Authors: Timothy J. Jarvis
‘See the ease with which men of pure heart best a creature of darkness!’ the Black Knight hollered. ‘Now we need only someone to come forward, dispatch it.’
The throng roared, clamoured to be chosen.
‘I hear your petitions, but I’m afraid I must disappoint. It is my will the newest member of our order should seal his loyalty by finishing this. Come forward.’
The Black Knight, peering into the pack, sought William out, then pointed. Struggling, William was hauled, pushed forward, left standing, swaying slightly, in front of the demon, which moaned, squirmed in the dirt. He was hardly aware of the sword thrust into his hand.
The crowd started to chant, ‘Off with its head!’ over and over.
The demon stared up at William, a pleading look in its eyes, then spoke, in a weak sibilant hiss, ‘s’s drawn out.
‘Pleassse, ssspare me. You know not what it isss you do.’
Its struggles had torn a long gash, but the sword held. A yellow ichor welled, pooled, seething. Mostly, William felt revulsion, but there was grain of pity there too.
‘I won’t do it,’ he said, to the Black Knight. ‘Choose someone else.’
‘No. It must be you. What is it they call you, my son?’
William didn’t reply.
The Black Knight rode over, drew his sword, held its keen edge to William’s throat.
‘Pray, tell me, what is your name?’
William spat it out.
‘Auspicious.’ He raised his voice, ‘Friends, this young man is William. We will ken him as the Conqueror.’
He clapped his hand to his chest, and the cuirass knelled as if hollow.
‘Now, cut off the thing’s head, make an end of it.’
The demon darted out its forked tongue, looked up at
William, imploring. ‘I just wish to be left in peace. I mean no harm.’
‘But,’ William said, in a low voice, wiping the sweat beading his brow with his left forearm, ‘haven’t you killed tonight?’
The sword was so heavy he could hardly lift it. He tried to let it go, but could not, the hide-bound handle cleaved unpleasantly. He didn’t dare look down at his hand. Dull aches ran up his arm.
‘I must eat. I cannot quell my craving for flesh.’
It began to weep
William groaned.
‘I’m no killer,’ he shouted up at the stars, before backing away from the demon.
‘Yes,’ the Black Knight said. ‘Yes you are.’
He began repeating, ‘William the Conqueror,’ over and over, and the rabble took it up, yelled it. William was flustered by the din. He was shoved back toward the serpent. His pleas were smothered by the chanting.
Then the demon puked once more. William saw something glinting in the spew, a ring, unusual design, three bands of silver braided. He picked it up, wiped it on his shirt, then peered at it, holding it to the moonlight, frantic not to see a certain inscription. It was there, though, the words he’d spent much time mulling, before giving to the jeweller, a week or so before Catherine’s last birthday.
The demon gawked on, aghast, as a wail tore from William’s throat, and, finding strength in pain and rage, he swung the sword.
The pack fell silent. The demon started speaking, but got no further than, ‘It’s not…,’ before the blade cleaved its neck. The head arced through the air, still jawing, but soundlessly, eyes rolling, life’s dying embers. Thumping into the mud, it fell still, eyes clouded. The body slumped, rank, acrid ichor spouting from the neck stump. The wings fluttered, then fell limp. William took several paces back. Finding the sword no longer fast to his
hand he let it fall. Its blade was corroding, smoked. A cheer went up from the mob. The black cat, a screeching ball of fur, came out of the cave mouth, scampered across to the demon’s severed head, pounced on it, clawed at the sightless eyes.
Then the carcass’s hide began to boil, giving the impression of a myriad life beneath the surface. Scales were shed. William stood agape as the naked, decapitated body of a woman was revealed piecemeal. When a pale mole-strewn belly was exposed, he ran over, roughly grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck, tore it away. Taking up the severed head, he stared down at its features, saw, mauled, twisted by fear, Catherine’s face. The cat, clawing at his shins, raised a cry, which, beginning muffled, like the sobbing of a child, rapidly swelled into a banshee wail, a mandrake shriek. Looking down at the creature, William saw a white marking on its belly, a rough outline of a gallows. He kicked the cat from him, fell to his knees in the mire, raged at the firmament.
When, anguish spent, he wiped his eyes, looked about him, the dell before the bluff was deserted. He’d not heard the others leave, and there was no trace they’d ever been there at all, no tracks in the dirt, no sandwich wrappers or cigarette ends. He was alone, entirely alone, clutching his girlfriend’s bloody sundered head.
Overhead, the lights went up, slowly, and the stars, appetite for tragedy sated, left the theatre, one by one.
V
Today, it’s blustery and the sky, lowering – thickset clouds stampede by, a frenzied herd. Yet it’s still close; the gusts do not freshen, the rack doesn’t baffle the heat. The sun, glimpsed through gaps, is now directly overhead, and it’s stifling. I reckon there’ll be a storm before dusk.
This morning I did little: prepared breakfast, porridge, for the young woman and myself; ate my bowlful; collected firewood. The rest of the time, I stood in the prow of the ship, looking out over the estuary, lost in thought, watching the scudding billows, odd rays of sunlight scintillating on the chop, a gull dropping mussels onto a concrete slipway a little distance downstream.
I took a break from writing, for I finished my account of William’s tale last night. I was only a few days in setting it down, as I’ve been able to work undisturbed; all’s been quiet, little’s happened. The tribeswoman’s got much better, is now able to feed herself, and, though still weak, seems out of danger. She spends most of the time resting on the pallet in the wheelhouse. I’ve given this up to her, and, since the weather’s held fair, at least till today, have been sleeping on the deck, the night sky, my canopy, the constellations, its embroidery. Apart from writing, I’ve done little, spent one afternoon foraging for edible tubers and grasses and another fishing with my makeshift spear, stood, stock-still, waist-deep in the river, till the fish, no longer wary, thinking me perhaps only a piece of flotsam entangled in river weeds, swam close enough to strike at.
I’d be soothed by this calm, were it not that I feel sure it merely a lull, fleeting, that my enemy now comes for me, and soon. As I’ve written, I’m sure I’ve evaded him so long only because he wished to prolong the hunt; I know, in my guts, in my bones, he doesn’t track by sign, but by unerring instinct (and so have given up, as needless, my tiresome strictures about hiding
during daylight hours, living only at night, and not lighting fires or tapers on the deck of the hulk – one good in this).
In fact, I wish something would happen, even something bad, even the thing I most fear, for waiting harrows me.
It’s now early evening. The threatened storm hasn’t come, though the wind has got up even more, is now howling off the sea, and I’ve been forced to move my desk into the lee of the cabin. The young woman sleeps inside. My head is swathed in torn strips of linen; I’ve just finished cleansing, swabbing, and bandaging a hack to my brow. Though I’ve no mirror, I know the wound, from what I could tell from the crazed, hazy reflection of my face in the river’s roiled waters, from nervous fingertips, and from the tribeswoman’s reaction, to be severe.
It’s as if the hankering I set down this morning invoked the tumult that came after. I could almost believe this typewriter cursed. I’ll certainly be wary what I type from now on.
Having, for millennia, spent most of the time sedentary, reading, lost in contemplation, I’m easily wearied; my earlier exertions have exhausted me, I’d like to rest. But, as I fear my enemy closes in, I feel I must write this night, tired though I am. Later, I promise to tell, in full, of the events of the turbulent afternoon just past, but first I reckon it needful, for my tale, the shape of it, that I describe all that’s happened to me in the last year or so, since I left the Himalayas, my aeon-long refuge. Besides, my brain throbs, my hands shake; I doubt I’m yet equal to the task of telling of the violence that took place a mere hour or so ago.
Every city and town is now girded by heaps of junked tech; after the power went down, once and for good, their folk processed out to edgelands, lugging dead machines, dumped them there. These midden are like wen, festering metal and plastic, seething chemicals, or barrows, haunted by wights of rampant code. I considered scavenging vehicles from them, but
doubted there were any that still went, knew I didn’t have the know-how to fix one up, and was, besides, in fear of the places, the murmuring of the weird artefacts, the miasma, the strange thin glow at night. I was also anxious about the notice I might draw – a worry made worse by reports I’d heard from mountain dwellers of a man, with pale skin like mine, wandering the region – and decided travelling unobtrusively the safest course. So I walked the most part of the distance and rode the rest on beasts caught and tamed, or thieved (I’d nothing to trade) from settlements lining my route. It was a wearying trek, and fraught, for I had to stay watchful against attacks by wild folk and beasts. At first, I went unarmed; most were cowed by the yowling I made as they closed (I’d learnt to make loud unearthly noises in my throat) and my freakish looks – I was garbed in loose robes, as is the custom of the Himalayan peoples, but also, as protection from the sun’s relentless blaze (which is more intense these days, than ever before), wore a sackcloth cowl and ancient ski-mask. Then, a few weeks into my journey, while crossing a large tract of dried-up lake bed, I was set on by a horde who, clad in feather cloaks, teeth filed to jags, faces daubed with bright pigment, hair slicked with grease, brandishing bones, came howling over the salt flats, out of the haze. They clubbed me down, hog-tied me, toted me back to a cavern under a large rock, once, I’d hazard, an island of the lake, their dwelling place, beat me some more, left me, thinking me dead, or nearly so, with only a young couple to watch over me, went out to seek more prey. There was no cruelty in it; they were starved, I was food. After a short time, my guards began groping each other, breathing hard, I struggled free of my bonds, overwhelmed them, staggered off. After that I armed myself with a tapering steel spar wrested from what looked like an old telecommunications rig, wielded it like a spear, used it to drive off foes. I’d been sore hurt by the cannibal tribe, was some days mending. Of course, I’m not ever in any real danger (save for from the fiend who hunts me), but wounds still cause me
pain. Another time, a few weeks after, as I was crossing a range of cragged peaks, a mountain lion padded up to me while I slept, no fear of the fire I’d set in the mouth of the cave where I’d laid down, and tore a gobbet from my thigh. I woke, in agony, and it went for my neck. We wrestled a time, but then I punched it repeatedly in the throat, buckled its windpipe, left it gasping, ran. I limped on the injured leg for days, and it festered, though finally it healed, as all my wounds, no matter how severe, do in time.
I also used my makeshift spear for hunting; mainly goats and swine, though occasionally other beasts. When I made a kill, which wasn’t that often, I’d feast till replete on the choicest cuts and offal, in revel, then cure the rest, by smoking, to carry with me. Once I brought down a small elephant, which gave me meat for some weeks. But it was rank and greasy, and I gagged on it as I forced it down. Most of the time though, I subsisted on roots, berries, nuts, and mushrooms, though I gave up eating these last somewhere in, what was, at one time, Eastern Europe, when I ate a toadstool and was in a bad way for several days after: shaking, sweating, guts aching, puking, bowels loose, and, the worst of it, dogged by vile gibbous forms, seen askance, that fleeted when I turned to look full on them. Perhaps these were mere figments, but I think the bane somehow gave me sight of the realm of horrors that lies alongside our world, but is wontedly mercifully occulted, that place I’d been forced to look on in the cavern beneath Spitalfields, that William had glimpsed on Hampstead Heath, and of which I’ll tell more as my tale unravels.
Crossing the plains of erstwhile Central Europe, I found that place, which had once been strewn with cities thronging with folk, but had been left a concrete, steel, and glass desert with civilization’s end, again teemed with life, had been overrun by plants and animals that had busted out of the parks and zoological gardens where they’d been penned, or had returned from elsewhere. Herds of fierce aurochs and wall-eyed wisents
roamed, grazing vast tracts of grassland, hunted by tribes of burly simple folk who rode swine and slept in hide tents; thickset rodents swam in lakes and rivers, flashing orange incisors; boars crashed through the thickets of forested swathes; beetles blundered through the grass underfoot, flowering bushes thrummed with wasps, bees, and hummingmoths, and midges harried at dusk. And the skies were also flocked with life. Geese, swans, crows, starlings, thrushes, hawks, buzzards, finches, gulls, magpies, and shrikes. And stranger kinds too. Once, though, when passing by a dead oak at sunset, I heard a loud ‘oop-oop-oop’ and, looking over, saw a hoopoe perched on one black bough, sickle beak darting this way and that, vivid crest lost against the lurid glow in the western sky. Another time a bearded vulture kept pace with me a stretch, wheeling overhead, till, feeling it an ill omen and a sign that might give me away, I killed a sheep and laid out its carcass; last I saw of that carrion bird, it soared on an updraft, dropping mutton bones on to a pitted concrete slab, remnant of a road or runway, to crack them open, get at the marrow.
One evening, while making a fire to dry my clothes after crossing a wide river, once, I think, the Rhine, wading and swimming, I looked to the east and saw a man on horseback stark against the waning light there. I broke camp, pressed on, into the sunset and through the night, garments wet and clammy, risking a chill, ensuring I left as few tokens of my passage as I could, seeking a place of refuge. Hazard favoured, and, the following morning, as a red stain spread across the sky at my back, I came across, and nearly tumbled into, a shaft sunk into the ground. A ladder, rungs still holding firm, was bolted to one concrete wall. I clambered into the pit, reached the foot of the ladder. A little of the dawn light filtered down through ventilation ducts, and, once my eyes were accustomed to the gloom, I explored the place. It was dank, cramped, empty, bar a few metal chairs, and, strewn about, food tins long since bloated by the rot
of contents. I climbed out, tore down a knot of ivy and briar from a tree that stood near, dragged it back, and, descending the ladder again, pulled this tangle over the hole after me. I was four days hiding in the bunker. On the second, hooves drummed by overhead, and, listening at one of the grilles, I was sure I scented pipe smoke. I stood with my ear pressed to the vent, seized by dread, many hours, but the rider did not return.