Shadowmancer

by G. P. Taylor

  Somehow Demurral had managed to grasp all of this for himself. Crane would have loved to cut his throat and steal all that he had. Demurral’s offer of the world echoed around in Crane’s thoughts. What if it was true? If this man could give him all that he now looked upon? No more the taste of sea salt sticking to the skin or nights spent being battered from bunk to floor by the German Ocean. All this could be changed, but at what price? Crane battled with the thought of working with Demurral, of going along with what he wanted. His own greed fought against his knowledge of what was right. Crane had always been his own man, never one who liked to take orders, always ruled by his temper, never afraid to use nine inches of cold steel to win the argument. If he was to partner Demurral then all this would have to be put to one side and he would have to do something that he knew he couldn’t do … trust.

  Crane rolled the thoughts round his mind over and over, contemplating each point and each question that churned within him. He tried to think clearly but the memories of the night before and the eyes of the Azimuth rushed in like a storm from the sea. In his mind he heard her voice pleading with him, calling to him from beyond the grave.

  From the hiding place he could see the neat grounds to the front of the Vicarage, set out in rows of flowerbeds surrounded by small box hedges. Within the farthest boxed border he saw three freshly dug shallow pits. He glanced back at the tower, then at his ship. Then he gave the signal whistle. From deep in the woods the reply came, carried by the wind. Several of his men emerged from the undergrowth with Martin, who looked at Crane and noticed the blood seeping through his jacket.

  ‘What happened, Captain? Did one of those things get you?’

  ‘Too true, Martin. Hit me from the back and went straight through. Burnt like a scalding pan.’ He paused. ‘Did we lose any men?’

  ‘Kirkby and Randall have not returned. It seems they stayed back to try and stop whatever was coming after you; they haven’t been seen since.’ Martin gestured to the high moor above the wood.

  ‘How many men would it take to strip that house of all its worth and get it to the boat?’ he asked Martin.

  ‘I don’t think the lads have the heart, Captain. After what they saw last night they’re all talkin’ about witchcraft and saying it was Old Meg changed into a hare that chased you.’ Martin looked at the other men who remained fearfully silent.

  ‘How often do I have to tell you that you have nothing to fear from Old Meg and the tales of her being a changeling. Who is frightened of a rabbit?’ Crane scoffed.

  ‘Something was out there last night, Captain, we all saw it.’ Martin looked straight at Crane. ‘There was the burning of the Wiccaman and then them things. That wasn’t our imagination or superstition, Captain.’

  ‘Martin, you’ll have me convinced if you carry on.’ Crane attempted to hide his feelings. ‘It’s morning now. Things of the night have no place here. There’s money to be made and a ship to sail to Holland. See to it that the lads get something to eat. We’ll have to leave Kirkby and Randall to the moor. They knew the risks when they came with us – we’ll crack a jar for them when we get to Holland.’

  ‘One thing,’ Martin replied. ‘We’ve got three new men who want to sail with us. They’re alum miners, they say. We found them hiding out from the storm. Said the stranger set them free from Demurral’s service. Full of all sorts of tales about what he’s been up to. So full of it, they were planning to attack the tower and set the lad free. What shall we do with them?’ he asked, almost laughing. Behind him, Skerry, Consitt and Blythe stepped back nervously.

  Crane did not reply. He had been only half listening, having caught sight of a company of horses and riders cantering down the narrow road to the Vicarage. The sun flashed on the polished buttons and shoulder armour, the men’s crimson jackets and white trousers glowing in the morning sun. The jangling of swords, buckles and chinstraps beat in time with the clatter of the hoofs of the twenty fine greys. Two lengths ahead of them was a huge black mare. Her rider wore the same uniform as the others but had a short cloak draped over one shoulder and a long musket strapped to his back. He wore a half-brimmed hat with a black feather that blew in the breeze.

  ‘Is it …?’ Martin asked Crane in a hushed voice.

  ‘It’s unfinished business, that’s what it is.’ Crane felt the wound on his cheek.

  ‘Why should Captain Farrell be breakfasting with the Vicar?’ Martin asked Crane.

  ‘And especially when I have a tunnel full of contraband beneath their feet,’ Crane replied. ‘Twenty men with horses and all turned out in their finery with our ship sat two hundred yards off Baytown … what could he want with Demurral?’

  ‘Maybe he wants forgiveness of his sins?’ said Martin stepping closer to the edge of the wood. ‘Gone to see the Vicar to ask him to get God to let him off slashing you across the face in Wyke Woods.’

  ‘Farrell will need more than God to forgive him. As long as I carry this mark I’ll never forget what he owes me. One lucky strike and he’s bragging to the world how he took me in a sword fight. Should’ve killed him there and then and have done with it. One more dead dragoon wouldn’t make a great difference in the world.’ As he spoke Crane kept his eyes firmly fixed on the company of men nearing the Vicarage. ‘I don’t think we have enough men to take them, Martin. Anyway, I don’t like fighting in daylight. Don’t like to see the look on their faces when I run them through with my sword. It’s better at night, adds a sense of drama.’ He laughed.

  Captain Farrell rode into the Vicarage yard and tied his horse to the rail by the side of the tower. Crane watched as Beadle scurried out in welcome and ushered him inside. The rest of the men dismounted, tethered their horses and went into the long barn. In that moment any thoughts of helping Demurral dissolved like the morning mist.

  ‘Martin, leave me with two men. I want you to put to sea. Sail across the bay and when you get in range, fire the cannon right at the Vicarage. When you’ve done that, turn to the north and set anchor beyond Ness Point. He won’t see you there. Wait for three hours and if I don’t find you, sail to Whitby.’ Crane took a pistol from his belt and checked the powder.

  ‘What are you going to do, Captain?’ Martin asked.

  ‘I don’t know. One thing I promise is that by midnight Farrell and Demurral will be wrapped in cold earth sharing space in one of the graves he’s had dug.’ He gestured to the Vicarage. ‘There’s too much to leave behind, he knows far too much; sorcerer or not, he will need more than magic to keep him alive.’ He pointed to Skerry, still standing a few feet away from Martin, in the dark of the wood. ‘You come here. Tell me what’s so special about the African lad?’

  Skerry looked at Consitt and then at Blythe. Neither said anything. Skerry dared not look at Crane – he knew his reputation and his temper – but answered falteringly.

  ‘He’s different. He can do things and say things that make people change. He’s a healer, it’s like he knows the inside of your head.’

  ‘So he’s a witch and a sorcerer, then?’ Crane asked.

  ‘No, Captain, he ain’t no witch, says they’re all bad, doesn’t like the fortune cards or the séances. Put Mary Landas right on that, he did.’ Skerry rubbed the ground with the toe of his boot. ‘He healed the deaf lad at the mine and got some kind of nasty spirit out of Blythe.’ Skerry looked at Blythe.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blythe said. ‘The thing had taken over my mind, wanted me to kill the lad. He came up and in a word commanded it to leave and I was free.’

  ‘Has all the world gone mad?’ Crane asked Martin. ‘Until last night I thought ghosts were stories we used to keep people away from the contraband. Now everywhere I turn there are spirits, ghosts and the hordes of hell. You’ll be telling me next you’ve all turned to God to protect you.’

  ‘Well, Captain,’ Martin said slowly, ‘some of us have been thinking that we’d like to hear the preacher at Whitby. We hear Mr Wesley’s coming back soon.’

  ‘Wesley.’ Crane ra
ised his voice. ‘That man will turn you from women, drink and smuggling given half the chance. Last time he came to Baytown I lost half a crew. You’re soft in the head, Martin. I thought you’d be the last one to get a dose of religion. Let’s hope you lose it like you found it – quickly. Now get on, you’ve got a boat to prepare. I’m going to Beastcliff; from there I’ll pick up the tunnel and pay a visit to Demurral. I promised old Rueben I’d bring the children back. For once in my life I’m going to keep my word. I’ll take Skerry and Blythe; they know the mine and the lad. Maybe he’ll change me as well,’ said Crane jokingly.

  Martin took the men and they vanished into the dark cover of the wood. Jacob Crane kept watch on the Vicarage while Skerry and Blythe sat on a fallen tree trunk waiting to be told what to do. They did not have to wait long.

  Crane took the spyglass from the saddlebag and peered through it at the Vicarage. He could see into the room Demurral used as a study; in the bay window at a small breakfast table sat Demurral and Captain Farrell, Farrell with his back to the window; the long ringlets of his powdered wig fell over one shoulder. Demurral was clearly speaking at length, gesturing wildly and excitedly with his hands.

  ‘You know the mine well?’ Crane spoke without turning to look at Skerry and Blythe; he kept his eye fixed to the spyglass.

  ‘Well enough. We’ve been there … too long,’ Blythe replied.

  ‘Do you know it well enough to get me a barrel of gunpowder?’ he asked.

  ‘Could be done at a push,’ said Skerry. ‘I think there’ll be some in the store by the fermenting pit.’

  ‘I’ll need one barrel of powder, some fire rope and whatever you can get me to eat. Don’t get caught, I’ll meet you on Beastcliff in two hours. Now be off with you.’

  From his vantage point on his horse’s back, Crane kept his eyes fixed on the Vicarage and the conversation that Demurral was having with Farrell. It was obvious that this was not a quiet discussion. Fingers pointed, fists banged the table as Demurral stood up, pushed his chair back and leant towards Farrell, tugging at his tunic. He was pushed away by Farrell and sat back in the chair shaking his head. They were arguing, but about what, Crane could not guess. He rubbed his eyes – he was tired, but the ache from the wound in his shoulder kept him awake as did the gentle movement of the horse beneath him.

  An uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach suggested to him that he was not alone in the wood. His horse, which had been tranquilly cropping at tufts of vegetation, had stopped and thrown up its head, ears back, nostrils quivering. Crane looked around. The forest was full of the usual noises of the morning. In the field below, in between the wood and the mine, he could see Skerry and Blythe walking through the grass by the side of the hedge where it dropped down to the small beck. Far to the right was the sloped cart track up which horses dragged empty wagons to the quarry where they dug out the shale then lowered the carts back down to the mine.

  Crane was sure someone was nearby. His horse had become restive, snorting, stamping its hoofs and pawing the ground. Crane looked around again and checked the pistol in his belt. To get to Beastcliff, he would have to take the road south through Staintondale and then cut back to the sea at Bell Hill. It was a journey that would take him an hour. He could leave the horse there and then climb down the narrow goat path to the expanse of land that had at some time in the past dropped from the cliff top four hundred feet above to form an inhospitable gorse-covered plateau.

  It was a place that only a few would dare to visit. There were too many stories of people who had never returned, of their spirits walking the narrow paths that gripped perilously to the mud cliff between the land and the sea. Beastcliff had always lived up to its name. It had spawned the legend of the thulaks, creatures only too willing to enter the human world and bring with them mayhem and chaos.

  Growing unusually nervous at being alone, Jacob Crane was beginning to pay more thought to legend. The feeling of being watched grew more intense. He touched his heels to the horse’s side and turned to ride along the path back up and on to White Moor. He felt a sense of relief as he rode from the darkness of the wood and into the light of the sun. The storm had moved far to the south and in the distance he could see the heavy rain as it fired hailstones against the ruined castle set high above a bay several miles away.

  He shrugged his shoulders at the unease he had felt in the wood and tried an inward laugh to rid himself of any fear. White Moor was a barren place with only a scattering of sheep among the bogs and the stone outcrops. Crane rode to the remains of the Wiccaman. It had scorched the earth. A few twigs of willow lay untouched on the ground. In the daylight it was a different place from the night before. He searched the valley where the attack had taken place and led his horse on foot as he hunted in the grass for pieces of the quarrel that had sliced through his arm and then exploded on the rocks.

  In the sunlight he saw the fragments of several small, broken quarrels that looked like splintered diamonds of molten glass. So it had all been real – not imagination or hallucination caused by some strange magic. He now had proof. The wound in his upper arm and the fragments of glass scattered about the rocky outcrops were the evidence he needed.

  Crane picked up several pieces of the multicoloured glass. Within each piece were amazing hues of green, red, cobalt and purple. He had never seen anything created by a human hand that could match the hypnotic beauty of this glass.

  It was then that he heard the singing coming from beyond the cairn. He could see no one, but could hear the voice of a woman. She sang a sad lament, crying for the death of her child. By the cairn was an old wizened bush with no leaves and dry dead branches. It was the height of a man and every branch was festooned with messages tied on with string and ribbon. Gifts of dried bread cut into the shape of animals littered the rocks that had been piled against the trunk. The tree was covered with offerings of human hair, names written on parchment and wrapped in cloth hanging from the branches like prayers, to be blown by the wind to some dumb god. They rattled against the dry bark in the morning breeze.

  The singing was getting louder but Crane could not see the woman. He followed the voice away from the cairn, down a gully and up the other side until he saw her sitting on the rocky outcrop that jutted out of the moor like the knuckle of a large hand. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen her before. The rock had been in view since he came out of the wood on to White Moor.

  The woman continued to sing, holding her head in her hands, her long red hair falling over her face. She was dressed in the clothes of a fishwife – shawl across the shoulders covering a roughly made long dress fronted with an apron made of sackcloth.

  Crane walked up to the woman and stood in front of her. He could see her rough hands and broken fingernails as she twined her hair in her fingers and buried her face in her hands. Her singing had become a drone repeating the same thing over and over.

  ‘She’s gone no more to be seen, left this land for the evergreen.’

  ‘Who’s gone, woman? Why are you out here alone?’ Crane asked her.

  ‘She’s gone, left me behind, taken away,’ the woman sang in reply.

  ‘Look at me, woman, I may be able to help you find her,’ he said.

  The woman shook her head violently, never looking up, hair gripped in her hand pulling on the roots.

  ‘She’s gone and lost, not to be found,’ she sang again, almost screaming at him. ‘I’ll walk the White Moor ’til she comes home again, back to my hearth and the fire that’s laid.’

  Crane took hold of her hand and forced her to look at him. She fought to keep her eyes covered, pulling against his hands. She got to her feet and pushed Crane back.

  ‘Leave me, leave me now,’ she said. ‘You come here and tell me what to do when all around you fly creatures wanting to take your soul … As we speak there is one who will have your heart on a plate.’

  The woman looked at Crane through two pure white eyes that were blind to this world.

&nb
sp; ‘Woman, you are blind. How can you see these things?’

  She stared at him through sightless eyes that appeared to know every detail about him. ‘You don’t need eyes to see death, nor lips to speak of it. Now leave me. I want to sing for my girl. She may be passing and I can’t miss her.’ The woman began to sing again, moaning like the groaning wind on a winter’s night.

  ‘Listen to me, woman. Who are you seeking? I may be able to help you, I have eyes that can see in this world.’ Crane lifted her head again, wanting to see her face.

  ‘You’ll need more than eyes that can see in this world. They will have to see into the next and beyond.’ She reached out and touched his cheek, running her finger down the wound left by Farrell’s sword. ‘…’Tis you, cut by steel and driven by the devil. Hard of heart and stubborn of will … In this place, on my moor, by my tree. Captain Jacob Crane, rest in peace.’ As she spoke she rubbed his face as softly as she could with her hand.

  ‘Give me no testimony of death while I still have breath in my body,’ protested Crane. ‘I am very much alive and intend to remain so.’

  ‘How long can you fight against the things you cannot see? How long can they follow you without you being caught? Give me the glass from the arrow, put it into my hand.’

  She reached out towards him with an open palm. Crane took the shards of broken glass from his pocket and placed them on her hand. He looked at her tough skin. It looked like battered leather. She squeezed the pieces into her fist, grinding the glass together.

  ‘Look now, Captain Crane.’ She opened her hand and the glass was gone. All that was left was a red dust like dried mud. The woman held out her hand as the wind began to blow at the fine powdered glass.

  ‘Watch this, my pretty boy, watch this,’ the woman sang.

  With that she blew the powder from her hand towards Crane. He quickly put up his hand to protect his face. The glass bounced against his skin and swirled around him, changing colour and shape, forming into a winged black creature that flew around his head flapping and squawking. Crane attempted to beat the creature away with his gloved hand.