Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  Rachel takes a notebook and pencil from her purse and starts to make notes. She's so busy walking and writing that she almost collides with a little girl running out of a garden gate. The girl jumps back out of Rachel's way.

  “Oops! Sorry, honey!”

  She crouches down on the uneven paving stones that pass for a sidewalk.

  “Hello! My name's Rachel, what's yours?”

  “Mary,” says the girl, shyly.

  “That's a nice name! And what a pretty dress!”

  A young woman carrying a wicker basket steps out of a cottage and closes the door behind her. The three adults talk while little Mary looks on, eyeing the strangers.

  After some small talk, the woman asks Carl, “Is it true them soldiers is going to blow the church up? Afore the rest of it falls down?”

  He grins.

  “Now, I know that's the rumor, but according to Lieutenant Beaumont that's not what the Engineers are here for.”

  The young woman looks disappointed.

  “Oh. Well, it's just what I heard from the postman. They should get rid of it, though, what with the little ones on their holidays now. Dangerous, it is! Anyhow, we must be getting on or we'll miss the bus!”

  “I don't want to go,” protests the little girl.

  “Now, now,” says Betty, then to Rachel. “She's a bit irritable this morning 'cause she didn't sleep well. Goodbye miss, 'bye sir. Say goodbye to the nice lady and gentleman, Mary.”

  Rachel watches them scurry along to the bus stop outside the Green Man. A bus is just approaching from the hills to the north.

  “It can't be easy, living way out here, especially when you've got kids.”

  “I guess not,” replied Carl. “But there are some advantages – at least kids in the country get fresh air and decent food. Plenty of exercise, too.”

  “But not always plenty of sleep,” she says.

  “You having trouble sleeping? Maybe it's just unfamiliar surroundings.”

  “Yeah, that's probably it.”

  They resume their walk up the hill towards the cliff-top church. They pass the usual red telephone box and suddenly Rachel remembers she needs to check in with her editor.

  “Hey, can you wait here a second while I make a call?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Inside the kiosk, she dials the operator so she can make a long-distance call. For a moment, the earpiece of the phone hisses, then she hears a faint voice. She can't make out what it's saying.

  “Hello? Is this the operator? It's a very bad line!”

  The voice speaks again. The faintness may be down to a poor connection, but Rachel gets the sense of someone speaking to her from an unimaginable distance, their words lost amongst echoes. Gradually, a sentence began to form.

  “Let him not steal it!”

  “What? Steal what? Who is this?” she demands.

  “This is the operator, what number do you need?” says a clear, business-like female voice.

  “Oh, right. I'd like a London number, please.”

  Rachel catches her editor at his desk and gives him a brief account of her assignment so far. He sounds pleased, or at least not as disgruntled as usual. After promising daily updates, she hangs up and steps outside.

  “Everything okay?” asks Carl.

  “Sure. Just had a crossed line for a second.”

  They walk in silence for a few moments, then he asks, “Don't take this the wrong way, but how come a charming young lady, like yourself, is working for the press?”

  “You mean I should be a boozy middle-aged guy in a trench-coat? Maybe with a two days' stubble?”

  “Well, maybe not the stubble.”

  “My dad's been in the newspaper business all his life, and I can't remember when I didn't want to be a reporter. His life seemed exciting, going out and meeting people, making a difference in the world.”

  “So that's your whole life, now? Rachel Rubin, Girl Reporter? No thoughts of settling down, starting a family, the usual stuff?”

  “Not so far.” She takes a deep breath. “I've always had this feeling I'm destined for something else, you know?”

  “Yeah! It's how I always felt about flying. It was my destiny, so I knew I'd do it one day.”

  “Looks like we're here,” she says.

  As they approach the church, Rachel sees a sign reading St Michael and All Angels. If all the angels did watch over the church, they were not doing a great job. It's obvious to her inexpert eye that what's left of the stubby tower is ready to fall. The churchyard wall's gone on the seaward side. Most of the tombstones are leaning drunkenly and she guesses more must be lying among wild grass.

  She looks up at the roof, which is missing a few dozen tiles. For a second, she thinks she sees someone looking back at her – a white face peeping around the side of the tower. She almost mentions it to Carl, but then the pale thing vanishes.

  Probably just a seagull, she thinks. Dozens of the graceful white birds are soaring above the cliffs, crying sorrowfully.

  “Shall we go in?” asks Carl, opening the gate.

  “No wonder people think the army's come to demolish it.”

  “It's not long for this world, that's for sure,” he agrees.

  They make their way up the path, but then Rachel stops, shading her eyes as she stares at the stonework above the arched doorway.

  “What is it?” asks Carl.

  Good question.

  Above the pointed archway is a shield, worked in stone. It's badly weathered, just like the building itself, and easily overlooked. But she can just make out three faint outlines.

  Three crowns. But, how did I know they were there? I've never been here before.

  Carl, a half-smile on his face, is waiting for an answer. She decides against telling him about her nightmare.

  Who wants to hear about other people's weird dreams?

  “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Let's go explore while we can!”

  They walk into the porch where a few faded posters hang from an old notice board. There's a sad air of neglect, and as soon as they're out of the sun, Rachel feels cold.

  “Not much going on, I guess.”

  “It's not a working church anymore,” says Carl. “They had some kind of ceremony where it was… I forget. Decommissioned?”

  “De-consecrated is the word you're looking for,” says a new voice. “One ‘decommissions’ a battleship, young man, not a church!”

  She turns and sees a man of about sixty, in a light gray suit and the clerical collar of an Anglican priest, coming up the path through the churchyard. He has a shock of untidy white hair and laughter lines around his eyes and mouth.

  “Reverend Black! Look, I've gone and brought another American tourist!” says Carl.

  “So I see – quite an influx for Duncaster,” replies the old man.

  Introductions are made as Black unlocks the doors of St. Michael’s and ushers them inside. He explains that, even though there will be no more services, he's still obliged to check for damage every week or so.

  “Not,” he adds, “that we think the locals will loot the place! But Mother Nature is less restrained, and another bad winter will bring most of the tower down.”

  Rachel stops to take in the scene. She's never been inside an English church before, and she's disappointed by the lack of ornament and color. From the inside, it's also easier to see how much has collapsed from the far end of the building. Sheets hang from the ceiling flap in the sea breeze, and she catches a glimpse of the sky through a gaping hole in the stonework. For a second, she sees a white object that might be a thin face hanging upside down, looking in through the opening.

  Just another seagull.

  “Yes, we lost a remarkable rose window when that wall came down,” says the priest, following her gaze. “But with luck, we'll be able to save these, and keep them safe for future use. Some people are coming to put them in storage in a couple of weeks.”

  She follows his pointing finger and se
es two small stained-glass windows, set high in the wall. The rest of the windows are filled with plain glass.

  “Yes,” says Black, “just two left, and they were lucky to survive the rebels. During the English Civil War, religious fanatics smashed all religious images. Worship, you see. A very narrow interpretation of scripture.”

  They stand under the brightly-colored windows. Rachel peers up and tries to make out what they represent.

  “You give up?” asks the clergyman.

  “Sorry, this is way outside my field of expertise.”

  “Ah, well, these things are easy when you know!” The priest pointed. “The one on the right, is Saint Michael himself, shown triumphing over Satan. Quite conventional, but nicely done.”

  The window shows a robed figure in a halo holding a spear in one hand and a set of scales in the other. Under the saint's feet, writhes a red, triple-horned dragon with white claws and bat-wings. The archangel's spear is through its throat.

  The people who created this believed it all, she thinks. No metaphors or fancy stuff here. This was reality to them, an eternal conflict between good and evil.

  “So, who was Saint Michael, anyway?”

  “Well,” said the priest, “in the Book of Daniel, he is introduced as a warrior Archangel, often considered the protector of the Chosen People,”

  “Excuse me, folks, I need to get some air.”

  Fascinated by the beautiful image, she's briefly forgotten that Carl's there. She looks around to ask if he's unwell, but he's already at the door. He doesn't even look back as he leaves.

  “Curious behavior,” remarks the priest. “He was very keen to look around the place last time he visited. Very interested about the whole area, in fact.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees someone standing behind the tarp as it's lifted by the breeze – a very thin someone. But then the sheet moves again and there's nothing behind but the summer sky.

  “It's not as if we aren't well-ventilated in here!” said the priest.

  “Maybe,” she replies.

  It's weird, though, since he was so keen to bring me here.

  “He did crash-land his plane,” she points out. “Maybe he was shaken up more than he's letting on?”

  “That could be it,” says Black. “War can wound the mind as well as the body. I saw too much of that kind of thing in the last conflict.”

  “You were going to tell me about the other window, Reverend?” asked Rachel, warming to this eccentric old gentleman. The priest moves a few paces and looks up at the second window.

  “Ah, well. That, my dear, is a very different tale. And a rather strange one, I must admit.”

  ***

  “Look, I don't normally talk about this, but my mother was a clairvoyant.”

  Dawson stops digging.

  “Oh, come on, mate, that's …”

  “It's true!”

  The little man looks into the woods again, as if he's afraid of being overheard. Dawson can't help looking too, but there's no one there.

  “My Mum,” says Jenkins, “had the sight and she passed it on to me. Not much of a gift, either. I'd be happy to return it, I can tell you! At Dunkirk there was this bloke, see, he was helping the wounded onto the boats. I saw his death coming. One minute, he was standing there in the surf, then I saw this thing, like a shadow. But it weren't a regular shadow 'cos it’s wrapped round him, like. Then, a second later, this Jerry mortar lands right next to the poor sod. Killed instantly.”

  Dawson nods dumbly. If anyone told him this story in the pub, he'd ridicule it. But somehow, in this sunlit field, he can't do it. It rings true.

  “Are you saying there's something like that here? Hey, this shadow thing – it's not wrapped round me is it? Now?”

  “No, I don't mean that!”

  The little Welshman shakes his head impatiently.

  “This is something else, something new. Or something old, more like.”

  Jenkins jerked his head toward the tree line.

  “I hear voices from back there. I can't hear the words, but the meaning's clear. Telling me to bugger off. Bugger off or else.”

  Dawson feels a chill run down his spine. He's getting the jitters, and needs to pull himself together.

  “Jesus, mate, give it a rest, you're putting the wind up the both of us! Here, let's have a smoke. Steady our nerves.” Patting his pockets, he asks, “Got any cigs?”

  “No,” says Jenkins, absently. He's still scanning the woods, listening.

  “Bugger, I left mine in my kit-bag. I'll go and get 'em. No,” he adds, as Jenkins makes to follow. “If Foskett sees you not working, he'll have hysterics.”

  “But -”

  Dawson waves away his protests.

  “I'll be five minutes, mate. And try to look busy in the meantime, for God's sake!”

  The soldier set off across the field toward the marquee.

  Sapper Jenkins is so determined not to think about the shadows in the forest that he resorts to hard work. After ten minutes, Jenkins has surprised himself by enlarging the initial trench and digging down a couple of feet into the rich, black soil. He takes a breather and rests on his shovel.

  Then he hears the whispering.

  At first, he tries to persuade himself that it's the sea-breeze in the woods, rustling the leaves and stirring the bushes. It's easy enough to mistake that for voices. However, it’s too quiet to make out the words.

  The mind can play tricks, he thinks.

  He stands still, nervous as an animal that senses a predator nearby. A cloud must be crossing the face of the sun, because for a moment, he's wrapped in cold darkness. Gradually, the whispering grows louder, and he can't persuade himself that it's imaginary. He's hearing voices, and although he can't understand the language, he can sense the meaning clearly enough.

  I'm not wanted here.

  Jenkins has his back to the woods. He doesn't dare turn to see what faces, or lack thereof, are speaking. As the voices grow louder and angrier, his fear of Foskett competes with his well-developed sense of survival. Terror wins out and he starts to scramble out of the trench only to be jerked back, his left foot caught on something. Just a root that's gotten tangled around his ankle. That must be it.

  No need to look down, just a quick tug and I'm up and out.

  But he can't free himself, no matter how hard he struggles. Instead, Jenkins is pulled back into the hole, and now, his other foot is caught. Sharp claws sink into flesh through his sock. He screams for help and begins to kick out in panic at whatever holds him in its cruel grip.

  Chapter 5

  “It's led to a lot of speculation among the experts, and amateur historians like myself,” says Reverend Black.

  The second stained glass window is less well-preserved, and Rachel struggles to make out some of the images. But one thing leaps out at her – a familiar blue and yellow shield at the apex of the arched window.

  “The three crowns!”

  The priest is pleasantly surprised.

  “You've done your homework, I see! It's the symbol of East Anglia, where three of the original English kingdoms were founded, long before they were formed into one nation.”

  Rachel stares at the blue and gold shield at the bottom of the window. Might she have seen it before, perhaps in a book or a magazine?

  That's the rational explanation, sure.

  “So the English sort of landed here from somewhere else?” she asks.

  “Yes, the English originally came from North Germany and southern Denmark. All part of the same big Nordic family; I'm afraid Herr Hitler is right about that. Such a ghastly little man.”

  He smiles ruefully.

  “Tribes called Angles and Saxons were invited into the Roman province of Britannia as mercenaries to settle various local disputes. As often happens with mercenaries, they found that people unwilling to do their own fighting were easy meat. So they gradually drove the native Celtic people back into Wales, where they still reside. A
nd those three crowns supposedly played a role in that triumph.”

  Rachel finally looks away from the window and asks, “How could they do that?”

  “Well, there's a legend that when the first three Saxon kings landed with their followers, each buried a sacred crown somewhere on the East coast to ensure a successful conquest, and protect their new homeland from further invasions.”

  “Protect how?”

  “By some form of pagan magic, I assume! It sounds absurd, but at least two crowns were buried. Back in the 17th century, a crown was dug up and melted down for its metal at Rendlesham, which isn't too far from here. Something similar happened in Tudor times, on this same stretch of coast.”

  “So that leaves just the one crown,” she says.

  The final, horrific part of last night's dream comes back to her in all its vividness.

  “Indeed. The legend goes that if the last crown is removed or destroyed, the mystical protection it has upon England will be lost. In normal times, it's just a curious folktale, of course. But the way things are now …”

  First, that weird dream, now this legend.

  “You mean, some folks around here really think that if this crown gets stolen, England will fall?”

  The priest shrugs.

  “For some people, history is just a boring subject they had to study at school. For others, history is very much alive. Alive, and perhaps rather dangerous.”

  Rachel stands on tip-toe and narrows her eyes, trying to make out the rest of the picture. The colors are faded and the windows are weather-stained. But, she can see a curved shape that might be a boat, and on the deck stand three upright figures. And maybe there's a fourth, lying down.

  So familiar. Just like the dream.

  “You didn't say why these windows weren't broken by the fanatics?”

  “Cromwell's rebels? Details are sparse, but it seems that someone persuaded the rebels to leave them alone.”

  Rachel scribbles down a few more shorthand notes.

  I'm certainly getting plenty of local color; more than I bargained for.

  “Well, I'm afraid there's not much else of interest in here,” says Reverend Black. “Perhaps we could go outside and take a little stroll among the honored dead of the parish? There are still a few interesting tombstones left! And we can see if Mister Tanner is feeling better.”