by Nick Brown
“What happens to us now, Gi, what are we doing here, how can we ever get back?”
***
Outside, cold in the growing darkness of the field, Davenport watched as the black dense mass of birds rose up from the trees in one huge black flock, deliberately circled Skendleby Hall then swept across the tree tops towards him. No cawing, they remained silent, save for the noise of their heavy black wings. They flashed over his head towards the Edge. He turned to watch them and saw the priest was still chanting with his arms outstretched. He seemed changed and was performing a strange shuffling, then stepping, dance. Silhouetted against the Edge in the dying light, cassock and cloak billowing, the image seemed familiar from somewhere. Then it hit him.
“Oh dear God, he’s not the shaman, he’s the sacrifice.”
***
Ed knew it wasn’t his dance but he couldn’t stop his legs performing the steps. He saw he was no longer alone: there were others here with him, human and strange inhuman shapes, insubstantial and hard to see. All dancing the steps they’d been condemned to dance through the ages. Ed understood they were dead, long dead; he knew that the oldest and grimmest had been dead for millennia. Others had never known life as we know it.
The last in the line, dressed in the robes of an 18th century priest stared at him as if he knew him and for a moment seemed to smile before the dance whirled him away. Ed understood they’d never been permitted to leave this place or any of the other places of dread like it. They recognised him as one of them, one of the lost. One of the seers, shamans, healers, wise women and priests through the ages who’d failed their people and were damned to re-live that failure through eternity.
Slowly the oldest recognisable of the human forms, the shaman leading the line, shuffled in the rhythm of the dance towards him. Ed felt mortal terror yet was rooted to the spot in his strange dance. The old shaman came close enough for their breath to mingle and Ed saw a look that might have been compassion in his eyes. Then the shaman passed into him, merged with him, became him. The rest of the dancers followed, Ed felt them enter and pass through him one by one, filling him with a strange type of pain and loss. But also recognition which grew as they merged with his spirit.
Then he was alone bearing the guilt, failure and expectation of them all. Yet not quite alone because he sensed other memories, rituals, curses and benedictions begin to mingle, disrupt and finally settle into his soul.
***
Davenport saw none of this but watched transfixed. The dense black mass of birds had almost reached the Edge when suddenly they swirled round and swooped towards the tomb. The sound of the beating wings became louder.
And then the cawing and carking, started: guttural and loud. It was as if they were joining the prayers or trying to drown them out. The voice of the priest had greatly increased in volume and become stronger as if joined by others and the pace of his dance quickened. Some of the shouted words were clear now to Davenport.
“Thou shalt not be afraid of any terror by night, or the pestilence that walketh in darkness, God who has exalted the horn of the faithful.”
A gap in the words, the terrible increasing sound of the beating wings, then the voice louder still.
“He shall defend thee under his wings and thou shalt be safe under his feathers.”
Davenport watched the birds with growing horror as they swept towards the possessed priest, he understood what they were about to do but was powerless to stop them.
Then they were on him, the nightmare of his childhood, the black mass of feathers, beaks and claws covered him completely obscuring him from vision. In the place of the priest there was just a frenzied, swirling mass of feeding birds. Davenport saw the newly fashioned bird scarecrow begin to totter from side to side as the heads bobbed, beaks pecked and claws tore and gouged ferociously, like nothing he had seen even in his very worst dreams. The man who’d feared the touch of birds since boyhood had become a living bird statue.
The writhing black mass sunk almost to its knees, but managed to rise, then began to lurch and stagger towards the tomb. Ed may still have been praying but nothing could be heard above the harsh and raucous cawing of hundreds of birds fighting for purchase on the cleric’s body so they could tear off their lump of meat. After a few uncertain stumbling steps the weight and feeding frenzy of the black scavengers brought him down yards short of the entrance. There as Davenport watched in horror the whole feathery black mass crashed to the earth and he heard the bird’s savage ululation of delight.
Suddenly stillness, and for a moment, silence: then a rippling of wings as the scarecrow tried to rise up onto its knees. In that same moment, as it began to slump back to the ground Davenport saw a single hand push itself free of the birds, the skin palely white against the black. The bloodied hand made a gesture of supplication, towards the entrance to Devil’s Mound. The birds screamed and swarmed, the hand disappeared, the cacophony was so loud Davenport had to clap his hands over his ears. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the dismemberment of the cleric although he felt bile rise from stomach to throat. The corpse was still but its black skin was writhing and threshing over it.
***
Inside the tomb the noise of the birds woke Giles from the despondent lassitude that paralysed him. He thought he saw some sliding movement beneath the stones, one of the torches flickered twice and then faded, the other abruptly went out. Only a dim light from outside penetrated the darkness, faintly lighting the exit. Yet the faces on the stones glowed as if illuminated from within by some ghostly phosphorescence. Next to him Steve was motionless and silent, slumped against the cold wall, legs stretched out almost touching the stones. His mouth hung open and a thin line of spittle drooled from his lips and down his chin.
Deep down in his dream state Steve saw a large grey mountain rising from a wine dark sea. He saw a black haired woman standing on a cliff above the sea, arms raised in strange, archaic gesture as if in tableau. He felt compelled to walk towards her, feeling the sand hot beneath his bare feet, the warm, arid smells of herbs in his nostrils. He knew this Greek mountain from pictures but had never been here The woman was close, and he had to reach her, wouldn’t be free until he did. Her hair covered most of her face but he saw in her eyes there was no pity only extinction. But he couldn’t stop. He picked his way haltingly along the shelf of rock where she stood; she smiled, full lips the colour of blood. Now at last he knew her and took the hand she proffered and moved his lips towards hers, which moved to slide around to his neck. He began to say her name.
Then there was pain, not in the neck, but in the leg. Giles was beating at something twisted round his ankle, cutting at it with his trowel. He felt himself being dragged along the short tunnel; something behind him was trying to pull him back, to reel him in to where the bones were waiting. The force increased and he felt the strength in Giles’s hands fading, heard Giles shouting his name over and over, felt himself being drawn towards the stones and the unquiet bones, which were making a sickening hissing noise. He looked towards the woman but an unbearable pain washed everything away
***
Inside the nightmare scarecrow of birds the smell and sound of the corvids was almost as foul as their filthy touch. But no pain, Why was there no pain?
The weight of the birds brought him to his knees then crashing down onto his stomach and face. He was suffocating in the atmosphere of their fetid carcass breath and rank feathers.
But they weren’t dismembering his flesh: they were sharing it with him. The shamen inside were excited, he could feel them exulting. Now he understood; the birds were giving not taking; they were shredding away his external weakness while his core strengthened. He knew they weren’t doing it for him and that, left to themselves, they would have picked his bones clean and eaten his eyes. They felt nothing for him except an impersonal hate but something else was directing them, this was a role they had to play, like him they were merely an agent of something else. In the deepest recess of his mind the at
oms of a cleansing prayer, or spell, began to combine.
***
Davenport watched transfixed as, with a sudden and shocking beating of wings, the birds rose from their victim as if at some sudden command. The feathered inky conglomerate disentangled itself into hundreds of individual large, night-black birds ascending into the skies. So rapidly did they go that the tumult of their wings suddenly ceased, replaced by a strange calm. He forced himself to look on the spot where they’d been.
A tattered figure rose slowly to its feet then moved unsteadily at first and then with greater surety towards the tomb’s entrance. It became difficult for him to see, in the dream-like light for a moment he saw other insubstantial figures crowding round Ed. Then, momentarily, the veil of cloud parted and the last red rays of the dying winter sun shone directly on the robed figure at the entrance to the tomb. The figure moved to one side to let the rays of light shine directly down the tunnel and faintly illuminate the rocks and bones in the centre of the chamber. He saw two men, one trying to pull the other from the mound, and briefly something else that seemed to be attached to the legs of one of the men. Something beyond death, unimaginable except in the darkest and most disturbed nightmares. As the last rays of sun struck the thing seemed to recoil and then, with a soft but awful sucking sound, it slithered blackly back into the chamber with the shadows and the dark. Then the sun was gone.
***
The priest bent and helped both men out of the chamber and pressed a spade into the hands of each. Davenport started to go to assist when he realised something was waiting for him at the wood’s edge, a rendezvous he’d avoided for too long.
***
Ed directed the two archaeologists to re-seal the mound as quickly as they could, the sun had sunk low behind the edge and the dark was almost fully risen. They replaced the stones and heaped over the earth as the priest chanted and intoned. Then, when the last shovelful of earth had been thrown, he created an image in the earth with the shards of wafer and sprinkled water and wine across it. He’d no idea what the pattern represented, the meaning of that lay too deep within him, too far back in the past, but he knew what its purpose was. He chanted one last verse of the prayer or spell whose words he didn’t understand but whose meaning was clear, turned his face towards the darkness of the Edge and raised his arms above his head. How long he stood like this he didn’t know but at last he felt them restless inside him, eager to leave. It was done: he dropped his arms and felt them depart. He watched his predecessor priests, shamans, witches and holy fools leave him and felt the blessings and laying on of hands from each. Last, the most recent, Heatly Smythe he was sure, paused and smiled a blessing. Then they were gone streaming away through dark skies towards the west and he knew, for now at least, it was finished.
High above the birds still circled and watched. Ed watched back, his face scratched red, raw with exhaustion and cold. The birds dispersed and for a moment Ed saw in the pattern they made in flight, the face of a man with long hair, a face he remembered from the books of his childhood and the images in his church. The birds flew as a black cloud towards Skendleby and the three men watched. At the Hall they split into two groups, wheeling in the sky in opposite directions then flew back towards them. One dark feathered mass either side of the field, avoiding the air space over the mound before disappearing into the western twilight beyond the Edge.
“It’s time to go now. Quickly, away from this ground.”
Ed took each archaeologist by the arm and directed them back to the minibus. Giles was surprised by the strength of his grip. The air was still now, only a gentle breeze carrying a few flakes of snow. Yet, as they walked, he thought he could hear the whisper of chanting carried on that breeze. They reached the gate in silence and were about to leave when Giles hesitated.
“The birds? What happened?”
“They were with us, they were sent. I don’t think I can explain.”
“Where’s Davenport?”
“He has business of his own to attend.”
***
By the estate wall Davenport waited. He’d seen the movement in the trees but couldn’t follow it. It wasn’t sequential, more like footage on a CCTV screen that cuts from one camera to another so that things progress without actually being seen to move. But he knew it would come from the direction of the Hall, silent now, no longer troubled by the noise of birds. He knew also that it would claim him as its own; it was, after all, his heritage.
What he finally saw he couldn’t have described: insubstantial, ragged, dark, here and yet not here. Then all at once it was close in front of him, taller, much taller and more dislocated than he’d imagined, almost disarticulated, yet for all that, it seemed familiar. For an instant it stood or rather hovered, motionless as if appraising him. It seemed to Davenport that the world stopped. Slowly it extended a limb, more claw than hand, a finger, long, bone white and hairless and he felt its cold touch through the thick woollen clothing over his heart. Then nothing.
ENVOI CHRISTMAS EVE
The European market had decamped, its stallholders back in Liege, Dusseldorf or Lille enjoying Christmas with their own families and trying to forget mulled wine, spices, marzipan, scented candles and the hassle of having to speak English. But the city centre was packed; alive with people doing last minute shopping or drinking in cafes and bars.
Steve walked alone through the streets; weak but glad to be alive, he felt like a mixture of the redeemed Scrooge and Coleridge’s wedding guest. He’d no plans for Christmas and no one to spend it with anyway having declined Giles and Claire’s invitation, to their obvious relief. He wanted to be with other people and feeling hungry by mid-day found himself descending the steps into one of the city’s nineteenth century chop houses. The place had undergone many changes of style over the years but had now reverted to a pastiche of its early Victorian self, which suited it best. It was crowded, noisy and convivial. Steve struggled through the throng and found a place at the bar near to the entrance of the restaurant section. He glanced idly at the menu. A tall, kindly looking man with a European accent Steve couldn’t place enquired if he wanted to eat; there was one table left.
“You have been through hard times my friend and I think there is much that you still have to endure, so take what comfort we offer.”
Steve had experienced so much that he didn’t even bother to wonder what made the man say this. He hadn’t considered sitting down on his own in a restaurant on Christmas Eve but the place was friendly and he didn’t want to be alone so he followed the tall maitre d’ to a table in the corner by a large blackboard offering special dishes of a Dickensian nature. He ordered a small woodpigeon tart in a light sauce, followed by fillet of beef with bone marrow dumplings in red wine jus and a bottle of Medoc off the list of bin ends recommended by the European-accented man, in whom, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he had complete faith.
The restaurant was darkish and noisy; the service on such a busy day understandably slow. Gradually he began to unwind. The food was excellent; the wine, rich in tannin, relaxed him. He lost himself in snatches of other people’s conversations and drifted into a state of comfortable nostalgia. He ordered a coffee and the waitress brought him a digestif courtesy of the maitre d’, who could not be found when Steve asked to thank him in person. It was this act of unexpected consideration that undid him. He felt silent tears begin to course down his haggard, ruined face and he hid his head in his hands.
After ten minutes he regained self control and as he opened his wallet to pay the bill he noticed a piece of paper fall out. It was Jan’s address and phone number in Glasgow. When he left the restaurant the light was fading, he stood outside for a minute; people were rushing past with parcels, heading for home, shouting goodbyes and Christmas greetings. The shops were closing. He set off for the bus stop to get back to his flat, and then changed direction. In the relative quiet of a side alley he made a call on his mobile. Then he walked briskly through the gentle snow to the station and b
ought a ticket for the last north bound train. He rushed to the platform and was swallowed up by the cheerful crowd all heading home for Christmas.
***
Ed was visiting Davenport, who’d suffered what seemed to be a stroke and was confined to the house. They sat together in Davenport’s living room drinking tea with a shot of whisky which Davenport insisted was for medicinal purposes only, and eating slivers of rich fruit cake. Ed had never felt better in his life and never, previously, would have felt relaxed drinking spirits in Davenport’s company. The visit, however, was not purely social.
“I’m glad and relieved you look so much better, Nigel, you gave us quite a shock vanishing into the trees the way you did. I still can’t work out how you got to the Hall that quickly, lucky one of Carver’s staff found you or you might have died of exposure in that cold.”
He paused briefly not wishing to be questioned on his own experience, which he still couldn’t explain, other than to say it was like some sort of rebirth.
“I buried the ankle bone in the crypt like Marcus said, in hallowed ground, ancient and unchanging. The church felt different; felt happier so perhaps it’s now ended and we did what we had to. Anyway, I’d better get off, it’s my busiest two days of the year. I’ll call in after the morning service.”
Davenport gestured him to stay a moment and said in a tired voice,
“It served time on me, Edmund; I’ve not long left here. It’s preparing me for something, I think. This is unfinished business; we’ve just played the first match.”