by Alex Duncan
‘Who’s there?’ she spluttered, wiping her wet nose across the sleeve of the red and black military coat.
‘Erm…it’s me. Sam,’ came the reply only yards away in the darkness. A patch of black moved from behind a tree and Sam came into view, the remains of his arsenal jangling at his belt and shoulders. ‘I could hear you about a mile away,’ he smiled. ‘Are you…all right?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you look freezing. You’re shivering like leaf. Here, take my coat.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, standing and drying her eyes with the heels of her hands.
‘Take it,’ he insisted, pulling off his long black frock coat and holding it out towards her. ‘It’ll keep you warm.’
‘I said I’m fine.’
‘And I said you’re shivering, you’ll catch your death, now put it on.’
Rosie snatched the coat from out of Sam’s hand and wrapped it around her, pushing her arms down into the long sleeves and pulling the collar up around her neck.
‘Thanks,’ she reluctantly whispered.
Sam shrugged his shoulders and came and sat down near her on the fallen log. The light that crept into the forest through the thick canopy of oak and spruce and pine was a deep, velvety blue now as though it came threw a jewel and there was a great stillness to the air. It was only a few hours before dawn and Sam knew that soon the forest would spring to life in a chorus of birdsong and the long night would be over. He put his hand over Rosie’s and, as though he were made of fire, her hand retreated away from his.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
Rosie wiped her eyes again.
‘He lied to me Sam. My own…he lied to me. It’s going to take a while to get used to the idea, that’s all.’
‘I don’t think we’ve got much time. I think we’re all four of us going back to Hope now. Back down there to finish this, tonight if we can.’
Rosie didn’t seem to be listening to him, but was still a prisoner of her own thoughts.
‘How can I even look at him? I’ll need some time before I go back there. Tell them I’ll meet them soon enough.’ She turned away from him and pushed a hand down into one of the pockets of the coat.
‘Give him this for me would you,’ she said, rooting around the inside of the pocket of Sam’s coat, forgetting that it wasn’t the military coat she now wore underneath.
‘Where is it?’ she whispered, pushing her hand down even further into the pocket. Her fingers touched something thin and crisp, a scrap of paper possibly. She pulled out the piece of parchment from the pocket and unfolded it.
‘Oh blast, this isn’t even my coat, it’s yours Sam,’ she mumbled, her back still turned from him. ‘Now what’s this?’ she said, holding up the piece of parchment to try and catch some of the little moonlight that was left in the wood.
‘What’s what?’ asked Sam, stepping closer.
‘Some sort of drawing…’ she said looking closely at the parchment. There were two people, a young man and a young woman, and they were dancing, no, that wasn’t right, they weren’t dancing, they were fighting. The young woman was dressed in some fine gown the like of which Rosie had never seen before and was curled over in the middle. The young man had his fist in her stomach and in his fist Rosie could see the hilt of a dagger.
The young man was stabbing the woman.
She suddenly recognised the figures. The young man had a mess of brown hair. It was Sam. And his victim, with her curly, black locks of hair falling over her shoulders, was unmistakeable. It was her. Sam was killing her. She felt faint and her head was reeling and dizzy as if she was looking down on the scene from a great height.
Behind her Sam suddenly realized what she was looking at and his eyes went wide with panic. He reached over to snatch the piece of parchment from out of Rosie’s hands, but he was too slow. No sooner had he reached out than she caught his wrist and twisted it inwards forcing him painfully down onto his knees. He looked up into the glowering face of Rosie above him, her teeth drawn back from her mouth in a horrible grimace of anger. She was waving the picture in front of his face.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘I…I can explain…that’s…’
‘What, what is it? Because I have to tell you it doesn’t look good from where I’m standing.’
‘No, I can understand that…’ admitted Sam, twisting over yet more as Rosie increased her pressure on his wrist. ‘Ow! Rosie you’re hurting me! You’ve got to believe me, I found that drawing, I don’t know what it means.’
‘Liar! You’re all liars! You’re as bad as my father. What are you, one of them?’
‘One of who?’
‘One of those people in the town like Apollo, do you work for him?’
‘No….I…ow!...Rosie you’re going to break my wrist, please stop!’
‘Is that what you were going to do, get close to me and then finish the job just like you’ve drawn it on here?’
‘No Rosie…I promise…I…ow!’ he yelled again and Rosie flung him back towards the ground. He landed with a grunt and nursed his wrist close to his chest as Rosie pulled off his frock coat and threw it over to him.
‘It seems that I can no longer trust anyone but myself,’ she said, buttoning up her red and black military jacket and scrapping her ragged black hair away from her face. ‘So it stands to reason that I must follow my own instincts and do what I alone think is right.’
‘What’s that? What are you going to do?’
Rosie beat the dirt off her hands and wiped them down her breeches.
‘I’m going to sit down and have myself a nice little chat with that man who calls himself Apollo.’
‘But what about Olkys?’ asked Sam. ‘What about him? He did this to both of you after all. It sounds like he’s the real ring leader.’
‘He’s from the other side of the door, he probably doesn’t know any better, it’s probably in his nature. No, my father can deal with him if he wants to. But for someone to be so blind and stupid as to invite something like Olkys onto this side…well…he needs to be taught a lesson.’
Sam pushed himself back onto his feet.
‘Rosie you have to listen to me…’
‘Don’t!’ she shouted. ‘I’m warning you, don’t come anywhere near me. Don’t come near me again!’
‘Rosie…’
But she was running off again and had soon disappeared once more amongst the closely-knit trees of the forest. Her voice called back from out of the darkness, as he felt a sharp blow to his forehead.
‘Give that to my father!’
He knelt down and picked up the stone ring, so small and bland, nestling in the hollow of his hand. A strange prize on this strangest of nights, he thought, pushing it into his pocket as he retrieved his frock coat and made his way back out of the forest.
‘Will this night never end?’ he grumbled under his breath.
CHAPTER NINE
Miss Elaine Easy prayed that the night would never end. She was on a roll. She had danced with every eligible gentleman at the ball (every gentleman but one, that was) and had left each suitor hot, bothered, elated and thoroughly infatuated with her. She knew well enough that hungry look in the men’s eyes at the end of each dance, a mixture of thirsty desire and lustful promise. At that moment nothing pleased her more than holding out her hand to be kissed and hearing their faint, over-excited compliments:
‘…I shall look out for you again Miss Easy…’
‘…You surely are a beauty Miss Easy…’
‘…You do warm a young man’s blood Miss Easy…’
It was music to her ears.
Granted there were one or two gentleman who she would sooner be forced to eat her own stockings than share another waltz with, but it was one more notch, one more success and one more chance for a life of wealth and luxury. That was the game after all, and it was going wonderfully. She was the belle of the ball and could have her pick of any gentleman there. She’d been chatted a
bout by most of the guests, she was certain. She saw several groups turn her way, bow in admiration, then return to their chattering. How thrilling it was to be the gossip and not the gossiper.
As soon as she got home she would write to Mr Malcolm Stitchly the tailor of Stitchly and Stitchly Charing Cross Road and pass on her sincerest thanks and congratulations. The dress he had made for her had been a triumph. The diaphanous gown of Asian silks delicately sculptured to resemble the wings of butterflies had caused just the stir she had anticipated. She would be the first to admit that it clung to her figure in a rather French manner but there was no doubt that the men, the excitable dogs, found it infinitely pleasing (even if the ladies found it infinitely shocking). Mr Richard Soulton the cobbler on the other hand would be receiving a very brusque and impolite letter. Her feet were killing her. When would someone create a shoe that was both suitable stylish and could still withstand a night on the dance floor without crippling the wearer? Not for many a year, she presumed. Only a man could make something so beautiful and so downright painful. And she still had one more dance to turn, one more gentleman to conquer, she smiled, licking her lips. Who knows, she thought, perhaps I’ll let this one do more that just the waltz.
She wandered past the gambling tables, and an audacious fountain of wine, towards a footman, leaning, sound asleep, up against the wall and tapped him hard on the shoulder. The young man jerked to attention with a start and held out a tray of drinks in a manner that suggested he’d been doing just that for hours on end.
‘Drink ma’am?’ he slurred.
‘Thank you but no,’ answered Elaine. ‘There is someone I wish to find.’
‘Ma’am?’ the footman prompted, rubbing his eyes.
‘I wish to find the man who calls himself Apollo. I believe our host Justice Brash is keeping him here during his stay in Hope. He wears a mask, but there is no doubting that it masks the most handsome of men. He’s of such fine leg and holds himself as upright as any man I’ve seen. He was most insistent earlier in the evening that I call for him and collect my dance before the night was through. Could you direct me to his company?’
‘Very sorry ma’am, but I fear the night may well be through by now,’ said the footman, aware that he’d been on his feet for far too long and wanted nothing more that a straw pallet on which to rest his head. ‘Look for yourself ma’am, most of the guests are out cold.’
He swept his arm out in the direction of the ballroom and, sure enough, the shiny parquet floor was littered with strewn, sleeping bodies, some propped up in chairs with smoking pipes still hanging from their lips, some curled up in corners with their dresses pulled up around them like blankets and some shamelessly piled up on top of one another in the centre of the dance floor.
Elaine pursed her lips and huffed with the outrage of a small child who had been told to go to bed without any pudding.
‘Idle guests one and all,’ she said. ‘It is not yet four o’clock. The night is still young.’
‘No ma’am, it is the morning that is young,’ grumbled the footman, now wishing that the woman, as pleasing to the eye as she was, would leave him in peace. ‘I fear Apollo may have retired to his chambers.’
‘And where might that be?’ she pushed, seeing a small glimmer of promise.
The footman blushed.
‘If you should wish to find him there ma’am,’ he stuttered, ‘you must simply follow the stars.’
‘Follow the stars?’
‘Yes ma’am, follow the stars,’ he repeated and pointed down to the floor where, inlaid into the wooden slats, hardly visible if it wasn’t pointed out, was a small, thumb-nailed sized, golden star. Once the footman knew she had seen it, he pointed further down the room towards a long corridor leading out of the ballroom, and Elaine saw, glinting like a diamond in the sunlight, another star, wedged carefully into the floor. She turned and smiled at the footman.
‘My thanks footman.’
But he was asleep again, his head tilted back against the wall, his mouth wide open and beginning to snore quite audibly. She left him to his rest and, stepping over several sprawled out and sleeping guests, followed the stars that led to Apollo’s chamber and, she hoped, her last dance of the night.
◆◆◆
The night sky above Sam’s head was beginning to lighten into a deep, sumptuous purple. It blended into a pale, glowing blue at the eastern horizon behind the hills and the stars had all but disappeared in the looming light of morning.
It hadn’t taken Sam long to retrace his steps back to the mill and from there, to follow the obvious tracks of Henry and Zanga around the western edges of the forest. They were both heavy-footed men and left so clear path of broken twigs and squashed bracken that a child could have followed it. Perhaps that was the point, he thought sourly, as they waved their hands behind them at his approach.
The old man didn’t seem surprised as Sam regaled him with Rosie’s reaction and, try as he might, the young man could read little into Henry’s wrinkled and sullen expression.
‘She’ll be there.’ Was all he said at the end of Sam’s news and turned and continued along the track, heavily limping with every second step.
‘There was one other thing,’ Sam called to the back of the old man, reaching into his pocket for the stone.
Henry turned.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
Sam didn’t know why, but as soon as the smooth stone ring touched his fingers, he felt inclined to keep it to himself. It was safe where it was after all, and he wasn’t doing anyone any harm by protecting it. He couldn’t quite explain it, but perhaps it was like what Rosie had said to him about following her instincts, he didn’t know.
‘Erm…nothing…it’s nothing,’ he said, pulling his hands out of his pockets and stretching in a faux dramatic fashion. ‘Just tired that’s all, it’s been a long night.’
‘And it’s not over yet,’ shrugged Henry. ‘Here, eat a few of these.’
The old man threw a small leather purse over to Sam who opened it and pulled out a handful of black, strong smelling beans.
‘What are these, nuts?’
‘No, they’re coffee beans, they may enliven your senses. Only a few mind you, too many and you’ll be running around in circles.’
He crunched a few of the bitter beans between his teeth, pocketed the small purse and chased the two men, now a little way ahead of him. Henry was limping but was still maintaining a fast pace, fast enough for Sam to struggle to keep up with him and the young man had to keep reminding himself that if Henry’s story was as true as he believed then the old man wasn’t quite as old as he looked. It was all far too confusing to ponder in any detail.
They kept the quick pace for another mile or two, always staying just within the boundaries of the forest, where the trees weren’t so densely packed together and they could keep sight of the valley and the town in the distance. Sam watched the two figures ahead of him and saw that now not only was Henry limping but Zanga’s gait had also changed. The large, broad shouldered foreigner had begun to fall out of rhythm and trip over his heels, as though his feet had become too heavy for him. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the man slipped and was on his back with Sam and Henry rushing over to his aid.
Henry loosened the black scarf around his collar and gently slapped his cheeks.
‘Zanga? Zanga are you all right?’
Zanga’s eyes seemed white and wild and he stared about him in a panic.
‘I…I cannot see Henry Versatile. I…I am blind.’
‘What do you mean? You can’t see me here in front of you?’ said Henry, waving a hand in front of Zanga’s face.
‘No, I can see you. I mean I cannot see what happens. Us coming here, you making a decision to take one path instead of another, it has cut off my sight. Everything is now unclear.’
Henry breathed out a sigh of relief and fell back onto his knees.
‘Oh, is that all!’
‘All?’ snapped Zanga, rising up
. ‘All? My ability to see times ahead of us and times in the past is all I have!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous my friend, I’m sure you’ll find that you have many other talents besides,’ said Henry. ‘Now we’re free from the future, well one possible future at least. I like that, I have to say.’ And he pulled Zanga up onto his feet. The foreigner didn’t look as convinced as Henry.
‘It means that we are running wild.’
‘I prefer those odds,’ smiled the old man. ‘I don’t care for all that I-know-what-will-happen commotion. I mean no offence Zanga, but I’ve always preferred to make my own luck and my own future. Now come along, we’re barely ten paces from our destination.’
‘Erm…by the way, where are we going?’ asked Sam, pulling himself up and trudging after them.
‘Why, here Master Steadfast.’
Sam looked up to where Henry was pointing and a lump formed in his throat.
‘But this is the cemetery. Why are we here?’ He hoped his giggles sounded more amused than nervous.
‘You’ll see,’ answered Henry, stepping over the slate stile next to the rusted, iron gate. Sam swore under his breath as he followed them in.
A graveyard holds a certain macabre peace at the best of times but in the hours before sunrise, when the mist of the dewy grass lies low over the stones, this was a wretched and ominous place. The gravestones protruded from the unkempt ground like just so many distorted grey teeth of every shape and decay and the quiet was oppressive.
‘Why did it have to be a graveyard?’ Sam whispered to himself as he made his way through the paths of stones. ‘Why couldn’t we go to a nice warm tavern, where the food’s hot and the ale hasn’t been watered down? Oh no Sam, that would never do, fat too pleasant it has to be a lovely, cold and scary graveyard for you.’
‘Hush!’ hissed Henry from ahead of him. ‘Keep it down, and look for a stone with the name Minimus Underfoot on it. It should be here somewhere.’
‘Someone you know?’ asked Sam, pulling a handful of dead, brown moss from a stone to read the name.
‘Not personally,’ whispered Henry, ‘though I wish I did. No, he was one of the first of us, one of the first in my…line of work, over two centuries ago. After he died they put gravestones with his name on it around most of the churchyards and cemeteries in the country, and beneath the gravestones…’