Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  Nicholas was muttering on about how Baxter was going to lose him, wasn’t holding the rifle correctly, how to aim, keeping it steady, holding his breath and...

  ‘Take the shot,’ said Nicholas, ‘blast! We’ve lost him, below the grass. The beast can smell us. Dammit, I knew we should never have worn all this ghastly leather.’

  The young man ignored his uncle. He wanted to reach out and warn the wolf of their trap; he wanted to get up fast, fire a shot and wave his arms like a Rabid; he wanted to scare the dog back beyond the mires, beyond the outer settlements, back to the mountains.

  ‘I have his ears, can see the tip of his head,’ Baxter said, ‘but not the mass.’

  ‘Shoot the head,’ said his uncle.

  A peal of cold sweat ran out of Baxter’s thick black hair, his twitching cheek absorbed it.

  ‘Take the shot. You have a clear line.’

  He felt his uncle’s glare, half confused, half angry.

  ‘Take the shot.’ Nicholas snatched the rifle back with a snarl and got to his knees.

  The wolf ahead flinched, clearly aware of the stalemate. It shuffled fast through the grass, moved one way, then the next.

  Why won’t it run? Baxter’s nerves spiked.

  Nicholas followed the wolf, switching the rifle, he matched his speed, held it tight, sharp, took aim, learnt in and his leather cracked.

  The wolf’s growls shrilled without fear. It backed away, got low then snapping up it bound to another hollow and held cover.

  It looked over the ridge at Nicholas.

  ‘No!’ Baxter shouted.

  Nicholas pressed the trigger.

  A bullet exploded from the barrel and cut the damp air in two; its crack echoed in the valley, instantly filling its caverns and alcoves with the sound of human dominance.

  The grey animal volleyed back. The body rolled limp to a lifeless heap. The crack of the shot dissipated around them, and both men shared the kill’s stillness.

  Baxter glanced at the sheep. Although spooked, their heads upright, the flock stood stationary. He had nowhere to go, no reason to run. Between the moorland winds, Baxter felt his uncle’s anger behind him, it emitted from the man like the surge of heat from his father’s pressure furnace. Nicholas was not a loud man. Baxter had never heard his uncle shout at anyone. No, Nicholas Beechcroft radiated his emotions into tiny invisible daggers, thousands of them, and they all pointed at Baxter.

  ‘Remove the knife kit from the satchel. Take this, you’ll need it.’ Nicholas dropped the rifle between them. ‘His friends won’t be far behind.’

  Baxter slung the modified Winchester 45 back around his arm. Its barrel still smouldered.

  ‘You won’t be able to give his pack gallant mercy, Baxter.’ Nicholas stood taller than his nephew, and dusted off twigs, grass, and mud from his leather overcoat. ‘Muster whatever courage you can find in your saviour’s body and I’ll get these girls back to the village.’

  Ahead, the wolf’s body twitched in the fell. Its dying jolts distracted both men for a moment long enough for Baxter to consider what his uncle wanted him to do next. He lowered his head and said, ‘Please, uncle, not again–’

  ‘You’re seeing to him.’ Nicholas interrupted.

  The wind was busy in Baxter’s eyes, he tugged at a tightly fit box of rounds, a few broke loose and scattered on the grass.

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re not thinking about putting any more of those in him?’

  ‘Why’s the body twitching? Rabbits don’t.’

  Nicholas closed his eyes. ‘It’s the animals’ nerves firing, it’s dying. You want to be sure? Use your knife. There’s a fine line you understand, between mercy and cowardice?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Do you indeed? Then try and remember, oh so hard, Baxter. These animals, out here, they don’t ask for your mercy. Think they’d care about yours? They’re wild and this is life, Baxter, it’s a struggle. Those sheep, they belong to us. The wolf wanted them for himself. Had he won them, killed us, and got his lot, he’d deserve his spoils. But he didn’t, we killed him and now to show our respect to our fellow hunter, we take care of his body.’

  ‘I can’t do it. My hands are shaking too much, I won’t do a good enough job.’ The quake inside Baxter rattled his bones.

  ‘Calming those nerves out here takes skill.’ Said Nicholas his voiced calmed, while nodding at the ground. ‘You start by finding them inside, you relax the muscles, collect your composure, empty your mind and seize the moment. It’s rare, you know, seeing a lone wolf out this far. His friends will either be shortly behind him or Cliffenfort reached them before us. You must consider the first outcome, so prepare for it. If you don’t, Baxter, you’ll be joining your new friend over there.’ Nicholas pointed at the wolf. ‘But you wait, the Cliffenfort lot will be at our market tomorrow, trying to peddle a set of feebly skinned pelts.’

  Baxter nodded as his nerves hollowed. His uncle would no doubt recount this blunder back to his father.

  ‘Does the barrel need a run through, have you checked?’ Nicholas tapped the gun with his boot.

  ‘You only fired it once.’ Baxter stared down the pitch-black barrel.

  ‘You saw how long the barrel smouldered. It matters, you get a split shell leaking carbon and the barrel could be full of all sorts. Besides, these are your grandfather’s rounds, Lord knows how old they are.’

  Baxter tried cracking the barrel. The clip was tight, swollen stuck.

  ‘Try at the end,’ Nicholas said. ‘You’ll get more leverage. Then, when inspecting it for debris, hold the muzzle to your eye and the end to the light. You’re looking for tiny black spots. They’ll make it misfire, or explode in your hands, so give it a proper run through with some cotton. You wouldn’t want an arm like your father’s. Did you bring any?’

  ‘Any, what?’

  ‘Cotton, of course.’

  Baxter patted his pockets, he knew they were empty. ‘I don’t think I did.’

  Nicholas snatched a knife from his left boot and tore a section from his scarf. ‘Cut this into a smaller square.’

  Baxter dipped his head in thanks.

  ‘Soon the Gaol returns, you remember it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Baxter placed the scattered rounds back in their box.

  ‘These plains yielded a rabbit a week. Once the mountains kick down the ice wind, it’s rabbit stew until late March and only if we’re lucky.’

  Baxter didn’t reply. He cracked the rifle as instructed.

  Nicholas tossed the goggles back to Baxter. ‘Be sure to clean out the tread in your boots before making your way down this hill.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘All your father and I ask is you behave as we would.’ Nicholas whistled at the ram. Like a sheep dog, he responded and herded some of the ewes back to the larger group.

  ‘What shall I do with the wolf?’ Baxter already knew what his uncle wanted but felt it polite to ask.

  ‘Just skin it.’ Nicholas stretched his arms. ‘Do it here, leave the body, his hungry friends won’t be able to tell the difference. Then in the morrow I’ll show you how to treat the pelt, giving you make it back alive. We can make some more of this wretched leather you seem to be in love with.’

  Baxter watched his uncle as he rounded up the rest of the sheep. ‘What about the other wolves, or the Rabid men?’

  Nicholas stopped and looked back at his nephew. Some of the sheep had also stopped, and a few looked as though they grinned at Baxter.

  ‘Rabids?’ His uncle’s voice leapt an octave and he shook his head. ‘The wolves, Baxter, they’re your concern, they’ll do quick business with those skinny bones of yours. Just keep an eye on the ridge, if you see any, fire a warning shot in their direction. You won’t need to hit them, just scuff the land; it will be enough to send them on their way.’

  The gas beacons to their village in the distance behind Nicholas, lit up. At least he knew the correct direction to run, Baxter thought and asked, ‘What if
there’s too many of them?’

  ‘For the Mother’s sake.’ Nicholas reached into his pocket. ‘Catch!’ A vial of green liquid spun in the air.

  Baxter caught it with one hand.

  ‘Apply some to those leathers. The stuff stinks and don’t be surprised if tonight a burning inside your nostrils keeps you awake.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A mixture of several…things, all too ghastly to say. Anyway, doesn’t matter, it will keep anyone and anything far away from you.’

  His uncle bound off, looked back and bellowed, ‘Just make sure you don’t have it on around Tabitha.’

  Baxter’s heart sped as he hurried the vial into his waist coat pocket and buttoned it. He had skinned rabbits but never a wolf, never a dog. Another box of rounds fell out and scattered on the grass, with most tips rusted. He left them and counted the rest, six from a box of twenty might be any good. He placed those in his trouser pocket, the one without holes, and lumbered onward in the wet ground to the dead animal.

  Its tongue hung out from the corner of its mouth, its eyes fixed open in the scary way the hurried dead do when subjected to personal oblivions.

  He knelt carefully beside the wolf. The body emitted a heat, and a musky smell of deep woodland. He stretched out each set of legs. Black blood pooled the bullet hole. Baxter looked back to see his uncle had vanished beyond the hillside. He thought for a moment about what he wanted to say for the wolf and pressed both hands together.

  ‘My mother, who dwells on Terra as our heavenly protector. Reward now this fallen wolf. My uncle killed it to protect our flock, please see fit its void of starving, and he dines on as many sheep, pigs and chickens as you deem fit, Amen.’

  Under the chin, Baxter pinched a small tuft of fleece and squeezed in the blade. A resistance strong enough to bend it in two, a final stand of the wolf’s exerted toughness prevented the cut. From his pocket he grabbed the sharpening block, struck the knife’s edge in successive session and reapplied the blade. After a red-faced effort, it cut in. He avoided the rupture of muscle and separated skin from flesh, flesh from skin. The pelt came away from the carcass, freeing the beaten body.

  He dragged the lump of meat to a nearby tree, fastened the limbs and hoisted the carcass up into the wind. A suspended monolith, Baxter decided.

  Howls rolled from the horizon, riding on the back of the wind. Shivers belted down Baxter’s spine fast enough to tie his guts in a panic. He left the wolf’s body suspended, wrapped the pelt around him and set course back to the village.

  The distance village structures developed into more than dull shapes on the horizon. Details of masonry, wooden fences, gates, doorways and the glow of gaslights. Baxter saw his house. The roof top swelled above the village wall like a puss filled pimple, its sandstone brick colder than the others. The windows were as black as the wolf’s wound, empty and lifeless. He imagined his uncle’s tale to his father, recalling how he bottled the kill. Baxter could see images of his father shaking his head and storming off, disappointed and angry. He would rather hedge his chances for a night with the wolves then deal with whatever punishments they had prepared.

  A growl came from behind him, Baxter ran. Every thought and worry blended together to a tightly wound point, his nerves joined them. It was the same rumble he heard when teasing the dog, a low bass-filled growl. Baxter hurried his hand for the vial of liquid in his pocket, jumping over a rock and around a fern. Another rumble, harder, closer behind him. He could hear the squelching of the damp fell under the hunter’s paws. If he turned now, sharply, wrestle with his rifle to fire, it would beat him in a pounce, he was sure of it. The distance between his empty hand and his pocket’s vial of poison felt like an expedition. The growl grew louder, closer. Baxter’s eyes darted around in their frozen sockets. A nearby boulder, too high to reach, he’d struggle and the beast would have him. A fallen tree, its bare truck at least ten feet away, the trunk was wet, he’d slip, and the beast would have him. The hillside marshes, three leaps away, he knew he could make it, throw away the pelt, the rifle, scare the beast off. Baxter’s toes clutched the ridges of his boots. Three leaps were all he needed, three of the biggest leaps of his life.

  He gripped the pelt and gun, took a breath, flung them both back and leaped. A large growl thundered behind him with the crack of an empty jaw. He felt a knock against his leg, and he leaped again. The marsh was less than a foot away. Baxter sprung himself upward and slammed down hard into the muddy water as a howl filled the air. Baxter felt the icy mud’s pressure. His body heavy with thick leather. He thrashed and unbound his boots, his body sunk, no grip, no purchase on thicker land. He moved his body and sunk deeper, level to his chest.

  The wolf walked around the ridge of the marsh and starred at Baxter. It did not growl or bark, instead the beast sniffed the mud.

  Baxter tried to move his left arm, the heavy weight of mud compressed it, packed it into the dirt. He held the other arm upright, took a full breath, and struggled with his boots. Watery mud replaced the thicker kind, movement returned to his limbs, but the marsh was stronger. Its suction gripped him and claimed its prey to the earth. Baxter took a deep breath as the marsh pulled him under.

  On the surface, the wolf let out a muted howl. The crush of the earth compressed against Baxter’s body, a sealed grip, his back cracked, his ribs squeezed. He tried the knot inside his jacket attached to his trousers, but it would not give. He battled against his weakened hands, but they refused his orders. He thrashed and thrashed inside his leather shell, the mud’s pressure squeezing him tighter.

  His finger freed, he poked it back out into the world. He wiggled the others, freed his hand, then an arm which sent a tunnel of light down through the gloom. A gush of muddy water streamed in from his hand and poured into his mouth. Baxter choked and spat it out. He freed his head and let in another breath, around him the muddy tomb filled with filthy water.

  A twinkle of light flashed from his right, Baxter noticed an object, copper reflective, lodged firmly in the mud. It shone back at Baxter. He moved as best he could to touch it. A knife? He hoped so, hoped to cut his way out, get free and use it to fight back the wolf.

  He hit the object and a side section of mud fell from its earthly seal, revealing its sphere shape a mixture of brass and copper . Baxter nudged the sphere again, his strength dwindling.

  The metal ball lit up, a red light pulsed from the case and a whirling sound rapidly amplified. Compressed air escaped in pockets of brown bubbles around the object’s muddy seal, and heat radiated from it, melting the muddy prison.

  Baxter panicked. Was it an airship bomb, unexploded, long buried, held there for god knows how long, waiting for him to come along and prime the trigger, waiting for a target? Baxter shielded his face, braced every muscle, the end was here for him, this was it, he knew it.

  The sound stopped. He opened an eye, the red light blinked, then suddenly a blind explosion, sheer white light everywhere. A deep and high pitch simultaneously cried out in a shriek like shattering glass. The explosion threw Baxter out of the marsh, freed him from the mud and spat him skyward. He hit a bush, rolled and smashed his skull on a rock; dashed him into unconscious.

  Pain appeared, first in his hands then hips, back and ribs. Baxter opened an eye and watched a hazy image of a wolf running back to the ridge, fast and fearful as though spooked by fire.

  A tone pulsed from the side of the marsh. Clotted in grime and moorland mire, the sphere beeped with a small red light flickering to a diminishing pulse.

  Quick to remember his uncles vial, Baxter removed it, broke the seal on a nearby rock and poured it all over his body. The smell cut through the remaining pain and the fear. He sprung to his feet.

  The sphere’s pulse stopped and the light disappeared.

  Baxter calmed, collected his things then slowly approached the object, and gave it a gentle tap with his foot. It rolled backward and whirled with a motion signifying to Baxter, a lose internal weight dictated its b
ehaviour.

  Another howl from over the far ridge interrupted the inspection. He searched for his day sack, grabbed his goggles and zoomed in, adjusting the spring-loaded levers, locked them in place, then scanned the green, the brown, and the blue grey twilight. He ran the view gently up the crease separating earth from sky. A tree, then another, bushes, shrubs, then two grey objects moving together, in a diligent way they checked things out. There they were. He adjusted the focus rings slightly on each eye. Two wolves in a dark grey silhouette came to focus.

  He pressed the switch and glided it back to his ear. The lens retracted, returned the viewpoint to the standard distance. The rifle lay on the grass, loaded and ready. Baxter stared at it and fingered the rounds in his pocket. He thought about the wolves, thought about returning with three pelts, thought about redemption and his uncle’s reaction.

  He stood for a while watching the wolves. They looked desperate to him, thin, erratic as they sniffed all they could see – starved, Baxter thought. They noticed their friend’s carcass and bound over to it. His uncle was right they could not tell the difference.

  Wasting no time, he slung the rifle over his arm, grabbed the pelt with the muddy object, and headed home.

  II

  ‘It’s a good job you’re back,’ A village watchmen shouted. He stood on the platform separating two watch towers at the entrance to Baxter’s village. ‘I’m just getting ready to close up for the night.’

  The entrance smelt wooden with damp, a smell common before a rain shower. Baxter ignored the watchman and carried on between the gates, both sounding different this close, cheap and poorly made, their groaning ancient mechanics closed the gate behind him. Mud dried and rubbed between Baxter’s legs making a sound which matched the closing gates.

  Baxter’s blood turned cold. Not only did he have to face his family’s wrath, but as he walked up the village hill the square came into view and so did the three Tong brothers. They had already noticed him. He could hear them shouting, making animal noises and the usual names, all of which meant nothing, but Baxter knew they were insults. Getting closer he heard, ‘Lord Beechcroft back after hunting some poor old buggers carpet.’