Authors: Clive Barker
i
The move didn't happen quite as planned. Two days after Hugo's conversation with Will, quite without warning,
Eleanor broke her own rules and left the house in the middle of the morning and went wandering. She was
escorted home in the late evening, having been found weeping in the street where Nathaniel had been struck
down. The move was postponed, and for the next fortnight she was watched over by nurses and tended to by a
psychiatrist. His medications did some good. Her mood brightened after a few days - she became
uncharacteristically jolly, in fact, and dived into the business of packing up the house with gusto. On the second
weekend of September, the delayed move took place.
The journey from Manchester took little more than an hour but it might as well have delivered the two-vehicle
convoy into another country. With the charmless streets of Oldham and Rochdale behind them they wound their
way into open countryside, sweeping moorland steadily giving way to the steeper fells, whose lush green flanks
were here and there stripped to pavements of grim, grey limestone. The wind blew hard on the hilltops,
buffeting the high-sided van in which Will had asked to be a passenger. With map in hand he followed their
route as best he could, his eyes straying from the road they were taking to venture where the names were
strangest: Kirkby Malzeard, Gammersgill, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Yockenthwaite and Garthwaite and
Rottenstone Hill. There was a world of promise in such names.
Their destination, the village of Burnt Yarley, was to Will's eyes indistinguishable from a dozen other villages
they'd passed through on their way: a scattering of plain, square houses and cottages built of the local limestone,
and roofed with slate; less than half a dozen shops (a grocer, a butcher, a newsagent, a post office, a pub), a
church with a small churchyard surrounding it, and a steeply humped bridge rising over a river no wider than a
traffic lane. There were, however, three or four more substantial residences on the outskirts of the village. One
of them would be their new house, he knew: it was the largest house in Burnt Yarley, so beautiful that according
to Will's father Eleanor had cried with happiness at the thought of their living in it. We're going to be very
happy there, Hugo had said, offering this not as a cherished hope, but as an instruction.
ii
The first sign of that happiness was waiting for them at the front gate: a plumpish, smiling woman in early
middle-age who introduced herself to Will as Adele Bottrall and welcomed them all with what seemed to be
genuine pleasure. She instantly took charge of the unloading of the car and the removal van, supervising her
husband Donald and her son Craig, who was the kind of sullen, thick-necked sixteen-year-old Will would have
feared an arbitrary beating from in the yard of St Margaret's. Here, however, he was a workhorse, eyes
downcast most of the time, as he lugged boxes and furniture into the house. Will was given a glass of lemonade
by Mrs. Bottrall and wandered around the house to survey it, coming back to the front now and then to watch
Craig at his labours. The afternoon was clammy - thunder later, Adele promised, it'll clear the air - and Craig
stripped down to a threadbare vest, the sweat trickling down his neck and face from his low hairline, his neck
and arms peeling where he'd caught too much sun. Will was envious of his muscularity; of the curling hair at his
armpits, and the wispy sideburns he was cultivating. Pretending a concern for the care Craig was exercising
with the tables and lamps, he idly followed the youth from room to room, watching him work. Occasionally,
Craig would do something that made Will feel as though he shouldn't be watching, though they weren't
particularly odd things for anyone to do. Passing his tongue over his frizzy moustache; stretching his arms
above his head; splashing water on his face at the kitchen sink. Once or twice Craig looked his way, a little
bemused at the attention he was getting. When he did Will made sure he was wearing a facsimile of that
indifference he'd seen on his mother's face so often.
The unloading went on until the early evening, the house - which had not been lived in for two years - subtly
resisting its re-occupation. Interior doors proved too narrow for several of the tea-chests, and rooms too small
gracefully to accommodate pieces of furniture from the house in the city. As the hours went on, tempers grew
tattered. Knuckles were skinned and bloodied, shins scraped and toes stubbed. Eleanor maintained an imperious
calm throughout, seating herself in the bay window which offered a magnificent panorama of the valley and
sipping herbal tea, while her husband made decisions as to the arrangement of rooms she would never have
trusted to him in the old days. Once, trapping his fingers between a box and the wall, Craig let loose a fair
stream of foul language, silenced by a hard slap on the back of the head from Adele. Will chanced to witness
the blow, and saw how Craig's eyes reared up from the sting. He was, Will realized, just a boy, for all his sweat
and muscle, and his interest in watching Craig's labours instantly evaporated.
iii
That was Saturday. The night did not bring thunder, as Adele had predicted it would, and the next day the air
was already sticky before St Luke's solitary bell had summoned the faithful to worship. Adele was amongst the
congregation, but her husband and son were not. By the time their task-mistress finally appeared, they had
already put in almost two hours of graceless work, unloading the tea-chests in such a ham-fisted fashion that
several pieces of crockery and a Chinese vase had been forfeited.
Alert to the general malaise, Will decided to keep out of the way. While the Bottrall clan stamped around below
he remained upstairs in the room with the sloped, beamed ceiling which he'd been given. It was at the back of
the house, which suited him fine. From the deep-Billed window he had a view up the unspoiled slope of the fell,
with not a house in sight, just a few wind-stunted trees and a scattering of hardy sheep.
He was pinning a map of the world up on the wall when he heard the wasp, its last days upon it, come weaving
around his head. He snatched up a book and swatted it away, but back it came, its buzz escalating. Again, he
struck out at it, but somehow it avoided his blow and winding its way around him, stung him below his left ear.
He yelped, and retreated to the door as the insect flew a victory circuit around his head. He didn't attempt to
swat it a third time, but opened the door, and stumbled downstairs, wailing.
He got no sympathy. His father was in the midst of a heated altercation with Donald Bottrall, and shot him such
a glance when he approached that he swallowed his complaints. Gulping back tears he went to find his mother.
She was once again sitting at the bay window, with a bottle of pills on the arm of her chair. She had a second
bottle open, the contents in her palm, and was counting them.
'Mum?' he said.
She raised her eyes from the pills, a look of genteel despair upon her face. 'What's wrong?' she said. He told her.
'You are careless,' she replied. 'Wasps always get nasty in the autumn. You shouldn't annoy them.'
He began to protest that he hadn't annoyed it at all, he'd been the innocent party, but he could see by the
expression on her face that she'd already tuned him out. A moment later, she returned to counting the pills.
Feeling frustrated but utterly ineffectual, he withdrew.
The sting was really throbbing now, the discomfort fuelling his rage. He went back up to the bathroom, found
some ointment for insect bites in the medicine cabinet and gingerly applied it to the sting. Then he washed his
face, removing any evidence of tears. He was never going to cry again, he told his reflection; it was stupid. It
didn't make anybody listen.
Feeling not in the least happier, he headed back downstairs. Little had changed. Craig was lounging in the
kitchen, his mouth stuffed with something Adele had cooked up; Eleanor was sitting with her pills; and Hugo
had taken his argument with Donald - who looked bull-headed enough to give as good as he got - out into the
front garden, where they were talking at each other in a red rage. Nobody noticed Will stamp off towards the
village; or if they did, nobody cared sufficiently to stop him.
The streets of Burnt Yarley were virtually deserted, the shops all closed. Even the little sweet-shop, where Will
had hoped he might soothe his frustration and his dry throat with an ice-cream, was locked up. He peered in
through the window, cupping his hands around his face. The interior was as small as the facade suggested, but
packed to the rafters with goods, some clearly targeted at the ramblers and hikers who passed through the town:
postcards, maps, even knapsacks. Curiosity satisfied, Will wandered on to the bridge. It wasn't large -a span of
maybe twelve feet - and built of the same grey stone as the tiny cottages in its immediate vicinity. He sat on the
low wall and peered down into the river. The summer had been dry, and there was presently little more than a
stream creeping between the rocks below, but the banks were fringed with marsh marigolds and clumps of
balsam. There were bees around the balsam in their dozens. Will watched them warily, ready to retreat if one
winged its way towards him.
'It's all stupid,' he muttered.
'What is?' said somebody at his back.
He turned round, and found not one but two pairs of eyes upon him. The speaker, a fair-haired, fair-skinned and
presently heavily-freckled girl a little older than himself, was standing at the rise of the bridge, while her
companion squatted against the wall opposite Will and picked his nose. The boy was plainly her brother; they
had common broad, plain features and grave, grey eyes. But while she still looked to be in her Sunday best, her
sibling was a mess, his clothes wrinkled and grimy, his mouth stained with berry juice. He stared at Will with a
scowl.
'What's stupid?' the girl said again.
'This place.'
"Tisn't,' said the boy. 'You're stupid.' 'Hush, Sherwood,' the girl said.
'Sherwood?' said Will.
'Yeah, Sherwood,' came the boy's defiant reply. He scrambled to his feet as if ready for a fight, his legs scabby
with old scrapes. His belligerence lasted ten seconds. Then he said: 'I want to go and play somewhere else.' His
interest in the stranger had plainly already waned. 'Come on, Frannie.
'That's not my real name,' the girl put in, before Will could remark upon it. 'It's Frances.'
'Sherwood's a daft name,' Will said.
'Oh yeah?' said Sherwood.
'Yeah.'
'So who are you?' Frannie wanted to know.
'He's the Rabjohns kid,' scabby-kneed Sherwood said.
'How'd you know that?' Will demanded.
Sherwood shrugged. 'I heard,' he said with a mischievous little smile, "cause I listen.'
Frannie laughed. 'The things you hear,' she said.
Sherwood giggled, pleased to be appreciated. 'The things I hear,' he said, his voice sing-song, as he repeated the
phrase. 'The things I hear, the things I hear.'
'Knowing somebody's name isn't so clever,' Will replied.
'I know more than that.'
'Like?'
'Like you came from Manchester, and you had a brother only he's dead.' He spoke the d-word with relish. 'And
your dad's a teacher.' He glanced at his sister. 'Frannie says she hates teachers.'
'Well he's not a teacher,' Will shot back.
'What is he then?' Frannie wanted to know.
'He's ... he's a Doctor of Philosophy.'
It sounded like a fine boast, and for a moment it silenced his audience. Then Frannie said: 'Is he really a doctor?'
She had unerringly gone to the part of his father's nomenclature Will had never really understood. He put a
brave face on his incomprehension. 'Sort of,' he said. 'He makes people better by .. . by writing books.'
'That's stupid,' Sherwood said, crowing the word that had begun their whole exchange. He started to laugh at
how ridiculous this was.
'I don't care what you think,' Will said, putting on his best sneer. 'Anybody who lives in this dump has got to be
the biggest stupid person I ever saw. That's what you are-'
Sherwood had turned his back on Will and was spitting over the bridge. Will gave up on him and marched off
back towards the house.
'Wait-' he heard Frannie say.
'Frannie,' Sherwood whined, 'leave him alone.'
But Frannie was already at Will's side. 'Sometimes Sherwood gets silly,' she said, almost primly. 'But he's my
brother, so I have to watch out for him.'
'Somebody's going to bash him one of these days. Bash him hard. And it might be me.'
'He gets bashed all the time,' Frannie said, "cause people think he's not quite...' she halted, drew a breath, then
went on: '... not quite right in the head.'
'Fraaaannnnie...' Sherwood was yelling.
'You'd better go back to him, in case he falls off the bridge.'
Frannie gave her brother a fretful backward glance. 'He's okay. You know, it's not so bad here,' she said.
'I don't care,' Will replied. 'I'm going to be running away.'
'Are you?'
'I just said, didn't I?'
'Where to?'
'I haven't made up my mind.'
The conversation faltered here, and Will hoped Frannie would go back to her brattish brother, but she was
determined to keep the exchange going, walking beside him. 'Is it true what Sherwood said?' she asked, her
voice softening. 'About your brother?'
'Yeah. He was knocked down by a taxi.'
'That must be horrible for you,' Frannie said.
'I didn't like him very much.'
'Still ... if something like that ever happened to Sherwood ...They had come to a divide in the road. To the left
lay the route back to the house; to the right, a less well-made track that rapidly wound out of sight behind the
hedgerows. Will hesitated a moment, weighing up the options.
'I should go back,' Frannie said.
'I'm not stopping you,' Will replied.
Frannie didn't move. He glanced round at her, and saw such hurt in her eyes he had to look away. Seeking some
other point of interest, his gaze found the one visible building close to the right-hand track, and more to mellow
his cruelty than out of genuine curiosity he asked Frannie what it was.
'Everybody calls it the Courthouse,' she said. 'But it isn't really. It was built by this man who wanted to protect
horses or something. I don't know the proper story.'
'Who lives there?' Will said. As far as he could tell at this distance, it was an impressive-looking structure; it
almost looked like a temple in one of his history books, except that it was built of dark stone.
'Nobody lives there,' Frannie said. 'It's horrible inside.'
'You went in?'
'Sherwood hid there once. He knows more about it than I do. You should ask him.'
Will wrinkled up his nose. 'Nah,' he said, feeling as though he'd made his attempt at conciliation and he could
now depart without guilt.
'Fraaannnie!' Sherwood was yelling again. He had clambered up onto the wall of the bridge and was imitating a
trapeze artist as he walked along it.
'Get down off there!' Frannie shouted at him, and saying goodbye to Will over her shoulder, hurried back to the
bridge to enforce her edict.
Relieved to have the girl gone, Will again considered the routes before him. If he went back to the house now
he could slake his thirst and fill the growing hole in his belly. But he'd also have to endure the atmosphere of ill-
humour that hung about the place. Better to go walking, he thought; find out what was around the bend and
beyond the hedgerows.
He glanced back at the bridge to see that Frannie had coaxed Sherwood down off the wall and that he was now
sitting on the ground again, hugging his knees, while his sister stood gazing in Will's direction. He gave her a
half-hearted wave, and then struck out along the unexplored road, thinking as he went that perhaps the route
would be so tantalizing that he'd make good on his boast to the girl, and keep walking till Burnt Yarley was just
a memory.