Hood (39 page)
“Forgive my curiosity, friend,” he whispered to the man next to him, “but what is everyone looking at?”
“Gerald thought he saw the
thing
—the creature,” the merchant whispered back, his voice tense in the unnatural silence.
The only sound to be heard was the lazy, liquid gurgle of the water as it slipped around and over the stones.
“What creature?” wondered the priest. Nothing moved amongst the lush green foliage of the trees and lower brushwood. “The phantom,” the man explained. He turned his face to the bowlegged friar. “Do you not know?”
“I know nothing of any phantom,” replied Aethelfrith.
“What sort of phantom is it presumed to be?”
“Why,” replied the merchant, “it takes the form of a great giant of a bird. Men hereabouts call it King Raven.”
“Do they indeed?” wondered the friar, much intrigued.
“What does it look like—this giant bird?”
The merchant stared at him in disbelief. “By the rood, man! Are you dim? It looks like a thumping great
raven
.”
“Shut up!” hissed one of the others just then. “You will have the demon down on us!”
Before anyone could reply to this, one of the other traders threw out his hand and shouted, “There it is!”
Friar Aethelfrith glimpsed a flash of blue-black feathers glinting in the sun and the suggestion of a massive black wing as the creature emerged from the brushwood on the opposite bank a few score paces downstream. Two of the merchants gave out shouts of terrified surprise, and two others fell to their knees, clasping their hands and crying aloud to God and Saint Michael to save them. The rest fled back down the road to the safety of Castle Truan, leaving their carts behind.
“Christ have mercy!” gasped one of the remaining merchants as the creature’s head came into view. Its face was an oval of smooth black bone, devoid of feathers, with two round pits where its eyes should have been. Save for the wickedly long pointed beak, its head most resembled a charred human skull.
Lifting its swordlike beak, the thing uttered a piercing shriek that resounded in the deathly silence of the wood.
Even as the cry hung in the air, the phantom turned and simply melted back into the shadow of the wood.
The terror-stricken merchants leapt to their feet and ran for their wagons, lashed their mules to motion, and fled back into the valley. Of all those at the stream, only Aethelfrith was left to give chase—which he promptly did.
G
athering up his robe, Aethelfrith strode boldly across the stream and started after the phantom. Upon reaching the far side of the stream, he paused and, finding nothing, proceeded into the brushwood, where the thing had vanished. There was no sign of the creature, and after a few paces he stopped to reconsider. He could hear the traders clattering away into the distance as their wagons bumped over the rutted road. Then, even as he was wondering whether to continue the chase or resume his journey, he saw the faint glimmer of glistening black feathers—just a quick flash before it disappeared into a hedge bank a few hundred paces down the trail. He hurried on.
The ground rose toward the ridge, and he eventually reached the top. Sweating and out of breath, he stumbled upon a game trail that led along the ridgetop. It was old and well established, overarched by the huge limbs of plane trees, elms, and oaks that formed a vault overhead and allowed only intermittent shafts of sunlight to strike down through the leaf canopy and illuminate the path. It was dark as a cellar, but since it was easier than pushing his way through the heavy underbrush, he decided to follow the run and soon realised just how quickly it allowed a man on foot to move about the forest.
The heat had been mounting steadily as the sun arced toward midday, and Aethelfrith was glad for the shade beneath the hanging boughs. He walked along, listening to the thrushes singing in the upper branches and, lower down, the click and chirrup of insects working the dead leaf matter that rotted along the trail. At any moment, he told himself, he would turn back—but the path was soft underfoot, so he continued.
After a time, the trail branched off; the left-hand side continued along the ridgetop, and the right-hand side descended the slope to a rocky hollow. Here the priest stopped to consider which path, if either, to take. The day was speeding from him, and he decided to resume his homeward journey. He turned around and started back, but he had not gone far when he heard voices: murmured only, light as thistledown on the dead-still air, there and gone again, and so faint as to be easily dismissed as the invention of his own imagining.
But years of living alone in his oratory with no company save his own inner musings had made his hearing keen. He held his breath and listened for the sound to come again. His vigilance was rewarded with another feather-soft murmur, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter.
Frail as a wisp of cobweb adrift on the breeze, it nonetheless gave him a direction to follow. He took the right-hand trail leading down the back of the ridge. The path fell away steeply as it entered the hollow below, and Aethelfrith, his short legs unable to keep up with his bulk, plunged down the hill.
He entered the hollow in a rush, tripped over a root, and fell, landing with a mighty grunt at the feet of the great black phantom raven. He slowly raised his fearful gaze to see the ominous black head regarding him with malevolent curiosity.
The fantastic wings spread wide, and the thing swooped.
The priest rolled on his belly and tried to avoid the assault, but he was too slow, and he felt his arm seized in a steely grip as he squirmed on the ground. “God save me!” he cried.
“Shout louder,” hissed the creature. “God may hear you yet.”
“Let be!” he cried in English, wriggling like an eel to get free. “Let me go!”
“Do you want to kill him, or should I?”
Aethelfrith twisted his head around and saw a tall, brawny man step forward. He wore a long, hooded cloak into which were woven a multitude of small tatters of green cloth; twigs and branches and leaves of all kinds had also been attached to the curious garment. Regarding the priest with a frown, he drew a knife from his belt. “I’ll do it.”
“Wait a little,” spoke the raven with a human voice. “We’ll not kill him yet. Time enough for that later.” To the friar, he said, “You were at the ford. Did anyone else follow?”
Struggling in the creature’s unforgiving clutch, it took the priest a moment to realise that the thing had spoken to him.
Turning his eyes to his captor once more, he saw not the bone-thin shanks of a bird, but the well-booted feet and legs of a man: a man wearing a long cloak covered entirely with black feathers. The face staring down at him was an expressionless death’s head, but deep in the empty eye sockets, Aethelfrith caught the glimmer of a living eye.
“I ask for the last time,” the black-cloaked man said. “Did anyone follow you?”
“No, sire,” replied the priest. “I came alone. God have mercy, can we not talk this out? I am a priest, am I not?”
“That you are, Aethelfrith!” said the creature, releasing him at once.
“Pax vobiscum!” cried the priest, scrambling to his feet. “I mean no harm. I only thought to—”
“Tuck!” exclaimed the man in the leafy cloak.
Reaching up a black-gloved hand, the creature took hold of the sharp raven beak and lifted it to reveal a man’s face beneath.
“Blesséd Jesus,” gasped the astonished friar. “Is it Bran?”
“Greetings, Tuck,” laughed Bran. “What brings you to our wood?”
“You are dead!”
“Not as dead as some might wish,” he said, removing the high-crested hood from his head. “Tell us quickly now—how did you come to be here?”
“A hood!” cried the friar, relief bubbling over into exultation. “It is just a hood!”
“A hood, nothing more,” admitted Bran. “Why are you here?”
“I came to find
you
, did I not?” The friar stared at the strangely costumed man in amazement. “And here you are.
Sweet Peter’s beard, but you do not half frighten a body!”
“Friar Tuck!” called Iwan, stepping close. He gave the priest a thump on the back. “You held your life in your hands just then. What of the others—the men at the ford—did they see you?”
“Nay, John. They all ran away clutching their bowels.” He smiled at the memory. “You put the fear of the devil in them, no mistake.”
Bran smiled. “Good.” To Iwan he said, “Bring the horses.
We will meet Siarles as planned.”
“Tuck, too?” wondered Iwan.
“Of course.” Bran turned and started away.
“Wait,” called the cleric. “I came to Elfael to find you. I have something important to say.”
“Later,” Bran told him. “We must be miles from here before midday. Our day’s work has only begun. Come along,” he said, beckoning the priest to follow. “Watch and learn.”
T
he game run was narrow, and the horses were fast, pounding along the ridgetop track as the outreaching hazel branches whipped past. Bran, following Iwan’s lead, slashed his mount across the withers with his reins, careering through the forest. The trail continued to climb as the ridge rose, bending around to the north; upon reaching the summit, they abandoned the run and struck off along another trail, moving west toward the edge of the forest. The riders might have travelled more quickly but for the extra weight behind Bran, clinging on for dear life.
The trail dropped sharply into a rocky defile. The pathway became rough under hoof, and the riders slowed. Stones the size of houses rose abruptly on each hand, forming a winding and shadowed corridor through which they had to pick their way carefully. When the path grew too narrow, they abandoned their mounts, tying them to a small pine tree growing in a crevice, and then proceeded on foot.
Silently, they stalked along a stone gallery so close they could have touched both sides with arms outstretched. This trail ended, and they stepped out into a small clearing, where they were met by another man—also dressed in a long, hooded cloak of green tatters. “Where have you been?” he whispered sharply. He saw the bandy-legged priest toiling along in Bran’s wake and asked, “Where did you find that?”
Ignoring the question, Bran asked, “Are they here?”
“Aye,” answered the man, “but they will soon be moving on—if they are not already gone.” He darted away. “Hurry!”
Bran turned to his visitor and said, “You must swear a sacred oath to hold your tongue and keep silent.”
“Why? What is going to happen?” asked Aethelfrith.
“Swear it!” insisted Bran. “Whatever happens, you must swear.”
“On my naked soul, I swear silence,” the friar replied. “May all the saints bear witness.”
“Now stay out of sight.” To Iwan, looking on, he said, “Take up your position. You know what to do.”
All three moved off at a fast trot. Brother Aethelfrith stood for a moment, catching his breath, and then hurried after them.
Soon the surrounding wood began to thin somewhat, and they came to a dell with huge boulders strewn amongst the standing trees like miniature mountains. At the far end of the dell, the forest ended, and the Vale of Elfael opened before them.
Beneath a great spreading beech tree at the forest’s edge, three swineherds were taking their midday meal—two men and a boy, eating from a tuck bag they passed between them. All around them their scattered herd—thirty or more large grey-and-black-spotted swine—grubbed and rooted for last year’s acorns and beech mast beneath the trees.
Without a word, Bran and his two companions left the trail, quickly melting into the shadowed greenwood. Aethelfrith knelt down on the path to catch his breath and wait to see what would happen.
Nothing happened.
His attention had begun to drift when he heard a shout from the swineherds. Turning his eyes back to the trio of herdsmen, the friar saw that all three were on their feet and staring into the wood. He could not see what had drawn their attention, but he could guess.
The three remained stock-still, unable or unwilling to move, rigid with fear. Then Aethelfrith saw what they had seen: the elusive black shape moving slowly in and out of the shadows amongst the trees. At the same time, two figures in green emerged from the wood behind the watching herdsmen.
Keeping the low-hanging beech between the swineherds and the black shape that held their attention, the two green-cloaked men, using nothing more than short staves, quickly culled eight pigs from the herd and led them away into the wood.
Wonder of wonders, the swine followed the strange herdsmen willingly and without a sound. In less time than it would have taken Aethelfrith to tell, the livestock had been removed from the dell. Just as the animals disappeared into the forest, there arose a ghastly unnatural shriek from the surrounding wood. It was the same screech the priest had heard at the ford, only now he knew what it signified.
The swineherds, terrified by the inhuman cry, threw themselves to the ground and covered their heads with their mantles. They were still cowering there, not daring to move, when Iwan appeared and, with a gesture only, summoned Tuck to follow him. They returned to the horses then and waited for Bran, who soon joined them. “You can have Siarles’s horse,”
Bran told the priest. “He is bringing the pigs.”
The three retreated back down the narrow defile, retracing their steps until they reached a wider way, and then rode north into the heart of the forest. Unaccustomed to riding, it was all
Aethelfrith could do to remain in the saddle, let alone guide his mount. He soon lost all sense of distance and direction and contented himself with merely keeping up as he pressed deeper and ever deeper into the dark heart of the ancient wood.
Eventually, they slowed their horses and, after splashing across a brook and gaining a long, low rise, arrived at the great black trunk of a lightning-blasted oak. Here Bran stopped and dismounted. Aethelfrith, grateful for the chance to quit the saddle, climbed down and stood looking around. The trees were giants of the forest, their limbs huge and majestic, their crowns lofty. Their great girth meant that their trunks were far apart from one another and little grew in the shadows beneath them. Younger trees struggled up, straight and thin as arrows, to reach the sun; most failed. Unable to sustain their own weight, they fell back to earth—but slowly, slanting down at unnatural angles.