by Farah Ali
She was so intent on fleeing she didn’t notice him in the shadows and before she barrelled past Jack strode into the middle blocking her path. She slammed against his chest with full force and he grasped her upper arms slightly winded.
‘Miss? Are you all right? Can I help? What’s happened? Has someone hurt you?’
Her hair was in utter disarray, plastered to a face shiny with perspiration, and she panted trying to squirm out of his grasp. Almost subconsciously his meticulous mind registered various details for later analysis—the spicy scent of her sweat, the spongy sensation of the cold flesh beneath his fingertips, no alcohol on her breath, dilated pupils, her thin frame and flat, child-like chest heaving up and down, no obvious injuries, but she was out of her mind with terror.
‘Has somebody hurt you? I’m a policeman, can I—’
Harsh, irregular breaths juddered out of her. She tossed her head like a horse, revealing huge frightened eyes that stared straight through him.
‘Let go don’t make me look don’t want to see.’
Jack frowned. ‘What? What do you mean?’
She pulled away babbling incoherently, a spray of spittle misting his t-shirt.
‘The flowers. The girls. Oh God, the flowers.’
‘I don’t under—’
With a final desperate wrench she escaped his grasp and fled down the tree-lined lane.
Jack stared after her for a full minute, shaking his head in bafflement. Should he go after her? She might have escaped from Mountain Asylum, Deerleap’s psychiatric hospital. Maybe she’d forgotten to take her medication. Schizophrenic probably—he’d come across a fair amount of those in the city. A bad drug trip perhaps. He ran a hand though his thick uncombed hair.
One hell of a bad trip. Probably not a danger to others, but in her current state she could quite easily hurt herself. Stupid girl. No point in giving chase, he would never catch up now and he had no idea where she was going. With a shrug Jack headed for home as the inky black sky morphed into purple-grey.
And yet he was uneasy. The lines in his forehead deepened as he recalled her incoherent words and horror-filled eyes.
Some nonsense about flowers. Jack gave his head an impatient shake, forcing himself to focus on the long day ahead, and as he picked up pace the encounter faded away, diminishing in intensity until the fleeing woman became a minor irritation and nothing more.
And that was how Lila Cassandra and Jack Montague met for the first time.
Chapter Three
Balancing strong coffee on top of a large box of doughnuts from a nearby bakery, Jack strode into Deerleap Hollow’s police station. It was a charming red-brick building with eaves, a recessed gable roof, three pairs of antlers in graduated sizes beside the doorframe and two hanging baskets—about as far from a police station as you could get. The basement housed case files and archives detailing Deerleap’s five-hundred-year-old crime history and Jack thought it would make for fascinating reading if he had the time.
The main office was situated on the ground floor alongside an interrogation room, a tiny waiting room and two temporary jail cells, while the second floor boasted a basic kitchen and a cloakroom, as well as a smart office for the police chief, though as Jack had learned, it was symbolic. Angus Brent much preferred his shiny office in the grandiose council building to the station’s cramped one.
‘Morning, Maggie.’
Maggie leaned across the front desk, her round face beaming. Angus had formally introduced him to the team a week earlier and Jack had formed a favourable, if only fleeting, impression so far.
‘Morning, Inspector. Oooh. Are those from Cupcakes? Good choice, they’re the best in Deerleap.’
Smiling, Jack opened the fuchsia box so she could peruse the sticky selection, her chubby fingers hovering over each one. Not once in all the years of his career in law enforcement had he bought doughnuts for his colleagues, but here, for some reason, it seemed the right thing to do.
After making her choice Maggie bit into the pink frosting and green sprinkles rolling her heavily made-up eyes heavenwards.
‘Oh, that’s amazing.’ Speaking around the mouthful the receptionist-slash-personal assistant cast a motherly glance at him. ‘Looking forward to your first day? You look a bit tired. Not nerves I hope?’
Jack’s smile faded as he placed the box on the counter for the others when they arrived.
‘I’m all right. But I do have insomnia. Have had ever since my teens, but it’s been much worse lately.’
Maggie nodded sympathetically. ‘Have you tried—‘
‘I’ve tried everything,’ Jack interrupted, raising a hand. ‘Honestly. But it will pass, so it’s not a problem.’
Everybody and their dog seemed to have remedies for sleeping issues and he was, no pun intended, tired of it. To make amends Jack softened his tone and winked.
‘Ah well, I better get settled into my new office. Is there anything I need to know?’
Maggie licked her fingers and nodded earnestly. ‘Someone reported a smashed window and Old Benjamin says three of his hens were stolen last night.’
Jack smothered a grin. A smashed window and stolen poultry? Can it get any more stereotypical? This place will be like retirement. And that’s exactly what I need.
‘It’s a crime wave.’
He was joking, but Maggie took him seriously and shook her head in dismay causing her dangly fruit earrings to shimmy around her neck.
‘I know. If only people would have more respect for one another.’
Jack peered at his mobile phone. ‘I have no reception here.’
Maggie, her eyes straying to the open box, nodded. ‘Yeah. You won’t get reception in Deerleap. Radio and walkie-talkies don’t work either. You’ll have to use a good old-fashioned telephone line. Why’d you think we have so many phone boxes all over town?’ Succumbing to temptation she picked up a chocolate-filled doughnut. ‘It’s because of the iron in the soil and mountain. It messes with the radio waves. And compasses won’t work either. They just spin like crazy. Spooky huh? As a kid I used to—’
The phone rang and with an apologetic shrug Maggie answered the call with a cheerful: ‘Good morning, Deerleap Hollow police station. How can I help?’
Picking up his coffee Jack ambled down the corridor scanning the large prints on the wall. One showed a stag with impressive antlers flanked by does and fawns. Another was taken at some sort of local event and was filled with laughing children against a backdrop of carnival rides. He paused in front of a framed photograph of the police chief accepting an award from Mayor Patrick Blore. Seated behind the podium Jack recognised two of the councillors from his interview, but all the other faces were unknown. His gaze shifted to the centre of the wall and he peered at the solemn picture of his predecessor David Ash in ceremonial uniform.
‘I hope you’re at peace. Wherever you are,’ he murmured, scrutinising the closely cropped hair, the blank gaze and the unhappy line of his prominent chin.
Threading his way through the cosy open-plan office Jack was surprised to see an officer already at a desk intently typing away.
‘Morning...Warren isn’t it? Good to see an early worm.’
Startled, Warren rose with a cautious expression in his dark eyes. ‘Morning, Inspector. I thought I’d get my paperwork out of the way.’
‘Great. That’s what I like to see. When the others arrive I’ll hold a brief meeting. Oh, there’s a box of doughnuts with Maggie. Help yourself.’
Warren relaxed and sat back down, a smile denting his smooth cheeks.
With a nod, Jack strode into his cramped personal office sipping his lukewarm drink as he thought about the officer’s wariness. It would take time to earn their trust and respect—as an outsider from a big city he was replacing a well-loved figure born in Deerleap. He exhaled. It would take a lot more than scratching David Ash’s name off the door and replacing it with Jack Montague for them to accept him.
Jack plonked down behind the desk a
nd switched the computer on, pulling open the empty drawers one after another as the log-in screen loaded. The walls were bare and the old-fashioned floral carpet seriously ugly. His old office sprang to mind and he fondly recalled the constant noise, the swearing, the stale sweat, the overlapping coffee rings, the piles and piles of papers, the bent and twisted paperclips and the framed photograph on the edge of his desk of the woman who had given his life meaning.
It was like a punch to the gut. Jack’s hands trembled. The vein in his temple throbbed and he sucked in deep breaths.
I’m so sorry. So sorry. I should have seen. I should have known. It’s my fault. Forgive me Angela. And forgive me Oliver. I should have protected you. I let you both down.
Jack buried his head in his hands and slumped against the seat. He wanted a cigarette. And a drink. The knuckle-tap went unheard and when Warren looked around the door he saw the new Inspector pale and shaking. Warren hesitated then cleared his throat. Jack looked up, startled. In the split-second before the shutters came down and Jack regained control Warren saw deep despair and a face sagging with unhappiness.
Jack drew himself up. ‘What do you want?’ His tone was harsher and colder than he intended.
‘Rhea, Graham and Alika have arrived,’ Warren said gazing at the carpet, his voice remote and uncomfortable. ‘You can hold the meeting now, sir.’
He retreated before Jack had a chance to undo the damage. Angry at himself Jack groaned and shut his eyes.
Chapter Four
Deerleap Hollow was born five hundred years ago, created by the Ayal, a peaceful deer-worshipping religion. Reviled as a cult, shunned and persecuted for their pagan beliefs, the Ayal fled for their lives, drawn to the dense unexplored forest nestled against a brooding mountain and located on powerful ley lines.
Consulting their maps, the elders gazed at the swathes of trees populated by wildlife, the mineral-rich land and the huge lake to the east. Satisfied and protected by rock, trees and water they cleared an area of the forest, only ever chopping down what they needed to build their homes and fuel their fires.
They named it Deerleap.
In the long years that followed the Ayal flourished, safe and hidden from the outside world, never venturing outside of the Hollow, never needing to, never wanting to.
Lulled into security the Ayal, now numbering close to a thousand, were unprepared when a band of fortune-hunters entered the forest. With compasses rendered useless by the iron in the mountain and soil the explorers were utterly lost. Starving and ravaged by the elements they were discovered by a child of the Ayal.
With parched tongues and disease-wracked bodies the men begged for help. After much discussion among themselves and a night spent in prayer, the elders agreed to save them if they swore never to return and never to reveal the location of the Ayal.
Eager and relieved the men kissed the elders’ hands and feet, swearing on their lives and the lives of their children to uphold their oath.
Weeks passed and the explorers healed, thankful for the kindness and generosity of their hosts. But as strength returned to their limbs, envy and malice grew in their hearts, drip by drip like poison. They watched and listened. They sneered at the strange rituals of the Ayal, muttering amongst themselves.
‘Devil-worshippers. Blood-drinkers. Animals. Filth. Scum. They don’t deserve this land, God never meant it for them,’ they spat when alone.
Lust for the abundant crops, the succulent meat, the clean water and the fertile women clad in yellow and brown cloth intruded into their thoughts and feverish dreams until their eyes glittered with need and speculation.
When the time came the trusting Ayal sent the explorers on their way, replete with supplies, guiding them out of the forest, wishing them well, glad to be alone again.
In the days that followed storm clouds gathered above the mountain, the birds fell silent and the deer grew skittish. The elders were restless and their sleep was troubled. Confused, but not yet afraid, the Ayal spent longer in prayer and meditation, seeking guidance, but the spirits, stunned and dismayed by what was to come, did not answer.
Then one night as the village rested in fitful sleep the explorers returned with flaming torches leading a band of two hundred armed men.
The Ayal were betrayed.
As the men ran amok slashing and burning only one wise woman, wakened minutes earlier by the deep bray of a stag, hid in the trees, witnessing the murder of her kin, no mercy shown to man, woman or child. She wept, beating her chest and whispering incantations as the women were violated before their throats were cut, their screams clawing at her until she too begged silently for death.
Satiated and weary the conquerors retreated to their makeshift encampment. They would return in daylight to clear the bodies and build homes for their families who would join them in the days to follow.
Leaden with sorrow the old woman emerged from hiding casting glittering eyes over the smouldering ruin of her home. A colossal creature with great antlers luminous in the moonlight also stepped out from the tree line, to watch, to listen, to wait.
Kneeling down by the bodies of her daughter and grandson fingers of ice seized the old woman’s heart. A twig snapped and she looked up recognising the blood smeared face of the man staring down at her mute with guilt and defiance.
A conqueror, the youngest, who she nursed back to health weeks ago, had returned to retrieve his dagger. The old woman gazed at the bowing stag then down at the bodies. She nodded. She pulled out the dagger from her grandson pointing the bloodied blade at the betrayer.
Closing her eyes and raising her wrinkled face to the star-studded sky she issued a curse in the language of the Ayal, guttural and terrible in its rage. Then in his language she repeated her words, shrill and rasping.
‘We curse you. The Ayal, the people of the deer, curse you. Your bloodlines will die out. Your wives will be barren. Your children will perish. The spirits of my people will live on immortal in the deer. Yours will be sent to the abyss. And we the devastated, we the slain, we the betrayed, will linger in the shadows and plague you until you wish for death. You will never know peace, never know happiness. Much anguish and suffering lies ahead. Your tormented souls will remain in the forest forever. We curse you, the Ayal, the people of the deer, curse you.’
Frozen to the spot, trembling and sweating, unable to tear his eyes away, the conqueror watched aghast as orbs of light replaced her eyes, penetrating his very soul with brilliance.
Raising her arms the old woman plunged the dagger into her chest. Blood bloomed across her tunic yet as she collapsed over her daughter’s body her head twisted up until he had to shield his eyes from her wrath.
‘With my blood your fate is sealed.’
The light in her eyes faded and she grew limp.
The Great Stag blew through his nose, stomping in acceptance of her curse. Turning, rigid with terror, the conqueror saw a giant stag with nightmarish antlers melt into the trees. Shaken, he pulled out the dagger from the old woman, wiping it on the grass before returning it to his scabbard. Shrinking from the darkness and the enraged silence he fled back to the campsite to warn the others.
But they only laughed, ruffling his hair and pouring drink down his throat. Their high-spirits were infectious and soon he laughed with them, relieved and scornful of the old woman, his fear forgotten.
Summer turned to autumn in Deerleap Hollow. Many creatures were slaughtered, bellies were full of meat, clumps of trees were cleared for farmland and the Ayal were forgotten.
Until the Great Stag returned. Full of desire for those antlers and that rare hide they hunted it through the forest with their dogs, but to no avail. It had no scent, left no tracks, appeared and disappeared like a ghost.
And then the sickness struck.
The conquerors of the Hollow awoke, their minds engorged with unblinking eyes blacker than hell. Soon deer haunted their waking moments, bays and snorts resounded in the deepest parts of their skulls, each footstep they
took echoed by hoofs. Many grew feverish and were bound with rope to stop them scratching their own eyes out.
Then the children disappeared. A little boy one day, a little girl the next, never to be seen again, distraught whispers of children led away by a beautiful doe spread from household to household.
The women wailed, inconsolable with grief, and all the sullen, sweating men could do was patrol and pray and swear vengeance against the Ayal. Before long there were no children left and no woman conceived.
Within two months every wretched person succumbed to the ravages of the sickness. Insane, they cowered before the encroaching deer and stopped eating and drinking, perishing in heartbreak and suffering, their blighted spirits doomed to remain in the forest for eternity.
Ten years passed in silence until a small group of families from the outside seeking freedom and a new home found the Hollow. Dismayed by the contorted skeletons littering the settlement they shook their heads in wonder and unease.
‘What horror occurred here? Where are the bodies of the children? Why do the deer watch us so?’
A dirt-splattered journal discovered in one of the homes offered an insight, its pages full of desperate scrawls. Disgusted by the actions of the conquerors and fearful for their own safety the new arrivals swore to remember the tragedy of the Ayal and to forever honour the deer. They collected cast antlers to hang on their doors for protection and appeasement, avoiding the forest at night for fear of lingering evil.
And the Great Stag, understanding they were innocent of the slaughter of the Ayal, accepted the covenant and left them in peace and prosperity.
In the hundreds of years that followed Deerleap Hollow by the side of the mountain expanded and flourished, each generation passing the story of the Ayal onto the next so it would never be forgotten.
O ye who live in the shadow of the mountain!
Respect the deer of the Hollow.
For the spirits of the Ayal live on in them and calamity will surely befall those who forget.
