Alys Clare: Ashes of the Elements

Into the profound silence of the forest at midnight came a sound that should not have been there.

The man raised his head. Still panting from his recent exertions, he tried to quieten his rasping breath, the better to hear.

He waited.

Nothing.

Spitting on his hands and preparing to go back to work, he tried to summon a wry smile. It must have been his imagination. Or perhaps some night creature, innocently abroad. And his own nerves, plus the great forest’s reputation, had done the rest.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he renewed his efforts. The sack was already getting nice and heavy; a little bit longer and he would-

The sound came again.

And this time it went on.

He stood up, the sweat of toil on his forehead and his back suddenly icy cold, his damp skin breaking out in goosepimples. In a flash of intuition, he thought, I should not be here. As if some dark and ancient memory were stirring, he realised, with sick dread, that the midnight forest was a forbidden place. For very good reason did people fear to venture into it …

Ruthlessly he stopped that terrifying train of thought before it could undermine him. Carefully putting aside the axe with which he had been hacking at the fallen oak’s thick roots and lower trunk, he clambered out of the hollow he had dug under the majestic old tree. Then, using the thick ground cover of early summer to conceal himself, he gathered his courage and began to creep towards the source of the sound.

Because, if this were someone having him on, enjoying themselves at his expense, then he was going to make sure they knew he wasn’t amused. If it were Seth and Ewen, God damn their eyes, sneaking out and spying on him — on him! the brains behind the whole thing! — then he’d get even. He’d …

But the sound was louder now, increasing in insistence so that the man could no longer block it out. Could no longer try to tell himself that it was Seth and Ewen, playing tricks.

Seth and Ewen couldn’t make that sound. It was doubtful, really, that any human could.

The man ceased his furtive crawling. Ceased all movement and all thought, as the strange, eerie humming seemed to sweep over him and absorb him into itself.

He felt himself begin to smile. Ah, but it was a lovely bit of singing! Well, it was more like chanting, really, like the very sweetest sounds of some abbey choir, only better. As if it didn’t come from men or women, but from the cold, distant stars themselves.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to move forward again. He was no longer creeping stealthily through the undergrowth; enchanted, he was obeying a summons he barely recognised. Straight-backed, head held high, he strode through the ancient trees and the new green growth towards the open space that he could see ahead.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

Eyes round, mouth gone dry, he stared at the incredible sight. Lit by the full moon directly above the clearing, so that its bright rays bathed the scene as if intentionally, he watched in total amazement.

He’d never believed those old tales! He’d dismissed them as the ramblings of daft old women. Women like his own mother. And, latterly, his wife, who’d tried to stop him disappearing into the great Wealden Forest, especially by night, nagging on and on at him, over and over again till he’d had to hit her. But, even when he’d done so — broken her nose, that last time — she’d still persisted. Gone on telling him it wasn’t safe, wasn’t right.

Hah! He’d show her! Her, and the rest! They wouldn’t nag at him when they knew what he’d found!

And, anyway, even if there were some element of truth in their old legends, then it wasn’t quite the way they said it was. Wasn’t he here, now, witnessing with his own eyes the very proof that, for all that they still muttered about those dread things, they’d got it wrong?

He’d show them, all right! Just see if he didn’t! He’d-

He felt the gaze upon him as if it were a physical assault. His braggart thoughts came to an abrupt end as, screaming through his numbed mind, bursting from his mouth like a wail of agony, came the one word: ‘NO!’

Turning, bounding over brambles and tufts of tough grass, he raced away from the clearing. Running, panting, gasping, stumbling, he heard sounds of pursuit. He sneaked a quick look over his shoulder.

Nothing.

Nothing? But he could hear them!

Forcing his legs to work, he raced on. Oh, God, but it — they? — was all around him now, quietly, stealthily, menacingly, surrounding him with such a sense of threat that his sobbing breath came out as a terrified howl.

For still he could see nothing.

Heart hammering, legs and lungs in agony, he spurred himself on. Half a mile, a mile? He could not tell. The trees were thinning now, surely they were! A little further — not much, oh, not much further! — and he’d be in the open. Out on the grassy fringes of this ghastly forest, out in the clean, cool moonlight …

There was brightness ahead. As he ran on, stumbling in his desperate exhaustion, he could see the calm, sleeping land out there. As he passed the last few giant trees, he could even see the cross on the top of Hawkenlye Abbey’s church.

‘God help me, God help me, God help me,’ he chanted, repeating the words until they lost all meaning. Then, suddenly, he was out in the open, and, after the darkness beneath the thickly growing trees, the moon made the night as bright as day.

Ah, thank God. Thank God!

Safe now, and-

But what was that? A whistling noise, close by, speeding closer, closer.

The agonising pain as the spear drilled through the man’s body was intense but brief. For the spear’s point was sharp, and, thrown with deadly accuracy, it pierced his heart.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

In the small room which was Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye’s own sanctum, the Abbess leaned forward to refill her visitor’s mug.

‘May I pour you some more?’ she asked. ‘It is a good restorative, and I am aware that you-’

She broke off. It was hardly diplomatic, to remind her guest that she needed restoring.

‘You are aware that I have a tedious journey ahead of me and that I am far from being in the first flush of youth? Ah, Abbess, how right you are, on both counts!’ With a gutsy laugh, the woman held up her cup. ‘Yes, pour more for me. It is quite delicious.’

Relieved, the Abbess did as she was bid. ‘A concoction of Sister Euphemia’s,’ she said. ‘My infirmarer. She is skilled in the use of herbs. This wine she makes from balm, thyme and honey. It is popular with her patients.’

‘I have no doubt.’ The older woman glanced at the Abbess. ‘Some of whom, I dare say, are not above prolonging their sickness so as to go on receiving of Sister Euphemia’s bounty.’

‘Probably,’ Helewise agreed. ‘Although, in truth, our precious holy water remains our most popular medicine.’

‘Ah, yes, the holy water.’ The visitor sighed. ‘I had intended, as you know, to pray this morning at the Blessed Virgin Mother’s shrine, down in the vale. But I fear I will not have time.’