The common room expanded and faded, growing indistinct. The punters became shadows of all hues and shapes, thought and emotion replacing weight and mass. Strands of darkness wafted through the air, infiltrating the kaleidoscope sound of another carol and linking each person in the room to every other, save for St. Cyprian, Jessop and Gallowglass. Not unusual, of course. Small communities bred their own defensive spiritual reefs, where patterns of thought and behavior melded into indistinguishable traditions and codes of conduct.
A whiff of sensation caught his attention and he turned. Eyes like guttering stars met his from across the taproom, only they were bigger than the taproom, bigger even than stars and staring right at him. There was no face attached to them, merely an odor of urgency and eagerness. A panting, hungry musk that pawed at his ka idly and sent shivers of revulsion through the ectoplasmic tendrils extending from him. He heard, or perhaps felt, a swinish grunt that seemed to echo in his gut. Ethereal talons stretched out from somewhere below those flickering eyes and snagged at his ka.
Panic shot through him, followed by a feeling of violation as those catching claws tightened and his soul quavered with loathing. The grunt came again, louder this time. The edges of the world seemed to shudder from the sound of it. Whatever had him was curious now, and intent on him. St. Cyprian heard the thump of footsteps as of some titan entity striding towards him from far away and far below. Fear boiled in him, like he had never felt. Whatever was coming would eat him, soul and bone, and he’d be no more able to fight it than the lamb could fight the butcher.
It grunted again, and he felt a blast of—what was it—familiarity? What was this thing? It seemed to recognize him, whatever it was. It was as if it knew his scent! His ka jerked and writhed on its hook, and desperation lent him strength. With a surge and a snap, his essence returned to his physical body, pursued by the frustrated squeal of whatever had held him. As his third eye slammed shut, his physical pair stretched wide and he hurtled backwards, connecting painfully with the wall and upsetting the table.
“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” Gallowglass barked, leaping to her feet and grabbing for his flailing arm. Jessop moved to help her, his chair toppling over with a loud bang. The carolers had fallen silent and every eye in the room was on them.
Gasping, St. Cyprian tried to get his feet under him as the other two helped him up. No one else had moved to help. No one even seemed surprised. Round faces with dark eyes watched quietly as he brought himself under control. St. Cyprian scanned the bar. “I need some air,” he croaked.
“Show’s over,” Gallowglass said loudly as Jessop helped him to the door. She threw a few coins on the table and followed them out. “I warned you!” she snapped as Jessop leaned St. Cyprian against the car. “I bloody warned you about pulling that trick, you absolute tit!” Her hand flashed out, smacking St. Cyprian on the side of the head.
“Ow!” he yelped. “What was that for?”
“You were hysterical,” she growled.
“I rather think I wasn’t,” he protested, rubbing his head. “And anyway, you’re supposed to slap—” He caught her hand inches from his cheek. “As I was saying, I’m quite all right, thank you.”
“What happened?” Jessop said, looking around nervously. The mummers had come in from the sea and they shuffled and danced through the streets, going from house to house. They were singing the same song from the pub, assuring those who came to the door of John Mock’s merriness. It was an eerie sight, and the trio watched them for a time before St. Cyprian answered Jessop.
“I took a peek under the covers,” St. Cyprian said, massaging his brow. He looked at Jessop. “You were right, old man…there’s definitely a monster under the bed. I’m sorry.”
Jessop seemed to deflate and St. Cyprian was forced to catch him. He gave a shuddery noise and then pushed himself away. “And Georgie?” he said.
“Neither a whiff nor sniff, Jessop,” St. Cyprian said. “What was she doing here?”
Jessop looked at them. “I told you—collecting copy on the local holiday traditions…”
“Yes, but where?” St. Cyprian pressed. “Here, or somewhere else on the island?”
Jessop blinked like a fish. “What? I—”
“Think,” St. Cyprian said, blowing into his cupped hands. The air was getting colder and the wind was rolling off the Channel fiercely. “What did her letters say?”
“The church,” Jessop said, snapping his fingers. “She was talking about looking into the records…”
“Quiet,” St. Cyprian said, making a shushing gesture. Pale faces, made amorphous by frost and light, watched them from the windows of the pub. “Get in the car.”
“What I don’t get is why they took her,” Gallowglass said as they climbed into the Crossley.
“Maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to,” Jessop said, shivering. “She was always nosy, my Georgie.”
“Yes, well, being nosy has its advantages. Speaking of which,” St. Cyprian said, looking at Gallowglass. “Feeling sneaky?” he asked her.
“Depends,” she said, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
St. Cyprian grinned. “I need you to take the car after we reach the church and go keep an eye on our garish friends on the beach. There’s rhythm to these things…if we don’t find Ms. Craye, I’d wager they’ll bring her to us.”
“Why not just confront them?” Gallowglass said.
“And give the game away before we know the rules? Have you been paying any sort of attention this past year?” St. Cyprian shook his head. “Why I took you on as my apprentice, I’ll never know.”
“You wanted to keep an eye on me, remember?” she said snidely. St. Cyprian chuckled and took the Crossley down the cobbled street. Lecach passed swiftly, there being little of it to travel. The church crouched off to the side, huddling just out of sight like a beaten dog. The doors were open, and candles were in the windows. Despite this, no feeling of welcome emanated from the little building.
Gallowglass hopped into the driver’s seat as St. Cyprian and Jessop climbed out. “Your Bulldog is in the boot,” she said. St. Cyprian retrieved the stubby Webley revolver and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. As soon as he slammed the boot shut, the Crossley was moving.
“Do you believe that will be necessary, Charles?” Jessop said.
“Better to ask, do I believe it will be effective. And I won’t bother to answer because it would only depress you,” St. Cyprian said, looking up at the darkening sky. Lights were coming on throughout Lecach and the smell of woodstoves being kindled was thick on the chilly air. “Let’s go.”
“I wasted days searching the hills and shore,” Jessop muttered as they entered the church. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”
“We’re all sleuths in hindsight, Jessop,” St. Cyprian said, slapping the other man on the shoulder. “When did you first begin to suspect that someone had taken Georgie?”
“Her letters,” Jessop said at once. They had paused in the entrance. The church, despite being lit, looked unused. There was dust on the pews and a smell of damp clinging to the stones. “The things she wrote about…” He shook his head. “And when they stopped, I knew that something had gone wrong.”
“What did she write about?” St. Cyprian said as they moved down the aisle. He wondered who had lit the candles, and considered calling out, but then thought better of it. He fancied he could feel the rumble of the sea beneath his feet, vibrating up through the stones in the floor. Then he thought of what he’d felt in the pub, and shuddered slightly. If Jessop noticed, he gave no sign.
“The usual thing,” Jessop said, pausing near a pew and swiping at the patina of dust. “Old stories and folk tales; Christmas is a funny thing, she used to say. It’s an umbrella for a number of other older, little holidays that have gotten all jumbled up.” He shook his
head. “You can see for yourself, look there,” he continued.
St. Cyprian sank to his haunches and traced the old, rough carvings that marked the end of the pew. He peered close, barely able to make out the image in the flickering candle light. Pudgy shapes crouched on all fours in the waves beneath the watchful gaze of a bulky figure that possessed only the barest resemblance to a man. “What in the name of heaven,” he said, rubbing at the dust with a thumb.
“I think that’s John Mock,” Jessop said.
“And who is that?” St. Cyprian said, trying to clear away enough grime to reveal the face of the figure.
“Merry John Mock,” Jessop said. “You heard the singers, the ones in the pub?”
“I did, more’s the pity.”
“John Mock is the local Father Christmas, or so Georgie said…a sort of friendly swineherd. Lecach was famous for its pigs, once. Its name, in fact, is a corruption of the French for ‘pig’.”
“John Mock, John Mock,” St. Cyprian murmured. The name struck a chord, but he couldn’t say why. “A daemon swineherd, by any other name, I suppose.”
“What?” Jessop said.
“Nothing, old fellow…just something I once heard. What happened to them? The pigs I mean?” St. Cyprian said, sitting back on his haunches. No matter how much he rubbed, the face remained indistinct. Perhaps age had worn it smooth. Or maybe there was no face to see.
“John Mock took them,” someone said. The click of a revolver being cocked was loud in the quiet church. St. Cyprian froze. He glanced to the side. A short, feminine shape stood near the altar, a revolver extended towards St. Cyprian. “He took them on Christmas. He took the lifeblood of Lecach,” she said, stepping into the light. Narrow features and a brunette bun combined with hiking socks, trousers and a travel sweater to present the very picture of the modern adventuress. The only thing missing was a pith helmet.
“Georgie Craye, I presume.” St. Cyprian rose slowly to his feet. “Care to explain, old salt?” he said as he glanced at Jessop, who looked paler than normal.
“I—,” Jessop hesitated.
“Quiet,” Craye said. “You have done your part well.” Her pale eyes narrowed. “You have brought the boy, in search of the girl, and now John Mock will have his due.”
“Georgie, please,” Jessop said, stretching out a hand. “You promised me…”
“What is his due, Georgie?” St. Cyprian said. The Bulldog was a heavy weight in his pocket. It had seemed strange that Jessop, who’d learned his skills at the feet of Carnacki, hadn’t thought to check the church. What was it he had said, ‘we’re all sleuths in hindsight’…he frowned, cursing himself.
“Why, it’s me, Mr. St. Cyprian,” Craye said, smiling thinly. Jessop groaned and thrust his balled fists into his eyes, as if to block out the sight of that smile. St. Cyprian felt a pang of sympathy, but he quashed it.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he said, stepping back. The revolver bobbed alarmingly.
“Don’t move. We require you to be intact and nimble,” Craye said. “What do you know of Christmas, Mr. St. Cyprian?”
“Holly and ivy, suckling pig, figgy puddings and all that,” he said, shrugging.
Craye grimaced. “Flowers on a grave,” she said harshly. “The truth—the truths—of the season has long been buried, Mr. St. Cyprian, save in lost, out of the way places like Lecach. Places where men know that this is not the season to be merry and bright, but the season of sacrifice.”
“You and the C of E,” St. Cyprian said.
“I am not of a mind to suffer mockery,” she said, jerking her chin. “The war uncovered the underbelly of the world, Mr. St. Cyprian. It broke open the graves of the old, wild gods and set them tromping and stomping along the old ways. And it reminded men that the world once belonged to better beasts than the lamb or the lion.”
“Like, say, a pig?” St. Cyprian said. He tensed. If he could throw himself behind a pew, he might stand a chance.
“The Gauls worshipped pigs, you know and the Celts and even the Welsh. Pigs came to the lands of men from deep Annwfn,” Craye said as her smile spread. “The purest sign of man’s covenant with the dark forests and darker seas,” she went on. “John Mock drove them through the sea from Annwfn to Lecach, and then, when the men of the island failed to honour him, he drove them back.” Her eyes glazed over. “John Mock is a merry old bridegroom, a merry old bridegroom is he,” she trilled. She licked her lips. “I heard him calling to me, from down beneath the sea.” She blinked. “Maybe he has always called to me, but I couldn’t hear him. Not until my studies brought me here.”
“Fascinating,” St. Cyprian said a moment before he hurled himself down, clawing for his revolver as he hit the hard floor. Craye snarled a curse and fired, her pistol chewing a chunk out of the pew and spattering St. Cyprian with splinters. Beneath his palm, the ground seemed to tremble, as if shaken by the tread of a thousand-thousand hooves and he thought he could hear a roaring tide of squeals. He jerked his pistol free of his pocket and snapped off a shot, sending Craye scampering behind the altar. Jessop lay in a pew, gaping at him.
St. Cyprian ran for the door. Something was coming. He could feel it building deep in his bones. It was coming from far away, but it was moving quickly, so quickly. He charged through the door, but then slid to a stop. Familiar shapes from the pub were waiting for him, and their hands were full of clubs, knives, boathooks and other, less common implements and many of their faces were hidden behind crude plastic, wood and cloth pig masks; a whole herd of panting, eager swine-things, gazing at him with undisguised intent.
“Jesus Christ,” St. Cyprian said, swinging the revolver in an arc.
“He never got this far,” Craye said, following him out. Her pistol hung by her side.
“I will shoot,” he said, not looking at her.
She shrugged. “How many shots do you have? Not enough. Besides, you have a fighting chance, Sir Knight. If, that is, you put the gun down.”
“I’m not a knight,” St. Cyprian said, tossing his pistol aside.
“True. You need your armour,” Craye said, gesturing. The crowd split, revealing the mummers. Empty-eyed masks glared idiotically at him as the mummers shuffled forward, carrying a clattering sack. They tossed it onto the steps of the church where it gaped open and spit out ancient metal. The armour was old and had seen better centuries. It had holes and stains that bespoke of hard use and consisted of a helmet, a cuirass and ragged gauntlets. “Put it on,” Craye said.
“No sword?” he said.
“I’m not foolish enough to let you have it until I have to. Put it on,” she said.
“Why?” he said, stalling. Where was Gallowglass? Had they found her? He forced aside bleak thoughts and picked up the helmet. Rust smeared across his fingers.
“Tradition,” she said.
“Georgie, please,” Jessop said, finally following them out. He looked like a beaten man. “There’s no need for this. Charles can—”
“Can do what? Can beat John Mock? Perhaps,” Craye said, not looking at her beau. “I expect him to try.”
The candles in the windows of the church flickered, as did the lights in the town. A soft snow was starting to fall, and again St. Cyprian heard the faint squealing, as if a herd of pigs were running somewhere far beneath his feet. Maybe they were. “What happened,” he said. “Why did John Mock take the pigs?”
“He made the herd fat and the island prosperous, and all he asked was a bride for the year,” Craye said, as if reciting to a hall of pupils. “And the girls went willingly, for they had always done so, for who would not want to be the bride of a god, even if for only a year?” She licked her lips again, her eyes seeing things allowed to no one else. “The things they must have seen…” She shook herself. “Until one year, after William the Bastard brought fire and iron to these islands, a kn
ight of his entourage set his sword in the shore and claimed this land.”
“Bloody Normans, always mucking things up,” St. Cyprian said.
“He fancied John Mock’s bride, and claimed her as was his right, on the night of her wedding,” Craye spat. The revolver trembled in her hand. “John Mock raged and stripped the island of his blessings and swore nevermore to return, taking his herds with him. Since that time, the men of Lecach have performed the rites, hoping that John Mock is ready to make merry once more.” The squealing had grown louder. St. Cyprian thought he could make out shapes flying across the snow that was collecting on the streets.
“And you think tonight is the night, eh?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. Her smile was predatory. “After all, you’re here…I read the old stories. I learned John Mock’s true name! The Normans stamped on the old ways, burying them in the mire of Rome, and things were forgotten. But I found the missing pieces…John Mock must win his bride by ancient combat; the Norman took by stealth what should have been won by might of arms!”
The sound of hooves on the stones of Lecach sounded and a thick sea mist speared through the fallen snow, thrusting and rooting like a hog at the trough. Craye was jubilant, clapping her hands like a school girl. “He comes! Moccus comes! The mummers’ dance on the shore has called him from the sea and he comes for me!”
Moccus! The name beat on his brain like a burst of wet, raw heat. St. Cyprian heard again the querulous grunt of the thing in the pub, the presence that had been awakened by the dancers on the shore. It had seen him, then…Craye was right, damn her. “Moccus,” he said.
“Yes! Moccus—the great boar—god of the ancient Celts, whose hulking frame was splashed across cave walls from Normandy to Naples; the god of the hunt and hoe, the provider of food and fecundity,” Craye shrilled. “Murray was right, you know…the horned—or, should I say, tusked—god comes to those who call!”
“But why call him at all?” he snarled.
“Why? Why?” Craye said, her eyes wide and mad. “I have hunted him across two continents Mr. St. Cyprian! I have hunted him through moldering pages and through the boozy whispers of drunken ancients and I have finally found him!” She spread her arms and the snow swept up around her like the arms of a lover. “As he has called to me across oceans of time, I have rushed to meet him, blind and dumb!”
PulpWork - Christmas Special 2011 (Joel Jenkins - The Christmas Eve Killers; Joshua Reynolds Page 2
