Freya's Quest

by Julian Lawrence Brooks

  Contents

  Note on the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Note on the Author

  Julian Lawrence Brooks was born in Bromley in 1967, the eldest of two sons of an architect and a psychotherapist, and grew up in the small Kentish village of Ulcombe. He was educated at Maidstone Grammar School, Liverpool and Greenwich Universities, and Caldecott and Mid-Kent Colleges. He has worked in various forms of therapeutic treatment for children, adults and families. Despite being registered severely visually impaired, he spends most of his free time gallivanting around the high mountains of the British Isles. He lives with his fiancée in Maidstone, and has two children.

  Dedication

  For my family & friends

  &

  to the memory of all those

  I have lost along the way

  - I -

  2 August, 1987

  THE TWIN TOWERS of the Gothic gatehouse stood stark against the darkening sky, their battlements framed by beech trees. Ivy crept over the lower portions of the hewn stonework, invading the lower arrow slits. I shivered at its cold austerity and wondered what might lie beyond the archway, barred by its wrought-iron portcullis.

  Heavy clouds rolled in, as I sat in my car and ate the last of my sandwiches. I gazed through the windscreen as forked lightning streaked across the sky between the towers, illuminating the gatehouse further and creating an even greater sense of eeriness. I was startled by the first clap of thunder and dropped my thermos flask, revealing my nervous state.

  I knew it was time to go as the heavy downpour began. My Fiat started at the third attempt and it jolted over the ruts of the forestry lay-by as I drove towards the metalled road. The gatehouse was on the brow of the hill, surrounded by dense conifer plantations. I took one last look before driving away, keeping in low gear as the gradient steepened.

  The thunderstorm intensified as I went down the hill. The rain came down in torrents. The windscreen wipers fought a losing battle to clear my vision. As I approached a bend in the road, the car’s engine began to stutter. Then it cut out completely and I cruised to a halt. I peered through the rain-splattered windscreen. I was still in the middle of the forest. In the loneliest spot imaginable.

  I tried the ignition. The engine spluttered back into life. My hopes rose, only for them to fade away when the engine died once more. I crossed my fingers and tried again; then again. But the engine just turned over. And this became more laboured as the battery weakened. I slammed my fists against the steering wheel in frustration.

  I sat there in silence, with the rain lashing down onto the car. The vinyl sunroof began to sag under the weight of water. Rivulets flowed across the tarmac in front of me. I was in a hollow in the road. I guessed it would probably flood before the night was out.

  I lay my head in my hands and propped up my arms against the steering wheel, thinking about my next move. As the night descended, I decided to look at my map book under torchlight. I calculated I was ten miles from the nearest settlement and public telephone; and the building the gatehouse guarded was now two miles back up the road. I didn’t fancy a long walk in this rain, let alone in darkness. I’d left the hotel in such a hurry that I hadn’t even had time to bring a sturdy raincoat.

  After further contemplation, I climbed out of the car, fighting the wind and the wet. I hugged my leather jacket against my body, knowing I would soon be drenched. I opened the rear engine compartment and shone the torch inside. I squinted at the mechanical components, knowing I’d have to find the distributor and its cables. As I turned to get a better view, I was dazzled by headlights. A vehicle was coming around the bend behind me. It was nearly upon me. And my Fiat was right in the middle of the road, almost blind to the oncoming traffic.

  I thought it was about to ram into the back of my car. I would be crushed in between! I dived into the ditch.

  The driver of the Land Rover must have seen me only at the last minute. When he finally reacted, he tried to swerve around the Fiat. He would have succeeded, but for a final aquaplaning that sent him crunching into the side of the car. The Land Rover came to rest amidst screeching brakes and exhaust fumes.

  The man then reversed, so he could survey the car and its driver through the beam of his headlights. He climbed down from the cab, hunching his shoulders and putting up the hood of his cagoule. He examined the damage he’d caused. He gazed through the windows as if looking for occupants.

  I shouted over to him, waving my hand. I had fallen heavily into the ditch, bruising my left side. The large volume of water had saved me from worse injury, but had saturated my clothing.

  He came over and hauled me out of the water. ‘Are you OK?’ he shouted, pushing back my hair and looking into my face.

  I nodded feebly.

  He guided me over to the back of the Land Rover, lifting me through the rear door and sitting me down on the floor. There were blankets inside. He placed them around me in an attempt to warm me up.

  ‘I broke down….Been here some time,’ I mumbled. I was shivering.

  He turned on the interior light to assess my condition more closely. Now I could view my rescuer. He was a handsome, clean-shaven man, with a mop of black hair pushed back over his forehead. He looked to be around my age – early to mid-thirties.

  ‘Will you be all right for a moment?’

  I nodded.

  He left me alone. He went to the front, brought out a torch and proceeded to inspect my car. He returned a few minutes later. ‘You won’t get that going in a hurry.’

  ‘The electrics’ve failed, I know.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. And the accident damage hasn’t helped, either. Hope you didn’t have far to go?’

  I looked at him, speechless, feeling defeated.

  ‘Where’re you headed?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Where’ve you come from?’ he persisted.

  ‘Oh, London. But I’ve spent a few weeks on the coast of Wales. Now I’m heading north.’

  ‘I see. Long way to be travelling on your own, isn’t it? And on such a back route. ’Specially this time of night.’

  ‘Maybe – but I can look after myself.’

  He raised an eyebrow and smirked. ‘Doesn’t look like it!’

  I shrugged, too tired and cold to argue with him. ‘What can I do now?’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it. I’ll try to tow your car up to my house. It’s only a couple of miles away. You can phone for assistance from there.’

  I thanked him for his generosity.

  He drove back in front of the Fiat, stopped, brought out a towrope and rigged it up between the two vehicles. He had to do all this in the face of the storm that raged on relentlessly. I felt guilty about causing this stranger so much hassle.

  He returned. ‘You’ll have to steer the car. The wipers won’t work, so it’ll be difficult. Think you’re up to it?’

  ‘Yes.’r />
  ‘Good. I’ll take it slow. Sooner we get there the better, you’re looking cold.’

  I nodded, thanked him again, then returned to the Fiat. I was appalled by the damage to the nearside. The passenger door and the quarter panel had caved in badly.

  We set off at a cautious pace. I had to wind down the window and manually wipe the windscreen as I was travelling along, not an easy task in view of the pounding rain. In the end, I gave up altogether and leant out of the window instead, which numbed my head and sent shivers through the rest of my body.

  The road meandered through the forestry plantation. Every now and then, the tops of the swaying conifers were lit up by the lightning and their shadows danced across the glistening tarmac.

  The journey seemed endless. Eventually, through the gloom, the twin towers of the fortified gatehouse reappeared. I was astonished when the towing vehicle turned into the driveway. The portcullis began to rise, apparently by remote control. As I passed beneath the archway, I glimpsed a security camera surveying me. I must admit it made me feel uneasy.

  He towed me up the driveway, lined on either side with mature beech trees.

  Suddenly, a screeching and tearing sound filled the air. Then a great thud. Then silence. Then a light crunch as my car hit the back of the Land Rover.

  Within seconds, he was tugging open my door, pulling me roughly from the car.

  ‘What the hell….!’

  I choked on my words as he thrust us down the embankment. A large rhododendron bush cushioned our fall.

  Then another fearful tearing. Far greater than the first. An awesome shadow flickered past me as I rose to my feet once more. There was a crunching of metal and a shattering of glass.

  More lightning filled the sky.

  The Fiat lay crushed under the fallen tree.

  Not only did I owe this man a tow in foul weather. Now I owed him my very life! A second or more and I’d have been under that uprooted tree myself.

  He gripped my shoulders, pulling me away from the wreckage. We hurried up the driveway, through an inner gatehouse and into a courtyard. We rushed over to the entrance, huddling together from the elements whilst he fumbled for the key. Finally he opened the door and we burst across the threshold, dripping wet and shivering. He strained to close the door behind him against the force of the storm.

  More thunder boomed around the castle as he guided me through a hallway and into a lounge. The room was dimly lit by candlelight. The furniture was of heavy oak; the walls of bare masonry were lined with paintings and hunting trophies.

  He rang a bell on the wall and led me over to the fire. He sat me down on a bearskin rug. The bear’s head snarled at me, so I rose again and steadied myself against the marble mantelpiece.

  A woman came into the room. She was small in stature, oriental in appearance, her grim face partially masked in the shadows. She had long, dark hair and was wearing a kimono. She nodded at the man, then looked me up and down dismissively. She appeared to be about to question who I was when the man said: ‘Please bring me a couple of towels and some dressing gowns.’

  The woman nodded and left.

  ‘What am I going to do now?’ I mumbled in desperation.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to put you up for the night. We can sort things out in the morning.’

  I attempted to say thank you, but I was trembling too much.

  ‘Don’t worry about it now. Try to warm yourself. We’ll have to get out of these clothes pretty damn quick, before we freeze to death.’ He began to strip off, revealing a strong physique. ‘Shock’s probably setting in now, too.’

  I huddled by the fire.

  Then the woman came back with the things the man had asked for.

  He stood half naked before me, towelling himself down. He put on a dressing gown, then said to the woman: ‘Yasuko, take our guest upstairs and run a bath.’

  She came towards me and draped a towel over my matted hair. I found myself being led upstairs, but it was too dark to make out much of my surroundings. She was carrying a candle to light the way and now I realized the storm must have caused a power cut.

  Once inside the bathroom, I shivered as she turned on the taps and poured bubble bath into the filling tub. In normal circumstances I would have insisted on privacy. But I’d been through a lot that night. I was frozen and the damp had weakened me. I knew I had to discard my sodden clothes before I caught pneumonia. She helped me to undress, which wasn’t easy, as the fabric clung to my skin and my fingers were too numb to unfasten my bra strap. Once completed, I clutched at my long hair with my right hand and tried to cover what I could of my nakedness with the other.

  Then she helped me into the bath, lighting smaller candles and placing them around its enamelled edge. As I sank into the soothing water, and I could hide beneath the bubbles, all embarrassment left me. She stood quietly in the background as I soaked up the warmth, the goose pimples fading as my body slowly came back to life.

  When she realized I was all right, she left me to prepare my bed. She returned only after I had risen from the bath, in time to wrap a towel around me and guide me to my room for the night.

  Once alone again, I dried myself, then slipped under the covers. As I was edging off into sleep, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hope you’re OK.’ It was my rescuer’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I forgot to ask,’ he whispered: ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘I’m Dylan,’ he replied. ‘Hope you sleep well. Welcome to Grimshaw Lodge.’

  - II -

  PEOPLE LAUGHED AT my tiny Fiat 500. But I kept it because it had character and was perfect for the London streets. However, due to faulty electrics, it often broke down in wet conditions. If I’d traded it in for a newer Ford or Vauxhall, as my friends had often suggested, I never would have found my way into Dylan’s world.

  The Lodge was miles from anywhere. No one would be able to find me. But frankly, this suited me. And John, the man who had sent me, would be pleased. I’d spent three days trying to think up a way of gaining entry through the gatehouse, having quickly realized the walls surrounding the property were too tall and smooth to scale. And now I was here.

  Still, I awoke the next morning confused and disorientated, haunted by the power of my nightmares about being crushed under the tree. The unforeseen change of plan had nearly killed me. I hoped that by the end of my quest the results would put this risk back into perspective.

  I lay in a double bed and my first sight was a large marble fireplace, above which hung a mirror. All the furniture was pure white, matching the décor of the room and the elaborate ceiling plasterwork. Rustic scenes of Lakeland life filled simple picture frames. A crystal chandelier hung down from above. A semi-circular turret was a feature in one corner.

  I pulled back the covers and climbed to my feet. I was naked, but a dressing gown had been left out for me. When I put the garment on, I immediately felt less vulnerable. I walked over to the window. I winced as the powerful sun hit my eyes when I drew back the silk curtains.

  The courtyard lay in front of me, hemmed in by a castellated wall, old stabling facilities and the inner gatehouse. Beyond, a gravel road wound downhill, over a bridge unseen last night, to the tree-lined driveway. The outer gatehouse and the fallen tree lay hidden from this viewpoint. The night had made everything appear much bigger than it actually was.

  A knock at the door broke my thoughts. I climbed back into bed. ‘Come in,’ I called.

  The oriental woman entered, carrying a full breakfast on a silver tray. She was wearing another kimono, the same design as the night before, but different in colour and embroidered with dragons. Her black hair was tied in a long plait all the way down her back. Her face betrayed no emotion and she had a stern demeanour.

  ‘You shouldn’t have!’ I said, taking the tray with haste and tucking into the bacon and eggs.

  The woman bowed and left, coming back with
my clothes which she’d washed and ironed overnight.

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered, my mouth half full. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember your name.’

  The woman didn’t answer.

  ‘Are you Dylan’s housemaid?’

  The woman remained silent, but shrugged her shoulders and held up her hands.

  I first found her manners rather rude, then wondered whether there was some cultural etiquette at work.

  Then she held up a silver case, which was fastened by a chain around her neck.

  I read the word engraved on this: ‘Y-a-s-u-k-o?’

  The woman nodded, then pulled out a notepad from one side of the case, and a pencil from within the notepad. She licked the tip of the pencil with her tongue, scribbled something onto the pad with her left hand, then ripped off the page and handed it to me.

  Cannot talk, but understand.

  Now I felt only embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  Yasuko remained impassive.

  ‘How long have you been here with Dylan?’

  8 yrs.

  I was surprised. ‘You must’ve been very young when you arrived, then?’

  Yes. 18.

  ‘And where are you from, originally I mean?’

  She gave me a cool stare, then wrote: Tokyo. But too long ago to talk about.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I replied, quickly changing the subject. ‘Thank you for washing my clothes.’

  She nodded and wrote: Come down in own time.

  She left me to mull over what she had said, or rather written. I was already bemused by this strange household. But I wanted to make the most of my good fortune.

  After eating, I soaked in the bathtub again, soothing the bruises down my left side from my tumble down the embankment. The bathroom was now seen in all its luxury, with its marble panelling and gold fittings. Then I dressed and combed my hair, thinking of how I could embellish my cover story before meeting Dylan again.

  Eventually, I walked out of the bedroom door and onto the circular landing. This was in two halves, the middle section being solid masonry, the rest dropping over finely turned balustrades to the hallway below. I opened each door in turn, discovering three more bedrooms, similar to the one I’d slept in. Another little door led onto a minstrels’ gallery. I caught my breath as I found myself overlooking a baronial dining room.