Time of the Beast

by Geoff Smith

  ‘She was ancient: shrunken and wizened, her cheeks hollow and her white hair hung in lank strands, with patches of flaking scalp visible beneath it. Her green robe, far too voluminous for her withered body, was covered with dirt and stains. She looked like an animated corpse.

  ‘ “Greetings Mother,” I said, now wholly intimidated as she looked up at me. She was truly a dreadful sight, her eyes sunken into their sockets, her mouth shrivelled and toothless as she leered at me. “I have come to ask your help. I need you to remember an event that happened more than twenty years ago. But I am sure you will recall it. It took place at my home, in Imma’s ham, and it was on the night of a great blizzard – the night of my birth. My mother Aelswyn died that night. You were there, and gave the birth prophecy to my father Beornwulf. I must know what happened on that night. Please will you tell me what you can remember of it?”

  ‘ “I cannot do so!” She blinked at me, and her head began to jerk in a birdlike way as her shrill voice rose, and her face assumed a look of wariness. She regarded me as if I were only a distraction from other more real concerns. “I cannot repeat any prophecy I may once have given. The words I speak are sacred and secret, and it would anger the spirits were I to reveal them.”

  ‘ “But the prophecy was given for me,” I implored. “I must explain. Over the years the memory of what happened that night has driven my father to madness. He will not speak of it, but I must know what has done this to him. You, Mother Urta, are my only hope.”

  ‘ “It cannot be done… cannot be done. It is more than my powers are worth!” She squinted and frowned at me. Then she said: “Do you know that I am much honoured by the king?” Her withered body seemed to puff itself up with pride. “Oh yes, King Ceorl holds me in high regard.”

  ‘I looked at her in dismay. King Ceorl had been dead for ten years. This woman had lost her wits. Old age and the spirits had stolen them away. I reflected hopelessly that my journey had been a wasted one.

  ‘But suddenly there came upon her ravaged features a look that was deep and powerfully intense, as her eyes glared defiantly into mine. And then I felt that something strange was happening. I found myself fixed to the spot, while all her anger and indignation seemed to melt away. It felt in that moment we became locked together in a kind of deep and silent struggle. Then her mouth fell open, and her eyelids began to flutter, then drooped shut. She seemed to fall instantly asleep, her head sinking down as her breaths grew deep and stertorous. As I watched her I became oddly affected by this, as my own breath caught in my throat, and the deathly stillness and the acrid smell of burning wood which filled the air in the hut felt at once suffocating and overpowering – as it seemed now my senses were elevated to a level of incredible sharpness. I knew then a distant stirring of fear and alarm, as I felt myself alone, confused and helpless. My flesh grew cold and I began to tremble, and for the first time, I started to doubt my own purpose in coming here and entering this horrible place to learn forbidden secrets which perhaps it were better to remain unknown.

  ‘Suddenly the coldness about me became so intense it was like an icy wind which chilled my skin and froze my blood. A profound dread had come upon me – the creeping sense of some other time and place – robbing me of the power of motion: a feeling that I had entered into some dark unearthly realm or sphere, which instilled in me a rush of shock and fright beyond anything my mind was able to resist or oppose, while the frail tiny figure of the witch now seemed to my eyes to have become one of awesome and terrifying supernatural power.

  ‘Now I heard a voice begin to drone in the distance, and I supposed it must come from Urta, although its tone seemed light and girlish, like a child speaking a nursery rhyme, but in a way that was mocking and sly. But my heart was stricken with fear, and I found I could not stir but only listen as the voice began to recite a verse that was distantly familiar to me: some lines from one of the grim old poems I had sometimes heard spoken by the scops at the ealdorman’s hall:

  ‘ “There goes a man who walks alone, along a dismal track,

  His path is wild, his way is lost, the moon is at his back,

  He hurries on and does not turn, upon the dreary fell,

  For stalking close behind him comes an enemy from Hell.

  A blood-cursed thing that creeps outside the light enjoyed by men,

  The moor and marsh its stronghold, its lair the haunted fen.”

  ‘The voice laughed softly, a faint ripple in the darkness. Then it spoke again, its tone growing cold and brittle, almost inhuman, as if it rang out from the halls of the dead.

  ‘ “I saw a man whose fate followed him like a demon in the dark… a night-roaming thing… it moved implacably behind him… it rose and loomed over him… and in the moonlight its twisted shadow consumed him… until I no longer saw the man. He was gone! And where he had walked… only the shadow remained… only the monstrous shadow…” The voice gave a sudden groan, then called out in a low harsh whisper: “Do you know what is a dark fetch? It is our soul’s shadow, a spectral double, a spirit twin. It is the manifestation of our darkest self. In a damaged psyche it may be split away and divided from the whole – the lost fragment of a soul. Frozen in time, it will wander alone and apart, like a disowned and abandoned child, and its anger and resentment will grow, filling it with all the rage of the outcast. Beware it, for it is yourself, and your hatred will make it deadly! ”

  ‘There was a quick intake of breath, another gurgle of laughter, and my body was soaked with sweat as dread coursed with unbearable intensity through every frozen nerve. But in a moment my fit of terror was lifting, as the blank eyes of Urta suddenly opened and looked up into mine. Now fully awake she appeared to forget my presence entirely as she went back to playing with her rune sticks and muttering nonsense to herself. At once I felt utterly foolish, then grew furious to think I had allowed a dribbling old madwoman to terrify me so, and render me powerless.

  ‘As I left her and came back out into the daylight, I knew a sense of relief as my worldly mind reasserted itself, and it seemed to me then that I stepped out from under a cloud which had darkened my whole existence. I did not doubt many believed Urta’s insane babbling to be a sign of her prophetic gifts, but I would not permit myself to be so easily deceived. Then my heart became filled with pure anger as I thought of my father, and how he had allowed his mind to be turned, and his life – and mine too – to be blighted by the demented ramblings of that old charlatan. I resolved then to return home at once, confront him again and tell him bluntly he was a weak-minded fool.

  ‘When at last I came back to Imma’s ham, I felt immediately that something there was wrong. Everywhere was still and hushed, and the place seemed almost deserted, with no one going about their usual business. The few I did see turned their faces from me and hurried away. When I came to my father’s hall, his steward Herewald appeared at the door, his face grim and pale, and he motioned urgently for me to join him inside.

  ‘ “Lord,” he said, his state one of extreme distress. “Your father is dead. Horribly murdered.”

  ‘I looked at him in disbelief for a time until I found the power to say:

  ‘ “How?”

  ‘He trembled, then took a deep breath as he prepared to tell the story.

  ‘ “After the day of your great quarrel, the day that you rode away, Lord Beornwulf fell into a black mood. He shut himself in his chamber and would see no one. Then, on the second day, he emerged to announce that he would go to stay at the old hunting lodge, at the far end of the estate, on the edge of the forest. This was most odd, since the lodge is in great disrepair, and in the past your father had never seemed to like it there, indeed always neglected it. But none of us cared to question him in the mood he was in, so preparations were made and he set out with only a small party of attendants and servants.

  ‘ “ The day after they arrived, in the morning, your father took a spear and a bow, and said he would spend the day hunting in the forest. His men offered to go with him,
but he refused and said he preferred to go alone. He came back before sunset complaining he had found no game. That night he called to him his hearth-man Offa, and they spoke privately. The next day Offa set out alone towards the forest on some unknown mission. No one knows where he was headed, and he has not been seen since.

  ‘ “In the night the household was roused from sleep by a terrible crashing and commotion from your father’s chamber. They burst through the door to find…” Here he paused, and for a moment could not go on. “They found the rotting shutters of the window smashed through. A torch burned in the sconce and they saw at once that someone had broken in from the outside. Your father lay in the bed, soaked in blood, his body stabbed and mutilated all over. His people gathered about him, and as they looked at him in horror they saw that in his mangled flesh a trace of life yet remained.

  ‘ “ ‘Lord, who has done this?’ they urged him. His eyes opened, and with his final breath…” Herewald reached out to clutch my arm “…he cried out: ‘My son! My son!’ ”

  ‘I looked at Herewald in shock and desolation. Could it be so? That my father with his dying breath would condemn me as his own murderer? Could such hatred exist in a man’s heart? Tears sprang into Herewald’s eyes as he went on.

  ‘ “I have known you from a child and I could never believe this. Your father’s mind was in shock and he did not know what he said. But can you account for where you were on the fourth night after you left? Have you any witnesses who can swear to it?” I shook my head hopelessly. Upon the night in question I had lain alone, sick and sweating, inside the deserted cottage. “But there were many witnesses,” he said, “to the violence of your parting quarrel and your own threats of vengeance. Word of this has been sent to the ealdorman, and soon officers of the king’s justice will arrive to investigate. My poor boy. The case against you is damning.”

  ‘ “ I must flee!” the words rose as a sob into my throat. “He has taken everything from me with his last breath. My home… my name… my life. I will be condemned as a patricide. Hunted and hated… detestable to men. I will be a nithing… a criminal and an outcast forever.”

  ‘ “You must go,” he said, “before the king’s men come. May the gods help and protect you. But now you should go into the forest. There are many places to hide there, but also it may be that you will discover some clue to Offa’s mission, or even find Offa himself. His story might shed some light upon this matter. It is a small hope, but your only one.”

  ‘We gave each other a tearful farewell, for since my childhood he had been the nearest thing I had known to a father. Then I rode away. I was never to see my home again.

  ‘I made my way into the forest. Following the path which led from the hunting lodge, I found after the recent rains there were still tracks visible in the muddy ground. I followed these along twisting pathways through the thickening woodland, my mind filled with a despair that increased as my initial shock abated, growing darker with every step to match the deepening gloom of the forest. I found now the echo of Urta’s words began to haunt me, and that I could no longer simply dismiss them. She had spoken of my dark fetch – my disembodied spirit. I was familiar with the belief that at times our souls might wander free from our bodies, while we sleep or during times of illness when we are closest to the realms of death. It was said that violent and disturbed emotions might even give them powers in the physical world, and, freed from the restraints of its earthly existence, an angry fetch could become a turbulent and dangerous thing. Urta had also spoken of a disowned child, and of its rage and resentment. Then at last I began to wonder whether my father’s accusation might be true, and if some lost and vengeful part of my own being could have risen to commit this dreadful crime?

  ‘I passed gradually into the deepest regions of the woods, following with increasing difficulty the faint tracks which would vanish and then suddenly reappear in places so overgrown and wild that they became almost impenetrable. Until at last I was distracted from the misery of my thoughts as I came suddenly upon a woodman’s cottage, a crumbling hovel that nestled under a high bank, surrounded by trees and almost hidden from view. It stood there, incredibly remote, many miles from any other human habitation. I approached it, calling out to let any within know of my presence, but no answer came. The place looked deserted. So I went to the door and entered.

  ‘Inside it was sheer chaos. Three corpses lay on the floor. One of them was Offa. A broken stool lay beside him, the wood stained dark-red with his blood, for his skull had been brutally smashed in. The other bodies I supposed to be those of the woodman and his wife, both old, and going to examine them I saw that both had been killed by a sword – presumably Offa’s sword. Yet now there was no sign of that sword in the room. Which meant a fourth person had been present. But what part had they played, and where were they now? Why had Offa come here to kill these people? I saw no reason behind any of it.

  ‘But now my blood froze as I sensed instantly the presence of another inside the room. And turning back towards the door I saw him there, at the threshold, a creature that was barely like a man at all. He was taller and bigger even than me, his hideous face slack and dribbling, his savage gaze fixed on me, simply fiendish in its look of sheer malevolence. He was dressed in rags, and beneath them his body appeared squalid with dirt and grossly misshapen: a disgusting thing half finished by nature, if indeed he were a natural being at all. Because, as I stared rigidly into his face, I slowly realised something terrible. You will note that my eyes are of a distinctive hue – of deepest and darkest blue, a trait inherited from my father. I now saw with disbelief that what looked like my own eyes stared back at me from out of the corrupt frame of this monstrosity, and then I began to realise that his very form and features were like a vile and distorted mockery of my own. I could not deny the horrible truth that this creature bore unmistakably a grossly deformed resemblance to me.

  ‘In that moment I feared Urta’s words had been true, and this was indeed a manifestation of my dark fetch. I let out a cry as I tottered backwards in sheer terror. But then the horror seemed to burst into a rage, and he sprang towards me as I saw that in his huge hand he held Offa’s sword. I drew out my own sword, determined to drive away this grisly apparition, to see it dissipate into the air. As our blades clashed together I felt that his strength was simply immense. Yet he had no skill. I drew back my sword and struck out wildly, cutting a gash into his arm. He dropped the sword as red blood started to gush from his wound, and he unleashed at me a terrifying screech of pain and fury. Then he turned and was gone, bounding away swiftly to be lost within the depths of the forest.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I staggered out of the cottage, and my strength deserted me as I toppled down onto the grass and buried my face in my hands. My head was spinning as my brain attempted to untangle and make sense out of what I had just witnessed. There had been blood. I looked up to see the trail of red spots that led away from the cottage, staining the ground along the way where the creature had fled. So I knew now that he had been no spirit – no fetch – but something of living flesh and blood.

  ‘I sat for what seemed to be hours, as gradually my mind attempted to impose order on all its turmoil. But constantly the words of Urta returned to me, rushing through my thoughts, until at last I began to find reason in what before had seemed like only madness. She had spoken in her trance of one followed by a shadow-thing – a twin soul. She had been present at my birth, and somewhere inside all the confusion of her aged and addled brain she had remembered. Indeed she had remembered. For how could she ever forget the birth of a monster? The birth of my own twin.

  ‘Now at last I understood my father’s terrible secret, which had unbalanced his mind and come finally to devastate my own life. Urta’s prophecy had pronounced him cursed by the gods, and he had seen that his line was blighted. It is said that in ancient times the blood of giants and monsters sometimes became mingled with the blood of men. Perhaps this was not the first time it had h
appened: maybe there had been hushed warnings, old and fearful whispers in our family of a taint in our blood. Of the birth of monstrous children. A mark of vile disgrace, a cause of shame and ignominy, a black stigma upon our name should it ever come to be known. But it seemed that in spite of Urta’s warnings, my father had not been able to kill his own child. So it was hidden away, never to be mentioned, sent deep into the forest into the custody of childless servants who would keep it there beyond the sight and knowledge of anyone. Yet forever after, stricken with horror, tormented by the memory of Urta’s words and obsessed by the knowledge of his curse, my father in his growing madness was never able to look at me without seeing him.

  ‘But then came our great confrontation over the matter of my wife, and when he saw in my eyes the accusation of what he was – of the monster he had become – my father brooded. And he went into the forest to look upon the secret thing he had spawned, now fully grown, and decided finally that it must die. But still he would not do it himself. So he sent Offa – his oldest companion and perhaps his confidant and accomplice in this matter from the start – to carry out the deed. I could not know if he had also ordered the deaths of the old couple, as witnesses to his shame, but it seemed to me most likely they had died simply attempting to protect the child they had raised as their own. But my father had misjudged his monstrous progeny, made docile in the presence of his keepers, and had supposed him to be only a harmless idiot, not recognising the true rage and savagery concealed in his nature. Yet these passions were inflamed when he saw those who had been his parents, and his life’s only companions, murdered before his eyes. And his mind had understood that the man who had earlier come to look at him, the powerful lord who doubtless regarded him with an unconcealed detestation, had sent the assassin to kill them. So the wretch – I could not bring myself to call him my brother – had crept out into the world of men, and there taken his revenge. My father’s murderer was indeed his own son.