The men nodded to each other but there was silence between them. All the visitors pressed Comstock’s hand and the biggest man patted him gently on the shoulder before indicating that they should go. Comstock was careful to turn off the light before he left the cottage.
The air was sweet and mild after several days of warm weather but Comstock was unable to suppress a slight shiver. The giant saw and once more gave him a reassuring pat.
About half-a-mile distant, across the flat landscape, the angular shapes of village dwellings were silhouetted against a star-bright sky, the chunky tower of an ancient church looming above all the others. There was a lazy breeze and Comstock thought that he could hear the creaking of the old sign at the pub. In the east, a rising full moon was shedding its mellow light over fields and hedgerows.
They moved with slow but purposeful steps towards the moon, the limping man and his disfigured companion flanking Comstock, each lightly clasping one of his elbows.
The more than seventy-eight-inch bulk of the giant trod closely behind them. All knew that Comstock would not flee but each man was deeply imbued with a sense of occasion. More than that, though. They were not merely an escort: they were also there to impart, by their presence and touch, some of their strength to Comstock. At times such as this, even the most stalwart man needed the strength of his friends.
When at last they reached the appointed place – a large and freshly-ploughed field – a small crowd of some thirty to forty people awaited them. Many held fiery torches and all but one wore long white robes. The exception was a woman lightly gowned in floating, pale-green chiffon which did little to conceal her slim body. A garland of wild flowers rested upon her cascade of ash-blonde hair and from a fine gold cord about her waist was suspended a sickle, its curved blade gleaming. As Comstock’s escort faded back into the crowd, the green-clad woman and two handmaidens advanced to greet him.
The woman took both of Comstock’s hands in hers, and he gazed at her with uncritical adoration, thinking as always how very beautiful she was.
“Welcome to this place, Thomas,” she said. “Do you come here of your own free will?”
“I come most willingly, Mother Priestess,” the man replied, rural burr contrasting strongly with her educated tones.
“Then hail and farewell, Thomas.” She moved closer, kissed him on the mouth, then seized and ripped his garment, tearing away the flimsy threads and leaving him naked. In the pallid moonlight and the light shed by the flickering torches, his muscular torso and limbs spoke of peasant vitality and his erection appeared to be enormous.
The handmaidens began to caress Comstock’s body with light, butterfly strokes and the priestess gently clasped the rigid penis. Her fingers were long and elegant, her manipulations soft and skilled. Thomas Comstock’s face was a graven mask of fierce pride.
The woman’s movements were languid at first, then became more urgent as the man’s breathing quickened. Suddenly he ejaculated, semen spurting silver in the moon’s glow. The surrounding men and women echoed Thomas Comstock’s cry of ecstasy as if they too had climaxed. The priestess genuflected, tenderly cupping his testicles and the still engorged and throbbing phallus in her left hand. Then with a swift upward stroke of the sickle she scythed Thomas Comstock’s genitals from his body!
A single shriek of anguish was torn from the man’s throat to be almost drowned by the shout of exultation which burst forth from the onlookers.
For several seconds, or for a thousand years, Comstock just stood there, gouts of blood spilling in a grisly second orgasm, spilling onto the seed he had shed and soaking with it into the soil. Then, despite his agony, he began to run about the field, splashing his blood until his run became a stagger and his stagger a series of stumbles. He fell to his knees with head bowed, as if to watch his own life flood out.
The priestess ran to Comstock, to kneel and cradle his head against her breasts, a living and pagan Pieta. He raised a tortured face to her and his voice was just a whisper. “Was I worthy?”
Love shone from her eyes and her kiss was light upon his cheek. “The most worthy of all, Thomas,” she assured him.
He smiled a tired smile and nodded his thanks. Then he held his head back, exposing his throat for the final merciful stroke of the sickle.
Several men came and lifted his body with reverence, bearing it face down about the field so that as much as possible of the rich earth was sanctified by his precious blood.
Anthea Moore took a surreptitious glance at her wristwatch. About ten minutes to go. Too late to start something completely fresh but she could give them a minor research project. The question was, what? Well, May Day was coming up – something to do with that, perhaps? She turned back to the twenty-odd teenagers who made up her folklore and mythology class.
Anthea had been sceptical when a friend, the principal of a sixth-form college, had approached her with the idea of conducting a class once or twice a week.
“Modern teenagers won’t be interested in folklore,” she had said.
“Don’t be cynical,” her friend had replied. “Give it a try and be surprised.”
So she had given it a try and had been happily surprised. Her students were aged between sixteen and eighteen, all of them studying subjects such as literature, history and religious studies. They seemed to enjoy Anthea’s class although she was unsure whether it was because of the subject or because of the fund of often-bloody anecdotes she could tell them or because they were proud of being taught by a genuine published writer.
“Listen carefully,” she said. “Beltane, Lughnassadh, Samhain and Imbloc.” They goggled at her and at the alien-sounding words. She snatched up a piece of chalk and printed the four words on the blackboard. “Those were the four great festivals of the Celtic year. You may not know much about the Celts but you’ve almost certainly heard of their priests, the Druids. Take a note of those names, discover what you can about them and we’ll discuss your findings at the next session. See if you can link them to any of the Christian festivals or folk celebrations. If you look at the right sources, you’ll probably discover that by our standards the Druids were not nice people.”
“In what way, Miss Moore?” Stumps of pencil and nibbled pens were poised over dog-eared notebooks.
Anthea smiled. So many of them reminded her of her own younger self. “Well, in common with many ancient religions, fertility rites were important to the Celts for a good planting and a good harvest. The Druids tried to ensure their harvests were good by sacrificing human beings.
“The popular concept now of Druids is of a bunch of harmless eccentrics who gather together every once in a while to worship at Stonehenge.”
She paused to write the word “Stonehenge” on the board and drew an immense question mark behind it. “I don’t know if anyone has bothered to tell the modern Druids but their predecessors are unlikely to have worshipped at Stonehenge. For a start, Stonehenge predates the first Celtic invasion of Britain by at least a thousand years and probably much longer; and secondly, the Druids venerated trees – the woodlands were their preferred places of worship.”
“You mentioned human sacrifice, Miss Moore,” said a stout youth with thick glasses, “Aren’t you going to tell us about that?”
“I might have expected you to pursue that one, Charles,” grinned Anthea. “I had noticed the latest Stephen King among your books.”
She waited for the smattering of laughter to die down and then continued, “Some of you may have heard of the Wicker Man. The Druids built great wickerwork cages, often in human form, in which they would burn living slaves and captive enemies.”
“Oh, is that all?” said a disappointed Charles.
“No, that’s not all,” Anthea told him. “I think you’re all mature enough to be told about the Corn King . . . even you, Charles.
“The Corn King was selected from among the most physically strong and most ferocious fighters in his tribe and was often – dare I mention it? – the most sexua
lly potent man in the community. He was the Celtic stud.” She raised a hand to quell the sniggers. “Many social wild animals know instinctively that it can benefit the herd or pack if the genes only of the most powerful male are passed on. Many pre-Christian pagan tribes had the same instinct. The Corn King was literally a stud. It is believed that the Celts willingly gave the Corn King access to their wives, and if a child resulted from the union then it was treated as the husband’s own. I think this could possible be the origin of the changeling legend.”
“Nice work if you can get it.” Tim Finnegan was what American students would call a “jock”, an all-round athlete and self-appointed God’s gift to women. He waggled lascivious eyebrows at several girls nearby.
One of them sighed. “And to think Miss Moore believes we’re all mature.”
Anthea nodded at the boy. “Yes indeed, Tim, nice work if you can get it. But I’m not so sure you’d like it.”
“Try me,” Tim laughed.
“Okay, submit your application through the usual channels,” Anthea said, “but read the job description very carefully. The Corn King reigned for a single year. At the end of that time he was sacrificed to ensure the fertility of the fields. He might be skinned alive or have his throat cut or be dragged by horses – anything at all to give his blood to the land. Now that you know what it entails, Tim, how soon can you start?”
Mocking shouts were interrupted by the bell signalling the period’s end. “Right, that’s it for now,” Anthea told them. “Please leave quietly and enjoy the short break. I’ll see you soon, and don’t forget—” She tapped the four words on the blackboard.
“You going anywhere good for the break, Miss?” someone asked as they gathered their books together.
“I’m getting into my car and I’m going to drive around looking for interesting May Day customs,” Anthea said. “I don’t know where yet, but the weather has been very good recently and I hope to have a pleasant trip.”
Famous last words, thought Anthea Moore ruefully. She was sitting in her car staring out at a grey-white cocoon of fog which surrounded her.
She had decided on East Anglia for her holiday drive. There was an out-of-the-way village called Bresslingham Market which was said to have some very interesting old May Day revels. There might just be the basis for an article or the start of a book there.
The weather had started out well – “Bright periods,” the radio weather forecast had promised – but conditions had worsened gradually after she had driven off the A11 onto the secondary road system which would bring her to Bresslingham Market.
The change had started with a sudden dip in temperature. There had been nothing disturbing in that. After all, cold snaps in late April and early May are only to be expected, particularly in the eastern counties. Anthea had turned up the car’s heating system and was soon warm. Then thin tendrils of mist had started to creep across the broad, flat farmlands, climbing the low hedgerows and sliding through shallow ditches towards the road until the whole day was wrapped in a light monochrome shawl.
Still, it wasn’t too bad. Visibility was down to several hundred yards and the car’s headlights were well able to deal with that. Anthea had slowed down to compensate for her unfamiliarity with the convolutions of the narrow country road. Thank God, she had encountered very little traffic and she guessed that most drivers stuck to the main roads. After all, this part of East Anglia was sparsely populated.
And then without warning Anthea Moore had found herself in the middle of the thickest fog she had ever seen. She reduced her speed even more, down to about ten miles an hour, leaning forward with her face almost touching the windscreen in a vain attempt to see through the murk ahead. The wipers clacked back and forth but made little difference to the viscous droplets which smothered the vehicle.
Fate had been reserving its dirtiest trick. One moment the car was crawling ahead and then, for no apparent reason, it just stopped. The engine seemed to be running sweetly and then . . . silence.
“Shit!” muttered Anthea Moore.
There was a minor consolation. She was on a straight run of road which stretched for some distance ahead and so there was little chance of an accident. Unless the oncoming driver was a road maniac, she realized, and there were plenty of those on the loose. She steered as far in to the left as the narrow road would permit and applied the handbrake.
For several minutes she tried the ignition and pressed the gas-pedal. Nothing, save for some odd choking noises from the engine. For the first time ever, Anthea regretted that she knew so little about the working of cars. But this was supposed to be one of the most reliable small cars on the road. “Excuses don’t start engines,” she told herself. “Decide what you’re going to do.”
Expert opinion was that a woman finding herself in this position should lock herself in the vehicle and await the next police patrol. Trouble was, this particular good advice was aimed at women stranded on motorways, not on very minor roads in the middle of nowhere. The police patrol around here was likely to be a bicycle-riding bobby who passed by once every three or four months.
Anthea consulted her road atlas but it was of little help. She could see where she had left the major road and she was able to pinpoint Bresslingham Market in relation to that junction. But she had little idea of how far she had travelled through the thickening murk. The town could be around the next bend or it could be an hour away at fog speed. God, in this blinding mess she could well have driven through the town and never have realized it.
Decisions, decisions! She could stay here in the car, cold, miserable and hungry, for any length of time. Alternatively, she could get out and walk and hope that she would soon arrive at Bresslingham. She glanced at her wristwatch. Two o’clock. At least it was still daylight (ha, ha). Anthea reached into the back seat for her overnight bag. Her suitcase could wait until she returned with help. She took a flashlight from the glove compartment.
She carefully locked the car door and began to walk. The idea of the walk itself did not bother her. She often walked for pleasure and she was wearing sensible shoes. But the fog was heavy and damp, clinging to her as she moved, and all sound – even that of her own footsteps on the road – was muffled. Anthea felt as if she was treading the depths of a lifeless sea.
Perhaps ten minutes passed and Anthea began to imagine things. Or, rather, she hoped that she was only imagining things. The fog, as if sentient and inimical, seemed to press closer. The woman’s spine began to itch with a sensation of being silently watched. Several times she wanted to whirl about and scream into the gloom but controlled herself. It’s natural to be apprehensive in this situation, she told herself fiercely. Succumb to panic and you’ve really got problems.
She used the flashlight sparingly, switching it on briefly and casting the beam around. She got the impression that the hedges bordering the road were becoming higher and Anthea was sure that she could hear strange rustlings coming from within their depths. Another flick of the torch’s button and – What was that? That silent, flitting shadow just beyond the beam’s edge?
Anthea stood still and took deep breaths to calm herself, suffering a coughing fit for her pains. Bloody fool, it was a fox or something. Wasn’t it?
An unexpected chattering noise from behind made her spin about. That wasn’t imagination! The beam of light punched into the haze. Nothing. Another animal? Anthea shifted the torch to her shoulder like a cudgel. “Who’s there?” she called out. “I know you’re there. Be careful, I’m armed!”
There was an empty feeling in her stomach and her heart beat more rapidly as she backed away, staring into the fog, wary for the unseen pursuer. She could neither see nor hear anything and relaxed slightly. And bumped straight into something behind her.
Anthea whirled, ready to lash out with the flashlight. Then she gasped and laughed weakly. Her assailant was a wooden post. Anthea leaned against it, giggling. She had often prided herself on her strong nerves but this fog had cut her down to size.
A wooden post. Could it be . . . ? Anthea grinned and shone her torch upwards. Yes, it was. A signpost. An arm, pointing the way she was heading, carried the legend, BRESSLINGHAM MARKET 7. Great! Then she noticed the second pointer, indicating a road off to the left. Anthea strained on tiptoes to see it.
The letters were rather more worn that those on the main arm but Anthea deciphered them as NAYSHAM ¾ . So, there was a village or hamlet called Naysham nearby. Anthea had never heard of it, nor could she recall noticing it in the road atlas. But it was much nearer than Bresslingham and she was sure that at least she could find shelter until the fog lifted. Feeling much happier, she walked on and within a few minutes found the side road to Naysham. Giving a little sigh of relief, Anthea stepped out briskly.
The fog still clung to her in soggy caress and there were still noises in the hedgerows but Anthea did not care. She was no longer facing the unknown: the fog was just fog, the noises just natural noises. Within a few minutes she was even whistling.
At last through the denseness she began to make out the shapes of low buildings, a corner here, an odd line of thatching there, an occasional low gleam of light-bulbs within cottages. Then she saw the most welcome thing of all, a mirage-like haze of blue. She approached carefully until the blue shape solidified into an old-fashioned carriage lamp surmounting a sign which announced POLICE.
Anthea grinned and punched the air before pushing her way through a heavy door and into the friendly warmth of a gas-fire and the welcome glow of electric light. Her way was barred by an oak counter on which stood a gleaming brass bell. Anthea gave a tentative tap and there was a friendly jingling noise.
A voice from somewhere towards the rear of the building roared out, “Now which of you lot’s daft enough to come out on an afternoon like this? Just hang on a minute!” Despite the volume of the bellow, the voice sounded amiable enough.
The Mammoth Book of Terror Page 19