by Tony Moyle
Drastic action was required. For most of All Saints’ Day, the day before the hunt would sweep through the forest, Chambard had set to work on digging a very large hole. Once the crater was finished he piled thin branches over the top and layered it with foliage so it blended invisibly with the forest floor. Then for the rest of the day he chased families of boar into the area and mostly just knackered himself out.
Acting like a man being chased by a murderous mob, he’d crash unannounced into their midst, shout and scream at the top of his voice, flap his hands like they were on fire and stomp up and down. Then the boar ran, usually faster than him and not in the direction he hoped. At the end of the day he finally succeeded, although success was a relative term. At the bottom of a six-foot-deep hole was one extremely agitated boar. It looked rather more capable of being a sitting duck for an archer than it was ripping through Savoie and making horses bolt.
All night Chambard watched over this disgruntled beast wondering what to do with it next. Two massive teeth protruded from its muscular head. Its eyes shone red in the night, piercing the soul like a beast from the underworld. Its huge, muscular body sat on feeble hind legs as if its evolution never expected threats from behind. If this animal was ever to seek employment it would make a first-class battering ram.
After the boar’s initial and obvious displeasure at being held captive in a boar-shaped crypt had waned, it sat on its withered back legs glaring menacingly at its captor as if to taunt him into action and knowing full well that it was fully in control. It hadn’t escaped the boar’s senses that the human had no weapons, and if he had planned to kill him it would have already happened.
Chambard agreed with the beast’s assessment. Success wasn’t restricting the beast to a muddy grave, it was releasing the damn thing at a very precise moment and then coercing it into charging at the right person. He considered how long it would take, and whether it was even possible to train a boar. Too long.
“Ok,” said Chambard unconvincingly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
‘Oh sure,’ thought the boar. ‘Because you humans are all so honest, aren’t you? Tell that to my cousin, Bert, whose head is probably being used as a posh jug.’
“I just need to get you on this lead,” added Chambard, holding up a piece of cord he’d tied into a loop at one end. It looked far more like a noose than it did a collar.
The boar’s expression remained stern.
“So, I’m just going to come down there and place it round your neck, ok? Nothing to worry about.”
‘If you put so much as a finger in this hole,’ thought the boar, ‘I will be forced to perforate your face.’
Chambard lowered a toe over the edge of the hole and the boar grunted aggressively, instantly sending the toe back to its starting position. Chambard didn’t speak boar, but quite by chance he’d translated the beast’s warning entirely accurately.
“I’ll come down there when you’re asleep,” threatened Chambard.
The boar shrugged nonchalantly to indicate his lack of concern.
“Come on, you’re smarter than a hairy pig,” Chambard scolded himself. “Phil’s relying on you. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Plenty. Boar attacks were common and painful. Death was a possibility but a more likely side effect was a permanently high-pitched voice and less than the regulation number of fingers. No one had ever reported the best-case scenario, a boar rolling on its back so you could tickle its tummy.
“Just go down there and show him who’s boss,” Chambard remonstrated with himself. “You’re better than a big, hairy pig!”
The boar scoffed, but instantly regretted it. The next moment a fifteen-stone, five-foot human had thrown itself into the hole and body checked the boar with all the finesse of an epileptic wrestler.
*****
The hunt was in full flow. A medium-sized hart was the target. Progress had been delayed so that someone could count the number of points on its antlers. Not easy to do when a deer is rather more fond of hiding or running away than being chased by dogs. There was deep debate over one of its smaller antlers. Was it an independent point or part of one of the other antlers? These things are important. No one wanted the shame of returning home with a nine-antlered deer.
The nobility prepared themselves for the final part of the hunt now all the hard work had been done. All the damned chasing through the forest, getting sweaty and tired, was someone else’s job. Like a general showing up at the end of a battle only to find that most of his troops had been slaughtered and the only thing they had to show for it was a rather lovely flag, the nobles were only interested in the highlights.
Lines of falcons, tethered to long, wooden beams, bobbed and squawked excitedly as they heard the assembly of people and horses around them. Blinded by their head caps, their exceptional hearing would be enough to draw them in the right direction. A series of horns echoed through the trees to indicate the position of the huntsmen and the narrowing space of their prey. Men mounted their horses, swung quivers over their backs or grabbed spears from racks.
Claude was assisted onto his stead by his two squires, one of whom was holding a shield in the air for him.
“I don’t need a shield, boy. This is a hunt not a fight.”
“I think it would be wise, sir.”
“Wise? I’ll be a laughing stock. The only man frightened to face a moderately sized deer.”
“I have been advised it’s for your own safely, my lord,” said the squire undeterred.
“By whom exactly?”
“Michel.”
Claude’s expression of jest immediately dissolved. A squire could be ignored, but a seer could not. Particularly if you were the type of person who believed in their power, as he did. Even if there was the smallest risk it would be wise indeed not to ignore it.
“Strange that he did not tell me personally.”
“I can’t comment on that, sir.”
“Are you sure it was Nostradamus?”
“Old bloke, tidy beard, strikes a ridiculous pose every time he says his name…”
Claude grabbed the shield and mounted it on his saddle within close reach in case it should be needed.
“My lord, are you ready?” said Jacques, who was waiting to blow a trumpet to signal to the advanced party that the hunt was on the move.
“Blow away, my boy.”
The party trotted off at a casual pace, not wanting to scare away their quarry before they were in reach. Jacques and Claude rode abreast as the others spread out in a perimeter around the kill zone.
“What news of the imposter?” said Jacques.
“I will know tomorrow. Then he will have to choose whether to work with us or perish.”
“Are you sure this is the right course of action? If we send him back to Paris he might double-cross us?”
“We’ll take precautions to stop that possibility. Recent reprisals against Protestant clergy here in the South tell me the tide is turning. We must learn more of the Queen’s intentions and the plans of those who advise the King.”
“But what leverage do we have against this man? How do we know he will do as we demand?”
“As I said we will take precautions. You and Annabelle are going, too.”
“Me! Go to Paris?” said Jacques, bringing his horse to a temporary and sudden stop.
“Yes.”
“But that’s highly irregular, my lord: my place lies here.”
“You’re a soldier, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“And we are at war, are we not? It may not be the type you are used to fighting, but it’s a war nonetheless. So be a soldier.”
“But Annabelle, why?”
“Because I thought you’d want to be with her. Call it your honeymoon present.”
“What use will she be,” he said disparagingly.
“Don’t underestimate her, Jacques. She’s stronger than you realise.”
“She’s just a woman. No m
atch for a man in any way and with any deed.”
“I’d like to see you push a baby out of you,” said Claude, immediately finding the flaw in his statement.
One after another a series of loud horn blasts filled their ears. The final push had been signalled.
“Now for the fun part,” said Claude, kicking the side of his stead and sending it into a canter.
The hart was on the move. It bounded back and forth between the dense trees as the dogs forced it back into the centre. It was imperative to keep the hart confined and tired to make life easier for the hunter. Claude advanced. The first kill would belong to him. The yapping dogs surrounded the tired beast and all that remained was for one final blow to put the beast out of its misery. Claude raised his spear ready to strike.
A loud and angry grunt broke his concentration. A second later a wild boar careered through the bushes and into their midst. It didn’t stop. It was much more interested in escape than confrontation. To the hunt’s surprise there was a rope tied around its neck and the long tail of it dragged along the ground behind it like an untethered boat leaving port. If they hadn’t been distracted by the unusual behaviour of the hog they might have been more aware of the fat man poleaxed to the floor on the other side of the bushes nursing rope burns on his hands and panting heavily.
Chambard had failed. The hunt’s reaction had been intrigue rather than chaos. After days of trials and tribulations to get the boar where he wanted at the right moment, the beast had broken free. The catalyst for this was evident. Above Chambard’s flattened frame a hart of epic size was blocking out the light. The significance of the number of points on its antlers was lost on him because his attention was drawn to the four hooves which were about to use him as a doormat.
The hart leapt magnificently over Chambard and the hedge into the middle of the hunt. For a moment everything was peaceful as the hart grabbed their attention. Unconcerned by the situation, it firstly posed serenely by rearing its head in the air and letting out a deafening call. Then it got angry. Whether it was the commotion of the boar’s retreat, the realisation that the men were attacking one of its own or just its own cantankerous disposition, it bowed its head, raked the ground with its hooves and bolted with speed towards the hunters. Some of the horses bolted, depositing surprised mounts to the ground and painfully onto their rear ends.
The hart took aim at the first in line. One of the party raised a spear to defend Claude from the onslaught only to see it shatter like a pane of glass against the deer’s tough hide. Quick-witted, Claude raised the shield stashed on his saddle just in time. An antler pierced the wooden shield, coming to rest inches from Claude’s eyes, before being ripped from his grasp as the hart charged through the throng.
- Chapter 18 -
A Bump in the Night
The formula to a successful horror movie is very simple. There are several key components. Firstly it’s imperative to place a hysterical, naïve, and attractive young woman in an inexplicable position of harm with nothing more for protection than a faulty flashlight and a skimpy Halloween costume. Set it at night to make it even more spooky, preferably one with plenty of fog and a full moon that looks larger than if it were viewed through the Hubble Telescope. Next terrorise said young woman with multiple suggestive signs that something horrifying wants to kill her for no other reason than she once spurned the monster’s advances or said something nasty about it.
The location must be the sort of everyday place that any member of the general public might find themselves in. Maybe a hotel in the middle of nowhere, the business idea of a person desperate to bankrupt themselves. Or a graveyard, because who doesn’t like to spend their free time in one: great spot for a picnic. Or maybe a mental institution, even though if you stopped a hundred people in the street not a single person could point to their nearest one. Or perhaps a deserted space station, one that bears almost no similarities to any of the actual linked dustbin cans we’ve fired into orbit over the past fifty years. Or place the protagonist in a small forest just outside Lyon.
Then fill the plot with as many implausible scenes as possible, particularly those where the lead character lacks any basic common sense whatsoever. Of course it’s logical to follow a suspected mass murderer into a spooky house where strangely none of the lights work. Who wouldn’t try to help if they saw an unrecognisable body lying on the floor who looked anything but injured? And yes, anyone who was being chased by a murderous axe-wielding fiend would do so in high heels in a style of running that resembled someone with their legs tied together at the ankles.
Finally make absolutely nothing in the protagonist’s life work. Mobile phones, car engines, window frames, shotguns, speedboats, keys, shoes, speech, and lifts will all catastrophically fail for no apparent reason other than you hired the world’s most incompetent handyman. Include an eerie violin-based soundtrack, lots of false alarms, plenty of blood and hey presto, instant classic.
It was just this sort of film that Gabriel enjoyed and it was safe to say she’d learnt nothing useful from them.
The lights on the Renault made one final flicker before plunging the small forest into darkness. While the car’s heart had stopped beating its body still rocked gently from side to side. What horror was about to befall her? Were desperate mobs marauding through Limonest in search of vital resources to mitigate the apocalypse? Had bird flu turned everyone into murderous, bloodthirsty ghouls? Or was it just the doggers again? She knew which one sent shivers down her spine the most. No one wanted to witness the horror of a wrinkly old bum going up and down in the air while another hideous creature moaned desperately underneath it.
An owl hooted menacingly. Was that its natural late-night call or had someone recruited the secretive bird to add a realistically haunting sound bed to their cruel game? Whatever happened next she knew it was best to stay in the car. In these situations, never go and look. Doing so would be as predictable as attempting to retrieve a ball of wool from a pack of angry kittens and losing all your skin.
In the rear-view mirror a flicker of light caught her eye. It was coming from within the caravan. What did she do now? The caravan contained all the vital supplies she needed to survive for at least another afternoon. If they were stolen she’d have to replace them, and that meant potential contact with those with the infection. Surely a prepper was meant to be prepared for such events. It was time to crack open the bravery. She grabbed the golf club from the back seat, ignored everything she’d ever seen in the movies and quietly eased the car door open.
Before stepping out into the drizzle she zipped up her extravagantly and expensive fake fur coat and unfurled the ear warmers on her trapper-style hat. If there were gangs of hoodlums waiting for her in the shadows, she wouldn’t take long to be spotted in white wellington boots that illuminated every footstep. She squelched the three or four metres towards the caravan, stopping at the door to listen for signs of intruders. There were no voices, but she thought she heard some overaggressive sipping. Out of nowhere a bat dive-bombed her position and she spontaneously reacted by burying the end of the golf club into the mud with the force of a thousand tee shots. Whatever or whoever was in the caravan they couldn’t be worse than blood sucking bats.
Making a noise that was part squirrel being electrocuted and part reversing delivery lorry, she burst through the fragile plastic door brandishing the golf club in front of her. A large lump of Beaujolais mud was stuck to the end, rendering her weapon useless other than to returf a lawn. Under the dim light of a mobile phone Ally Oldfield and Antoine Palomer were sitting at the caravan’s removable table drinking mugs of tea.
“Whatever you want, take it, just don’t harm me…I’m too pretty!” yelled Gabriel, still inadvertently flicking mud around the place and unable to open her eyes to the gruesome fate that awaited her.
Antoine and Ally looked up casually from their drinks. It was difficult to be surprised by an event you’d seen coming for the last thirty minutes. Having made the decision
to seek sanctuary in the only dry place they could find, the wrecked caravan, they’d already seen the young blonde woman in the car huddled up in a ball. Five minutes ago they’d watched her emerge from the Renault like the world’s smallest wookie was setting off for a spot of early morning golf practice. In fact not only had they seen it unfold they’d even planned for it.
“Cup of tea?” said Ally, holding a third mug out towards her.
Gabriel slowly opened one eye to find a smartly dressed pensioner and a stout, sour-looking middle-aged woman offering her refreshments. That didn’t happen in the movies.
“Tea?” she said in surprise. “Where did you get that?”
“Second cupboard to the right under the sink,” replied Ally.
Gabriel, desperate for anything that might lower her raging blood pressure, grabbed the mug and retreated a few paces. “But it’s got milk in it.”
“Sorry,” replied Antoine. “Obviously we didn’t know how you took it, what with not knowing who you are and all that. If you prefer it without I can make you another one.”
“No, it’s fine. I always drink it with milk…but where did you get it from? Are the shops still open?”
“Um…the fridge,” said Antoine opening a door near to him to present a fairly well stocked mini-fridge that doubled up as additional light for the caravan.
“I have a fridge!” Gabriel replied in shock.
“What are you doing out here?” asked Ally, noticing almost at once that Gabriel out of place, whatever it was she was trying to accomplish.
“Me? What are you doing here!?” replied Gabriel, batting the question back at them. “This is my caravan.”
“Forgive our impertinence my dear,” replied Antoine apologetically. “We were seeking somewhere to spend the night and happened upon what we thought was an empty and unlocked caravan.”
“Oh, you disgust me. At your age!” blurted Gabriel, pulling the facial expression that only a young person can make when they imagine old people having sex. “You two were going to bump uglies, weren’t you?”