by G. P. Taylor
‘Come on, boy. If you want to fight, take another step if you dare.’ He mocked Thomas, as the foxes slobbered and barked in concert with him.
Thomas stepped forward and raised his sword, aiming a blow at Demurral’s head. The stone beneath him began to crumble into sand. He could feel his feet begin to slip as a cavern began to open beneath him. He was falling.
*
‘Thomas!’ Kate screamed, woken from her sleep. She saw the Varrigal step from the darkness of the wood and loom over them. It drew back its arm to strike at Thomas with its sword. ‘No!’ she screamed into the darkness, as the red eyes of the Varrigal burned brightly in the faint light of dawn.
Thomas was thrown from his dream back into reality. Without thinking he lashed out at the falling sword, and metal struck metal only inches above his head.
‘Run, Kate. To the Mill.’ Kate shot up from the oak tree and ran downhill along the track. The Varrigal struck again at Thomas, who jumped clear so that the sword embedded itself in the trunk of the tree. The mighty oak became stiff with frost, each contour of the bark instantly outlined in bright white ice that froze each branch and limb. As the creature pulled at the sword, Thomas slashed at its leg, then, seeing his chance of escape, ran after Kate.
Thomas ran as fast as he could and within half a mile he could see Kate ahead of him on the path towards Boggle Mill. In the breaking dawn the world appeared to be cast in grey. It was a shadowless time, colourless with half-light. He looked behind. He was not being followed. He was angry with himself for falling asleep, for being caught by the creature yet again and for being saved once more by Kate.
‘Hey, Kate,’ Thomas called to her. ‘Wait for me, I can’t run as fast as you,’ he panted out, trying to get her to stop.
‘You’d run faster if you knew the devil was after you,’ she snapped back and kept on running along the track that led to the Mill beck.
‘He is, Kate. He is. But he won’t catch us.’ He took hold of Kate by the shoulder. ‘Stop. We need to talk.’
‘Every time I talk to you I end up with someone trying to kill me.’
‘Listen.’ Thomas put his hand over her mouth to stop her speaking. In the distance was the familiar sound of horses being led up the path from the beach to the moor. They could hear hoofs clashing against the stones.
‘Smugglers. Into the wood, we don’t want to be seen by them.’ Thomas pushed Kate from the path and into the bracken. They crawled through the undergrowth until they were out of sight. One by one, the horses passed by, each attended by a man on foot. At the front of the procession rode a man on a large black horse. Thomas peered above the bracken. He spoke in a whisper to Kate.
‘It’s Jacob Crane, back from Holland.’
‘Killer Crane, escaped from the gibbet more like.’ Kate had no time for smugglers. She knew they were not to be trusted and would sell their own mothers for a quart of gin. ‘Keep down or he’ll see you,’ she whispered at Thomas and pulled on his shirt.
Jacob Crane was a neat man who always dressed in the finest clothes. Soft, black leather riding boots, the whitest shirts, neatly cut jackets, always covered by the heaviest oiled-cotton overcoats that money could buy. He carried two of the best flintlock pistols, double charged, one with shot, the other with a single lead ball.
He turned his head, unsure if he heard voices. He pulled his horse to a stop and looked into the mist rising from the undergrowth. The man leading the first horse realized what Crane was looking at.
‘Dragon’s breath, Mr Crane, that’s what it is. Comes from the earth every morning, rises with the dawn. It’s the Earth Dragon.’ He nodded to Crane as he spoke, trying to get him to agree.
‘Dragon’s breath? These are the 1700s. Dragons are all gone and the only spirits in this wood are the ones we carry in these barrels. Now, come on, it’s twenty miles to the inn and the brandy is getting warm.’
Crane stopped and looked again towards the place where they were hiding. The bracken tops moved slowly backwards and forwards.
‘Mr Agar, I think we are being watched.’ He drew a pistol from his belt and took aim into the bracken. ‘Come out, or I’ll blast you from your hiding place.’
Thomas and Kate looked at each other. Thomas signalled for her not to move.
‘You’re a braver man than I am. This is your last chance before I shoot.’ He turned to Agar. ‘If it’s Captain Farrell, then we’ll string him from the tree; if it’s the dragon then you can have it for breakfast.’
At that moment something leapt in the half-light from the bracken. Crane fired the pistol, the shot echoing through the valley and towards the sea. The old deer screamed and kicked out with her back legs, jumping through the bracken and into the small wooded valley and the safety of the trees.
‘There’s your dragon, Mr Agar, buckshot to the rump.’ Crane laughed and pulled on his horse to go forward. Agar smiled and looked to the place where Thomas and Kate were hiding. Under his breath he made his reply.
‘There’s your Revenue man. Someone so clever wouldn’t have missed the two fawns, Mr Crane.’ With that he slapped the front horse and it kicked off up the track.
From their hiding place Thomas and Kate listened to the fall of the hoofs going into the distance. On the other side of the beck was Boggle Mill. Fresh smoke from a new fire blustered from the chimney. They waited in the bracken until the sound of the horses faded into the distance. Kate was the first to speak.
‘He was going to shoot us.’ She gave Thomas a stern look and pinched him on the leg.
‘He would’ve missed.’ Thomas tried to ignore her worries.
‘It was Jacob Crane; he’s a killer, and a smuggler. He doesn’t want anyone to know what he is doing.’ Kate was angry. She pinched Thomas again to try and get some reaction.
‘He’s not a smuggler, he’s a free trader, and there’s nothing wrong with that.’ Thomas paused, peering above the bracken and looking down the bank across the beck to Boggle Mill. ‘Anyway, we have more to worry about than him.’ Thomas stopped and began to sniff the air.
‘What about Raphah? He could be caught by Demurral.’ She pinched him again, even harder than before.
‘Will you stop it.’ Thomas pushed away her hand and again sniffed the air.
‘You’re not listening to me, you’re thinking about something else.’ She prodded him in the chest with a pointed finger. ‘What is it, Thomas, why aren’t you listening?’
‘I am listening, but not to you! Can you hear it?’
Kate strained her ears. Slowly, the sounds of the first call of morning lifted from the trees. A woodpecker beat against the side of a large ash, a thrush sang out loudly from the branch of an oak. Thomas looked at her and smiled.
‘It’s morning. We made it through the night, we are alive.’ He began to laugh and then suddenly stopped as he saw the sword by his feet. Kate noticed where he was looking. The purple blood of the Varrigal stained the blade. In the first light of the safety of morning it could still hold them both in fear.
Kate looked to Thomas and grabbed his hand.
‘Do you think they will come after us again?’ The worry was engraved in her face.
‘I think they will come for us again, but not by daylight.’
Boggle Mill
BOGGLE Mill had stood by the side of the beck for one hundred years. Its rough-cut, three-storey stone walls supported a red tiled roof, which was covered in places by thick green moss. A large wooden mill wheel jutted out into the mill beck and turned slowly, creaking as it went round with the pull of the water, moaning at the work that it had to do. It rolled on without stopping, the newly cast metal and fresh blue paint churning the water of the beck. It was a wet-damp place by the mill wheel, with a strong smell of freshly milled flour, cattle feed, and curing beef. Each of the twenty windows on the front of the building had a curious little carving of a frog in the corner of its frame. In the growing light of morning the windows reflected the gold of the sun, like so many large square
golden plates hanging on the stone wall.
Across the beck was a small stone cottage, set higher up the bank and away from the water. It had a little vegetable garden to one side, and several chickens scratched away in the dirt. A fat black calf pressed its nose against the low wattle fence that struggled to keep it in. The door to the cottage was so small that a grown man would have to stoop to gain entry. It was made from one solid piece of oak. The dark, knotted, weathered wood formed strange patterns that led the eye to see many shapes within it.
Boggle Cottage looked an inviting and friendly place, a whiff of smoke indicating the presence of a warm fire in the hearth. In the fresh morning light it called Kate and Thomas to safety. They could hear the sound of a man singing from within. It was a song of the sea, a tale of adventure and great gain.
He sang with a heavy inflection, and a strong foreign accent that sounded like someone with a heavy cold. The man’s voice pitched and tossed like the rolling tide. It would stop, then quickly start again, missing out the words of a verse and then repeating them out of place and out of time. The singing, which was definitely not in tune, was interspersed with highpitched laughter, as if the man was sharing a joke with himself.
Thomas and Kate could hear the man beating time with what sounded like a wooden spoon on the side of a jam pan. The loud clanging broke the morning air, the chickens and the calf gathered close to the door as if they were waiting for the man to make a grand appearance.
With a click of the latch the oak door swung open and from the shadow of the cottage there was a loud shout of ‘Cooh-mahn,’ followed by the throwing of the contents of the pan on to the garden. The chickens fought with the calf to get there first. The calf snuffled with its nose in the mixture of grain, bread and milk, as the chickens jumped on its back and head, pecking at its nose to get it out of the way.
The man didn’t notice Thomas and Kate standing by the fence. He scraped the rest of the chicken-feed out of the pan then began to sing again, closing the door behind him as he went. Thomas stepped up to the door and knocked three times on the dark wood. There was no reply. Thomas knocked again, this time hammering at the door with his fist.
‘Hello. Can you spare some bread?’ he shouted.
The small window to the side opened and the man’s nose appeared and sniffed the air.
‘Dead. Who’s dead?’ He spoke in an enquiring, deep, and throaty voice.
‘No one is dead,’ Kate shouted back. ‘Please could we have some bread?’
The man looked at them through the leaded glass of the window, his eyes searching their every feature carefully.
‘Well, if it is bread you want, then bread you’d better have. Can’t go to a mill and not find any bread, and some roast beef too. What about some tea?’
The window slammed shut, and the door opened. The man stared at Thomas and Kate. They were covered in mud and stained with bracken. He couldn’t help but notice the apprehensive look in Kate’s eyes. Thomas quickly hid the Varrigal sword by the side of the wattle fence.
‘Come in, come in. You can’t stand on the doorstep all day long. Come in out of the cold and warm yourselves by the fire.’
The man spoke quickly and ushered them both into a large kitchen. It was neat and clean with a black range set into the far wall. Two leather chairs snuggled up to the fireplace, with a pair of trousers drying over one arm. A peat fire lit the whole room in a warm orange glow, and scented the house with the smoky fragrance of rich earth. There was a strong, sweet smell of yeast, fruitcake, and baking bread, which reminded Thomas of his mother’s preparations for Christmas. The room was long and low with a dark-beamed ceiling and white plaster walls.
Above their heads, two dead pheasants hung by their necks from a hook in one of the beams, their red, brown, and gold feathers catching the rays of sun that came in through the window. Next to the pheasants hung a large crusted piece of salt beef that looked as if it had been covered in a thick brown wax.
‘Sit yourselves down, you both look like you’ve spent the night outside. What are you doing here so early in the morning?’ He stopped and put his hand to his mouth. ‘How rude of me. I am Rueben Wayfoot – the miller – and this is my home. Welcome.’ He held out his hands in a gesture of friendship.
Rueben Wayfoot was a large-framed man built like an ox. He had sturdy forearms and broad shoulders. His hands were the size of coal shovels, and yet were held in a dainty, careful way. For his size he did not appear to be a clumsy man. Everything about him was very neat.
Even though his clothing was well worn and twice turned, he had the appearance of a gentleman. He wore a pair of old worsted trousers, a once white shirt, and a thick leather apron stained with flour. In fact, everything about Rueben Wayfoot was stained with flour. His long white hair, his large ears, and even his thick, bushy eyebrows. All carried the appearance of fresh fallen snow. It was, however, his big green eyes that attracted the most attention. They were soft, smiling and warm. They were the eyes of someone who could be trusted, someone good.
‘Now let me get you that tea and some bread. Both you lads look like you can do with something to warm you up. I have two boys myself. They’ll be up in an hour or so. A bit younger than you two, but big boys all the same.’ Rueben opened the door of the small side oven and took out several thick slices of well-roasted beef. He placed the hot meat on a plate and presented it to them.
‘Eat up and I’ll get you some bread. You can tell me what you’ve been up to. We never get many visitors, this being a Boggle mill.’ Rueben took hold of a loaf of bread and held it before them, then with his large hands broke the loaf in half.
‘Here you go. There’s nothing like warm bread first thing on a morning.’ He put the bread on the plate then clapped his hands, filling the air with a cloud of flour.
They both began to eat, filling their mouths with the hot beef and bread as Rueben carried on with the morning’s chores. They watched as he swept the floor, and set four places at the long wooden table that was in front of the small bay window. Rueben noticed that Kate followed his every move. She was just about to speak when he said:
‘Before you ask, I do have a wife. She’s called Isabella, and she is out collecting from the wood, while the twins are asleep.’ He noticed another question come into her eyes. Her mouth full of food made it impossible for her to speak.
‘They’re called Bealda and Ephrig. You’ll hear them before you see them.’ He motioned with his eyes to the beamed ceiling and the floorboards several inches above his head.
‘Now you answer me a question. What are you doing out so early in these parts?’
He had taken in every aspect of their appearance. The dirt on their boots, the sweat stains and mud on their faces, and most of all their deep-set look of unease. His deep voice and broad accent made him sound like a stranger to that part of the world.
They both knew of Boggle Mill, but it was a place that people would rarely visit, and never wanted to talk about. It was believed that boggles lived in the valley. These were strange creatures that could take on the appearance of a man or an animal. They would never really harm people, but it was well known that they would steal everything they could from you.
If you were lost and asked a boggle the direction, it would always send you the opposite way. Ask for the road to the sea and a boggle would direct you to the moor top and the treacherous Fyling Bog. Ask for the road to Whitby and before you knew it you would be standing on the old south road that in places had long since fallen into the sea. As no one was ever sure if they had seen a boggle, no one could ever really say what one looked like. The rumour of boggles was enough to keep both villagers and strangers away from the Boggle Mill, and the long valley that connected it to the sea at Boggle Hole.
Rueben sat down, pulling the wooden chair closer to the fire. He looked at them both and waited for a reply to his question. Kate gulped down the bread and was about to open her mouth to speak when Thomas butted in.
‘We g
ot lost in the dark, as simple as that. Got on the wrong track, couldn’t find our way back.’ He looked at Kate to confirm the story. Thomas didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want to share the truth either. Kate tried to nod but could feel herself getting hotter and hotter. Rueben looked at them. He noticed Kate’s embarrassment.
‘There are a lot of things out in these woods at night. It’s a dangerous place for two young lads on their own.’ He spoke in a hushed tone.
Kate replied quickly: ‘I’m not a lad. I’m a girl. My name is Kate and this is Thomas. We weren’t lost, we were trying to get away from …’
‘Free traders, smugglers,’ Thomas butted in. ‘We were on the track and came across them going up to the beacon, so we hid to get out of their way. Didn’t want them to catch us.’ He sat back in the leather chair, pleased with his reply.
Rueben nodded as if in agreement with him. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief and reached out for some more bread.
‘Looks to me like that is alum mud on your boots.’ Rueben pointed to the thick red clay that coated Thomas’s soles. ‘You don’t find that around here. You must have come from the other side of the bay. That’s a long walk in the dark, especially if you don’t know where you are going.’
Thomas couldn’t think of a reply. He breathed in and looked around the room for some kind of inspiration. Lying had been a part of his life; the lies would drop from his lips like honey. Now he groped in his mind for something to say; some sentence that would cover the truth.
Suddenly there was the noise of a great excitement at the front door. The chickens could be heard running and squawking around the garden. The calf moaned loudly, and could be heard pushing against the wattle fence. The oak door was flung open, and it was as if the house had been hit by an unexpected storm. Rueben jumped up from the chair and flung open his arms shouting, ‘Isabella. Isabella!’ He took from her the large basket that she carried over one arm. Thomas and Kate almost laughed at this strange and loud way of greeting.