Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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might still linger here in spirit.
Those sleeping statues: all unknown. That faceless knight had come from Imber church. Was thought to be a Lord of Imber … She gave it a slightly wary glance; tried superimposing a fourteenth-century village on the ruined one today. The effect was disconcerting. She put the leaflet down again.
The sun emerged outside, spilling blocks of dusty light down through the windows: a sandstorm in suspended animation. Undaunted, the woman in the housecoat kept on polishing the woodwork. The sun went in again.
Fran sat herself in one of the pews, and waited while her instincts fought it out. She knew she couldn’t turn back now; but a part of her still dragged its feet, and looked for an excuse.
A gentle footfall in the aisle behind her. ‘Anything I can help with, dear?’ the woman asked.
Fran glanced back with a smile. ‘I’m all right, thanks. Just savouring the atmosphere.’
‘It’s peaceful, isn’t it? Very calming.’
Fran hesitated, hoping that she’d leave it at that. But the pause made her uncomfortable: aware that there was more she ought to say. The woman had a friendly face; it seemed unfair to turn her own away.
‘Do you get many visitors here?’
‘A few. There was someone here earlier, came for the quiet like you did. Young man; I think he was one of those travellers or some such. But he sat here for a long while.’
She nodded, half to herself; then smiled and moved away, clearly sensing that this visitor preferred to be alone. Fran glanced gratefully after her; then settled back again, and thought of Greenlands.
It had to be faced: got over with. Like a smear test, or a visit to the dentist. And once it was done, the way ahead would be clear for her and Craig.
She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered their first date: the terms that she’d laid down, across the table. Call me ‘honey’ and I’ll clobber you, all right?
‘Okay.’
Or ‘Sugar’ …
She’d been there for a drink, and that was all. Still wary; still confused. But as they’d talked, her sense of guilt had slowly started fading. She liked him – he was honest and direct (good-looking, too, she’d add, if she were honest). They’d agreed to meet again. And from such small beginnings …
‘Well, what do you make of this?’ the woman said.
She’d just unlocked the collection box to empty it, and was peering at a small coin in her palm. Fran could see from where she sat that it was badly discoloured; but a muted gleam of silver caught the light. Probably an old two-shilling piece – a change, at least, from bus tokens and coppers.
It was time to move on. She got to her feet.
The woman gave her a glance. ‘That young man must have left it, he put something in the box. It can’t be real, can it?’
Fran joined her on the way to the door, and saw for herself. The rough-edged coin was tarnished, almost black, but she could make out the small cross stamped into the metal. The woman turned it over, and they saw it had a bird on the back: one with a curved and cruel-looking beak. A circle of crude lettering surrounded it.
The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen anything like that before, I must say.’
Fran was picking out the letters, but they didn’t make a word. Hard enough to tell where the sequence began, apart from a cramped initial cross – and the bird’s malicious beak that broke the circle.
A scavenger’s beak, Fran thought – and frowned. A carrion bird. A raven.
2
Up on the hill, she turned around, and saw the country spread out like a quilt.
The patchwork was uneven, mixing greens and browns and yellows; its hedgerows like rough stitching in between. Isolated farms stood out in tiny detail. And over it all, the shadows of clouds came creeping: as shapeless as amoebas, vast and dim.
Wiltshire, stretching off into the distance. She’d originally thought of the Plain as flat, but here it rose much higher: thrust upward from the lowland like a cliff. Edington was down there, to the right: the church peeping out between 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