Shadowmancer

by G. P. Taylor

  Thomas was just glad to be alive. He thought back to what he had endured that morning and the forces that had tried to take his life. He thought of the creature that had chased him through the wood, and the sight of Parson Demurral on the beach. Raphah saw the distant look in his eyes.

  ‘You think a great deal for someone so young. Why are you living here and not with your family?’

  Thomas could feel tears welling up. ‘I can’t live with them. I lost my home, my family, and I’ve no money, so I live here.’ He buried his face in the horse blanket and the smell filled his nostrils. Thomas had never seen anyone like this before. Raphah could have been fourteen or twenty. He had a glow of youth and an incredible smile that burst on to the world. He was dressed in a thick black smock coat, white shirt, and knee-length boots. He looked like a highwayman or smuggler.

  ‘Where are you from? I have never seen a …’ He paused, not knowing what word would best describe him.

  Raphah had seen that look many times before. It was the embarrassed, angry look as the onlooker surveyed the colour of his skin before speaking to him brusquely or ignoring his presence completely.

  ‘I may not be the same on the outside, but I speak English …and many other languages.’ He paused. ‘I am from Cush. It is in a land that you call Africa. I want to return there as soon as possible.’

  He turned the fish on the spike again. The skin spat and hissed in the flames of the fire. ‘I am here to find something that was stolen from my family; then I will return. Your sea is cold and your sun is too weak. That is why you must be so pale. Eat the fish and then I will show you a secret.’

  While Thomas was eating, Raphah pulled on a cord around his neck and took out an embroidered gold bag. He opened the top and from inside gently removed an ornate piece of dark jet like a huge almond-shaped eye. He held the object towards Thomas.

  ‘Where I am from we are told that if we know the Spirit of Riathamus, our old men will dream dreams and young people will see visions. Look inside, little fish, and tell me what you see.’

  Thomas gazed into the depths of the stone. He saw the blackness slowly begin to transform into the brightest blue, like the opening-up of the night sky at dawn.

  His eyes were drawn deeper until the solid gold edges became the horizons of a new world. He could clearly see large stone buildings like cathedrals rising out of thick forests. Enormous red and green birds circled round and around above the tall trees. Hundreds of people all like Raphah were gathered on the steps of the largest building. They were dressed in white linen robes with bright gold bands around their necks. The strands of their hair dripped with golden oil that glistened in the morning sun.

  ‘These are my people.’ Raphah smiled as he spoke. ‘They are at the Temple. Meeting with the Riathamus. He guides us in all things. It is he who has sent me here and he has brought you to help me. Caught like a fish.’ His laughter echoed around the cave, his shadow flickered against the walls and his face glowed in the amber light of the fire.

  Frightened, Thomas broke his vision from the eye-stone and looked at Raphah.

  ‘What are you? Are you a witch? Only witches can do that sort of thing.’ He raised himself up. ‘How do you know I will help you; and help you do what? I want nothing to do with witchcraft. They’ll hang you for that.’ Thomas had a sudden swell of bravery. Raphah may have been older but Thomas didn’t care.

  He decided that if Raphah were a witch he would make a run from the cave, even without his clothes. He had begun to feel that this day was a dream from which he would soon awaken; a day in which he had been chased and half drowned and rescued by an African who could make people appear from jet stones.

  Raphah smiled again. ‘I am not a witch, or a warlock, or a sorcerer. They are filled with wickedness. All I have is that which is given to me by Riathamus.’ Raphah looked into Thomas’s eyes. ‘Look again, my little fish. This is the power of all goodness. He who is will show you.’

  Thomas could not look away. He felt the heat of the fire grow more intense; the driftwood burnt brighter. The warm blackness of the stone drew his eyes in. There, within the swirling dark mists, he saw two men, one white, the other black. They were running from the entrance of the Temple, down the steps and into the forest. The white man carried the most beautiful golden figure that Thomas had ever seen. As he ran he wrapped the creature in his sweat-stained shirt and clutched the bundle to his chest. The forest then became awash with white breaking foam as the scene suddenly changed. Thomas was able to see the sails of a ship that blew back and forth in a full gale. Waves grabbed and plundered at a tall masted ship. The two men huddled in a cabin below deck, holding on to each other against the sea’s rage. Again the stone changed the scene as the cabin faded to be replaced by a candlelit study. Thomas gasped. There, appearing in the eye of the stone, was a face that he knew too well.

  ‘Demurral.’ Thomas shouted out the name. ‘Demurral.’

  ‘Do you know this man?’ Raphah had an urgency in his voice. ‘Tell me – I must know. Do you know him?’

  For the first time in their brief encounter, Thomas noted a change in his companion. Raphah looked as if he was waiting for some urgent and unwelcome news.

  ‘He is the man that I seek, he has something that was stolen from my people.’ He tried to remain composed but it was easy for Thomas to see the concern that burnt through his eyes.

  ‘I know him,’ Thomas replied. ‘He has stolen from so many people, so many times, that it comes easily to him.’ There was bitterness in his voice for the years of misery that Demurral had inflicted on his family. ‘I hate him, I hate him so much that I could kill him like he tried to kill my mother.’ He spat out the words. ‘He calls himself a man of God. Anyone who knew God wouldn’t act that way. With all his cheating and lies, I say he is the spawn of Satan. He has the whole village in his power and wants to control every one of us.’

  Raphah was quick to reply. ‘It is more than this village that he wants to control. If he has his way, and if what is stolen is put to work, then he could control the world and even the power of Riathamus for himself.’

  Thomas knew nothing about Riathamus, neither did he care. But he had waited a long time to get his own back on the Reverend Demurral and he sensed that here was an opportunity for revenge. Thomas prided himself on his ability to fight, catch fish, and plunder the hiding places of the smugglers of Baytown without them knowing. He knew every inch of the village and the passages under the Vicarage. Whatever Demurral had stolen, he would steal back. Thomas gazed into the embers of the dying fire, trying to keep his thoughts to himself.

  ‘So you will help me, I know you will.’ Raphah was excited. ‘Who is this Demurral? Tell me all and then we will plan.’ Raphah thrust out his strong black hand, grabbed hold of Thomas’s wrist before he had time to reply and stared into his eyes.

  ‘First we bind ourselves to the thing that we do. This Demurral is not a servant of God and he will do all in his power to destroy us both. We fight principalities and powers, spirits and demons. Demurral is more than just a man, he is a speaker to the dead – a Shadowmancer.’

  The grip on Thomas’s arm grew tighter as Raphah’s smile grew wider.

  ‘Now I will speak with Riathamus. Close your eyes.’

  Thomas was given no option. This was a command and not a request. There was something powerful about Raphah, something that Thomas could not resist, nor did he want to. All he cared about was the increasing numbness in his hand from Raphah’s strong grip and the smell of his scorching trousers on the fire. To obey would mean that he could save his hand and, with any luck, his trousers. He crunched his eyes shut, but tried to keep them open just a crack so he could see what would happen.

  Raphah began to speak in a voice deeper and stronger than before. ‘Lord Riathamus … Creator of all that is good … Fill us with your Spirit.’

  He shouted out and the cave echoed with the power of the words. Thomas opened his eyes to see what looked like tongues of fi
re leaping around the chamber. A whirlwind blew round the cave, blasting his bedding and supplies into the air. It was like standing in the eye of a storm, whilst all around was chaos. In the centre of the cave floor the fire burnt even brighter, while all around, his books, candles, bread and blankets danced and swirled in the air. He held on to Raphah for as long as he could, then without thinking stepped back into the tornado. He was lifted from his feet and thrown back against the damp, slimy wall. His body shook.

  Tears welled up in his eyes and he began to sob. As he lay motionless on the floor of the cave it was as if unseen hands untwisted the knot of emotions in his chest that he had carried for so many years. All the anger for his father’s death, his hatred towards the world and his fear of dying – all began to melt and leave him. Thomas could not understand what was happening. The musty smell of seaweed, damp walls, and fish skins was replaced by the overwhelming fragrance of the meadow harvest. In the darkness of the cave he felt as if the heat of the summer sun was gently warming him.

  He could hear Raphah speaking to him from far away.

  ‘Don’t fight this. Allow Riathamus to touch your heart, he knows how much you hurt. He knows the sadness of your life. In Riathamus we can all find peace.’

  Thomas felt the warmth of Raphah’s hand on his forehead. It soothed like the nettle bandages that his mother made. The heat from Raphah’s palm became more and more intense; it radiated through Thomas’s whole body. He didn’t fight; he allowed the experience to go on and on for what seemed hours of blissful peace. Is this more witchcraft? he thought to himself, half-dreaming.

  As if he knew Thomas’s thoughts, Raphah replied, ‘No, there is no fear in this. This is not made by man or conjured from the darkness. There is no power within me; it is a gift from the Creator to you. Take it … Breathe it … Allow this time to last.’ His words echoed deep into Thomas’s mind. They were restful, bringing with them sleep and dreams.

  Raphah covered him with the horse blanket, put more driftwood on the fire, sat back and closed his eyes.

  *

  The noise of the crashing sea pulled them from their dreams. Thomas woke first and in the half-light of the embers of the fire he got dressed. His trousers were crisp and hot and smelt of salt water. Raphah opened his eyes and his smile exploded like the sun. ‘Did you dream?’

  Thomas could hardly contain his new-found feeling of joy. ‘I dreamt of many things, my father … mother … yesterday. It was all so real. I feel as if my body has wings.’ Thomas paused, his smile drained from his face as he remembered the vision. ‘I dreamt of Demurral. I know why you are here and what you are looking for. He has the creature I saw in your stone … He tried to use it against you.’

  ‘Fear not, it was only a dream, but we are given dreams to warn us of what is ahead and also what is in our hearts.’ Raphah got up from his makeshift bed of bracken on the floor of the cave. ‘Dreams are a shadow of the future or of ourselves; they are never to be feared but embraced and used for our good.’ He placed his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. ‘Where does Demurral live? Is it near?’

  Thomas thought of the quickest way from the cave to the Vicarage. ‘It’s about three miles, but if you don’t mind the dark we can make it two if we go through the tunnel from the wood.’

  He knew the tunnels from the nights when he had helped his father load casks of smuggled brandy, silk, and tobacco that had been brought ashore by small boats. His father had been a fisherman, a hard and poor life that he supplemented by the occasional trip offshore to a French schooner from which he would return with wonderful things. Demurral had taken his cut, even from this. ‘Storage fee’, he called it. There was no brandy for the parson or baccy for the clerk. No. Demurral wanted his cut in hard cash, in gold or silver.

  Tonight, thought Thomas, Demurral’s greed will lead to his downfall.

  ‘Then it’s through the tunnel,’ said Raphah. ‘Not a moment to waste.’

  In the entrance to the cave the soft blue light of the full moon illuminated the stones that led out on to the sandy beach. In the northern sky Thomas could see the amber glow, although he thought it was bright, it didn’t cast much light, leaving the night dark and menacing.

  The air was fresh and clear – such a change from the must and smoke of the cave. They walked quietly through the wood. Thomas avoided the path where he had met the thulak and took Raphah along the edge of the cliff, keeping the sea to the left with the thickest part of the wood to the right.

  They began to climb the slope away from the Bay and towards the Vicarage that dominated the cliff top on the headland at Peak. The trees reached over their heads like the knotted fingers of old hands. Crisp leaves dropped to the floor in the gentle breeze of the night and rustled in the undergrowth. The call of an old owl, deep and husky, broke the silence and the dry branches of the trees clashed against each other.

  Thomas stepped from the path and dropped into a small gully that was blocked by a holly bush. He pulled back the spiky growth, revealing the entrance to a tunnel. It had been cut into the rock just wide enough for a man to carry a brandy barrel through without tearing the flesh from the back of his hands.

  ‘This way.’ Thomas spoke as quietly as possible, but the owl burst from the tree with a loud shout. Without any warning, a small figure leapt out of the darkness at Thomas and Raphah, grabbing them both by the throat and pushing them face down on to the ground. They lay side by side in the wet bracken and grass, the smell of cold earth pushed up their nostrils and the heel of a boot embedded in the back of their necks. They had been ambushed and were now captured.

  ‘Stand and deliver, your money or your life. What’s it to be, musket ball or knife?’ There was the familiar click of the hammer of a pistol being pulled back and Thomas felt the cold ring of the steel barrel pushed against the back of his head.

  ‘Give us yer money, Barrick, or your friend takes the lead.’ It was a girl’s voice and one that Thomas knew.

  ‘Get off my back, Kate Coglan, or I’ll whip your backside from now till next Friday and harder than your father does.’ He tried to move but the full weight of the girl fixed him to the floor.

  ‘Where have you been, Thomas? It’s Monday. I bring you supper on a Monday. I’ve been waiting for hours.’ There was another click as the hammer of the pistol was allowed to fall without igniting the powder.

  ‘I’ve had a visitor. I’m taking him to see Demurral. Now, are you going to let me up?’ Kate Coglan jumped from their backs and sat on a tuft of broken-down bracken.

  ‘Who’s your friend? He’s not one of us.’

  Raphah got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his tunic.

  ‘I am certainly glad I am not one of you. I’ve been in this country for less than a day and have had welcome that has been neither gracious nor friendly.’ He stopped speaking and looked her up and down. ‘May I say that for a girl you look incredibly like a man.’ Raphah pointed in the moonlight to the trousers and boots she was wearing. Kate Coglan was definitely a girl, a defiant girl, a brash girl, but none the less a girl.

  Thomas stood between them. He knew that Kate would be on her feet, with her fists ready to bring dark bruises to dark skin.

  ‘What’s with the pistol, Kate? Taken to highway robbery?’

  ‘Borrowed it from my father – he’ll be as drunk as an ass by now so he won’t know it’s gone. Brought it to blast any of them shadows or boggles, or anything else that may get in the way.’ She aimed the pistol at Raphah. ‘Are you a shadow or don’t you wash? Never seen one like you before.’

  ‘He’s from Africa and he has saved my life so that’s enough of your piggery.’ Thomas felt the sharp edge of her words. They were reckless words that pierced like a sword. He looked at Raphah.

  ‘Don’t worry, Thomas, I have heard much worse and from far more frightening people than a girl in man’s clothing.’ Raphah grinned. ‘Take pity. From the way of her dress she has problems of her own.’ Raphah winked at Thomas and they both bowed to Kate.<
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  ‘Enough,’ Kate shouted at them both. ‘Let’s start again.’ She paused and then smiled. ‘I’m Kate; you know Thomas. So who are you?’ She stood up from the bracken, put the pistol in her belt and held out her right hand.

  ‘My name is Raphah. I am from Africa. It is good to start again.’ He reached out. Kate felt the soft warmth of his hand, and their eyes met. Thomas broke the moment.

  ‘We’re going thieving from Demurral. He has got something from Raphah’s family and I’m going to help him get it back. Are you up for coming? That pistol of yours would be a handy signal – you could keep watch here so we can make our escape.’

  Kate reached into the holly bush and threw a muslin bag at Thomas. ‘Maybe. First, here’s your supper. Bread, cheese and ginger cake – better eaten now than later.’

  They sat in the hollow and shared the food. Raphah spoke of the voyage and the shipwreck. Kate chattered and filled the night air with her questions. The full moon slowly began to set behind the distant hills. The three shadows sat in the grassy hollow of the woodland glade. Thomas got to his feet and went to the base of the holly bush. He dug the toe of his boot into the earth. The soil gave way to wood as he uncovered the top of a barrel buried near to the entrance to the tunnel.

  ‘We need some light, so let there be light.’ He bent down and squeezed his fingers under the tight lid, pulling back the wooden flap and reaching in.

  ‘Sorry, Kate, there are only two lamps in here. Never mind, you have eyes like a cat.’ He set the wick and fired the tinderbox that he had found in the very bottom of the barrel. The forest was lit with a brilliant amber light from the storm lamps.

  Kate placed the lid back on the barrel.

  ‘We don’t want to leave any tracks and I don’t want my father to know I have been here.’ Her father was the Revenue man. He patrolled the coast from Whitby to Hayburn Wyke looking for smugglers; at least for those who had forgotten to pay him his cut of brandy. Such was the life of the moors and the coast. A thin veneer separated law from disorder, good from evil, and this world from the next. At least for tonight she knew her father would be so drunk that he would neither know nor care where she was.