“You can't do this!” babbled Danny, as Parker dragged him through the hedge.
“Do be careful, Parker, there's a good fellow,” admonished Kneen. “We don't want the meat to be damaged, do we? And we most certainly can do this. I own half of this Island, thanks to the riches the Deep Ones have showered upon me and my family in return for our long lifetimes of service. All the official bodies are in my pocket, and if anyone was to get too nosey, they'd simply end up the same way you have. Don't flatter yourself and imagine that you're the first, Mr Kennaugh. Though you are the first to have the audacity to commence your snooping from my own cottage, I'll grant you that point. But if it makes you feel any better, you've managed to save a couple of wallabies by taking their place. Congratulations.”
By now, Danny had been deposited alongside the fire pit, where the other cowled figures were looking at him with greedy anticipation. To his dismay, he recognised Mrs Clague and her daughter Clare among them. The old lady beamed and gave him a little wave. “Hello, Mr Kennaugh. We popped over to let Mr Kneen know when you were on your way. We're very much looking forward to tucking into you!”
“You knew I was coming?” spluttered Danny.
“Of course we did,” said Kneen. “In fact, once you started interfering, we made damn sure you'd wind up here, prompting you and telling you all you needed to know along the way.” He indicated another hooded acolyte with a sweep of his hand, who pulled back his cowl to reveal Mark Williams. He gave Danny an apologetic shrug.
“Come along now,” said Kneen, very business-like. “Let's get those limbs off and cauterise the stumps. Put the arms and legs on skewers after they've been fried to seal in the juices. While they're being cooked, impale the torso and season it ready for slow roasting.”
Danny's eyes were wide with terror as the knives drew nearer to him. Kneen spoke to him one last time, saying, “We would sedate you, but it spoils the flavour of the meat. Also, the Deep Ones have nurtured a love of cruelty in all of their followers, so we really would prefer to see you suffer.”
· The Fallow Field
Old Man Kelly's back field had lain fallow for as long as anyone could remember. His turnips grew sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, but never in that old back field in the middle. His sheep grazed up on the hills and down by the sea, but never in that old back field. The grass grew and the nettles grew and the thistles grew, and maybe once a year Old Man Kelly would get his lads to trim the growth down a bit. Then it would lie empty and forgotten once more.
“It's not just a recent state of affairs,” said Chris Joughin down the pub. “My granddad always told me to stay well away from that field. It's been left fallow for generations.”
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “Old Man Kelly says the crop that one day grows there will be the like as has never been seen before.”
“Old Man Kelly spouts some shit!” scoffed Eddie Bell, and they all joined in the laughter.
But Old Man Kelly had been a crooked old man, who had preferred his own company and never married. For generations, the farm had passed down from father to son, but one day Old Man Kelly inevitably died, and he had no heir.
His relatives were all distant and in business. None of them had the time nor inclination to take on an old farm with antiquated equipment and crumbling walls. So the executors of the estate put the land up for sale, the proceeds to be split between the beneficiaries. All agreed that it was a sad day when the farm left the family hands, but none were willing to do anything about it.
“Old Man Kelly's dead,” said Chris Joughin down the pub. “He was a cussed old bugger, but he'll be missed. One of the last of his generation.”
“End of an era,” agreed Billy Quirk.
“I believe it's some family from Wales that's bought the place,” said Eddie Bell, who always knew everybody else's business. “At least it'll still be a working farm, which is something, I suppose.”
It was indeed a Welsh family who had bought the property: Ted Griffiths from Snowdonia, together with his wife Mary and their sons Rob and Pete. Ted had worked on farms all his life, and his sons had recently followed his example. When Mary had inherited a very large sum of money from her parents, the family had decided to invest it in a farm of their own. Ballacthulhagh, Old Man Kelly's place on the Isle of Man, had seemed like a perfect spot. It was a working farm, but needed modernisation, so they would be able to make their mark. The papers were duly signed, the money exchanged, and they arrived on the Isle of Man with two vans containing their belongings in early July.
The farm had been kept going by the executors, who knew that it had more value if working. They had therefore retained a skeleton staff, sufficient to care for the animals and carry out the basic duties around the property. Ted immediately negotiated new contracts with the men and took a couple of the other old farmhands back on. Although he and his sons were willing to work hard, they would need plenty of help in these early days. It wasn't just a matter of the farm work: there was quite a lot of renovation and repair work to be done.
“I see that Welsh fellow is making his mark up at Ballacthulhagh,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “He's replaced most of the fences and started rebuilding the old walls. Place'll soon be as good as new at this rate. Old Man Kelly did let it slide a bit, you have to admit.”
“Wonder what they're going to do with that funny old back field?” wondered Eddie Bell.
It was over lunch in the farmhouse that Ted broached the subject with Davey Quine, one of his farmhands who had worked with Old Man Kelly for more than twenty years.
“Davey, that old field out the back is in a disgraceful state, full of thistles,” said Ted. “What did Mr Kelly used to use it for?”
“He didn't use it at all,” said Davey, between mouthfuls of Mary's home-baked bread. “Nor did his father, nor his father before him. He just used to let it lie. Never did say why. If you ask me, he was a little bit superstitious about it, as if he thought it would be bad luck to plant or graze in it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn't any business of us farm workers, of course, we just did what we were told, and left Old Man Kelly to his weird ways.”
“Well, fortunately I'm not a superstitious man,” said Ted. “I want you to take Pete with you this afternoon: take the tractor back there and get those thistles and other undergrowth cut down.”
“Whatever you say,” nodded Davey.
“I see they went and cut down all the weeds and things in Old Man Kelly's fallow field,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “Davey Quine was telling me they're going to be grazing sheep on it.”
“It'll be tasty grass for 'em, that,” said Eddie Bell. “It hasn't been cut for generations; there'll be a power of goodness and energy in it.”
Once the thistles and nettles – taller than a man – had been cut down, the grass that lay between them was indeed lush, deep green and very, very sweet. The sheep gorged themselves happily.
“This is fantastic,” Ted said to his two sons. “We'll have the fattest, most contented sheep on the Island at this rate.”
“It's a pity not all the fields are like this one,” laughed Rob. “Some of them are pretty scrappy”
“Scrappy or not, they all need to be worked,” said Ted, “otherwise we'll end up just like Old Man Kelly. Come on, lads.”
“Those sheep of Ted Griffiths' are mighty fine beasts, with thick wool and plenty of meat on them,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “Dare say he'll win a few prizes with those at the Agricultural Show.”
“Wonder what his secret is,” added Eddie Bell. “Old Man Kelly never had any sheep like that. What's he been feeding them?”
Ted looked around the scene of devastation. His brow was furrowed with worry, his face a mask of sorrow. “Dear God,” he muttered. “What on earth happened?”
He stood in the midst of carnage. D
ead sheep were lying all around him. Their legs were stretched out at bizarre angles, as if trying to reach out for help. Their faces had strangled expressions, eyes bulging and tongues lolling out. Their stomachs were bloated and torn, blown apart from the inside. Blood and intestines lay in gory heaps, spilling out of the dead sheep.
“It doesn't seem to be any kind of illness that I'm familiar with,” said the vet, Sam Walker, shaking his head in bafflement as he examined the bodies. “Their bellies just seem to have bloated up and burst violently open as a huge pressure built within them.”
“What could cause such a thing?” asked Ted.
“I really don't know,” said Sam. “Not yet, at any rate. At first appearance, there doesn't seem to be anything in their stomachs that they may have eaten which could cause anything like this. I'll do some thorough tests, of course, and try to get back to you before the end of the week. In the meantime, keep the rest of the sheep from this flock isolated from the others, just in case.”
“Poor old Ted Griffiths, losing all those sheep. Wonder what could have caused it,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “They were some of his best ones too, the biggest and the fattest.”
“And you know what that means: they'd all been grazing on Old Man Kelly's fallow field,” said Eddie Bell.
This same fact had occurred to Rob and Pete, who asked their father if the field could be contaminated in some way over dinner that night.
“No,” said Ted decisively. “I'd thought of that, but it just doesn't add up. How could the field be contaminated when it's been lying fallow for generations? And we haven't lost all the sheep who grazed there, just about half of them. The others are all flourishing, getting fatter, woollier and healthier by the day.”
“That's true enough,” conceded Rob grudgingly, “but the fact remains that every single sheep who died grazed in that field.”
“Which doesn't necessarily imply anything about the field itself,” insisted Ted. “It just means that these sheep were all in close proximity. If this is some kind of disease, it would explain how it spread among those particular sheep, without having to consider any ridiculous mythical curse.”
“So it was some sort of worms that caused the sheep to burst? I never heard tell of anything like that before,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “So the vet says. Some sort of rare worm that enters the gut and attacks the bloodstream. Causes the sheep to literally swell up till they pop.”
“Well, Sam Walker would be the man to know,” said Eddie Bell. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I wonder if there's any more of the buggers about?”
Ted was in Sam Walker's clinic, looking with distaste at the red, rubbery mass the vet was pushing around in a petri dish.
“Every sheep who died was infested with these worms,” Sam explained. “They were concentrated in the stomach lining, and feeding from the bloodstream. But they seemed to be regurgitating and excreting almost continually, and this caused an infection. The surrounding matter became inflamed and swollen and huge quantities of noxious gas were produced. Ultimately, the poor creatures' stomachs simply couldn't keep it all contained.”
“What about the rest of the flock?” asked Ted, concerned.
“I'm testing them all, of course,” said Sam. “That goes without saying. And in the meantime, I'm administering general worming treatments to every sheep. Don't let them mingle any more than they already have. But these are just precautions, I'm sure we've managed to nip this in the bud and there should be few, if any, repeat instances.”
“No more exploding sheep up Ted Griffiths' way,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“No,” agreed Billy Quirk. “Davey Quine says it's all gone quiet up there this week.”
“That won't last,” said Eddie Bell. “You mark my words.”
“So what have you found, Sam?” asked Ted as he accompanied the vet into his clinic. It was now some weeks after the dreadful incident.
“There were no traces of the worms in any of your other sheep, you'll be pleased to know.”
“Thank the Lord for that,” said Ted with evident relief. “It was hard enough to get the insurance to pay out once, let alone if we had a repeat occurrence..”
“I'm glad I'm able to give you such good news,” said Sam. “There is something else I want to show you, however. Come with me, you really need to see this.”
“What have you got for me?” asked Ted, as he followed Sam to a table at the rear of the clinic. There were a few small glass cases, similar to goldfish tanks, covered over with towels, upon the table.
“Just take a look,” said Sam grimly, as he reached forward and pulled the towels away.
Ted blanched and recoiled, repelled by what he saw. The tanks contained swollen, segmented worms, eight or nine inches long and bloated two inches thick. Their skin, blood red in colour, rippled obscenely and sprouted coarse black hairs. Their front section had sharp-looking mandibles, sufficient to deliver a very unpleasant bite.
“Good God, what are they?” Ted asked thickly, trying to control his gag reflex.
“Believe it or not, those are some of the worms we removed from the stomach lining of the dead sheep,” said Sam. “The thing is, they were tiny then, almost invisible to the naked eye. They've kept growing, and growing, and growing. We haven't fed them, they just keep swelling larger and larger.” One of the foul worms beat its mandibles against the glass. Sam replaced the towels and after a moment the beating stopped. “They're also quite aggressive,” he said. “We're transporting half of these to Liverpool for proper study. The remainder will be incinerated. I honestly think they're too dangerous to keep.”
“Where the hell did things like that come from?” asked Ted. “Are they tropical, arrived here in a bunch of bananas or something?”
“I don't know where they came from,” said Sam, “and I'm not willing to hazard a guess. They don't appear in any text books or reference works that I've consulted. Maybe the people at Liverpool can let us know more. Their unique properties has given me a very disturbing notion, though.”
“Go on,” sighed Ted, “you might as well tell me the worst.”
“Well, I'd been operating under the assumption that the worm infestation had led to an infection that had caused the sheep to swell and rupture,” said Sam. “But consider this: what if one or more of these worms had grown to this size – or larger – inside the sheeps' stomachs and then chewed their way to freedom, literally eating their way out? You might have some worms larger than these ones somewhere on your land, Ted. I hope I'm wrong, but...”
“I know,” said Ted. “It's better to be safe than sorry. I'll get back and organise Davey and the lads to have a thorough search.”
“They've had search parties out at Ballacthulhagh. Christ alone knows what they're looking for,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “I asked Davey Quine what was up, but he was holding his tongue about it.”
“I guarantee you one thing,” said Eddie Bell. “Whatever they're looking for, they'll find it at Old Man Kelly's fallow field.”
Ted, Rob and Pete were standing with Davey in the old back field, examining the soil. The field was still thick with grass, which made it difficult to see the details, but there could be no doubt that the soil had been disturbed and turned over, with strange, coiled dirt mounds, similar to worm casts, evident in several areas.
“There's no doubt about it,” said Ted with a grimace. “Those damned worm things must have burrowed into the soil here.”
“How many of them do you think there are?” asked Pete nervously.
“A dozen dead sheep: a dozen worms, minimum,” said Ted.
“So what are we going to do about them?” demanded Rob. “Dig them out?”
“No,” said Ted decisively. “That'll take too long and be too risky. You haven't seen those things, and I wouldn't want to be in close quarter
s with one of them. You're half right, though, Rob. It's just that we'll dig them out in a faster, more useful way.”
“I saw Rob Griffiths attaching the plough to his tractor on my way here,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “And it's the old fallow field he's going to be ploughing.”
“Look out, here comes trouble,” said Eddie Bell.
Rob ploughed the field quickly and efficiently, the great steel blades he towed behind him reaping and tearing at the soil. Earth which had not seen the light of day for decades was turned over and found itself on the surface. Rob drove methodically back and forth, ploughing the field by sections.
When he had finished and was preparing to remove the plough from its hitching on the tractor, Pete came to see him.
“Looks like you got quite a lot of them,” he said. “There are bits of squished red worm in quite a few of the furrows.”
“I hope I got all of them,” snarled Rob. “Horrible ruddy things! D'you reckon they've been living here beneath the soil in this field all along? That the sheep picked up the infection when they grazed here?”
“Seems likely,” said Pete. “But they've gone now, and we can grow our vegetables here.”
“Well, they've gone and ploughed up the old fallow field, for all that,” said Chris Joughin down the pub.
“Aye,” agreed Billy Quirk. “They're planting spuds in it now.”
The Eldritch Isle Page 17