by Guy N Smith
The Undead - Kindle Version 1.0
(c) Guy N Smith 1983 - 2011
Published by Black Hill Books, October 2011
ISBN : 978-1-907846-311
First Published by New English Library (NEL) August 1983.
Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise distributed without the publisher's prior consent in any form whatsoever. Mechanisms are employed to make each Ebook unique and traceable back to the original purchaser.
For more information visit Guy's website at :www.guynsmith.com
Get a FREE short story Ebook by registering your Ebook using the link below.
EBook Registration
Contents
Title
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The End
PROLOGUE
It was midday before the straggling band of pursuers caught sight of their quarry, the man and the girl tiny specks amidst the heather on the mountain slope above, the clouds parting and a sudden shaft of late afternoon sunlight spotlighting the fugitives as though an unseen force decreed that these two must be caught.
‘See!’ A shout from the foremost of the group, who pointed with the rusted barrel of a fully-loaded shotgun. ‘Bemorra, and he has the young Isobel with him! She still lives and for that we must thank the Almighty. Let us not delay, loose the dogs, Colgarth!’
‘Nay.’ The one addressed shook his head, tightened his hold on the leash at which three hound-like beasts of uncertain pedigree strained, almost pulling him over. The dogs cannot be used while the child still lives, Odell, for once they have the scent, as indeed they have it now, they will hunt indiscriminately. Both Bemorra and the girl will be torn asunder. No, we must follow until the old man tires and pray that the lass is still unharmed when we take him.’
‘Old!’ Colgarth's sweat-streaked face held an expression of incredulity, an underlying fury that had to be kept in check, just like those snarling beasts of the chase. ‘Bemorra is not old, Odell. Barely three-score years, his flesh grimed and unwashed so that it is difficult to see the man beneath. A simpleton, a life of sloth and poverty that has erupted into an obsession for infanticide.’
‘We do not know that he killed the others, for no bodies have been found.’
‘Do we need bodies?’ Colgarth shouted, the veins in his neck swelling and bulging. ‘Do we need more proof than we see before us up there, the imbecile spawned in Gabor, one who is incapable of intelligent speech? Or possibly that is just another example of his sly cunning, an orphan bastard whom we raised and pitied, a fox thought to be tame biting the hands that have fed it since it was a cub.’
‘Aye, Bemorra is guilty.’
The brief respite at the foot of the mountain had enabled the stragglers to catch up; men dressed in homespun farmworkers' attire, carrying sickles and pitchforks, and sweating profusely in the unusually warm late-October sunshine. They had walked the twelve miles from Gabor village to the foot of these mountains, foregoing their wages for it was preferable to hunger than to have Bemorra spirit away another innocent child. This time it was Isobel Mainwaring, tomorrow it could be any one of a dozen children, lured from their homes never to be seen again.
‘None of us will rest until his body dangles from the gallows in Gabor Wood for only then will our children be safe from him.’
‘We have wasted enough time.’ Colgarth turned back and squinted up the mountainside. His eyes followed the grey slate until it blended into sparse patches of grass and heather, the domain of grouse and black game, stunted copses clinging to the shallow soil, miraculously surviving the elements. Two almost indiscernible moving dots neared the skyline, an air of urgency about them. ‘They are almost at the moor and it will take us the best part of two hours to scale this slope. We must overtake them before dark for surely by morning the Mainwaring child will not still be alive!’
Grunts greeted Colgarth's words. The men, the majority of whom were in the employ of Squire Mainwaring himself, knew that no one would be returning until Bemorra was caught. The Squire would be the law when Bemorra was tried and the landowner had no time for faint hearts. No wages because you had not worked, but woe betide he who was foolish enough to turn back from this manhunt. There was only one way to go, forward and up.
Colgarth led the way, his heavy hunting boots crunching and slipping on the broken slate. The others followed, eyeing the snarling, wolfish dogs and secretly hoping that the animals would lunge and break free; that would solve a lot of problems for everybody.
Sweat streamed down their faces, trickling into their eyes and blurring their vision so that they could not be sure whether those they pursued had topped the far horizon or not. Each man knew that every step taken had to be retraced at the end of the day, and they had come a long way already. It was going to be rough but they would make it. When the final reckoning came Bemorra would be jerking his life away at the end of a rope on the gallows in Gabor Wood. And after that his corpse would be gibbetted, his evil eyes pecked out by the jays and magpies which lived in the thickets, the buzzards and ravens coming down from their haunts in the hills to rip the dead flesh from his body and gorge themselves on it.
There was no other way it could end.
For as long as she could remember Isobel Mainwaring had liked Bemorra. He was kind and considerate, not at all like her mother and father had tried to imply. And it was great fun being with him. Naturally, her parents had forbidden her to associate with him: like everybody else in and around Gabor, they were frightened of him. Which was silly.
Isobel slipped her hand back into Bemorra's, the squeeze of his gnarled, almost deformed fingers sending a surge of reassurance through her. In a way it was as though he were her Papa; strong and comforting, protecting her from any danger. Far behind she heard the baying of those awful hunting hounds, the beasts which Colgarth and Odell trained to run down foxes and hares and rip them to shreds whilst the screaming victims were still alive. Sometimes they dug a deep hole, put a live badger into it, and then sent the dogs down to fight it to the death. Ugh! Papa was as bad, a heathen in a scarlet jacket, whipping and spurring his mount unmercifully to keep up with the hunt in case he missed out on the gory finale. Bemorra wasn't like that at all. She had noticed on several occasions how he deliberately stepped over beetles as they wound their way along sheep tracks in the heather - he didn't like killing anything.
Isobel's legs were tiring. Had she been alone she would have curled up in the soft heather, closed her eyes and gone to sleep, not caring if they found her. For without her companion it wouldn't have mattered. Oh, they were stupid, all the villagers of Gabor. Like the children in the church school they always had to have somebody to bully, picking on the weakest. Bemorra wasn't weak, just … different. Everybody thought he couldn't speak properly but that was because they did not listen to him. A low voice, a strange accent, his words seeming to run into one another without a pause so that the spittle formed on his lips. A kind of ‘liquid’ speech, but it was perfectly clear to Isobel Mainwaring. She understood every word he spoke.
She glanced up at him again. He looked weary now, a gaunt, stooped figure in ragged clothing, the garments bearing a distinct similarity to those which had adorned the turnip-headed bird scare which had stood in Farmer Watts' field a few weeks ago.
A misshapen hat crushed hard down on his flat head, a colourful cock pheasant's tail-feather jammed into one of the many tears in the felt. Through his split boots she saw the flesh of his feet, dirty, but that was only to be expected when one had walked so far over rough ground, moving with a strange primordial gambol that swung the long and matted ginger hair falling from his head and face. So strong, though, every movement a total contradiction to that emaciated-looking frame.
‘You're tired.’ He slowed, his clear blue eyes meeting hers with an expression of genuine concern.
Now that he had put it into words Isobel's resistance seemed to fade, her small legs threatening to buckle under her. She held on to her companion, allowed him to take the full weight of her tiny body. ‘Yes. But I don't want to go back, Bemorra.’
‘You shan't.’ A low laugh that sounded as though he was clearing his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was husky. ‘Ol' Bemorra'll carry you.’
Tears flooded her eyes as she felt herself being lifted up, crooked an arm around his neck and half lay across his rounded shoulders. ‘Where are we going, Bemorra?’ It was the first time she had asked that question since they had started up into the mountains. This morning had been just like any other Sunday morning, except that she had skipped Sunday School, sneaked from the mansion home of the Mainwarings, and met Bemorra where she knew he would be waiting for her in the woodcutter's clearing deep in Gabor Wood. Sometimes Bemorra helped Wyke, the woodman, but not today for Wyke like all the others in service on the estate was forbidden to work on the Sabbath.
Bemorra was just sitting there on a sawn stump, waiting, knowing that Isobel would come. A kind of telepathic appointment. So peaceful, woodpigeons cooing in the oak and beech trees all around, the foliage turning a rich golden brown, acorns and beechmast lying thick on the ground, an abundance of food for the creatures of the wild. A pair of red squirrels were busily foraging in the clearing, totally unafraid of Bemorra. Isobel had sensed their trust in him.
‘Do you ever go to church, Bemorra?’ She seated herself beside him, gazing up at him with wide-eyed innocence, suddenly so very proud she was his only human friend in a world that was hostile towards him. Mama would send her to bed without supper when she returned home but that would be no punishment because she would have eaten well of the wild fruits and herbs picked by Bemorra and she would be so tired that an early bed would be welcome.
‘This is my church.’ Bemorra smiled, spread his hands to incorporate the woodland around. ‘I go to church every day, my child.’
He laughed and a tiny shiver ran up and down Isobel's spine, so sudden that it frightened her. She remembered something she'd heard her parents discussing in low tones in the garden only last week, their whispered conversation coming to an abrupt stop the moment they were aware of her presence.
‘Those three children are still missing.’ Lady Mainwaring's voice was quivering with fear. ‘A month now and no sign of them. Surely the soldiers should be searching for them?’
‘They are only peasant children, my dear. Was it our own daughter, heaven forbid, or perhaps the Delborough children, then I have no doubt that a company of Redcoats would be scouring these hills and woods at this very minute. But with the lower classes breeding at an alarming rate, what is a peasant child more or less? Diphtheria could have taken them and nobody would have raised a murmur. But the army is stretched with this damned war in America which seems never-ending. My dear, they have more important things to attend to.’
‘But suppose it was Isobel who was missing!’ a hushed whisper from Amelia Mainwaring. ‘What would they do then?’
‘Isobel is not going to go missing,’ her husband snapped angrily. ‘Do you not realize that the Mainwarings are the largest landowners in Wales? I command the Bench, even the other magistrates are in awe of me, and those brought before me tremble in fear. None would dare to touch my daughter or anybody connected with the name of Mainwaring!’
‘Except Bemorra. Has Isobel not already been seen talking with him, an aristocratic child in the company of a filthy imbecile?’
‘I will forbid it. It shall not happen again. I will instruct Wyke that Bemorra is no longer to help him in the woodlands, that the simpleton is banned from our lands and should he trespass then I will have him thrown into prison on a poaching charge.’
The conversation had faded the moment the Mainwarings became aware of their daughter's presence. But Isobel had heard enough and her intelligence was such that even in the innocence of childhood she was beginning to understand bigotry and corruption, the unfairness of a world in which all were not equal. She would not let them do this to Bemorra. He had not hurt the missing children, probably had not even seen them. They had wandered off into Gabor Wood and become lost, perhaps stolen by the bands of wandering gypsies who came there from time to time. But with Bemorra one was safe. She made her mind up there and then that she would go to her friend, warn him of the many hands that were against him; she would forsake her stately home and its extensive lands for his tumbledown cottage beyond the village, stay with him forever. Well, for a day at least!
She had intended to wait until after Sunday School before going in search of Bemorra but when she awoke that morning and looked out of her latticed bedroom window across the wide lawn to the chestnut trees beyond, she seemed to hear Bemorra's lilting voice. ‘I am waiting for you, Isobel. Come to me soon.’ So she had gone that very morning and now she and Bemorra were in full flight. Reynard and his cub pursued by the devil hounds of Gabor.
Isobel's enthusiasm for being with her strange friend had turned to terror when they had heard the search party enter the wood. But soon it seemed that none could overtake this strange, loping man who pulled her along, twisting and turning down narrow paths, penetrating seemingly impenetrable thickets. Had it not been for the dogs they would have eluded their pursuers easily, but those huge shaggy beasts had their scent and they would not let up until they dropped with exhaustion.
But Bemorra was no easy prey, outwitting the dogs once by taking to the bed of a stream, cradling Isobel in his arms as he waded against the current; a respite of almost an hour by which time they had reached the mountains before they knew that the dogs had once again picked up their scent.
‘Where are we going, Bemorra?’ Isobel asked as she looked down from her shoulder seat, seeing the specks of those on their trail way down below. She was suddenly uneasy for during this past half-hour it had all ceased to be a big game of catch-me-if-you-can. Soon it would be dark and Papa would be furious with her when she got home … when she got home …
‘They'll no catch us now.’ Bemorra laughed throatily and would have shaken a defiant fist at those below had he not been carrying the child. ‘They'll search the moor all night for us but they'll no find us because we'll not be there for we'll ha' taken the steepest and shortest way down; down the watercourse, where there'll be no scent for the dogs to follow, and back to Gabor Wood. And they'll no think of looking in Gabor Wood again. Bemorra knows Gabor Wood better than any, better even than old Wyke and he works there every day except the Sabbath.’
‘Bemorra, I want to go home, to bed.’ Isobel felt the tears welling up, a flood of regrets that was going to burst forth at any moment. ‘Please take me home, Bemorra.’
‘All in good time.’ Now that he was out of sight of the search party Bemorra broke into a fast run, following a single sheep track through the thick heather on Gabor Moor, stopping only when he came to a trickle of crystal clear water that spilled from a slate crevice, splashing and meandering away on a downhill course; widening, getting deeper, up to his knees in places. The bed of the stream was slippery but Bemorra's foothold was as sure as that of a feral goat. He took his time, knowing that none would find him now. The fools would be searching the mountains for weeks.
Isobel had her eyes closed for most of the watery descent. She tried to tell herself that it was all a dream and when she woke up she would be back in her bed at the Manor, pulling the s
heets up over her head the way she always did when she had a nightmare. But, weary as she was, it was impossible to sleep, the incline jolting her one way, then the other, so that she was forced to wrap her arms around Bemorra's neck in case she fell. She dared not look, not even when the moon slid into view above the mountains, a huge orange ball turning to silver and flooding the rugged landscape with its ethereal light. And, as though to torture her, those words her mother had uttered in the garden only a week before whispered again in her ears. ‘Those three children are still missing … a month now and no sign of them … But suppose it was Isobel who was missing!’
Niggling fears were mounting into infantile terror. Those three children, she didn't know them because she wasn't allowed to mix with any who did not attend the private school in the Minister's big house but, rich or poor, they had wandered away and had not been seen since. Nobody talked about it except the villagers themselves, the farmworkers in the inn. Papa certainly had no time for such matters. But where was Papa? Isobel was sure that she would have recognized his portly figure even at that distance when she had looked back down the mountain at their pursuers about to begin the ascent.
But Bemorra wouldn't harm children; he wouldn't harm anybody or anything. Would you, Bemorra? Silence except for the rasping of his breath, the rushing of an icy mountain torrent and the pounding of her own heart.
‘There, we're down now.’
Isobel Mainwaring opened her eyes, saw that they were back on undulating meadowland again, the river a silvery ribbon in the moonlight, winding its erratic course alongside the forbidding cluster of trees that was the beginning of Gabor Wood.
‘Will you take me home now, Bemorra?’ She whispered the request in his ear, scarcely audible on this awe-inspiring night of moonlit beauty when only the owls were to be heard; even the Gabor hounds were silent now.
‘Aye.’ There was something unconvincing in his reply. She shivered. But Bemorra would never lie, not a man so holy that he had the biggest church in the world. ‘First, the wood.’