Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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trees. It looked like a toy village from up here.
She’d taken the footpath up Edington Hill. The way was steep and hollow, worn into the chalky ground. Clearing the trees on the lower slopes, it rose towards the crest – then skirted round it. She’d cut away, and climbed up to the top. The breeze grew fresher, plucking at her jacket; she shrugged into its sleeves. Her icon badge was pinned to the lapel.
Gazing out across the landscape, she remembered her walk with Dad the other week. Up the path behind the houses to the high ground overlooking Hathersage. They’d watched the evening settle on the village. The lights had come on one by one: a colony of fireflies waking up to greet the dusk. Dad had put his arm around her – drawn her close against his side. Content, she’d leaned her head against his shoulder.
‘You’re serious about him then: this lad?’
‘He’s really nice, Dad. You’d like him.’
They’d always been close: she didn’t need to see his face to know what he was thinking. He’d got his daughter back, to see her snatched away again. Every instinct said to hang on tight.
When he let go, she heard it in the wryness of his voice.
‘You’d best bring him up here, then. Let your mother have a look at him. And I can see what he thinks of Real Ale.’
Love you, Dad, she’d thought, and slid her arm across his back. Aloud she said: ‘He won’t drink pints, you know. Has to be the bottled stuff. And cold.’
He snorted. ‘Typical Yank, eh.’
‘That doesn’t bother you, does it?’ she’d asked, after a slightly anxious pause.
‘If he makes you happy, girl, he won’t bother me at all. Just don’t let him take you for a ride, all right?’
‘Dad. I’m twenty-three now.’
‘You’re still my daughter, Frannie. My little lass. That’s never going to change.’
She didn’t doubt it, either. Though they’d just been to see the local team, and Fran had shouted louder than the blokes, she was always going to be his little girl.
But even as they spoke, she’d felt the gloomy heights behind them: the tors like tumbled fortresses, and then the open moor. They were right out on the edge here, and dusk was coming quicker than a tide.
A wind had risen out of the distance. She’d felt it on her spine, and snuggled closer to Dad’s coat. But when she turned her head, she saw the yellow moon was up: its outline smudged and swollen, but the glow was like a lamp’s. The lantern of a friend, to light them home. The barren moor seemed thwarted – almost sullen.
The rustling breeze brought her back to the present. No wind from the back of beyond this time; just a whisper through the thistley grass. A snuffling round the dandelions and daisies. She breathed it in, and knew that she was ready.
Turning to come down off the crest – her face set firmly south, towards the range – she saw the black-clad figure in the hollow of the hill.
She ventured further down, and reached the track; then stopped again. The man was crouching on the slope a dozen yards below. He was head-down over something, unaware of her approach.
The falling contours made a basin here. The pathway curved around it, like a gouge along the rim. The ground was steep and strangely crimped: old terraces, she guessed. But grass this rough was just for grazing now. Tufty bushes sprouted up, like fungus on old bread.
The man had a tattered coat around his shoulders. Trailing in the dirt with the sleeves hanging loose, it gave him the look of a large, bedraggled bird. She thought of a rook in a fresh-ploughed field: rooting through the soil in search of grubs.
In the lee of the hill, the breeze had dropped completely. Fran stood there, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed on his back. Her confidence had come crashing down; the world was huge and hostile once again.
The man was wearing black, just like the figure in her dream. He had the same fair hair. She was suddenly sure that his unseen face was featureless: a hole. Empty – and about to turn towards her.
Cold beads of sweat popped out across her shoulders. She forced her gaze away, along the path. It led over the rise and out of sight. Or should she just go back around the hill? Retrace her steps to Westbury; pretend she’d never come.
She knew she couldn’t. It was clear as the air, and the sudden, splashing sunlight. If she ran away from this, her mind would never rest.
It wasn’t a dream – not this time. It might be a coincidence, of course …
Oh, yeah, she thought, with fatalistic scorn. Oh, sure.
Perhaps a premonition, then. Perhaps it was her fate, to meet this man. She’d never sniffed at things like that: second sight and such. But when she met him – what would happen then? The thought compressed her stomach. A chill of nausea rose towards her throat.
What was he doing? Writing with his finger in the dirt? Whatever, he was too engrossed to see her. She recalled what that woman had said in the church: about the man who’d visited before her. One of those travellers, she’d thought – and this man looked the part, at least. She tried to squeeze relief from the conclusion. A few diluted drops. They didn’t soothe the churning in her belly.
The air grew briefly darker as a cloud cruised overhead. She glanced up, feeling trapped, as if a lid had just come down upon the bowl. The man kept working, head still bowed. Still tracing random patterns through the short-cropped grass.
The trackside fence was there between them. Barbed wire and iron pickets brown with rust. But the strands were wide apart here, and almost before she’d realized it, she had ducked her head between them, climbing awkwardly through. Something snagged at her jacket, drew it tight – and lost its grip. Setting foot in the field, she straightened up, and pulled the denim round her. Though she’d barely closed the distance by a yard, the hunched man was immediately more relevant. More real.
She saw him sense her presence. His loose, unwary posture grew suddenly stiff – as if he’d turned to stone beneath his coat. Like an animal’s reaction: scenting danger. Adrenaline blazed through her, but she couldn’t back off now. Too late, and much too close. She was committed.
His head, still turned away, came slowly up. A faint breeze touched his short, fair hair. Fran felt a leaden pressure in her chest.
He twisted round, still crouching, like a statue coming suddenly to life. Full of her fears, Fran started back; then saw his face, and froze.
It was just a man, of course: as real as his rags. His face was lean, unsmiling; thinly bearded with a stubble that looked darker than his hair. A thirtyish face, with a calmness that transfixed her. Some of its lines looked capable of laughter; but there was hard, unflinching bleakness in the bones. Both aspects came together in his gaze: eyes that were clear and choirboy-blue – but cold. As chilly as a frosty morning sky.
He watched her for a moment, still hunkering down. Dismayed though she was, she glimpsed a flicker of reaction on his face. Then he dropped his gaze once more, and rubbed his index finger in the soil.
She breathed again … and felt a twinge of pique. Absurdly, after what she’d feared, the anticlimax threw her. As the seconds passed, and he continued to ignore her, she felt her courage gathering afresh. Taking a breath, she risked a slow step forward. He didn’t raise his head. But it was clear that he was watching from the corner of his eye.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. Her voice seemed very small amid the stillness.
‘Praying,’ he replied, not looking up. ‘I have many friends here.’ His tone was low and thoughtful, made rougher by an unfamiliar accent. No time to try and place it. Fran hesitated; looked around. There was nothing to see. Just the slope of a depression; a grassy bowl of leached, infertile soil. A cluster of cows were grazing at the bottom.
Perplexed, she edged