Pip Vaughan-Hughes - Relics

The night air chilled my wet robes until I shook with cold. My wet sandals chafed against my feet and ankles. The path had become a mire and after another mile faded into a mass of blackthorn. I tried to find a way around, but the thicket seemed to be interminable so I began to fight my way through. The branches, each armed with a hundred inch-long thorns, were as unyielding as iron, and I had to turn around and push my way along backwards, taking the slashes and stabs of the thorns on my cowl, back and, worse, my bare ankles. Adric's satchel became hopelessly entangled and in near-panic I struggled free of it, abandoning my last apple and the dregs of beer. I was crying with pain and frustration by the time I burst through the last tangle and fell over into moonlight on open ground. I was in an overgrown meadow mounded with dead bracken. A stone wall stood ahead, and I waded through the crackling foliage, climbed the wall and looked around.

I had reached the high ridge. The sea was a dark blue line to my left. To my right, the South Hams rolled away eastwards. I turned and saw, away in the distance, the dark wall of the moors, the great hump of Ugborough Beacon with its topknot of boulders standing out before the line of higher, more distant hills. Under that hill was my home. My father and mother rested in the churchyard there. The image of a peat fire, burned down to a handful of bright jewels in the hearth, flashed before my eyes so strongly that I could all but feel its heat on my face. But it was an illusion that only served to make my freezing robes more cold, and my loneliness even deeper. Then I remembered Adric's words, and found some glimmer of comfort, enough at least to warm me for what I must do next. There was a grim walk still ahead, and no welcome, no safety in sight.

So I turned my back to the moors, and did not look behind me again, although I could feel their presence there. I crept along now, picking my way through the bracken and gorse. The moon was sinking. Somewhere on the path I had exchanged my confidence for a nagging fear, and my ears were constantly pricked for the least sound. I was not alone in the night, of course. Other creatures were abroad. Bats piped above me. Things rustled in the bracken. I thought I heard voices and saw, over a low ridge, a farmhouse some way off. There was a light burning in a low shed – someone woken up for some nocturnal task and cursing it. I gave the farm a wide berth and had left it behind when from somewhere in front of me came a horrifying shriek. High and empty, it trembled for a second and died, only to come again as a deathly, sobbing wail. I threw myself to the ground. Behind me, the farm dogs began to bay. Face-down in the grass, I realised that the sound was not murder or rape, or some blood-drinking phantom. It was foxes in heat, a sound I had heard often as a boy. Picking myself up again I almost laughed to think what a town-man I had become, not to know the night-song of the fox. But it is a bitter, human noise, and it mocked me as I tramped on towards the sea.

My footsteps were heavy now, driven by fear again. But fear drives one as fast as hope, and before long I had crossed the track that led from Capton to Downton – at least I hoped it was Capton church that I could see over to my right. Now I was walking through pastures, and sheep scattered before me like white clouds in the night. It was almost dawn when I came to the steep slope that dropped down to the town. The track fell away into darkness. The air was still, and the world seemed to be gathering its powers for sunrise and trembling in anticipation. Above and before me the sky was the deepest blue. This was my sky. The morning star, an ember of pale fire on the horizon, had bid me good morrow every day of my childhood. The air was full of the sweet musty scent of the moors. Then a bat whirred around my head, squeaking like a tiny lost soul for whom the dawn held no relief. I stumbled on down the Dartmouth road.

It is a pretty place, this nest of rogues and pirates. The wharves line one long bank of the river, and fine houses look out over the broad estuary towards the little village of Kingswear, a tumble of cob on the far side. There is a castle to guard the river's mouth, and a rich church in which thieves and fishermen can salve their consciences. I had been there once before, on the Abbot's business, keeping Treasurer Ivo company as he took delivery of some embroidered hangings from Quimper. Then I had hovered around the quay, watching men unload fish, chests and bales from the boats. As I stood absorbing all the sights and sounds, a fisherman yelled something and tossed a fat, glistening lump at my feet. I looked down into the face of a gargoyle: a great slash of jagged-edged mouth, bulging eyes and a tangle of horns and spines. 'There's a demon to play with, young master!' the man cackled, and I looked again, shocked, to see a fish, just a fish. A monstrous one, to be sure, but – ' 'tis a monk-fish, boy! Grey and ugly all right, but the flesh is sweet…' He smacked his lips in a lewd, fishy kiss. Furious, I lashed out with my foot, booting the horrible thing, which tumbled in the air and caught the man on the temple, knocking him over into the hold of his boat. Then there was much cursing and laughter from the other boats, and Ivo chose that moment to drag me back to our wagon, his slender money-counting fingers twisting my ear.

But now I crept past the sleeping watchman at the gate and into the steep alleys that led down to the waterside. Only the fat wharfside cats noticed me. The church loomed up on my right. I glanced up at the turret and the motion set my head whirling. Slumped against the churchyard wall, dead-tired and bone-hungry, I saw what the future held if I gave up now. The watch would find me, drag me to gaol and throw me into the stocks as a vagrant. The townsmen would have their fun, then Sir Hugh would cut my throat.

Food was just a wish, so sleep would have to do. I managed to scramble up and over the churchyard wall, scraping my hands, and fell in a heap on the other side. I crawled through the grass and nettles towards the dark pavilion of a yew-tree whose branches drooped to the ground around it. Brushing through the sweet-smelling leaves and into the little space beyond, I crumpled onto the litter of twigs and moss and was asleep in a moment.

It was day when I woke. The sun was trying to shine through a curtain of drizzle. Drops of water were rolling down a branch above me and falling onto my robe. A big patch on my chest was soaked. I was well rested, and wondered how long I'd been asleep. Given the weather, I reckoned I'd been out for a whole day and night. I peered out between the yew fronds, and jerked back in surprise. Two men were standing a few yards away from my hiding place, and as I watched they hefted shovels and began to dig. I cursed silently. I was trapped, at least for a while, and I was starving. To make matters worse a big earthenware jug and a leather satchel sat on the ground next to the gravediggers. I began to imagine their contents. Beer, and salt pork? Oatcakes? Pasties, perhaps? It was unbearable. My belly growled, then roared. I stuffed a corner of my soggy robe into my mouth and chewed.

The men were hard at work, and the ground must have been soft, as they made good progress. They began to sink down amongst the grave-mounds. First their knees, then their thighs, then their belts disappeared from view. I knew what I was going to do. It seemed to take an age, but at last the gravediggers were deep enough that when they bent, they bobbed out of sight. I blessed the person whose grave this was. He must have been important, or else his grave would not be so deep. And the men were reaching the six-foot mark. All I could see were the shovel blades as they flung earth out of the hole. Now was my moment. I bolted out from under the tree, grabbed flagon and satchel and hurled myself up and over the wall.