There’s condensation on the window and the windscreen wipers are dancing back and forth mindlessly. I can feel the springs in the passenger seat digging into my bottom. Outside, Harley town centre looks grey and run-down. Everything appears dark and uninviting now; the weather has taken a turn for the worst.
Mother has got over most of her panic and we’re now on our way home from the hospital: I’ve been given a provisional clean bill of health, providing I take things slowly.
We pass St Harold’s and I’m left to ponder an unusual development (As if things weren’t unusual enough already). Dezza helped load my bag into the boot and mum started the engine, we took a peek inside to see what was weighing it down. I recognised the statue he pulled out straight away. It was the angel that had gone missing from the top of Kelly Mortimor’s headstone.
An angel, a bell and a book.
‘Shelly. Are you okay?’
I nod and smile; she’ll be thinking I’m in some kind of shock from the blow; I honestly feel fine now - just want to think quietly.
Sing heigh ho the Carrion Crow...Oranges and Lemons.
Are these clues? Nursery Rhymes for goodness sake! They’re just Nursery Rhymes.
He shot his sow right through the heart.
Murder?
My mind is flipping all over the place. Has my prized and clearly sought-after bell got something to do with Oranges and Lemons?
I think about the bells of St. Harold’s and the Reverend Llewellyn.
St. Harold’s sounds nothing like St. Clements.
Perhaps our Parish Priest is about to murder someone? I think about the grotesque tongue he brought into assembly as the church disappears from view. For all that I ring bells with him on a Wednesday, I don’t know him at all. I find him austere and unapproachable.
The biggest mystery of all is: How and why did the stone angel make its way into my school bag?
The exhaust blows and makes me jump.
Something dark flashes across my mind. Thoughts begin to form - blurred images of agony and hatred.
‘Shel’, I need to call in and see Astra about something.’
I break out of my reverie, and swallow hard. What on earth just happened? I try to clear my head by talking to mother, though my voice is wobbling.
‘How’s Mark?’
Mother goes quiet. She ponders what to say.
‘...I’ve not seen him all day...’
I look back at the dashboard; mother doesn’t want to talk. Maybe Mark’s going to turn up with an ‘old bent bow’ and shoot mother – shot his sow right through the heart - after he’s shot Elvis of course.
We pull up outside my Godmother’s house.
Even in the rain, Mrs Dawson’s small cottage looks beautiful. I glance at my broken watch, not daring to tell Mother. I feel a massive pang of guilt. It’s four o’clock. I’m meant to be meeting Arthur shortly.
As we hurry up the path towards the front of the cottage, getting soaked in seconds, the green door opens and Astra appears with a big beam on her face. She’s holding a lit birthday cake. We dodge under the bough of the low hanging ash tree and climb the wooden patio. She moves out of the way to let us dart inside.
‘It’s terrible out there!’ She proclaims with gust.
‘Happy Birthday, Shel’.’
‘Thanks.’
Astra places the cake on the table near the window. There’s a steaming pot of tea sat comfortably on a floral table cloth.
‘This will warm you both up.’ She pours us a mug each. ‘Your mum called and told me what happened. Here Shelly, come and sit down, you can blow your candles out.’
Mother always seems to lighten up in her sister’s company.
As mother reiterates the day’s events, including the hospital visit, I take a seat facing the window and look at my birthday cake, half listening, half thinking. The cake looks delicious – homemade date and walnut. The flame of thirteen candles flickers to and thro and I realise as I stare at them, that it’s actually quite dark in Astra’s kitchen. Some laughter pierces the darkness, and I watch my mother’s expression; when she smiles she looks about five years younger. I smile too.
‘C’mon Shel’, blow them out.’ she says turning to me.
She takes a big intake of breath (as does Astra) and they launch into a chorus of ‘happy birthday to you.’ I suddenly feel all coy- but good too - and I look out of the window shaking my head, whilst smiling at the cacophony, as the crescendo builds.
A peal of thunder and then some lightning slashes the dark sky in the distance. I watch for a moment as the residue of light fades way, evaporating away. It really is miserable outside and I guess moments like these summarise my day and my life so far; occasional glimmers of light in overcast skies.
The chorus ends and I take a deep breath ready to exhale. I pull my head back and my eyes lift upwards to the sound of a joint…‘Woooahhh....’ from mother and Astra.
It is as I blow that I catch sight of something in the corner of my eye, outside the window. ..
I splutter a breath over the cake, knocking out only three of the candles, and nearly dropping my entire face into it. The ladies cackle either side of me at my pathetic efforts.
Directly in front of me, mother’s grey car is jerking up and down as if a frisky couple have somehow managed to get inside. But there’s something else: The boot is wide open!
The Rain is tumbling against the car in torrents, but somebody has gone into the car through the back.
My bag. The book.
I hastily blow out the candles to a round of applause: I’ve got to make an excuse and get outside. As the clapping continues, I flash a quick smile and pretend to study the cake, but my eyes are in the top of my sockets waiting for somebody to make an appearance. Despite my distraction, I even manage to gush out something about how wonderful the cake looks.
And then, in the half-light of this horrible afternoon, that somebody, that something, clambers out of the boot of the car; it perches on the edge and turns to look in my direction.
My mouth drops wide open.
Its face has no discernible features as it appears to be fashioned from smooth stone. It slowly raises an arm, an arm attached to a wing, and motions towards me, beckoning me to come forward, to come closer.
Mother’s laughing somewhere far away in the distance, ‘...Her mouth’s so wide she’ll devour it in one go...’
More laughter.
I turn to them both.
‘Thank you Astra. The cake is lovely, amazing in fact, but...’ I begin to blush as the blood rushes to my head. I’m about to excuse myself for no good reason and it will just appear to be rude. I can feel myself going redder.
‘I can feel the blood rushing to my head.’ I say.
Mother pauses for a moment, her laughter caught in her throat.
‘Oh my goodness, Shel’,’ she says frowning, ‘you’ve taken a heck of a knock.’ Her hand comes down on my shoulder, ‘Do you need some fresh air?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll just go and cool down.’
I blow air from the bottom of my mouth causing my fringe to stir. I’ve paved the way for an escape, but to what?
I take another look out of the window, half expecting this to be imaginary, but the small stone angel remains fixed to back of the car.
‘I’ll just go and sit on the porch for a little bit.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry Shelly,’ Astra starts, ‘we’ve been a bit full-on with you, haven’t we?’
‘It’s okay. I’ll just be five minutes.’
I move towards the front door. They think I’m wobbling because I don’t feel well, but my legs are like jelly because I don’t know what on earth I’m going to see outside. I’ve felt terrified in the past, like the time when one of mother’s partners attacked her and we had to hide in my bedroom with the bed pushed against the door, but this time I feel petrified.
I reach for the front door handle. I swallow hard. I look round at the two concer
ned faces, as if it’s the last time I’ll see them, and smile weakly.
I close the door behind me, step out on to the wooden patio, turn and gasp.
The angel is no longer on the back of the car.
It’s standing right in front of me.
It swells and expands, matching, and then passing my own height. Stone cracks sharply, shifting and adapting uneasily. The gargantuan wings unfold slightly and the angel lifts its stone face from its chest to meet my eyes. I gaze into hollow eye sockets; an expressionless and empty face.
Still it grows.
Parts have been sculpted with greater detail and precision than I have ever noticed before. Moss and lichen have stained patches different shades of green and there’s evidence of weathering. At that moment, I realise that it had always seemed older than the headstone it adorned – and I’m now convinced that it was.
As this thing extends to its full height of between seven and eight feet, I am enraptured… and utterly terrified by it.
We stand facing one another, my head tilted back. I’m not breathing.
Rain clatters into my eyes. I can smell the wet, perfumed garden around me.
Things start to quieten a little as stone begins to slot and settle into place. There’s an outline of a hood, or maybe hair, covering its blank face. There are no eyes, nose or mouth – just outlines and I’m drawn completely to its featureless face.
My mind fires thoughts all over the place:
Kelly Mortimor’s angel, the one that gave me such feelings of peace and protection.
I’m just mulling over newer and deeper interpretations of these feelings, when it speaks.
Somewhere deep inside me.
I can’t explain how. No audible voice; it’s almost as if I can see invisible words; like someone is programming a response in me that I have no control over. The voice feels like I know it, but I am unable to discern a specific tone or any conveyed emotion.
‘Shelly, I’ll be as clear about this as the disparities in the tongues of men and angel’s allows, and that only time will clarify. This prevents full understanding of matters your mind is not designed or sanctioned to receive. Time is short and you have work to do. I am restrained by the Crow from giving you completeness at this time; time is short also for me.’
If this creature, this thing is moved by my clearly shocked face, it doesn’t show it. It stands impassive and silent, as the words continue to roll from somewhere in my heart and my mind.
‘You have been blocking out pain that you must face. Pain you can’t yet recognise. There are many things you must conquer before you conquer yourself. There are two books, Shelly; you must find the second book. It is not like the one you possess; it brings confusion and harm. It is harming your enemies right now; you must learn to co-operate with them, to save them. Look for the place closest to your heart and wait; you will find your answers there. They need you.’
I stand transfixed. If Astra or my mother came out now, they’d think they’d had a mistaken delivery from a garden centre.
‘Shelly, you have been bequeathed an object of sound alongside the book; something musical.’
I just about manage a jerky nod, not sure how to communicate.
‘A bell.’ I whisper.
‘The bell accompanies your book; it complements its power. It’s a signal for attention like all earthly bells. Listen to it. Learn how it speaks. The two are fused together, a mysterious synergy. The bell is the marker in the page. It is a message in a bottle and has been released from the book for an express purpose. This will become clearer to you. Do not worry; its meaning will become clear.’
I clear my throat. I clear it again and then consider how I should respond. I remembered thinking once upon time, if I ever saw an angel, how would I converse with it? I came up with a list of questions that I would ask. I even short-listed my short list to a top three queries...and now when I face one, all I can think is how unnecessary those questions would seem.
‘What is the book? Who gave it to me?’ My voice cracks and splinters.
‘You simply acquired the book for a time, but it was given to you for this time. It has been owned by others in the past but it belongs to you. In terms of its origins, the book you possess has been written by the mind and will of a cherub.’
‘A what?’
‘This book will be simpler for you to understand than my words. It was brought to this Island many years ago, and its presence helped inspire the works of the old Printing Press built here. The writers and publishers gradually grew to understand some of its power but could not grasp its purpose. This led to great conflict between them.’
‘Who gave it to me?’
‘A descendent: a friend. This may place them in danger but through no fault of your own. There are enemies that would discover information about this person if I am defeated.’
Wow. I don’t know what else to think or say, wow.
But then things take a turn for the worst. Just two minutes from now, the surprise and adventure takes an ugly twist that is impossible for me to handle. I reject it all.
The angel statue looks awesome in dignity as it towers above. It oozes authority and calm.
‘There are more issues that we need to address. These are paramount. Do not let your book fall into the hands of the Crow, he will turn it against everybody; he will deceive them – for he masquerades as light in order to fool and thus, blind people. They will be ruined. Jacobsfield must rise again to past glories and key players will be crushed before it has chance to rise like a fledgling. You must search the past for clues to the now and to the future; clues to how events will unfold. The other book and the person who possesses it will oppose you; it is paramount to prevent the end of it all before the start of it all. This place, the area you live in, is pivotal in the days to come.’
‘Who - who has the other book?’
‘It has just changed hands.’
‘Who?’ I can barely speak, I’m so scared.
The angel’s face suddenly jerks sky-ward, ‘I don’t know. There are no Whispers.’
‘No what?’
‘Shelly, try not to work all this out for yourself; I am fighting an entirely different battle to the one you may be thinking of.’
I have no idea what this means, but as I grow more accustomed to the formidable messenger, I am beginning to realise substantial demands are being placed on my young shoulders.
‘You will find missing pages between the chapters. In time, you will use these for your own words. As night follows day on your planet, you must draw each chapter together. The blank pages are the night. Your dreams are moments of clarity where you will have a direct line with our protectors from the past; they will give you guidance about your next steps. Write your dreams into the book between the chapters. They will warn you and the book will interpret them. The words I say to you at this moment will also be there for you to consult. They will be imprinted on your soul like divine ink. Close your eyes and you will see them. Do that now.’
The Angel gathers its wings around itself and bows its head. The furrowing wings sounds like many Chinese lanterns being folded together.
I swallow, wondering if I have even breathed in the last couple of minutes.
There’s so much going on in my mind. What missing pages? I didn’t notice any. I lower my head, mimicking my counterpart, more out of respect than duty. I close my eyes and I see the words right there like a...permanent imprinted ink. I suddenly feel a different level of fear.
His wings unfold outwards to their full length.
‘Shelly, your brothers need you. They are a target of the Crow. It may already be too late. Protect Mark the best you can. Protect everybody.’
‘What is the Crow? Is it the Carrion Crow in the nursery rhyme?’
‘This Crow takes many forms and shapes. He is neither, permanent nor impermanent, solid or liquid, although he will gravitate towards one shape in particular. His channel is the mind and human m
inds are perfect vehicles for him. He is an idea – a thought, an after-thought, but he is very real. This Crow is one of the most powerful there is. He wants his book to be the only one that people read and understand. He will kill. He will destroy, and nobody here will be any the wiser. Torment and darkness accompany him. He is not easily recognised. His bite is sharp, but undetected, and then the poison spreads. However, in your and everybody’s favour is the simplicity and complete power of the book you have acquired; for all his intelligence and insight, he has been fooled by the simplicity and innocence of your book- written by a cherub.’
‘What…like a baby angel?’
There is silence between us for a moment before I hear my own trembling voice repeat.
‘A what…?’
‘The simplicity of a cherub has fooled him. Their mischief is outside the realms of the Crow’s understanding. He still doesn’t know who authored your book, and has been searching time for clues to its identity, believing that his adversary is more impressive than they really are. The Crow is the end of it all...he will reveal himself. His carrion is the trail of destroyed lives that he leaves behind; lives that remain forever defeated and unrepaired. Hope - vanquished and torn. The shattered remains of the lives of his victims are the carrion on which he feeds.’
I can’t stand this: Am I being asked to fight a super-villain? How many people do I have to save - people I don’t even like? How on earth do I do this?
Is this really the carrion crow in the nursery rhyme? Somebody is going to shoot an arrow at him...and miss...and hit somebody else in the heart? Shot his own sow right through the heart...
Just as I was beginning to calm, a different panic stirs; one from the top of my heart, right up into my lungs; the responsibility of what I hear is too much. I think about Camille for an instant – she wanted my bell. Does she have this other book? And the missing pages: I have to record my dreams in the blank spaces? More frenetic thoughts pummel inside my head. Something gives.
‘Look, I don’t know who or what you are and why this is happening to me,’ I blurt out to the rock, ‘but, I can’t do any of these things....’
I cower, waiting for the Angel to snarl and curse at me, but it remains unaffected.
‘All I’m trying to say is that I’m only just thirteen. I’m not old enough to...I don’t even know who gave me the book. I didn’t ask for it.’
More words come from nowhere and flood my soul.
‘You are referring to your body, but your soul and your will are being shaped beyond your physical years....you are ready to receive this.’
‘I’m nowhere near ready! Do you know who I am? I’m a nobody by nobody’s standards.’
‘You are perfect because of your humility.’
‘I’ll let you down. I don’t know what you are but haven’t you seen my life? Who is trying to hurt my family, Buddy…my mum? Who is really trying to hurt them? Can’t you save them? You can save them...’
‘We will help you.’
‘We! Who? How? Why can’t you do it?’
The Angel, completely motionless, almost impassive, suddenly turns ninety degrees to its left and stretches its face up towards the sky. The shift causes pieces of stone to crumble away. It waits, as alert as anything statue-like can be.
Oh crap, what has caught his attention? I look up and see nothing.
The hard rain has become a drizzle and in the distance, sun is breaking through the grey clouds on the horizon.
‘You don’t need me – you do this. You’re stronger than me. Look at you. You know more about this than me.’
My words don’t come out as demands. I can hear a tone I’m all too familiar with; it’s like whining meets begging.
‘I am unable to do this, Shelly. Flesh must converse with flesh...’
A brief image of the tongue the Reverend brought to our assembly flashes in and out of my mind. Flesh: Dripping with blood; my blood; the towns’ blood; my family’s blood, if I don’t prevent....the end of it all.
‘…Understanding can wait, obedience cannot. If this physical world is the battle, the world I am from is where the battle plans are being drawn up.’
I don’t know what this means.
I see countless scenarios of pain. I feel pressure all over – crushing my insides and I’m left with only one option, one I’m familiar with and comfortable to do. I can feel my neck prickle and my face burning red. My breathing has become strained - at least I can now hear that I’m actually breathing. I feel veins or arteries – whatever they are – thudding blood around my brain. My head is swimming...
...and I run.
I charge past the stone angel hoping that he doesn’t suddenly reach out and grab me. I land off the wooden patio, splashing through a puddle and charge towards the front gate. I yank it open and take a right, not daring to look back. I don’t know where I’m going and I just need to get as far away as I can. The excitement of discovering the book has been crippled by a responsibility I cannot carry. I don’t feel special and I don’t feel chosen. I feel scared out of my bloody mind and…
I didn’t think I could run this fast.
Chapter Five
Forsan et Haec Olim Meminesse Iuvabit
Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover Page 7