by G. P. Taylor
‘Drink from the cup on every full moon – drink well, Jago – drink well …’
Jago read the first line as he unwrapped the final layer of the parcel and there was the cup.
‘The Cup of Garbova. It can’t be,’ Jago said as he looked at the chalice and lifted it to the light. He knew this was the most valuable possession Cresco had.
In the crumpled wrapping Jago also saw a small silver pot. Just like the cup it was etched with ancient figures smoothed with use. It was the size of an egg, with a cap that unscrewed. Jago put down the cup and looked at the note.
‘Anoint the doors and windows where you sleep, Jago. Do this every night …’
Jago read the second line of the note and then unscrewed the lid. The pot was full of a viscous balm that smelt of figs and goose grease. He dipped the tip of his finger into the lotion. It burnt like ice on his hand, following the line of his veins to the wrist. The room filled with the fragrance of lavender. The candle on the mantle flickered and sparked.
‘Do not forget my instructions, Jago – your life could depend on it. Abba Julius Cresco.’
Jago read the final line of the note and wondered what he meant. The old man loved to be theatrical. His flat was full of strange painted icons and old bones. Jago thought he was just a lonely old storyteller who collected relics that interested him. But there was something about the note that demanded he take it seriously.
Jago did as Cresco asked. He got from the bed and smeared some of the balm above the door and window. He didn’t know why, but he knew he had to. Then, taking the last of the cold tea, he put it into the chalice, swilled it around and then drank. It tasted different and some of the liquid crystallised on his lips in fragments of what tasted like salt.
‘Good – you listened,’ a voice like that of Cresco said behind him.
Jago turned and shivered. The room was empty. There was no one there.
‘Cresco?’ he asked, wanting a reply and to hear his voice again.
There was silence. The only sound was the wheezing of the wind as it whipped through the high chimneys of the house. Jago put the chalice and the pyx back into the bag and covered them with the trousers. He lay on the bed, wrapped himself in the blanket and closed his eyes. The room didn’t seem so fearful now. The shadows did not dance the way they had, and no longer did he fear sleep. His final thoughts were of his mother. Jago again saw her standing in the street just before the bomb struck. He sniffed the air and smelt the lavender as he settled back on the pillows and slept.
The dream that came to him the moment he closed his eyes had been waiting for him, waiting to pounce from the darkness of his mind. It churned his imagination to the point of waking. It was then he heard the sound from the corridor outside. Someone or something was being dragged slowly along the floor – he was sure it. The sound came from outside the dream and then he heard it no more.
In that instant, he stood outside Streonshalgh Manor. The night was dark and yet he could clearly see as if it were day. He looked up at the house and could make out his own room from the flickering of candlelight through the crack in the curtains. Jago knew this was a dream. He could feel neither cold nor the breeze that blew. The clouds raced across the moon and high above him, every now and then, he glimpsed the red-eyed comet. The statue of the gladiator that stood on the stone pedestal was just as it was in the waking world. All that was different was that Jago was translucent and ghostlike.
He looked at his hands; they shimmered like a wind-blown pond. His clothes had not changed, and more than anything he felt a deep, insatiable hunger. It was something different than anything he had ever felt before. It yearned in his guts, screaming to be satisfied.
Jago thought this to be the beginning of a nightmare. He remembered such a dream from childhood. In that dream he had been locked in a cupboard that grew smaller with every minute. Somewhere within it was a rat that scurried about his feet. Jago had screamed to be released but all his mother could say was that she had no hands and could not find the key. It had started just like this. But just as quickly as it had begun it was over.
This dream went on. Jago walked into the churchyard. All around him, men, women and children were sitting on the tombs staring at him. No one spoke. They were garbed in grave clothes, sodden and ragged. Their faces were ashen, as if each was a living corpse.
A woman the same age as his mother held out her hand as she stepped towards him. Jago touched her fingers. Before his eyes she fell into a heap of dust that blew away between the tombstones.
‘She had to go that way,’ said the voice from the shadowed lee of the church. ‘Life cannot touch death.’
‘What?’ asked Jago as he turned to see who had spoke.
‘This is our eternity – we cannot leave this place whilst he lives,’ a man said as he picked up the long tail of his sallow coat from the grave on which he sat.
‘Who?’ Jago asked – never having spoken like this in a dream.
‘Strackan,’ replied the man as he bowed his head in reverence. ‘He holds us between life and death and now brings more to us each night.’
The man pointed with his long finger to a fresh grave by the side of the church. Jago took several steps towards it and then stopped. At first he was not sure, but as he looked on the newly dug earth began to move.
All he could see were the tips of three white fingers that pushed out of the soil like spring buds. Then, with each moment, more of the hand appeared. It was as if someone was digging their way out of the grave.
‘What is it?’ Jago asked the man who was now standing by his side just out of his reach.
‘Those who were wise would bury us face down so we could not dig our way out. They would wrap the caskets in holly whips and anoint our heads and put stones in our mouths. They have forgotten the old ways of how to keep us silent.’
‘The dead are dead and cannot come to life,’ Jago said.
‘But we are not dead,’ the man whispered in reply, as if to keep his words secret. ‘We are shadows waiting for the sun to set us free – are you the one?’
Jago shook his head to escape from the dream, hoping he would soon wake.
‘Why do you ask me that?’ Jago said as he watched the ground open in the grave.
‘Your hand – look. That is why Margot turned to dust … the anointing …’
Jago looked at his hand. Each vein burnt blood red from the tip of his finger to the cuff of his coat. His hand glowed as if coated with phosphorescent gold.
‘Margot?’ he asked wondering why the dream should be this way.
‘My wife – the woman you touched – it was your anointing …’
‘So if you gave me your hand it would happen to you?’ Jago asked.
‘Touch me not – it is not the way.’ The man stood back from Jago fearfully.
‘You’re a dream – you cannot die,’ Jago said.
‘Dream?’ screamed a child in rags who was clinging to another grave, one with no name and just the etching of a skull to mark who lay there. ‘I was taken from my mother and brought to this place – this is no dream. She brought flowers every day – year in, year out, and then she came no more. I am – I am no dream,’ the boy said as he looked at Jago through doleful eyes that were steeped in remorse and pity.
Jago stepped quickly to one side as the body in the grave pulled itself from the earth. A woman with red hair dragged herself free from the soil and then stood up. Looking around, she gasped for air. She was different from the others and had the appearance of one who was still alive.
‘And her?’ Jago asked. ‘Why is she so different?’
‘New to the moon,’ the man said. ‘For thirty days she will be that way and before the next full moon she will change to be like us.’
‘A ghost?’ he asked as he reached out to touch the woman before him.
‘She can’t see us – not yet,’ said the man. ‘She is alive like you – perhaps she looks for you as you sleep.’
‘I
will wake,’ Jago said as he stamped the earth with his feet. The shadows around him screamed and moaned. The child hid behind the grave in fear of what Jago would do. The man stood further away.
‘Strackan will not be pleased. He lives in your world and by now will know you are here.’
‘Strackan? I don’t care for creatures of dreams. I sleep and you are just my imagination.’ Jago stepped towards the man. ‘Strackan is cheese. I know when a dream is a dream.’
‘Then you know nothing,’ screamed a woman with a half-eaten face who stood on a flat tomb. ‘Strackan will do to you what he has done to us.’
From all around him came cries of fear at the mention of the name. The shadows howled like wolves, and it was then that Jago saw that each one was chained to its grave.
Jago ran in fear towards the steps, desperate to wake from his sleep.
‘There will be a kill tonight. As one is buried in darkness – so will one be taken from life – that is the way. Whilst the red star shines, Strackan will do this to the world,’ the man shouted to him.
‘Imagination, that’s all you are – be gone,’ Jago said as he sprinted down the steps towards the town and the tiny houses that clung to the side of the cliff below the tall chimneys of Streonshalgh Manor.
When he reached the alleyway that led to the beach, Jago stopped running. He looked back. The corpses that had crowded around him were gone. Even though he thought this to be a dream, he was out of breath. It was unlike anything he had known. The streets were empty, the houses dark and shuttered. Jago was alone – or so he thought.
As he walked, he was unaware of the dark shape that followed him along Church Street towards the cobbled marketplace. It kept pace, always at a distance, following his every move with the eyes of a cat. As he had done when waking, he looked at the houses and listened at the doors. As before, some rooms were quiet, others had voices within. Then came the whispering – at first like a seeping but with every step it got louder as he approached a cottage near to an alleyway with a sign above that said Arguments Yard.
A woman stepped from the shadows of the doorway. She didn’t see him; it was as if she was not part of his dream. Jago stepped through her before he could stop. He shuddered; everything in her mind flooded his. He knew her name – where she was going – who she was meeting. Jago could even smell the beer on her breath. In that instant, he knew her husband was a fisherman at sea. The woman was going home – she was worried about the dark, about walking alone. Her thoughts were a deluge on his mind, like a loud voice speaking in his head. Jago could sense everything about her.
‘Sara,’ he said as she walked away from him. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. Her worst fears were being realised. Sara walked faster. Jago called her name again. ‘Sara.’
The woman started to run towards the steps that led to the church. Part of his mind seemed tied to hers. He felt her fear and she his.
‘Moses Clark!’ She shouted the name of her husband in desperation, as if he would come to her aid.
Then it struck without fear or warning. The dark shadow that had stalked Jago leapt from the blackness. It took the woman by surprise, but not before she could see its face. Jago shared the vision – he too smelt its breath.
It was a dog with the body of a man that bit her face and sank its teeth into her cheek.
‘No!’ Jago screamed, knowing it was already too late. The images of her mind had stopped. She thought of nothing, she was quite dead.
The creature looked at him as it dropped Sara Clark to the ground.
‘A boy?’ it asked as it stepped nearer. ‘In this town, at this time?’
‘A dream – just a dream,’ Jago said, wishing he could wake.
‘Lucky she is dead. I will save you for another day,’ it said.
Jago stared at the creature.
‘Are you Strackan?’ he asked.
‘You are well informed for one so young,’ the creature said as it stepped back into the shadows, dragging the woman with it.
‘No,’ Jago shouted as Strackan stepped into the shadows. ‘Leave her.’ He lunged to grab Sara Clark and pull her from him. Strackan lashed out and struck him across the face. The blow knocked him back against the wall and he stumbled into the darkness of Arguments Yard.
Jago dreamt of nothing more that night. The wind stopped its picking at the roof tiles and swirling of the sea. The sun rose quickly and cleared what fog had clung to the river. He stirred in his bed to seven chimes of the church clock.
The room looked different in daylight. Gone were the shadows and fears of the night. He pulled back the thick red curtains and looked out to the churchyard, thankful that no one was there. Jago laughed to himself as he wiped the sweat from his face and poured the cold water from the jug on the washstand into the bowl. Then he looked at his hand. It was stained red with blood. Jago found the mirror on the wall by the door and stared at his reflection. It was with fear that he touched his face. What he’d thought was the sweat of the nightmare was far worse. Three talon-like cuts sliced across his cheek.
‘Strackan?’ he asked himself as the fear dawned that his experience of the night had been more than a dream.
[ 5 ]
Staxley
MRS MACARTY WAS RIGHT in saying that the smell of breakfast would be easy to follow. It permeated the whole house and crept upstairs like London smog. Jago was not sure, but the thick blue haze on the landing made it look as if the house was on fire. It sparkled in the sunlight that flooded in from the large rose-shaped window above the oak staircase. There was s strong smell of burning food – eggs in particular, as well as the faint odour of toast. Jago liked none of these things, he never had. Breakfast was a meal that he never ate. Jago was always late, his bed the warmest and most comfortable place in the world saw to that. But in Streonshalgh Manor the bed and his dreams were particularly cold and uncomfortable. He was sure he would never miss breakfast as long as he lived here.
The house didn’t appear to be as threatening as the night before. It didn’t creak or moan, and sunlight had banished all the dark shadows. What he hadn’t noticed the night before were the paintings that were hanging on every wall. From their appearance, the subjects of these portraits were obviously all members of the same family. From their dress, the paintings had been done over many hundreds of years. What caught his eye was the similarity of one man who appeared in every generation of the gallery that stretched along the panelled corridor and down the stairs.
Jago stopped and read the inscription embedded on the gold frame of the largest painting. He brushed away the thick spider’s web that covered the writing. The words shone brightly: Baron Pippen Draigorian 1165.
The man in the picture towered above him. He wore a golden coat with a cloak over his shoulder. His face was thin, his eyes dark and piercing. The lips were narrow and curled up at one side in an arrogant smile. It was this peculiar look that was the same in each portrait. It was either the same man again and again or the bumptious expression of the Draigorian heirs had been handed down from generation to generation.
‘That’s the Lord,’ Tallow said. He was surprisingly close to Jago, who turned, startled. ‘Saw you looking …’
‘Tallow?’ Jago asked. The man appeared even bigger in daylight than he had in the dark of his room.
‘Tallow,’ he replied with a nod of the head as he clanked along the corridor with a metal bucket and ragged mop. ‘Going to clean – not your room.’
‘Does he still live here?’ Jago asked.
‘Lost the Manor in a game of poker. Never stays in Whitby for long. Goes away and then the next in line comes back. Lives at Hagg House – but you’ll know more of that if what Mrs Macarty says is true.’
The man sloped off and was gone in three long strides. Jago stood and looked at the picture and then sniffed the air. Something was definitely burning. Wisps of smoke spiralled up the staircase towards him. It was acrid and burnt his eyes.
‘Porridge?’ Jago asked hi
mself as he took the stairs three at a time until he came to the hallway.
A woman, enveloped in a shroud of smoke, pushed open the scullery door and ran from the house with a burning pan in her hands.
‘Forgot, forgot!’ she cried as Mrs Macarty appeared close behind with a sweeping broom in her hands.
‘You’re the cook – how can you forget the porridge?” she screamed. She looked as though she would have bent the broom over the woman’s back had Jago not been there. ‘Jago, good to see you. Thought you would have still been in bed – first morning and all.’
Mrs Macarty seemed pleasantly surprised. Jago even noted a hint of a smile that softened her eyes and made her look as if she was squinting at him. She said nothing of the cuts to his face.
‘I smelt breakfast,’ he said as he stepped to one side to allow the cook to come back into the scullery.
‘Didn’t we all,’ Mrs Macarty replied soberly.
The woman had left the pan outside and the door open. It burnt in the yard near to the statue of the gladiator.
‘Still burning,’ she said, pointing to the pan. ‘Din’t know porridge was so combustible.’
‘Neither did I,’ Macarty added with a raised eyebrow. ‘The worst of war, Jago, is not being able to get the proper staff. This is the first post Maisie has had as a cook – isn’t it, Maisie?’ she asked.
The woman nodded and skulked back into the scullery, firmly closing the door behind her as if she didn’t want Mrs Macarty to follow.
‘I cook,’ Jago said.
‘Then we will have to take you up on your offer,’ she replied as she pointed to the dining room with the broom. ‘Breakfast is in there. I would suggest you eat it as quickly as you can. Once it’s gone, it’s gone, and the other boys don’t stick to any convention of politenesses.’