I remember the women, silent, waiting, listening for the sounds which would tell them that their men were coming back. They used to peel off one at a time as the planes returned, until only a few were left, watching and waiting and wondering.
See how the moonbeams dance around her, making her glow. So white, so brilliant, so pure. And no shadow to taint the vision.
He was corrupting her. I could see that, even from the few glimpses I had of them together. There they were, laughing and giggling like a pair of kids fresh out of school. And kissing! In public! Right there on the main street for all too see, and again, later, in the pub, flaunting themselves in front of me.
Of course she had stockings. And lipstick. And chocolate. And cigarettes. The price of her innocence, the wages of sin.
I hoped that I wouldn’t be too late, that she was still capable of being saved. I watched. I waited. I planned. He continued with her destruction, but soon I’d have my turn.
See how she moves between the stones, not attempting to pass through them. Does she look solid to you? You can’t see through her, not like in the books or the films. Do you think that if I went over there and put out my hand she’d be able to take it, be able to feel? Would she notice that I was there?
I have often, over the years, thought about why she returns. It is only now, when I’m near my own end, that I’m able to look at it dispassionately. Maybe, when I go to join her, we’ll both understand.
Did you know that I used to be a mechanic? Well I was, and a good one at that. It was easy. I already had the run of the airfield, so it was simple to wangle myself in on the servicing of his plane. Once I had spent five minutes aboard, it was only a matter of waiting for the next flight.
I was subtle though. I didn’t want the plane blowing up over land; not over England anyway. My work might have been noticed. No, the explosion would occur only when the plane climbed to more than one thousand feet. That should do it. By the time it reached that height it would be well out over the channel.
He took it out the very next day.
Look. She’s reached the wall. See how her elbows stay white, despite the damp and moss and stone? Her eyes will be moist. Will those tears be real? Could I perhaps touch them? Touch them and somehow feel her pain?
The next day I saw the flight take off, twelve planes slowly gathering in formation before beginning their long climb into the sky. I watched them until they rose into the clouds, then listened as they droned away. Was there an explosion? Did the droning lessen? I never did find out.
Whether I’m a murderer or not, he never came back, and I never lost the guilt.
Later that day, when the sky was once more filled with sound, the women left the wall, one by one, until she was the only one remaining, trying to pierce the clouds as she peered avidly eastwards, willing him to return.
I stood, just about here, and watched, cursing her for her devotion, cursing him for his hold on her, as darkness fell and the skies grew silent.
It was late summer, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. A light drizzle began to fall, chilling me to the bone.
And still she waited, and still I watched.
See it. There’s the cigarette. How ungainly it looks in those pearl white fingers. It burns—there’s a good quarter of an inch of ash on the end—but there’s no smoke, no smell.
He started her off on that habit. She’d told me that morning that she did it because it made her look like a real lady. As if she’d not been a lady before that. It made me angry, so angry that I could watch no longer.
See how she turns, surprised. Now she’ll look confused for a second. Then she’ll see that it’s only me; only the young, fresh faced, solid, dependable me.
Watch closely now. You may just catch the disappointment as it flits across her face. Look, she turns her back again, returns to her vigil.
One look and I was consigned to despair. I grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her around to face me, demanding that she explain herself. She struggled in my arms but I held on as we moved around in a parody of a waltz; held her as she screamed, her once-beautiful lips contorted in rage.
She pulled away once more, and this time she was too strong for me to hold on to her. Surprised to be free so easily, she lost her balance.
I reached out desperately for her as she fell, slowly, slowly, towards the unyielding gravestones. And then came the sound, the one I hear late at night in my dreams, the sound of her neck as it broke.
So now we wait, she for a sweetheart who will never return, me for an end to the guilt and the hope of forgiveness. Which of us is more dead?
And the time passes and I watch, every night, as she dances, just for me.
THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE THORNS
James Menzies climbed.
His fingers hurt from gripping the dry stone, and dust filled his mouth and nostrils such that even his spit felt gritty. Small stones pattered on his head from above. When he looked up he could see the earl, five yards ahead and accelerating up the face of the cliff, his prize in sight.
I just hope it is worth it.
They had been two months in the desert, dying slowly. Of the thirty men in the band that had left Jerusalem, only eight remained, and two—John the Swift, and David of Hawick—were unlikely to last another day.
All in the pursuit of something that may not exist, and may not be of any help if it does.
But the earl had been adamant. Jerusalem was fallen to the Saracens, and only a great relic could once more unite the fractured and disillusioned brethren of Christendom.
During the last days in the city, the earl had become fervent in his faith. Before the walls of the city he had smote Saladin’s men with a cold rage that was frightening to behold. When the city fell he refused to go with the others to the harbours.
Instead he called for the quest. Menzies and the other men of Melrose had a mind to rebel. Ships were leaving, for Acre then for home. Following a madman through the desert after a mythical object paled by comparison. But rebellion would only be met by death. As thralls to their Lord, they had no choice but to follow him, to whatever doom might be waiting.
And doom there had been—a searing doom in the sand as first horses, then men, buckled under the heat.
“Tell me again, Sire,” Menzies had said as they left John the Miller behind, face down in the sand. “What is it that you seek?”
The earl’s smile hadn’t instilled any confidence.
“A relic of our Lord,” the big man replied.
“You could have had them a plenty in Jerusalem, Sire,” Menzies said, laughing. “I was offered enough pieces of wood from the Cross to build a boat, and enough of the Lord’s finger bones such that I could give one to every man in the garrison.”
The earl frowned.
“I am not talking about market baubles. I’m talking abot a major relic. Something that will unite the faith under its banner.”
“Surely, if such a thing existed, it would have been found by now?”
The big man’s frown grew deeper, the sign of an impending storm. In the three years since they left Melrose, a peppering of grey had grown in the earl’s beard, but he was still as broad as a bear, and near as quick to anger. Menzies knew better than to push for more information.
He was not confident of the quest’s success, even from the first day. Rumours of relics were a daily topic of conversation in the old city, especially once Saladin’s siege began. Knights dug up large areas around the old temples in a frantic search for talismans. Indeed, it was rumoured that three French Lords had found something in the stables under Solomon’s temple, but they were spirited away that very same night, and if they had found anything, it proved worthless against the might of the Saracen army.
Surrender had been inevitable. But the earl refused to be bowed. Even as the Saracens broke through the gates Menzies had found him in the dungeon beneath the garrison with a hot iron in his hand, standing over the body of a broken man. The earl smiled br
oadly at Menzies.
“It lies to the east,” he said. “Across the desert to the mountains. My destiny waits there.”
* * *
And now the earl was speeding towards that destiny, climbing towards the tower on a high crag that had been their goal these sixty days.
Menzies dragged himself up onto a ledge to find the earl contemplating the remainder of the climb. The tower was still high above them, and, although they had started in the dawn hours, the sun was already high in the sky, the heat from the rocks threatening to bake them alive.
“We must rest, Sire,” Menzies said. He looked down to where the remainder of the men formed a spaced-out line of climbers, the leader of which was still some twenty yards below. “It is folly to climb in this heat.”
The Earl looked up the cliff then back down at the rest of his men. He wiped sweat from his brow.
“Mayhap you are right for once,” he said. “Let us find some shelter.”
For the rest of the afternoon the eight men took turns in a small area of shade in a crack in the rock. John the Swift expired from his exertions as the sun began its descent far to the west, but the Earl scarcely noticed.
“Think on it, Menzies,” he said, staring out over the sunset. “We could return to Jerusalem with an army at our back and a relic of the Lord before us. All of Christendom would follow. We will drive the heathen from our holy places, and ensure we keep them Christian for all time. Think of the glory of it.”
Menzies was indeed thinking.
The Lord’s glory? Or yours?
The stars began to show overhead.
“Come, lads,” the Earl said. “One last push, and we shall have our reward.”
He faced the cliff and started to climb, not once looking back. The broadsword slung across his shoulders clanged against the rock, but if the Earl worried about giving away their position, he did not show it, merely climbed faster.
The remaining men shouldered whatever packs and weapons they carried and, with heavy hearts, followed.
Menzies decided to bring up the rear. David of Hawick seemed near his end, and it would be a wonder if he could make this last stretch of the climb. Menzies cajoled him every inch of the way, reminding him of the rolling hills and forests of home, of damp foggy days and welcome cold winds. Much to Menzies’ surprise, the man made it to the top, hauling himself, panting, over a lip.
They found the Earl and the other four men standing in a small clearing before a tall tower. The tower was unremarkable, a three-level block of sandstone heavily weathered by the elements, so old that it almost looked like part of the cliff itself. In the gathering gloom the darkened windows seemed like empty, unstaring eyes and Menzies felt a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the encroaching night.
The Hawick man had to sit almost immediately, all strength gone from his body. The others aside from the Earl looked in little better shape, their faces drawn and haggard, shoulders slumped with fatigue.
“We must rest, Sire,” Menzies said. “If there’s fighting to be done this night, we won’t last more than a minute. The men can barely lift their arms, never mind a weapon.”
The Earl didn’t answer at first. He stood staring at the tower, his eyes in shadow, the black holes mirroring the windows in the building.
“It is there,” he whispered. “We are close. I can feel it.”
It was obvious to Menzies that his sire was like a horse champing at the bit, eager to surge forward and find what waited for him in the tower. But in the end he relented, allowing the men a few hours respite.
They sat in the clearing in front of the tower, in plain sight of anyone who might be watching, eating what meagre rations remained to them. The Hawick man produced a tinder-box and with that and the aid of some dead wood they managed to get a small fire burning.
No one spoke, each man lost in his own thoughts.
If anyone in the tower paid them any attention they did not show it. The dark shadows in the windows grew black as full night fell. A crescent moon rose above them and the desert sky blazed in a milky sea of stars. Still no one appeared from the tower, or showed themselves at the windows. There was no sound save their own breathing.
“The place seems empty, Sire,” one of the men said.
The Earl rose. Chain mail rustled. Menzies was amazed that the big man had got up the cliff wearing it. The rest of them had ditched theirs in the sand in favour of leather tunics and desert robes, swapping their longswords for smaller, lighter blades that were more easily carried in the searing heat. But the Earl refused to bow completely to the elements. Although he had ditched most of his armour, he retained the mail beneath a long heavy tunic and had carried the heavy sword all the way from Jerusalem. Now he unsheathed it from its scabbard. Moonlight glinted along the blade. Once more the mail rustled.
He must have been near to baking inside there.
But still he’d been the one pushing them all the way, and the first, and fastest man, up the sheer cliff face.
“The Lord wills it,” was all he had ever said when pushed on the matter.
Now the big man stood staring at the tower, and Menzies knew exactly where the Lord’s will was going to lead them next.
The big man turned to Menzies, and for a second a shadow of fear seemed to slide across his features.
“If I should fall, bury me at home, Menzies. Promise me that at least?”
Menzies nodded.
“I have always served you, Sire. I will serve in this matter, too.”
The Earl nodded.
“Then come. Let us see if the truth was told in yon dungeon in Jerusalem.”
* * *
The Earl went first. Behind him the others drew their swords and kept close order. Menzies brought up the rear with David of Hawick. The man leaned on his sword, using it as a walking stick.
“Stay here, man,” Menzies said. “No one will think the less of you.”
The Hawick man laughed, his voice little more than a whisper.
“And let you Melrose men get all the glory? I’d never be able to show my face at home again. Come. Let us see what wonders our liege has led us to.”
The two of them were several yards behind the others as they approached the main entrance to the tower. It had been in deep shadow earlier, but as they approached they saw that a thick wooden door protected the doorway. It was currently closed.
The Earl banged hard on it with the hilt of his sword.
“There are Christian men here seeking succour,” he shouted, his voice echoing in the cliffs.
All fell quiet for the space of five heartbeats, then the door swung open. Around Menzies the men gripped harder at their swords.
The Earl had the longsword raised high above his head, ready for any attack, but lowered it when a hooded figure in long grey robes appeared in the doorway. The hood fell forward over the man’s face, obscuring his features in shadow. The only distinguishing mark on the robes was a black circle, crudely painted on at the chest. The robe trailed on the ground so that not even his feet were visible, and his hands were lost in swathes of material that fell in voluminous folds over his arms.
The men did not relax, but there seemed to be no attack forthcoming. The grey robed figure just stood there, blocking the door.
“We are Christian men needing shelter and succour,” the Earl said again. “Will you let us enter?”
The grey figure stood still and silent.
“Let us enter,” the Earl said, raising his voice. Menzies knew that anger was near the surface now.
The grey figure did not respond.
“Are you daft, man?” the Earl said, and stepped forward.
The robed figure raised a hand and placed it against the Earl’s chest. It seemed innocuous enough, little more than a warning gesture. But the Earl pressed forward, straining. No matter how much effort he put into the act, he was unable to force himself past the man, unable to move the hand from its place on his chest.
Stil
l the grey figure did not speak.
“You cannot refuse me,” the Earl shouted. “I do the Lord’s will.”
He stepped back and hacked at the offending arm with a downward blow of the longsword.
There was a dull thud.
Menzies looked to the ground, for by rights, that was where the arm should lie. The stroke should have cleaved it from the body.
The grey figure had not moved as the sword came down. There was a long cut in the robe, and beneath it pale wrinkled flesh showed.
There is no wound. Barely even a scratch.
The Earl raised the sword again. Before he could bring it down the grey figure stepped forward under the blade. A white hand grabbed at the Earl’s tunic and, with as little effort as a child tossing a pebble, threw the Earl backward to land heavily on his hind-end in the dust.
Beside Menzies, the Hawick man started to pray.
The grey figure withdrew his hand back into the robes and stood, silent and still in the doorway.
The Earl struggled to his feet.
“Kill him,” he shouted.
The four men in front of Menzies raised their swords and attacked. The grey figure let them come. He caught the first swinging sword with his left hand, gripping the blade tight.
There is no blood.
With a tug the robed man pulled the attacker off balance and caught him, one-handed, around the throat. He twisted. The snap of the man’s neck breaking echoed in the hills above them. Another of the Earl’s men fell to the ground. The grey figure stomped on his back, foot crushing all the way through his spine with a crack of bone and a gush of blood that soaked the bottom foot of the robe.
“They are devils,” the Hawick man said. “We cannot fight such as these.”
“We have the Lord on our side,” the Earl said and pushed past Menzies. “We shall prevail.”
The two men left in the doorway rained blow after blow on the robed thing before them. Bits of cloth flew. Where the blades found their mark they made only a dull thud, like striking wood instead of flesh.
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