‘You must go.’
‘What?’ Ellie was startled. ‘Oh God, yes. It’s so late, my parents are going to kill me.’
The old woman’s voice was firm. ‘Listen carefully. Use the hag stone. Hold it in your hand and let a picture of your home rise in your mind. Don’t force it, simply imagine and let it call you back. Now go.’
Without another glance at Ellie, the old woman rose to her feet. Shaking out her hair, she straightened her spine and stood with her head tilted upwards. Breathing in, she closed her eyes and raised her arms towards the sky.
At first nothing happened and the woman stood with her black cloak lifting in the breeze. Her mouth was moving, but Ellie couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then she heard a strange and uncomfortable sound, a low rending noise, like the groan of wood under great pressure. Alarmed, Ellie took her eyes from the old woman and stared up at the surrounding trees. The she-oaks were shuddering; the rough barked trunks and narrow branches were shaking, creaking, as though the whole stand of trees was responding to a great singular force.
Ellie gasped. ‘Wait!’
But at that moment, a fierce gust whipped away her cry and an enormous bird leapt up into the sky.
SEVEN
Mrs Beatty’s hat was veiled, prim, and quite delicate, the pink confection quivering like a small, fearful animal on her hair of coiled grey. Standing on the threshold of the church, the Reverend Matthew Hopkins nodded, his voice reassuringly calm, despite the impatience hurtling through his blood. ‘Yes, you will both be included. Have faith, the tribulation to come is not for you, nor your husband, nor is it for your family. You will all ascend to heaven, whole in body, as has been foretold.’
Mrs Beatty had his hand tightly clasped in her own.
Framed in stark contrast to the delicacy of his elderly parishioner’s headwear, a dark bank of cloud was billowing across the evening sky. Thunder rumbled, closer now, and Matthew allowed himself an imperceptible, deeper breath, for riding hard on this ferocious, western wind came the unmistakeable stench of ozone.
Lightning was near.
Beside her, Mrs Beatty’s husband patted his wife’s shoulder and the couple turned to go, their relief evident as they made their way slowly down the stairs. Matthew beheld their slow congress across the garden as the sky flashed red with heat, and a flare of dirty, sulphurous yellow. They passed beneath the stone arch and disappeared into the night.
Hurrying, Matthew gathered up the folds of his robes and strode through the empty church, his footsteps echoing across the flagstones. Pushing open the door of his private chambers, he stopped. The sun had fallen from the sky. Darkness had settled, but he decided against switching on the light, all the better to witness the almighty storm gathering in the heavens.
Those dark, lightning riven clouds…
Through the high arched windows, crossed with panes of coloured glass, the gigantic cloud massing overhead promised not life-giving rain, but wind, destruction, chaos.
‘Sweep away our sins,’ Matthew whispered, clenching his hands into a fist. ‘Redeem us, my Lord.’
He grimaced suddenly and whirled around. Footsteps, he could hear them tapping a light, bright rhythm through the nave of the empty church. Wood scraped against wood and a squeal of high-pitched laughter erupted as she slumped down on one of the empty pews. His daughter. Matthew heard her feet, echoing off the back of the seat in front and by her excited, careless tone he guessed she was speaking on her cell phone to Ellie. Matthew frowned, listening hard; he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with that friendship…
Shaking his head, he tossed the thought aside. At this particular moment the only thing that mattered was this storm. But… Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he heard the pew scrape and footsteps tap quickly across the floor; perhaps it was time to show his wayward daughter the truth.
The handle turned and without waiting for permission to enter, Rose barged in and stood before him with her hands on her hips, her dark hair falling down her back. She tossed back her head, laughter shining in her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t believe who I’ve been speaking to?’ She asked, her tone was mocking. Rose danced around the small room and seated herself on the corner of his desk, her slight frame blocking his view of the window.
‘Rosalind.’ Her father gestured curtly, indicating his desire for her to move. The window above rattled and shook, a hundred years of stained glass straining in the rising wind. She was so like her mother.
Rose ignored him. ‘How do you do it Daddy? She says she might actually have met a witch in the forest,’ she stated in a teasing voice. ‘And some kind of little flying thing. Ellie’s getting as crazy as you.’
Matthew wasn’t listening. Jumping to his feet without a word, he pushed past his daughter and stood with his face tilted toward the window. A great section of cloud had separated from the rest, and through the delicate lead frame he could see its dark, almost purple form whipping across the sky.
‘Daddy? Dad! Listen to me,’ cried Rose, her voice rising in indignation. She grabbed his arm. ‘Do you really believe all that stuff about spirits, demons, whatever? You just say it to scare everyone, don’t you? And it works!’ She laughed shrilly as a whip of lightning flared across her face. Matthew waited, counting the seconds silently in his mind, as the sharp crack of thunder echoed through the stone church. This storm was stronger even than the ones before, and building faster. Ignoring Rose’s shriek of protest, he grabbed her hard by the hand. ‘Come child!’
Around him, light snapped blue, sparking in the super charged atmosphere of the approaching fury.
‘Dad!’ cried Rose, pulling vainly on her hand. ‘What are you doing!’
But Matthew merely gripped tighter and dragged his daughter out of the chamber and down along the centre aisle of the church. Outside he could hear a sharp crash as a metal bin toppled, tumbling wantonly in the wind.
‘Dad!’ yelled Rose, digging in her heels and tugging furiously against his grip.
Matthew spun his daughter around to face him. ‘Be quiet.’ He commanded. ‘Stand with me, my child. Praise the Lord and his Holy Ways, for it is beginning. The Darkness is dimming and soon the promise will be fulfilled and we shall Rise up in Full Glory to meet him.’
Lightning flashed.
‘It is beginning!’
Strengthening the grasp on his daughter’s hand, Matthew kicked open the thick wooden doors of the church and pulled her out into the night, his eyes wide with joy and his arms raised to the sky.
‘Come storm!’ he cried. ‘Come!’
Around him his clerical robes buffeted and swirled, while high above fragments of branches, rocks and debris tore through the sky.
‘Oh God, Dad stop it! I want to go inside!’
‘Rosalind!’ cried Matthew, his voice shaking with conviction. ‘Look around you. Open your eyes. Stand and witness! All I say shall come to pass! These are not ordinary storms. They are colossal battles between all the forces of the earth. Good and Evil. Spirits, Demons, against the All That Is. Look around you! And know, the One Truth that will save us.’
‘No!’ Rose tugged, struggling to free her hand. ‘It’s not a battle; it's a storm, Dad, just another stupid storm!’
‘Do not be a fool, and do not fill your ears with silly tales from your silly, ignorant friends.’
Matthew’s body jerked as his eyes tracked a point high above the storm. ‘Look!’ he shouted, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘They seek to stop us. They seek to stop the storms, but understand, my daughter, these storms are what we need.’
High above the church, the fury broke and thunder rolled, deafening them both, shaking the windows and slamming the branches of distant trees to the ground.
Rose stared at him, black hair whipping around her face, terror warring with her habitual stance of mockery. But she smacked it away as fury rose in her eyes.
‘You’re mad,’ she shouted. ‘It’s just a storm! You can try and frighten them with your crazy tales. But
I don't believe you and I never will!’ With a fierce cry she freed her hand from her father’s iron grip.
Matthew lunged, grasping for her shoulder.
‘Get away from me!’ she cried, and turned to run back into the shelter of the church.
‘Evil stalks the earth,’ shouted Matthew. ‘Harpies, winged devils, and they seek to stop storms such as this!’
He raced after Rose, catching her; he gripped his daughter’s arm tight. ‘You cannot tell me that is normal.’
Rose stared up at her father’s impassioned face, then her eyes widened as she followed his line of sight. An enormous creature was labouring through the clouds, its great wings beating, its body dark. It rose heavily, spiralling upward on massive surges of wild air until it soared at last, high above the squalling storm.
‘That thing has been haunting me all of my days, since I was a defenceless child.’ Matthew shuddered as thunder rumbled long across the valley. ‘The embodiment of evil, but she shall not win.’ Possessively, he drew his daughter closer to his heaving chest. ‘We will ride these storms, you and I. They will scorch the earth, leave it bare and desolate. And then, we will ascend pure in form to Heaven. And we shall be free, Rosalind, we shall triumph over her and all of her kind.’
Abruptly the wind changed, knifing in from a myriad of directions, and above them the great bird lost height, plummeting towards the ground. Rose covered her eyes as with a heart-stopping cry, the creature vanished beneath the storm.
‘Yes,’ Matthew nodded grimly, and through the heavy fabric of his robes, pressed his hand hard against the figurine hanging from a chain around his neck. It bit into his skin, a constant reminder of his torment. ‘You shall not win,’ he said softly, ‘and all I have suffered, all the years I have been alone, crawling on this earth amid the dust and filth, will be avenged.’
EIGHT
Southern England 1340
The cart creaked sharply as it rumbled past, its back loaded with a half dozen squawking crates. Twitching the reins, the farmer urged the pony on. Though summer was near, the air was brisk, with the last breath of winter still seeking to chill exposed flesh.
Trudging along the dusty, well-travelled road, the boy grimaced. Eleven years old, his roughly cut black hair fell over light-blue eyes that were normally bright with laughter, but not today. Ahead of him, a pair of traders stood yelling for the other to give way, their heavily loaded carts blocking any progress over the crowded gate bridge. All at once, they stepped back as a pair of black-robed monks appeared, their pates bobbing bare in the morning sun, and without a discernable word or gesture glided unhindered into the town.
A crow streaked overhead, its cries harsh as it joined its companions over the highest point on the walls. Below them hung the ragged remains of a single unfortunate soul, a stark warning to any person foolish or unlucky enough to be caught trespassing on the Lord’s lands.
Tey shuddered and dropped his gaze, concentrating on each footfall. Do not be seen in the forest. It was the first, and most important rule, and one his mother never let him forget. He increased his pace. Behind him the whirl of beings that had been following all morning dropped to a halt. A pond-green fellow, tubby and warty with a rather bulbous nose, stuck out his tongue and disappeared with a sulky pop, only to reappear with a trailing shower of slimy leaves. With a sudden chortle, the boy ducked as a handful of pond scum sailed over his head and landed behind with a splat. Attempting to appear stern, he folded his arms and addressed the now seemingly empty air.
‘Stop that. She said I wasn’t to be long, and I can’t be.’ He glanced at a clump of low growing trees. ‘You can stay here if you like.’
A small brown figure with striped skin and hair the colour of moss weed appeared and gave a soft sigh. It hugged Tey’s leg tight.
‘Don’t worry,’ Tey murmured, gently prising off her cool, damp arms. ‘I’ll be right back. You’ll see. This will be easy.’
Putting on a wide smile, he lifted his chin.
‘Remember Tey, do not be distracted. Do not stop. Talk to no one.’ His mother’s golden eyes had locked onto his with a fierce intensity. ‘Find the spice seller. And hurry.’ She’d hissed as she left him alone at the crossroads.
Tey took a deep breath. How he had longed to follow her back into the woods. I can do this, he steeled himself, reaching for the strip of leather tied around his neck. A figure hung from it, reassuringly heavy and close to his heart. I have to…
Squaring his shoulders, Tey passed under the shadow of the gatehouse and was swept along with the crowd into the town’s main thoroughfare. The street underfoot was rutted and treacherous, thick with dry mud and heaving with the throng of people and livestock. A cart jostled him, a dog barked, and a large, flint-eyed man shoved past, swinging a heavy hessian sack close to his head. Tey gave a startled yelp and ducked, almost falling onto the road, but he recovered. He darted away to safety beneath the awning of a small wooden workshop, where he stood shaking. A pale-haired apprentice, about his own age, was sweeping the floor inside.
Panic soon forgotten, the boy from the forest peered into the work area and was rewarded by a glimpse of the potter tossing a portion of clay onto the workbench. Next to him, a stout woman stopped to examine strings of finely sculpted flowers, some no bigger than tiny forget-me-nots, displayed on a small table just inside the door. He leaned in closer for a better look.
‘Hey!’ The voice was shrill. It cut through the quiet, along with a stone that sliced sharply through the air. ‘Clear out, thief!’
Another rock whizzed past, flicking into Tey’s cheek. ‘I’m just catching my breath!’ protested Tey, rubbing his face.
‘Well catch it somewhere else, thief.’ The pale-haired boy rushed towards him, and pushed Tey hard. He tumbled to the ground.
‘I’m not a…’ he began, but that was as far as he got as a pair of strong hands hauled him upright and Tey recoiled. A crowd was gathering, some were laughing and mocking, others appraised him with narrowed eyes.
The town boy, sensing Tey’s hesitation, delivered a sharp blow to his stomach with a ferocious cry. Tey collapsed onto the road, winded and gasping for breath. The young victor stood for a moment with his fist still clenched, then he sauntered back into the shop and resumed sweeping, keeping his gaze fixed on his vanquished foe.
With the show over, the onlookers melted away as Tey slowly pulled himself to his feet. I hate towns, he thought miserably, gazing at the indifferent market day crowd. How would he ever find the spice seller when he couldn’t even make it down the street? I’m useless. I can’t do it. Tey began to cry softly, his early bravado evaporating in a cloud of hopelessness.
At once, a wet belch popped in the air above and a soft sloppy kiss was planted onto his cheek. Through his tears, Tey stared as a protruding pair of twinkling muck green eyes appeared, perched atop a grinning bright red mouth. Next, with his whole body undulating, his best friend in the world eased himself proudly through an invisible hole high above the oblivious townspeople.
‘W-what are you doing here?’ Tey stammered. Gimbal, the pond-green faery merely grinned, his tubby form pirouetting in graceful circles on the breeze.
A moment later, another pop of an almost fleshy character squeezed into being, and without warning Tey was pushed forward with a rough jerk. Whirling with his fists raised, Tey was about to hit back hard but then stopped. This was no bully defending his patch of turf but another grinning faery, about waist high, splotched all over with yellow and black markings. Strands of reed and the odd bit of rotten food hung off its long tufted ears.
Abruptly this little being shoved him harder.
‘What-?’ Tey exclaimed, but he didn’t get a chance to finish as suddenly Gimbal grabbed him by the hand and pulled with all his might. At the same time, the muddy little fellow behind pushed again and Tey shot forward, lurching a few steps down the road. Gimbal hooted in triumph.
Chortling wickedly, the two faeries pushed and pulled him through the
crowded streets. Working in unison they propelled him faster and faster along the road, jerking his arms and legs until his whole body was bobbing and bowing like a demented sort of puppet.
‘Stop!’ Tey cried, ducking his head away from awnings and throwing his body from side to side to avoid the traffic.
‘Look out!’ Contorting himself, Tey just missed crashing into a ruddy-faced woman crossing the street with a duckling line of small children. All he could see as he swept past was her mouth, a perfect ‘o’ of outrage gaping in the flashy folds of her face.
Twisting, he tugged hard at his hand. ‘Slow down!’
But it was no use. Giggling with delight, the faeries jerked and shoved him around a crowded corner, dodging a thick-armed man lugging baskets of fish, and heaving him into the writhing chaos of the market square.
‘Stop!’ yelled Tey again, but the grinning faery ploughed on through the market until, with a final shove, Tey was catapulted out through the other side.
Shrieking with laughter, the two beings jammed their feet down and skidded to an ungainly stop on the cobbled road beneath the Lord’s castle.
Tey collapsed on the ground in exhaustion, gasping for breath, when the sharp clattering of hooves on the cobbled road caused him to look up. A black warhorse, with its coat gleaming and eyes fierce under the high glare of the sun, had suddenly emerged out of nowhere. Tey had no time react; he could only stare, horrified as the great beast bore towards him.
At once, the rider pulled his mount under control with a deft jerk - the folds of his red and gold mantle billowing out behind, and the horse halted just inches from where Tey lay cowered underneath.
The knight raised his gloved hand. He was young, with sun-bright hair and proud, grey eyes.
What an honour, Tey thought as he rose to his feet. He blushed with an awed smile and began to raise his hand in thanks, but was suddenly pushed violently from behind by the little splotchy faery. He stumbled and Gimbal jerked him forward. ‘Stop that!’ Tey shrieked.
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