No dreams interrupted my sleep that night, and I woke late to a mild glow of winter sunshine and Vespasian’s kiss on my forehead. I yawned and noticed the rise of steam from my cup on the large bedside table, morning tea, and not something Vespasian supplied often.
When I finally staggered downstairs, Vespasian was stretched, long legs in worn out jeans, on the huge armchair in the living room. His own teacup nearby was empty, and Randle was curled on his lap. Still in his pyjamas, he was looking with considerable fascination at a colourfully illustrated book of nursery rhymes. Vespasian was turning the pages for him, but looked up as I rolled in, hair askew and eyelashes still half stuck together.
Randle smiled. “Good morning, Mummy.”
“Good morning, darling,” I said, still gruff from sleep.
Then Randle said, “There’s a lady outside, Mummy. She’s not very nice.”
I nearly cried. The night had swept my fears away and now they hurtled back into my stomach. Gulping back tears and vomit, I mumbled, “Shit,” and leaned over to kiss both Randle and Vespasian’s foreheads, my own good morning. But as usual it wasn’t a good morning. Looking at my three-year-old son who saw demons, I asked carefully, “Do these things ever give you nightmares?”
He shook his head and pointed to the book he held. “No, Mummy. You showed my cupboard all nice empty. I dreams nice fings. Look, there’s a cat wiv a vile–inn. I had a dream about cats and bunnies and foxes. I seen a fox once. Before the nasty pink lady.”
I doubted if any wild animal would come into our garden now that it was inhabited by other creatures, but the birds still sang and the late sunrise was still heralded by the melodies and multi-toned chirruping of the birds singing to the pale golden sky.
So a haunted garden could still be beautiful sometimes.
Chapter Four
The police visited again. I invited them in and just hoped they weren’t the sort to see demons.
DI Lawrence told me that the suspect had been on suicide watch yet had still managed to kill himself. I couldn’t help seeing the victim’s corpse in my mind again. Frost bound hair and lashes, a thin scraggy body stuck in mud, but the face utterly smashed down the centre and one side. One eye hung loose as though on a string. The nose was bashed in and lay splayed whilst the forehead had been caved so that both left and right stuck outwards like protuberant stones, although the middle was a canyon. Both lips were cut, teeth smashed in, and the chin a bloody mess of fleshless bone.
And then quite suddenly I thought of something.
But the DI was talking. “Mr Jones. Derek Jones. No doubt you knew him as your postman, Mrs Fairweather. He’d worked here for years and lived beside the old church. Widowed with no children, and not much liked in the village. He kept to himself. But he had no criminal record nor any reason to be targeted as far as we could tell.”
“It’s – horrible,” I said, feeling sick again, and swallowed hard.
“You would have been required at the trial of course,” the police sergeant added. “As the one who found the body.”
“But that won’t be necessary now,” the DI told me. “Our suspect was a young man with a long record of theft and armed attacks, although he’d never killed before. But his DNA was found on the body. Hair and blood left on the dead man’s clothes. An open and shut case. The suspect admitted having recently felt ill with a desire to see what it would be like to kill. A feeling of power, he said. Claimed he’d actually found the strength to pick up the victim and throw him against a wall. Absurd, naturally, but there was no doubt he’d committed the killing. Because of his attitude, he was on suicide watch in prison but he still managed to tie sheets together, and hang himself from the fire alarm, kicking the chair away. He was found this morning. So we’ve closed the case apart from the paperwork. I dare say you’ll be relieved, Mrs Fairweather.”
I was, having no desire to be a witness at a murder trial. More importantly, the police had now confirmed what I had suspected just moments before. That the wretched postman had actually been the one smashing against my bedroom window some time previously. It was a sickening thought for I also knew it meant demons. No young man could bodily pick up another man, however scrawny, and toss him up to smash against an upstairs window. Yes, the poor sod had done it, but the demon within had been both the inspiration and the strength.
I could understand also why the culprit had hung himself for knowing the sickness of the demon inside, only someone thoroughly evil would remain comfortable.
I attended both funerals. Odd, perhaps. Vespasian, who did not believe in the modern funereal fashion, preferred not to come and that was fine by me. I felt a somehow obliged to watch the sad little cremation of the poor postman since I was, in a strange way, involved. The funeral of the suicidal culprit, convinced that he had been forced into action by one off our demons, seemed just as pitiful so I went to that too, and since the boy had no family, I was almost the only person there apart from the police.
With Christmas over, I counted the days. December the twenty seventh, the twenty eighth.
Then I asked, “Will it be an adventure? Or a nightmare?”
“Simply hard work,” Vespasian told me, “but with you at my side, little one, there will be moments when work turns to adventure and you chose to come with me, so that already seals the delight.”
I hugged him, and sitting next to him, I leaned my head on his shoulder. “We kill three demons at a stage before they are too strong. And so – not strong enough to inhabit us?”
“They inhabit humans, only when that human already feeds the cruelty inside his own imagination and desires. We are not food for demons, my love, and would not fit on their platters. They can only go where the heart is open for them.”
And of course, that meant we’d be going to some time when vile and brutal souls would house the demons we meant to kill. I thought of the billion times throughout history when the world cherished cruelty.
“Wars and battles? Will we risk our lives?”
I expected him to say no, and thank goodness he did. I’d risked my life many times as Tilda and even more often as the Gate-Keeper. But now there was Randle.
Vespasian said, “If we died in the past, as we do in each incarnation, we would still be reborn and be alive here, as we are. Or how would Randle be born? The same isn’t true of the demons since they never die a natural death but can be destroyed. Destruction eliminates the future. I have found a time in the past when three of our leaf-leeches are alive and chewing within separate humans. Two more days, my love, and we leave.”
He played with my fingers, rubbing my fingertips and squeezing my palm. Finally, he looked into my eyes. “At the heart of all evil is the open road to cruelty. Humanity owns the pathway to love. Whether each soul keeps that pathway open is up to his growth through reincarnation. He or she may turn to cruelty through fear, which is tending towards evil. But the absolute desire for cruelty as pleasure is the demon. Every fragment of evil nurtures this through some unlocked passage. Entering a human soul is the demon’s aim, for then he lives.”
Each day brought a more horrifying sense of doom. Vespasian’s strength which he called alchemy and I called magic, was never going to permit the influence of some petty devil creature into his being. I wasn’t so sure about myself. I thought it possible, and once thought my temper was a problem. I had certainly wanted to kill Bertie on occasion but never seriously meant it. My first husband had been my own mistake anyway. I’d thought him a sheep in wolf’s clothing but soon discovered that he was the genuine wolf.
I didn’t want to ask more questions, so I just muttered, “I promise never to eat one and turn into a serial killer.”
He wasn’t smiling even though now I was. “Cruelty can be a needle prick, my beloved. The insertion of doubt into someone practicing courage. The expectation of revenge, and even the contemplation of ridiculing the one who has made you cry. But no demon inspires such petty emotions. They bring a far greater cruelty, whic
h, little one, you cannot ever absorb.”
Yet I was never sure how much of the nightmare I saw was real, or simply my own fear reborn. I had never before thought of myself as a coward, yet the sense of daily dread leaked into me from that whispering garden. Shadows formed when there was no light to build them and moved when there was no wind to cause it. I smelled the decay of my own courage.
As my greatest protector, my husband was my source of comfort and courage now, but I felt I should foster my own, and said, “I suppose it seems so grossly unfair. I know life isn’t ever fair to anybody, and I suppose the human idea of being fair is all rubbish anyway. But we buy this glorious house, my absolute dream, and we have Randle, the biggest dream of all, and it’s been so magical here with you both every day. I mean – you don’t even go off to the pub or cycling every morning or join the local gym or build a shed and spend hours in it like other men. So it’s been heaven for me. Do you ever get bored? I don’t, not ever. But now into this dream existence, we get haunted by shitty demons.”
“It is,” Vespasian said, “a natural consequence. An unfortunate one, perhaps, but inevitable. Lilith’s destruction freed the demons which had been her food for centuries, and since she will be gone until far into the future, the present will be open to those now freed from her hunger.”
“You,” I accused, “don’t seem in the least upset.” The temporary destruction Vespasian had brought on Lilith had been hard won, and we had almost died ourselves. Vespasian almost did die, yet instead leapt the centuries and came through time to find me. It had been a time of horror and desperation. Indeed, now I was desperate to avoid desperation. The past three years of peace and love had been so blissful and I begged life to stay that way.
“This will take its course,” Vespasian smiled. The tucks at the corners of his mouth were suddenly alight. “You take a step and another must follow. We now have the second step, and there will be a third, a fourth and more. But they will be small steps in comparison to Lilith’s leap. She was, as you know, the symbolic embodiment of evil. Now, with the symbolism removed, each fragment of fact flies free. Not all will come to us and most will search for other enemies.”
“So in time, after you kill three and we come home, and there’s still eleven vile things in our garden stopping Randle going out to play - and after a bit, more could turn up. Oh, my dearest, will we ever live here peacefully? Should we sell up and leave?”
“Eleven will not out-match me, little one,” he told me, kissing my eyes. “I can face eleven without any doubts. You and Randle will never be at risk.”
Several times I went out to the long terrace to watch the sunset or the billowing rain clouds, the Christmas tree that Randle loved so much, and the shimmering reflections of a great flock of birds. Yet however glorious something of nature proved, I could not escape the horror of the shadowed menace.
December the twenty ninth. Two days remained before I once again travelled time.
December the thirtieth. Almost there.
A light drizzle sent golden shimmers past the windows, while a blink of sun was oozing out from behind the clouds.
Our house was built around a small courtyard, open to the sky, with sun loungers covered by tarpaulins during winter. As I passed the window which peered into this paved area, I discovered my husband.
He was stretched on a sunbed which he had uncovered, his book flat on his chest, and his eyes closed. He wore the usual faded jeans, no shoes. None of this was amazing, except that it was raining. I doubted Vespasian was asleep, and with only one day in which to plan, I knew he would be deep in thought as his hair slowly soaked into black ooze, and the rain left his few clothes sodden, washed over his face and dripped into his ears. The rain and the cold would not matter to him. What we were about to do was far too essential to allow other petty discomforts any space.
I’d heard an owl call that night and had wondered if our demon made strange night-noises. Now I saw the tip of a wing up under the overlap of tiles on the roof where it jutted over the supporting beams. Safe within our jurisdiction. The light rain, which gradually soaked Vespasian’s hair and clothes, was of no importance to him, and I left him where he lay.
I wandered off and started making custard. Randle loved custard.
I was in the kitchen placidly stirring with my wooden spoon when I blinked from the steam and looked away. Then I glimpsed something through the window. It seemed suddenly magical. I stopped stirring.
The drizzle, a gleaming silver curtain as light as a suggestion, seemed to spin downwards from an arc of luminous colour above. Then I realised what I was seeing, turned off the gas, and stared properly through the glass.
A rainbow and from it the last drops of rain spanned the garden, catching the light as they fell. The rainbow was a full archway and the colours were perfect. The glimpse of December sunshine was rare enough, but this was even more delightful.
With a quick glance at the custard, I stepped over to the back door and pushed it open. The cold rushed in as I poked my head around the door jam. But the rainbow was high, and I saw only its descent. So I stepped out onto the wide decked veranda.
Standing there for some minutes, I admired the beauty before turning back to the doorway behind me. When I heard the voice, I was tempted to ignore it. Yet contrary to my own judgement, I turned and listened. I was neither scared nor interested, simply irritated. The rainbow had blazed out with nature’s beauty and now this flash of stagnant cruelty dared to spoil it. Just two more days, and I might be killing these things myself.
It was a female voice, “You are not as I imagined you,” she said.
Then I saw her. Way out under the oak tree, a shadowed female shape, her darkness accentuated by the rainbow directly above, she appeared like a broken branch, but moved slowly forwards. Finally, she stood on the far side of the lake and gazed at me across the water, yet her shape left no reflection on the ripples at her feet. I spoke with a tremble in my voice, of which I was ashamed and reminded myself that I was not in the least afraid.
“A demon, I suppose. I don’t need to know your name. You have no business here. Go away.”
“I exist in my own shape because Lilith does not,” said the shadow. Her voice was sharp and high. “The human who destroyed the power of Lilith is therefore my friend. I wish to thank him.”
“I’m perfectly sure he doesn’t need thanking,” I told her. “We’d both prefer it if you went away.”
Why I chose to be so damned polite to a demon, I wasn’t sure. But I suppose knowingly antagonising a demon would have been worse. I had backed away and was now leaning against the open door. “Foolish human,” she replied. “I shall wait for the human of consequence.”
“I’ve no intention of calling him,” I decided. “I’m fairly sure you want more than saying thanks.”
She had come closer. Floating across the lake, where the rainbow lay wondrously clear and bright, almost making a circle with the arch in the sky above, she now stood on the closer bank, only a spread of lawn between us. As she floated, she still looked more like the bare fallen twigs of a small tree, yet I had begun to see the vague characteristics of a face. The nose protruded in a sharp point, a little like the carrot often used on a snowman. Her mouth was lipless and extremely wide, almost cutting her face in two. More clearly defined, her eyes, although close together over the bridge of the long nose, were black and alive.
Her jagged hips swayed. “I am Highsa,” the stick thing called. “With the power of Fastoon, and the power of Laquia, now I also contain the power of Inbore. I am now more powerful than your human male and demand his naked soul for my breakfast.”
“Not just to say thank you then?” I pointed out. I managed logic. “If you really contained the power you think you do, you could break the forbidden wall that shelters this house, and speak to Vespasian yourself. But you haven’t and you can’t so your power is feeble.”
Those black eyes were now red rimmed, and the red oozed. It seemed lik
e a malicious threat. I was about to walk calmly back into the house when the thing opened that lipless mouth and hissed. “Inbore already held the power of ten, and then absorbed two more. I hold him within and so hold the power of thirteen. You cannot flout my strength for you are vacant of demonic muscle. I could swallow you in seconds.”
I shrugged. “You can’t suck on human passivity. You can only feed on cruelty. I’m entirely outside your scope. So bugger off.”
She sniggered. “Every human contains some element of cruelty and the eager greed of anger. Retribution. Revenge.”
My irritation bubbled. “I’m not Hamlet,” I yelled at the thing. “I’ve never” – Had I? – “wanted revenge. Not ever.”
“Liar. Liar,” crowed the demon. “You want it now. You leak hatred. You shiver with the desire to hurt me. Kill me. Come – little human – come and try.”
Actually, this was not true, and I presumed the thing knew it. I hadn’t even considered hurting it. I simply wanted it away and gone. So I said, still angry, “It’s you lying. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never do.”
Then I remembered my battle back in the early medieval when I had met Vespasian. Times of merging personalities, of loving Vespasian both as sweet Tilda, and as myself. Then the discovery of the third power when I became the Warden and opener of the Gates. Cruelty had been a natural reaction to so many aspects of opposition. I remembered murdering the girl who tried to attack me. I remembered slaughtering many with an absolute lack of care or emotion. Probably I was blushing as I remembered. But when taking the body of the Gate-Keeper, I was her. I was never myself.
Now I was looking at the rabid sluice of blood. The thing opened its mouth wide and two vampire teeth surged outwards, gushing the blood as they slapped against the thing’s lips. It waved its head as though blind, but searching for the smell. The source of blood, perhaps. Then it roared towards me. I felt its absolute freeze, the freeze of its shadow and the ice of its rage. Flinging out both my arms, I ordered it backwards. Its smell seemed to be its own covering, a dress woven from decay and the stink of vomit.
Dark Weather Page 3