Earlier, about 16:30.
The walk was easier in shoes designed to be walked in, as opposed to the look at me and love me, of my previous choice and I soon made good headway towards the village. I made sure I stuck to the main road and had to stop myself making numerous checks of phone battery percentage and feeling for the compact LED torch I slipped into my bag; it was worse than when, at Secondary School, a really cute boy called Samuel gave me a ring after a couple of dates and I couldn't stop myself from touching and spinning it on my finger and smiling so wide my head could have fallen in half - It lasted two days before I found out he had also given a ring to Kate, Chloe and the skank Ria. I then had two days of playing with my hand to help ease the swelling over my knuckles after I hit him as hard as I could in the face.
As I rounded a curve in the road that took the view of pot holed and broken edged tarmac away from me and gave me in its place rows of proud trunks of majestic brown topped by verdant green; when a song filled the air, sung by voices untrained or educated but the powerful tune carried upon the wind and in a harmony that made it sweeter than any song on the radio.
Its source was three of 'the girls' singing words I could not make out or in a language I did not know but the tune was surprisingly simple it bridged my misunderstanding and made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I thought of the songs played out when I was around Xanthic or someone of ‘Other’ decent and how the tunes danced around the skies and within my head or instruments made from light and dark and stardust but never any words. The words, sounds, made the song more human and of this world but it raised me up beyond it. It stopped when they saw me and they lowered their heads, not in embarrassment as I initially thought but for the want for silence.
"That was beautiful." I said. "Was it from anything famous?" I continued hoping they would give me the name of the source of the tune so that I could google it and find the meaning of the song or the opera or work that it was from.
"Yes" came the reply in triplicate.
There was a silence that hung in the air after the single word and I felt like I had intruded into a private conversation and I wanted to back away and hide in embarrassment.
"It is a very old song and yes it is, was, famous once upon a time." the lead girl said. Her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail that reached halfway down her back and brought a line of colour to her thin black shirt. Her two companions, one dark haired and one copper, fell into step behind and the lead girl; who I think was introduced to me as Gemma in the Jolly Reaper, took me by the arm and walked by my side back along her route towards my desired goal.
"I will tell you a story if you wish." she said in the light and free tones of youth. Although she was of my age or younger, but filled with a confidence of someone who has never lost or twice her age.
I nodded my agreement and she continued, talking like we were good friends or at least more familiar than we were, but she was pleasant and one of those girls that were always part of a group and it was nice to be accepted so quickly that I listened without question and absorbed everything without issue.
"There was in these parts so many years ago, a woman of wisdom so great all those around envied her and plotted to steal her power. Of the woman there are few accounts written as all were burned and those that could remember or speak of her were persuaded not to either voluntarily or made so they couldn't. She was branded a Witch by the Lord of the land and all those who lived on his land were told stories of her evil and how she let the Devil himself suck at her teat and that she danced with demons while letting the children of her neighbours wither in their mother's' womb and animals on their farms die. Lies of course because men fear what they cannot understand, which as Mary says, is almost everything. Before, when she was free, she lived in the forest; which at that time was much larger than it is today and was looked upon as a teacher or Doctor is today. She knew the turning of the Seasons and when to plant or reap the crops, the herbs in the ground and the soothing they can give to the infirm and the firmness people need to stand up for their commitments and the softness people needed when the darkness was drawing to a close. She had power, oh yes." Gemma said this with glee and her face lit up like she was telling me of the fabulous pony her Father had just given her - another school flashback to when the privileged girls thought they could wipe out years of snobbery by making friends with the children home kids.
"Power over people, an influence to make others see the world as she did and she taught her girls the power of song.'' Gemma sang a short aria of immediate beauty and unintelligible as a Greek language lesson delivered in Latin.
Within a few seconds she finished and the world was a poorer place.
''She made us strong.''
'' Us? You mean the coven or the éclair or whatever Mary called it? '' I asked fascinated over the tale and just wanting the voice to continue and fill my life and to tell me all I need to know.
Gemma smiled and mirrors of it formed on the lips of the other girls. She then walked faster almost doubling her pace. I had to skip to keep up till I could match her strides.
Gemma turned, stopping in an instant and I almost tripped over my own feet. I stopped a couple of paces up the road and turned to face the three girls who had pulled together in a tight group which with the sun now behind them gave an image of a three headed entity - who probably still weighed less than me and with a smaller dress size.
''Women, we are Women..'' came a harmonic reply.
Followed by, “Akelarre. You don’t seem to know much, it’s the Sabbath, the meeting place. I would say the gathering, but that’s so new-emo-romantic it’s cringe worthy ” Gemma was going to go on but a car appeared from nowhere on the road travelling faster than legal and well over our side of the road. The engine screamed and the shadowy figure behind the wheel had one hand to his ear and the other on the top of the wheel pulling the vehicle round the bend. A very real fear of being struck by the car welled up within me and in a leap that started with my toes before my brain could fully engage a solution, I found myself slipping down a steep sided ditch and into foul water which stank of rotten eggs and leaves once the surface was broken the muddy lining disturbed. Of the girls, they made no move that didn't look like it was already part of their journey and planned in advance. The car sped on missing them by less space than I would be comfortable and the passing wind pulled on their skirts raising them up to expose perfect legs.
''Men destroy everything, they honour nothing, respect no one. They mar the land and are animal in their drives.'' Gemma's voice spat out her comments and the sound wasn't as sweet as it was moments ago. '' I hope we find him run into a tree.''
I climbed out of the ditch, it was a struggle and although all three girls looked at me no assistance was offered. I felt like I had been drinking and the fog of alcohol was lifting to be replaced by regret and embarrassment. Through eyes wide open I could see the road and I realised I had been walking in the wrong direction from my intended goal, caught up in the moment I had ignored my path, or at least the turning in the road that led to the village centre.
I don't know what I said next, it was an apology or maybe it was an excuse, but I pulled myself away from the girls and their walk and asked for the quickest way back to the village square. Three arms raised and pointed to a path over on the other side of the road leading away through trees; small 'messages' on the scrubbed grass of the mouth of the path clearly indicated this was a popular path with dog walkers.
Inside I was in a quandary, I thought with my heart to stay with the girls and get to know them and be in their company but with my head I had to fulfil my role for Xanthic. Xanthic popped into my head, that silly knowing smile, the black (or is that reflectively smoked) sun glasses and that indescribable coat! Dither as I am I swayed caught between commitment and gratification; A bubble had popped and it was Xanthic - or at least the job he gave me, that won out in the end.
''Will you be in the pub later? '' I asked hoping the
y would, knowing I would be upset if they weren't.
''We have plans for later, but we will be there before.''
*
Luckily this path was well trodden by the villagers and most notably by dog walkers who 'sign posted' their presence and the route was clear through the trees as the mud was worn to a stone surface. More 'messages' lined the edges where grass fought to claw back territory it lost to shoe and paw. I took out my notebook and jotted down what I could remember from my conversation with Gemma and as much of the song as I could remember. Memory fades really quick and even strong memories are changed by thinking about them, personalities, favourites or individualisms bleed through from the mind and two people can have dramatically different interpretations from the same moments spent together; and we've all had to sit through family stories that change with every telling.
''Shit!'' This I said loud and clear causing birds to fly from their roosts and small animals to scatter. I lifted my shoe to inspect the memo now written all over its sole.
The path was short, stony and bereft of suitably damp, mid length patches of grass with which to pass on the news. Luckily the rotten eggy stagnant water aroma is brilliant for masking doggy poo; so at least that’s a silver lining.
A short diversion led me behind a row of small houses that time -and window cleaners, forgot before a sharp turn leads out onto the main road and a bus stop shed. A sound reached me but not through my ears, it was of an old scratched record stuck on a drawn out sax note. I pulled back into the overgrown shrubbery marking the 'mine and yours' of the last house and the path.
From the left came a scruffy man in a dusty coat and muddied trousers carrying plastic carrier bags filled with everything from dog eared worried books to equally worried and dog chewed clothes plus a bursting rucksack on his back. The jumping note played louder as he approached and softened - thankfully so as I had an almost irresistible urge to kick him to see if it solves the repetition and carry on the song. He made his way to the wooden bus stop and disappeared within its shed like structure. Everywhere else they would have been glass, or at least clear plastic, and I would have been able to see what he does; this being my closest lead to anything 'Other' in the area. I had to move to the front of the shelter to observe him, but this also gave the issue of being in a place where I myself could be observed. Then I noticed a bus timetable behind a picture frame screwed to the side.
It was ten steps to the bus stop and in that time I had concocted, processed and formulated my very cunning plan; I'd look at the time table, take a seat on the other side of the shelter and watch what the 'Other' did and what bus he got on and my fall back would be I'd be waiting for the next bus. Genius, if I do say so myself.
Smugness did not last long. The bus time table wasn't, like many of its kind, hard to decipher simply stating bus 22 stops here and heads towards Fairhamlet the nearest town every hour at seven minutes to the hour; it doesn't even go on in the other direction and instead drops of Fairhamlet travellers here and turns around and heads back to civilisation. But by the time I worked this small drawback to my plan out I had already taken a seat on the single plank bench within.
A new plan, I thought, would be a really good thing right now. I looked across at the man who looked up at me from his hunched over position and gave me a nod of acknowledgement. I was saved from finding a topic of conversation as I've never been good at small talk and once chatted to a stranger on the underground about type 42 destroyers and their similarities in Star Wars for 20 minutes until I'm sure he left before his stop just to escape: By a mother and child walking towards a small village shop.
''Why does that man have wiggly worms coming out his face?'' asked the child wiping a thick line of snot from its nose across its cheek by means of the back of its sleeve.
The mother carried on walking holding the child’s other hand.
''Look, they are wiggling out his face. Can I have wiggly worms in my face?'' small podgy fingers still sticky with bogies wiggled merrily as the child held its free hand up to its face.
The pair walked into the shop and I used the distraction to look closer at my bus stop partner, no worms presented themselves, wiggling or otherwise, well not on his face - I'd hate to inspect his clothes to confirm or deny the worm free claim.
A small van like village bus was pulling up at the stop and the sax skipping 'Other' in a man's clothing waved his hand to offer me the first place in the very short queue to board as the doors swished open. I shook my head and said ''After you, I'm waiting for the next with a friend.'' weak I know and very see through.
He stopped when he had got all his bags on the bus and turned leaning into me with a burst of high scale sax.
''Take my advice and leave too and soon. It’s turning around here and our kind aren't welcome anymore.'' then he stepped onto the bus and with a swish he was driven away.
*
So I had been recognised by a complete stranger. Do I have my own tune playing around me signalling my presence to all who can hear it. Normal humans, of whom there are the vast majority of the population, do not sing out; this was something I thought I knew well. Even a tiny amount of 'Other' in the blood generates ....... generates what? A song, music of the Gods, Angels and Demons or something else. Who can hear it, Xanthic once said he could not; but you should not always believe everything a self confessed Demon - or demon for the well watered down ones, tells you.
The child and mother had walked out of the shop with a bottle of milk and no sweets. The milk in a small bottle hung from the mother's finger, the lack of sweets was very vocally advertised in a whiny voice by her hip.
I looked at the child and no clues could be made from the clothes over its gender, its shoulder length hair also no aid and the round face with reddened cheeks under water filled blue eyes could have been the soul's windows from either gender. I felt parents should give us at least a mild chance of knowing what their offspring were, a pink bow in their hair or a blue top with 'Daddy's little man' written across the front, would be ideal.
The mother looked tired, not just sleepy but worn down and stared straight ahead as if not hearing her child's pitiful call for sugar coated sugar treats.
''The worm man has gone.'' the little one said in a bright voice almost in the same breath as the whine lamenting the lack of sweets and pulling on her hand in the direction of the bus shelter and myself.
''What?'' commented the adult as if this was the first she was aware the child was there.
''The wormy face man. He winked at me and looked wiggly.'' proudly stated and happy voiced the child spoke with confidence of children everywhere when passing on really exciting experiences such as soil and water make fun construction partners and slow worms in the hand can make big sisters scream and wet themselves.
The mother stopped and knelt down facing her love, using a tissue obtained from her sleeve to wipe away snot and tears from it's face. ''You have to stop seeing these things, he was just a dirty man, they are all just people and talking about worms and flies can upset them. Imaginary things are not there and should not be talked about. Please can you just forget it?''
''That lady is shining colours in my head.'' came the reply making it obvious the advice of its mother was not sinking in. The mother looked over at me well aware I could hear the conversation, with a look of the downtrodden but no offence meant and we all know what kids are like these days eh - it's amazing how expressive a face can be whilst at the same time being almost blank.
''She's singing of Samantha.''
The mother changed, hardening up and falling apart all at once.
''We...I...'' she started and then stood up and started in my direction and I then felt a panic hit me like a punch to my tummy, adrenaline poured into my heart and legs and I began to think about escape routes from this box I was sat in, unfortunately three sides were well boarded and secure and the fourth direction led to a marching mother.
''Do you know Samantha, my Samantha?'' I was asked
and I had to honestly answer I did not.
''She does,'' Came from the child.
''I've only been here a day.'' I said, ''I came down from London yesterday and don't know anyone here, unless she was one of the girls in the pub last night.....'' I couldn't continue as the lady in front of me involuntary gave a blub and quickly forced herself back together bringing her child free hand up to her face to cover her eyes and then down to hide her mouth.
''I'm very sorry, but my Samantha went to London six weeks ago and I haven't heard anything from her since and I am so worried.'' the mother pulled her remaining child closer to her and clearly causing it some discomfort. I was well out of my comfort zone and completely at a loss of what to say or do, I thought of Annie and Clive and their lost daughter, is this something parents from small villages have to cope with? Every road leads to London, or somewhere bigger than here at the very least, and the draw to the biggest of cities - in the mind if not in geography, is hard to ignore; Hell, I flew the coupe and headed that way as soon as I was old enough to stop the social working Stormtroopers from stopping me and dragging me back to the children's home. I never made contact with my past life from day one, but I never had anyone, or at least no one close, to contact even if I wanted to.
A great sadness drew deep from a well inside me and I could see this mirrored in the woman in front of me. How strong must she be, to stand there and face days, weeks without a child and be there for another younger one who is still there. How does she cope? How can she get out of bed every morning to face a day where her love does not contact her to let her know she is safe and thinking of her? Hope that today was the day she would receive that call.
I don't remember what was said next and nor do I know what happened but I wrote Natalie's number in my notebook with a description of Samantha and a vague impression of a crushed embrace. Natalie took her child and bottle of milk and walked away into the village.
Diary Of An Occult Resolution Assistant Page 13