The Red Judge

by Pauline Fisk

  But then the moment ended. The high altar appeared ahead of me, carved in stone, lit by candles and decorated with gold. Above it hung a massive, stained-glass windowpane depicting God in aquamarine robes. His all-seeing face looked down at me as if he’d know the wrong boy anywhere, regardless of the candlelight. I blushed as if caught out, and my voice dried up. No longer did I feel like a battle tank leading a charge. Instead I felt like an enemy spy trying to sneak in under cover of darkness.

  The choristers peeled away on either side of me, taking their places in the choir stalls, leaving me alone. I stood before a carved throne, its candles lighting up a man in a purple robe.

  The choristers stopped singing, and the man stood up. In his hand he held a staff, curved at the top to look like a golden question mark. I realised that he was the bishop – the real bishop, I mean, not the ‘my lord bishop’ that the vicar-type had jokingly called me. He looked at me, and I looked back. An absolute stillness fell across the cathedral as if something very special was about to happen.

  Then the man came down from the throne, removed the plain gold cross that hung round his neck, and hung it round mine. He took the ring off his finger and put it on mine, and handed me the golden staff. Finally I stood before him, covered in the sort of treasure that only hours earlier I’d imagined stealing.

  ‘Except ye be made like unto little children,’ he cried out in a great voice, standing before the congregation, stripped bare of all his symbols of office, ‘ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven! On this great Feast of Holy Innocents – BEHOLD OUR BISHOP OF THE INNOCENTS!’

  Suddenly it was like a charge going off. A wave of feeling ran around the cathedral. For everybody else, I realised, this was a holy moment, but for me it couldn’t possibly have been worse. Bishop of what? The Innocents? Was that what the man had said? I broke out in a sweat. Surely he hadn’t been referring to me? He couldn’t have done. Not possibly.

  Not the murderer of Gilda Katterfelto!

  I should have turned tail, right there and then, and got out. Before I could do anything, however, the bishop spun me round to face the congregation too. I stood before them all, waiting for God to strike me dead. I was shaking from head to foot, and everybody could see it. The bishop patted my shoulders, as if to say that all boys got nervous at this point, and I wasn’t to worry.

  ‘They shall put down the mighty from their seats,’ he cried out in his great, booming voice. ‘And exalt the humble and meek.’

  Then he took me firmly by the elbows and sat me on the throne between the candles. The choirboys burst into an anthem and the organ thundered so loudly that the whole cathedral trembled. I waited to die, thinking that if I’d been God I’d have finished me off ages ago, before I’d even dared enter the cathedral.

  But the anthem finished and nothing happened except that the eyes of the congregation turned back to me. The bishop offered up a prayer for the ‘sweet-smelling savour of a life of innocence’. Then he made a holy sign in the air and the girls with golden crosses got on either side of me.

  I was off on my travels again. With the girls in front of me and the bishop bringing up the rear, we processed between the choir stalls, heading for the pulpit. We reached its steps, and I looked up with dread. Behind me I could hear the bishop whispering that I’d be all right so long as I remembered to ‘speak clearly and project your voice.’

  I had no choice. I climbed the steps, thinking that if God hadn’t struck me yet, he would now. The congregation stared up at me – all the great and good of Hereford, including the mayor and mayoress in their chains of office. And I stared back, knowing that I was a black sheep in their midst and that, however many rivers I travelled down, or golden robes I hid behind, I could never escape from what I’d done.

  I hung my head. Somewhere below the pulpit, I heard the bishop clear his throat. I could feel him willing me to do well. And I might be a black sheep, but I still had a sermon to preach!

  Remembering the piece of paper in my hand, I opened it out. At the top, promisingly enough, was written the heading, ‘Boy Bishop’s Sermon – Feast of Holy Innocents’. But underneath it were four words.

  I can’t! OH SHIT!!

  That was it. Nothing else. I stared at the blank page, knowing that, when I found my so-called chum – and I would – another murder would take place! The congregation looked up at me, their expressions freezing over with embarrassment as it dawned on them that I had dried up. The bishop cleared his throat again, trying to gently prod me into action, and the vicar-types glanced at each other as if only now were they realising that something was amiss. The choirmaster looked fully into my face and visibly flinched, and the choristers all grinned, as if they’d realised from the start – and thought the whole thing a great joke.

  The game was up. I did the only thing possible in the circumstances – leapt down from the pulpit and legged it out of the cathedral. As I went, I flung off the layers of golden clothing, telling myself that I might be a black sheep but at least I wasn’t a thief. The congregation watched in astonishment, as mitre, ring, staff, golden cross, golden cloaks and capes and golden shoes flew in every direction. I reached the great west doors of the cathedral, pulled them open and dashed outside.

  It was the last that any of them saw of me. I ran barefooted across the snowy precinct, not even noticing how cold it was. I didn’t know where I was going and didn’t care either. All I knew was that I’d got to get away.

  I left the precinct behind, and ran around the city centre like a crazy thing. People must have stared at me, but I didn’t notice. Gradually I got colder until finally I had no choice but to return to the cloister garden. Here I dug my coat and boots out of the rubbish bin. The cathedral lights were out by now, and its precinct had fallen silent. The great and good of Hereford had all gone home and the place was deserted. My so-called chum had gone as well, which came as no surprise, but he’d left a note on the bench where I’d been sitting, which said, ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  I screwed it up, and was just about to throw it in the bin when the cathedral side door opened and footsteps came my way. A couple of vicar-types appeared, locked in conversation about the calibre of boy you got these days in choir schools. They hadn’t seen me yet but, knowing that they soon would, I crept into the shadows, looking for a hiding place.

  This I found, much to my surprise, in the cathedral coffee shop, whose door I discovered had been left unlocked. I hid behind it until the vicar-types had gone, then, as I turned to leave, I noticed a light next door, in the room that housed the famous Mappa Mundi.

  Had somebody stolen it, or was it simply that the person responsible for security round here had taken leave of their senses that night? I went to check, and found the map still hanging on the wall. I’d seen it once before, dragged here by my parents after one of Cary’s concerts, but had been so impatient to get away that I’d hardly bothered to look at it.

  Now I stood before it again, with all the time in the world, noticing how different it was to an ordinary map. For starters, everything was in the wrong place according to the ordinary rules of geography. Then some of the places were real, while others were places I’d only ever thought of as existing in myth. Then there were people on the map – kings and saints and people like that. Then there were creatures too, and some of them were real live creatures that you saw in zoos, but others – like the griffin and the unicorn – were out of myths as well.

  But there they hung, on the wall, as if the map was big enough for all of them. And I thought about that afterwards, miles downriver in the dark with the wind whistling through the trees.

  I wish I had a map like that, I thought, with everything on it – all the places that I’ve been to, and the things I’ve seen, all the people, and the creatures, and Plynlimon and the sea. Then when I’m feeling frightened, like I do now, I’ll at least know I belong, and where I might end up.

  20

  Seven Sisters’ Rocks

  I returned to Harri a
nd Mari bearing a pocket full of burgers bought with my five-pound note. I was overwhelmed with guilt for having been away for so long, but they leapt all over me as if they bore no grudge. We divided the burgers between us and wolfed them down. Then we set off again.

  I was glad to see the lights of Hereford disappearing. For evermore, I’d remember it as the place where I’d learnt that I couldn’t run away from what I’d done to Gilda. I sat up on the high bench seat, wondering with dread what my journey would teach me next. I tried to comfort myself with the thought of my seafaring father waiting for me when I got to the sea. But, in my new state of clearsightedness, I knew that I was kidding myself.

  We rested in a barn but I couldn’t sleep. At first light we set off again, but the only thing that kept me going was the promise I’d made after my night in Llewellyn’s cave not to give up. There seemed no point to anything any more. I huddled on the bench seat, watching Harri and Mari pulling the sled, and wishing I had half their spirit.

  All that day I felt edgy and nervous. Time and time again, I found myself glancing back, as if the whistling of the wind meant that the Cŵn y Wbir were after me. There wasn’t anything to see, but maybe Harri and Mari started sensing something too, because they began to falter.

  For the first time in our journey, they began to look as if they didn’t want to carry on. The wind was bitter and gusty, buffeting against them, and I had to shout to keep them going. I felt ashamed, but also felt as if I had no choice. There was snow in the wind – hard, pitted white stuff that stung my face and stuck like glue. Soon my body was covered with it, and so were the dogs’ coats.

  We passed snowed-in villages where houses were covered too, and cars buried in their drives. Electric lines were down, candles shone in windows, and not a soul was about. Then we passed through open country where the wind created massive drifts. It was difficult to keep going. Snow piled up on the sled until it felt as if it weighed a ton.

  Harri and Mari became slower and slower and, finally, I had to call a halt. I didn’t want to, but knew that I had no choice. I unharnessed the dogs and they stood looking up at me, too tired even to shake the snow off their coats. Once they’d flown like wild creatures set free, but now they stood like beasts of burden, wretched and exhausted.

  ‘This can’t go on,’ I said. ‘We can’t go on. You’ve got to head back home. Go back to Pawl. I know that you can find him. I never should have brought you. You’re better off without me. Off with you – go, go, go!’

  I waved my arms like windmills, trying to shoo Harri and Mari away. But instead of seizing their chances, they stood in front of me refusing to budge. I tried again, shouting in a loud, rough voice that I’d had enough of them and trying to push them away. But they continued to look up at me.

  In the end, there was no choice but for us to carry on. We sheltered for a while behind a hedge, then started off again. The journey was no easier – the snow still fell, the cold was still cold and the wind still blew mercilessly. But everything felt different. If the whole world turned its back on me, I knew I’d still have Harri and Mari. At least I wouldn’t be alone.

  It was a good feeling. But feelings don’t fill stomachs and, all too soon, mine was rumbling miserably. The previous night’s burgers felt as if they’d happened years ago. We passed a riverside pub called The Hope & Anchor, and I remember thinking that there was precious little hope on our journey any more, and absolutely nothing to anchor us.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of hungriness and confusion. Daylight seeped away – not that there had ever been much of it, anyway. We passed beneath an old stone bridge, and started down a valley in the shadow of yet another ruined castle. The riverbank closed in on either side of us. Trees hung over the frozen water, and I noticed berries hanging from them. Bright red berries standing out against a tangle of dark branches – and I don’t know what got into me, but suddenly I found myself picking them.

  If not the worst mistake of my whole life, it wasn’t far off. I did it out of desperation, I suppose, because I had no food and it was cold and dark. And, once I’d started eating, I couldn’t stop. I stuffed them all down – hard little berries and softer ones, bitter ones and a few that were mercifully tasteless. Some I chewed and some I swallowed whole.

  It was madness, of course. I mean, they didn’t even satisfy my hunger. But I kept on stuffing them down, telling myself that of course they weren’t poisonous, and the countryside was full of food for free if only people had the guts to eat the stuff. Finally, when I could take no more, I washed the last berries down with a handful of snow. And who can say which did most harm in the end? Perhaps the softer ones were as poisonous as the hard ones.

  Certainly it didn’t take me long to find out. By now the journey had drawn us into a deep gorge with densely wooded cliffs on either side. The river looped around these cliffs, turning first one way and then the other, and I began to get queasy feelings, as if I was on a fairground ride.

  At first I blamed the dogs for pulling the sled roughly, making it swing from side to side. The alternative – that the berries were to blame – was too terrible to contemplate. But then my stomach started churning in a truly alarming fashion, and I knew that I was in serious trouble. Sweat broke out all over me and the churning turned into waves of violent stomach cramps. Nausea washed over me, and I knew it was all down to the berries.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m imagining it. I’ve got to pull myself together. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  But the words were scarcely out before I found myself hanging over the side of the sled, watching the contents of my stomach shooting out all over the ice. I had never been so sick in my life. Harri and Mari stopped and looked at me, plainly unsure what to do. My stomach cramps got worse and I crawled off across the ice to relieve myself. This was a cruel and lengthy business, best left undescribed, if not forgotten. After it was over, I lay where I was and wanted to die. The world was going round in circles, and wouldn’t stop. I was shaking with the cold, and with fear as well. I’d had stomach upsets before, but never anything like this!

  Somehow, I struggled back to the sled and we started off again. It was a nightmare journey, which seemed to have no end. The gorge closed in on either side with huge, forbidding cliffs hanging over me. I clung to the sides of the sled and wondered how long I could possibly survive.

  A village came into view, snow-bound and silent. I saw lights on a cliff top, a pub with a car park, a riverside hotel and a row of ferries trapped in the ice. Then, all too quickly, the village was gone again, replaced by a dark stretch of river where there wasn’t a hint of light. Trees lined empty ridges, pointing skywards in rows like quivers full of arrows. Mist clung to the trees, and it felt like a place of ghosts. A place of slaughter, terrible and silent. I couldn’t get away from it quickly enough.

  Perhaps Harri and Mari felt the same, because they suddenly started running. I don’t know where they got their energy from, but they tore down the gorge as if the hounds of hell were after them. I swung from side to side of the sled, unable to control them. Could anything be worse than this? I thought.

  My stomach lurched again, and I broke out in another sweat. Something was wrong with me – and it wasn’t just the berries. Breathing in, I felt a ring of iron tighten round my chest and, breathing out, I dissolved into coughs. Not only that, but my throat and ears had started burning and my limbs throbbed. My body felt as weak and helpless as a newborn baby’s. Sweat began to pour off me, and it was obvious that I had caught a fever.

  The sled passed underneath a wooden footbridge and made its way round another great loop in the river. The black cliffs fell behind me and new ones loomed ahead, covered in trees with huge white rocks sticking out of them like a row of skulls. I moved towards them, feeling like a mariner in uncharted waters. My whole body was aching fit to burst.

  Suddenly the moon came out from behind a cloud. It lit the gorge, chasing away the darkness. The river shone as if made of silver, and the w
hite rocks shone as if somebody had switched on a light. I counted them as I passed underneath. Numbered each of them, and they came to seven.

  And, when I saw the girls beneath them, skating on the ice, there were seven of them too.

  21

  Icebreak

  The skaters shone like silver in the moonlight, dancing in circles and all holding hands. At first they looked like elves caught up in magic rituals but, as the sled moved towards them, I saw coats, jackets, bags and boots thrown all over the riverbank as if they weren’t fairy folk after all, but a modern sisterhood complete with all its fashion accessories.

  I also saw a big camp fire and the remains of a fryup which spilled out of silver-foil packages and billy-cans. Sausages. Bacon. Fried bread. Baked beans. Even baked potatoes. Harri and Mari headed towards them but, as soon as I was close enough to catch a whiff, my stomach heaved and I was sick.

  This stopped the girls in their tracks. They turned and stared at us and one of them, taller and older-looking than the rest, broke ranks and skated over. She was dressed in white, her hair bobbed behind her in a golden ponytail and everything about her shone. She could have been a silver screen goddess caught by paparazzi cameras instead of just some girl lit by the full moon.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘What are you doing out here on the ice? Don’t you have anyone to look after you?’

  I stared at her weakly, unable to speak. The girl took my hand, then felt my forehead. ‘You’re burning up,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a raging temperature. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you must be mad. On a night like this, you should be home in bed!’

  This was hardly calculated to make me feel better but, strangely, it did. The girl called the others over, and they got me off the sled and half-dragged, half-carried me to the fire. The first girl was definitely the one in charge. I listened to her telling the other what to do as if she was their bossy eldest sister.