by David Towsey
‘Them.’
Luke strained his failing eyes. Not for the first time he cursed his mother and father for burdening him this way. But he immediately repented his vanity in the face of the fifth commandment.
‘The girl and the Walkin’?’ he said.
‘Most likely.’
Luke barked a strangled noise as he tried to control his urge to swear at the men. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Why are we still talking?’
‘They’ll reach those hills before we do,’ Bellis said.
‘And they will burn before we do.’ Luke kicked his shaggie into an ungainly gallop. The wind pulled at his cheeks. He couldn’t help but grin as he raced down the slope. He was close to his purpose, his calling. He felt a raw holiness bubbling in his blood. His heart matched the beat of the shaggie’s hooves. Some part of him was aware of the other men following, though not at the same speed. He ignored their faithless lumbering.
Two taints on the landscape – he could see them now. Gradually, they became bigger. He gripped the reins until his scabs loosened and began to bleed again. He drank in the rich smell; he remembered it pouring from Simon Peekman to fill the church. He would have it again with Mary McDermott in his arms. It was the scent of the living. It was what separated man from evil.
Luke raised a hand to the sky. He implored the Good Lord to see him, to see his good work. And then it took him. He convulsed. His thighs clamped down on the saddle, but the rest of his body shook. All noises ceased to be; he could only hear his own voice. He spoke in tongues. Loud, guttural syllables; words he did not know. Ancient words.
The two shapes ballooned into gigantic devils. Their wings folded to the size and shape of mountains. Their hands and feet were taloned. Both faces were the same: Thomas McDermott. One cheek was missing – an eye floated by some dark arts. His skin was pale and in places it curled like burnt paper.
An enormous hand reached for Luke. He held out his crucifix, confident this would hold back the devil, as he continued in tongues. The talons closed around him and everything was black.
*
Mary heard the noise first. She looked back. The riders were behind them. A mile; two at most. Thomas saw them too.
‘Run!’ he said. He took her hand.
But Mary was too tired and too hungry. She walked as quickly as she could with her father urging her on. Her legs buckled. She clung to him so she could stay on her feet.
Those were men from Barkley; men who wanted her to burn. Would she know them? There weren’t many people in town she didn’t know. She imagined different faces leering and sneering at her, bubbling up out of the flames. Mr Adams with his bald head and crooked teeth. Pastor Gray, his hair and beard part of the fire itself. Grandpa McDermott frowning. Gravekeeper Courie with his workers busy around his veiled head. All of them changed by the pyre. Her pyre.
In the days before she had been careful about where she stepped – trying to avoid stones that hurt her feet. Her shoes felt thin and they rubbed in so many places they seemed more trouble than they were worth. She wanted to sit down. Or, even better, lie down in a bed. Night after night she had sat on her bed and wished she were somewhere else, someone else.
Her father squeezed her hand. They were almost in the hills. She looked back one last time. The riders were closer – she was sure of it.
*
Luke opened his eyes. The hazy faces of Bellis, Nathaniel, and Samuel were leant over him. Even Bellis managed to look worried. The back of Luke’s head pounded. He found a bump just below his crown. When he took away his hand there was blood on his finger tips.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘You came off your shaggie,’ Bellis said.
‘Where are my glasses?’
Samuel had been cradling something. He opened his hands to show Luke. The glasses were broken in the middle and missing one arm. Luke took the pieces carefully.
‘Did they get away?’
Bellis nodded. ‘They know we’re here.’
They helped Luke stand. The sun was far across the sky. He had wasted hours by falling; that hurt more than his head. The creatures could be anywhere in the warren of hills.
‘We should let the acolyte rest,’ Nathaniel said.
Luke glared in the direction of the Gravekeeper’s voice. ‘More delay, Nathaniel? A blind man could see through your devil schemes.’
‘He seems well enough,’ Bellis said.
Luke’s shaggie seemed to bear him no ill will. The animal accepted him back into the saddle with barely a flick of its tail. Perhaps saints learnt their patience from shaggies. He made sure to stay close to the others – he was afraid of losing them in the blanket red-grey that started ten paces from his nose. They set a slow pace.
Luke used the time to repair his glasses. The arm was gone, lost in the Redlands. He used one of the leather thongs from his crucifix to tie the broken halves together. The mended glasses sat heavily on his nose and regularly slipped, but he could see again. They were no more than half a mile from the hills.
‘I saw the devils,’ Luke said to Samuel. ‘They were bigger than those hills and had your brother’s face. Both of them.’
‘Mary had a pretty face.’ He thought for a long moment. ‘We’ll do what is needed.’
‘That’s right, Samuel. It will be a glorious day. They will burn and enter into His kingdom, amen.’
‘Amen.’ Samuel led his shaggie away.
*
They entered through a narrow gorge. It felt like a corridor in a big, old building – like the enormous ruined house in Miracle. Rough stone walls criss-crossed like a maze. She didn’t know where her father was leading her. She wondered if he knew. For some reason that seemed more important in the hills. She hadn’t known where they were going the whole time, not really, but she hadn’t cared. It was enough to be with him. Now, though, they might get lost.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘We’re going to hide.’
‘Will they find us?’
He stopped. ‘Not if I can help it. I promised your mother nothing would happen to you.’
They both heard the shaggies at the same time. A dull thud that might have been relaxing if it hadn’t been so terrible. The noise grew louder. It echoed through the rocks, feeling as inevitable as the sunset. You couldn’t outrun it.
‘Up,’ Thomas said. He pointed to a part of the rocky wall that had crumbled. She went first. It was just like climbing by the Col River. Feet were the most important thing – if you were sure of your feet the rest was easy. She held her breath every time she put her foot on a new piece of rock. The bluff was as big as a house in Barkley, but she had climbed that high before. Games when boys chased her; she wasn’t sure why they did, but that wasn’t important. Rocks came loose in her hands. One tumbled down and hit her father. She said she was sorry, but he didn’t hear.
Finally, she came to a ledge. She pulled herself over the edge and lay on the stone. Her breath came in fast and shallow spasms. Her stomach cramped. Stars danced at the corners of her vision. She closed her eyes, but they didn’t go away. Thomas arrived beside her. He put his arm around her, holding her tightly. He was strangely still; she felt like every part of her was pounding. He peeked down at the path below. She shuffled up to see.
The riders were just rounding a corner. She saw the Law-Man before Thomas pulled her back. He put his finger to his lips. Mary tried hard not to make a sound, not to even breathe, but her body was like a parade drum. How could the Law-Man not hear? She buried herself in her father’s arms, trying to smother her noise.
She listened to the rhythm of the shaggies. They seemed to take for ever. She didn’t understand. Before, they had been impossibly quick – flying across the land like a hungry blight-bird. Thomas stroked her hair as they waited. His shirt itched her forehead.
The clop-clop of the shaggies grew fainter. Thomas inched forward. Mary rolled over and saw a line of crumbers making their way across the ledge. A lot of cru
mbers, heading away from them.
‘They’re gone,’ Thomas said. ‘We’ll stay up high, okay?’
The going was slower than walking. Climbing from ledge to ledge made different parts of her ache. They stopped often, just to listen. When they heard the shaggies they kept very still and very quiet, until they couldn’t hear them any more.
*
They rode single file, Bellis leading, Nathaniel at the rear. The ground was littered with loose rocks. On either side, high walls of stone seemed to lean in. Luke felt himself stooping in his saddle, glancing up every few seconds. All manner of creatures could be hiding in this place – not just the two they had chased in. The silence echoed around them, tangible enough to resist the noise of the shaggies’ hooves. He felt as much as heard it. He ducked at the sound of a rock bouncing down a stony slope somewhere in the distance. He could not see it. There was so much here he could not see. After the open expanse of the Redlands it was almost too much to bear. His skin crawled with the sensation of being touched completely from all sides: a soft embrace of rock.
‘We have entered our tomb,’ Nathaniel said, loud enough for them all to hear. For once, Luke agreed with the Gravekeeper. The hills drained Luke’s energy. It was almost as if the stone walls blocked his connection to the Good Lord. At times the walls were so high they covered all but a little strip of the heavens. Despite the men around him, Luke was alone. Then the sun began to set.
Eventually, they came out of the gorge into an open area. Luke let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His ribs ached. The space was no bigger than the church in Barkley, but the sense of it was a relief. Four other corridors branched off it, like the points of a compass.
‘We’ll make camp here,’ Bellis said.
‘But they are here, somewhere. We should continue,’ Luke said, though he wasn’t sure how much farther he could go.
‘We might not find such a good spot all night.’
They led the shaggies to one corner. There was nothing to hitch them to, but the animals seemed content to stand by their dropped reins. Luke opened his bag of oats – still half empty from his Lent fasting – and fed his shaggie. He had overheard Nathaniel talking to ‘Buster’. Luke hadn’t named his mount and why should he? It was an animal. Names were for people. The men laid their blankets down in a circle in the middle of the space.
‘No chance of finding wood for a fire,’ Bellis said. Luke shivered at the mention of warmth. It was a clear sky and he could already feel the cold ground beneath his blanket.
‘We have wood,’ Nathaniel said.
‘No!’ Luke said.
‘I’m not freezing to death.’
‘That wood has a sacred purpose.’
‘And how are we to do that dead?’ Nathaniel said. Luke didn’t think it was cold enough to die, but Nathaniel and Bellis were older than he was.
The Gravekeeper made to get up, but Luke was faster. He scrambled over to the shaggies and pulled out a log from one of the packs. He swung it above his head. He could smell the rose scenting. The bark was rough against his scabs.
‘I’ll take this to your head before I let you make a fire with it,’ he said. Nathaniel stood up slowly. He kept his distance. Luke was poised like a husht ready to strike. He shuffled towards Nathaniel. The Gravekeeper moved back.
‘You don’t want to hit me, Luke.’
‘This wood is needed! They must burn on it.’
‘Put it down,’ Bellis said. His rifle was aimed at Luke.
‘You wouldn’t,’ Luke said.
‘Put it down.’
He glanced from Bellis to Nathaniel. They were fools. Their faith failed them.
‘There will be other wood,’ Nathaniel said, as if he had no notion of his blasphemy.
Luke dropped the log. What could he do? He was surrounded by those who claimed to believe, but acted otherwise.
Samuel, who had watched them in silence, came over to Luke.
‘Your hands are hurt,’ Samuel said, taking them in his own.
‘There isn’t any pain.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘The Pastor will hear of this,’ Luke said.
*
They used four stout logs for the fire. They were supposed to be the top layer of a pyre – wood blessed and scented for the passage to the afterlife. To try to appease the Good Lord, Luke led them in a prayer. As the fire was lit, the smell of roses was strong. Luke remembered every pyre he had ever seen. But the image of Simon Peekman, lying at the feet of his Walkin’ father, was the strongest. The Walkin’ couldn’t cry, it wasn’t possible, but it had seemed to nonetheless. It made Luke wonder if crying was more than tears. The small boy’s face was like a cherub’s – soft, round cheeks and skin the sun had barely touched. Luke tried to ignore the angry red mark around his neck. Where he had touched.
‘We should take turns on watch,’ Bellis said. Luke nodded in approval. Now they had spotted the devils, who knew what kind of danger they were in? And the Walkin’ were indeed creatures of the night.
‘I’ll go first,’ Luke said.
‘You won’t. You need rest.’
‘I do not. The Good Lord gives me strength.’
‘Strength to set a pyre for a child,’ Nathaniel said.
‘To do what has to be done,’ Luke snapped. ‘What’s the matter, ’Keeper? Now we’ve found them does your meagre faith abandon you?’
‘I will save my brother,’ Samuel said. They all looked at the young man. He so rarely said a word when they all spoke; it somehow added weight to already heavy words.
‘I’ll take first watch,’ Bellis said. It was no longer open to debate.
Luke slumped back into his blankets. It took him a long time to get to sleep. His head throbbed. The blood had dried and was already starting to form a scab. It felt like a thick piece of paper that he couldn’t quite turn over. No matter how he shifted, he couldn’t get comfortable. Even lying on his side made his scalp itch. Samuel started snoring. It was a purr that grew and sputtered into a loud snort, and then back to a purr. Luke counted the seconds between each snort. Samuel was strangely consistent.
A cloud passed over the moon, plunging the church-sized space into darkness. The rose-scented feeble fire did nothing to hold off the black. The taloned hand. It came for him again. Luke clutched his crucifix, now missing its thong. Silently, he prayed for strength and forgiveness. The two seemed entwined.
He fell asleep watching Bellis’s face; the lines and creases reflected in the firelight.
*
Thomas laid Mary down. He tried to clear away the loose rocks, but the ground made a poor mattress. She stirred but didn’t wake up. They had been hurrying ever since they entered the hills. He was confident they could lose the men in this place. Now, he wanted to find them.
He put the wrapped parcel of meat and the water-skin beside Mary. They both felt dangerously empty. He bound them as best he could. He didn’t want any curious red-wink or other scavenger to find his daughter alone. He didn’t want to leave her, either. But he had little choice. The men wouldn’t give up – they’d followed them this far. Thomas had to do something and it was better he do it alone.
He had climbed as best he could with Mary in his arms. She was now on a wide ledge, overlooking a series of slim gullies and gorges. She was invisible to anyone below. The blightbirds would have a good view of her. He hoped she looked alive and dangerous to their keen eyes.
Coming through the hills he had tried his best to memorise every twist and turn. Even before the Walk he had had a good sense of direction. In chasing games with his brothers and sisters he was the best at getting from one side of town to the other – to be quick but not seen. But he needed some help in this strange place. He picked up a stone. At every branch or turning he marked the walls with a cross. He forced himself to go carefully, stopping often to listen. The rock was silent. He tried to step as quietly as he could, but to his ears he was louder than a shaggie. How could he possibly sn
eak up on the riders? They had to sleep eventually. Where he could he kept to higher ground. Their shaggies couldn’t manage that kind of terrain. He ducked into shadows gratefully. He didn’t have long. The night was already old.
He was in the shadow of one of the peaks when he lost his footing. What was solid rock suddenly crumbled beneath him. The sky tilted madly as he fell. The stars shot across his vision like white raindrops. His arms flailed at the air. Then he rolled and hit stone. Rocks ranging from the size of his fist to as big as his head rolled with him. The noise was colossal. He hit the slope on his shoulder and continued to roll down towards a thin corridor ten feet deep. He landed in a heap; scree coating him in dust and stone flakes.
4 : 2
Thomas got up and waited for the voices – the shouts of alarm or rage. He had risked everything coming out here and he’d been clumsy. But the night returned to silence. He pushed himself up and noticed his hand looked odd. Two fingers were splayed at an angle. He tried to move them and only one weakly responded. He stood. The bone of his little finger had snapped. It was being held on by his patchy skin; he could see the break through a hole – a jagged black line. With a child-like fascination, he slowly ripped off his little finger. The skin eased apart fibre by fibre like splitting dough. He felt nothing. It was useless, but he wanted to keep it. He put it in the pocket of his trousers. His ring finger seemed slow and he couldn’t quite make a fist with it.
The maze continued for some way. He made his scratches every so often. When a gap came in the stone wall he climbed. His hand felt different, clutching at rock with what seemed like all of his fingers. He tried to move the finger that wasn’t there any more. When he reached the top, he saw the glow of a fire. He had been dreading that sight for the past six days. Constantly looking back, hoping the horizon would stay dark. And now he was actively seeking out their fire.
He crept towards it. He tested every step, making sure the rock was solid, and treading as lightly as possible. Soon he was close enough to hear the fire hissing and popping. He saw the men who were chasing him and his daughter. The men he knew from as early as he could remember. Law-Man Bellis. Gravekeeper Courie. Luke Morris.