Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  She proceeds to describe the archives for various county newspapers, while Rachel stands half-listening. After the young woman leaves, Rachel starts to flick through the big bound volumes, but finds it hard to focus on the task at hand.

  I'm seeing ghosts. I've starting seeing ghosts. And not just seeing them, I'm talking to them, and one of them is even doing my research for me.

  She thinks back to all the glimpses she'd had of strange, too-thin figures in Duncaster.

  They must be the Sentinels. And they guard the crown against anyone who has the audacity to lay hands on it.

  She pauses, thinks again about the verses she's just discovered. Something about the phrase 'all men who trespass' bothers her. Why does she feel there's a clue there, if she can just grasp it? She shakes her head, impatient with her own imagination. Put it on the back burner, and maybe her mind will serve up the answer in due course.

  But what about the dream? Why send that message, the vision of me stealing the crown and suffering for it? It makes no real sense. If you want to warn people away from something, you don't tell them where it is!

  Again, no answer comes to her, just more questions. She looks at the volumes carefully arranged on their shelves and realizes that yesterday's news can't help her, after all. Now she's sure the supernatural is real and somehow focused on her. Rachel needs to get back to Duncaster, to be in the midst of things and find out what's happening.

  Chapter 10

  That evening, Rachel notices a change in the atmosphere at the Green Man. The locals drinking in the bar aren't exactly unfriendly, but there's a sense of things left unsaid. Even Molly Bishop is subdued, nothing like the cheerful hostess who greeted Rachel the previous night. Rachel is relieved that, as a guest, she can eat separately with Carl, but she's forgotten that Professor Pardoe and Bryce are also staying at the inn.

  Conversation is predictably stiff at first, but soon Jane Pardoe is holding forth on 'the absurd antics' of Reverend Black.

  “What exactly does our clergyman object to?” asks Bryce.

  “He wants us to leave the submerged site alone,” says the professor. “He claims it could unleash some terrible disaster.”

  Rachel stops eating and looks at Bryce. He's smiling in his reptilian way.

  “Surely he can't do anything about it?” asks Carl.

  “He may create a little local difficulty,” says Bryce, “but I think a strongly-worded letter to his bishop would have the necessary effect.”

  There's a silence in conversation from the bar and Rachel, who's facing the door, sees Reverend Black come in, to be greeted warmly by the locals.

  “Speak of the Devil,” says Bryce, looking around.

  “Maybe you could go and have a quiet word with the guy,” Carl suggests.

  Bryce shook his head.

  “No need for a confrontation in public. These things are best left to the proper authorities.”

  “I disagree,” says the professor, “we have to persuade the public of the validity of our research!”

  Rachel pushes away her chair.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she says to the group, “but I must try to get an interview. There are at least two sides to every story.”

  Reverend Black seems pleased to talk to her. They settle at a corner table where he sips at his Scotch while Rachel experiments with something called a ‘half of mild.’ She makes a face as she takes her first gulp of the tepid brew.

  “I'm going to get the taste for English beer if it kills me,” she explains.

  “A noble experiment,” says the priest, clearly amused.

  “Do you really think there's a curse on the crown?”

  “I believe there's good reason to fear some kind of catastrophe, yes, but what it might be, I can't say.”

  He goes to explain what he's seen in parish records, and about the dream that's plagued some of his parishioners in Duncaster and neighboring villages.

  “So, different people are having the same dream? Even people who don't know one another?”

  “As far as I can tell,” he says, and describes a few of the details he's been told. Halfway through, she stops him.

  “I already know how it ends,” she says, and describes the final, horrifying sequence.

  “Interesting,” says the priest, as his brow furrows in concern.

  “I'd say it was kind of disturbing – how can people share a common dream?”

  “One obvious answer is that they have a common heritage. You are the only stranger to have the dream – as far as we know. That seems significant, doesn't it? We must understand why.”

  She takes a deep breath, and decides to confide in the old man.

  “It's not just the dream.”

  And she tells him about all the things she's seen and felt since arriving in Duncaster, starting with the 'scarecrow' the previous night, and the odd sense of being followed along the highway that afternoon. She rounds it off with her encounter in the library.

  After a moment's thought, the priest says, “It seems that you might be what researchers in this field call sensitive, or perhaps a 'spiritual medium'. You've become aware of two very different sorts of entity, here. After all, one -” he hesitates, searching for a suitable word. “One being has already helped you directly while another is seeking to communicate, even if its message is a bit obscure.”

  “So I should try to help this ... this ghost? How can I do that? Hold a séance?”

  Reverend Black laughs.

  “I don't think my bishop would approve of that sort of thing. I shouldn't be talking about ghosts at all. But do you recall the legend that Jenny Oglethorpe haunts the churchyard?”

  Carl comes over, pint in hand, and sits down at their table.

  “I don't think you're flavor of the month with Professor Pardoe,” he says to the priest. “Or that Bryce character.”

  “I think I can stand a little unpopularity for a good cause.”

  “I'll drink to that!” responds Carl.

  “I'll join you for last orders,” she says, getting up. “I've – I've just got to get something from my car.”

  Something tells her that Carl would want to come with her to the churchyard, but she's sure this is something she needs to do alone.

  Carl raises his glass in a salute.

  “Hurry back!”

  Rachel leaves the pub and goes to the borrowed Morris to find her flashlight. She checks it, flicking a circle of butter-yellow light against the wall of the Green Man. It's weak, but it'll have to do.

  Pointing the flashlight down at the road ahead, she sets off along the street towards the churchyard. After a few moments, the presence she sensed before returns. She doesn't look around, but she knows it's keeping pace with her.

  Okay, Jenny Oglethorpe or whoever you are – let's do this!

  ***

  In the dining room of the inn, Bryce is talking with Pardoe, who's dismayed to learn why her pet project has been given so much official support.

  “The person charged with stealing the crown will have to be well-informed enough to know of our work here.”

  He pauses and gives her a searching look.

  “I hope,” says the scientist, “that you are not suggesting that I am some kind of security risk?”

  “No more than anyone else,” he shoots back. “Once the agent has stolen the crown, they will probably head for London. The most likely means of smuggling it out of the country is in the diplomatic pouch of a pro-German neutral – Spain is the obvious candidate. The idea is to catch the agent during the handover and break a very important link in the web of Nazi espionage.”

  He leans back and lights a cigarette.

  “And what if we fail to find the crown at all?” asks the professor. “The ones already unearthed and melted down may have been the only ones buried on this coast.”

  “Then no harm will be done,” Bryce replies. “Hitler will not get his omen, and might be less inclined to launch an invasion as a result. On the other
hand, you will be deprived of a major discovery, and I won't be able to break an enemy spy ring. Which would be a pity.”

  The scientist ponders this for a moment.

  “If the crown of Redwald exists at all – and that's still a moot point – it's been there since the fifth century, I don't think a few more decades in the ground will matter much. Or rather, under the seabed. I would love to find it! But if I don't, well, let someone else have the glory in years to come.”

  “Now if only we can persuade the good Reverend Black to be as philosophical about things. Shall we try and win him over?”

  The professor nods, without much conviction. Two very different experts enter the bar, where they find the priest and the young American airman chatting with some Land Girls who've just arrived.

  ***

  Rachel arrives at the graveyard and, as she opens the gate, feels the shadowy presence vanish for the second time. Might that mean the entity, whoever it is, can't trespass on holy ground?

  No, that doesn't make sense.

  Reverend Black told her the church wasn't a holy place any more.

  But maybe ghosts don't know that? Can a priest just raise or lower some magical barrier with a few words and maybe a bit of holy water? Oh, a girl could go crazy thinking about this stuff!

  Shrugging off the thought, she enters the graveyard, picking her way carefully through the overgrown path. Moths and other night-flying insects mob her, flocking to her flashlight's glow. She finds the so-called witch's grave and decides to simply wait there in the darkness.

  “Come on Jenny,” she whispers. “I'm banking on you to clue me in on a few details, here.”

  After she switches off the flashlight, she can see nothing for a few moments, but gradually her eyes adjust to the faint light of the crescent moon. She's surrounded by tombstones half-submerged in grass, wild flowers, and straggling bushes.

  Perhaps there are more bushes than there had been that morning? She recalls the scarecrow, the one she mistook for a small tree at first. She forces herself to look more closely at the foliage around her, resisting the temptation to switch her flashlight back on.

  Is that bush too symmetrical? And that clump by the gate – was it there when I arrived?

  Something creaks behind her, the way a stiff branch might if the night air weren't completely still. Now there's a sound of stealthy movement, dry grass being pushed aside. She turns, but sees nothing except vague gray shapes in the darkness. More creaking, behind her again, and she turns to see nothing. Once again, there's a sound of movement, this time accompanied by a scratching. It sounds like claws on stone. Claws, or fingernails.

  She leans on Jenny Oglethorpe's tombstone, hoping the cunning woman won't take offense.

  Can ghosts know my intentions? she thought. Will the last village witch know I am seeking answers and prove obliging, or will they react with hostility to an intruder?

  The incidents with the beggar and the soldier don't bode well, but Rachel is sure that they were down to a very different reason – one advancing slowly on her now, perhaps. That would explain the stirring in the grass, the stealthy creaking, and the scratching – louder now – that seems to surround her.

  “C'mon, Jenny, I haven't got all night!”

  She's discouraged by how frightened her voice sounds. Rachel stands upright again and points the flashlight ahead of her. Switching it on, she sees a figure in a white dress, glimpsed for a moment before she dropped the light in panic. She gets the impression of an old woman, with long gray hair falling over her face. Startled, she backs into the witch's headstone. A hand clutches her shoulder. It's small, and cold, and even though its grip is gentle, Rachel is still frozen in terror.

  “Don't be scared.”

  The voice is familiar. She heard it on the phone that morning, but now it's not echoing in some unimaginable distance. It comes from a mouth right next to her ear. She feels a chill of icy breath on that side of her face as the voice goes on.

  “You mustn't let him take it! They might not be able to stop him. They are not strong.”

  Rachel takes a deep breath, and asks, “Who do you mean, Jenny? Who is he?”

  The freezing breath plays over her skin again.

  “I can't see his face! Too much deceit and confusion all around, too much fear. Nothing is clear!”

  “You mean the Sentinels might not be able to stop the thief? They can't see who it is?”

  “It has been so long, and they are weak, confused, half-blind. They waste their powers, lash out in confusion, and even harm the innocent! Beware them, those old ones who are sometimes clever but often unwise.”

  In the beam of the flashlight, a man-like shape rises from the wild grass, moving stiffly as if in pain. It's the scarecrow, or one very like it, now so close that she can see flaps of rotted cloth and leathery skin hanging from its ancient bones.

  Raggedy Men, the child called them. Ragged in their clothes and flesh.

  She looks away from the almost fleshless face and sees another Sentinel to her left. A third appears to her right. She can hear them whispering, the sounds like gusts of wind stirring dry leaves.

  “You must help them.”

  “How can I?” she demands, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “You will know when the time comes.”

  The three things are moving closer, now, arms outstretched – threatening, or pleading? Their mouths are working and she can hear strange words that almost make sense, that echo in her mind. As they get closer, their whispered speeches grow clearer.

  “The old gods ... the high places ... the lost ways ...”

  The voices are terrifying, but what's worse for Rachel is the desperation she hears, the terrible yearning for something she can't give, can't even begin to understand. She feels something cold and sharp brush against her arm and her nerve breaks. She rushes head down, past the things. She feels fingers rake down her back, makes it to the gate without falling and hurries out into the road, where she runs straight into a pair of waiting arms.

  “Get off me!”

  She yells and lashes out, beating at a dim figure.

  “It's all right, miss, it's only me!”

  She recognizes Lieutenant Beaumont's voice and gives a gasp of relief, already feeling like an idiot for running.

  “I thought I saw a light. And was that you screaming, miss? Is there somebody else in there?”

  He starts to go toward the churchyard, and she grabs his arm.

  “There's nobody there! I just got spooked by some animal while I was poking around the graves and ... and I dropped my flashlight, like a putz.”

  “All right,” he says, looking down at her. “And you went poking around in a graveyard, on the edge of a cliff, in the dark, because ...?”

  “That's my business and none of yours, mister! Anyway, you can talk, you're creeping around outside a graveyard!”

  “I was just having a smoke before turning in, and I decided to make a phone call,” he says. “My dear old mum worries if she doesn't hear from me regularly.”

  “Aw, well, if you're just being a good son, I can forgive you. You may escort me back to my hotel, if you wish!”

  “Very well, madam,” he laughs. “If you're sure you don't want to retrieve your flashlight?”

  She looks back at the graveyard. There are three shapes that might be stunted trees, close by the gate.

  “It can wait till tomorrow morning.”

  They set off down the road into the village.

  “Your dear old mum keeps late hours, does she?”

  “I'm afraid she doesn't get much sleep,” he replies. “She worries. What about yours?”

  “Oh, she died when I was small. I can hardly remember her at all. Of course, I've seen photos, but that's it.”

  “I'm so sorry,” he says, sounding flustered, “that's such a terrible loss.”

  “Well it always seemed kind of normal when I was a kid, just me and Dad and a whole bunch of aunts and uncles. Oh, I
nearly forgot,” she adds, keen to change the subject and spare him more embarrassment, “I've got something for you!”

  She takes out the beggar's war medal and hands it to him with a few words of explanation.

  “Maybe you can look after it in case he turns out to have some family?”

  He opens the breast pocket of his tunic and puts the Victoria Cross inside.

  “You never know. And it's a decent thought on your part. But, it seems unlikely that the poor chap kept in touch with his family. You'll find a lot of old soldiers in the same plight – lost and wandering. We were supposed to build a land fit for heroes after the last war, but it didn't really work out like that.”

  Rachel thinks of the ancient warriors she's just seen, standing guard down the centuries.

  They're heroes too, in their way, and they're kind of lost in this modern world.

  “I suppose this new war will create thousands more like that poor drifter?”

  “Perhaps,” Beaumont replies. “Sometimes, in my bleaker moments, I think things will never change; 'Men must war and women must weep', as somebody remarked.”

  “It's 'Men must work and women must weep', surely?” she says. “That's how I remember it, anyhow.”

  “You're probably right, miss. This bloody war tends to work its way into everything these days!”

  “Hey, you can call me Rachel if I can call you Tony,” she says. “If it's not against those King's Regulations of yours?”

  “No, miss – I mean Rachel, no it isn't. But best not to call me Tony in front of the men. You know how soldiers like to gossip!”

  “Okay, no gossip for the men. Hey, can I ask you something else?”

  “Is it about Bryce? Because Carl has already asked me quite a bit about him.”

  “Ah, yeah, figures. What do you know?”

  “Very little. Until about a week ago, we were all set for deployment overseas – somewhere in the Mediterranean, it was rumored. But then Bryce turned up, bringing fresh orders from up high, and Walker announced we were going to the seaside for a while. The Captain was not happy, I can tell you.”