River of Destiny

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘No, wait.’ Amanda seized her wrist. ‘He’s pretty angry. Let’s try again while he’s here.’

  Zoë stared round. ‘Nobody’s here, Amanda. We were pushing the glass too hard.’

  Amanda shook her head. ‘I was hardly touching it. And neither were you. One can tell when people are cheating, and we had no reason to cheat. Get another glass. Please. Let’s try. You do want to know who this poor guy was, don’t you?’

  With a sigh Zoë went to fetch the dustpan and swept up the pieces of glass, then she collected another tumbler and set it upside down in the middle of the circle of letters. She resumed her seat. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You ask, you’re the psychic one.’ She put her finger on the glass.

  Amanda was about to contradict, to point out that it was Zoë who saw the ghosts, but changing her mind she leaned forward instead and put her finger lightly next to Zoë’s. ‘We want to help. If there is something you want us to know, please tell us.’

  The glass began to move. Both women watched it carefully.

  ‘Will you tell us your name?’ Amanda asked.

  The glass began to circle the letters in a strangely forceful way. ‘I’m not doing anything,’ Zoë whispered.

  ‘Nor am I.’ The glass slid round at increasing speed then stopped suddenly.

  ‘D,’ Amanda whispered.

  The glass moved on. ‘A.’ Zoë was breathless now. Her hand was shaking.

  ‘N,’ Amanda said after a moment.

  The glass became still. ‘Dan? Your name is Dan?’

  Nothing happened.

  ‘How can we help you, Dan?’ She glanced at Zoë. ‘Did Zoë see you? Did you hang yourself, Dan?’

  The glass was suddenly reanimated. It shot across the table and stopped opposite the card which said, No.

  ‘Did someone murder you, Dan?’ Finally Zoë plucked up the courage to ask the question. ‘Yes,’ she murmured as the glass slid jerkily sideways. ‘Do you want us to know who killed you?’

  The glass was off again.

  E. M. I. L.Y.

  Zoë and Amanda looked at each other. ‘You were murdered by someone called Emily?’ Amanda asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yes.’ The glass almost fell off the table again.

  They both looked up startled as on the far side of the room the door from the kitchen opened.

  ‘What in the world are you doing?’ Rosemary appeared. In her hand there was a pot of azaleas.

  Zoë groaned inwardly. ‘Rosemary, I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you knock.’

  It sounded rude, but she was, she realised a bit embarrassed at being caught at such a stupid pastime. Rosemary approached the table. ‘Ouija board. I always thought that was terribly dangerous. Isn’t it supposed to ask in the devil? I’m surprised you would do something like that here.’ She set down the plant. ‘I just came over to say thank you for last night. It was such fun.’ Her eyes hadn’t left the table. ‘Can I be very rude and ask if I can join in?’

  Amanda glanced up at Zoë, a query in her gaze. Zoë laughed uncomfortably. ‘I don’t see why not. The more the merrier.’

  Rosemary sat down at the end of the table. ‘Is there anyone there?’ she asked. She was addressing Amanda.

  Amanda nodded. ‘He’s called Dan, and he was murdered, so he says, by a woman called Emily.’

  Rosemary’s eyes rounded. ‘When did he live?’

  ‘We haven’t asked.’

  ‘You need some numbers.’ Rosemary jumped up again. ‘Have you a piece of paper, Zoë, I’ll make some.’

  With numbers one to ten included in the circle they began again.

  ‘Can you tell us the date you died, Dan,’ Amanda asked.

  One. Eight. The two numbers came swiftly, then the glass was still again.

  ‘Eighteen,’ Amanda said. ‘Eighteen what?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Did you live here, Dan?’ she asked at last.

  Again, no answer.

  ‘He’s gone.’ Zoë leaned back and put her hands in her lap. ‘I reckon he’s tired. It probably takes quite an effort to do that, if it was real. Was it real, do you think?’

  The two other women sat back as well. ‘It felt it,’ Amanda said at last. ‘How intriguing. How are we going to find out who they were?’

  ‘We can ask again another time.’ Rosemary stood up. ‘I’m sorry to intrude. I have to go. I just came over to say thank you. Tomorrow I have a large group of friends coming over. We are going to walk the footpath. I don’t suppose either of you would like to join us?’

  Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, no,’ she said firmly.

  ‘You should, you know. People have to stand up for their rights.’ Rosemary headed for the door.

  The other two watched her leave.

  ‘Weird woman,’ Amanda said as soon as they had watched her cross the grass towards her house.

  ‘Obsessive and irrational,’ Zoë said with a sigh. She was gazing out of the window now, down towards the river. ‘It’s got very misty down there,’ she said. ‘I hope the chaps are all right.’

  ‘They can’t get lost. It’s a river!’

  Zoë shook her head. ‘It’s not the river I’m worried about.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to make some coffee.’

  Amanda followed her into the kitchen. She had begun to empty the dishwasher while Zoë made the coffee when there was a loud crash from next door. Both women stopped what they were doing and looked towards the doorway. The second tumbler had fallen to the floorboards and smashed. Scattered amongst the slivers of glass were the letters and numbers which they had left lying in a circle on the table and three rusty horseshoe nails.

  No one stopped him. He turned and fled from the lord’s chamber and through the hall, past the benches and tables, past the baskets of logs being brought in for the next evening’s feast, past a group of women huddled together whispering by the embers of the fire. He wrenched open the door and ran out into the night. A dog barked and at last someone challenged him out of the darkness but he was already off the path and out of sight amongst the houses on the side of the hill. He headed for the river, vaulting fences, scattering pigs and sheep and horses as he ran. No one prevented him. By the time the alarm had been raised he would be far away. There was nothing to keep him now. He was without a lord, without allegiance, without the woman he loved. He was passing the granary stores now and he ducked inside out of sight as he saw a group of men walking up through the village towards him. These men were his friends. Or were they? Had they known what Hrotgar planned? Everyone had known that the reeve lusted after the smith’s wife. But no one surely had known that he would rape and kill her.

  He felt a great sob lodged in his chest and he screwed up his eyes, trying to swallow it as he caught his breath, keeping silence until the men had passed. He heard the sober sounds of their conversation but he couldn’t make out the words. He waited in the dark, breathing in the warm floury smell of the sacks stacked around him until the conversation had died away and there was silence. He looked up at the beams of the roof above his head. It was dark and safe in here beneath the snug thatch of sedge, but he couldn’t stay, however tempted he was to crawl in among the sacks. Soon someone would raise the hue and cry, and the dogs would find him even if the men didn’t.

  He looked out, took a deep breath and ran, heading for the woods beyond the village and, beyond them, the wild heathland.

  Even when he was safe he lingered. He couldn’t bear to go before he saw what happened to the sword. Circling round, he crept back along the river and then he climbed into one of the ancient oaks on the edge of the field where the burial was to take place, and waited as the sun climbed in the sky. The old tumulus had been opened and a grave dug deep in its centre. He could see the cold shadows filling the deep declivity, saw how large it was, how neatly made ready. The earth which would fill it again had been laid carefully on some matting some distance away and he saw the spades waiting to fill it in standing like sentinels impaled in the soil.
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  It was full light before he saw them carry the Lord Egbert down from the village on his bier, and with him a line of men, carrying baskets filled with the selection of items chosen to make his journey to the other world more comfortable. There was food and wine, there were boxes of finery, there were weapons, but nowhere could he see the sword. The body was laid in the grave and only then did Eric see, as they pulled back the great bearskin that covered him, that the sword was strapped to his waist. He bit his lip as he saw it there, powerful and heavy, lying against the body of a weak and wasted man. He clutched at the trunk of the tree, feeling his nails split and tear in the bark. They were bringing something else now, something long and heavy on another stretcher carried by four men. He caught his breath. It was the body of Hrotgar. They laid him at his lord’s feet, a servant to accompany him to the Otherworld.

  Eric could hardly breathe. His eyes were full of tears. So, the village was united now. They did honour to their lord, but also to this man who had murdered Edith, and one amongst them had gone further in their sacrilege and murdered Father Wulfric. It was an outrage. The whole village was cursed by their actions. They sanctioned a pagan burial and they sanctioned a murderer’s passage on to the Otherworld. His eyes wandered over the crowd who were standing round watching in silence. Hrotgar’s wife was there in the front. She was sobbing quietly, holding the hands of his two small children, the woman who had been Edith’s friend, who had sympathised over her childlessness, who had been her confidante. He pressed his forehead against the tree’s rough branches and suppressed a sob.

  He saw the sorcerer, Anlaf, now, no longer a shadowy dweller of the woods but a pagan priest, dressed in all his finery. With Father Wulfric gone, this man no longer had a rival. If there were Christians present they were saying nothing, watching in silence. He could hear snatches of the incantation the man was chanting.

  Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the trunk of the tree and waited.

  Much later he climbed down from the tree and walked over to the grave. He stood looking at the burial mound in the moonlight without moving. All the mourners had gone and he could hear the sounds of music now and then, carried on the wind from the hall up above on the hill. The whole village was there, seeing Lord Egbert off in style.

  He wondered what was going to happen to Edith. Was she still lying in the cottage or had her family taken her body to the church? But then with Father Wulfric dead who would say the mass for her soul? He shivered. He would never know. There would be no return for him. He was a marked man. Whatever happened now it would not matter to him. He had to leave and be long gone by morning.

  Wisps of mist were curling round the boat now, licking at the mast, beginning to obscure the burgee at the top. Leo tightened the mainsheet and put the tiller up a fraction, trying to get the last inch of speed from the old girl. Jade had fallen silent. Every now and then she glanced over her shoulder and he could see the apprehension in her face. ‘There’s nothing out there, is there?’ she said at last. ‘I don’t want no ghost ships following us.’

  ‘I can’t see any ghost ships.’ He grinned. ‘Surely the intrepid Jade Watts isn’t scared?’

  ‘No. Course not.’ She was sitting on the far side of the cockpit from him, clutching the jib sheet.

  ‘A bit tighter, Jade. It will give us that inch of speed. I want us back at that mooring while we can still see it. If we end up by the Tide Mill we’ll be in trouble and they’ll try and charge us a parking fee.’ He joked.

  ‘There’s no other boats out here.’

  ‘That’s good, surely.’

  ‘I mean real ones. Where are they?’

  ‘More sensible than us. We should have come back a smidgeon earlier.’

  ‘What’s a smidgeon?’

  ‘Something a bit smaller than you.’

  She looked back at him sternly. ‘You’re making fun.’

  ‘Yup.’

  She pulled the sheet a bit tighter and the boat slowed.

  ‘Too much. As you were.’ He was staring ahead, trying to make out any landmarks. ‘I should be able to see the Lady Grace. She’s not here.’

  ‘So we’re back?’

  ‘I reckon. Can you make out the landing stage? When it’s sunny we can see The Old Barn and The Old Forge from here.’ He was heading in slowly towards the bank. ‘Drop the rope, Jade, and pick up the boathook there. See if you can hook it through the top of the buoy as we come alongside. Don’t worry if you can’t, and don’t fall overboard.’

  He came up into wind and let the boat drift gently towards its berth.

  ‘Got it!’ It was a crow of triumph.

  ‘Well done.’ He let out a sigh of relief. In seconds he had the boat secure and the mainsail down. ‘Just sit still, love, will you? I don’t want to lose you at the last minute and I do want to do this as quickly as possible.’ They still had to negotiate the last few yards in the dinghy and he could feel a cold prickle at the back of his neck which he disliked intensely. It was a feeling he had learned not to ignore. He reached for the sail ties. That would be enough. He could come out and neaten up and put the sail covers on tomorrow when the sun came out. For now it was enough to bring her to a standstill.

  Out in the river he heard a splash.

  ‘What was that?’ Jade stared round, her eyes huge.

  ‘Fish, I expect. Come on. Down into the dinghy with you.’

  ‘I don’t want to. I’m scared.’

  He stared out into the fog. He could see nothing now but a few feet of still water round the boat. What wind there had been had dropped.

  ‘I’m not having a scaredy-cat on my crew,’ he said briskly. ‘Over you go. Carefully. And sit in the stern.’ He could hear the squeak of oars, the flap of canvas, the sounds of a large sailing ship coming to a halt nearby. ‘Now, Jade!’

  She almost fell into the bottom of the small boat and scrabbled on her hands and knees to the back, clutching the sides, which were wet and cold and slippery from the fog. The small boat rocked wildly as Leo climbed down after her and grabbed for the oars, slipping them into the rowlocks, heaving the boat round with one strong pull before rowing hard for the landing stage. He rowed straight on past it, aiming for the bank until the boat grounded, shipped the oars and leaped over the side, pulling the boat, with Jade still in it, up onto the mud and shingle beach. His jeans were wet to the thigh. ‘Out.’

  She didn’t need asking twice. Scrambling over the side she caught his hand and the two of them raced for the trees. He hadn’t even paused to tie up the boat.

  Behind them the river settled into silence. Little wavelets rippled up the beach and somewhere nearby a lonely oystercatcher whistled as it plodded up the tideline probing its beak into the mud.

  Leo took her to the door of The Summer Barn but she wouldn’t let him go any further. ‘I’m OK now. Sorry I was such a wuss!’

  ‘We were both wusses,’ he said with a relieved smile. ‘Let me see you go inside and lock the door behind you. When is Jackson going to be back?’

  ‘Dunno. I’ll have had a hot bath by then and clean clothes.’ They both looked down at their respective wet and muddy jeans.

  ‘I hope you won’t catch a chill,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘If I do, I’ll sue.’ She bent to search under the mat for the key and produced it with a flourish. ‘Simple when you know where to look,’ she said. A moment later she had disappeared inside and slammed the door in his face.

  He walked back across the grass. Already he could barely see as far as his own house. The fog was a real sea fret, heavy with the green cold scents of the deep northern oceans. He shuddered. They had only just got back in time.

  Half an hour later he was showered and in dry clothes, and feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself. The boat they had heard must have been the Lady Grace coming back to her moorings. He glanced out of the window up towards The Old Barn and wondered if he ought to go over and make sure things were all right; then he decided against it. The Lloyds h
ad visitors and the last thing they would want would be the neighbour from hell knocking on the door. Better go into his studio and do some work. He gave one last glance out towards the river. The fog was so thick now he couldn’t even see the trees on the far side of his garden.

  They were all uneasy, glancing round, acutely aware of the strange atmosphere. An uncanny silence hung over the copse. The mound within it was darkly brooding. There was no wind and the evening was totally silent, holding its breath. Down on the river the tide crept up slowly without a ripple.

  It was after sunset when the five men walked slowly across the field, spades on their shoulders, a heavy silence hanging over them. Fred Turtill led the way across the stubble and stopped at last as they reached the edge of the copse. Night was approaching and a slight mist was beginning to form over the river. ‘Where shall we put him, lads?’ He spoke quietly as though afraid of being overheard. Nearby a crow called loudly into the silence, and he glanced across the field in time to see the shadowy shape of the great black bird vanish into the trees.

  They made their way tentatively into the deeper shadow of the copse and stopped where the nettles and brambles tangled into a natural barrier around the foot of the mound.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ George murmured. ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘No. It’s not. So, do you want to lose your jobs?’ Fred replied. ‘He would fit us up as soon as look at us and we all know it. Our word against that of the local JP?’

  They nodded in resignation.

  ‘So, where are we going to put Dan?’ George pushed his way into the undergrowth and levered it back with his spade. ‘It will be the devil’s own job trying to dig a grave in here.’

  ‘We could put him in the mound,’ William Mayhew said quietly. ‘Whoever is buried there won’t mind sharing after all this time.’

  The men all turned to look at the tumulus and George shivered. ‘The Dead Man.’

  ‘When did he go in, do you reckon?’

  ‘Long enough ago not to worry about sharing his bed.’