Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  Molly pauses for a moment before going on, remarking, “Oh, you must be mistaken, miss. No scarecrows round here, not so far as I know. This here is sheep country, by and large.”

  Well, that was definitely no sheep I just saw.

  But Rachel is too tired to argue. Molly shows her to a tiny room that's slightly smaller than her childhood bedroom. She undresses, crawls between the sheets, and falls asleep straight away.

  ***

  In one of Duncaster's few surviving cottages, a woman is trying to comfort a frightened child.

  Betty Jones almost regrets taking Mary in. Almost. When her Jack joined the Navy, her home suddenly felt too big for her, especially at night. She and Jack always wanted children, but they'd been unlucky. So when thousands of youngsters were evacuated from the big cities because of the fear of German air raids, Betty gave one of them a home. At first, Mary had been everything she'd hoped for. The girl, thin and sickly-looking at first, had flourished in the sunshine and fresh air of the coast.

  But over the last few nights, things have become difficult. Betty can understand nightmares, but the girl slept so well at first. Only during this past week, after months of peaceful sleep, Mary has asked to sleep in Betty's bed.

  “But what's frightened you?” asked the woman.

  The girl mutters something, looking out at the moonlit landscape behind the cottage.

  “What is it, darling?”

  “It's the Raggedy Men,” says the girl, looking up into Betty's face. “They're so angry. They weren't angry before, when I came, they were just sad and lonely, wandering about, lost. But now they're angry.”

  Betty looks out of the window at the silver-gray fields, and at the black band of trees that fringed the village.

  Has the girl seen some beggars in the woods?

  “There's nobody out there now, love,” she insists, cradling the child. But she can feel the girl's fear in her tense little limbs.

  Something scared her for sure.

  “You can't see them all the time,” says Mary. “But they're always there, watching. Sometimes I hear them whispering at night.”

  Betty's about to dismiss the child's fears as stuff and nonsense – a favorite phrase of her own mother – when a faint scream cuts through the tranquil night. They both freeze, Betty staring out at the woods while Mary closes her eyes and clings even more closely.

  “It's just a fox, that's all. They make funny noises, sometimes,” says Betty. But when Mary asks to sleep in her bed tonight she feels relieved that neither of them will be sleeping alone.

  ***

  Rachel's tiny attic room at the Green Man is comfortable enough, which makes it all the more strange that she finds herself drifting up and away from her bed.

  It's just a dream.

  It doesn't help. She doesn't want to float away, to pass through the attic window and see the inn grow small below her. But she knows she will and she does.

  This is wrong, this is dangerous. I don't want to go!

  Fear possesses her. She has no idea what she fears, what the threat may be, which only makes it worse. Knowing that she is dreaming does not make her feel any better.

  She is moving along the coast. Duncaster is laid out below her like a toy village on a tabletop, with its single street of cottages and its compact church. It's the church she's heading for. She sees the three walls of the graveyard and the place where the fourth should be. Now the wall is gone and tombstones are leaning over the edge of the cliff, the latter eaten away by untold centuries of tide and storm.

  Something shines out from the church tower, a pale blue radiance that draws her to it like a moth to a lamp. As she nears it, she realizes that it is a coat-of-arms, a shield inscribed with symbols. Three golden crowns.

  The blue glow fades and she's carried away from the church, across what remains of the old graveyard, and out over the sea. She knows the thing she fears is closer, now, the thing she doesn't want to see. She drifts down towards the gray waves as she sees the moonlight on them. Closer, closer.

  No, I'm not going, you can't make me.

  Now she is under the sea, descending through the moonlit waters. The light fades, but then a shining plain appears beneath her, a vast expanse of pale sand marked here and there by what must be the ruins of walls. She remembers the destruction of medieval Duncaster, the breaching of its flood defenses.

  This is a city of the dead.

  Down, down, still further down, and now she is through the sea-bed, entering the world of things long buried. Again, darkness, soon broken by a dim light. A shape forms, and grows clearer – the curved hull of a wooden ship. If it weren't for her fear, she would admire its beauty.

  The ship has a crew, or are they passengers? Whatever their function, she knows they are the source of her terror. One lies asleep or dead, while three stand around him, keeping watch. All are still, yet she has a sense of power barely contained. There is danger for intruders. And she is moving closer.

  Now, she can see the figures more clearly. The man lying on the deck is long dead, his face a skull, eye sockets gaping and bony jaw slack. His fingers, likewise, are bare of flesh. But it is what he clutches on his chest that draws her gaze. The crown shines with golden light and is adorned with ruby and azure gemstones.

  It grows huge before her dream-eyes, and she reaches out to take it. She knows it is the worst possible thing in the world that she could do, as – with perverse dream-logic – she tugs the crown from the skeletal hands of the long-dead king.

  No! No, I mustn't.

  Her head is pulled back, and she feels strong, bony fingers entangled in her hair. Ragged nails rake at her throat and her eyes, gouging and tearing at her flesh, and as she struggles to break free, she is spun around and looks into three skull-faces. In the great, dark eye-sockets are tiny flickers of reddish light. The dead men are remorseless, pitiless, as they begin to tear her apart.

  Chapter 3

  Rachel wakes to find herself in pitch darkness, entangled in the sheets of a strange, cramped bed. She is clammy with fear. For a long moment, she has no idea of where she is as the terror of the dream slowly subsides from her mind. Gradually, her sense of reality returns, and she becomes aware of who and where she is.

  The blackout. Of course.

  She scrambles out of bed and gropes her way to where the window must be. It takes a minute or so of fumbling before she can take down the thick hessian curtain. As she does, the light of the new-risen sun floods in, as welcome as an old friend. The sea sparkles and the sky is cloudless.

  Dazzled for a moment, she can just make out two or maybe three figures standing on the opposite side of the road. They might be looking up at a half-dressed woman in a window. She jumps back, hoping she hasn't won too many admirers.

  Rachel looks around the room, with its sloping attic ceiling, the little wash-stand, the squarely functional dressing table and wardrobe. It's all so innocent and simple. Hardly the venue for a full-on fit of the night terrors.

  “Wow. That one was a doozy.”

  She often sleeps badly in an unfamiliar bed; a problem for a reporter. But she's never had a nightmare like that since she was a little girl.

  And what the hell was all that stuff about the church, the three crowns, and the ship buried under the seabed?

  She reaches out to the unstable chair by the bedside for her watch. It's nearly eight-forty-five! She needs to be up and working, not worrying about her subconscious, or unconscious, or whatever pit of weirdness the dream surged up from.

  There's a gentle knock at the door.

  “Miss Rubin? It's Molly. I brought you some hot water.”

  Rachel wraps herself in a raincoat and opens the door. Molly bustles in and deposits a large jug of hot water on the wash-stand.

  “Now, miss,” she says, “anything else you need, you just let me know! And you take your time getting ready, I'll be serving breakfast for another hour or so.”

  At the mention of food Rachel suddenly f
eels hungry.

  “And what's for breakfast?”

  “Well, we've got fresh eggs, toast, a bit of bacon, sausages of course. Oh and I've got some coffee in, what with having American guests.”

  Now that is interesting.

  “So, who are the other Americans?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, he's a very nice young gentleman, Mr. Tanner, you'll be meeting him shortly.”

  And with a slightly mischievous grin, the landlady leaves.

  “A very nice young gentleman. Me-oh-my!” Rachel says to herself in the mirror. She strikes a pose, trying for something between Hedy Lamarr and Veronica Lake.

  “Maybe he's on the lookout for a delightful, witty young lady with a splendid head of shimmering auburn hair, and a complexion the color of fresh cream?”

  She pouts and bats her eyelids.

  “Or maybe he won't be so fussy and he'll settle for you, sugar!”

  Don't sell yourself short, honey, says a familiar voice in her head. There are always plenty of others who'll do that for ya.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she whispers, missing him.

  By the time Rachel's washed and dressed, thoughts of the nice, young Mr. Tanner eclipsed the phantom terrors of the night. What had the nightmare been about? The details are becoming vague and jumbled up in her mind. But what remains clear is a sense of foreboding, the fear that somehow she might bring about some unknown disaster.

  Weird. But I suppose I've had an unsettled time of it, lately.

  She nearly hits her head a few times on low beams as she descends the steep staircase to the dining room. It was a lot easier coming up the stairs the night before. Since she's a bit under five-foot-five, the Green Man must have been built at a time when people were a whole lot shorter.

  She finds two 'young gentlemen' at the table that takes up most of the dining room. Both men are in uniform; the one in khaki is Tony Beaumont. The other man – wearing the blue of the Royal Air Force – is the American Molly had mentioned. He is the blond, blue-eyed epitome of a corn-fed farm boy, as if he's just stepped down off a recruiting poster. Beaumont seems to shrink by contrast.

  “Good morning, Miss Rubin!” says the lieutenant. “I trust you slept well? This fine specimen of American manhood is Officer Carl Tanner, flown all the way from somewhere called Wisconsin, which I'm sure you'll have heard of!”

  “I think I have,” she replies with a smile. “Pleased to meet you, Carl.”

  “Likewise,” says Tanner. “I hear you helped save the British Army from humiliation last night?”

  “Kind of,” she laughs, taking her seat.

  Molly Bishop reappears with lots of hot food and a pot of coffee. “Fresh eggs, not powdered!”

  “I didn't know there was such a thing as powdered eggs before I came to England,” remarks Rachel.

  “God knows how the poor hens lay 'em!” Beaumont says jokingly. Soon, the three are chatting freely about life in wartime and related matters. She volunteers a few details about herself, and this gets them talking about themselves.

  She learns that Tanner went to Canada to volunteer when war broke out last year. Now, he's based at a nearby Minton airfield with a squad of American volunteers.

  “So, do you fly Spitfires?” asked Rachel.

  Tanner smiles wearily.

  “Everybody asks him that,” explains Beaumont.

  “No, ma'am,” says Tanner, “I'm a Hurricane pilot. Most of us are, not that many Spitfires available. And you'll get no complaints from me. The Hawker Hurricane's a fine aircraft, very robust; it can take any amount of punishment. As I discovered when I had to set mine down in a plowed field last week.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “Were you shot down, were you hurt?”

  “Nope. I had engine trouble, and I only hurt my pride, and maybe something a little bit lower down,” returns the pilot. “But my commanding officer gave me a few days extra leave while they get my machine fixed.”

  “So you're spending those few days in Duncaster?”

  “I love this place! I've visited a few times. This whole stretch of coast is really beautiful!”

  “He's also volunteering for essential war work,” Beaumont adds.

  “Ooh! Dare I ask what?”

  “Very hush-hush, top secret stuff,” says Beaumont, but with a smile that tells Rachel it might not be that serious.

  “Aw, come on,” says Tanner, “It's just a survey for some archaeologist from London.”

  Rachel raises her eyebrows.

  “Apparently, there are some Anglo-Saxon remains around here that need mapping out,” explains Tanner. “So I said I'd be happy to walk the fields, help draw up some new maps, that kind of stuff.”

  “You like that kind of work?”

  “Sure! We've got nothing like this back home. I mean, you know that little church up on the cliffs? It was built over three hundred years before Columbus set sail! It's just amazing, all the old stuff around here.”

  “Here we go,” puts in Beaumont. “He likes to enthuse about all the quaint antiquities we have here in little old England. Like most people, I'd settle for a steady diet of Marx Brothers pictures and decent air-conditioning any day of the week.”

  “And maybe a date with Betty Grable?” said Rachel.

  “Too right! Though, I'd settle for Veronica Lake.”

  The young officer grins, then checks his watch.

  “Well, I'll get a telling off from my CO if I stay here chatting, so I'll bid you both a fond farewell. Behave yourselves, and don't go stealing any national treasures!”

  After he leaves, Rachel tucks into her breakfast while chatting with Carl about England. It's a relief to talk to someone about stuff only an American could understand; the warm beer, the food ration, the look you get if you ask for ice in your drink, the second or two it takes to understand what someone with a strong accent is saying.

  By the time she's finished breakfast, Carl's offered to show her around Duncaster, which won't take long “as most of it is under the North Sea nowadays.” It's a pleasant notion.

  “Just let me get my purse, and we can start with a visit to that old church you're so keen on.”

  ***

  “You are a complete bloody idiot, Jenkins!”

  In the middle of the fallow field behind the Green Man, Corporal George 'Foghorn' Foskett is giving his opinion of a small Welsh soldier. The rest of the engineer squad stand looking on, trying not to smirk.

  “All I asked you to do was dig a toilet,” bellows Foskett. “A hole in the ground. It's not a major task, now, is it?”

  “No, Corp,” mumbles Sapper Jenkins.

  “I can't hear you!” thunders Foskett.

  “No, Corp!” shouts Jenkins.

  “So why didn't you bleedin' well dig it?”

  “It's creepy up there, Corp!”

  There's chuckling among the rest of the soldiers, but they're silenced by Foskett's withering look.

  “Creepy! What are you, a five-year-old girl? Shirley Temple goes to war, is it? Come with me!”

  The Corporal snatches the shovel from Jenkins and strides off without a backward glance. The little Welshman trails miserably after him, his comrades following at a discreet distance, keen to see what will happen.

  The party makes its way towards the dark band of woodland that surrounds Duncaster to landward.

  Foskett stops a few yards short of the tree line, shoves the blade of the shovel into the earth, and says,

  “Right. Let's try this again, shall we? I want you, Sapper Ivor Jenkins, spinster of this parish, to dig a nice deep toilet so the nice landlady with the big knockers won't have to complain to Mister Beaumont about all you riff-raff blocking her toilet anymore. Is that simple enough?”

  “Yes, Corp. But can I ... can I have somebody to help?”

  “You are incapable of digging a hole by yourself? God help us.”

  But before the NCO can erupt again, another soldier steps forward.

  “I'll do it, Corp. I could do
with some exercise!”

  There's a chorus of hisses from the rest of the men, stifled by another killer glare from Foskett.

  The corporal stands pondering for a moment before giving a curt nod.

  “All right, Dawson, you can help this poor shrinking violet. Go and get another shovel. I'll be back in an hour to check. And if I find that you've just been arsing around -”

  Leaving the threat unfinished, the corporal walks off, followed by most of his men. Dawson sets off towards the roadway, as most of the tools are still on the truck. Jenkins tags along.

  “Come on, mate, what's the real story?” asks Dawson, as soon as they are out of earshot.

  “It's like I said,” replies the little man. “It's bloody creepy near them woods!”

  “Come off it!” scoffs Dawson. “Weren't you at Dunkirk? And you're scared of a few trees?”

  “Yes, I was at Dunkirk, and I never lost my head then, and I'm not a bloody coward!”

  A pause, then the little man adds, “But it was just the Germans I had to worry about, then.”

  Chapter 4

  “Is it really true, that there's some kind of lost city out there?”

  Rachel gestures vaguely out at the curve of the bay lying beyond the low cliffs. They're making their way south along Duncaster's single street at a leisurely pace. It's the sort of late July day that invites you to take it easy. The sun just warm enough, the sea-breeze gentle, and the roadside richly decorated with wild flowers.

  “Oh yeah, it was a real big disaster,” Carl replies. “Happened back in the thirteenth century, I think. The sea's always eating its way into this coast. You can see old maps with lots of places that were well inland, a hundred or so years back, and now they're on the coast, or pretty near. Anyway, Duncaster started off as a fishing port, got bigger and richer, but then the sea flooded the area and they had to build dams round three sides. One night, the tide was high, there was a storm out of the East, and the place just went under when the dam collapsed.”