Beast of Robbers Wood

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “We’ll join him there when we finish here,” Ravyn said.

  Stark closed his mobile. “They’re on their way.”

  “We have to find what Hardwick was going to show us.”

  “There may have been nothing to show,” Stark said. “It may have just been him talking. He was a good one for that.”

  “Hardwick was an historian, a meticulous researcher,” Ravyn said. “That was clear from his books. He transcribed many oral recollections, but they were always backed up with documentary evidence. You said he used the phrase ‘bride of the Beast.’ What other phrases did he use, precisely?”

  Stark barely recalled what he had said to Ravyn, much less what Hardwick had said to him. “He said ‘High Priest,’ I know that much, and something about the Temple and Tucker’s place and…” He made an exasperated sound. “Sorry, sir, but…”

  “That’s all right, Stark.” Ravyn led him into the parlour, the doctor following as soon as she remanded the body to Andy. He told Stark to sit. “Now, close your eyes. Think back to that moment when you first saw Hardwick.”

  Stark imagined himself at the forest’s edge, recalled how he felt about the secretly watching cottagers. “He called me over, asked me a lot of busybody questions. I didn’t have time for him. I tried to leave, but he kept after me, wanting to know if Lisa had come back, who else had been taken, and such.”

  “When you told him, what did he say?”

  “Well, he acted like…”

  “What did he say?” Ravyn’s voice was like the crack of a whip.

  “Taken by the High Priest to be the Bride of the Beast.” The words tumbled out of Stark’s mouth before he realised he was speaking. “Servant of the Beast. Keeps it sated… returns to its long slumber. Rites of appeasement at the Temple when the stars are right.” Stark leaned back, completely drained. He opened his eyes, saw Ravyn and the doctor looking at him, and reddened. “Blimey.”

  “Impressive,” Penworthy said.

  “Do you recall anything else?”

  Stark shook his head. “He tried to hold me back, tell me more, but I…” He paused. “I slapped his hand away from me, threatened to arrest him if he got in my way again.”

  “Unfortunate, as it turned out.” Ravyn patted his shoulder. “But understandable given the circumstances. Did he say who it was?”

  “No, he never…” Stark’s brow furrowed. “He said…”

  “What?”

  “He told me, ‘secrets are meant to be kept,’ and that he had to keep them while he… Oh, how did he put it?” Stark closed his eyes and concentrated. “He said he had to keep secrets while he lived in the shadow of the Beast, within hearing of the High Priest whose face is never seen.” Stark opened his eyes. “Bloody hell! He knew who it was. He practically came out and told me, and I just walked away from him.”

  This was not, Ravyn knew, a time for chastisement. He would leave that for Stark himself. Some men needed to be watched and reprimanded to be kept on track, but not men like Stark. He thought back to Heln’s comments. Yes, he decided, he did trust Stark.

  “If Hardwick was going to tell us something, he would have had something to show us,” Ravyn said. “His nature as an historian would have forced him to document what he told you.”

  “It could be anywhere in this bloody warren of a cottage,” Stark said. “You see how cluttered it is.”

  “No, he would have kept it at hand,” Ravyn said. “Despite your reaction to him, he would have trusted you to pass on his message.”

  “Trust me?” Stark’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “After I hit him, threatened to put the arm on him if he bothered me any further. Why in hell would he trust me at all after that?”

  “Because, Stark, you’re a trustworthy man.”

  Both men reddened, Stark more than Ravyn.

  “Well, let’s get started,” Ravyn suggested.

  “May I help?” Penworthy asked. “As long as I can get a ride back to Stafford, I’ll…”

  “Doctor?”

  Penworthy turned. Ravyn and Stark followed her gaze, saw her driver standing in the doorway.

  “What is it, Andy?”

  “When I moved the body to the bag…” In his gloved hand was a sheet of A4 paper, stained with blood, more than half of it torn away. “This was caught under it.”

  “Here, give me that.” Ravyn carefully took the paper.

  Stark ran off, returning a moment later with a large evidence bag caged from one of the forensics boffins. He held it open while Ravyn carefully slid it in. They laid the document on a side table and switched on a lamp above it.

  “Part of a map?” Penworthy asked, edging between the men.

  “I think so,” Stark said. He squinted, trying to see the lines though the blood. There was no scale, no words, only symbols he did not understand, outlines that could have been anything.

  Ravyn moved his head till he was above the exact centre of the fragment. He stared soundlessly. He moved around the edge of the table, oblivious of the others. Stark and Penworthy moved out of his way. Stark started to speak, but Penworthy waved him to silence.

  The others saw merely a single sheet of torn, bloodied paper on the table. Ravyn saw the same thing, but through a translucent stack of maps, old and new. As recalled maps lost value, they vanished. He ended up with three maps layered upon the fragment—a chart drawn by a monk before the Dissolution of the Monasteries, an Ordinance Survey map from 1841, and a satellite map created by the MoD, accidentally glimpsed for three seconds two years ago. Individually, they were uninformative, but together they explained the fragment found by the pathologist’s assistant.

  “It is a map, but a very idiosyncratic one,” Ravyn said. “It was not drawn with the eye of the cartographer, but that of an historian and folklorist. A sheet of paper please.”

  Stark handed Ravyn one from a stack of letters. Ravyn turned it over, took out a pencil and started drawing. His hand moved with a deftness that seemed unwarranted to Stark and Penworthy since he could not possibly see through the paper to the fragment beneath. To Ravyn, he was merely following the slightly luminous lines hovering just above the blank paper. He finished in seconds and pushed his drawing beneath the plastic-enclosed fragment.

  Penworthy sighed and shook her head.

  “I’ll be damned,” Stark murmured.

  The lines Ravyn had drawn seemingly at random now perfectly filled the lacuna of the paper found under Hardwick’s body.

  “Doctor?”

  Penworthy turned to see her assistant still in the doorway. He looked more than slightly bored.

  “Is it okay if I…”

  She nodded. “Yes, head on back. I’ll return to Stafford with the sergeant and the chief inspector.

  Andy smiled and turned away.

  “Watched out for pedestrians,” she said. “And don’t exceed the speed limits.”

  The smile vanished. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “On second thought, I had better go with you.” She turned to the two detectives. “Unless I can be of assistance?”

  “Probably not,” Ravyn said, not looking up from his handiwork.

  “Very well.” She took Andy’s arm and pulled him after her.

  She’s miffed, Stark thought, but said nothing.

  “Not a perfect facsimile of Hardwick’s map, certainly lacking his notations,” Ravyn said. “Still, reasonably accurate, I think.”

  “A map of what?” Stark asked. “Robbers Wood?”

  “Not the Robbers Wood we know, but as Hardwick saw it,” Ravyn said. “Shudmell’s Realm.”

  “A nutter, just like old Zoriah,” Stark said.

  “A shared vision, perhaps,” Ravyn said. “The difference is that Zoriah has the benefit of generations of oral traditions. Hardwick observed the woods a lifetime, but he was ever an outsider. He had to dig and scratch for every nugget of information.” He gestured at the fragment. “This is only his interpretation of an ancient way of life he could never hope to…”


  Stark’s mobile chimed. He listened, scowled, then said: “Just a moment, Constable.” He looked to Ravyn. “Wendell and Zoriah, they both pulled a runner. No one’s at the shop. They broke down the locked doors.” He shook his head. “No sign of the girl, but in one of the cellars they found a tunnel.”

  “A tunnel? Which direction?”

  Stark asked the question, listened, then said: “Southeast, toward us, at least starting out. No lights at all, so no telling where it turns.”

  “Get over there, Stark,” Ravyn said. “I want you and as many men as you can muster to trace the length of that tunnel.”

  Stark looked doubtful. “From what Lessing said, it seems to go on forever, but it might lead to nowhere.”

  “No, not nowhere,” Ravyn said. “I think it leads to the heart of Shudmell’s Realm.”

  “What are you going to do, sir?”

  Ravyn glanced out the parlour window. The brooding mass of Robbers Wood was being swallowed by gathering darkness. He saw men returning from its concealing depths, giving up the search for another day.

  “Off with you, Stark, we haven’t much time.”

  Stark lingered a moment, then turned.

  “And, Stark.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be careful.”

  “You too, sir.”

  * * *

  Torch beams played over the hole in the wall. Roughly hewn, it was seven feet high, a little more than half that wide. It held an air of antiquity. Stark imagined generations laboriously hacking at the stubborn rock, carting out baskets of fragments. Incised into the stone around the opening were sharp fangs and wide staring eyes.

  “Gives me the willies, that,” Lessing said. “You think it’s what the Beast is supposed to look like, Sarge?”

  Stark scowled at it. Once, during a case of murder at a ruined fort, Ravyn had shown him a woodcut depicting the Roman idea of the portal to Hades. At the time, he thought it one of the most terrifying images he had ever seen. Now, it seemed rather cozy.

  “There is no such thing as the Beast,” Stark said.

  Lessing glanced at the carving. “If you say so, Sarge.”

  Stark and Lessing were accompanied only by Matthews, also a constable from Deeping Well. Stark could have called back others who had scarpered at dusk, but that would have taken time, and he did not believe time was on their side.

  “Keep your torches lit no matter what,” Stark said. “We don’t know where this tunnel leads or what we might encounter.”

  The two constables glanced again at the frightful carving. They were not Midriven men, but Deeping Well was not so far away that they had never heard of the Beast of Robbers Wood. They were all too conscious that their only weapons were wooden truncheons.

  “No unnecessary noise. Stay alert. Watch out for each other. Questions?”

  Both had questions, but they shook their heads. Stark leading, they entered the tunnel. They were swallowed by a blackness deeper than night. Their torch beams seemed dim, ineffectual.

  Stark breathed, realising he had held his breath while entering. The air was cold, freighted with earthy scents and the tang of roots. He checked his mobile. There was no signal.

  He had told Aeronwy only that he would be late getting home from Midriven. He swept the torch’s light over the tunnel’s wormy support beams. It was best she thought him interviewing suspects. He doubted he could have explained what he was now doing at Ravyn’s behest. He was not sure he understood it himself.

  The men penetrated deeper, passing beneath a village ignorant of the secrets under their feet. None spoke, and all tried not to think of the gloom that surrounded them like clinging oil.

  Somewhere in the stygian distance, something growled.

  * * *

  Ravyn watched police cars pull away from the woods, the forensics van from the cottage. He chose not to order the constables back into the heart of darkness with him. They would have accepted the risk for the sake of a lost girl, but he could not explain the urgency in terms understandable to them. Mythologies come to life, the true nature of the Beast, and what happens when the stars are right would never be part of their world.

  Alone, he crossed Flintlock Lane, the cottage behind him now unlit. He stood at the wood line. The map was in Angus’ care, but Ravyn studied it intently. An onlooker would have thought him staring at nothing.

  The sun’s last feeble glimmer surrendered to night. Robbers Wood awaited. No, Ravyn thought—Shudmell’s Realm. Stark was right after all. It did no good to change the dog’s name. Ravyn breathed deeply, then stepped from the world of men into the domain of monsters.

  He left his torch in his coat pocket. No light from moon or stars, but the gloom was not absolute. Phosphorescent moss faintly etched gnarled tree trunks. More was hidden than was revealed by the subtle glow, but it was sufficient.

  Though no stars were visible through the limbs, Ravyn avoided confusion. He saw the composite map around him, rotating as he was forced to adjust his path toward the centre, where lines intersected, where Hardwick had drawn some kind of glyph, mostly lost when his attacker had torn the map from his grasp.

  Less than an hour later, Ravyn saw flickering torchlight ahead. The illumination was muted, but after his acclimation to the dim moss-light the glow seemed bright as arc-lamps. He heard soft chanting in a language unknown to him. He crept closer.

  The Temple of the Beast once stood in a clearing maintained by a army of fervent acolytes crawling upon hands and knees, plucking each blade of grass, removing every drifted leaf. Now, however, weeds grew rank and branches reached in from all sides. Of the temple itself little remained, a few blocks once squared but now weathered and cracked.

  An altar stone, just visible through brush and bramble, topped a knoll at the ruins’ centre. Images of writhing horrors covered its sides, plain despite the dim light and centuries of abrasive elements. The stone was deeply stained. A jagged crack ran from top to bottom, as if the altar had long ago been split by a sword’s blow.

  Upon the altar was a thin naked form, that of Elizabeth Jenks. Behind the stone stood the High Priest in a dark robe and a frightful mask. His chants were marked by obscene gestures and movements. The pitch and tempo of voice and actions increased, became more frenzied. He ripped open his robe and reached for the girl.

  “That will be enough of that, Wendell,” Ravyn said, standing into view. “Step away from the girl.”

  The High Priest stared at the interloper. His robes fell away, revealing a grotesquely painted body. The mask prevented Ravyn from seeing the man’s face, but his eyes were white, pupils reduced to the merest pinpoints.

  “Miss Jenks,” Ravyn called. “Quickly! Come to me.”

  The girl on the altar did not move, but the slow movements of her breast showed she was still alive.

  “You cannot take the Bride of the Beast,” the High Priest said. The voice was both like and unlike that of Wendell Stoneman. He had taken some kind of drug, Ravyn surmised. “She is mine. She is my Bride. I am the avatar of the Beast.”

  “No,” said Ravyn. “You are a prat, just as your father says.”

  “You leave my father out of this!”

  “A prat, with no head for the family business.”

  “My father is a foolish old man,” Stoneman said.

  “At least you seem to have finally perfected a wolfsbane mix,” Ravyn said, walking closer. “No unexpected escape for this one.”

  “That was an accident,” Stoneman said. “The powder was old and there was not enough of it. It was not my fault.”

  “That’s not the only reason your father thinks you a prat, is it?” Ravyn continued. “You’re soft, contaminated by the logic of the modern world. You’re no better than the other strappers who call themselves Midriven born. You’re not fit to serve the Beast.”

  “I am the High Priest! I am the avatar. I channel the Beast’s energy, not that broken old man. Me! I am the Chosen One. I will take the Bride, fill her
with the essence of the Beast, use her blood to fully awaken the Beast, to bring back its rule of terror.”

  “Where is your father, Wendell?”

  “Why should I care?” Stoneman demanded. “Back at the store, drinking himself stupid again. I have replaced him, and when the Beast returns I shall rule at its side. The old man shall die.”

  “It’s over, Wendell.” Ravyn stood at the bottom of the rise. He made his way up. “The reign of the Beast in Midriven is ended.”

  Stoneman reached down and grabbed a knife. With a bestial cry, he leapt atop the altar stone. The girl’s eyes opened to slits, but she remained motionless. He flitted the weapon from hand to hand, daring Ravyn to approach. Ravyn wrapped his left arm with his coat.

  “You haven’t a chance, Wendell.”

  “Stop calling me that name!” He leaped at Ravyn, slashing and stabbing. “I am Shudmell! I am the Beast!”

  Ravyn deflected his attack with the wrapped coat. The blade slashed though the material. He felt the hardness of the knife against his arm, but it did not penetrate to his skin.

  He had to move Stoneman away from the girl before he cut her accidentally. Also, he had hope she might rouse from the paralysis brought by the wolfsbane tincture and escape.

  Stoneman lunged. Ravyn grabbed his bare arm, pulling him off balance. They tumbled down the slope. Stoneman was on his feet in an instant, but Ravyn landed on his back, air driven from his lungs.

  The mask hung from Stoneman’s right ear by a broken leather thong. His face was etched with rage and lust. His lips were pulled back in a rictus grin. He leapt at Ravyn, thrusting with the knife.

  Ravyn kicked Stoneman in the solar plexus but the blow did not slow the younger man one whit. Ravyn struck his plunging arm but deflected it only slightly. Pain shot through Ravyn’s shoulder. Stoneman yanked out the knife and readied for a killing blow.

  An inhuman cry split the night. It began as a savage growl, low and menacing, then blossomed into a pulsating roar. It sounded again and again, closer each time.