There was a bright moon rising and the sun still hadn’t quite set so Nat could see clearly in the sharp winter air. There weren’t many people around but those that were must be coming or going to a party, with their outline of long skirts and broad hats. He grinned at the Christmas card image in the twilight. The night was going to be bitter and Nat just wanted to head into town, up the high street and his parents’ house. So, drawing his inadequate ragged clothes around him and hoping to hide the dark stains on his T-shirt, he pulled the damp sock further down over his face and came in to the High Street. He had some notion of avoiding anyone he knew until he was cleaned up and had sorted this whole sorry mess. He’d call the police once he was there. Dad would know what to do. Mum would feed him. The shivering wouldn’t stop and was making his teeth hurt.
The need to look for someone he knew was strong and he kept wanting to halt; to look around and make some sense of the scene. The street was so familiar and yet elements were missing. Disconcerting didn’t do it justice. It was the right place, he knew the Merchant’s house, saw the thatch of Weavers Cottage and that comforting church tower was still in his sights but it wasn’t quite right. What had happened to the tarmac? Had it been turned in to a film set? It certainly looked the part and they’d filmed here before. This was crazy and the thought hit him that he may have started to hallucinate — it would be some sort of explanation. He would have stopped to speak to someone but these costumed extras were all intent in their business and paid him very little attention other than to give him a wide berth if he passed near to them. He even wondered if a loud, ‘Cut!’ would be yelled at him for walking through the scene but no one seemed very interested in him.
Whatever was going on here would have to be sorted later because for now the shivering was severe and, added to the bitter cold and his own exhaustion, he knew that he really needed shelter quickly. He was wishing that he’d had the sense to grab more of his discarded clothes.
The sign for the Mermaid hung still in the night chill and the lights were on. He checked his pockets and was glad to feel the wallet there and a jingle of loose change. He looked around for the phone box that he could use to tell him what the hell was going on here. Surely, they’d not ditched the iconic red box in favour of one of these kiosk type plastic containers! He couldn’t see one anywhere. It wasn’t a long walk home but he was beginning to feel a little queasy and a ride home seemed like a plan. Dad would fetch him.
Nat tried to step in to the pub to use their phone but was rebuffed by two blokes standing in the doorway. Inexplicably, they cuffed his head and the throbbing pain began again. Miserable sods! ‘Hey! What the fuck was that for!’ he spat at them. Stepping towards him he heard one say something like, ‘Vagrant turd!’ but his accent was strange and he’d probably misheard. OK. He did look like a tramp but that wasn’t his fault. He’d come back tomorrow to sort those two out. Since when did Marlborough need bouncers on the door! Full of the Christmas spirit those two! It wasn’t worth it. Home was near and that was his target.
Dazed and hurting from the inexplicable rough handling, he trudged on, focusing on the warmth of his parents’ welcome. St. George’s at the top of the hill was where it ought to be and so, head down, he concentrated his efforts on reaching it, seeing only the very plain boots and shoes of people that he passed and staying very nervous about engaging in another damaging encounter. He guessed that he must really look like that wino in the woods. He hadn’t thought that the people of his home town could be so… small-minded! He must look a real sight for people to react like that to him. St George’s lych gate welcomed him into the churchyard with its gravestones and brooding yew trees. It was solidly familiar. He could see light in the windows and knew that his father would be there, preparing for the Boxing Day service in the morning before he settled in at home for the Christmas Day telly. The church door was heavy but open and once inside, Nat fell back against it and closed his eyes. Never before had he felt what sanctuary actually meant.
There was a light towards the quire where a door to the left was ajar and it flickered from the vestry. The nave was oddly empty of pews, except for a couple of rows at the front but there were quire stalls before the modest altar beneath a darkening stained-glass window. He’d thought that the pews were fixed but maybe Dad was going down that happy-clappy route and was experimenting with space. Wouldn’t put it past him. Anything to increase the congregation and keep the bishop from closing him down. That would kill him.
‘Whoever you be, wait there and I shall attend you shortly,’ a young and rather irritable voice said into the soft, echoing silence of the sanctuary. Nat didn’t stop but walked towards the voice and the light.
‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Is my Dad there? John Haslet? I’m afraid I’ve had an accident. I’m… I need some help…’ Nat’s voice petered out suddenly rather emotional.
‘An accident fellow? Are you injured?’ The voice immediately changed tone and was tinged with concern as it emerged with the face of a young clergyman in long vestments. He held up a candle in a sconce and slowly gauged what he saw. ‘You are not, I think, a soldier?’ he mused tentatively, ‘Nor yet a gentleman…’ slight distain now as he saw Nat’s appearance. He’d change his tune when his Dad got here. ‘Then whence are your injuries, man?’ The clergyman was young, not foolish.
‘A car…A deer ran out and…’
‘A cart accident! Were you thrown?’
Nat didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. I was thrown into the road and hurt. I … could I have a glass of water, please?’
The clergyman rushed towards him. ‘Forgive me.’ He supported Nat and ushered him into the vestry where a small fire was burning and a table held a meal. Nat hadn’t known that that chimney actually worked. He poured Nat a cup of water from a metallic jug which he gulped down, despite its brackish taste, and offered back up for a refill. Nothing was said until he’d had his fill and a chair had been placed beneath him. The clergyman brought a stool from behind the table and sat opposite Nat.
‘Now. Could you take a little bread . . . ?’
‘Nat Haslet.’
‘Timothy Kirk, Rector of this church.’ He offered Nat a hunk of the loaf he’d been eating and Nat took it gratefully. ‘No butter I fear,’ he smiled. ‘My parishioners . . . Well. Let us speak of that later. Eat.’ He waited until Nat was finished, all the while watching him and scrutinising him, much to Nat’s discomfort.
‘My parishioners’ Nat thought. Odd. Was his Dad unwell? Something that they hadn’t told him?
‘So, you are shod well and what is left of your clothes, shows a quality of cloth. What has befallen you that you are so brought down and unkempt?’ He wrinkled his nose a little at that.
Nat had had time to gather his wits a little and answered the question with one of his own, choosing not to rise to the insults, ‘This is Marlborough?’ The clergyman nodded.
‘It is. Be this your destination?’
‘Yes, I have family here, fa…’ Nat stopped at the expression on the clergyman’s face.
‘No priest I, fellow! You’d be well to make no mention of popery in this town. I am vicar of St George’s and chaplain to Lord Wendlbury. I do trust that you are not of that vile Roman persuasion!’ There was quick venom in what had been a kindly demeanour and Nat sensed the warning just as the man softened his tone. ‘No. I will not question your faith whilst you are in distress but will trust that you do not declare yourself for Rome in this parish. There are those who would take it very ill indeed. You understand?’ he waited for Nat to nod.
‘Sorry. The accident has confused me. Church of England all the way!’ He laughed and hoped that was enough to win back the kindlier demeanour. He didn’t understand this either. The Roman Catholic church in the town was as popular as the Anglican one. His father was of the enlightened sort who regularly held ecumenical meetings with Father David.
‘Ah, yes,’ the vicar relaxed, ‘but of course, your wits will have been scrambled after your acci
dent and it seems that you have walked far on this cold night. We must find you a bed until we can recover your cart and perhaps your goods. You may be fortunate on such a chill eve that they will lay untouched until you can return to them. What were you carrying?’
Nat interrupted the thought, reluctant to engage in this confusing conversation. ‘I have been travelling for … a long time.’ He stammered out his words in a jumble, ‘Could you just tell me where my father is please — or perhaps help me to the Manse?’
The clergyman was silent.
‘I’m Nat Haslet, John Haslet’s son? The Reverend Haslet? Just need to get home really…’ as he stood, his legs began to give way. Concussion then, he confirmed to himself.
The young clergyman rushed to support him, ‘Steady man! Let me aid you.’
Nat nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you… Reverend. I’m sure that I’ll be much better after a little rest. I’ll understand …’ He didn’t really know what to say to this man but he did know that he didn’t need another beating. Just some shelter and some sleep. Once his brain cleared, he’d be able to make some sense of this. Where was his father? He’d been sure that he’d be here prepping for the service. He was a little recovered now, so perhaps he’d just head for home. After all it was just across the churchyard.
‘Thank you’ he said, once his head had stopped spinning. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll just nip over the wall and I’ll be there. See you in the morning?’ by then all would be clear and he could maybe share a laugh with this chap. He doubted it.
The minister looked bemused but said nothing, straining to understand the vagrant’s meaning. Some charity here, he chided himself. After all it was Christmas and the man was out of his wits. He could spare something, surely?
Nat thanked the minister again and headed out into the night, now with a rough blanket over his shoulders. It was distinctly fusty and Nat suspected that it had recently been removed from the man’s own bed — or an animal’s back. He’d return it in the morning for the service, knowing his father, he didn’t think that anything — even concussion - would help him escape that.
The expected path was overgrown and he must have missed his way because he had to clamber over the churchyard wall to get into the vicarage garden. He looked up. There was no vicarage. This time he knew that he was not confused or had lost his bearings; it simply wasn’t there. There was nothing there but empty field. He shook his head. How could this be? He wasn’t delirious and he hadn’t lost his bearings. Scanning the whole view, he was sure that the vicarage was not where it should be and that simply didn’t make sense. It had been there since 1705. Behind him he heard the minister calling, ‘Come back, man. You’ll not survive the night. Let me afford you some further charity on this night of all nights!’
What could he do but return? There was nowhere to go to and he was in no state to wander out in to the night. Some sleep and the morning light and he would resolve all of this, so he took the Reverend’s offer. He had expected a sofa or a cot in the minister’s own house and he wasn’t really prepared for following him down to the stables where, after a hurried conversation with the livery boy, he was allowed to climb in to the hayloft and sleep in the straw! Some charity! Even then, the boy was unhappy about a stranger being there. He heard forced whispers of ‘Christmas’ and ‘Samaritan’ and ‘duty’ from the Reverend and the boy relenting with a degree of surliness and no grace whatsoever, adding mutterings of papist. He wasn’t happy at all and to prove his mistrust, he settled his own blanket across the stable door with a firm hand on a hayfork, signalling his firm intention to sleep in that spot all night. What did he think Nat was going to do for God’s sake! But it was too difficult to stay awake and he fell asleep long before he could think of a suitable retort and despite the whirl of impossible thoughts spiralling through his mind.
‘Up! Up churl!’ A sharp prod awoke Nat from the comfort of a very deep sleep. He woke to the newly broken voice of a boy of 14 or so glaring down at him with a pitchfork in his hands. ‘Get you gone,’ he attempted to growl, ‘I’ve business to attend to and the Minister said nothing beyond one night’s sleep! I’ve done my duty this day.’
Nat didn’t feel inclined to argue with this kid and feeling every one of his cuts and bruises, climbed down from the loft, as the memories of the previous night came flooding back. ‘All right! Keep your hair on sunshine. I’m going!’ He might even find out who this lad was and come back and give him a piece of his mind but for now, he wanted home. Home! The daylight wasn’t kind to him and instinctively, he drew into the shade of the side of the stable, away from any traffic of the town. There wasn’t much about except for a couple of riders on horses and a horse-drawn cart on the far hill. The roads were unsurfaced and the melted frost was mixing with the mud to cause problems for everyone on it. There were no streetlights; no large shop windows and no smells of combustion in the air. There was wood smoke, and dung and people all in costume. Worse of all, there was still no Manse!
Impossible ideas began to tug at Nat’s imagination. Waking up inside a tree; a town that he knew well which suddenly looked very different; his family home, a house built in 1705, not being where it should be, built towards two conclusions as far as he could see: either he was in a coma and this wasn’t real, or, he wasn’t in 1986. The notion of a film scene or re-enactment had now dissolved. He would have pondered further but he was interrupted by the young minister appearing.
‘You have slept well then friend? I had come to ask if you needed food for your journey or if I might offer assistance with your cart…’ and then he froze, staring at Nat’s T-shirt. Nat was about to explain the blood stain but it seemed that it wasn’t that that disturbed the man. His mother had never been very keen on this one either. She felt that the devil imagery on the AC/DC shirt was not entirely appropriate for the son of a vicar. His Dad had been more amused by it. Much more amused than this man in front of him who held out crossed arms towards Nat and hissed,
‘Get thee behind me Satan. Be gone!’ and then the world went crazy! ‘Alarm, Alarm! Look to your women and children, the devil is among us!’ he screamed and he ran, robes flapping, waving his arms down the path towards the high street where folk started to gather around him as he gesticulated and pointed towards the bemused Nat, just as a few men started to move towards him.
‘No! No! It’s just a T-shirt. I’m not…’ and the first clump of mud hit him squarely in his left eye and then a small rock landed on the side of his very sensitive temple and Nat decided that anywhere else was better than here, so he took to his heels and ran back over the bridge and into the woodland. He hadn’t expected them to, but they followed him, yelling and calling to others, as far as the edge of the bridge itself and then stopped creating a barrier across the one entrance back into the town.
‘We are safe, good people,’ the vicar declaimed at them, arms flung wide, as they hovered at the edge of the bridge. ‘’Tis well known that witches nor devils can cross open water and so we will stand guard at this portal into our town. Never fear. In God’s name, I have beaten back the evil from our midst!’ He was triumphant, turning Nat’s escape into his personal victory. Perhaps he hoped for butter with his bread, Nat thought as he ran back into the forest.
Nat could spot an angry crowd well enough; he’d stood on enough football terraces to know when it was time to retreat. Wrapping his blanket around him, he trudged on, theories and questions buzzing in his brain. He slowed when he realised he was unfollowed and gave himself time to think.
‘It was just mind-boggling. Here I was running from a mob for wearing an AC/DC T-shirt! Whatever had happened, it was clear that Marlborough was not the same town that I knew. There was no vicarage and no parents. I couldn’t explain what had happened, but I couldn’t accept the truth either because it was just too damned ridiculous so I worked on the theory that the car crash had, in some way, fuddled my thinking. What else could I think?
Florence nodded, knowing exactly how he’d felt.
He paused for a moment and she didn’t interrupt him. She needed to hear this story as much as he needed to tell it.
Timpson had been on duty for most of the night, the snow being very heavy and incidents being called in just as thick as. He’d drawn the short straw for this shift, being unmarried without children. He knew that the snow had finally stopped around midnight and the young police officer could still see the shallow indents of footprints all around, showing that someone had survived. He just couldn’t make out where the driver had gone. Plenty of tracks around the car, the tree and then… He couldn’t fathom it.
Timpson wrapped his non-uniform woolly scarf around his neck, trying to keep the heat in, and thought hard: there were no reports of anyone being picked up here; nothing about the crash and no sign or call from the owner. But Gary Timpson knew who the driver was. He’d been the one who’d taken the call at the station when the lad’s parents had called in with the registration and their concern that he’d not arrived home after he’d phoned them. They didn’t want to make a fuss but it was, after all, they’d agreed, a nasty night. The son had called from a pub and that was never ever good when you were driving, and on a night like this… well.
Gary had reassured them. He was probably holed up by somebody’s fireside. God! This wasn’t looking good. Timpson called out the team to help search the area. It seemed likely that the lad, concussed from the collision, had wandered further into the forest and it had been an unforgiving night indeed. If he was right, he doubted that Nat Haslet had survived the sub-zero temperatures. What a horrible bloody visit he’d have to make to the vicarage in Marlborough – on Christmas Day! And still the lack of tracks into the forest nagged at him. The trouble was there just weren’t any footprints at all going anywhere except around the tree.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 9