by Guy Sheppard
‘Take it easy.’
‘You see any sign of life in the house, at all?’
‘He could be lying in wait for her in the dark.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘What do we really know about him?’
‘We know he adores her very much.’
‘Look how that turned out.’
Suddenly a light lit up the kitchen. Others followed from room to room in quick succession. Ruby started yapping. Soon the whole of Beech Tree Grange gave off a strange, eerie glow.
As if it were on fire.
Next moment Freya emerged back on to the patio with a torch clutched firmly in her hand.
Jo lodged her goggles high on her leather motoring cap.
‘What the hell, John?’
‘Sorry, I can’t see that far in the gloom.’
To their utter astonishment, Freya set off at a march across the white lawn. Then she abruptly changed direction through the blizzard, which did less to slow her progress than breathe new life into her – she headed straight into the Forest.
‘Something’s wrong,’ said Jo. ‘I’m going after her.’
John let Bella out the sidecar.
‘Wait. We’re coming, too.’
‘Goes without saying.’
Suddenly Freya cupped a hand to the side of her mouth and shouted.
‘Sam! Where are you? Why won’t you answer?’
Jo looked down at the ground. Many a footprint had been partially buried by fresh snow, but it was still possible to make out what Freya was following. There was one line of very large prints and one small. Accompanying them was a set of cloven hooves. Every foot left holes made by horn from which curled two separate toes.
Bella sniffed the tracks and growled.
That smell of hog just grew greater.
FIFTY-THREE
First he must secure the trap to a tree, then conceal wire and rope under the snow and bracken. What’s not to like? Pigs often roam all night but return in a big circle to where they began. That’s where he, James Boreman, will prop up the metal noose and leave it wide open. Once his prey enters it will draw tight round the neck.
The dual purpose, double-locking snare hangs heavily in his hand. He had hoped to find just the right place for it by now.
He can say that because he has read up about wild boar elsewhere in the world, as a precaution.
This time of year male pigs can be unpredictable.
Occasionally, they’ve been known to be unstoppable when they charge.
You never know.
While he does still wonder if he should have brought his 12 bore shotgun that fires a rifled slug, all advice suggests a shotgun might only kill a big animal at very close quarters. It takes a bigger calibre round to really stop a charging boar in its tracks. So say hunters in Europe and they’re quite the experts. Before the war they used bait stations, drive hunting, stalking and fixed-point hunting to track three million wild hogs each year. That’s why he carries his trusty Lee-Enfield slung over his shoulder – to execute the coup de grace. No one can remember when they last saw a white boar, though, not even in Russia.
Hard tears crystallize on his cheeks in this sub-zero temperature. If he can see signs of a herd or ‘sounder’, then his quarry won’t be far from his family. Hanging from his belt is some deer meat which should make good bait.
That’s when he’ll shoot the blighter stone dead.
But before that he’ll look it straight in the eye.
See it suffer.
The more it struggles, the deeper the wire will dig through any bristles to slice the hide.
He has to shine his torch carefully and light the terrain well, which is why this blizzard is proving such a nuisance.
So far, all he can identify are some deer and a fox or two. Whatever animal crosses his path disappears in stark differences of snow and shadow.
He’s beginning to wish he had brought someone with him for the extra firepower. With each fresh step he takes, the Forest closes behind him. There’s no going back now, though. The icy air he bites is full of bitter flakes as he tries to take longer strides through the drifts, but he can’t keep his balance on the slippery, uneven ground beneath him.
This snowy glow is terribly confusing. It’s not easy to judge distance when one frozen tree blocks another. He’s lost as it is. Has it really been over two hours since he left home? He consults his 9-carat gold Rolex watch, but in the Forest time is only an added confusion.
Whenever he draws breath so do the oaks, beeches and pines – their deep audible sighs express sadness, weariness and aspiration which outdo his own.
It’s all that ice rattling and jingling as frozen twigs blow about in the wind.
They’re positively talking about him.
You can say.
Such imaginings feed his sense of aloneness. Is nothing in this Forest his friend? He has no idea. He is blind to eyes that glint in the gloom.
He presses on, but it’s far from easy. Then, again, there comes that ominous crash close beside him. Something is keeping pace with him on a parallel track through the woodland? He feels rather than sees its proximity through the trees. Whatever is there observes him intently. Each snort, bark and grunt explodes the frozen silence. It could be an expression of anger, indignation or incredulity. Then, with some obstinacy, it twitches its raised tail. Suddenly it does a quick spin on its buttocks.
That’s no deer.
It’s possible to see where something has melted hot holes in the snow with twin blasts from its nostrils, only a moment ago. He ventures, with rifle ready, further into the icy world where few can survive; he’s in the coldest cold he’s ever known. He could do with a dog to sniff out the trail.
When he does hunt the hog down, though, he’ll have its tusks honed into umbrella handles.
What’s he waiting for?
It’s true that normally only Rangers are allowed to cull animals in the Forest, but they’re not here tonight. Nobody but him knows. Literally he’s doing everyone a big favour. When pigs go feral they dig up fields and graveyards. They wander into villages and raid dustbins and make a thorough nuisance of themselves.
He reassures himself with the thought of the great party he’ll throw at Beech Tree Grange when he has the noble head nailed to his wall. He’ll quarter the rest of the hog and place it in a large ice chest filled with water to which he’ll add half a cup of vinegar and real lemon juice. He’ll soak it for two or three days to kill all the bugs. Not until the meat turns white will the blood have leached out.
Or why not barbecue it, in which case they’ll have boar sausages?
However much his plans solidify in his head the subject of them remains an abstraction. What was that? Which way did it go? An unkind person might conclude that it is simply leading him by the nose?
Well, he’s not so stupid.
There it goes again, that blur of white past the mist-wreathed trees. He must catch up with it if he’s going to dispel his own worst fears.
Whatever it is, it inhabits somewhere between emptiness and absence.
The trees shed ice with its invisible yet lumbering progress.
He stops. Takes aim. Goes to fire. But the creature, on its continuously equidistant path, fails to step clear. That range and unobstructed space within which he can see anything at all renders his prey just out of sight. It blurs into bushes before he can pull the trigger. There is a foggy veil between it and him, or it is made of mist itself.
He wonders if it truly recognises who he is. Right now, not knowing has to be sufficient. Is there anyone who knows about this? He feels as if he is in the presence of some uncanny, pale intelligence, not just a farmer’s pig put out to pannage. He walks faster. Trips. Stumbles. Now he’s clawing at trees and hauling himself through more snow. Branches strike his face and leave bloody scratches. He’s following the rustling of frozen bracken on the Forest floor.
&n
bsp; He’s back at the snare again. How did that happen? He’s panting and shouting.
The next moonlit glade is suspiciously empty and silent.
‘Why do you keep running away? What kind of enemy are you?’
In answer, there comes a roar not unlike a bull’s snort and not at a distance. He hears a tremendous noise coming his way; his ears fill with the crunching of undergrowth as dead grass and branches get flattened.
A clatter of hooves shatters a hard, icy path nearby. It could be a small pony galloping straight at him.
It seems to originate from afar, yet a moment ago it was his most intimate shadow.
There’s something about this creature that is utterly unworldly.
It comes from the future.
It has come from the past.
This is no ordinary pig, to be sure. Frankly, he’s not certain what it is. It does not have the usual thick bristly coat with underlying brown pelage, nor is it the reddish-brown, dark grey or black type whose upright hairs are usually brindled with white or tan tips.
This is a rare white phenotype.
The ridge of longer hair that grows along its spine is truly distinctive. It is not the shaggy dog he thought it a moment ago, but something with a mane down the neck more like a hyena’s.
It screeches to a halt to stand guard at the edge of the glade, from where it glares at him as if awaiting fresh orders. Its large head and massive shoulders slope to its smaller hind quarters. All the body weight lies forward. It stands four feet tall and is six or more feet long. Red-rimmed eyes are relentless. It certainly resembles a wild boar. How can this be? Male ones have been known to weigh twenty stone.
So he’s read.
And this is massive.
He had no idea.
His grip tightens on his rifle. Immediately the boar wrinkles its huge pink snout. Such nostrils can smell a person from miles away. Those small eyes glare at him sombrely, although he’d be wrong to call them glum. Very large, hairy ears twitch when he does. Ears like that ‘see’ what eyes can’t; they are constantly amplifying the smallest sound, to hear silence itself.
Yes, that could be it.
He cannot turn his head without being detected, nor can he raise his gun should the boar resume its charge.
‘You the legendary Twrch Trwyth? Then meet your nemesis.’
The boar’s lower tusks are as long as knives as it regards him with contempt.
He can’t believe it, either.
Should he let the beast come closer to focus on him properly?
No, probably not.
Whatever happens he’ll only get the chance to fire one shot.
Simple as that.
Immediately the boar shakes its hairy chin. A shiver ripples its razor-cut crest in a sinuous wave between its ears and over its head. Eyes burn like fire.
His own pupils ache.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
In trying to fold his finger he somehow fails to pull his trigger. Nor can he hold his breath any longer. There comes a tingling in every limb. He asks himself why he doesn’t simply fire and whether the boar holds him in its spell.
Suddenly his opponent utters a gruff growl. It could be expressing discontent or dissent. Its nostrils snort dirt. The explosive noise is all anger, indignation and incredulity. Snot drips from each hole. When male boars fight, they can fight to the death. Good to know. After all, it could have ripped him apart already.
One trotter paws the snow.
But it is the eerie rubbing sound that is so mesmerising. The boar draws one tusk along another. Each scrape reverberates against hollow teeth as the lower tusks are continually sharpened. These are not just extremely sharp scimitars but daggers.
Most boar only live ten years in the wild, though in zoos they can live to twenty-five.
That’s what he’s been told.
So why does this one look ageless? Old wounds cover its head where bristles are missing, while the snout bears its battle honours in swollen scars. Its scabby cheeks are cracked by wind and rain. A tear runs from a blocked eye duct that hates the cold. This beast has swum wide rivers. It has climbed trees, run at thirty miles per hour or more. It has braved freezing temperatures. Feasted on autumn beechmast and acorns. Gorged on summer seeds, fruits, leaves and berries. Eaten birds, lizards and worms.
Okay, so he didn’t know.
He’s impressed.
He could be face to face with a prince of the night, with some feudal lord of the Forest. King Richard III sported a boar on his badge, if memory serves him right. To bend or kneel does not seem inappropriate. At least he, James Boreman, should incline his head a little in salutation?
He feels outranked.
But not that much.
He’s looking at his rival self. Which is when the hog spits froth as his tusks clash and his cloven hooves claw gaping holes in snow and ice. His tail is right up and his snout right down – he’s about to bulldoze him deep into the ground.
At last he fires off a shot but the boar keeps coming.
Either that bullet went wide or he’s only winged it.
Twrch Trwyth charges at him blindly and heedlessly.
And the whole Forest shakes.
To loud screams and squeals.
Snow lies spattered red with gore.
It doesn’t add up.
In the confusion his rifle goes flying.
It’s not his blood that streaks the ground.
So why is he running?
FIFTY-FOUR
‘We should get going,’ said Nora, trying on the heavy, black railway coat that she had found hanging in the hallway of Tunnel Cottage. If it was one thing she and Thibaut needed right now, it was warmer clothing with which to brave the awful weather outside. ‘We’ve been mad to stay this long, as it is. It’s a miracle the owner hasn’t returned. He could beat the shit out of us at any moment.’
She didn’t like it one bit.
Further delay was simply not good enough.
But Thibaut stayed where he was at the parlour window – he was using his thumbnail to scratch at the thin layer of ice that was forming on the inside of the glass.
‘It might not come to that.’
‘Stop dilly-dallying and let’s go.’
‘Better take a look at this, first.’
They had scarcely dared go to sleep in case they had to make a sudden run for it.
Now the strain was beginning to tell.
And the cold.
Nora did as he asked and joined him at the frosted window. Thick drifts lay everywhere in the tiny garden as more and more flakes swirled about in the air, she observed, to her horror.
‘You saying we should wait until it stops snowing?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’
‘If only we knew how long we have.’
‘It’s a big ask, I admit, but we can’t freeze any longer.’
So saying, Thibaut picked a few pieces of coal from a brass scuttle and placed them in the cast iron dog grate in the parlour’s fireplace.
‘Please pass me that newspaper from the dresser behind you.’
He was right, thought Nora. If they were going to stay here even a few more hours they had to warm up. She knelt on the floor to help tear up sheets of ‘The Daily Mirror’, ready to light a new fire.
‘But what if another train comes?’
‘We leave the level crossing gates as they are, shut to all road vehicles. Everywhere must be pretty much impassable because we haven’t seen a single car or lorry all day. We’d have to dig the gates open now for any traffic, anyway. You and I may not be going anywhere soon, but Boreman’s men won’t be able to reach us, either. All the more reason to stay put, I reckon.’
‘I’m returning the money I found. Who knows, perhaps the owner will help us if he shows up?’
But Thibaut was no longer listening.
‘I can’t believe it!’
&n
bsp; Nora peeked over his shoulder. She saw him spread part of ‘The Daily Mirror’ flat on the floor in front of the sooty fireplace.
‘What is it?’
‘C’est fantastique.’
‘Fantastic, how?’
‘It says here that in November French soldiers in England received enough military equipment through lend-lease to re-equip eight divisions. Not only that but the Free French Forces and Army of Africa have been merged to form the French Expeditionary Corp.’
‘Does it say why?’
‘Um…’
‘Just answer me.’
‘It says here we’re going to join the Allied invasion of Italy.’
‘I don’t believe it. It might be propaganda.’
But Thibaut, already wild-eyed, was choking on his own voice. The words were like pebbles in his throat; he gargled and garbled. There was a strange leap in his heart. His temples began to throb. His ears buzzed. His chest tightened so hard he could barely breathe. His head was dizzy; he was shaking in every limb as his thoughts went into total confusion.
‘Don’t you see? This changes everything. Suddenly I have a way to be useful.’
‘You want to be a soldier again?’
Thibaut felt the need to sit down on the nearest brown hide chair for a moment. At the same time, he quibbled at his own euphoria.
‘I can’t believe it, either.’
Nora took his hand in hers. ‘I’m sure the army will want you back.’
‘It’s been such a long time. How can I take that chance? How can I even find the courage?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I lost the will to fight after the evacuation at Dunkirk, but I never chose to desert.’
‘So I’ll help you.’
Thibaut looked up. Nora’s eyes fixed his. Latched on. She was being serious.
‘You’ll do that for me?’
‘I don’t want to lose you.’
‘But I have nothing to give you.’
‘You have yourself.’
‘I just want some sort of future.’
‘Then have it with me.’
Her entire attitude he had to admit was marvellously appealing.