The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Afternoon drew on and the flat-bottomed boat filled up with stacks of reed bales several feet high. Martin balanced the load, slid his scythe beneath the seating and swung aboard. The craft wobbled, but its well-practised owner counteracted every threat to capsize with an indifferent shift of his feet and body weight. At last the hull settled into stillness. Martin retrieved the punt and pushed off back into the main tributary body.

  A haze formed, half-obscuring the far bank as the thatcher slipped closer to the western edge of Deeping Drove. Low sun filtered through cooling air to provide a natural soft-focus effect any landscape photographer would have adored. Martin heard the laughter of boys playing near a small patch of ragged reeds - unsuitable for harvesting - down by the water’s edge. A familiar voice brimmed with a confidence rarely heard in the company of others.

  “I told you the rabbit ran down here, Howie. See, there it goes now.”

  Martin pondered the outburst. Tim Leonard was a shy lad. It pleased the thatcher their farmer’s son got on so well with Dan Charter, though the smith’s own introversion and sensitivity seemed unlikely to bring the boy out of his shell. He squinted through the haze at two dark silhouettes darting back and forth amidst the reeds. So that’s his pal, Howie. At least he’s got a friend close to his own age. Other than Sarah Claridge, anyway. A boy needs some male bonding. Martin reversed an inward course that threatened to take him closer to the boys. Tim sounds so full of beans, I’d best not interrupt and spoil the moment. He’ll shut down like a clam if I make landfall there. The boat drifted on in silence. Martin tied up at the usual mooring spot and sourced some help to transport his load to the new hovels. Three proud housing additions now stood ready for roofing, courtesy of their building team. The thatcher intended each to be watertight before the month was out and the weather turned.

  * * *

  “Easy. Here, let me help you aboard.” Martin Bradbury steadied his boat and extended a firm hand to Daniel Charter late next morning.

  The smith wobbled with one foot on the sleek craft and the other on the bank. He caught hold of the thatcher’s iron grip with his work-toughened hands. “Thanks, Martin. You should have seen me trying to walk on a beam during gym class at school, back in the day. Don’t think I ever got more than halfway along without overbalancing and tumbling onto a crash mat. I’ll try not to tip us both in.”

  Martin lifted the punt pole. “Sit yourself down there and relax. What’s up with the weather today?”

  “Tell me about it. Heavy mist. Did you get all the reeds you wanted yesterday?”

  “Enough for the first house, combined with what I already have in store. I’ll need to make further trips for the other two. I’m hoping to get all the roofs done before the month is out. As long as Stephen Colefax has his own place before winter, I suppose it’s not the end of the world if I don’t.”

  “Yeah. No more newcomers so far.”

  Martin pushed his craft away from the bank. “Murphy’s Law says someone will turn up when we least expect it. During the crap weather too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Did you bring your spare rod?”

  “I did. Have you ever fished before?”

  “Only off a pier with my uncle when I was ten.”

  “Almost a quarter of a century ago.” Martin’s internal grin hid beneath that classic, difficult to read, blank facial expression. “Did you catch anything?”

  Dan shifted and bit his lip. “A cold, as I recall. No fish.”

  “Well, there’s not much to it out on the river. We should be good for a Bream or three today. I usually catch at least a pair.” The boat drifted along. “Have you seen Tim Leonard since yesterday?”

  “No. Young Sarah Claridge stopped by the forge in the afternoon, to check if he was with me. I told her to try the western river bank. It’s his favourite spot, but she already knew that. I imagine she headed over there next.”

  Martin nodded. “Tim and Howie were chasing a rabbit over that side when I came back with the fenstraw.”

  Dan watched a pair of water otters play-fighting in some tall grass near the shallows. “I’m glad he’s got another boy to hang out with.”

  Martin followed his gaze to the tumbling, squeaking mammals, writhing about in a frantic, wet and glossy ball of teeth and tails. “Those two are a good sign. If you ever want to check if there’s fish in a river…” He paused. “Yeah, shame Howie’s folks won’t move in with us. It’d do Tim a power of good.”

  Dan sheltered his eyes with one hand to peer further into the mist. “Good job this stretch of water is deserted most of the time. You’d never notice another craft coming the other way before it was too late, would you?”

  Martin negotiated a bend in the river tributary where he liked to sit and fish. “There’s a quiet spot over there. The boat won’t drift further downstream. We can sit for hours without correcting our position.”

  Dan twisted and raised an eyebrow. “Hours? How long does it usually take you to catch these Bream?”

  Martin sat down beside him and passed the smith a rod. “You can’t set a watch by it. If this bloomin’ damp mist soaks us through, we’ll head back and call it a day. No sense catching a cold. The temperature’s plummeted overnight. I can’t believe the difference.”

  “Yeah. Thank goodness we’ve homes with fireplaces now. Used to feel like I’d never dry out after a drenching. Though I had it better than most, working in the forge.”

  Two hours later, the pair had secured four Bream. Dan hooked one in himself, to the astonishment of both men.

  Martin clambered up to fetch the punt pole, picking his sodden shirt away from his chest. “Mist is like a chuffin’ pea-souper now.”

  Dan grabbed the seat as the thatcher span them back to face the direction of home. Thirty yards ahead through the swirling white bank of moisture, something glittered beneath the water’s surface. The smith pointed straight ahead. “Did you see that? Look, there it goes again.”

  Martin pushed them forward to the spot. A light pulsed like a flare beneath the murky flow. “What is it?”

  Dan leaned over the side. “Do you reckon we’ve found some long lost treasure? All kinds of stuff surfaces around here. Bob might tell us if it’s valuable, or of historic interest.”

  Martin knelt beside him, their faces mere inches from the dark water. “I can’t see the shimmer anymore, but something is coming up.”

  A dim shape rose from the depths to hover below them. Dan and Martin gazed in slack-jawed horror. It was the outline of a body. A young boy, to be precise. His pale face presented a lividity like fine porcelain. In an instant, both puffy eyelids snapped open. A fixed stare filled with terror, looked straight through the recoiling faces of the men in the boat above. Dan swung back and grabbed his own chest in a fit, almost suffering a relapse of childhood asthma from the shock. Martin made a quicker recovery and plunged his arm up to the shoulder into the river. Water sprayed as he thrashed it about, then stuck his head beneath the surface for a better look.

  Dan gulped while the thatcher pulled himself out and rolled onto his back in the boat. “Did you find him?”

  Martin frowned, staring skyward with dank trails running down his face. “Nothing there.” He sat up to rest on his elbows, heart pounding. “You did see that, Dan? The same thing I saw?”

  Dan patted cheeks offering a passable impression of the sunken boy’s. “Does this look like my normal colour to you?” His voice trembled. “What the heck was that?” He shifted his gaze from side to side in the silent mist, as if expecting swarms of angry spirits to board their boat with hooks and cutlasses. “Shit. I thought all those stories about ghosts at Deeping Drove were old wives tales and nonsense.”

  Martin clambered up. “Let’s get back.”

  The choking, spluttering shriek of a male child in terror, cut through the sound-deadening, murky stillness.

  Dan took in another lungful of damp air. “Oh crap, now what?”

  A panicked splashing of water - r
eminiscent of thrashing limbs - emanated from the bank to their left.

  Martin pushed on. “We’re near the western edge of the site. It’s got to be Tim or his mate Howie in trouble.” He picked up the pace.

  Dim, indistinct silhouettes formed on the edge of their visible range. One figure appeared to be holding another underwater near the reed bank. As they closed the distance, the pair in the boat focused enough to make out an outline of feminine body and hair, struggling to keep a boy underwater.

  Dan gasped. “It must be Sarah and Tim having a spat. She’ll kill him if she’s not careful.”

  Martin dived headlong into the water and swam for the shallows. Ahead, every stroke brought the struggling figures closer.

  The forward momentum of the boat carried Dan in to the bank at a slower rate, a few feet behind. He knelt on the prow, gripping both sides between whitening fingers to match his tortured visage.

  Martin stood up among the reeds and span around. Peaty water sprayed from his shaking body. There was no sign of anyone along the bank.

  The drifting boat crunched to a halt beside him, against the resistance of vegetation and shallow water. Dan scanned from left to right like his friend, trying to pierce the gringy gloom and discover the location of that hapless pair of combatants. The mist and cold mingled with a rising dread to make him shudder. “They vanished, Martin. Like that kid in the water.”

  Martin waded over to pull himself back aboard. He too shivered, though with the added contribution of time immersed in the chilly depths.

  Dan shifted round on his seat. “What are we going to do?”

  Martin shook his head and blinked. “I don’t know. If we broadcast this and cause a panic…”

  Dan swiped one shaking hand through his hair. “Yeah. It could be a disaster. Connie won’t thank us for stirring up trouble in the community with ghost stories.” He thought for a moment. “Thing is: we both saw it. It wasn’t our imagination.”

  Martin tapped the bucket of fish. “We’ve got to take one of these to Reverend Colefax. I’m new at all this church stuff, but shouldn’t we be able to go to him with something like this?”

  Dan punched the air with a timid fist. “Yes. You’re right. Connie brought him here to be a listening ear and voice of calm. A confidante and counsellor. Let’s see what he says.” The words were resolute, but his tone of voice didn’t match their surety.

  Martin directed the vessel back into a drainage channel that would bring them close to his favourite mooring spot near the forge. As they reached the landing area and tied up, the pair observed Tim Leonard and Sarah Claridge walking side by side across the site, deep in conversation. The thatcher sighed. “Can’t have been them, Dan.”

  “Hmm. Should we be glad or worried? There aren’t any other kids in this place.”

  Stephen Colefax lit two robust pillar candles in his study cum living quarters at the church. It was mid-afternoon on Friday. Kyla Claridge had finished teaching school for the week, and now all was quiet. The solid iron latch of the main porch door clunked in the stillness. I wonder if that’s Martin with a fish? The thatcher had yet to allow a week to pass, without bringing an offering from the river. The minister opened the study door and poked his head out. Martin Bradbury and Daniel Charter ambled down the main aisle, their faces tense and streaked with worry lines. Even in the dim light of that foggy afternoon, the vicar sensed something wasn’t right. He stepped out of his room to greet them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “Reverend.” Martin acknowledged him in a flat tone.

  Dan remained silent. In the overspill of flickering candlelight from the tiny room, his ashen face looked like a corpse.

  Stephen scanned from one to the other. “Is everything all right?”

  Martin glanced at his companion without expression, then regarded the clergyman with beady, twinkling eyes. “Can we sit down with you for a chat?”

  “Of course.” Stephen motioned them inside. “Please, take a seat on my bed, both of you. I’ll pull up this chair from the desk.”

  “Oh.” Dan handed over something wrapped in a wet rag. “We caught you a Bream.”

  “Thank you, Daniel. I didn’t realise you also fished.”

  “I haven’t since I was a child. Martin took me out for some recreation.” He fidgeted. “After what we encountered, I wish he hadn’t.”

  Stephen’s face darkened and became more serious. “Is that so?” He placed the parcel on his desk, pulled out the wooden chair and rotated it to sit facing his guests. “Go on, please.”

  Martin scratched his stubble. “I’m not sure where to begin. It’s going to sound pretty weird.”

  The minister clasped his hands together and lifted them in prayer-like patience before nose and mouth. “Why not describe your trip from the beginning? I’m not here to judge or criticise. It appears you both have a burden to unload. Give me a chance to help you do that.”

  Martin clenched his teeth. “Okay. Well, apart from the sudden change in weather today, our fishing trip went fine to begin with. We landed four Bream. Dan caught your one himself.”

  Stephen directed a faint smile of gratitude and reassurance at the smith, while he listened to the thatcher speak.

  Martin went on. “As we started to head back in the boat, something flashed beneath the water. Dan pointed it out. Then I saw it too. At first we thought it was a metallic object. Something special buried in the riverbed from ancient times.”

  “Go on.” Stephen leaned forward on his seat, captivated by the unfolding tale.

  “When we reached the area, the light vanished. Dan and I got right down over the water’s surface.” He swallowed, the tremor in his companion's fingers alongside, catching his eye. “A body floated up from below. It was some boy we didn’t recognise.”

  The vicar half rose. “Where is the child now?”

  Martin flagged him back into his seat with a warning hand. “The body didn’t break water. Instead its eyes popped open like he’d received an electric shock. The terror in that stare…” The thatcher’s voice cracked.

  Stephen got up and poured them both a tin cup full of water from a fresh bucket he’d drawn earlier. “What happened next?”

  Dan joined in. “I recoiled in shock. Martin plunged his hand and face under to grab the boy, but there was no-one there. The kid had vanished.”

  Stephen sat back down. “Could the current have taken him?”

  Martin shook his head. “Not that quick. Anyway, it’s negligible at that bend. The child had been dead a while, Reverend. His face was all puffed up and discoloured. But when those eyes opened, it was like gazing into the last horrific moments of his life.”

  Stephen reached over to offer a reassuring tap on the knee for each man. “No wonder you were both shaken.”

  Martin winced. “That’s not the end.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. Right after, we heard a lad cry out along the western bank. Sounded as though he was in trouble, so we made haste to get over there. When we drew near, it looked like a boy and girl having a fight. The mist hung thick, but those outlines were clear enough. We assumed it to be Tim and Sarah. The girl was holding her struggling companion underwater. I jumped in and swam to help. When I got there and Dan arrived with the boat, there was nobody in sight. Not a trace.”

  Stephen noticed the thatcher’s dishevelled appearance. “I wondered if you’d taken a dip. I'm aware Sarah teases Tim, but I can’t imagine she’d ever hurt him. I’d say she’s protective of the boy, despite her cheeky barbs. Have you spoken with them since you got back?”

  “No,” Dan replied. “We found the pair chatting and going for a walk as we tied up. It couldn’t have been them down at the river.”

  “Hmm.” The vicar lifted his gaze to the circular window high above, lips pursed.

  Martin sipped his water. “We didn’t know what to do or who to tell. Did Connie or anyone relay stories to you of what happened at this place, back in 2000?”

  �
��Connie didn’t. Margaret Leonard once confessed she'd suffered an uneasy feeling last Christmas. That was long before I came here. She's fine now. I'm sure she won't mind me telling you both. An old friend in the ministry mentioned a hint of wild tales in passing, when he suggested I visit this new community. Something about one child dying, then the rest of the group leaving in a hurry when their spiritual leader suffered a heart attack.”

  “Did he say who the child was, or how they died?”

  “No. Only that they were buried in the churchyard. I’ve experienced some unsettling dreams of late. Unusual for me. My sleep has always been peaceful and undisturbed.”

  Dan leaned closer. “What dreams?”

  “The bizarre kind. Monsters. Demons. An ancient monk. A weird ritual involving the well. Nothing that makes sense; or that I can attribute to other events in my daily life being processed by the subconscious mind. I wondered if the holy man was St. Guthlac himself, since that’s the name of the church. Though if my history is sound, he lived in an oratory at Crowland, not out here. Bob Mason might have more knowledge about that.” The minister rose and rummaged around in the pocket of a jacket suspended from a wall-mounted coat hook. “I’ve been meaning to bring this over for you to look at, Daniel. One day when I was out walking during morning devotions, I found this plaque fixed to a fallen wooden cross in the churchyard. It must have been a marker for the child’s grave that was never formalised with a proper headstone. I imagine, because of the previous group’s sudden departure. What remained of the cross disintegrated in my hands.” He passed the metal object to the smith.