She crouches down and, with great care, puts one leg, then the other, over the rim of the hole and passes into the dark space on the other side. Then she reaches back for the axe.
Roger and I follow.
We are in the crypt beneath the church. It reeks of the sweet odour of rotting flesh and burning wax.
I peer round a stone pillar, wipe soil out of my eyes, blink, and am dazzled.
The walls are flickering with light. A myriad of candle flames splutter and spit from niches and ledges, coffin lids and tombs, sending up wandering strings of smoke to curl under the vault of the ceiling.
My moist hands clasp and unclasp the handle of the axe as my blurred vision clears. Then I let out a long, low gasp.
In front of us is a vast pile of bones in a high jagged heap — skulls and leg bones and vertebrae, knee bones and jaws, whole and broken, crushed, splintered, sharp, the larger ones gathered from the tombs of the undercroft, the ancient tombs of the Guerdons, my family, now standing broken and empty. The only Guerdons Lankin has spared lie safe in the plot near the old gate in the graveyard above us.
But most of the bones in this massive pile are very small, delicate even. All are discoloured — dark brown, yellow, ivory, dirty grey.
The floor is littered with fragments, scraps of cloth, little pieces of shoes.
On the far wall, the huge black shadow of the pile quivers in the candlelight.
Sitting cross-legged on top of this grisly mound is Long Lankin, sitting on this ghastly throne made of the bones of the poor damned children condemned to wander in the half-world so long as he himself has life. One by one, they were called to play in his garden of souls.
Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone — somewhere there, in that wretched charnel heap, are shreds of my own self — my ancestors, my brother, and … and my son.
Lankin looks down at us, holding Mimi out towards us, mocking us. Her small thin body is limp and drooping. He lifts her floppy arm and shakes her little hand at us.
He can wait. He has her in his grasp. Even if we were able to climb the shifting bone pile, how could we stop a creature who has defied death for generation upon generation? He gloats at us, drawing back his thin, wasted lips and showing us his pointed yellow teeth.
He is smiling.
We stand completely rigid, staring in horror. I take a glance at Auntie. She looks defeated, bleak with pain. I feel utterly helpless.
Suddenly Roger hisses out of the side of his mouth, “Help me, Cora. Pull out the bones. Make the heap fall down.”
“What? Don’t be stupid. What about Mimi?”
“Leave her to me,” whispers Auntie Ida with a hint of excitement in her voice. “You help Roger.”
“But your leg —”
“It’s all we can do, but we must do it now. Move!”
“Right. Give me the axe!”
I grab it from Auntie as we run towards the pile. It’s so heavy, the head hits the ground with a clunk. Long Lankin looks down at us and tips his chin to the side and stops grinning.
Roger starts at the bottom of the heap, furiously tearing out leg bones, ribs.
I lift the axe as high as I can, then strike at the tangled mass, thrusting the metal head deep inside, turning it around with all my strength, and yanking it towards me. A couple of little skulls drop to the floor.
I claw at the pile with both hands, pulling out a shredded sock, bones, a dirty blue rag, bones, and more bones.
Cora is struggling. I snatch the axe from her and bring it down once, twice, into the heap, and once again. Mrs. Eastfield drags out a piece of a ragged blanket, and with it comes a large bundle of bones knotted together. They dislodge and shoot across the floor. The heap is creaking. It’s beginning to move. Where the axe head falls, bones spill out and roll away. A space opens up in front, stretching back into the middle of the pile, overhung with the platform of bones on which Long Lankin sits.
He leans over, snarling. Dangling Mimi under one arm, he starts to crawl down towards us. The shifting sound becomes louder, more urgent. As his weight presses down on the front of the heap, the tangled bones under his feet begin to slip.
Lankin and Mimi are sliding down the pile. There’s a mighty rushing sound. Bones clatter onto the floor all around us. There’s no stopping them. Lankin loses his balance. He’s tumbling down amongst the unravelling bones. Mimi is slithering down with him. She wakes. I hear her cry.
He’s falling towards us. Mimi is entangled in his legs. Everything is rushing. The bones are spilling over our feet. Roger is shouting. We are all caught up in the bones. Lighted candles are toppling on their sides. Thin lines of smoke rise to the roof.
Mimi will be crushed. Lankin’s great stinking body is in the way. His legs are sprawling, his arms flailing.
Where is Mimi? I can’t get to her. The long bones are twisting around one another. The ribs are sharp. My leg hurts. There is barely room to stand.
Beneath the pile of bones, a hem of Mimi’s pyjamas appears.
Roger snatches her ankle.
Lankin’s long feet lurch towards my face. I can see through the shredded skin to the flesh underneath. He is covered in sores. He stinks. The bones are sliding on top of him. He is howling.
The crypt is filling with dust. The candles are going out. I step on the axe handle and drag it up in my hands.
Mimi clings to Roger. Her arms are about his neck.
We stumble out of the mess. We dash behind the pillar in the corner to the hole in the wall, but the huge crash of the bone pile has dislodged the earth in the tunnel roof. It caves in and falls so quickly that soil flies into the crypt in a thick, filthy cloud. We cough out the dirt and, choking, try to rub it from our eyes.
I look in every direction, trying to see through the clouds of earth and dust.
Through my stinging eyes, I spot a dark oblong like a small door in the back wall. I throw myself at it. It moves a little but doesn’t open. I feel for a latch, but I can’t find anything. I can’t see.
“It’s all right, Mimi. It’s all right,” I say over her wailing. “We’ll get you out. We just have to open the door.”
Auntie Ida grabs the axe back from me. I hear a noise, look behind, and through half-blind eyes see a large shadowy shape beginning to rise up from the scattered bones on the floor.
“He’s coming, Auntie Ida — hurry, hurry!”
“Move back! Move back!” she yells.
Mrs. Eastfield swings the axe and — wham! — splinters the door. The axe head is stuck in the wood. She drags it out — wham! wham!
Lankin is standing, tottering, shaking his head — wham! — Mrs. Eastfield’s made a hole, the edges jagged and sharp. Panting, she tugs at the broken pieces and throws them down, then hits the door with the axe again. The hole is bigger.
Cora yanks Mimi out of my arms and pushes her through the broken door. Mrs. Eastfield leans towards me, gets hold of my shirt with her filthy, sweaty hands, and pulls me up to the doorway. I climb through, tearing my sleeve and cutting my arm on a splintered edge of wood. There is a dark stone staircase curving upwards. I climb after Cora and Mimi. Mrs. Eastfield hobbles up behind, groaning and gasping for breath, dragging the axe. It clangs up the steps — bang! bang! bang! — one at a time.
There’s a small door up there, worm-eaten and rotten at the bottom. I shift Mimi onto my hip, crouch forward, and, with all my might, push at the door over and over. It shudders against my fists. Roger squeezes past me and starts kicking at the decaying wood. Auntie Ida passes up the axe. There is no room to swing it. He bangs relentlessly at the bottom of the door with the top of the shaft. It cracks and splinters, but there is no room for me even to push Mimi underneath.
“Move back!” cries Roger. “The bolt on the other side’s rusty. Don’t you remember? It’s the little door behind the curtain in the tower. Most of the screws have gone. Move back!”
He thumps the door halfway up with the back of the axe head. Suddenly, at on
e thud, the door moves out a few inches. Behind it, something metal clatters to the floor.
“The bolt’s come away!” says Roger. He pushes the door a few inches. The long, heavy curtain hangs behind it. He forces his way through the gap, gathers up the folds of fabric, and holds the curtain to one side to let us out. The light stings my eyes.
On the wall above the door is the marble slab naming the rectors of Bryers Guerdon.
“Quick! Quick!” says Auntie Ida, pushing us forward as she turns. Then, with a huge effort, she shuts the door behind the curtain. I hear the slapping of Lankin’s feet as he comes up the staircase behind us, and I scrape my elbow on the font in my hurry to reach the church door. Roger yanks it open. We rush out into the churchyard and, breathless, start to run down the path. I hold Mimi’s head tightly against my shoulder, my hand over her eyes.
I hear her muffled voice: “You’re hurting me.”
“Come on, Auntie Ida!” I call. “Hurry up! We’ve got to get to the top of the hill!”
She falters beside the porch, leaning on the axe, breathing hard, kneading her chest with her free hand.
“Come on! We’ll help you!” Roger shouts.
“You go. Run! Go on!” she urges.
We hear the heavy church door creaking open.
“Auntie Ida. He’s coming!”
“Get away! Get away!” she grunts, pushing the air with her hand.
“You’re hurting me!” Mimi whines again.
Lankin’s repulsive form appears round the corner of the wall. I make a sound like a groan. His head turns towards me, but it is Mimi he sees. At the same moment, she wrenches my hand from her eyes and, for a second, gazes at his face. Then, taking me by surprise, she begins to writhe in my arms, pummelling my chest with her fists and kicking out with the soles of her feet.
“Let me go! Let me go!” she yells.
“Roger! Help me!” He is almost at the metal gate. He turns towards me. I grapple with Mimi, but she seems to have summoned up some furious energy. She beats me so hard on my rib cage, I am thrown off balance. Before Roger can reach us, she forces me backwards with one mighty shove, wriggles out of my arms, and begins to run through the graveyard, in and out of the tangles of weeds and grass, dodging the crosses and tombstones, past the tower, and up the shadowy side of the church. Roger and I give chase. I look back. Lankin is crawling swiftly behind us on all fours, twisting his long body this way and that around the graves. I can’t see Auntie Ida, but what I do see, gathering against the wall of the church, are the little ghostly children, their dark, hollow eyes following us as we run.
Mimi zigzags through the churchyard. Sobbing, she passes the last ragged crop of gravestones and jumps over the tufts of grass as she draws closer to the pool on the far boundary. Above the water soars the bare, white, double hook of the gypsy tree.
Mimi slows down, her bare feet sodden in the spongy ground this side of the tree. Trying to head her off, Cora and I find ourselves floundering in marshy water. I look behind. Lankin is no longer behind us. He is on another course altogether, avoiding the bog, taking a wide circular route onto the dry, higher ground at the back. I’ve lost sight of Mrs. Eastfield.
“Oh, God, where’s Auntie Ida?” Cora shades her eyes with her hand and scans the graveyard. “She must have fallen!”
Mimi is grizzling and whining, crossly drumming her soaking feet in the moss. She starts to head for the tree.
“Mimi! Stay where you are!” Cora yells at her. “He won’t get you in the water! Roger, she’s not listening.”
We try to wade but are sucked in. I reach out for a clump of reeds, but my feet remain where they are and I splash into the bog. My head goes under the water. My mouth fills with threads of weed. Cora reaches out to help me. I lift my face and, wiping it with filthy wet hands, struggle to my feet.
“Get Mimi!” I shout, spitting to clear my mouth. “He must be behind the tree. She can’t see him!”
Desperately, Cora tries to lift her right foot. “I’m stuck!” She begins to panic. “Mimi! Stay where it’s wet!”
“It’s no use; she won’t take any notice.”
Whimpering, Mimi leaves the marshy ground and begins to climb the shallow bank a couple of feet from the tree. A grey-fleshed hand creeps inch by inch around the edge of the trunk.
Mimi stamps her feet, then pulls up a handful of grass and starts to wipe her toes with it.
“Mimi! Mimi! Come back to the water!”
She looks across at us, her little eyebrows knitted, her face flushed.
Lankin’s body emerges.
Mimi turns her head, sees Lankin, moans, and in one swift movement rushes along the edge of the grassy bank, then climbs up onto the fan of massive roots rising out of the pool. She presses her back to the tree trunk, arms spread out against it, her chest fluttering. Lankin disappears behind the tree. Mimi’s eyes, wide with terror, swivel from one side to the other.
We must get Mimi to the shallow water. Seconds pass while I struggle to move my feet. Then I look up and see Lankin again.
“Roger! Up there!”
Slowly, branch by branch, Long Lankin is climbing up towards the great bald hook of the tree. As he stretches upwards, his skin glistens and the sunlight catches the raised lines of the veins and sinews on his elongated arms and legs. When he reaches the upper part of the dry white trunk, where it forks into two, he wraps his legs around the crook and sits down, the top of his head shining under the blazing sun.
Then he bends forward, jerks his head, and, leaning out, studies Mimi, who is still darting her eyes right and left, stiff with fear. He bares his teeth.
“Mimi! Mimi! Run away!”
Long Lankin looks across to us, grins, and, headfirst, begins to lower his body slowly and deliberately down the trunk. He stretches out first one arm, then the other. Only when the fingers of his right hand touch her hair does Mimi look up and see him.
She groans and squeezes her eyes shut tight.
To the right, someone is stumbling through the grass.
“Oh, Auntie —” I gasp. “Auntie Ida!”
She reaches the tree. Lankin twists his head, bares his teeth at her, and snarls. Then, locking his legs around each side of a forked branch, he lashes out with his left hand, trying to hook her clothes with his nails.
Auntie Ida moves backwards one step, out of his reach. She grips the axe, white-knuckled, fists tightly clenched, her face set, grim and determined. She lifts her shoulders, swings the axe around her back, and, with a loud grunt, smashes it with a tremendous blow into Lankin’s body. There is a spurt of liquid, a terrible shriek.
Auntie struggles to release the axe from the tree trunk. For a moment, it remains embedded, then drops to the ground with a thud. With it comes a long grey arm.
A monstrous shudder runs through Lankin’s body. With legs twitching, he slumps out of the tree, slithers past the axe and past Mimi’s trembling figure, then flops into the water in a froth of bubbles. Auntie totters for a moment, then leans round the trunk.
“O-open your eyes, Mimi,” she pants. “He’s — he’s gone. Grab my hand.”
Auntie Ida leads Mimi onto the grass beside her. Mimi throws her arms around Auntie Ida’s neck and buries her head under her chin. With Mimi still clinging there, Auntie falls to her knees, gasping for breath.
Roger struggles towards me, his feet squelching. He grips both my hands and tries to drag me through the bog towards the tree.
“I can’t move,” I moan.
“Can you get your shoes off?”
I think, How am I going to undo the buckles? then remember they are the red slip-on shoes from Maisie Treasure, without any straps.
With a loud sucking, slurping sound, I wrench my right foot out, then my left. In turn my feet sink into the soft peaty mud. Roger pulls me hard, and I move forwards.
We trudge through the shallow, mossy water towards the bank, where I fling off my wringing socks before rushing to Auntie Ida and Mimi, kneeling, h
ugging them, my voice choking.
“Oh, Auntie Ida, it’s all over.”
With a huge effort, Auntie lifts her head and clutches my arm. “No, no. Take Mimi!”
She looks away from me towards the pool. Below the swirling surface, the water is heaving.
“Take Mimi! Quickly!” she says.
I unwind Mimi from Auntie’s neck and take her in my arms. Auntie staggers to her feet, then falls again.
“Come on, Mrs. Eastfield, I’ll help you,” says Roger, picking up the axe.
Auntie pushes him away and says through gritted teeth as she sinks down into the grass, “Get Mimi out of here.”
Take her away. Take the child away.
It is the voice of Piers Hillyard. We turn from Auntie. He is standing a few feet from us. Roger, dragging the axe behind him, and I, with Mimi wrapped around me, move in a wide circle around the bog, then back away towards the church and the silent, staring children.
I lie on the edge of the pool in a gentle nest of reeds, my hair trailing in the water. I watch the movement under the surface, the ripples, the bubbles. I know he will rise from this water as he rose from the waters of the flood. He is weakened, but not finished.
Piers Hillyard bends over me, his lips close to my ear.
It is not enough, Ida, he says. He is drawing the life from your body, his strength gathering as yours grows weaker. If you do not rise now, it will be too late. It will all begin again. You know what has to be done. It is the gate. It is the lychgate. Now is the time.
I am weary. Let me be. Let me rest here.
Let us all rest, Ida. Open your eyes; raise your head. Look at the children.
Leave me. Let me sleep.
Look at Edward.
Edward. At the sound of my child’s name, I feel my eyelids flutter open. Through the fringes of my lashes, I see him, standing in front of the others, his poor wasted face turned towards mine.
Another small boy moves forward to Edward’s side, then a little girl. I know it is my brother, Tom. It is Annie.
The gate, Ida. He is feeble. Now is the time.
Something breaks the surface of the pool. The water is rising towards me. I lift my head. Small waves lap against the bank, gurgling into my nose and mouth. I struggle to raise my chin.
Long Lankin Page 30
