Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

Dowling scrambled to his feet and joined me, pained expression on his face showing he doubted my sanity.

Elks scowled, face scarlet, with the exertion of running ahead, I wagered. What had he thought, I wondered, as the dogs led him closer and closer to Wilson’s house? I heard anger in his snarl and saw the fear in his eyes.

‘James Josselin is in that outhouse,’ I cried. ‘We weren’t trying to escape. We came to Shyam to find James Josselin and we found him in that barn.’

The bald man laughed. ‘James Josselin hiding in Shyam,’ he snorted. Yet he let his hound pull him towards the broken door.

‘Keep out of there,’ Elks warned, edging sideways. ‘Take these two to the cage and we will deal with them later.’

‘I tell you Josselin is inside the barn,’ I said again. ‘Chained and manacled. Elks has held him there this last week, planning to bury him alive. There is a grave there. Just look.’

The bald man stepped about Elks, assessing him warily as he did so. I stepped sideways, hands still raised, so I could see inside the barn. Josselin stood stiff, watching the bald man approach with imperious disdain.

‘This cannot be James Josselin,’ the bald man exclaimed, regarding Josselin’s filthy naked body with disgust. ‘This is some lunatic.’

‘If I wasn’t chained I would bite off your face,’ Josselin growled,

eyes blazing. Blood covered his shoulders, thick and sticky. ‘You are John Smythe and I will not forget it.’

The bald man took a quick step backwards, like he trod on a snake.

‘Enough!’ Elks roared. ‘This man is indeed a lunatic. I caught him trying to enter the village last night and imprisoned him. He had no clothes when I discovered him.’

‘You didn’t tell us,’ Smythe replied.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nor did he tell you he has James Josselin’s clothes hidden in a chest in his house.’

Elks turned to me furious, then threw the leash from his hand. The dog stood motionless for a moment, shoulders hunched, head lowered, teeth bared. It crept forward, eyeing first Dowling then me. Then it sprang at Dowling. Dowling threw up an arm to protect himself and the dog sunk its teeth into his flesh. He opened his mouth but didn’t scream, just grabbed at the dog’s nose with his free hand. I grabbed the dog’s shoulders but it wouldn’t move, hard muscle oblivious to my feeble pawings.

‘Release your dogs,’ Elks shouted.

I turned to see the ginger-haired man pull in his hound and reach for its collar, preparing to set it upon me. I froze, torn between the sound of frenzied snarling behind and the sight of two furious beasts, slavering for my blood.

‘No,’ called Smythe. ‘Hold them.’ He glowered at Elks. ‘First we find out what this is all about.’

‘Call the dog off!’ I yelled at Smythe. ‘Call it off now!’

The bald man whistled, sharp. The hound released its grip immediately and trotted away, head bowed, tail between its legs. The ginger-haired man grabbed at its collar.

Black holes peppered Dowling’s arm, from which leaked long

scarlet streams. He stared at the mess, pale-faced, and cradled it against his chest.

Elks pulled the club from his belt and strode into the barn. He drew back his arm and aimed a mighty blow at Josselin’s skull. Josselin turned and took the force of it across his spine, falling to the ground with a groan.

‘Put down the club, Thomas,’ Smythe commanded.

Elks turned, fury seething from every pore of his skin. ‘What did you say to me?’

Smythe stood his ground. ‘How long have you held him here, Thomas?’ he asked, quiet.

‘A week,’ I replied, when Elks did not.

‘A week,’ Smythe repeated. ‘And in that time more than forty people have died.’

Elks looked ready to erupt, red face now white. ‘What are you saying, Smythe?’ he hissed.

‘I’m saying that the Reverend needs to be told what you have done,’ Smythe replied. ‘You shall not kill James Josselin, for that would be the work of the Devil.’

‘The Devil!’ Elks exclaimed, swinging about to face Josselin again, who had somehow managed to regain his feet. ‘

Josselin

is the Devil, and I shall slay him!’ He marched forwards, club held high and swung again.

This time Josselin stepped neatly aside, evading the lunge, swivelling, and kicking at Elks with his right leg, catching him on the ribs. Elks tripped and fell to the ground. He rolled onto his back, dazed. Josselin leapt onto his chest, straddling him, placing the chain between his wrists across Elks’ throat.

‘So, Thomas,’ Josselin whispered. ‘My grave or yours?’

Elks tried to reach him with his club, but Josselin pinned his biceps with his knees, denying him leverage.

I waited for someone to intervene, but no one did. Josselin pulled the chain tighter and pushed harder. Elks struggled to breathe, face purple. Josselin watched him squirm, intent, breathing steady, tongue between his teeth.

‘Take the club,’ he whispered.

No one moved.

‘Someone take the club,’ he repeated.

Elks’ eyes protruded from his skull and he gritted his teeth. I stepped forwards and caught the club before it hit the ground.

Josselin sat up straight, relieving the pressure on Elks’ neck. Then he leant backwards to address the men behind, allowing his groin to slide forward onto Elks’ face. ‘Some clothes please, gentlemen,’ he requested. ‘I imagine Elks has the keys to my chains inside his coat.’

With a last wriggle on Elks’ mouth and nose, he stood up straight. ‘I shall need a wash, besides,’ he said. ‘I stink.’

Smythe found the keys in Elks’ pocket, releasing Josselin from the chains, using them to shackle Elks. Josselin inspected the sores upon his wrists and about his waist with detached curiosity afore turning his attention to Elks once more.

‘You are a bad man, Thomas,’ he said quietly.

Elks glared but did not reply.

He bowed to me and to Dowling. ‘To you two gentlemen I am in debt.’

He stuck out his chest and drew back his filthy, matted hair with both hands, oblivious to his nakedness. He watched Elks test his shackles, red-faced and rigid, before shaking a finger at a pile of old clothes the bald man offered him. ‘Upon reflection I think it best to wash in the river while one of you fetch my clothes from the chest in Elks’ house.’

He turned away and strode most royally in the direction of the village, followed by a short procession, Elks at its tail, on his own leash now, walking with the dogs.

Dowling and I walked ten paces behind, my heart full of hope that we might walk straight out of Shyam and back to Colchester, there to find Withypoll died of plague.

The procession stopped at the river for Josselin to wash. He stepped into the water up to his groin and cleansed himself of filth, prising cakes of blood and straw from his arms with long fingernails, washing the grime from his face and tending to his wounds. When he plunged his hair into the slow-moving water, a brown stain formed, covering the surface of the stream. The wardens watched entranced as a handsome young man emerged from beneath the grime; white-skinned and angular. Red sores coated his legs and forearms.

Elks approached Smythe while all watched Josselin, transfixed. Elks whispered, hands held forward, but Smythe moved away without meeting his eye.

The ginger-haired man arrived, panting, with Josselin’s clothes, just as Josselin clambered onto the bank. Josselin pulled on his drawers as

if no one watched, then a flowing, silk shirt and blue, silk breeches. The sun reached halfway up the sky and the air was warm. Josselin handed his long black coat back to the ginger-haired man, who took it like his servant. With his long, dark hair pulled back off his face and tied behind his shoulders, Josselin resembled the King himself.