Ravens Gathering

by Graeme Cumming

  He had covered almost a third of the field when something did catch his eye. It wasn’t too obvious to him because it was on the other side of the hedge to his right. That field had sheep in it. He had checked the hedge earlier, to make sure there was no gap they could get through. All part of that safe approach his father had taught him. But it wasn’t the sheep that caught his attention. Close to the hedge, he saw a head. It was too far away for him to make out any features – or even tell if it was facing this way. Nevertheless, he got the impression that he was being watched. It was unusual, but he didn’t see it causing any risks, so he ignored it. Having said that, he’d probably report it to his boss, Bob Lambert, when he got back to the yard.

  Reaching the end of the field, Peter stopped the tractor, then raised the plough, watching clumps of soil drop off the blades. Satisfied they were clear of the ground, he turned the tractor, ready to start its next run. Once in position, he lowered the plough again, keeping his eyes on it to ensure it dropped into place as it should do. As the blades cut into the soil, he returned his gaze to the front of the tractor, slipping the tractor into gear as he did. Directly ahead, no more than ten feet away, stood a ewe.

  It was unremarkable as sheep go. White face, white body, thin white legs. It was standing side-on to the tractor, its head turned so it was looking in his direction. Peter dropped back into neutral, cursing mildly under his breath.

  How the hell did that get into the field? And how did it get across the field so quickly?

  He looked over at the other sheep and saw the head he had noticed a few moments earlier. Perhaps that answered one of his questions. Had the man over there somehow let the sheep through the hedge? The head still wasn’t very clear, but he thought it must be a man. Not that it helped to make any sense of the situation, because Peter had checked the hedge. There wasn’t even a gap you could widen sufficiently to let an animal pass. A human might be able to climb the tree that stood in the corner of the field, crossing the barrier in that way. But sheep weren’t noted for their climbing skills.

  As the thought ran through his mind, he glanced at the tree. It was old and dying. No leaves had been seen on its branches since Peter was a boy. They were occupied today, though. Dozens of birds were lined up on them. And their attention seemed to be focused in his direction. Not that they were his concern right now.

  Peter double-checked the handbrake, and made sure the gearbox was still in neutral. Then he opened the cab door and climbed down to the ground. The soil on this side of the tractor had already been ploughed, so as he stepped on to it his wellington boots sank slightly. Unlike his other footwear, Peter hadn’t been able to get wellies that compensated for his short leg, so at the best of times they were awkward to walk in. His lopsided gait was aggravated by the mud clinging to his boots, tugging his feet up with each step. Behind him, the diesel engine ticked over steadily.

  Lodge Farm wasn’t a huge concern by modern standards, but it was big enough, and several men worked there. Peter had demonstrated an aptitude for handling farm equipment well, and carrying out heavy tasks. Contact with the animals was limited as other workers were more adept with them. As a consequence, when he did deal with them, he generally found they were quite wary of him, tending to run away when he approached them. So when the ewe turned and moved away, he wasn’t too surprised. Though it did seem odd that it didn’t rush, and it also kept itself almost exactly in line with the tractor’s path. A dozen or more paces on, and Peter had gained a little ground on it. They were about eight feet apart. The tractor was maybe ten feet behind Peter.

  For a moment, the change in the engine note didn’t register with him. He was distracted by his quarry and the effort it was taking to walk through the mud. He had put an extra few feet between himself and the tractor before he realised something was wrong. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the radiator grille start to move towards him. All concerns for the welfare of the ewe disappeared in an instant.

  Turning to the right, he started to lift his foot. His boot was stuck firmly in the mud. Which was impossible. He hadn’t ploughed that stretch yet. He might have picked up some mud when he walked through the ploughed part, but that wouldn’t be enough to stop him moving. Panicked, he pulled harder and his foot slid out of the wellington. Leaning forward, his stockinged foot landed in the mud and he jerked his other foot clear of its boot. The effort caused him to lose his balance and he landed face down. He knew he didn’t have time to take stock of where he was in relation to the tractor. He just had to get himself as far out of the way as he possibly could.

  Rising to his knees, he started to move forward again. As he lifted himself further, the front wheel struck him. He was halfway between kneeling and standing when he felt the tyre catch the side of his calf. The impact knocked him down and he was helpless as the wheel rolled over his leg.

  The softness of the soil helped. He felt his leg being pushed down into it, which undoubtedly cushioned the effect of the wheel’s weight. It didn’t stop the sharp cracking sound of bones breaking, though. As the wheel rolled clear, he rolled sideways. He wanted to free his shattered legs from the soil, but they barely shifted. He could only watch in horror as the larger rear wheel came towards him. And behind that were the unforgiving blades of the plough.

  Two

  “He doesn’t look familiar.”

  Villages have a reputation for being somewhat insular. And the village pub has done more than its fair share in boosting that reputation. The Major Oak in Ravens Gathering was no exception. When the bus pulled away from the stop on the opposite side of the road, the landlady was the first to see the stranger it had dropped off.

  The half dozen lunchtime regulars followed her lead and looked over their shoulders. Turning back to their beer, they nodded and muttered agreement.

  It would be hard not to agree. A suntanned face wasn’t uncommon among those living on the edge of Sherwood Forest. But if you got it on holiday, it faded rapidly; and if you worked outdoors it might last longer, but usually left a weather beaten look to go with it. One thing you were not going to see from a local, though, was sun-bleached hair. It was safe to say that the man at the bus stop wasn’t from these parts.

  Norma Fuller kept an eye on him as she pulled David Sullivan his first pint. He hadn’t made any attempt to move. Instead he seemed content to simply stand and look around him. From this distance, she couldn’t see the face clearly enough to make out any expression, but she got the impression he was just taking in the view. What the view could be exactly, she didn’t know. The village was pretty much just one long street. A few cul-de-sacs led off that street, but there were no big housing estates, no major businesses. Apart from the pub, the only other places for the villagers to congregate were the church and the Post Office. And surrounding those structures was nothing but farmland and woods.

  There were times when she contemplated the limitations of the village and could understand why her ex had given up on their dream of running a country pub.

  As David counted out his change on the bar, he nodded to an empty stool. “Bob not in yet?”

  “’Aven’t you heard?” The response came from a gnarled and wrinkled old man standing round the corner of the bar. Walter had been retired since before Norma moved to the village, and had looked as if he was eighty then. It was possible that this ravaged appearance had contributed to Frank’s decision that the country life wasn’t for him. There was certainly no doubt that his years as a farm worker hadn’t done his complexion any favours.

  “Heard what?” David asked. From the offhand way he spoke, it was clear he hadn’t heard.

  “’Bout young Peter,” Walter offered – though it wasn’t much of an offering, Norma thought. Tempting as it was to jump in and tell David the news, she knew from past experience that it was better to stay out of it.

  “What? The cripple?”

  Norma winced inwardly. She knew Peter would be mortified to hear himself being defined in such a disparaging way. She
was also shocked to hear David, of all people, talking in those terms.

  “Aye.” A sly glint appeared in Walter’s eye. “Well he definitely is now.”

  Norma held her tongue.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “’Ad an accident with a plough this mornin’.” There was something almost malicious about the way Walter spoke. She knew he had a dark sense of humour, but this just seemed twisted. “But the Devil loves his own,” he went on, though how he could connect Satan and Peter was beyond Norma. “Seems Bob had to go out near where the lad was workin’, and he saw the tractor just standin’ there doing nothin’. Well, you know what Bob’s like. Don’t like to see his workers idlin’. So he went to find out what the lad was up to.” Walter stopped and took a long draw on his pint. Norma wasn’t sure whether all this talk had dried his throat, or if he was just pausing for effect. She suspected the latter, but busied herself straightening bar towels.

  “Well get on with it,” said David impatiently.

  Walter put his glass down and sneered. It was fair to say that the banter at the bar did sometimes cross the line, but Norma couldn’t recall such an obvious display of antagonism between these two before. As Walter continued, Norma wondered if he only did so because he was getting so much pleasure from the tale he was telling.

  “The tractor ’ad run over the lad’s legs, and the plough ripped ’em to shreds.” Walter’s smirk was barely concealed. “’E’s still alive, but it don’t look like e’ll be needing them special shoes any more.”

  “Hang on!” David said, apparently spotting a hole in the old man’s tale. “How could the tractor’ve run him over if it was standing still?”

  “Don’t know. Perhaps it’d run into the ’edge.”

  “Don’t be daft! It’d just go through the thing and keep going.”

  Walter shrugged as if it was of no interest to him, which it probably wasn’t. All he seemed to be concerned with were the gory details. As he began to demonstrate. “I ’eard there was blood everywhere. And they’ll be picking bits o’ bone and flesh off the shares for weeks, I reckon.”

  Norma couldn’t listen to any more. She opened her mouth to say something as Walter continued: “Always thought e’d come to a sticky...” But his words tailed off as he stared past her.

  As one, everyone in the bar turned to see what he was looking at. In the doorway stood the man from the bus stop.

  Three

  The new arrival brought silence to the bar as the landlady and regulars took stock. He was tall, but not tall enough to worry about the low beams. Norma guessed a shade under six feet. His hair came to his neckline, and looked clean, so he wasn’t a hippy or a greasy biker type. It was more of a surfer look - an impression that was reinforced by his physique. Although he was wearing a leather jacket, and beneath that a plaid, lumberjack style shirt, she could see a strong outline of his chest and no sign of a belly straining over his belt. His jeans clung to his thighs as well, leaving no doubt that he was in great shape. She might be an honorary local, but Norma wasn’t averse to looking beyond the village boundaries for male company. And this one would do very nicely. It was just a shame she was probably old enough to be his mother. Still, that wouldn’t worry her if it didn’t bother him.

  “Afternoon, love,” she said breezily. “What can I get you?”

  As the conversation among the regulars recommenced, she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement at the obvious appraisal he had received from everyone in the room? she wondered. Or...

  “Well, that depends on my options.” He was standing at the bar now, and looking directly at her. There was humour in his eyes, and something else that she couldn’t quite define. The opening shots had been fired on both sides, and there was plenty of scope for banter and double-entendres. Norma was a past master at both, and revelled in suggestive remarks – both giving and receiving. Yet she suddenly felt her enthusiasm drain away. The stranger was playing a part, going through the motions. His response had been smooth, well practiced. And empty.

  “We can start with whether you want food or drink,” she suggested.

  He nodded slightly, an acknowledgement that the flirting was over. But he kept smiling, so Norma knew he hadn’t taken offence at her sudden about-face.

  “Or are you just ’ere for directions?” Walter interjected from the corner.

  The stranger turned his head to look at him. It was an easy, relaxed movement. He smiled, and Norma could see an even set of teeth. Against his tanned skin, they looked as if they belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

  “No,” he reassured the old man, “I don’t need any directions.” His attention returned to Norma. “I take it when you asked if I wanted food or drink, you didn’t mean I could only have one or the other?” The smile and the eyes were still playful. It was tempting to offer him “the other”, but she knew it would be a waste of time.

  “We do serve both if you want them,” she confirmed.

  “Good.” A nod to one of the beer pumps. “I’ll have a pint of lager while I’m studying the menu.”

  “You won’t even get through an ’alf looking at the menu ’ere.”

  This time he ignored Walter’s attempts to include himself in the conversation, though he did pick up on the comment. “I take it your lunchtime offerings aren’t extensive,” he said to Norma, who had just placed a pint glass under the tap.

  “Shepherds pie or a Ploughman’s,” she confessed, pressing a button. The glass began to fill.

  “Just right for a farming community,” he said, though she realised there was no relevance to his remark. It was as if he just felt a need to respond with something that at least sounded witty.

  “You want to be careful of the Ploughman’s today,” Walter said, and Norma could tell that he was looking for an opportunity to retell his story about Peter Salthouse.

  “Where do you want to sit?” she asked hurriedly. “I’ll bring your drink to you.”

  As the stranger looked around the room, Walter carried on. “Have you heard about the accident on Lodge Farm?”

  Distractedly, the stranger looked at Norma and nodded to a corner near the window. To Walter he said: “Yes I have. Awful, wasn’t it?” And before the old man could say anything more, he was moving towards the table he had indicated.

  Having turned away from the bar, Norma could now see the rucksack he had over his shoulder. She’d noticed a strap earlier, though it had blended well with the brown of his jacket. The rucksack was a large one though. He wasn’t just on a day trip. The bag slid from his shoulder and was dropped casually at the side of the table as he sat down, his back to the wall.

  His attention had turned to the street by the time Norma brought his drink to him, offering little opportunity for Walter – or anyone else for that matter – to engage him in conversation. Not that anyone else was likely to get involved. They had long since returned to their own conversations. And David had taken the chance to join two fellow drinkers, so he didn’t have to listen to any more from Walter. The old man was standing in his usual spot, nursing his pint and keeping a watchful eye on their visitor.

  Against Walter’s advice, he had the Ploughman’s. Norma wasn’t sure if he was making a statement, or just didn’t like microwaved food.

  He was half way through his meal when Colin Gates came into the pub.

  The weekday lunchtime crowd was primarily made up of retired people. Lodge Farm took up most of the land immediately behind The Major Oak. Bob Lambert was a man who liked his routines, and tended to work the various parts of his farm at set times on set days. So he would find himself working close to the main entrance every Monday and Thursday. And on those days he had made part of his routine a stop off at the pub for lunch. For a Ploughman’s, as chance would have it. But Normal kept that to herself, and hoped that Walter wouldn’t remember what Bob was missing while he was at the hospital with Peter.

  So, Bob was one of the few exceptions. And Colin was another.

/>   Compared to the rest of the drinkers, Colin was a child – and not just because he was only in his mid-twenties. When Norma had first arrived in the village, he had still been at primary school. Based on his mental capacity, she reckoned that’s where he should be now. He wasn’t completely retarded, but he was certainly out of his depth if he wasn’t supervised.

  Most days he stayed at home on his own. His family were all at work, and Colin hadn’t found any employment yet. Like most of the village, Norma suspected that his parents were reluctant to let him work, because his options were limited. He could work on the land, which would allow him to be relatively close to home. The incident with Peter today was evidence of the potential dangers there. Or he could look further afield. The most likely place to go would be Westfield, a market town about twelve miles away. But someone like Colin wouldn’t last five minutes in a town. He had a hard enough time here.

  Colin didn’t so much walk up to the bar as bounce. His legs had a rubbery quality that meant his head seemed to bob up and down as he moved. In Norma’s experience, he had two expressions. A broad smile that looked as if it must become painful after a while, and a frown that suggested complete and utter bewilderment. Right now the former was in play.

  “Hello, Mrs Fuller!” Inevitably, he still spoke to most of the adults with the respect offered by a young child. If only more of his age group could do the same. His voice was loud. Not so much that you had to tense when he opened his mouth, but you were always aware of him when he said anything, even if it was complete rubbish.