by Layton Green
If, however, you are a fellow initiate of the Order, one who has heard the whispered secret of the God Path and has come seeking my knowledge, then you know the promise of the Vessel is irresistible. For who cannot yearn to possess such a thing?
As I write, I can sense your hope upon discovery of this missive. Sadly, I confess that I write out of commiseration rather than revelation. As the legends hint, I have searched and searched near Cranmere, I have followed the rituals of our grove and called upon the knowledge of the ancients. I left our symbol at the pool to simmer and reach for wisdom, but by most unfortunate fate, a wanderer ventured into this land of no return and disrupted the ritual. He has seen our mark, but did not, could not, comprehend its meaning. Now the others know what I have done, and I am watched. My forbidden search has ended.
I am an old man now, alone in my frustration. Man was not meant to carry his secrets to his grave, and so I confide in you alone, my nameless successor.
Know, Dear Reader, that I understand. If search you must, and search you shall, then take your search to Cranmere, for I know in the marrow of my bones that if the Vessel exists, then near to there it lies. And if you do manage to uncover the Vessel and walk upon the God Path, then perhaps, as a thing beyond the grave, I will be a step ahead of you, already in possession of the secrets of life and death. If instead I am adrift in whatever realm lies beyond this world, lost and lonely and without answers still, then I can only hope that I will be able to look upon your discoveries from afar, a satisfied wraith at last.
James Reginald Perrott, High Priest of the Druidae
Jake slid the letter back in the envelope and replaced it in the frame. After I helped him lift the painting, we searched the house in vain for further evidence Perrott might have left behind.
I felt that we had uncovered his last clue to the world.
After lunch at the bed and breakfast, we caught another taxi back to Chagstead. I was still unnerved by the letter, and kept an eye on the rearview the entire way.
“So that’s what he was doing at Cranmere all those years ago,” Asha mused beside me. “Searching for the letterbox, or the ‘Vessel’ as he called it.”
Lou nodded. “Perrott was a Druid high priest, and the marking on the letterbox was their symbol. That explains some things.”
Asha glanced at Jake’s backpack and swallowed. “Why was the search for the Vessel forbidden? What did they think it was?”
“They told you what they thought it was right there on the box,” Jake said.
“The letter presents an interesting dilemma,” I said. “If even searching for the letterbox was banned by the high priests, then why are they chasing after it now?”
“Maybe they want to find it and bury it again,” Asha said.
“Maybe,” I said slowly. “Or maybe today’s Druids aren’t as principled as those of Perrott’s day. Judging from the letter, the location of the letterbox was a mystery even to the high priests, and I’m guessing whoever was following us was just as surprised as everyone else when it was unearthed.”
“Perrott’s letter was so sad,” Asha said. “I guess it doesn’t help us much now.”
As we crested a hill, the cluster of Chagstead’s homes and shops appeared on the horizon, the late afternoon sun bathing the town in golden hues.
“Oh, it helps,” Jake said. “The man dedicated his life to the search, and he was acting on inside information.” He turned to stare out the window. “And I want to know where he got it.”
We stayed in Chagstead for another night, to avoid crossing the moors in darkness. During dinner, Ms. Leckie stood on the perimeter as she had the night before, sipping her tea and arranging small details of the room to her satisfaction.
An elderly couple from Bristol joined us at the table. Their height, angular faces, and modest dress reminded me of a British Norman Rockwell.
“What brings you to Chagstead?” the husband asked. “It’s a bit off the beaten path for Americans.”
“Just seeing the sights,” Jake said.
“I couldn’t help but hear you discussing Grimspound.”
Jake nodded.
“Excellent day hikes around there. You can walk for miles without seeing a soul.”
“That’s as desolate a place as lies on the moor,” the wife said, with a shudder. “When the fog rolls in . . . things haven’t changed much there, you know. Those are the old moors, bleak as bleak can be. They say there’re still pagans in that part of the country.”
I noticed Ms. Leckie staring at the woman out of the corner of her eye.
“Bloody hell, woman,” the husband said. “Grimspound is just a little remote. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t wander off the road, as the open moor is quite treacherous up that way.” He glared at his wife. “And not because of pagans. Every year someone loses their way in the fog and drowns in the peat bogs.”
“I don’t know,” she said, trailing off. “I’d believe about anything that came out of that place.”
“That’s because you’d believe anything about anywhere.”
“The moors don’t look so desolate to me,” Asha said. “We drove outside of town today, and it was quite lovely.”
“We’re not on the moor yet,” the husband said. “Common mistake, though.” He pointed out the window, and we followed his outstretched finger. “You see that ridgeline off in the distance? Just over the plateau, underneath those storm clouds—that’s where the moors begin.”
The next morning, the weekly bus to Grimspound rumbled out of town. The scenery underwent a gradual change as we approached the ridgeline, growing starker and more barren. The weather also changed, even though we had only traveled a few miles. A mist began to form, becoming denser as we elevated, until a gray sky swallowed the sun.
When we reached the top of the first ridgeline, the difference in scenery became dramatic, the vegetation morphing from lush forest to a stubble of coarse brown undergrowth. I recalled the description Mrs. Leckie had given of Dartmoor over breakfast: a three hundred-and-sixty-five-square-mile granite plateau, full of treacherous peat bogs, barren moorland, and ancient tors—rock formations left over from Neolithic times. Mysterious beacons of an older, more primal world.
The feeling of isolation was intense. Even when the fog did not obscure the scenery and I could see for miles, the expansive nature of the plateau only contributed to the remoteness. I thought of the moors as nature’s version of being alone in a crowded city.
We rode up, down, and over the sloping plateaus, numbed by the endless brown vegetation. Finally a group of low, weathered stone buildings broke the spell, and we pulled into a village that looked nothing like Chagstead.
Narrow streets ran through the town in maze-like fashion, and the granite cottages and shops were clustered together so tightly they looked like a compound.
Bunched together, I thought, as if forming a circle of protection.
Wispy smoke poured out of thatched roof chimneys, merging with the mist covering the town. The place had a much older feel than Chagstead, and the townspeople had a grim and subdued air, stemming, I supposed, from the rigors of life on the moor. A granite church squatted in the center of the village, the elongated Celtic crosses in the graveyard a vivid reminder of the town’s connection to the past.
As we exited the bus, I felt more like an intruder than in any place I had ever visited. We had already garnered a number of suspicious looks, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the Druids were watching us from some hidden vantage point on the moor, waiting for us to step outside the safety of the village.
I noticed a wooden sign swinging in the wind above the one-bus car park.
Grimspound.
-52-
Mr. Sofistere had arranged for us to stay at the Belstone Inn, a solid granite edifice that matched the rest of the buildings in Grimspound. The innkeeper, who knew Mr. Sofistere by name, led us into a common room containing a stone fireplace, wooden rafters, an assortment of chairs and sof
as, and a view of the moors through a bay window.
We sat down to a lunch of homemade rabbit pie and blackcurrant crumble with clotted cream. We asked the innkeeper if he knew of a Donn Enterprises in town, and he wryly informed us we should try Grimspound’s financial district. He then snapped his fingers and informed us that there was “a large chateau named Donn a mile outside of town, at the top of a ridgeline, just past Fogman’s Wood.”
After lunch, Asha yawned and retired to her room. Jake gave Lou and me a pointed look. “I could use a walk after that lunch.”
“You’re going to Chateau Donn, aren’t you?” I said.
“Listen. Lucius will swoop in on his private jet and rent the most expensive suite in town. As soon as he arrives, they’ll move the letterbox again, if they haven’t already. Right now they have no idea we’re coming, and I plan to use that to our advantage.”
Lou started to protest, and Jake held his hand up. “The innkeeper told us it’s right outside town. I’m just taking a quick look. Feel free to hit the pub.”
“Can we at least drive? Rent a taxi?”
“No taxis or car rentals in town. I already checked.”
Lou waved a hand in disgust, and I blew out a long breath as we stepped outside, into the chilly afternoon air. “Just keep to the road,” I said, telling myself there was no danger in taking a short walk on a modern, two-lane highway in the middle of England. “How’s your ankle, Lou?” I asked, trying to give him an out.
Lou waved a hand and stumped after Jake, who was already walking down the street.
As we left town and entered the moors on foot, the scenery felt even more visceral. Starker, vaster, more desolate. The road left the village and began a gradual climb, circling behind the rolling plateau that shadowed the west side of Grimspound. Once we crested the plateau, an enormous stone manor perched on a precipice came into view. Turreted towers supported both ends of the chateau, and a smaller one rose from the center.
Down the other side of the ridge a strange sight appeared: a dense green forest stretching alongside the road. As we grew closer, we noticed the trees were twisted and stunted, the undergrowth unkempt.
“That must be Fogman’s Wood,” Jake said.
Lou put his hands on his hips. “This is far enough for me. I’m not walking right up to the chateau, not even on a public road in broad daylight.”
Jake was looking at Fogman’s Wood, and I followed the outline of the forest as it ran beside the road to the chateau. “It appears, gentlemen, that nature has presented us with the perfect solution.”
“It is convenient,” I said.
Lou shot me an irritated look. “Have you forgotten Pere Lachaise? The bus? The chapel?”
“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” I murmured, crossing my arms and remembering the blood streaming down Asha’s face, and what they had forced me to see beneath the Bone Church.
No, I had forgotten nothing at all.
“Do you see where we are?” Lou said, waving his arms. “I don’t think the neighborhood watch comes up here.”
“Chateau Donn is a corporation,” Jake said. “They’re not going to come after us during afternoon tea.”
“A corporation named for the Celtic god of the dead,” Lou muttered.
Jake pulled his backpack tighter. “I’m taking a quick look. Come if you want.”
Jake started walking, and I followed. Lou cursed and caught up. As much as I wanted revenge on the Druids, I vowed to stay out of sight in the trees.
A path led into Fogman’s Wood from the road. Our eyes widened as we took in the dwarfed and misshapen trees twisting out of the ground in fantastical shapes, their roots contorted in a desperate attempt to find nutrients. Mossy rocks and boulders peppered the path, and enough leaves remained on the low canopy of trees to leave the forest in perpetual gloom.
“The shape of this forest is too regular,” Lou said. “It was planted by someone, and I don’t think we need to guess at whom. These are oak trees.”
The path stayed close to the edge of the wood. We passed a large clearing that reminded me of the island forest outside Dubrovnik, and I tried to push away my sense of dread, telling myself that a few feet to my right it was broad daylight on a paved road in Western Europe.
We glimpsed our destination getting closer, until at last we found ourselves just across the road from Château Donn. Jagged slopes of moorland stretched away behind the chateau. We crouched at the edge of the forest, behind a boulder.
Thick granite comprised the body of the chateau. The octagonal middle tower protruded from the front of the stone façade, and high hedges fronted everything except the main entrance, where a manicured path led to a door inlaid with iron grillwork and adorned with a granite raven’s head.
Château Donn was an imposing sight, sitting on the edge of the ridge, lording over its domain. We gazed at the house for long minutes, seeing no signs of life.
True to his word, Jake declared he had seen enough and was ready to head back. It had grown late. The light inside the forest had dimmed, and we had to pick our way carefully along the root-and-boulder-strewn path. Soon after we passed the clearing, Lou stopped and cocked his head.
“What was that?” he said.
I peered into the silent trees. “What?”
“I heard something moving.”
“It’s a forest,” Jake said. “Things move around.”
We continued walking, and then I heard it, too. A rustling in the trees, coming from deeper inside the wood. “There’s something in here with us,” I whispered.
“Keep calm,” Jake said. “It’s just an animal.”
“What if it’s a wolf?” Lou said.
“It’s not a wolf.”
I heard the noise again, louder. I looked to my right and saw a shape darting through the trees. A shape clothed in white.
My stomach curled in fear, and I felt the now-familiar punch of adrenaline. “Jake—”
“I saw it,” he said, knife already in hand. “Just keep walking. As soon as we hit the road, we’ll be fine. It can’t be far.”
As we crept through the forest, I thought it the furthest distance I had ever walked. We kept catching glimpses of white flashing through the trees, and I waited for Druids or black-robed figures or worse to come lunging for us out of the bowels of the forest. At last we saw the main road up ahead, but my relief turned to terror when I saw the white shapes blocking the path at the edge of the trees.
I looked left, and saw more robed figures on the road. As one, they stepped into the forest, heading our way.
Jake cursed and herded us to the right, deeper into the wood. It was the only place left to go. “Go. The forest isn’t that wide, and when we hit the moor, we can outrun them.”
Fear clutched at my limbs. “What about the one we saw through the trees?”
“I’ve got something for him,” Jake said, fingering his knife.
We moved as fast we could through the maze of gnarled roots, teetering on the edge of panic. Jake had to switch on his flashlight to see the forest floor, and we abandoned any pretense of stealth.
We heard rustling behind us and to our left, but a glimmer of evening light poked through the trees in front of us. I almost wept when I didn’t see a phalanx of white robes lining that side of the forest.
“Hurry,” Jake pressed. “They didn’t count on us going deeper and they can’t watch the whole forest.”
As we reached the tree line, I couldn’t believe our luck. There was no white robe in sight. The open moor loomed in front of us, and if we could just get across the next ridge, a quarter mile away, we’d be in sight of the village and no one would dare touch us.
“Run!” Jake said.
I sprinted into the moor, propelled by a burst of adrenaline. The mossy undergrowth was much spongier than it appeared from a distance, and on my third step I sank to my knees. With my next step, I plunged into a layer of peat as deep as my thigh, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lou disapp
ear.
It happened so fast it took me a second to process. Then I yelled. “Lou!”
I lunged to my left and sank to my waist. I had the sudden realization as to why no Druids had been waiting for us on this side of the forest.
It was a deathtrap of peat bogs.
I half swam, half crawled through the watery hole. It was less dense than quicksand, easier to both sink and wade through, which caused a jolt of horror when I thought of Lou. How deep had he plunged?
Jake rushed over and helped pull me to solid ground. “Where’s Commie?”
“He sank.”
Without hesitation I jumped into the bog where I had last seen Lou, not caring what happened next. I didn’t feel my feet hit bottom, and realized I could swim through the muck.
But I couldn’t see. The bog was as dark as an ocean bottom, and I felt around frantically for my friend. It hadn’t been more than a minute, but Lou was a pack-a-day smoker. I felt a surge of relief when I hit bottom, then a moment of panic when my foot got stuck in the peat. I grabbed the side of the bog with both hands, using a root for support while I yanked my foot out.
I swam in a circle, reaching blindly with all four limbs and avoiding the bottom, hoping to find Lou with my flailing. I was sure I had jumped in the bog close to where he had gone down, but inches could mean life or death.
Then there was a light in the darkness, an enfeebled glow penetrating the gloom. I realized it must be Jake’s flashlight. I spun in every direction and saw Lou a few feet to my left, a watery shadow sunk to his thighs in the muck, struggling to free himself.
I darted over to him and motioned with my palms for him to stop moving. Then I took both his hands in mine, pulling with all my might.
He didn’t budge.
My breath was failing. Lou couldn’t have much air left, and I tried and failed to lift him out of the muck. I couldn’t risk going for help and losing sight of him.