by G. P. Taylor
The Black Shuck
THEY had spent the night camped by the fire in the hallway, taking it in turns to keep watch. Raphah had not slept a single wink. His mind was filled with discontent, the thoughts of Africa stronger than before. He felt alone and helpless in a land where so many people hated him. The inn was like a great ship at sea. It creaked and groaned as timbers rasped against the stones. The cold night air shivered its bones. Raphah thought again of Africa and fought the voice within that told him to run and leave these people to their own desires. He had come to their land to find the Keruvim, which had been stolen from his people. It was something so old, so powerful, that in the hands of evil men it could change the course of history. As they slept, warmed and lighted by the flames of the fire, Raphah looked at their faces.
Beadle snored, his jowls flapping as his head lolled from side to side. Raphah thought him to be honest, but was crushed by his fearfulness. Barghast was motionless as if he rested in death. Lady Chilnam sat serenely in the chair, wrapped in her long black cloak.
The inn grew silent as the night went on and by the dawn was perfectly still. Barghast woke early and as Raphah dozed had gone to tell the innkeeper of what he had found during the night. Silently and without fuss, the body of Mister Shrume was taken from the inn and buried face-down beyond the walls. Barghast returned as the house came to life, his boots still wetted by the dew, the fog hanging from his clothes.
In the great hall, a meal was set. Bragg, smelling the scent of meat and hearing the clanking of plates, appeared from his room. Ergott was still nowhere to be found. Raphah checked his room and returned with news that the bed had not been disturbed and Ergott had not returned.
Bragg didn’t appear surprised as he sat at table and stuffed his mouth to bursting. ‘Likes to take the air,’ he said.
‘But he didn’t return at all. We checked his room last night and he was gone,’ Barghast replied.
For a moment, Bragg was silent. He looked about the room as he chewed upon the gristle, then pulled it from his mouth and dropped it to the plate. ‘Could have been taken himself – had you not thought of that? We sit here filling our bellies and Ergott could be dead. What people are we to leave a fellow traveller?’ As he spoke, his eyes disappeared into the depths of his skull and his face quivered.
‘So you say we look for him?’ Lady Tanville asked.
‘If he is not here then where can he be?’ Bragg said, somehow convinced by his own concern.
From the courtyard came the cries of the Militia. In the still morning air, their voices carried from the gates. The innkeeper flung open the doors as a musket-man dragged the carcass of a large black dog up the steps and into the inn.
‘See,’ he said proudly. ‘The beast is dead.’
The inn filled with excitement as all gathered round. From every room came people to gawp at the large dog that lay upon the cold stone floor, staring with dead eyes. The vaulted ceiling of the hall with its panelled staircase and mullioned windows echoed with all their apprehension.
‘Caught it upon the fell. Heard it calling and then shot it from the crag,’ the man said with a broad smile upon his face.
‘It’s not the hound,’ Barghast whispered to Raphah. ‘Not big enough and not enough teeth.’
‘Say nothing to them,’ he replied quietly. ‘Let them think it to be the beast. Our coach leaves at dusk – we have until then to find the animal.’
‘Or man,’ Barghast added.
The innkeeper roared with excitement as he looked at the hound. He beat his chest in merriment and gave beer to all, and the inn sang out with the celebration. Beadle took his part, dancing on the table, his face covered in froth as he sung of the dead beast.
Raphah looked on as he and Barghast sat by the fire. Bragg had disappeared in the throngs of the glee and was nowhere to be seen. Men danced and jabbered. They kicked the dead creature and beat it with sticks.
‘I shall look for Ergott,’ Raphah said as Lady Tanville came to the fire. ‘He has to be found.’
‘Taken by the dog – or is the dog,’ Barghast said.
‘But they have the beast – we saw it,’ Tanville replied.
‘That wasn’t the creature, Tanville. That was a wild dog, a wolf and not a changeling.’
‘Where do we look?’ she asked.
‘Somewhere close by, somewhere …’
Tanville quickly interrupted. ‘The cave – there is an entrance from the inn. I showed Beadle last night when you were on the moor. I have a map. It was stolen from Bragg a year ago. I bought it at great price from the thief.’ She looked towards the panelling on the far wall.
‘Within?’ asked Raphah trying to guess her meaning.
‘Deep within, third panel from the floor, second to the left.’
Beadle continued to dance upon the table as the hunters dragged the kill from the hall and into the courtyard. They hoisted it from a gibbet in the corner by the tar-splashed walls and let it dangle in the wind. Some of them came back and continued to drink. They spoke loudly, brutal talk for brutal men. The wolf swung in the breeze. Its bloated tongue stuck from its mouth as the rope stretched its neck.
‘We wait,’ said Raphah as the merry-making began to still and each man found a place to rest his drunken neck. ‘They will soon sleep and we can search for Ergott.’
Barghast nodded in agreement, knowing the hunters had been gone all night. The beer would swell their tiredness and sleep would soon come to them. He had been strangely quiet as he looked about him, his eyes searching each face.
‘They have it!’ exclaimed Beadle as he slumped from the table, his song complete and his belly full of beer. ‘We can travel in peace, find Kate and Thomas, and Demurral won’t find us,’ he said foolishly.
‘So you look for someone and someone looks for you?’ Tanville asked.
‘Some people we know – that we will visit,’ Raphah said without thinking as he tried to cover Beadle’s mistake.
Barghast stared at the floor, his gaze fixed upon a broken claw that had been shed by the wolf. ‘Your mistake was to find me upon the moor,’ he said to Raphah as Lady Tanville walked with Beadle to the kitchen in search of food. ‘I know the man who pursues you and the rumours of why he needs to find you. I took something from him, a shard of wood touched by the hand of Riathamus. What did you take from Demurral?’
‘That which belonged to my family. That which he would have used for magic. I took the Keruvim.’
‘So it is true. The Keruvim is real and he had it all along. I heard a rumour that it had come to this land. When I first saw you, I knew,’ Barghast said, his eyes still fixed upon the claw. ‘Lives entwined like hemp rope. You in search of your friends and me a beggar. Find you and find the beggar. Eh, Raphah?’
‘You could be from Demurral,’ Raphah said with narrow eyes.
‘That I could. But on this journey I have to trust you and you me. There is a creature that since your arrival has begun to kill. Any one of us could be its intended victim. I’ve made many enemies in many years and now Bragg is one of them.’
‘So I just trust you? As simple as that?’ Raphah asked.
‘Thought trust would come easily to someone like you,’ Barghast said as he picked the piece of claw from the hearth. ‘Interesting,’ he said, looking upon it. ‘There is little wear upon it – not a beast that travels far, more a house dog than a monster from the fell.’
Beadle slumped by the fire. The sleeplessness of the night was brought heavy upon his brow by the light of the day. He stacked the hearth with more logs and leant back against the warm stone. The hall became quiet. The Militia drifted away, leaving only those who had joined the hunt from the inn to sleep by the flames. It became like the night-time. Peace was on all, there was no fear, the beast was dead – it hung from the gibbet with the first raven picking at its skin.
Raphah looked to Barghast. ‘Time?’ he asked.
Barghast looked about him. ‘Time indeed,’ he said with a shivered smi
le.
‘I come with you,’ Lady Tanville insisted.
‘Would be best for you to stay and …’ Raphah tried to insist.
‘I am coming and you cannot make me stay. I have something that will bring a blessing to our journey.’ She said as she walked quickly up the stairs to her room. When she reached the landing she turned and looked at them. ‘Be here when I return, understand.’
Raphah laughed with Barghast. ‘We have no choice – she would have us for bodice stays if we went alone.’
Tanville soon returned. In her hands she carried a black silk bag the size of a dead cat. It was strung about her with a long twine handle and buttoned with a gold clasp. She nodded to them both and walked to the far end of the hall. Barghast and Raphah followed, checking to see if all the hunters were asleep. Beadle groaned and snored, kicking out his legs as if he were having some mad dream.
Barghast pointed to the stone floor. By the wall was a single paw print etched in blood. ‘We are not the first to go this way,’ he said quietly. ‘The beast goes before us.’
‘This is it,’ Tanville said as she tapped the panel with her hand. It opened slightly. The door slid quickly to one side and the three entered in. Inside was complete blackness.
‘Keep awake, don’t close your eyes,’ she said as she undid the clasp and brought out the hand.
‘This is not a good thing you have,’ Raphah said, sensing its presence but unable to see the Hand of Glory.
There was the striking of a flint and the burning of tinder. A glow filled the stair chamber. The hand burnt brightly as each finger flickered with a purple flame.
‘What a surprise, my dear girl,’ Barghast said as he chuckled to himself. ‘A Glory Hand. I took you for a lonely traveller, not a witch. Will you not entice us with the spell?’
‘We don’t need magic,’ Raphah insisted. ‘Leave magic to those who don’t know a greater power. If we must suffer this contrivance, then let us have only the light from its fingers, without any so-called magic.’
‘But it will make them all sleep,’ Tanville said eagerly.
‘Sorcery and wickedness are the same word. The drink will be enough. I have known the spirit of this same hand before. It will bring you no good.’
‘So it was you who stole Bragg’s money,’ Barghast said to Tanville.
‘And nearly got me hanged,’ Raphah said.
‘It was not the money I wanted. I was looking for a key, the key to his trunk. Bragg stole a painting that once belonged to my family. Some time ago he sold it to a collector in London. I follow him, for wherever he goes I know I will find what he has stolen. On the day my father died, he commanded me to get the picture and bring it home. Since it was taken a curse has come upon us.’
‘All I hear of in this country is curses,’ Raphah said angrily as they followed Tanville’s light down the steps into the cave. ‘When will you learn to be free of the curse?’
‘When faith vanquishes superstition,’ Barghast said. ‘Even in this time of great science, does not the chemist by day become the alchemist by night?’
‘Then they are as mad as the lead they work with,’ Raphah grunted. ‘The sun shines in their faces and they turn to darkness. They worship the stars and not the one who created them. I met a man aboard a ship who would not get from his bed until he had read the dregs of his teacup … Fools.’
‘They take it seriously, Raphah,’ Barghast said as they walked deeper into the cave.
‘Then they should wake from their slumber and you also, Tanville. Whatever curse is upon your family can be broken.’
‘Then help me find the picture,’ she said angrily, her hand shaking the light of the Glory Hand. ‘Unless it is in the castle it will cause great harm. It is the prison for a spirit.’
‘Your great-aunt Lady Isabella?’ Barghast asked. ‘The ghost painting?’
‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘Let us say I have an interest … I heard the story of how she was painted, a likeness captured from the grave. She haunts wherever the picture hangs? I have heard that she is prone to much trickery for a ghost.’
‘Isabella has done more than that,’ Tanville replied as she stopped in the vault of the stairway and looked to the passage below. There in the dust was a further paw mark upon the stone. ‘My father heard that she had taken to killing those on whose wall her picture hung. Just a rumour, when he tried to find her. Lady Isabella will not be at peace until she is back at Chilnam Castle.’
‘Then I will search for her and she will have peace. How can you allow the spirits to walk the world of men?’ Raphah asked, at the edge of his temper.
No one replied. As the glow of the hand lit the stone about their feet, his words echoed ahead of them. Raphah looked up. High above his head was the glistening roof of a gigantic cave. It shimmered in the light from the candles that were gripped in the fingers of the Glory Hand. The steps that had come from the inn had brought them to a vast cavern. A wind blew against their faces like a sea gale. It beat against the candles, the light flickering but unable to be extinguished until the spell was spoken. The cave belched and bellowed like a rumbling gut. Far away was the sound of rushing water.
‘Here,’ Barghast said, pointing to the shadows that lined the floor. ‘The creature came this way.’ There were distinct marks upon the wet sand that lined the floor. ‘It went deeper in.’
Lady shuddered. She looked at the cave roof and wondered what kept it from falling. The thought made it hard for her to breathe. Leaning against the wall, she held out the Glory Hand, hoping that it would somehow hold back the rock that she thought would fall on them at any moment. The vast emptiness of the cavern made her wits reel. It reminded her of the castle she had left and the reason for her journey.
Abruptly, she was taken from the cave as a vision flashed across her eyes. The fear in her mind sped her back in time to a cold, foggy morning. The light had not yet come, the dawn still far off. It was the morning of her eighth birthday. The ghost of Lady Isabella had dragged her from the bed. She chased her playfully from the nursery in the spire of the castle. Through chilly, unlit corridors Tanville ran as fast as she could. At first she laughed – a game they had played before. Then something had changed. As they got to the stairs, Lady Isabella grabbed her by the hair, her ghostly hands twisting themselves coldly in her long locks and winding the strands tightly in her spectral fingers. Isabella then dragged her down each flight, faster and faster, Tanville’s feet not touching the treads but missing the steps as she ran breathlessly. It was as if the ghost wanted her to fall.
Tanville had looked up – the ceiling darkened and yet spinning above her head, the walls pressing in upon her as if they would collapse at any moment – and had reached out for balance as she screamed for Isabella to stop. No one came. Tanville screamed even louder and Lady Isabella twisted her faster. The castle faded and all around them was the great hill. There stood Isabella on a high crag, spinning Tanville as if she were a top. Every twist took her closer to the edge.
‘Hold out your arms and fly, Tanville,’ Isabella had sniggered. ‘Then we can play always.’
Tanville had done as she had said and just as she had reached the precipice she slipped. The dream was broken. She was balanced precariously upon the top of the stairs, her feet at the edge. She looked at Isabella, who laughed, ‘Jump!’ she said, as Tanville stared at the floor far below. Then Tanville had stepped from the banister as two arms snatched her from the air. She could never forget the smell of her father, holding her close and banishing Isabella.
The next day the priest had scourged the spectre. He had poured holy water upon the picture and nailed iron bars across the frame. With his withered fingers he had laced it with henbane and holly leaves. For many nights the castle was sleepless as Lady Isabella gripped the bars, screaming from inside to be set free. For a year and a day the picture had been turned to face the wall so that she could not escape. Lady Tanville Chilnam never slept alone in the house agai
n. She was glad that the picture had gone. Now, the dying wish of her father, spoken in his madness, had caused her to search for it again. ‘As I die,’ he said, ‘bring Isabella home again to rest with me.’
Now, inside the cavern, Lady Tanville held out her hand and forced her mind to think only of the flames. Barghast, knowing something was wrong, took the Glory Hand from her and held it above his head to cast the light as far as he could. He could sense that she was troubled. Her eyes looked empty, her face vague.
‘What troubles you?’ he asked as they walked towards a place where the tunnel narrowed and stalactites hung down like teeth.
‘It’s the cavern – it presses in upon me, takes my breath,’ she said.
‘We have nothing to fear,’ he said softly.
‘And what of Ergott?’ she asked. ‘Is he not to be feared? You think him a man who can change to a beast.’
‘Whatever Ergott may be is no cause for us to fear him,’ Raphah said. ‘I’m certain Barghast will make sure of that.’
They gathered pace as they walked. The passageway grew narrow and low, causing them to crouch as they stumbled on. The sound of water grew louder, and the gusting of the wind was like the eerie farting of a gigantic animal. Barghast continued to find the tracks of the creature. Every now and then it had stopped and scraped the floor as if it searched for something in the sand. He knew it to be near. The cavern dripped with water that filled the icy pools all around them.
In his senses he could feel the beast close by, watching them as they walked on. In the outer limits of the darkness he knew it waited for them. Barghast stopped, held the Glory Hand even higher and peered into the blackness.
‘Ergott!’ he cried, the words coming back to him. ‘Where are you, man?’
From far in the distance came a scream – half man, half dog. There was then the sobbing of a child and then the scream again.