Something Wicked This Way Comes

by Amy Rae Durreson

  “Walked, not something,” I said, and he laughed easily.

  “That must have been, like, miles. Kilometres. Whatever you guys use.”

  “Miles for long distances, metres for middling ones, inches for small ones, and millimetres for tiny stuff. Feet for heights, and always centigrade for temperature, unless you’re talking to someone in their seventies.”

  The look he gave me was pure horror. “Dude.”

  He sounded so like one of my students that I relaxed into the role of cheerful teacher without another thought. “Speed is miles per hour or metres per second, but cooking ingredients come in grammes, ounces, teaspoons, pints or litres—depending on the recipe—but never cups.”

  He clapped his hands over his ears. “No. Enough! You people are crazy.”

  I laughed and waited for him to drop his hands before asking, “You’re not on your own up here, are you?”

  “Dad’s behind me somewhere. He’s slow.” His tone carried all the careless impatience of youth. “And Mom and Mac have gone to look at some old ruin. Again.”

  “Looks like we’ve found one too,” I said. “Can you see it?”

  It took him a moment, but once I’d pointed out a couple of the stones, he saw it. “Cool. How old is it?”

  “No idea. Most of them are Neolithic, I think. Well, before the Romans, at least.”

  “Your country has so much old shit,” he said, then darted me a worried look. “Uh, old stuff.”

  I ignored it graciously. “I was just thinking the same thing. It’s comforting, isn’t it, knowing others have been here before you?”

  He shook his head quickly. “It sucks. I want to go somewhere where everything’s new.” He pointed at the stone circle. “Hey, there’s like a sign over there.”

  “If it tells us some nostalgic Victorian built this, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

  He snorted as he dropped his bike and went scrambling down towards the stones. I followed him, keeping a wary eye out for patches of bog.

  The sign was screwed into a block of concrete just outside the stone circle. It was metal, and the raised letters had worn away a little at the corners, but I could still make it out.

  Beside me, the kid—Doug, I remembered—hunched his shoulders and said, a note of defiance in his voice, “I can’t read it.”

  I noted the sullen set of his chin. “It’s not easy to make out.”

  “I’m dyslexic, okay, and those letters are dumb.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “As long as you know that it’s only the lettering that’s dumb, not—”

  “Oh. My. God,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Sorry, mate. Off-duty teacher. I just can’t help it.”

  I got another eye-roll, but he looked less defensive, so I squinted down and read out slowly, “Rathstone Ring.”

  “Wrath stones? Sounds like something out of one of Mac’s games.”

  I gave him a quelling look and tried to remember the bits of linguistics I’d done as part of my degree. “More likely to be colour-related. Red, I’d guess.”

  “But they’re not red.”

  I shrugged. “Listen to the rest—

  Believed to originate between 1800 BC and 1350 BC, the ring is typical of early Bronze Age sites. Originally formed of nine upright stones, of which seven remain in situ. Their original heights would have ranged from four to seven feet. The site is known for its association with the legend of William II de Soulis, whose familiar Robin Redcap was trapped in the ring by legendary wizard True Thomas. Legend also connects de Soulis to the stone circle at nearby Ninestane Rig, where he is reputed to have been boiled in lead by an angry mob.

  —and it gives us the coordinates. All the rest is just technical data about it being a scheduled monument. The sign’s dated 1962, so I guess they put it up when they planted the forest.”

  “Boiled in lead?” Doug repeated. “Harsh.”

  I’d read something about this in the guidebook at Hermitage Castle, hadn’t I? “Just a legend, I’m afraid, though a gory one. His familiar was meant to run around feasting on the blood of local children, if I recall correctly.”

  “Cool.” He squinted up past me. “Hey, Dad finally made it.”

  He went dashing off, yelling, “Dad! We found some history Mac hasn’t seen! He’s gonna be pi—annoyed!”

  I followed him up the hill, nodding to Lyall Elliot. He greeted me cheerfully, and we all perched along the top of the ridge to enjoy our identical pack lunches. They had come up the track I was about to head down and were planning to circle round through the forest and back to their car. I was heading into the easier section of my walk—downhill through the forest and across the river to follow the path of the old railway line through Newcastleton to Blacklynefoot. It was a route which allowed me to avoid the road that had triggered my panic attack, though I didn’t tell them that.

  Lyall insisted that I meet up with them in Newcastleton so they could give me a lift for the last few miles. Since I’d have done a good twenty miles by then, it didn’t take much persuasion. They went bouncing back down the ridge a few minutes later, Doug already gaining on his father. I waited to let them get ahead.

  It was very quiet up here now, standing over the stone circle almost buried in the heather. The day had turned past noon, and the air lay heavy and tired over the moor. Once the Elliots were out of earshot, the only sounds were the wind buffeting lightly past me, the sleepy murmur of insects in the long grass, and the louder hum of a bee bumbling through the heather.

  There was no reason for a shiver to run up my spine, but it did, and I was glad to head back into the shelter of the forest.

  Chapter Eleven

  I ARRIVED in Newcastleton just as the day’s last visitors were drawing out, picking my way onto the road to watch them go by in clouds of dust and exhaust, bikes strapped to their roof racks—a reminder that there were still cities out there, somewhere far away. The loneliness of the high hills lingered in me, making me reluctant to rejoin human society. I had half an hour before I needed to meet the Elliots and their noisy cheer, so it would be worth finding somewhere I could sit and people-watch for a while until I felt ready to talk. I wandered slowly into the village, ducking into the shop to buy another bottle of water and a postcard to send to Felix and Valerie.

  When I came out, I spotted a familiar van parked opposite the hardware shop on the corner. I headed towards it, my good mood turning a little warmer. Niall Forster had been good company last night, and I’d been looking forward to seeing him again.

  Forster came out of the shop, glancing both ways before he crossed the road. When he saw me, his brows drew together into a scowl, and he almost threw himself into the front seat of the van. He was pulling away before I even had a chance to call out.

  “What the hell?” I said aloud.

  He’d been perfectly happy to spend time with me yesterday. He’d come running to my rescue, despite the initial first impression we had made on each other, and we’d spent a good evening together. There had even been that little extra something outside Vainguard. Why was he now glaring at me like he’d stepped in shit?

  It upset me more than it should have from such a slight acquaintance. With the edge of my good mood spoilt, I was suddenly far more aware of my aching legs and the weight of my pack. I made my way quickly through the village, dodging a few last ambling tourists with irritation. I met the Elliots outside one of the pubs and was relieved when I didn’t have to talk to them much—they were overflowing with accounts of their day. Michelle and the older boy, Mac, had driven down to Hadrian’s Wall and Birdoswald Fort. I’d taken trips out to some of the Roman sites on the south coast, so I could talk about it a little. Michelle plied me with questions about the history of the place until I had to throw my hands up and confess to not having studied the era since primary school.

  They were good, uncomplicated company. I enjoyed talking to them but was aware that I was “on” again—slipping back into the role of
the affable teacher I used at parents’ evenings and in meetings with social workers.

  Maybe it was for the best. Forster had seen more of my true feelings than anyone but Kasia had for years, and that honesty clearly hadn’t done me any favours.

  Mac had picked up a collection of grisly local legends and was reading selections out as his brother scoffed.

  “Anything in there about wicked Lord de Soulis?” I asked him. “We ran into a bit of the legend today, didn’t we, Doug?”

  “Yeah, and you missed it, loser,” Doug said which didn’t really help with my aim of defusing the argument.

  It brought their parents into the conversation, though, with Lyall describing the stone circle while I swiped back to find the pictures I’d taken.

  “Cool,” Mac said and flicked through his book. “There’s loads.”

  “What’s the bit we found?” Doug demanded.

  “Rathstone Ring,” I remembered.

  “Got it. Okay, so the lord had a spell on him so he couldn’t be bound by anything except sand of the cold northern shore—”

  “Duh, you make hollow chains, then,” Doug said. “Fill them with the sand.”

  Mac shot him a disapproving stare. “Which is what they did, if you could wait for me to read it. Then they dragged a cauldron up to Ninestane Rig, wrapped him in a sheet of lead—”

  “We know this bit. What about our stone circle?”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “You can read it yourself if you’re that impatient.”

  “Mooom!”

  “Read him the passage, Mac. Doug, stop interrupting and he’ll get to it sooner.”

  Mac sighed. “It’s like two sentences.”

  After the death of Lord de Soulis, his familiar, Robin Redcap, continued to plague the area, preying on local children so he could dye his red cap in their fresh blood. Some say that the local people once more called upon the smith who had bound the wicked lord. The smith summoned the demon to the stone circle of Rathstone Rig, where he bound the wicked creature into the circle for all eternity, ringing the circle with cold iron. Others claim that Robin Redcap still haunts Hermitage Castle, guarding the keys to the wicked lord’s torture chamber, which he unlocks every seven years, luring local children in to feed his lust for blood.

  “Maybe we could chuck him Doug.”

  “Hey!”

  It wasn’t until we were driving back that I realised they were taking the back road—the bad road. Michelle had insisted I take the front seat, so I had a clear view out the front. As that too familiar line of hills came into sight, my throat closed up.

  No. Not here and now in front of these nice, unknowing people.

  I clenched my fist, driving my nails into my palm, and flailed around for any thought that could distract me.

  Niall Forster had rescued me from this road, and only now did it occur to me that he had far more reason to fear it than I did. My loss was decades old, so long ago that it could almost have happened to another person, but his was fresh. Yet he drove down this road on a regular basis without turning into a gibbering wreck.

  He was a rude, inconsistent bastard, but I’d be damned if I showed less courage than him.

  I focused on keeping my breathing steady and listened hard to the conversation in the back. I slid my unclenched hand into my pocket and pinched my thigh hard.

  Everything was feeling distant as we drove, but it got no worse than that. Soon we turned back into the farm, and I bid the Elliots goodnight.

  I was physically exhausted enough that I slept like a baby right through to morning. My conscience was troubling me, so I hobbled back to Vainguard, trying to walk off the lingering stiffness from the previous day’s hike. I followed the lane this time, but the lodge was quiet. An upstairs window was open, and I could hear the faint whisper of music inside, but Niall Forster did not come barrelling out to either comfort or confront me.

  A little disappointed, I headed up the drive.

  I avoided the personal memorabilia and focused on clearing out rubbish, wincing a little as I heaved sacks around on stiff legs. Vainguard wasn’t frightening today, just a little sad—lonely, rundown, and unloved. By lunchtime, the weather changed, the heat breaking with a soft groan of thunder as rain began to lash down against the windows. I headed into the main hall to take pictures for Felix and start cataloguing the contents of each room, though I avoided the tower. The door was locked, as I had left it.

  The rain put me into a pleasant melancholy, and I sang along with the radio. I got a lot done, as I always do when I work alone, but a few times I wondered whether this would be easier with someone else here. I need to be alone sometimes, to draw strength from the quiet, but the easy physical activity freed my mind to wonder. Had I gone too far—slid over the subtle line between self-sufficient and lonely? I kept myself busy in term time, pushing aside my emotions to deal with later, but the first week of every holiday was hard and getting more so every year.

  How was I meant to fix it? Even at uni, I had watched from the sidelines as other people tumbled easily into love. I had never been one for eyes meeting across a noisy club or sweet nothings in cosy coffee shops. Anyone who took me on would need to be ready for all the baggage I brought with me, and I had less and less chance of meeting anyone the more my world narrowed down to school and family.

  Yet I was seriously reconsidering relocating to somewhere even more rural and remote. If I did, it would be surrender—giving up my last slim chance of ever finding someone to love.

  I accepted that. It had been inevitable since I first started chasing promotion instead of forcing myself out to seek a social life.

  Just because you’re okay with being alone, it doesn’t mean you don’t get lonely. I was far beyond the point where I could change that. Too many people relied on me, and I refused to be the one who let them down. It’s just that some days the loneliness feels closer to your skin—some days you have to let it roll over you. Some days you get to wallow, not because you have regrets, but because if you didn’t, it would kill you from the inside out.

  I took my lunch upstairs with me and ate it sitting on one of the deep windowsills. The rain washed across the glass in thin lines, blurring my view, but I could still see the green shadows of the hills behind us. A hint of movement caught my eye, and I wiped away the haze created by my breath to watch Forster’s van as it bumped out of the drive, turning up and away along the road to the west. Where was he going on a rainy Sunday afternoon? Was it a planned appointment or an emergency? Or was he just driving away from the risk that our paths might cross?

  In a less lonely place, would his reaction to me yesterday have stung so much?

  Probably not. If I’d been at home in my cosy rooms in the attic of the boarding house, I could have found other things to comfort me—beloved books, a glass of my favourite wine, offering to take the dogs out for a run, any of the little routines that made the school home as well as my workplace.

  How might I have comforted myself if I’d grown up with my parents? I could barely remember them, after all, but there was a faint memory of peanut butter sandwiches when I was ill and my father’s voice teasing me when I was cross.

  I barely had enough of them to miss, but that old sadness settled under the fresher melancholy.

  And that meant it was time to break myself out of this mood. I turned the music off and hunted around on my phone for an audiobook instead. I’d been listening to Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London during my morning run for the first week of the holidays, and I switched it back on, filling the echoing rooms of the old house with descriptions of a far-off city.

  I DIDN’T see Forster again until Monday. The day had dawned dry but dull, and I’d left the car at the farm again to walk to Vainguard. It was bin day, and I arrived at the lodge just as the rubbish truck came rumbling down the narrow lane. I stepped out of its way, hoping I’d put the bins out in the right place.

  A hand landed on my arm, gripping tightly.

  “In
side,” Forster said.

  “And good morning to you too,” I retorted, jerking my arm away.

  He glowered at me and stomped towards the door of the lodge, clearly expecting me to follow. I nearly didn’t—what was his problem?—but curiosity got the better of me.

  Inside, the album I had found in Martyn Armstrong’s belongings was sitting open on the table. Oh—I’d shoved it at him, hadn’t I, in the grip of rage? I started forward to pick it up. “I’d forgotten I’d left that here. Thank you.”

  “I don’t want your thanks. I want a damn explanation for that!” He gestured at the table.

  At first glance I thought it was still open to the article about my parents’ death, but a second look showed me crisper print and less faded paper. I leaned forward to read it, and my heart sank. I recognised the little girl in the accompanying picture—the same child who appeared in all the photos on the walls around me.

  Martyn Armstrong, for some fucked-up reason, had added the reports on little Katie Forster’s death to his private album.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing. “I had no idea that was in there. I found the album amongst Armstrong’s papers.”

  “I don’t know what the hell is going on here,” he snapped, stepping forward to glare down at me, “but you need to get the fuck out of my business.”

  “As I just said,” I said, fighting to keep my voice cool and steady, “I didn’t know it was there. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” I grabbed the album from the table and slammed it shut. I made myself tuck it under my arm, instead of clutching it like a shield, before I nodded to Forster and walked out. I didn’t rush, but I did let the door slam behind me.

  Back in Vainguard, I laid it down on the table and tried to ignore it. Felix had given me permission to dispose of any unusable furnishings, and I spent most of the morning on the phone to various clearance companies. The album sat on the end of the table, a slim dark volume that seemed like it should have been larger. I ignored it. I had no interest in an old man’s bitter memories.