It was close to midnight when the stench of red goblin came to Salum’s senses. Her pointed ears caught the slightest sound of whispering below in the flagstone courtyard. The goblins have arrived. Good, she thought to herself. Give Boorag the message and task from her Lady, then her duty was done, and she could return to the comfort and safety of her coven. The jewel in Salum’s sweep began to glow a brighter green, as it had a habit of doing when in the presence of magic influence. Salum recalled an earlier age when she partook in the witch trials to learn the secrets of magic arts. Coming to Blackmire Castle was an essential part of her training. The castle was one of a few ruins scattered through the land that retained deep arcane properties with origins to the Dread-Realm. Salum continued winding her way down the narrow stone staircase. As she stood on the bottom steps, she paused to let her senses scan the outside environment. She froze and peered outside the doorway into the courtyard. The falling rain increased to create a dull low roar on the surrounding stonework. A chorus of crickets she had heard earlier had suddenly stopped. She could pick up the faint whisperings of goblin's speech just outside. But there was something else. Something was wrong. She perceived the presence of a powerful entity, had the goblins set a trap for her?
Salum suddenly felt an impending sense of doom. A shapeless black shadow, darker than the blackest night rose up out of the ground just in front of the doorway to a height of ten feet. It emitted a darker aurora of magic power that she never experienced, and it fell forward like a rolling wave in the direction of the goblins. Their loud shrieks of horror were cut short. Wet sucking noises came from the shadow as it seemed to flip inside out, dropped low and now flowed rapidly and silently towards her over the flagstones like a moving carpet. Her head suddenly swam with emotions of greed, horror, and deprivation. She gasped and staggered backwards, feeling as if she was in the Dread-Realm. She tripped up the first stone step which jolted her awake. She turned and ran up the steps, dislodging small broken pieces of stone that bounced noisily behind her down the inside of the tower. She stumbled several times, but clutched tightly to her sweep and didn’t look back. She shook her head to try and dislodge the cloud of gloom that had embedded in her mind. She could hear the shapeless thing now making wet noises on the stone steps as it closed the distance behind her.
Seeing the night sky appear above her, she mounted her sweep and leapt out high over the parapet with a screech of fright. She glanced behind her as she ascended high into the clouds, but nothing followed. She immediately aimed her sweep for the direction of Bloodwood and went as fast as she could, the cloud of gloom finally leaving her mind. The witches’ in general were considered to be an unethical and evil bunch by the moor dwellers, and they were proud of it. But what was this shadow entity that had frightened her? This was the first time Salum had sensed genuine fear, and she was terrified.
5.
SANIEL CARLOW
Several old stone and timber cottages lined Woodward road, not far from the village centre. A quaint little narrow thatched-roofed, two-level cottage sat at the road's end. It once had a neat white picket fence at the front, that was slowly falling over and whose paint was now heavily faded. The small gate defiantly stayed in place despite the bottom hinge being rusted off. Noticeably offset and swaying back and forth creaking in keeping with the breeze. The front wall was barely visible through a dense mat of dark green ivy creeper, bursting with tiny purple flowers. Only two small windows and a wooden door with a brass knocker were visible. Glass was a rarity these days, and most window frames were empty and secured by wooden shutters. A grey brick chimney poked out on an angle through one end of the thatched roof, the bricks sourced from other old structures as the art of firing clay is rarely used. A thin wisp of black smoke curled out, to be caught immediately in a westerly breeze and dissipate.
This cottage had been in the Carlow family for generations. Sadly, the only surviving members of the family were Grace Carlow and her son Saniel. Grace was a proud woman in her mid-40’s and had made a living from doing laundry since her husband had died in rough seas nearby, shortly after Saniel was born. Her brother Barney lived on the other side of the village and rarely had much to do with her. Not for any wrongdoing, just that people were always so busy these days. She had heard that he had become inducted as a member in the council of elders and would be even more so preoccupied with other matters. Grace’s son Saniel is a tall thin wild unkempt boy, 12 years of age with sizeable innocent hazel coloured eyes. His brown shoulder-length hair was always a tangle of knots and dry grass, despite his mother’s best efforts to brush it through his protesting howls. He wore the trademark clothing that most children of the village wore these days: ugly brown pants, shoes with exposed toes, shirt, and coat with a full collar. Saniel's clothing would typically have more holes in it than the other children’s, and Grace attributed this to the boy’s adventurous spirit.
He was a normal healthy boy in all aspects of the term ‘normal’ except for one peculiarity; on his left hand protruded a sixth finger. Most of the villagers exhibited the standard number of appendages and if anything, were a finger or a toeless after encounters with hungry sea creatures or from some silly knife games played by the men after copious amounts of homemade liquor had been consumed. Saniel would receive the occasional taunt from children and adults alike, but his mother would often say that his sixth finger was unique, as he had inherited it from his father. Saniel would help his mother tend to the small vegetable plot in the rear yard, but he would spend most of his time in one of the coves exploring caves, mending fishing nets and carrying fish to bring the odd coin home. Most of the other children shunned the boy as he was often observed talking to the birds and town dogs, which was certainly not normal.
Saniel had never remembered his father, and it wasn’t until recently that he began to wonder what he was like. His mother would lately say, ‘You remind me of your father.’ Though this statement was often made on occasions when Saniel misbehaved or upset her. Mr Shoalwater, one of the fishermen Saniel mended nets for had only commented that morning on the beach that Saniel was looking more like his father as he grew older. He stared hard at Saniel’s left hand, ‘Aye, your father had a hand like that as well.’ Saniel asked Mr Shoalwater about his father’s fishing exploits, and Mr Shoalwater replied, ‘Your father was as good a fisherman like the rest of us, however against everyone’s advice he always rowed too close to the cliffs yonder looking for a shortcut to beat the morning tide.’ As he said this, he indicated with his wooden pipe towards a notably steep line of cliffs further south along the coast. Saniel saw particularly fierce-looking waves following one another from the deep sea crashing against the black rocks. Mr Shoalwater continued, ‘he and that big black dog of his never listened to anyone, and he got caught in a fierce storm over there and never came back. We found some pieces of his skiff washed up the next day in this very cove. You mark my words young Saniel and take heed; don’t be as foolish as your father.’
Saniel was surprised. His mother never told him that much detail about his father’s death and that his father even had a dog as a companion. The clouds had unexpectedly closed in, and a light rain began to fall. Mr Shoalwater appeared to be having trouble keeping his pipe alight. He cursed to himself under his breath and finally gave up trying to light it, but he seemed to be content to continue sucking on the wet thing anyway. Saniel pulled his patched coat tighter around his shoulders as a cold breeze came into the cove with the rain. ‘Run along now young Saniel and take that basket of fish to the missus waiting in the square.’ Mr Shoalwater tossed Saniel a coin, which he neatly caught and popped in his trousers pocket. Hefting the half-full basket of squibs on his back, he began the steep 20-minute climb up the rocky path to the village. He met Mrs. Shoalwater at the edge of the square as he inhaled deeply to catch his breath. Mrs. Shoalwater was a thin gaunt-looking woman who looked around impatiently and scolded Saniel for making her wait. Saniel now figured out why Mr Shoalwater spent so much time d
own at the beach away from his home. She gave him an apple and asked how his mother was.
The square was roughly in the centre of the village and where locals and traders from Brineburg would barter wares. It was reasonably fashionable with the ground covered in a layer of rough-cut rock pavers with a grit fill made from crushed seas shells. An array of sweet-smelling Pine Trees lined the edges of the square, dropping Pine needles over the ground. What Saniel thought was peculiar was that it appeared the villagers themselves would mostly sell or trade fish with each other. The same fish they had all gone out and caught together anyway, but he supposed it helped them pass the time. Saniel looked around at the other useful items that could be bought here, blankets, clothing, fruit and a different kind of dried fish from Brineburg.
The boy began the five-minute walk home winding through the small cobbled streets, dwelling upon what Mr Shoalwater had told him. He picked up the pace a little as the rain increased slightly. His feet were cold and wet as the holes in his boots let in an ample supply of water. However, it was the same holes that also allow the water out again, so he didn’t mind as much he thought to himself as he let out a loud sneeze. This was the first time he had noticed the bird. As he jogged from tree to tree seeking shelter under each canopy from the rain, he heard a sweet chirping noise above him. He glanced up, half closing his eyes from the raindrops splashing on his face. He saw a small yellow bird with blue wings and a blue crown perched on a branch above him. It appeared to be fixated on him. It resembled a ‘Blue Tat,’ which was a common bird living in the woods and moors beyond. It chirped away at him as if it was trying to tell him something. For a moment, he felt a little light-headed as he stared up at the bird. He shook it off and laughed, ‘Shouldn’t you be in your cosy nest somewhere out of this weather?’ Running to the next few trees, he heard a bird flitter above him and chirped again. A glance upwards as he ran, and he thought it was the same bird or one very similar. ‘Are you following me?’ He laughed out as he ran for the next cover of trees.
6.
THE GLOOMY FOREST
That afternoon as on most days, the cottage blended into the gloomy overcast shadow surrounding the backwoods at the edge of the village. Saniel’s mother seemingly hot and bothered for some reason as she bustled around a small wood-fired stove. Her son was soon eating whole potatoes cooked in their jackets, which he was rather fond of. A dash of salt and spoonful of goat cheese topped them off perfectly. Saniel looked at his mother appreciatively. He knew how hard salt was to come by as men in the village had to brave the sharp rocks and temperamental sea to access several places at the base of the cliff where the ideal salt collected. Mother had to part with some of her hard-earned coins to buy it each time. He walked out the back door and glanced towards the bottom of the garden. The wooden fence was so old, frail and covered in green mould and moss, that it was difficult to distinguish it amongst the unkempt yard. He surveyed the woods beyond the disused muddy laneway at the back of the fence. He liked the tangle of big trees, as they looked dark and mysterious and came almost up to his back fence. The rustling noises from the woods at night made him feel excited and gave him a sense of adventure, wondering what secrets they hid. He would often gaze longingly at them, and on quiet days he could hear a gurgling stream somewhere from within mixed with bird song and insect buzzing. The tall, dark trees swayed in unison with the breeze, and Saniel almost felt that they called to him. He dared himself to follow the paths through his back fence into the forest beyond and dreamed of what he would find. Having lived here his whole life, he had never been allowed to stray past the first line of big Elm and Oak trees that marked the start of the woods. He could see several rabbit paths going under the fence from his mother’s cabbage patch into the woods. As often as Saniel would fix holes in the fence, the rabbits would make another hole the next night. ‘I guess mothers cabbages are tastier than anything they can find in the woods,’ thought Saniel to himself with amusement.
A few trappers in the village had offered Mrs. Carlow their services to set snares and catch the problematic vermin. However, Mrs. Carlow declined the offers, stating that she did not want to intentionally hurt any animal. Saniel was pleased as he agreed with his mother’s decision. Saniel had never had an animal companion before, and he suddenly recalled his surprise at what Mr Shoalwater had told him that morning about his father having a dog for company. He had meant to ask his mother as soon as he got home but decided to wait until a more opportune time. He had brought up the subject of his father’s death before. Including the fact that his father’s belongings in the small attic were ‘out of bounds. ‘But all this did was provoke his mother to tears, and Saniel did not like to see her upset. When she was like this, Saniel would usually chant some silly song he had heard other children sing to cheer her up.
The foreboding wood cast long shadows in the late afternoon. The musical melody of the night chorus began with crickets chirping, treetops swooshing in the wind and the odd hoot from an owl preparing to hunt for the night. Dark heavy clouds had retreated to the far northeast. The rain had finally stopped in time with the setting of the sun, and a glimpse of the half-moon could be spotted through gaps in the passing clouds on the far horizon. Saniel could still see clearly from his back garden along a narrow path winding into the wood. Several clusters of yellow and brown toadstools grew randomly in the grass between a thicket of bushes and tree trunks. These managed to bring a bit of colour to the usually dark and gloomy wood.
A slight movement caught his eye just off the path. He watched and kept perfectly still to see two plump brown rabbits hop from the undergrowth and onto the path that led out of the wood. Their noses sniffed the air cautiously while they took small careful hops towards the fence at the bottom of the back garden. One rabbit had a whitetail, and Saniel badly wanted to go to them. As he smiled, the rabbits froze and rose up on their hind legs and stared at him. ‘That’s funny,’ he thought, ‘I didn’t even move.’ A moment later, the rabbits disappeared into the increasingly dark wood as quickly as they had appeared. He was about to turn away when he heard a familiar chirping sound. A little yellow bird with blue wings and crown sat perched on an upright picket along the back fence and appeared to be chirping noisily in his direction. ‘Could this be the same bird that was following me before?’ He asked himself. A soft knocking noise came to his ears. It seemed to be coming from somewhere in his house. How strange he thought, for it appeared to be mimicking the bird song. He stood for a moment, scratching a sudden itch to his left palm, which felt unusually warm.
Old Mrs. Willoughby from next door saw him and called over the fence ‘Don’t you go venturing in those woods at night young Saniel, many a boy your age has vanished just from having that same thought!’‘Silly old Mrs. Willoughby’, thought Saniel. ‘She hardly ever left her house, what would she know? ‘He stared at his home, trying to focus his attention back on the strange knocking sound, but he could no longer hear it. His mother called his name from the kitchen window. Saniel sighed and dragged his feet inside the cottage to finish his supper and help mother close the house for the night. With a quick flutter of wings, the yellow and blue bird suddenly left the fence and flew high into the wood. It had sensed something that scared it, the same thing that had just scared the two rabbits as well. As Saniel closed the back door of the cottage behind him, a set of big pale white eyes gleamed out of the dark woods between two trees and growled softly. From the concealment of the woods, it had been watching the mancub in the back yard with great interest.
Inside the house, Saniel helped mother tidy the small kitchen downstairs and lock the doors and windows. He stoked the hearth of the tiny fireplace in the sitting room and watched in curiosity as sparks fluttered about erratically with several landing on the stone floor. He then remembered the strange knocking noise earlier. ‘Mother when I was in the yard, I heard a knocking noise coming from here. What were you doing?’ His mother paused sweeping for a moment and glanced to the floor above. She had als
o heard the noise, but unlike Saniel, she suspected she knew the source. ‘It was nothing,’ she replied. ‘I was …banging the dust from the doormat.’ Her tone was uncertain. ‘Didn’t sound like it,’ said Saniel quickly. ‘Mind your business son, take that candle and get ready for bed please.’ She replied.
When Mrs. Carlow could hear Saniel’s footsteps on the floor above, she looked out of the small kitchen window and spoke in a quiet and urgent voice to the dark woods. ‘It’s not time yet. He’s just a boy, you promised…’ Mother sobbed quietly, closing the wooden shutter over the window. Saniel lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in his room. Through the small cracks of the ceiling, thin beams of white light filtered down into his room, cutting through the orange glow from his candle on the small table. Saniel tried to figure out what the light was, but he yawned and his eyes became heavy. As the boy slept, his mother paced quietly in her room next door muttering to herself. She often looked up at the small trapdoor to the attic above where her husband’s things were stored.
Growing up in Saltwood, all Saniel ever knew was his mother’s cottage, the quaint garden, and the strange woods behind. He had never seen the moors but had heard stories from other children. Some of these children boasted about having seen the moors with their fathers and of the dangerous creatures lurking within. The stories seemed funny, though, as accounts told by individual children of what the moors looked like were extremely different. The Spencer twins said that the moors were a constant landscape of rolling hills with vast lakes between them. Harry Hoopling said that the moors were all grasslands on which countless herds of wild cattle fed. Saniel had made his mind up some time ago, that he would visit the moors himself to explore them firsthand. However, he would have to get through the woods first. Other stories told by adults would have the village children dreaming when they were told tales of magical exploits, great battles between animal tribes, witches’ and goblins snatching children to sell to some Daemon. These stories frightened most of the younger ones, but the older children knew they were made up tales.
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