Old Flames

by Dewi Griffiths

  Hands over his eyes. "Carole?". She removes her hands. "Where did you go?" She smiles provocatively, taking him by the hand and leading him up the hill into the grove.

  Pulling him by the hand up the steep slope. Already the trees here are different. The space between the trees is natural, not regimented. Hardwoods. Leafy. The sun's rays reaching through the leaves to the ground. Warming everything. Bird song. Life. She leads him climbing towards the top of the hill. A light mist rolling in up there. Sammy barks from somewhere nearby.

  She runs off ahead entering a circular clearing amongst the trees as if she knew it was there. She spins around in the sunshine, and the circling leafy skyline above her head becomes like a kaleidoscope. She laughs like a child.

  He looks on, seeing the thin figure spin and dance against the sky. Long dark hair flying, catching the light. He steps closer. She grabs him, wrapping her arms around him. Spinning him around. Falling to the ground. Rolling on the mossy earth. Over and over. His blonde locks entwining with her dark hair as they roll.

  She pulls off his shirt straddling him. Kissing him. Biting him. Undoing breeches. Pulling them off. The mist rolling down the hillside engulfing them. Black hair on blonde as they kiss. He pulls open her dress. Cries as their bodies entwine. Moans and gasps deadened by the mist as it flows down the hillside.

  A sound nearby. She stops moving. Pushing her finger to the boy's lips. He looks at her questioningly. The sound of barking in the mist now. Distant. But getting closer. Mari sits up, she pushes Owain's away. "Ssshhh!!" She looks around desperately into the mist as the barking of the dog gets louder. A branch snaps. Ifan's dark figure appears in the mist with the dog. "Ifan!"

  Carole snaps back to her senses. Pushing Geraint away. Climbing to her feet. Pulling on her clothes. Confused. Looking around desperately for the source of the barking.

  "What’s wrong?" Geraint shaking his head to clear it.

  Carole trying to get some focus. Oh God, she was having sex with Geraint again. What the hell was she thinking? This had to stop. But its too late! "He's here!"

  "Who?"

  "Him! We’ve got to get out of here!"

  The barking gets closer, it could be from anywhere in the disorienting mist.

  "It’s only Sammy barking…"

  "Get dressed! We have to go NOW!" Carole drags on the rest of her clothes, shaking, looking desperately into the mist. Then she sees them. The ghosts.

  She steps back, against a tree, dragging Geraint with her. Holding him tight. She is Carole. This is Geraint. She is not going to be a part of this!!!! She is watching from the sidelines now. No longer a part of this thing. Rather watching it play out. Watching helplessly.

  A shape approaching, fast and low. The blood hound sees its quarry. Owain sees Ebenezer’s dog close on him too late. Crying out as the dog latches onto his throat. Grasping at the dog but his jaw has locked. Owain looking in panic to Mari for help.

  Mari standing naked, screaming watching as the dog rips out her lover's throat.

  Carole screaming. Now she sees a figure limp out of the mist. Ifan.

  Geraint looks at her watching something that he doesn't see. Something that's not there. But he can feel it. He feels the fear. The electric in the air. Something bad is happening. He wants to run. He pulls on his clothes.

  Ifan is carrying his stick which he flips around, and holds like a club.

  "Ifan! Na!" Mari drops to her knees in abject terror.

  “Thou shall not suffer a witch to live”. Ifan brings the stick down with sickening force on Mari's head.

  Carole screaming!

  The light goes out in Mari's eyes. She falls to the ground. Dark blood running from her nose. Ifan raises the stick again and again. Smashing it down on Mari's head. Blood splatters everywhere.

  Carole holds Geraint in terror, hugging him close.

  Ifan’s face and clothing splattered with Mari's blood. She has long since stopped moving. He drops his stick. The stick lands beside the love-spoon Owain has made for Mari. Ifan throws the love-spoon away into the trees in fury. It distracts the blood hound. It moves away from Owain, its maw covered in gore. Owain lies dead, his throat torn out.

  Carole retches. Geraint looks on in concern. "Carole?"

  Ifan picks up Owain’s body, dropping it into a gully amongst the trees nearby. He returns for Mari’s body. He pulls her by the hair along the ground and kicks her down the same gully. He looks down at the two dead naked bodies entwined in death. He averts his eyes. He throws their discarded clothes on top of them, as if to make them look decent.

  He forages around for rocks, dropping them down the gully too. And branches. Fallen leaves. Anything he can find. Furiously covering the gully with debris until there is no sign of the two bodies. Ifan screams in anguish.

  He freezes, knowing someone is watching. Ifan looks up. Straight at Carole. Fear in his eyes. Seeing a ghost.

  Carole and Ifan lock eyes.

  Carole runs. Dragging Geraint behind her. Racing down the hill, bounding, out of control, hitting a tree, keeping her feet, losing Geraint's hand.

  Geraint following her running wildly down the steep hill. Slipping. Losing his footing, sliding on his back down the slope.

  Geraint gets to his feet, shaken. Carole runs back, grabs him by the hand. "Come on!!!!"

  They both run passed the abandoned cottage of Nant y Cadno. Back down the forestry track. Not looking back.

  Behind them the grove is enfolded by the wall of mist rolling in. In seconds its hidden from view descending towards the cottage before swallowing it also.

  A dog’s running feet behind them in the undergrowth. Carole desperately glances back to see Sammy running behind them. She lets out a sigh of relief.

  She runs out onto the road, heading back towards the cottage. Geraint and Sammy following. The mist at their backs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Remorse

  Ifan looks around for any sign of the apparition he saw returning to torment him further. A woman in the woods. Dressed as a man. Screaming at him and crying. Looking at him accusingly. Sent by the Lord to punish him? But he was doing the Lord's work!

  So it must be witchcraft. A spell Mari cast as she died. Or something Mari's cohorts, those whores of Satan have done to frighten him. Or is the Lord testing him even after he has completed His work?

  Ifan is shaken. He falls forward to his knees and to the ground. Prone. His sobs echo eerily around the trees of the grove as they are swallowed by the mist. This place he knew as a playground as a child. As did his forefathers. Unchanged for centuries. Untouched by human hand while the other trees of the valley were cleared centuries ago so that the people of Cwm Celyn could farm God's land.

  This dark grove has been considered a sacred grove by the people of Cwm Celyn for generations. Celyn. Holly. Christ's Thorn. Sacred to God. So he was told. That was what the local vicar had said when he was a child. But the same man also said that he should keep away. Once the grove had been sacred to something else. Sacred to beliefs older than Christ. Should he have heeded that advice today? The advice of a man of God? Kept away? Avoiding the work God had told him to do?

  This is where Mari was doing her worst! He needed to carry out the will of the Lord! To end this witch, his adulterous wife.

  So what was it he saw? Who was that woman dressed as a man? How will he find her to silence her from bearing witness to his act? Because the Law of the Land never fully corresponds to the Law of God. They should be one and the same. Sometimes, like now, they are not. If the bodies are found, he may hang.

  Ifan produces his Bible for support. Psalms. Songs to the Lord. These are what are required now. His spirit needs to be uplifted. He turns to the Book of Psalms for an appropriate psalm. Many he has taught himself by rote. But not all. Scanning the tiny black text. His eye falls on one. Psalm 11, verse 5.

  'The Lord trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence
his soul hateth'.

  Ifan feels a cold hand on his heart. He reads the text again. Again. Again. Rubbing his eyes. He has been tried. He has been righteous. He is not wicked. But his soul is a violent one. Since boyhood. Could it be God is telling him that he has done wrong? But, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'. He did the right thing! Surely?

  Doubt wracks Ifan. God's words to support his actions. God's words to make him doubt those same actions. He wipes the tears from his eyes. He needs guidance. What is wrong? What has he done to displease the Lord?

  A preacher's words ring in his ears. All are children of God. Even those heathens he meets in the ports of the world. So are not this witch who he took into his own home and her adulterous lover from the farm next door, are they also not the children of God too? Should he say a word over their grave so they do not return to haunt his dreams? Is that what the Lord is telling him? Showing him spirits so he does not bring more upon himself in his moments of darkness and doubt? Should he ensure their entry into the Kingdom of Heaven by praying for them? Should he now be the greater man and do this? Yes! Yes he should.

  He has done his best. But as Jesus said, no one is good but God. In the Gospel according to Luke. Yes. Ifan turns to the New Testament to find the passage. To strengthen his resolve.

  Ifan staggers to his feet, standing over the grave he has created for his wife, and this young boy. Words to rebuke Mari for her evil ways. Breaking God's commandments. 'Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not...'

  In the same passage. Mari's sin. His sin. Bound in the words of Jesus. Ifan's hands begin to shake. The Bible moving too much in the murk of the fog to read clearly. He pockets the Bible and takes out his hip flask. He pours the remaining contents into his mouth. The shock on his throat making him cough and clouding his mind further. Standing in a fog of confusion. Has he done right? Has he done wrong?

  Tears cloud Ifan's eyes. The fog rolls thick. Barking nearby. Ebenezer's blood hound bounds out of the mist. Its maw still red with blood. Ifan looks down at the animal. It has just killed a man, but is barking at him like a pet asking for a reward. He takes the dog's lead in hand, picks up his stick and walks away back down the hill. The blood on his stick is still warm. His dead wife's blood. Covering his hand as he uses it to support him over the rough ground.

  Ifan is swallowed by the mist in the grove.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Trying to Burn the Past

  The thick fog follows Carole and Geraint back towards the cottage. Moving through the trees more smoothly than the wind. Enfolding. Swallowing everything behind them. Closing on them. Sammy running to keep ahead of its cold grasp. Far above them the yellow sun unable to burn through, losing its power. Unable to save them from the encroaching darkness and the cold.

  The fog enfolds them. Carole shivers, pulling Geraint close. Geraint as confused as ever. He is going to bed with one person and waking up with another. Its like there are two Caroles. This could get scary. What if she has a split personality or something? "Are you OK Carole?"

  "I don't know. I'm frightened. What did I see up there?"

  "I didn't see anything. One moment we were making love and the next..."

  "We have to end this Geraint. I've got a really bad feeling about this. I don't think you should be around me. Its not your fault. I don't know. I..." Carole looks up at Geraint. Tears rolling down her face.

  The knot is back in the pit of his stomach. So are the tears welling in his eyes. Shit! What did he do? Just what she wanted. That's all. And now she's crying. "Why?"

  "Geraint. I'm afraid for you".

  "That makes no sense. I can look after myself".

  The fog rolling passed the cottage, only yards ahead but already disappearing in the encroaching gloom.

  "Come inside. I'll explain".

  Carole leads Geraint by the hand to the cottage door. She unlocks it. She lets Geraint in, shoos Sammy after him and slams the door behind her.

  The fog rolls over the cottage. In moments the cottage is as invisible as the forest around it. No sound. Not even the wind to tie the cottage to the real world any more.

  The fog is getting through the bedroom window which has been left open to let the 'atmosphere' out. Carole is beginning to understand that just opening a window will not solve that problem. This is something deeper. Something existentially tied to the cottage. And that maybe what she has seen this afternoon is the opening of a door to understanding it.

  This is now her cottage. So she is tied to the cottage. She is becoming a part of the history of the cottage. And if that's the case, that's not good.

  The kettle's whistle snaps her out of her fugue. Pouring boiling water into two mugs of instant coffee. Milk. Normality after the madness in the grove. Geraint standing behind her in the doorway to the living room. She never noticed. She has to notice him. Look after him. He's the innocent in all this. She hands him his mug of coffee. "Come sit down".

  Sitting on her mattress on the floor with Geraint. The chairs in here are broken. They need to go out ready to be carted away or burnt, along with that stinking mattress. Maybe she should throw out all of the furniture. Why hasn't she done this? She was distracted. More than distracted maybe.

  "OK, I'll tell you what I saw up there in the grove. We were... We were making love. But it wasn't us Geraint"

  "What do you mean?"

  Carole trying to articulate this. Not only for a younger guy. Not only for a lover. But for herself. How to put this? "I wasn't myself. I'm often not myself when you're around. I behave like someone I'm not. I'm not a girl who takes a younger man off to the woods. But that's what's happening. Its like I'm watching myself doing it. Its not me who is making love to you Geraint. I think its the woman who used to live here".

  What the fuck? Geraint considers. That's so mad. But it explains how he's feeling too. He's felt outside himself when he's making love to Carole. When he was watching her before they met properly. Watching her with her bastard boyfriend. "I’ve been feeling strange for a couple of days. Like I'm not in control. But I think its because I'm in love with you".

  Carole's eyes close. She was afraid of this.

  Geraint watching her closely. "But if you're right... Does it mean we’re being haunted?" That's a better thing than being mad. "Maybe possessed. It happens, my mother told me". He remembers his mother talking to the preacher about ghosts in Cwm Celyn. How the religious establishment view has changed. Acceptance of ghosts and spirits. But there would be no role for her in her chapel, despite the fact she is so devout.

  Carole's face has turned white. "Possessed? By demons?"

  "No, influenced by ghosts. Ghosts are usually unhappy. They create a bad atmosphere in places that were important to them. She says ghosts are only dangerous when they see something in you that they recognise. They can bring their world into yours".

  Yes, that makes sense! "Peter and I fought on our first night here. It went far further than any fight we had before. The ghosts were here they saw a couple fighting, just like they did I suppose. And maybe the man left after a fight. Leaving the woman alone. To find a lover because she was so lonely. Maybe that's what is happening again. History repeating itself".

  "My mother says that's what ghosts do. Repeat history over and over until the cycle is broken. But why did you see ghosts in the grove?"

  "The sea captain, the wife and the lover... the murder must have happened there. That's what I was seeing".

  "Its all over now". He puts a protective arm around Carole. She shrugs it off.

  "I think we are in danger. I think you should leave".

  "But are you going to be OK on your own? Seriously, I'm worried about leaving you here on your own, Carole".

  "I'll be fine". Carole kisses him on the cheek, chastely. She gets up and leads him by the hand to the front door. "Honestly, I'll be fine". She opens the door. Geraint steps outside into the thick mist. "Goodnight Geraint.
Take care in the fog, OK?. The cottage door closes on him.

  Geraint is torn, not wanting to leave her. But there is no option allowing him stay here with this crazy woman. Or is she haunted? So is he haunted? He gets his bike.

  It hits him. She threw him out. Anger starts to build. He stands there on his bike getting over the shock. What a bitch!

  The mist is very thick. He can only just see the cottage from outside the gate, a dozen feet away. Door closed. Closing him out. Outside, alone, confused in a world obscured by a thick silent fog.

  Maybe not silent. A regular sharp tapping sound somewhere in front of him coming his way. Tap. Tap. Tap. Muffled footsteps but not regular. Panting. A bark. Not Sammy. A bigger dog. A roaring angry bark. Just up ahead. The clinking of a chain. The overpowering smell of dog. And whiskey. And a man's sweat. Geraint rides away into the misty gloom as fast as he can.

  Carole watching from the window. He's gone. She's on her own. That's for the best. Hopefully the lad won't be too hurt. Best get on with the reason she's here. Making this cottage her own.

  Beep beep! The sound of an electronic watch. She's got to find that. Its freaking her out.

  She is using the fog to hide the smoke and any problems that may come from setting a fire in the forest. She is outside the bedroom side of the cottage. Where there's just rough grass. Not the jungle of brambles on the kitchen side.

  Setting fire to the mattress. Burning it in her garden. Yes, her garden. Getting rid of the smell. The atmosphere. The feel of someone else in her cottage. Putting the rubbish sacks of old newspapers and other clutter on the flames. The smoke merging with the mist. Sparks flying up and burning out in the dank air. No one will see this. No one will know she is burning the cottage's past.

  Dragging the broken seating out of the cottage. Putting that on the fire too. She stinks of smoke. Tastes it in her mouth. It burns her eyes. Who cares? This is therapeutic. The roar of the fire in place of the hiss of the wind. Warmth in the chill air.