Solomon Kane

by Ramsey Campbell

  The abbot frowned at Kane’s reaction – he might almost have recoiled from Kane. “Home,” Kane said in disbelief.

  “You are of noble birth,” the abbot said. “You have lands in the west. You must return to your inheritance.”

  “Father,” Kane protested, but the word seemed to have lost its power. He was struggling not to clench his fist around the frail arm. “I cannot return home,” he pleaded.

  Was there a glimmer of remorse in the abbot’s eyes? It failed to prevent him from saying “Nor can you remain.”

  It was as final and as immutable as the words that ended every mass. The old man stood mute until Kane released his arm, and then he left Kane at the edge of the frozen garden, beside an elevated crucifix that watched over the growth of the fruits of the earth. Kane heard a monk’s hoe scraping at the soil, and the harsh derisive call of a crow. For a moment he thought the shadow of the crucifix had fallen on him, but the sun was still muffled by the clouds. No holy object had cast that harbinger of darkness, as invisible as it was unmistakable and chill, over him.

  FOUR

  As Kane followed Brother David out of the grounds of the monastery he heard the abbot’s voice behind him. For a moment he hoped that he was about to be called back to his refuge, and then he realised that the abbot was speaking to a monk. They were at the parapet that overlooked the path to the ferry across the lake. The winter stillness and the silence of Kane’s guide left their voices absolutely clear. “I was told in my dreams that he was to be sent from here,” the abbot said. “I listen to what I am told.”

  “Does Kane know his purpose?” the abbot’s companion said.

  “Every man must discover his own destiny.” Kane was close to turning to demand more of an answer when the abbot said “Kane must find his purpose.”

  Kane thought this was closer a condemnation than to any kind of valediction. As he trudged after his guide the abbot’s voice seemed to pursue him. “There are many paths to redemption, and not all of them are peaceful.”

  The early mist had retreated across the lake, where snowflakes hovered like seeds of ice. Otherwise the only movement beyond the path was the flapping of wings as a crow sighted Kane and his guide. As Kane settled himself on a bench in the small boat, lifting over his head the straps of a water-bottle and of a heavy bag, Brother David untied the rope from the ring in the post on the overgrown margin of the lake. The ring struck the post with a clunk that resembled the note of a bell so old and rusty it was robbed of meaning. The monk dropped the rope on the floor of the boat and began to pole the ferry across the lake. He had uttered no word since summoning Kane from his cell with a gesture that had seemed reluctant if not wary. Perhaps he had taken a vow of silence – perhaps it was a penance – but Kane was assailed by the notion of a silent ferryman. Surely it was too ancient a belief to trouble him, and yet he found it ominous.

  The crows grew restless in the branches of the drowned trees as the ferry sent lethargic ripples across the lake. When the water lapped against a supine bole one crow emitted a raucous cry that was answered by its mate. Kane could have thought their eyes glinted at him before the birds left their perches. As they flapped away from him Kane glimpsed their dim reflections, ill-defined winged shapes that appeared to glide just beneath the surface of the water like some unknown species of predator. The crows vanished into the trees that surrounded the lake, and Kane could have taken them to be leading him if not awaiting him.

  Soon the ferry bumped against the far margin of the lake. Here the path was almost indistinguishable to the untrained eye, and wholly so where it led among the trees. The ring on this side of the lake was sealed to the wooden post by ice, so that Brother David had to lever it up with both hands. He refrained from tying the ferry to it, instead holding onto the ring while Kane resumed his burdens and stepped ashore. Kane might have thought the monk was eager to be rid of him. “My thanks to you, Brother David,” he said.

  The monk inclined his head without speaking. He let go of the ring, which stayed raised in the air like an emblem of silence, and made a sign of the cross in front of Kane. While it could have been a blessing, it might equally have been designed to ward off Kane or what he represented. Brother David pushed the ferry clear of the bank and turned away at once to pole the boat across the lake. Perhaps he was making greater speed because the boat was lighter, but it seemed to Kane that the monk was fleeing him if not the world. He watched the boat grow dim and then invisible in the mist that had returned to the lake; he saw the last ripples stray out of the mist and merge with the still water. Then it was as if the island and the monastery no longer existed – for Kane, at any rate.

  FIVE

  Kane had almost reached the crossroads when he saw two long-beaked creatures standing there. They wore sombre headgear, and they were as tall as Kane. In front of them a pyre blazed at the meeting of the lonely roads between the icy barren fields. The flames confused his vision, so that for a moment the funereal bird-headed figures appeared to flex wings as if they were preparing to take to the air and swoop to meet him. They were doctors masked against the plague, with medicine secreted in the beaks of their masks. They were performing no cures here, miracles being outside their scope. They were presiding over a funeral.

  Kane passed by as discreetly as he could. If he had been an emissary from the island in the lake he could at least have bestowed a blessing or offered a prayer. Instead he did his best to hide his face in the hood of his heavy robe as a women cried out with grief. The shrouded body that two men were laying on the pyre scarcely needed both of them to lift the crude stretcher. Kane raised his staff so as not to strike the earth as he trudged behind the Celtic cross that marked the junction of the roads, but the bereaved mother lifted her head to watch him. Surely just the tears that blurred her eyes made them look accusing. Kane strode onwards twenty paces before he yielded to a compulsion to glance back. The beaked heads were turned towards him, and he could have thought the inhuman eyes were observing him.

  How tainted was the land? Into what state had the world fallen during his time on the island? Little news had reached the monastery, and in any case discussion of such worldly matters was frowned upon. Kane did not slacken his pace until the crossroads were out of sight and he saw a solitary oak ahead of him, beside a track across a heath. He sat against the venerable trunk and quenched his thirst, and then he wrapped his robe about him against the chill that blanched the heath. He hoped to rest for a few minutes, but he had scarcely closed his eyes when he heard movement above him. A crow had alighted on a leafless branch.

  Whatever it was holding in its beak, the object looked torn and raw. A drop of dull red dangled from it and then spattered a fallen leaf beside Kane. He sprang to his feet and struck at the crow with his staff, but the scavenger flapped away across the heath. Kane had no more liking for the place it had marked, and he set off along the track. He appeared to be travelling west, so far as he could judge with no sight of the sun. The oak was far behind him when he saw the crow ahead.

  He had the unpleasant notion that it was the same bird, no longer perched in a tree. Structures reminiscent of the trellises in the monastery garden towered on either side of the road. Three hanged men, or as much of them as the crows had left intact, dangled from each. As Kane strode between the gibbets, refusing to be daunted, the crow flapped down from the crosspiece to settle on the shoulder of a man with half a face. While the greatest delicacies had been consumed, the nose between the empty sockets was there for the taking. The beak pecked and tore and gouged at the grisly titbit to reveal the cavity beneath.

  Kane set his gaze resolutely on the way ahead and struck the rough road again and again with his staff. The gibbets would have been in sight, if he had any reason to look back, when he heard movement behind him, growing louder. It was too large for a crow. It might have belonged to a flock of them, but he had the unwelcome fancy that the ravaged bodies of the hanged men had taken it into their minds to jig in mid-air on the gi
bbets, unless they were struggling to free themselves and drop to the road and scuttle on all fours or shamble after him. But the noise was made by rain, which quickly found him.

  It was almost as icy as hail, but worse. Its chill penetrated Kane’s garb at once, and soon the onslaught drenched him. The cold clung to him, reaching for his bones. The downpour cloaked the land, so that he might have been trudging along a road through a grey void, from which it only gradually emerged. Nothing was clear apart from the shaggy verges of the road and the hedges separating them from the obscured fields. The only hint of life was the activity of rain in the hedges, trickling down the pallid twigs to dangle from the icy leaves. Once Kane thought he saw a raindrop turn to ice.

  There was no shelter to be seen. Kane almost wished he had sought refuge in whatever settlement the gibbets served, but he suspected that travellers could expect no hospitality. The downpour drove him onwards until he lost all sense of time and almost of himself. He seemed to have become merely a plaything of the elements. It must be God’s will, and he knew God’s will often to be pitiless.

  At last the rain slackened without having softened the earth or even thinned the clouds. As it trailed away to the horizon it revealed fields where a few leafless trees stood sentinel. Its enervating chill stayed with Kane, whose garments felt laden with water. He cast back the sodden hood and was striding doggedly along the road, which was defined largely by uneven ruts as hard and cold as iron beneath his feet, when he heard a sound like an omen of another storm.

  It was the rumbling of wheels. He turned to see a small covered wagon drawn by two horses. As it trundled alongside Kane the driver reined it to a halt. Under the conical wide-brimmed hat of a Puritan his pockmarked face was weather-beaten, but his large nose seemed to lend humour to his eyes. “Can we offer you a ride, pilgrim?” he said.

  Kane had an instinct that his destiny was best sought without the distractions of companionship. “Thank you, no.”

  The man’s wife touched her husband’s arm. Beneath a headscarf her face was weathered too, but still delicate. Like his, her garments were as sombre as the depths of winter. Kane saw that she was mutely urging her husband, who said “These roads should not be travelled alone.”

  “A man who fears God need fear no man.” This silenced the driver while Kane added “Thank you for your offer, but I’ll be walking.”

  “As you wish,” the driver said. “God be with you.”

  “And with you too, sir,” said Kane.

  The driver jerked the reins, and the wagon left Kane behind. Then the flaps at the rear of the vehicle were parted, and a boy’s face gazed out at him. Was there a glimpse of red fabric beyond him – the only hint of brightness in the wagon? The boy watched Kane as the wagon pulled further ahead, and Kane could have fancied that he was seeing his own boyhood retreat from him. He put those memories away from him as the wagon swayed over the ruts into a wood. The wagon and the sounds of hooves and wheels disappeared among the trees, and Kane strode towards his fate.

  SIX

  It took Kane the best part of an hour to find sufficient wood that was dry enough for building even a meagre fire. He struck the flint again and again until his fingers ached. He had prayed too by the time a grudging flame sputtered up from the driest twigs. He waited for the flames to gather strength, and then he set about arranging sticks over them. A pair of crows observed his efforts from high in the trees that surrounded the forest glade. Apart from the crackling of wood the only sound was the belated fall of raindrops that had lingered in the branches, for the crows were absolutely still.

  At last the sticks began to smoulder, and once they caught fire he added more sticks. In time he was rewarded with a fire that put him in mind of a treasure, considerably smaller than the heap of gold that used to haunt his dreams but just now far more valuable to him. As he held out his hands to it he felt renewed or at least capable of renewal. He was crouching closer when he heard a sound.

  Had the fire brought the crows to life as it was restoring vitality to him? The birds seemed not to have stirred, and their unblinking night-black eyes stayed fixed on him. A twig snapped in the heart of the fire, and Kane recognised how similar the stealthy noise had been. It was not the same, and he rose slowly to his feet.

  Ahead of him a fallen tree lay along the top of a slope. Kane thought the sound had come from beyond the massive trunk. He was heading for the slope when a footfall snapped another twig. It was behind him, and he had no chance to turn, for a knife was at his throat. “Move and you die,” a voice said in his ear.

  The blade was already breaking the skin, and it was close to his jugular vein. As he cursed his unwariness – enervation and the task of making the fire must have left him careless – the man with the knife emitted a whistle that caused both crows to flap and felt close to piercing Kane’s eardrum. In response the man’s companions emerged from behind the fallen trunk.

  The pair of them were built like bulls. One was as tattooed as any tribesman. His skin was a chaos of flaming colour, as if, Kane thought, he was dissatisfied with the form God had given him. The other man was adorned with a beard that he must have spent vain hours braiding. He bore a staff much like Kane’s, which was resting against a log opposite the slope. As the two men stalked across the glade they brought a smell of decay with them, perhaps from the sodden leaves they were trampling. They halted within arm’s length of Kane as if challenging him to defend himself, and peered with a parody of interest at his face. “What’s this we’ve found in the woods?” the tattooed man said.

  “Doesn’t look at home here,” the bearded man remarked.

  “Doesn’t look like it would be anywhere,” said the voice closest to Kane’s ear.

  Kane smelled breaths like the drains of a tavern – alcohol mixed with stale meat. The men’s eyes glittered with anticipation, and it was clear that staying silent would not help him. “I want no trouble,” he said.

  “That’s a pity.” The bearded man seemed pleased with Kane’s answer. “You’ve got it,” he said and swung his staff with both hands at Kane’s midriff.

  The handle caught Kane in the stomach, driving all his breath out of him. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he collapsed to his knees. The spectacle appeared to enliven the crows, which flapped as though they were applauding, but it failed to satisfy the tattooed man, who thumped Kane with great force on the back of the neck. This too was audibly appreciated by the crows, and it knocked Kane over. As he lay on the frozen ground with his knees drawn up – he might have been enacting the helplessness of a child yet to be born – the man with the knife stepped into view, sheathing his weapon. He was bald by choice, and his pate looked as raw with the elements as his broad sullen face. He considered Kane’s state for some moments before adding a vigorous kick in the ribs.

  The breath that Kane had managed to recapture abandoned him, making way for another onslaught of nausea. One of the crows greeted the kick with a caw that could have been mistaken for a mirthless laugh. The three men stood over Kane as if they were pondering how next to cripple him, and Kane could only reflect as he struggled to regain his breath that Christ had suffered worse on his behalf. For the present the trio seemed content with Kane’s condition, and they turned away to find what they could steal.

  The bearded man grabbed the bag from beside Kane’s staff and inverted it. The Bible fell out first, followed by a packet of bread and cheese, and the scrolls Kane had studied at the monastery. A few coins rolled across the leaves, and the tattooed man crouched ape-like to claim them. The bald man tore open the packet of food as his bearded companion shoved a large fist into the bag and groped deep before heaving it wider to stare within. “Nothing,” he complained, and his fellows took up the refrain while a crow added a caw. “He’s got nothing worth lifting,” the bearded man declared, and scowled at the Bible before glowering at Kane. “You a priest?” he said like an accusation.

  Kane wished he were entitled to the name, even if it would not
save him. He gathered his strength and levered himself to his knees. He might have been at his prayers or awaiting a headsman’s axe, but he was simply attempting to feel less ineffectual without appearing to offer a threat. “Just a traveller,” he said.

  “No traveller’s safe in these parts.”

  “You want to watch out who you make friends with,” said the tattooed man.

  “Shouldn’t ought to have left home,” said the man with the raw pate.

  Kane was unsure whether they were taunting him as a preamble to worse. “Take what you want,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, pilgrim.” The bearded man seemed eager to take Kane’s words as an insult. “We will,” he said.

  His companions were regarding Kane’s belongings with disfavour. All at once the tattooed man stooped with an oath. One of the scrolls had partly unfurled, and the man stamped on it as though it were an insect. He used his other foot to spread it out and bent wide-legged to examine it. “Look at these,” he urged.

  The baldest of them gripped his thick thighs as he squatted to glower at the scroll. “That’s no English writing,” he objected as if he were challenging anybody to suggest he was unable to read.

  The bearded man poked at the scroll with his staff and used the tip to trace the lines of occult symbols Kane had studied in a vain attempt to define the forces ranged against him. The man might have been a child learning to read with a fingertip underlining each word in a primer, except that his lips found no way of shaping the text. Resentment of his inability seemed to stoke his eager rage. “That’s magic,” he informed his cronies. “That’s how witches write.”

  The three men turned to face Kane as the scroll writhed on the leaves, attempting to regain its secretive shape. It was obvious that they were pleased to find a reason to assault Kane afresh – any reason. The tattooed man tramped at him, pulping leaves underfoot. “What shall we do with you, eh?” he enquired, and a thought seemed to flare in his eyes as he glanced at the fire. “Shall we burn you for a witch?”