The effect was oddly debilitating. I felt exhausted. It was as if listening to the tale had been a physical rather than an imaginative act. My mind reeled and my body seemed depleted of energy. It was as though I was recovering from a run rather than recalling the details of a story I had just been told.
The Woman in White smiled, clearly quite taken by the effect the story had wrought upon me and, feeling self-conscious, I avoided her eyes and looked out of the carriage window.
I must confess it was not quite the story I had been expecting. I had very limited experience of the fairer sex, but neither of my mothers – my natural one or the usurper I had left at the station – had ever had the slightest inclination towards stories of the macabre.
I was intrigued: intrigued and more than a little uncomfortable. I was troubled both by the grisly tale and the relish with which it had been told by a woman who, in every other respect, seemed to be most prim and proper and more at home at a church fete.
There was something fascinating about this woman. I hardly knew what to say, and I was sure that my expression bore the evidence of my confused emotions.
I feigned a sudden interest in brushing a crease from my trouser leg, before looking round at my fellow passengers. The Farmer, the Surgeon, the Bishop and the Major all slept on.
‘How can people sleep so soundly in the middle of the day?’ I said, a touch disapprovingly.
‘Perhaps they are tired,’ said the Woman in White.
‘But we have only just begun our journey.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said again, turning to the sleepers with a sad smile. Then she turned back to me, leaned forward and tapped my knee.
‘You look quite tired yourself, young man,’ she said with concern.
‘Me?’ I said. ‘Tired? No. Not at all.’
‘Really?’ she said.
I blinked against the heaviness in my eyelids and tried my best to appear alert, no doubt looking a little – and perhaps comically – wide-eyed. The Woman in White smiled again and leaned back into her seat.
‘I have another story, if you have the energy to listen.’
‘I assure you I am quite awake,’ I replied.
‘But I wouldn’t wish to force it on you,’ she said. ‘Maybe you thought my story inappropriate – for a lady to tell and for one so young to hear. I don’t wish to offend you.’
I was quite certain that she was not at all concerned what I thought and was in no way desirous of my good opinion. On the contrary: I was as equally sure that she was rather enjoying unsettling me.
‘You have not offended me in the least,’ I said.
Once again I looked at the other occupants of the carriage, willing one of them to awake and save me from another of this peculiar woman’s tales. When I turned back to face her, the Woman in White was looking at me with such an expectant expression I felt obliged to say something.
‘And what is this story about, miss?’
‘I can tell you that it concerns two boys and a barrow. I think you will enjoy it.’
‘Two boys and a barrow?’ I said wearily, wishing that I could politely retract my agreement to listen to it. ‘A wheelbarrow?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not a wheelbarrow. But I mustn’t spoil the tale by too much introduction . . .’
g
The Island
Henry Peterson opened the dormer window of the bedroom he shared with his brother Martin. They had arrived at the cottage late the previous evening, owls hooting unseen among the silhouetted oak trees, and this was his first real look at the view.
The cottage belonged to their father’s mother, who had recently passed away. The boys had never been close to their grandmother and Henry had no recollection of ever having been to this house, though he was told he had been there when he was a little boy and Martin was still a baby.
Their father had fallen out with his mother many years before and they had barely spoken since. To Henry, it was almost as if his grandmother had already died years ago, and so he felt no great sadness at her actual death, save for a vague sense of regret for something that had been kept from him and now would never be his.
Henry leaned out of the window. Bees were buzzing among the yellow roses on the climber that clung to the wall on either side and hung heavily from above. He looked out across the garden. There was a small orchard in front of him and a kitchen garden to his right with beans or peas coiling round tall canes. Birds were twittering in the tree tops. The house had its back set into a hill and the whole of Wiltshire seemed to stretch out before him: he could see for miles.
Beyond the shaggy hedge that bordered the grounds of the cottage was a huge field of green barley. A warm southerly breeze was sending waves through it, and the great swathe of barley surged and ebbed and rippled like a wide green ocean. Henry was hypnotised by it.
‘What are you looking at?’ said his brother Martin sleepily, as he sighed and stretched like a cat coming out of its nap.
‘I’m just thinking that we should get out of this house and go for a look around,’ said Henry, without turning round. ‘It’s a glorious day. Father says there are badgers down the lane.’
‘Look here, give a man a chance to wake up, won’t you?’ said Martin, sinking back into bed. ‘Badgers or no badgers.’
Henry shook his head and grinned.
‘You won’t be able to lounge around all day like some sort of idle peasant when you come up to my school, you know,’ he said. ‘Old Hinkley will have your guts for garters.’
‘That’s all the more reason for enjoying it while I can. And I’m on holiday in any case, so I can stay in bed for as long as I like.’
‘Oh no you can’t!’ said a voice from the corridor outside.
Their father opened the door, poked his head round and told them in no uncertain terms that they were to get up, get dressed and get out, because he and their mother needed to sort the house out. After all, that was the whole reason for being there. He told them that they were on no account to bother anyone and they weren’t to trespass on the farmer’s land.
So, much to Henry’s delight, the boys were up and breakfasted and within half an hour of their father’s appearance at the bedroom door, they were walking down the garden path, crickets chirruping in the long grass around them.
‘So,’ said Martin with a cavernous yawn, as they sauntered down the lane in the shade of a high hedgerow. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Henry breezily. ‘Just explore, I suppose.’
‘Doesn’t seem a lot to explore,’ said Martin sulkily, still begrudging his rude awakening. ‘Just countryside everywhere.’
Henry laughed and pushed his brother sideways. He knew it wouldn’t take much to get Martin going and, sure enough, Martin laughed and pushed him back.
The boys eventually came to a break in the hedge and Henry realised they were alongside the huge barley field he had seen from the window.
‘Come on,’ said Henry. ‘Let’s go to the island.’
‘Island?’ said Martin, looking round. ‘What island? What are you talking about?’
‘That island over there,’ said Henry. ‘I saw it from the house. I know it’s not in water but it’s an island all the same. Better, actually, because we won’t get wet going there.’
‘What about Father?’ said Martin. ‘He told us not to go on the farmer’s land.’
‘The farmer isn’t going to mind,’ said Henry blithely. ‘Besides, Father is going to be too busy sorting out Grandmother’s junk to be bothered about what we do.’
‘Even so . . .’ said Martin with a glance back towards the cottage.
‘Come on, Martin,’ said Henry with a grin. ‘Let’s have some fun.’
Negotiations between the brothers often took this form: Henry the adventurous one, Martin the sensible one. But they almost always ended the same way too. Martin almost always relented.
‘All right, then,’ said Martin. ‘But if some farmer appears with a sh
otgun, I’m telling him it was your idea.’
‘Agreed,’ said Henry with a grin, slapping his brother on the back. ‘To the island!’
While Martin felt obliged to restrain his brother from following his foolhardy nature unchecked and to at least point out the inherent dangers of Henry’s plans, nevertheless having voiced these concerns and been won over in spite of them, he would become as enthusiastic as Henry – perhaps even more so.
The boys set off into the field, wading through the barley. The sun shone down and made the whole scene shimmer. The sky was deep blue and cloudless, the island a dark green silhouette. A skylark sang excitedly above them, seemingly the only sound in the waking world, and a primrose-yellow butterfly fluttered lazily past.
Henry was surprised at how long it took to reach the island and, as they finally approached it, he realised that it was much larger, and the trees much taller, than they had appeared from the bedroom window.
The two boys clambered out of the barley and up the steep sides of the island, using the roots and trunks and drooping branches of the trees for support. Henry was wondering to himself what kind of trees they were, when Martin called out, as if in answer, from nearer the summit of the island.
‘These are yew trees,’ he said. ‘Like the one in the churchyard at home.’
Henry nodded. Martin was right. They had played in that churchyard yew since they were tiny and the wood was satin smooth, polished by the attentions of so many children over the years.
These yews seemed untouched and their bark was patchy like that of a plane tree, but rust-red and flaking off. The trunks and branches formed a kind of cage, concealing the summit of the island from view. Martin was the first to claim it as his own.
g
g
‘I’m the king of the castle,’ he sang, ‘and you’re the dirty rascal!’
‘Pipe down, Martin,’ said Henry. ‘You’ll have the farmer on us. We’re supposed to be spies, you know. Spies don’t sing at the top of their voices.’
‘I’m the king of the castle,’ repeated Martin in a slightly louder and more enthusiastic voice, ‘and you’re the dirty – aaaargh!’
Punctuating Martin’s plaintive cry was a grating, crumbling sound, and when Henry looked up he was shocked to see that Martin had disappeared. He leapt forward as a cloud of dust drifted towards him, stinging his eyes.
‘Martin?’ he called. ‘Martin? Where are you?’
‘I’m here,’ came the pained response. ‘Blasted thing’s hollow and I’ve – ow, oww! – fallen in.’
Henry could see this for himself now that he had reached the summit of the island. It was not a hill he was standing on at all, but some kind of chamber.
‘Are you all right?’ said Henry.
‘I think so,’ Martin replied, shrugging himself loose from some fallen stones and rubbing his hair to clear it of dirt. ‘Bruised my leg a bit, that’s all.’
‘That looks nasty,’ said Henry, jumping down to help him out and seeing the big red weal appearing on Martin’s calf.
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘What is this place, do you think?’ said Henry. ‘An ice house?’
‘What, here?’ said Martin with a snort. ‘In the middle of a ruddy great field? Long way to come for your ice.’
‘Well, not an ice house then,’ said Henry, a little annoyed at Martin’s tone. ‘What then?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Martin winced as he inspected his leg.
‘Hey,’ said Henry. ‘What’s that?’
Henry stooped down and moved a stone slab and both boys recoiled together as they registered what was revealed.
At their feet lay bones half concealed.
‘It’s part of an animal skeleton,’ said Henry nonchalantly. ‘It must have been here for ages. It looks ancient.’
‘I can see that,’ said Martin. ‘What kind of animal is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Henry. ‘Badger maybe?’
Henry stooped down again and moved some more of the stones, partially revealing the torso of the skeleton. It was then that they saw the metal spike.
Jabbed between the creature’s ribs and clearly going straight through the animal’s body, was a spear about four feet long. It must have been made of copper, or something like it, because it was now green with verdigris. Henry went to grab it.
‘No!’ hissed Martin. ‘We shouldn’t. It’s wrong.’
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ said Henry. ‘He’s hardly going to complain, is he? Anyway, I only want to have a look.’
Martin clutched his brother’s arm.
‘Leave it alone, Henry,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t belong to us.’
‘It doesn’t belong to anyone,’ said Henry. ‘Or at least, no one who’s alive. Whoever speared this creature must have died a long time ago.’
‘But why?’ said Martin.
‘Why what?’ said Henry with an exasperated sigh.
‘Why spear this animal and then build this place over the top?’
‘Who knows?’ said Henry. ‘It was probably a religious thing. You know – pagans and all that.’
Martin suddenly clapped his hands.
‘I know what this place must be,’ he said, casting a glance at the animal bones. ‘It’s a burial mound. You know – a barrow. Like in the book Father gave us. Remember?’
Henry nodded. Martin was right. There had been an illustration of a burial mound, showing different views: one from the outside, a diagram as if it had been sliced open and an imaginary illustration of what the dead man might have looked like inside with all his grave goods. This one appeared to be a similar construction.
‘But barrows have warriors and kings in them,’ said Henry. ‘This one has a dead animal. Any idea what sort of animal it is yet?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Martin. ‘I still think we should leave things be.’
But Henry was on his haunches again, moving stones from around the skeleton to see if there was anything else of interest.
‘We ought to fetch Father,’ said Martin, trying to restrain him. ‘Or the farmer.’
Henry shrugged him away.
‘Aren’t you just a bit curious?’ he said.
‘Of course I am,’ Martin replied. ‘But we don’t know anything about archaeology. Let’s go and get Father.’
‘We will,’ said Henry. ‘We will. All I’m saying is, let’s see if we can’t find out a little for ourselves and then tell them. This could be big news. Why should they take the credit? After all, it was you that found it.’
‘I suppose so . . .’ said Martin hesitantly.
Henry had already moved enough debris to see the skeleton of the animal more clearly. The head was missing. He crouched down to have a better look; Martin did the same.
‘Some sort of dog maybe?’ said Martin in a voice that made it more question than statement.
Henry frowned. If it was a dog, it must have been a strange-looking one – but then, thought Henry, it was a long time ago and they must have had different kinds of dogs then. It stood to reason. It was Martin who noticed the claws.
‘Look at those,’ he said with a whistle. ‘What kind of dog has claws like that? It’s more like a cat.’
Henry said nothing. Martin was right. It did look more like a cat, but even then the claws were more curved somehow. They reminded Henry of the talons of a hawk, though these were much bigger. He had never seen an eagle’s claws, but he guessed these must be fairly similar.
‘I think we should go now,’ said Martin.
‘Not yet,’ said Henry. ‘Let’s at least uncover the whole of this beast first.’
‘And then we’ll go?’ said Martin.
‘Then we’ll go,’ said Henry absent-mindedly.
The two boys scrabbled about in the rubble in the floor of the barrow, throwing up clouds of dust that made their eyes sting and forced them, coughing wildly, to leave its confines for a breath of air. Both laughed at the other’s dusty white hair.
/> When the cloud their excavations had caused finally subsided and they had both coughed and spat their mouths free of dirt, they returned to see the results of their work.
There below them was the headless, but otherwise complete, skeletal outline of a beast that was, if anything, less recognisable for being more revealed. Pinned to the earth by its green copper spear, like a bug in a specimen case, was the body in all its strange entirety.
How could they ever have thought it was a dog? The torso was too long for that and the legs were completely wrong. And the tail was more like that of a lizard or a crocodile. It took a little while before either brother could think of anything to say.
‘Perhaps it’s not real at all,’ said Martin, after they had studied it for a few moments. ‘Perhaps they have put some parts of different animals together to make a weird creature.’
‘But why would they do that?’ said Henry. ‘In any case – look at the skeleton. It all fits together.’
‘It must be some kind of creature that doesn’t exist any more,’ said Martin decisively. ‘You know – something everyone thought was just made up. Like a dragon or something.’
‘Not a very big dragon, but even so,’ said Henry, warming to this idea. ‘Yes! And we’ve found it! Imagine that, Martin. We’ll be famous!’
Henry reached out to grab the spear.
‘What are you doing?’ said Martin.
‘I want to have a better look at this,’ he said. ‘I want to see the point.’
‘I don’t know, Henry,’ said Martin.
Henry took a deep breath. He could feel one of Martin’s irritating lectures coming on.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘It’s not like it belongs to anyone. It can’t possibly hurt to have a look.’
‘It belonged to somebody once,’ said Martin.
‘That hardly matters now, does it?’ said Henry with a laugh.
Martin scowled.
‘It’s still stealing, Henry,’ he said. ‘You know it is. Besides, I think there’s something pretty odd about this place. Why is that animal here? Why build this thing over it with that spear stuck through it like that? Leave it alone.’
Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth Page 3