Alys Clare - Mist Over the Water

I stood in the soft light, staring round me. Where should I look first? Where might the pale monk be at this moment? The immediate thing was to get out of sight so that, with any luck, everyone would forget I was there in the abbey. Then I could pursue my quarry until either I found him or they found me and threw me out.

I slipped into the deep shadow cast by one of the new walls, already high above my head. Then I set about my exploration.

I had failed. I had tiptoed up what seemed like dozens of passages, and I had forced myself into countless hiding places when footsteps echoed and discovery loomed. Each time I had prayed that the footfalls would be those of the pale monk, and each time I had been disappointed. It was hopeless and I knew it.

I seemed to have gone round in a big circle, for now I was once again approaching the building site. Now only a couple of watchmen remained, seated either side of the brazier and muttering in low voices. I slipped behind a pillar, working out a route to the gate that would keep me out of their sight. Go there , I thought, to that ancient stretch of wall out in the middle of the site, then dodge over to the far side, keeping behind the screen made of the wooden falsework. It looked easy.

I gathered up my skirts and ran light-footed to the old wall. I was about to hurry on but just at that moment I sensed something snag at my attention. A stab of horrified fear sheared through me, instantly followed by pain so severe that it was all I could do not to cry out. Then I was assailed by a fury so great that it drove me to my knees.

I crouched on the ground, huddled down in the shadows. I covered my head with my arms in a futile attempt to defend myself, although I knew enough about the deep, dark mysteries of the spirit world to recognize that it was no living hand that threatened me. Slowly, the dread faded, and in time I was able to straighten up.

I stared at the ground around me. I could see the outline of the Saxon church; it had been quite small, with narrow aisles on the north and south side forming side chapels. It was the wall of the south side chapel that I stood beside. Immediately to my left, at the west end of the church, I could make out the scar where the foundations of the tower had been ripped out.

The wall of the south side chapel was where the old bones had been stored. Every bit of common sense and self-preservation told me to get out of there, but I watched, almost as if I were outside myself and a mere observer of my own actions, as my hand stretched out to investigate.

The shock went through me so fast that at first I thought it had come from whatever it was within the wall that I had just touched. An instant later, I realized that somebody stood beside me, someone warm-blooded, mortal, someone who had just grabbed my arm.

I spun round. He was white-faced, white-haired and his eyes — his strange, pale eyes — were wide with horror. He whispered, ‘Did you see it? Oh, is it true then? It really exists?’ Then his grip on my arm weakened, and I watched in horror as he slumped to the ground at my feet.

Gewis knew he must open his eyes. He had set out for what was left of the little Saxon church without permission, and if they found him there he would be punished. He did not understand why, any more than he understood any of what was happening to him. He’d been brought here, and he had to pretend he was a monk. His mother had approved, and they had told him he would be safe here. Safe from what? And how long would the threat last? Would he have to stay here for ever?

He groaned and, without his volition, his eyelids fluttered. No , he thought, no! It is better to remain unconscious, for reality is too much to bear .

Then he remembered where he was and what he had seen. The terror grabbed him in its fierce claws. Instinctively, he rolled himself into a ball, seeing again that looming, white shape with its face of horror and the blood, oh, the blood. .

Hands were on him, strong hands, and a scent of sweet oil was in his nostrils. ‘Do not screw up your limbs so violently,’ said a soft voice, ‘for you will do yourself damage.’

He froze. Had the spirit spoken? If he found the courage to open his eyes, would he see it bending over him, stretching out its hand to drag him into whatever hell it inhabited?

Ghosts do not speak soft words, the voice of reason said in his head. Nor do they smell of ginger and rosemary.

With what felt like a huge effort, he opened his eyes.

A young woman was leaning over him, her expression anxious. She wore a white wimple, and over it what looked like a black veil. A nun then. He stared back at her.

She was slender, her figure quite boyish. She was around his age, perhaps a little older. Her skin was very smooth, pale in the dim light. Her features were fine, the nose small and straight, the mouth wide and well formed. There was a haunting beauty in her face, and her watchful eyes held intelligence. Her eyes. . He stared into them, for they fascinated him. They must surely be blue, or perhaps green, but in the twilight they appeared silvery, the irises surrounded by a rim of indigo. .

It was the face of someone who watched carefully, observing others while holding back their own essence. It was a face that could easily make others uneasy.

Gewis, alarmed all over again, shrank back. But then she smiled, and suddenly everything changed. She reached down and stroked his shoulder, and under her touch he felt his limbs unclench. She went on stroking him for some time, rather like an intuitive groom with a frightened horse, and a sense of calm spread through him. Finally, he felt able to speak. ‘Who are you, sister?’ His voice was barely above a whisper and, to his shame, it shook.

Her smile deepened. ‘I’m actually not a nun. My name’s Lassair and I’ve come to look for you.’

‘ Me? ’

‘Yes.’

‘But why?’ He fought down the sudden surge of optimism. What good could one skinny girl do against an abbey full of monks?

She leaned closer, speaking quietly into his ear. ‘My cousin saw you being bundled into the abbey, and they tried to murder him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s safe now, but others have died. Whatever secret they are trying to keep clearly centres around you and is worth killing for.’

He shook his head in frustration. ‘I don’t understand!’ he moaned. ‘I wish I did, I wish I could explain to you what’s happening, but I can’t!’

She was staring at him intently. ‘Who are you?’ she breathed. ‘What is this mystery that surrounds you?’

‘ I don’t know! ’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you think I haven’t been wondering the same thing myself? There’s nothing special about me — I’m a carpenter’s son from Fulbourn!’ His voice had risen with his anxiety.

‘Shhhh,’ she soothed him. ‘Hush, or the night watchmen will hear. Can’t you think of anything that-’

She heard the footsteps before he did and, tensing, drew back right against the ancient wall. He met her eyes; hers were wide with alarm. ‘They’re coming!’ she hissed.

He got up and cautiously peered around the wall. His worst fears were realized: the quartet of burly monks who now strode out across the cathedral site were the four who had brought him to the abbey.

‘Go!’ he said to her. ‘Quickly, now — get away from here!’

She did not move. ‘What about you?’

He smiled grimly. ‘I’m allowed to be here in the abbey, for they seem to have turned me into a monk. You, on the other hand. .’ He did not think he needed to finish the sentence.

She understood. ‘I will not abandon you,’ she said urgently. ‘I promise. I’ll help you if I can.’ She was already on her feet, crouched to spring away.