Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

Dowling clambered to his feet. ‘We follow.’

I took his lead, head heavy with lack of sleep and numbed shock. I had no desire to follow Elks lest it was to find out where he lived, but could find no words to debate the case.

We paused at the stile afore hurrying about the perimeter of the pond. Two clerics stood at the bars of the cage, their heaving sobs betraying the shattered ruins of their faith. Dowling didn’t spare them

even a glance, marching forward with grim determination.

Howe and Elks were easy to follow, the steady slithering of the corpse upon the forest floor marking their journey. We followed at a distance, sticking to the early morning shadow at the side of the path. Daylight stabbed through the treetops as if searching for the perpetrators of the terrible sin.

Halfway to Buxton’s house the noise stopped. Elks said something to Howe afore disappearing into the trees to our left and Howe resumed his steady trudge up the main track. We ran to the point where Elks departed, as fast as we could without making a noise, not daring to attract Howe’s attentions. I put my fingers in my ears, unable to bear the sound of the woman’s feet bumping off tree roots and broken branches.

At last we reached the bend. The path to our left wound down through thick undergrowth like a ribbon, between beech tree and birch, into a gloomy basin where the young, morning light struggled to penetrate. We stepped down the hill as fast as we could, wary now we had no sense where Elks might be. A branch hit me hard across the forehead.

Dowling walked faster, nose thrust forward like a sniffing dog. He pointed out a narrow opening in the undergrowth I would scarce have noticed, a narrow track sheltered by giant fern. ‘He turned off again here,’ he whispered.

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘He is headed towards Isaak Wilson’s house,’ Dowling replied. ‘The house sits another hundred paces down this path, and Wilson died twelve months ago.’

‘The plague found him here?’

‘Don’t talk of the plague,’ Dowling snapped, voice tight.

My foot slipped upon the rolling earth and I nearly fell, grasping at Dowling to stop myself falling.

‘You walk like an infant,’ Dowling growled, righting me roughly then letting me go. ‘Be mindful, else he will hear you.’

I clenched my jaw and concentrated on the ground beneath my feet, paying attention to the roots protruding from the dirt. At last the ground flattened. We came to the edge of a small clearing, in the middle of which stood another stone house and two wooden outhouses. Elks was gone, but light shone from the main window.

‘Isaak Wilson’s house,’ Dowling muttered. ‘With someone else’s candle in the window.’

We burrowed into the thick undergrowth, easing our way through the clutching bramble. Elks had not had the dog with him, I realised, heart suddenly cold. Was the dog here? It couldn’t be; why would he have left it at the house? He must have been on his way home when he came across the affected woman. The dog would be at the barricades with the other wardens. I prayed it was so and made extra effort to tread silently.

We found a trunk so thick we could both lean against it. The candle danced, flickered and eventually died. Colours came to life as the sun climbed high, and the earth warmed up. I fell asleep, at last, head rested against Dowling’s heavy shoulder.

I woke alone, lain upon my side, hungry. Sitting bolt upright I looked for Dowling, finding only flattened ground, cold to the touch. Staggering to my feet I saw the house through the hedge. To my left now led a long trail of flattened gorse, lined on either side by low bushes, branches broken off and snapped by a beast the size of a great bull. I followed the trail of debris and found Dowling stood next to a tree, peering towards the back of the house.

‘Is he in there?’ I whispered, stretching my stiff limbs.

‘Aye,’ said Dowling. ‘He stirred himself a few minutes ago. I reckon he’s about to leave.’

‘What else have you found?’

Dowling rubbed his neck. ‘One of the outhouses is derelict, the other is secured with a new lock.’ He turned. ‘Move. Back to where we were. Quickly.’ He pushed me up the path, towards the giant tree trunk.

The door opened and Elks strode forth, swinging a club like he expected to use it, brown hair hanging heavy about his ears, long face bereft of mercy. He looked fresh and well rested, full of vigorous intent. I tucked myself deeper into the cover as he strode past, up the slope and away into the woods. Once he was gone I shuffled to my feet and forced myself to stand straight.

‘He won’t be gone long,’ I predicted. ‘He’ll go straight to Buxton’s house to check on us. When he finds us gone he’ll track us down with his dogs.’

‘If Josselin is here, then he is in the outhouse,’ said Dowling. He led the way to a low wooden building without windows, wide heavy door bolted from the outside.

‘Built strong,’ I remarked, rubbing my hand against the rough planks.

‘Aye,’ Dowling agreed, ‘but a long time ago.’ He pulled at the padlock, a squat heavy beast with a flap over the keyhole. ‘The lock is strong, but not the hinges.’

He let the lock drop against the door and pointed to the top hinge, a simple dovetail with six screws, all rusted. The wood was brittle and dry. ‘We just need a lever.’

He strode across the clearing to the house. No lock to contend with here, for the door was open. The air was musty, the light poor. A heavy table occupied the middle of the room, with four chairs, three of which sat flush against the side of it. Of more interest were the two loaves of bread and a plate of dried beef.

I poked my head into the back room while chewing. Elks wasn’t a clean man. A chamber pot stood full in the middle of the floor and the bed stank most foul.

Dowling turned from the unlit fireplace with a poker in his hand. ‘Here.’

‘What will we find?’ I wondered aloud, approaching the outhouse once more.

‘There is little point in guessing.’ Dowling sighed. ‘Though if Wilson died without releasing his animals, we should be able to smell it from Shyam. I reckon this is Elks’ work.’

He stabbed at the wood about the top hinge with the end of the poker. I prayed it wouldn’t take long, still fearful of Elks and his dogs. Nor did it, for Dowling worked in a mad frenzy, chopping at a crack in the door with the blunt iron bar until it widened enough for him to jam the poker in and tear the wood apart. Once the top hinge was loose, he prised the door far enough away from the jamb to grip it in his hands. He pulled with all his weight, grunting red-faced. When the bottom hinge gave way with a shriek, we were through, into another pocket of Hell.

The room was bare, floor strewn with rotting straw, tiny shards of light providing scant illumination from between the weathered planks. At the end of the room squatted a man, chained to a low iron bar running the width of the outhouse, in front of two long troughs.

‘Mind the hole,’ he grinned, wrists manacled to his waist, nodding to our right. ‘That is to be my grave.’

Someone had dug a large hole, six feet long and a yard across.

He leant forwards, legs crossed, naked body filthy, the tip of his yard resting limp against the straw. A chain connected the iron band at his waist to a four-foot iron bar. The stench of piss and faeces soaked the air. He stared with bright eyes, mouth fixed in a broad smile, sinister and humourless. Long dark hair hung wet about his shoulders and plastered his forehead, yet the eyes burnt.

I took care not to approach closer than the length of the chain. ‘Your grave, you say?’

‘Aye,’ he replied, leery. ‘Elks dug it for me. He thinks the sight of it will drive me mad.’ He snorted. ‘I enjoyed watching him dig it. The ground is hard.’