After Bell Hill

by Robin Tompkins

  As she watched the flames eat up her past, the young woman’s lip began to tremble and her shoulders to shake, her eyes began to burn and not just from the smoke. It was seeing the broad shoulders of men silhouetted against the flames, through those same teary eyes that brought her to herself, restored the self-possession that Ullie had instilled in her from her earliest days on this earth.

  If the Witchbinders of the Father/Sons found her now, then Ullie’s sacrifice was for nothing, her last wish would go unfulfilled and Tamarin herself would be a ‘bound one,’ at best, raped and murdered at worst.

  With a last look back and blowing a gentle kiss into the inferno’s heart, she slipped quietly and quickly into the woods, she needed no light to find her way, she knew these woods, as she knew her little room in the cottage eaves.

  From childhood, Ullie had taken her into the nighted forest to find those plants that must be cut by night to bring alive their magic. She remembered the rich perfume of the night scented stock in Ullie’s cottage garden as they set out, the scent of pine and the damp leaf litter on the ground, being taught to use her nose to find the herbs and fungi that Ullie needed, by moon and starlight only.

  Tamarin moved swiftly and silently between the trees, she left behind the firelight’s last gleaming on the tall trunks and went on into total darkness without slackening her pace.

  After a little while she heard the dog.

  At the cottage, the Witchbinders had a dog, she heard it bark and howl, its menace carried to her on the wind. She knew they had let it slip and it would see as well she in the forest night, she had no fear of the Witchbinders following her but a dog was another thing again.

  I wish I really were a witch; I would mount a fallen branch and fly away upon it... she thought but she had no true desire to be a witch. Ullie had no time for witches, ‘we are not witches, we are of the Cunning Folk,’ she had told Tamarin over and again, ‘and the Cunning Folk do no harm!’

  It had been tempting for a little girl, as her knowledge increased, to revenge herself for the bullying or sleights of other children but Ullie forbade it. ‘What you do; comes back on you!’ Ullie had said narrowing her sea green eyes.

  Subconsciously, Tamarin touched her leather bag; she knew there were things in there that would deal with the dog permanently.

  ‘The Cunning Folk do no harm,’ she muttered to herself, narrowing her own eyes. She doubled her pace, pushing on as fast as she dare, for a twisted ankle now would be her death.

  Before long, she heard the animal snuffling and panting behind her, twigs snapping and leaves rustling, as it bounded toward her through the blackness. She knew there was still a chance; the beast’s handlers would be far behind stumbling through unfamiliar woodland, she would see the glow of their torches amongst the trees long before they could come upon her. If she could just outpace the dog... but try as she might, it began to gain on her.

  Moonlight burst upon her dark accustomed eyes like a lit lantern as she found herself racing across a clearing. She sensed the presence of the dog and glancing over her shoulder saw it erupt from the undergrowth into the moon silvered arena of the glade. With a few strides of her long legs she reached a hoary oak at the centre of the space and pushed her back to its rough trunk. What would Ullie do? She had asked herself and this was the answer that had come to her as clearly as spoken words.

  She swallowed hard and fought to control her terrified breathing, as the great black beast raced toward her, moonlight shimmering on its sleek coat and glinting on its bared teeth. The dog began to growl and bark hysterically.

  Her hand shook uncontrollably as she held it out toward the animal. She began to murmur softly, gentle words in an old, old language... but the dog kept coming. What she was attempting could not work if she was not calm, controlled...

  Tamarin gasped as the dog gathered itself to spring; time seemed to become elastic then, as if the creature were moving through deep water. She collected herself and replaced the onrushing dog in her mind with an image of Ullie. Ullie with her long, tousled red hair and high freckled cheekbones, above those cheekbones her great green eyes, deep as a mountain lake.

  Tamarin’s hand stopped shaking, her breathing eased, she began to murmur again, her voice grew stronger, more commanding. The dog twisted in mid-air and rolled in a heap at her feet scattering dead leaves and acorns. It crouched glaring up at her with confused, angry eyes; the ferocious barking gave way to a querulous growling. The animal shook its head, spraying foam from its jowls across her legs.

  Talking, all the time, Tamarin slid her back slowly down the tree until she was level with the dog’s muzzle. She moved forward carefully, they were so close now, that their breath, visible as a pale mist on the cool night air, mixed and mingled. She reached out and touched its head. All the fire left its eyes and it settled first into a sitting position and then lay down paws out in front of itself.

  Tamarin stopped talking and began stroking it gently and rhythmically, the great, black hound seemed to be in some kind of trance, unaware of its surroundings. It was just as well it was, for there came the sharp, metallic click of a pistol cocking. A man’s voice spoke from the darkness behind her.

  ‘I can shoot it now, my shot is clear and my aim is true,’ it said.

  ‘There is no need,’ Tamarin said, withdrawing her hand into her lap.

  ‘It may follow us...’ the stranger insisted, moving forward into the moonlight where she could see him. He had long dark hair, a beard and eyes so brown as to be nearly black. He was dressed as any country man, in heavy canvas trousers and a stout leather jacket and hide hat. He was in short, what a townie would have disparagingly called a, ‘leatherjack.’

  ‘He will not,’ she said calmly.

  ‘What you did just then,’ he said, with an admiring nod of his head, ‘I have never seen the like.’ He looked at her small, narrow face framed in long dark hair like black silk and at the large, piercing blue eyes that looked steadily back at him. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to be glad I know,’ the young woman said, narrowing those same eyes a little. Only she knew, as she felt the small crease form at the bridge of her nose, that that expression, the phrase, and the very tone of voice it was delivered in, were all borrowed from Ullie. The ‘borrowed clothes,’ gave her strength but at the same time, she had to suppress a little sob that tightened her throat.

  ‘I am Avaric,’ He said, as she stood gracefully and walked toward him, he noticed that she was fully as tall as he but as sleight as a sapling.

  ‘Tamarin,’ she said, before continuing, ‘Avaric, before you think of firing your pistol, you should know that the Witchbinders of the Father/Sons are just beyond those trees, with torches, muskets and nets o’chain.’

  ‘Beyond those trees lies Mother Goodford’s cottage... so I am too late I think...’ Avaric said with a furrowed brow and regret in his voice that fully reached his dark eyes.

  ‘I am her ‘take-in’ daughter and her ‘prentice both,’ Tamarin said proudly, squaring her shoulders. ‘And yes, you are too late,’ she added gravely. Try as she might, she could not stop her eyes from moistening as she said it.

  Avaric, lowered his weapon, gently releasing the hammer, he holstered the pistol.

  ‘Then you at least can I save,’ he said. ‘Our leader, Abillie o’Brackford bade me go and warn Mother Goodford of what was to come and offer her the protection of our camp. I offer that same protection to you.’

  Tamarin hesitated, she did not know Avaric, had never heard of Abillie o’Brackford. Her courage was leaving her, as the events of the night crowded in on her tired mind. Still, she kept her face perfectly composed, as she had been taught, betraying nothing of her troubled thoughts.

  A flicker of light at the corner of her eye made her turn. Distantly, between the trees, torchlight burned and faintly on the wind came shouting and cursing and the clatter of iron nets.

  ‘Then we should go,’ she said so
ftly.

  Together, they turned and melted into the darkness between the trees, leaving the dog alone and quiet in the moonlight.

  ∆∆∆

  The Father/Sons had not let him share their campfire’s warmth. Gorg o’Priddow sat some little way outside its warm, amber glow, back to the rough bark of a tree, shivering.

  Gorg stared out into the cold darkness between the trees and he prayed to the Goddess for another chance, a chance to set things right. He had told them where to find Billy Bracken, King o’ the Wood and King Billy might die because of it. The man was an outlaw to be sure but was Gorg’s life worth more than his? Those judgements were not for men to make…

  To add to his worries, Ullie o’Goodford was very much on his mind and he couldn’t think why? For a normal person it would probably mean nothing but Gorg was of the Cunning Folk, if Ullie was on his mind, all ‘out of the blue’ there was a reason.

  At first, he thought he might escape somehow, escape and warn Billy Bracken. Even though he was still in very poor health, he had tried to work towards that end.

  He had begun by persuading them to free him from the iron witch suit. He had claimed it was binding his powers and preventing him from scrying. Gorg knew that iron only binds the powers of witches, stops conjuring’s made with ill intent. Iron has no effect on the Cunning Folk but the Witchbinders believed their own fallacy and freed him.

  He told them that if they wanted him to scry again at short notice, they couldn’t put him back in the suit, that it would have a lasting effect. He was hoping they would bind him with ropes instead and Gorg had some cunning ways with ropes.

  Instead, they chose to shackle him with manacles and leg irons. Arguing that the iron was still too much, had only earned him kicks and punches. They said they would take them off when they wanted him to scry again.

  So here he sat, in the dark, frozen to the core, pinioned hand and foot, watching the hoarfrost glitter on the forest floor.

  Just across from him, his back to another tree, wrapped in a warm blanket, sat a black masked soldier, a heavy, net o’chain across his knees, ready to cast it over Gorg, as they had when they captured him.

  Some of the images he had been seeing in his scrying glass had made him wonder, made him cautious, in the weeks leading up to the attack but not cautious enough. By the time his thumbs started pricking for danger, it was already too late.

  The heavy-set soldier opposite him burrowed deeper into his blanket against the cold. As Gorg watched, the man’s eyes began to droop.

  Gorg began to sing, softly, in his low voice, a sleepy little hum of a tune, drowsy as a bee in a hedgerow, so quietly that only he and his guard could hear.

  The soldiers head fell forward on his chest and he slept.

  There was a stir over at the campfire.

  Damn and blast, Gorg thought, they saw me help him slip into sleep… I don’t even know what made me do it… now me and the guard both will get a beating…

  A black clad Father/Son was making his way over. As the foot soldier got closer, Gorg tensed for a blow. The man drew level with them.

  ‘The Duchesse sends her regards,’ the masked soldier muttered, almost inaudibly, dropping something small into Gorg’s lap, without breaking step or pausing. He strode on into the woods, as if he was simply going to relieve himself. The man disappeared into the darkness.

  Gorg looked down and to his amazement, saw the key to his shackles.

  Chapter Six

  The Holy Court of the Seven Sanctuaries

  Gongs crashed, trumpets blared and beneath it all the ground shaking drone of the great pipe organ, twenty sweating slaves labouring at the bellows. Priests chanted and the voices of the Choir of Sons soared over it all. The golden dome above reflected back the sound, which burst like a wave over the assembled crowd.

  Two by two, hand in hand, perfectly in step, the line of black robed supplicants walked the length of the aisle between the towering stone pillars, until the first of them stood before the double throne of Almovar/Ovis.

  They stopped. The music stopped. The room fell silent.

  Seven wide, marble steps above them, side by side on the broad, golden throne, gloved hands clasped, sat Father Almovar and Son Ovis. Draped in cloth o’gold, tall, embroidered caps perched on their long, grey hair, the embodiment of the Twin God on earth turned all four eyes upon them. The light from the massive, gilded lanterns high in the dome, glittered on the serene, solid gold masks that covered their faces.

  A pair of ushers stepped forward in their shiny, black lacquered masks.

  Almovar/Ovis addressed the supplicants.

  ‘From this day forth you will…’ Almovar said, his voice the deeper of the pair and somewhat husky.

  ‘Be changed,’ Ovis said, his voice higher and a just a little querulous.

  ‘No longer ordinary men at arms,’ Almovar said.

  ‘But divine…’ Ovis said.

  ‘Instruments,’ Almovar finished.

  ‘Seekers,’ said Almovar

  ‘And suppressers,’ said Ovis

  ‘Of witches…’

  ‘And other deviant evils.’

  ‘No longer men…’

  ‘But avatars…’

  ‘Witch…’

  ‘Binders.’

  The ushers took a step forward, each held a gleaming silver mask out in front of them.

  ‘When the Father/Son beckons, you will come forward and unmask,’ the ushers said in unison. ‘You will receive the mask of piety, holy mask of the Witchbinder. You will then mask yourselves and wait to receive the blessing. When you have the blessing, go, without delay, to make way for the next pair, out through the West door, to receive the adulation of the crowds.’

  High above, the gloved hands beckoned.

  The first pair pulled off their simple, black cotton masks to reveal pallid, sun-starved flesh. Moving as one, they accepted the shining masks and fitted them, then knelt before the throne.

  The Choir of Sons raised their young, treble voices in a triumphal hymn to the Twin God, the notes rising up into the dome and falling back down like raindrops.

  ‘God is with you,’ Almovar said.

  ‘Always and in all things,’ Ovis said.

  ‘Every moment…’

  ‘Of every day…’

  ‘And always.’

  ‘God will guide…’

  ‘And guard you…’

  ‘Everything you do will be…’

  ‘Done in his name…’

  ‘And in the name of the Father/Son.’

  ‘You are blessed!’ Said the Father/Son in unison.

  ∆∆∆

  Almovar and Ovis hinged back the lower portions of their masks and put the strong, rich red wine to their lips. As one they gave a contented sigh and sank back into the leather upholstery of the couch in their private apartments.

  ‘Will you see the woman now, Father/Son?’ the Usher asked deferentially.

  ‘She can wait a while,’ Almovar said, ‘Bring sweetmeats,’

  ‘We are greatly fond…’ said Ovis.

  ‘Of those cinnamon ones,’ Almovar finished.

  ‘Very good Father/Son,’ the usher said, bowing. He gestured to a young page in a ruffled shirt and a white cotton mask, who immediately hurried from the room.

  The room was quiet as they sipped their wine in companionable silence.

  Then they heard a sound, the distant clicking of heels on parquet flooring and the tap, tap, tap of a walking cane. It drew closer, closer.

  Almovar/Ovis sighed heavily. They put down their wine and closed their masks.

  ‘Impatient hag,’ Almovar muttered. Ovis sniggered.

  The Ushers moved to bar the door but Almovar/Ovis waved them away.

  ‘Let’s do it and be done,’ Ovis said.

  The tall, elegant figure of the Dowager Duchess of Perl entered through the polished oak doors. Grey hair perfectly coiffed, head held defiantly high, she paused just inside the door, leaning on her cane
and looked at the Father/Son.

  Almovar/Ovis looked back. They couldn’t help but think she was mocking them in some way with the sun, moon and stars design delicately embroidered in gold thread onto her simple, perfectly tailored white gown. Is this some Goddess nonsense? Almovar thought. He opened his mouth to say something but decided after a moment not to give her the satisfaction. No, he would pretend not to notice.

  ‘Albermora of Perl is not used to being kept waiting,’ she said.

  ‘Shut up woman, wait to be spoken to,’ the Usher said.

  ‘Duchesse, or ‘Your Grace,’ if you please,’ she said, without even glancing at the man.

  ‘Duchess?’ Almovar said. ‘Duchesse? What are you to us but an old…’

  ‘Broken vessel, that…’ Ovis continued.

  ‘Can no longer hold the seed?’ Almovar concluded.

  ‘If I am nothing, why have you seen fit to drag me all the way North to Gar-land hmm?’ Albermora said.

  ‘Gar-Land is an historical term,’ Almovar said, annoyance in his voice.

  ‘This, is the Fatherland,’ Ovis said.

  ‘And I suppose that you are not the Gar,’ Albermora said, continuing to needle them.

  ‘We are the Father/Son,’ Almovar/Ovis said in unison.

  ‘Our people are the Father/Sons,’ Almovar said.

  ‘The Father/Sons are not a nation…’ Ovis said.

  ‘But rather a way of being.’

  ‘One can be borne anywhere in all the world…’

  ‘And still be of the Father/Sons.’

  ‘The first truly…’

  ‘Egalitarian…’

  ‘Society!’

  ‘All one…’

  ‘Behind the mask!’

  Realising that they had been deliberately baited and had risen to it, Almovar/Ovis fell silent and simply stared at the Duchesse from behind the intimidating barrier of their masks for the longest time. Eventually Almovar broke the silence.

  ‘You are here only because your people still view you as some kind of leader.’