The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  Sir Richard hurried along the path, with the now fully awake Gallagher close behind. The dread filling him was intense. There were so many sheer faces the panicked horses could have plunged over. In spite of their good night vision, the horses would have had very poor visibility in the mist and rain. The path skirted around a sink-hole.

  When he peered down into it, the hole proved to be about as deep as he was tall, and at the bottom was a scattering of bleached white bones. But it was not wide enough at the top for a horse to fit in, although a horse could easily break a leg if it stumbled over it.

  Hurrying on more frantically than ever, he suddenly turned a bend to find himself face-to-face with Lucifer. The gleaming black charger was standing in a clearing in knee-deep pasture, with a large mouthful of grass between his teeth and his friend grazing nearby.

  Lucifer stopped his chewing for a few moments while he silently regarded the newcomer with his big brown eyes, then flicked his tail and went back to his grazing.

  * * * *

  ‘A crossroads.’

  ‘Aye, a crossroads.’

  Halted in front of the sign, Sir Richard eyed it distastefully. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  Sergeant Gallagher removed his cloth cap and scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘There’s a crude hill curved on one arm and what looks like some waves on the other, so I’m guessing straight ahead leads to the coast and left to the hills.’

  ‘This might be the first crossroads we’ve come across since we passed the goose-girl, but the felons could easily have taken some other shortcut or detour over these open moors in an attempt to throw us off their trail.’

  Gallagher replaced his cap. ‘Aye, that they might have. Only a fool would go wandering off the path on such a featureless and bog-dotted moor, but if they know these moors well they may have taken the risk.’

  ‘And we have not passed a single soul ever since we got off that damn mountain and onto this lonely, god-forsaken moor. A full two days!’ Sir Richard ran his shaking fingers through his hair. ‘We might as well give it up and go home...’

  ‘We’re sure to pass some shepherds tending all these sheep. You can see for miles across this open country; one of them will have seen the felons pass.’

  ‘Very optimistic of you, but these moors go on forever. We’d be very lucky to come across anyone who has seen them.’

  ‘Maybe, but I think the felons will be making for the coast. I can’t see that they would go to some remote country area. No, they will be taking this road to the sea.’

  Several hours later, Gallagher and Sir Richard were still travelling the same wild and lonely road.

  Slumped tiredly on Lucifer, the knight had the dull, drooping look of a man who had given up hope. ‘But we’ve already asked two shepherds without luck, and he’s over on the next hill,’ he moaned. ‘We’ve wasted enough time this morning as it is.’

  Gallagher turned his horse off the road and started heading to the right. ‘Come on, sir, it’s worth a try.’

  The tall knight muttered darkly under his breath but followed anyway.

  The lone figure Sir Richard and Sergeant Gallagher had spotted was perched on a rock atop the long, steady rise to the right. On this very misty morning, they had only caught sight of the shepherd when the thick mists around the hilltop had parted a short while ago.

  The dense mists were always moving and changing. At dawn, the mountains they descended two days previously had been completely hidden from view in a blanket of fog. Then, as the sun climbed higher, the fog had lowered to reveal the mountaintops floating like islands in a white sea of mist. Sometimes the mists thinned to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of blue sky or distant moorland, but only to come stealthily stealing back and surround the travellers once more.

  The two comrades-in-arms steered their mounts down into the marshy, turf-covered dell separating the road from the broad hill the shepherd had been seen on.

  But as they climbed up the opposite side, a thick blanket of fog descended. In moments the visibility was less than twenty paces on all sides, and any sense of direction was lost. The travellers quickly came to a halt and dismounted from their horses.

  ‘It was foolish to go wandering off the road in these misty wilds,’ Sir Richard grumbled. ‘You hear of wayfarers who get lost in the mist on lonely moors like this and wander round and round in circles for days on end until they finally die.’

  His sergeant had to work hard to keep a straight face. ‘I can’t say I have heard any credible stories of that kind myself. After all, how can these poor souls who got lost in the mists tell such a tale if they’re dead?’

  ‘That may be,’ came the glum, unconvinced reply of one determined to be gloomy, ‘but even if we don’t become hopelessly lost, we’re sure to be swallowed up by one of the bottomless mires these places are always covered in, or fall into a cave like the one in that gorge. Perhaps, many years hence, a lone shepherd will come across our bleached bones, picked clean by the ravens…’

  Gallagher sighed wearily. To many more days spent in such melancholy company and even he would be in danger of losing the will to live.

  With the corner of his cloak, Sir Richard wiped off the water droplets clinging to his hair. ‘God, I’m so tired …’

  Gallagher suddenly lifted a finger. ‘Listen—’

  Sir Richard listened. Drifting towards them through the mist was the faint, faraway sound of music. At first he felt like he was dreaming, but when he moved towards it, the sound of a pipe playing a haunting melody could clearly be heard.

  He stumbled blindly towards the heavenly music.

  The sound came nearer and nearer and still he could see no one. But then the mist drifted apart to reveal a handsome golden-haired youth playing a small pipe, sitting cross-legged on a large, flat boulder.

  The knight stared spellbound at the sight. He scarcely dared to believe he was not dreaming, and was afraid to make a sound for fear the beautiful youth might prove to be a phantom conjured up by his own desperate mind, and fade into the swirling mist.

  When the golden-haired youth had finished his achingly beautiful tune, he lowered his pipe from his lips and looked directly at the arrivals with startling violet-blue eyes. He did not seem surprised in the slightest at seeing the two strangers emerge from the mist. If anything, Sir Richard fancied the youth looked as if he had been waiting for them.

  He might have had the face of a satyr or elf, but the dazzling youth was dressed as a shepherd. Over a simple green woollen tunic he wore a white sheepskin vest, and resting against the rock he sat on was a wooden shepherd’s crook.

  ‘Greetings, wayfaring strangers,’ said the youth.

  ‘Good morn, shepherd,’ replied the knight.

  ‘I can tell you that those whom you seek did pass this way, Sir Knight,’ said the youth.

  Sir Richard could only blink at the divine shepherd in astonishment. How could he possibly know the seeker’s question before it was asked? What was he, a mind reader? He was certainly looking at Sir Richard as though he could see right into him…

  The youth smiled. ‘I know because I saw an unhappy lady and two ruffians pass by in great haste not six hours hence, casting the furtive backward glance of the wrong-doer fleeing his pursuers.’

  ‘And which—’

  ‘They were going south.’

  Sir Richard’s state of mind was now such that if the golden shepherd had unfurled angel’s wings before his very eyes and taken flight, he would only have been mildly surprised. He bowed low. ‘I thank you, kind shepherd! I thank you a hundred times over!’

  The golden shepherd smiled his bewitching smile and inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Follow the north wind and you will find her.’

  Sir Richard took an astonished step back and bowed again. He did not doubt a word the all-knowing golden youth said.

  ‘May the guiding light walk beside you on every step of your journey, and may the road level beneath your feet and the wind be ever at you
r back,’ said the beautiful shepherd.

  The knight backed humbly away, bowing and muttering his grateful thanks. When he looked up again, the golden-haired youth had been reclaimed by the mist.

  With his soul now brimming with hope, the knight swung up onto Lucifer and briskly made for the road, which was now clearly visible down below.

  As the two comrades departed, the haunting melody struck up again and drifted after them on the faint breeze which was beginning to blow away the mists. All except for the mist embracing the top of the mount from whence the golden shepherd’s music came.

  * * * *

  ‘So, this is the road’s destination.’ Sir Richard reined Lucifer in on the brow of the hill leading down to the ocean.

  For several silent moments, he and Gallagher feasted their eyes on the welcome sight of the little seaside town of Hamlin, which was crammed onto the scarce land betwixt cliff and sea. The cries of the many gulls wheeling overhead and perched on the town’s roofs provided the unmistakable sound of the seashore.

  He and Gallagher had been riding hard ever since their meeting with the golden-haired shepherd the morning of the previous day. Riding all of the day and half of the night, at every crossroads they had taken the road going south.

  Dusk was now fast approaching. Sir Richard watched the last rays of the setting sun disappear as it dipped into the burning sea in a fiery golden haze. This was the end of the road for them. Of that he felt sure. Somewhere in or around this small bay and its little fishing port, the villains were lying low. And tomorrow he was going to track the loathsome scum down and flush them out of their hole. But first he needed to find an inn to put up for the night in.

  He urged Lucifer forward down the steep path leading into the town.

  The place did not smell as bad as most of the inland towns. The usual foul smells were mixed with the fresh, salty sea air and the watery aroma of seaweed. Many of Hamlin’s buildings were three or four storeys high, squeezed up because there was no room to spread out on the thin strip of flat land between the high, rocky cliffs behind and the seashore in front.

  The narrow main street running in a straight line from the seashore to the road out of town was empty except for a few dogs that barked half-heartedly at the two passers-by, and a small group of young boys playing a game with pebbles on a game board they had drawn onto the bare earth with a stick. Alerted to the new arrivals by the dogs, the boys stopped their game and stared at the strangers.

  Sir Richard and Sergeant Gallagher called out a friendly greeting as they walked by, but the boys just stared back in silence.

  When they were about halfway down the street, Gallagher pointed to a sign hanging at the corner of one of the narrow lanes and alleys leading off it. ‘Here, that looks to be the sign of an inn or tavern.’

  Sir Richard looked to where his friend pointed. The wooden signboard had a crudely carved and painted flying pig on it, telling the illiterate patrons (which were probably all of them) that the name of the establishment was the Flying Pig. The arrow next to it pointed down an alley so narrow two large men would struggle to pass in it without pushing against each other.

  ‘Yes,’ said the knight, ‘let’s see if they have any lodgings.’

  They slung their horses’ reins over a nearby hitching-rail and turned into the tiny alley, with Sir Richard leading the charge.

  The narrow alley was empty of everything except the stench of urine and vomit, which hung heavily in the air. The overhanging upper storeys of the tall buildings made the dark lane almost tunnel-like, but the two men did not have to go in far. A sign of a flying pig above it announced that the third door along belonged to the establishment advertised at the alley entrance.

  Sir Richard stopped outside. The small, battered wooden door was a little below street level, with three rough stone steps leading down to it. The one small, dirty window opening onto the alley shone a little light out, and the sound of raised voices, drunken singing and rowdy laughter came from within.

  ‘It seems a rough place, though a popular one too, which is usually a good sign,’ muttered the knight, more to himself than to his comrade.

  While Gallagher waited outside, Sir Richard descended the steps, opened the door and stepped inside. He ducked his head just in time to avoid hitting it on the doorframe.

  The first thing that struck him was the smell. The place reeked of stale ale, sweating bodies and rancid meat fat. He drew his lips into a thin, unimpressed line. A quick scan of the public room proved it was small, low-ceilinged and dimly-lit, and that the dirty rushes covering the floor were littered with bones, some with dogs gnawing on them. Benches and tables as rough and battered as the door were packed in tightly, and almost every place at the benches was filled by coarse, roughly-dressed patrons.

  Despite the earliness of the hour, a few were already slumped face-down on tables or passed out on the floor while the less intoxicated patrons stepped over them. Others sat in groups at the tables singing lewd, rude songs. Many were talking loudly and coarsely. Some, flushed red with drink, argued angrily in a dark back corner.

  Sir Richard had only been standing there for a few moments when the room fell silent. It had started when the drinkers nearest the door noticed the presence of the stranger, and the wave of silence spread from there right through to the darkest, dingiest back corner like the ripple of a pebble dropped in water. Even the two drunken churls rolling around fighting on the floor stopped and got slowly and menacingly to their feet.

  Every eye in the room was fixed on Sir Richard. None were friendly, but the alehouse-keeper’s was most disturbing of all. He was a swarthy hulk of a man with a large scar starting at his upper lip, pulling it into a constant sneer, and going right up his cheek, and long, greasy hair falling past his shoulders. The top half that showed above the bar he stood behind was dressed in just a sleeveless vest of thick leather which showed off his huge, bulging arms and hairy barrel-chest. He glared at the strange new arrival like a bull that had just spotted an intruder in his field, and rested two ham-like fists that ended in metal-studded leather wrist guards on the bar top in front of him.

  It had clearly been a mistake to head into the first inn they came across. If he and Gallagher stayed the night in this place, they would be leaving in the morning having gained a lot of new friends—a lot of very tiny biting, sucking, jumping, maddening-itch causing new friends—and having lost every last one of their possessions, right down to the last stitch of clothing on their backs.

  If they were lucky, that is. If Lady Luck chose not to smile on them, they would probably never leave this cesspit of vice at all. There was bound to be a cellar they threw the bodies down.

  Without taking his hard, unblinking glare off the roomful of ruffians, Sir Richard slowly backed towards the door. Never turn and run from a menacing dog, especially not a rabid fighting dog…

  He felt behind for the door, pushed it open and backed out, returning the stares of the den of thieves and drunks with as good as he got. Once outside, he quickly slammed the door shut.

  ‘So, did they have any rooms?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘I think we ought to, ahem, continue our search for a bed for the night elsewhere. Somewhere we’re not likely to be murdered in our sleep, for instance.’

  ‘Pigs will fly before I spend a night in that alehouse…’ Sir Richard grumbled to his sergeant as they exited the vile alleyway.

  .17.

  Entombment

  ‘THIS looks much more promising,’ said Sir Richard, looking up at the narrow three-storeyed building he and Gallagher stood before.

  Proudly looking out to sea, it was the largest and grandest building they had passed in Hamlin so far. The small bay’s golden-pebbled beach was situated a stones-throw from the front door, below a retaining wall lifting the street about ten feet above the seashore below. The inn had a wide set of steps leading up to its double doors, and a large window on each side of them, through which an inviting golden light shone out int
o the dusky street. Above the door was a carving of a mermaid with long hair cascading down over her naked torso, and below the mermaid, a leafy branch was hung to notify passers-by that wine could be bought within.

  ‘The Mermaid,’ Gallagher said thoughtfully. ‘Aye, it does look a more promising place.’

  After tethering their horses to the rail outside, the two weary men climbed the steps and entered.

  The Mermaid was much more spacious and brightly lit than the Flying Pig, and far cleaner. A cheerful blaze crackled in the fireplace halfway along one sidewall, keeping at bay the nip in the night air that announced the onset of autumn. The wooden floorboards were swept clean and the fist-hole free tables occupied by respectable-looking patrons, who mulled over mugs of ale or talked in lively groups. There was no sign of drunken excess and the place was warm, welcoming and humming with the buzz of jovial conversation. A few inquiring eyes were turned on the strangers, but they quickly went back to their ale, wine or companions.

  ‘Good even to ’ee, sirs!’ a pretty, buxom blonde woman called to them cheerfully from behind the bar. She looked to be about forty, and was dressed in a tight, low-cut gown that showed off her ample bosom to good advantage.

  Sir Richard came up to her. ‘Good evening, dame.’

  ‘How might I be able to help ’ee, good sirs?’ inquired the smiling lady.

  ‘We need lodgings for the night.’

  ‘Aye, that I can provide. Them three rooms up on the top floor were vacated just this morn.’ The lady cast an appreciative eye over the raven-haired knight. ‘You look the sort of man to travel in style. I’m guessing ’ee have horses with ’ee? Tom can take them round to the stables.’

  There was no doubt the buxom inn-keeper was rather impressed by her newest guest. She had a definite twinkle in her soot-paint framed eyes and was kittenishly toying with a blonde lock.