Hearts of Darkness (10 page)

I breathed deep. ‘I don’t try and have you believe anything except that Shrewsbury is here. Come and we will show you.’

‘Very well.’ Withypoll clambered to his feet, breathing ale fumes into my face. ‘Show me.’

The house was but three minutes away, yet from fifty yards I felt my hopes dashed against stone walls, for all the lights were dark.

Withypoll nodded at the house. ‘Shrewsbury is there you say? Hiding in the dark.’

‘He sat there with a dozen others not ten minutes ago,’ I said. ‘We followed from St Martin’s.’

Withypoll wiped at his face in displeasure. ‘Clearly they had little to discuss.’

‘Else they saw us,’ I said.

Withypoll turned upon me. ‘Well they will not see you again for a while, Lytle.’ Not a muscle of his hard face moved. ‘You and the butcher will go into Shyam tomorrow and look for Josselin. You won’t come back without him.’

‘What if he isn’t there?’

Withypoll forced himself to smile. ‘Then bring evidence of it, else I shall assume you are lying.’

I stood my ground. ‘We are not going to Shyam when it is obvious Josselin is in Colchester.’

Withypoll regarded me strangely then turned to Dowling. ‘You saw Shrewsbury alone, butcher, or you saw Josselin with him?’

Dowling’s eyes opened wide, like he had been slapped across the face.

‘Speak up,’ Withypoll snapped.

‘He didn’t see either of them.’ I saved Dowling the lie. ‘I saw Shrewsbury by myself.’

Withypoll sighed deep and a ball of anger rose within my throat, but before I could open my mouth, the noise of braying donkeys shrilled through the quiet night air. Men hurried east, towards the broken gate. The donkeys cantered towards us in one great grey huddle, eyes wide, foam flying from their lips. Six donkeys, no loads, no men.

‘This one is bleeding,’ a man cried, grabbing one about the neck. ‘Teethmarks, look!’

‘Let me see.’ Dowling stepped forward, gripping the beast firm about its head. He probed the wound with thick finger. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Dog’s teeth.’

The donkey kicked out hard and tugged at its head, trying to bite Dowling. The rest of the herd evaded capture, kicking frantically at any that neared. They kept on running, west down the high street. Dowling let go, and the last donkey galloped with all its might until it rejoined the group.

Dowling’s companion stared after the beasts. ‘They were terrified. We won’t catch them ’til morning.’

Withypoll said, appearing at my shoulder, ‘You won’t be here in the morning. I have arranged for you to leave just before dawn. I will see you by the door at five o’clock.’ He turned on his heel and wandered unsteadily back towards the Red Lion, the crowd opening up before him, fear upon their faces.

‘How is your faith now?’ I asked the butcher.

But Dowling walked slow, lost in thought, grey-faced and sombre, eyes wet with old man’s tears. I suddenly recalled Withypoll breathing on my face, the rotten smell of his breath, and I resolved to smoke another pipe before going to bed. Another day gone. Five days now to get back to London, else lose my shop.

If the donkeys didn’t bray all night beneath my window, then I must have dreamt it.

Two crows perched upon the brickwork, jerking their heads up and down, regarding us sideways like we were new carrion. A sleepy-looking guard unlocked one of the great wooden doors and pushed it open, inviting us to step outside this safe haven onto the lane that led to Shyam. Withypoll stood watching, wrapped up warm in his big coat, checking we suffered no sudden loss of nerve.

The track was narrow and covered with leaves, though we were still in summer. Grass grew high as my knees in places, and we allowed the horses to take their time. The forest confronted us from all sides, deep and impenetrable. Birds sang loud, the effect sinister, unnatural and isolating.

Shyam was but three miles away, such a short distance. Each steady step seemed to carry us there with dizzying pace. I was relieved when Dowling pulled his horse up sharp a mile or so in, pointing to the edge of the forest. A hut stood at the edge of the treeline, built from sticks and branches. A pole protruded out the top, with a dirty white flag hanging limp at its tip.

Dowling clambered to the ground. ‘Every strange thing, I would know what it means.’

A neatly stacked woodpile stood in front of the hut, and upon the woodpile lay a flat piece of board, with words written in chalk.

‘Wood for thee. Hurry up. Approach with caution,’ I read aloud. ‘What does that mean?’

‘He shall kill the bullock before the Lord,’ Dowling recited. ‘He shall flay the burnt offering, and cut it into pieces. And the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar, and lay the wood in order upon the fire. Then the priests shall lay the parts, the head, and the fat, in order upon the wood that is on the fire which is upon the altar.’

Which left me none the wiser.

I joined Dowling on the forest floor and approached the hut, cautious. A scrap of red twill hung from the doorframe. Inside, some animal had been scavenging. A rudimentary table lay upon its side, and bits of chair lay scattered about the floor. The spine of a book protruded from a pile of rotting leaves, the leather red and
water-stained.
Too thin to be a Bible. ‘
Astrological Judgments for the Year 1666
,’ I read.

Though the book felt damp, I could turn the pages and read without difficulty. Some passages were marked with ink. ‘It is most certain,’ I read, ‘that when the dregs of the first comet are ended, the
Hollander shall pay the piper, and sing lacrima; in a manner even to their final and utter destruction. They shall be able to send forth no more than a small company of little pimping ships, neither
well-manned
nor equipped.’

I flicked the pages. ‘As for the second comet, it may inform us, that after many casualties, losses, damages, and enormities received from the several navies and ships of his Majesty of Great Britain, the Hollanders may again upon humble addresses make first unto his Majesty, with their submission besides for peace.’

I turned to the next marked passage. ‘The figure of the Sun giveth warning unto the monarch of Great Britain, both of external and internal plots and designs against his peace and government, yet with no success to the undertakers.’

‘Astrology.’ Dowling shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Does the book have a name in it?’

I turned to the front of the book, which was wettest. A name and a date were penned in smudged ink. Ne’ertheless, the name was clear enough. James Josselin.

‘Whether he went to Shyam or not, he came this far,’ said Dowling. ‘Leaving signs that all who pass further should take wood with them.’

‘To build their own altar, you say.’

Dowling shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I think we should do as the sign suggests and take the wood.’

What did wood have to do with anything? Did they not have wood in Shyam? The forest stretched as far as the eye could see. I felt a sense of deep disquiet. Though it was a summer day, the air grew colder. The birds stopped singing. About our heads and shoulders sunk a white fog, so thick it resembled something solid.

‘Dowling,’ I called out, for I couldn’t see him.

‘Fetch your horse,’ his voice sounded close by.

I did as he suggested and stood upon the track unable to see in any direction. The horse snorted and shook its head, like it sought to clear the mists from inside its skull.

‘What do we do?’ I shouted.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Dowling said, emerging from the whiteness. ‘We cannot walk in any direction. This part of the world is stopped until the fog is lifted.’

So we sat upon the dry ground, holding the reins of our horses, afraid of losing ourselves. Peculiar how sharp a man’s hearing becomes when his eyes are blinded. I felt my senses reach out into the thick blanket about us, searching for the faintest sound. The fog created strange shapes, mysterious figures drifting in the mists.

I fought to keep the tremor from my voice. ‘What will we find, Davy?’

‘The dead and the dying,’ he replied. ‘As we did in London, as we did in Chelmsford, as we did in Colchester. Nothing we haven’t seen before.’

‘A sign from God,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t want us to go.’

‘O full of all subtlety and mischief, thou child of the Devil, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord?’ Dowling mused. ‘And now the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind. And immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness.’

I found myself whispering, it was so quiet. I waited for hands to spring from the surrounds and seize me. ‘I have no desire to pervert the right ways of the Lord.’

‘You haven’t perverted the ways of the Lord any more than usual,’ Dowling replied. ‘This fog may not be for your benefit, Harry. God has others in his sights besides.’

We sat there another hour or so, the odd sensation of nothing happening. Then the fog felt warmer and assumed a yellow tinge. At last it began to clear, not much, just enough to see the ground ahead of our feet.

The fog gave way to a swirling mist, blinding us one moment, blowing aside the next, giving us unbroken perspective twenty or more yards ahead. The dirt track gave way to stones and pebble, twisting downward between giant boulders and ancient trees. Cliffs climbed high above us, in and out of view. A thin stream wound its way about the valley floor, creating small pools about which grew bright flowers, white and violet. At the bottom of the valley the water formed a pool, green and still.

In the distance a great, flat rock lay upon a ledge, like a table balanced upon a giant boulder. Three baskets sat upon it, all empty.

I stared up at the cliffs, searching for faces, then into the trees. ‘This must be the boundary.’

‘Someone from Colchester rides up here every day to leave provisions,’ said Dowling.

‘Then let’s wait,’ I suggested eagerly. ‘Wait for someone to leave the food and the villagers to come and collect it. The villagers can tell us if Josselin is in there or not and we don’t have to go into Shyam at all.’

‘There are nearly three hundred dead in there, Harry, barely a hundred left alive.’ Dowling pushed me forwards. ‘This is the work of God, that ye believe in him whom he hath sent. You are sent by Him, and I believe in you.’

What an extraordinary thing to say. Was the butcher deranged? I followed him betwixt the great boulders, still leading my reluctant steed. We came to a small, wooden bridge, beneath which trickled a
narrow stream. Beyond the stream we found a well-worn path, broad and bare, of grass. To our left, visible around the corner, tucked into a cluster of sycamores, stood three cottages in a line, walls and roofs covered in ivy.

‘This is the Town-head,’ Dowling murmured, standing still. ‘The western end of the village.’

‘You’ve been here before?’ I asked.

‘I read a map.’

No one moved, no one called out. We approached the front door of the first cottage, Dowling calling out cautiously. No one replied. He pushed the door with his finger and it creaked slowly open. Dowling poked his head in, then withdrew.

‘Empty,’ he announced. ‘And a mess besides. Someone has ransacked the place.’

He walked to the next house, again announcing his presence before opening the door. And the third.

‘Empty.’ He turned to face me. ‘I wonder if they have abandoned the whole village after all.’

We headed east, back past the bridge. It didn’t look abandoned to me. Deep ridges carved through the soil, freshly cut. We passed another six cottages, still and quiet, all of them empty.

We came to a church, grey tower partially hidden within a ring of linden trees, like an army of grim angels guarding the passage within. We walked the path between gravestones, many of which appeared freshly chiselled, the ground trimmed short. A small porch framed the door, upon which perched a small cross. Dowling stepped inside while I waited, listening for any strange noise amidst the cacophony of nature. Dowling tried opening the door.

‘It’s locked,’ he frowned.

‘If there were a hundred alive last Friday, who is to say they have not all died by now?’ I hated the fog and the mist. I yearned to be able to see what might be hiding in the distance. I thought I heard a man’s voice, distant and pitiful.

‘The food baskets were empty,’ said Dowling.

‘Animals,’ I replied.

‘Animals,’ Dowling repeated, catching sight of something. ‘There is a pool or a pond over there, with trees around it.’

But they were not trees.

Around Shyam pond, someone had erected steel cages, each one made of thick iron, the shape of a birdcage hanging from a seven-foot wooden pole. And in each one a man, crouched with knees up to chest, for there was little room inside the dreadful contraptions. Twelve of them stood in a great circle about the green water.

Flies enveloped the first, crawling about the dead body inside with great intent. The flesh already peeled from the skin of its cheekbone, revealing a pocket of ripe, squirming maggots. The next few were also dead, in varying stages of decomposition. In the fifth cage was a woman, her green dress sodden and rotting. She too had been in here for several weeks at least. A great, black cockroach emerged from her yellow hair, an unnatural sight triggering unusual cramps within my stomach.

I heard someone groan, then saw a movement from across the pond. Not all of these people were dead. I rushed about the circle. A thin man lifted his chin and squinted against the white sky. His eyes were dull and unseeing, lips cracked and dry. The next two were living too, though barely.

‘What black deed is this?’ I exclaimed, bile rising in my throat. The fog clung like a shroud, hiding what other atrocities? I fought to stop
myself from running back the way we came.

‘Someone did this to deter others,’ Dowling’s voice sounded unusually shrill. ‘We are in the centre of the village.’

‘Well, at least we must release those that still live.’ I grasped for the lock of the nearest cage.

‘We keep that locked,’ a voice called from our right. Out of the fog stepped a man of ordinary height, lank brown hair streaked upon a long, suspicious face. Some kind of festering sore enveloped half his bottom lip. The muscles about his mouth were hard and tense. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Buxton,’ I replied, remembering the name we saw in the records the night before. ‘My brother is Robert Buxton.’

‘Robert Buxton,’ he repeated, thoughtful. ‘You look young to be his brother.’

‘Aye.’ My mind froze. ‘I was born at Colchester.’ Else he could check his own church records for evidence of my birth. ‘I have not seen him for several years. I came when I heard his life might be in danger.’

He stepped towards me and stared deeper into my eyes. I felt my soul writhe beneath his gaze. So this was what the devil looked like. ‘How did you get in?’

‘We came through a valley, past a large rock.’

‘I see.’ He nodded, sombre. ‘I wish you had come about the main street, for then we might have given ye the opportunity to turn back.’ He nodded at Dowling. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am his uncle,’ Dowling growled. ‘What is this atrocity?’

‘These are sinners that sought to expedite the Devil’s work,’ the man replied. ‘I am Thomas Elks and this is my parish. These wretches attempted to leave our boundaries though they vowed against it.’

The mists still rolled about our ears, a deathly thing, and I found myself wondering if we wandered into a world of ghosts. This Elks spoke with strange graces, like he was the guardian of this earth.

‘You are the Reverend?’ asked Dowling.

‘Mompesson is the Reverend,’ Elks replied. ‘He stays in the church.’

‘The church door is locked,’ Dowling said, suspicious.

‘Aye,’ said Elks. ‘He locks himself inside.’

What sort of Reverend locked himself inside a church and his parishioners out?

‘These vowed not to leave this parish, you say,’ Dowling stepped towards him, ‘then changed their minds. For that you have done this to them?’

Elks scratched at his chest. ‘When the plague struck our village, every man agreed we would remain within the parish boundaries so we don’t carry the plague further into the country. It was Mompesson’s idea.’

A light breeze blew across the pond, and the cages swung from the top of the poles, creaking.

‘You deny them decent burial,’ Dowling hissed betwixt old teeth. ‘Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God, and serve him, and shalt swear by his name. Is it you that does this terrible thing?’

‘The Devil hath tempted them to run amok,’ Elks explained, as if to a child. ‘He hath persuaded them to listen to his voice, and now sends them forth to spew death upon the masses. Mompesson decreed they will hang here until the evil hath vanished from their bodies, and in the meantime the sight of their poor, black souls may deter others from succumbing unto the same temptation.’ He stepped closer to Dowling so that the two men stood nose to nose. ‘No man may leave here.’

As he spoke, a light breeze blew the mists away across the fields, unveiling a large, square contraption upon a grassy green square in front of a small church. It looked like a cage with bodies in it. Elks saw me stare.