release those that still live.’ I grasped for the lock of the nearest cage.
‘We keep that locked,’ a voice called from our right. Out of the fog stepped a man of ordinary height, lank brown hair streaked upon a long, suspicious face. Some kind of festering sore enveloped half his bottom lip. The muscles about his mouth were hard and tense. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Buxton,’ I replied, remembering the name we saw in the records the night before. ‘My brother is Robert Buxton.’
‘Robert Buxton,’ he repeated, thoughtful. ‘You look young to be his brother.’
‘Aye.’ My mind froze. ‘I was born at Colchester.’ Else he could check his own church records for evidence of my birth. ‘I have not seen him for several years. I came when I heard his life might be in danger.’
He stepped towards me and stared deeper into my eyes. I felt my soul writhe beneath his gaze. So this was what the devil looked like. ‘How did you get in?’
‘We came through a valley, past a large rock.’
‘I see.’ He nodded, sombre. ‘I wish you had come about the main street, for then we might have given ye the opportunity to turn back.’ He nodded at Dowling. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am his uncle,’ Dowling growled. ‘What is this atrocity?’
‘These are sinners that sought to expedite the Devil’s work,’ the man replied. ‘I am Thomas Elks and this is my parish. These wretches attempted to leave our boundaries though they vowed against it.’
The mists still rolled about our ears, a deathly thing, and I found myself wondering if we wandered into a world of ghosts. This Elks spoke with strange graces, like he was the guardian of this earth.
‘You are the Reverend?’ asked Dowling.
‘Mompesson is the Reverend,’ Elks replied. ‘He stays in the church.’
‘The church door is locked,’ Dowling said, suspicious.
‘Aye,’ said Elks. ‘He locks himself inside.’
What sort of Reverend locked himself inside a church and his parishioners out?
‘These vowed not to leave this parish, you say,’ Dowling stepped towards him, ‘then changed their minds. For that you have done this to them?’
Elks scratched at his chest. ‘When the plague struck our village, every man agreed we would remain within the parish boundaries so we don’t carry the plague further into the country. It was Mompesson’s idea.’
A light breeze blew across the pond, and the cages swung from the top of the poles, creaking.
‘You deny them decent burial,’ Dowling hissed betwixt old teeth. ‘Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God, and serve him, and shalt swear by his name. Is it you that does this terrible thing?’
‘The Devil hath tempted them to run amok,’ Elks explained, as if to a child. ‘He hath persuaded them to listen to his voice, and now sends them forth to spew death upon the masses. Mompesson decreed they will hang here until the evil hath vanished from their bodies, and in the meantime the sight of their poor, black souls may deter others from succumbing unto the same temptation.’ He stepped closer to Dowling so that the two men stood nose to nose. ‘No man may leave here.’
As he spoke, a light breeze blew the mists away across the fields, unveiling a large, square contraption upon a grassy green square in front of a small church. It looked like a cage with bodies in it. Elks saw me stare.
‘That is the cage,’ he said. ‘For those who must wait their turn.’
It was indeed a cage, fabricated of flattened iron bars, no more than four feet tall and eight feet long. Six men sat cramped within it, including four familiar faces. Dowling strode forward with furious stride, gripping the bars like he would pull them apart with his bare hands. Two of the six men staggered to their feet and thrust their own dirty fingers through the gaps. I reached Dowling’s shoulder just as the shorter of the two pushed his face up as close to the bars as he could manage. Thick streaks o
f dirt coated his face like he had dragged through mud. He cast a pleading gaze upon us both, desperation writ deep upon his filthy brow.
‘You must leave,’ he whispered, hoarse. ‘Else ye shall be brought down to Hell, to the sides of the pit.’
‘Are those not the men we saw leave Colchester yesterday?’ I asked, for indeed I was sure I recognised their distinctive tan shoes.
‘They insisted upon entering before any could explain the consequences of it,’ Elks spoke with a soft voice that belied his steely gaze. ‘They said their mission was to bring God into our lives, to share with us their medicines, and then begone. I said unto them as I say unto you: no man may leave here.’ The shorter cleric buried his face in his hands like he feared Elks’ judgement. ‘Then they said it was their duty to take away the sick, unto the Pesthouse at Colchester.’
‘A noble quest,’ Dowling observed.
‘A proud quest,’ Elks corrected him, cheeks reddening. ‘And everyone that is proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord, whatever may be their expressed intent. Bring God into our lives, indeed. So God is not here already?’ His voice thundered and the prisoners cowered. He lowered his brow and cast his wrath upon Dowling and his wanton mouth. ‘We swore an oath that no man would leave here, that we would trust our own lives unto God, and under no circumstance would we assist the evil plague in its quest to roam further abroad. We swore an oath unto God, and we will abide by it whatever the temptation.’ He breathed loudly in and out of his nose, face suffused with blood, mouth clamped firmly closed.
‘I understand that,’ I said, praying Dowling would hold his tongue. ‘It is a noble thing, and one that any man should respect. I assume my brother took the oath.’ I fervently hoped so, anyway.
‘He did.’ Elks replied, the scarlet of his face subsiding to a gentler pink. ‘Before he entered the Kingdom of God.’
I let my lower jaw drop an inch and did my best to appear mortified.
Elks narrowed his eyes. ‘Your brother is dead. He died two days ago. Did they not tell you in Colchester?’
‘No,’ I answered with cracked voice. ‘I came to support him in his hour of need.’
‘I am sorry you arrived too late.’ Elks stared. ‘Rest assured he died a good man.’
I found a tear from somewhere and smeared it across my cheek.
‘Brave of you to come here,’ said Elks, curious.
I opened my mouth and searched for a convincing platitude.
‘God shall watch over us for so long as we remain virtuous,’ Dowling growled.
‘I am sorry you did not enter by the street, for we could have told you of his fate and you might have left freely,’ said Elks. ‘They buried your brother yesterday.’
I bowed my head to hide my face, praying Dowling might follow my lead. I sensed he readied to seize Elks by the neck and throttle him.
‘Will you stay or will you go?’ Elks asked, softly. I heard the faint edge in his voice, and recognised immediately the choice he presented.
‘We will stay, of course,’ I answered afore Dowling could speak. ‘For we must abide by your oath, and I would spend some time in the house of my brother.’
‘Ah, very good,’ Elks nodded slowly. ‘And so you would take the oath yourself?’
‘As God is my witness,’ I assured him. ‘I pledge an oath to remain within these village boundaries until the Pest has departed.’
Elks muttered something, apparently satisfied, afore turning to Dowling.
‘I swear unto you, I shall stay,’ Dowling growled.
‘Before God, please,’ Elks insisted.
Dowling scratched at his nose and looked upon the heads of the four poor clerics. ‘I swear unto thee and before God, that I shall not leave this village until the plague has finished killing the good men that abide here.’
‘Very well,’ Elks nodded. ‘Then you are free to live among us as you will.’ If his words spoke of trust, his eyes did not. ‘Do you know the way to your brother’s house?’ he asked, strange gleam in those foul eyes.
‘It lies up towards Town End,’ said Dowling.
Elks’ eyes narrowed. ‘You remember.’
‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded. ‘But we will need help to find it in this fog.’
Elks nodded his head, curtly, and beckoned us forward into the mists, away from the horrors about the village pond. The bank of fog loomed sinister and mysterious, hiding what other monstrosities, I couldn’t imagine. It seemed we were in Hell, and as we followed Elks, I feared these would be our last steps and we would never get out of this place alive.
Chapter Fourteen
Because Virgo is an earthly barren sign; great mortality amongst their greater Cattle.
Elks strode fast through the white wall of fog, like he carried a map of the place in his head. The road led us down into a freezing valley before climbing back up to where the air was thinner. Thin enough to make out a square, stone cottage with grey, slate roof.
Elks stopped at the gate. ‘When did you last see your brother?’ he demanded.
‘Three years ago,’ I improvised. ‘In Colchester.’
Elks shook his head, slowly. ‘I don’t remember Robert leaving Shyam in all my life.’
‘Aye,’ I replied, doing my best to appear upon the verge of new tears. ‘He hated to travel.’
Elks grunted. ‘No matter. Buxton had nothing of value, as you may see for yourself.’ He rubbed his nose upon the back of his sleeve and stared out darkly from beneath a greasy brow. ‘Be sure not to wander.’ He considered us a little while longer before marching off, back into the mists.
I realised I’d stopped breathing. Thank the Lord he hadn’t asked me what Buxton looked like.
The door to the cottage stood ajar. The smell of something sweet and fetid lurked within. I sought reassurance before pushing at the door. ‘Elks did say they buried him?’
The door stuck. A fly buzzed around my ear then landed inside my nostril, a foul tickle.
Dowling leant against it with his shoulder. The door remained stubbornly unmoving despite Dowling’s best efforts. ‘Whatever it is, it’s heavier than me,’ he panted.
I followed the edge of the house round to the left and into the fog. I spotted a window halfway down the wall, a piece of linen soaked in linseed oil, sagging and loose. I pulled at one corner and tore it from the frame. The stink was overpowering, the steady drone of flies belying the carnage within.
‘God save us,’ I exclaimed, pulling away into the fresh moist air.
‘And the beasts of the fields.’ Dowling took my place and scanned the scene. ‘It’s a cow, wandered into the house and dropped dead against the door.’
I imagined what Jane would say if she found a dead cow inside our house. ‘Then we may as well leave it there. We cannot live with a dead cow.’
Dowling raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless you have another relative here, I don’t know where else we’ll sleep.’
Sleep meant another day away from London, an unsettling thought. I turned away and gazed into the gloom. The yellow mists began to thin. Apple trees emerged, tall, dark and spectral. We were in an orchard, apples still forming, not yet ripe. Likely the harvest would fall to the ground and rot. Between the trees nothing moved, save the swirling vapours.
Suddenly I couldn’t catch a breath. I felt drawn into the orchard, compelled to keep walking in a straight line until Shyam was far behind. Fear of this place clutched at my heart, a dread of Elks and the gruesome spectacle about the village pond. I longed to go home.
‘I see someone,’ Dowling whispered from behind my shoulder.
I shivered, the mist chilling the naked skin about my neck and chest. I followed his gaze, my heart frozen. A woman and two children, pale-faced and motionless, three ghosts, victims of the pestilence, stood the other side of a long dark mound. They watched us as close as we watched them.
Dowling tugged at my coat. ‘Come on.’
My feet stuck to the floor like tree trunks, until torn from their roo
ts by the butcher.
‘Stop there!’ the woman cried, voice shrill. The two children burrowed deeper into her skirts. ‘Who are you?’
I held up my hands. ‘Robert Buxton’s brother,’ I called. I would have to find myself a name.
She pulled the children in tight and stared down at the freshly-dug grave. When she glanced up, as if expecting me to collapse in a paroxysm of tears, I ducked my head and looked for sadness. I found it quickly. We stood in silence, while I imagined my father lain beneath that earth. I had known him as well as this fictional brother would have known Buxton.
‘You are Robert’s brother?’ the woman asked, peering closer when I lifted my head.
‘His younger brother,’ I claimed again, little confidence this pretence would survive the morning.
‘You are shorter than he,’ she said, doubtful. ‘You don’t have his long nose, nor his brown eyes.’
‘You thought him handsome, then?’ I asked.
‘He was seventy years old,’ she declared. ‘No man is handsome at that age. He couldn’t see or hear well, but he had a kind heart, I suppose.’ She seemed uncertain.
I would have to change the subject. ‘Why is Robert buried here and not in the graveyard?’ I asked.
She cocked her head and looked like she would cry. ‘The Reverend no longer allows burials at the church. We must bury our own on our own land, and Marshall Howe buries the last to die.’
One of the children started to cry, hiding his face in the folds of his mother’s dress. She placed a hand on his head and stroked his hair. ‘I’m sorry, John,’ she spoke soft.
I met her eye. ‘What’s happening here?’
She scanned the trees and squirmed, like she would rather be anywhere else. ‘It started at Edward Cooper’s house. He received some fabrics from London which were wet. He hung them out to dry and died next day.’
‘Then the whole village took an oath to stay,’ I replied. ‘That is what Thomas Elks would have us believe. It seems unlikely.’
She edged sideways. ‘We must go now.’
‘Help us,’ I pleaded, cursing my sharp tongue. ‘Help us understand. Robert is dead, yet we are told we cannot leave.’
Hearts of Darkness Page 11
