David Wishart: White Murder

‘There’s a kettle of water on the boil. I’ll bring it out to you.’ He went round to the lean-to kitchen.

Perilla joined me. We’d slept in our warmest tunics, and she’d slipped on a thick mantle with a cloak over it. ‘All set?’ I said.

She shivered. ‘It certainly does get cold up here, doesn’t it?’

‘You’re the one who wanted to see Etna.’

‘Stop acting so smug. It’s too early in the day.’

I grinned. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had a wash and a hot breakfast. And I have to admit I’m impressed so far.’

‘It is impressive, isn’t it?’ She was looking over at the cone. The sun had risen a notch or so higher, and the sky above the mountain was beginning to turn a deep blue. No clouds, either, and the bank of mist was beginning to thin. ‘Glad we came?’

‘Ask me that when we get back, lady.’

She gave me a quick kiss. Histrio reappeared with the steaming kettle and a basin. We took turns washing – just face and hands, but it warmed us up and we felt fresher – then went in for breakfast.

There ain’t nothing better than new bread and omelettes made from eggs straight out of the hens.

Half an hour later the guy turned up with the mules: one for each of us plus a fourth with saddlebags for the food and extra cloaks. Their breath steamed in the morning air. The village was getting busier now – the local farmers were heading off to the outlying fields where there were weeds to be cleared and late vines to be pruned – and the women were out grinding the day’s corn into meal. The air smelled of wood-smoke and pine resin. Old Tithonus from the evening before went past with a mattock over his shoulder and gave us a cheery wave. Horace would’ve been in ecstasies.

We mounted the mules and set off. Muleback isn’t exactly the most dignified way to travel, but it’s marginally faster than walking. Also, the beasts seemed to know which among the branching paths to choose without all that much guidance. It’s always good to feel that you’re in the hands – hooves – of professionals, and these little buggers evidently knew their business.

‘You come up here often?’ I asked Histrio. He half-turned: although we were less than a quarter mile beyond the village the path had narrowed too much to ride abreast so we were nose to tail in a short line.

‘Maybe about five, six times a year, spring to autumn’ he said. ‘Like I told you, Ox Valley’s a popular alternative to the cone, but you sometimes get the occasional tourist who wants to do both. In which case we take the southern route and come back down this way.’

‘It’s certainly beautiful countryside,’ Perilla said.

It was. We were still passing through fields and vineyards, but as we got further from Crocinium I noticed more orchards and fruit trees. Chestnuts, too. There seemed to be a lot of chestnuts.

‘You won’t notice a lot of difference until we get higher up, ma’am,’ Histrio said. ‘We’ve still a while before the main lava fields. Enjoy it while you can.’

We rode in silence for a couple of miles. The sun was fully up now, sucking the moisture from the ground, and it was warmer, but sure enough the landscape was beginning to change, becoming more broken with the orchards giving way to clumps of oak, beech and pine. Still the chestnuts, though, and the local farmers – there had to be some, at least – had cleared patches of undergrowth away to grow catch-crops of corn and vegetables. We’d just passed one of these when Histrio pulled up and pointed.

‘That’s the first of the lava,’ he said. ‘Just a small section, but there’ll be a lot more of it from here on.’

I looked. The gradual slope to our left – towards the mountain – was thickly overgrown with ferns and broom, but on the other side of the path where the ground rose sharply was a long stretch of blackish, discoloured stone like the edge of a wave that had broken against the hillside and frozen where it had settled. The path was different, too: stonier, with patches of black sand and gravel with only the occasional blade of grass pushing through the surface.

‘How old would that be?’ I said.

‘Who knows?’ Histrio said. ‘The lower stretches on the southern route are a lot more noticeable because the undergrowth has had less of a chance to re-establish itself. This is old stuff. Mind you, like I say we’ll see a lot more of it shortly.’

We did. As the path rose and we edged closer to the mountain the trees thinned further until we were passing through mostly scrub, broken by long stretches of scree either side that got wider and wider the further we went until they were more like black rivers of stone flowing left to right across our direction of travel. Etna was much closer now, taking up most of the skyline. There were clouds – or maybe it was smoke – gathering above the summit. I noticed, too, that most of the birds had disappeared.

The ground began to rise more sharply. There wasn’t much greenery now, let alone trees, just the occasional clump of bracken or cactus clinging to the surrounding rocks or filling the hollows. No birds, no insects, hardly any signs of life at all. The mules slowed their pace to a steady plod, their hooves crunching on dark gravel, and that was the only sound. We still had the sun – the sky was an almost perfect cloudless blue – but I felt myself begin to shiver, and the hairs were rising on the back of my neck. I looked back at Perilla. She obviously felt the same. This was a terrible place, made even more terrible by the thought of what lay just below us: a dead, dreary landscape littered with smashed and jagged boulders and ugly lumps of black rock streaked and stained with red and orange and yellow – every colour but green. If the actual cone itself was worse – and by all accounts it was – then I was glad we hadn’t gone that way.

‘This is the scenic route, pal?’ I said to Histrio.

He grinned and reined in his mule. ‘It’s not too pleasant, is it?’ he said. ‘We’ve done well, in fact we’re nearly there. The valley’s just round the next bend.’

Thank Jupiter for that. It’d been an experience, sure, but not one I’d want to repeat. I turned to Perilla. ‘You okay?’

She was looking as grim as I felt. Histrio might be cheerful enough, and the mules didn’t seem all that concerned, but then they were locals and used to it. A gold piece to come up here suddenly seemed dear at the price; me, I’d pay good money to be back where the world wasn’t one great slag heap. ‘Yes, thank you, Marcus,’ she said. ‘It’s…quite striking, isn’t it?’

‘Like hell’s antechamber,’ I said. ‘And I’m not kidding, either.’ I wasn’t: surroundings like those take all the bounce out of you.

She managed a smile. ‘Fair description.’

‘Ready for the last bit?’

‘Of course.’

We rounded the bend…

If we’d been in hell’s antechamber, we’d come within sight of hell itself. I had to admit Ox Valley was impressive, but it made me almost physically sick. Ahead of us was a huge amphitheatre which stretched ahead and to the right as far as I could see, ringed with cloud and bounded by sheer cliffs of black rock. I stared.

‘Sweet holy gods!’

Histrio had dismounted. ‘We go on foot from here,’ he said.

I swallowed. ‘Uh…where to, pal?’

‘The best view’s up ahead.’ He stooped and picked up two or three fair-sized stones, ‘Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.’

Yeah, right. He led the way, and Perilla and I followed. The path – what was left of it – took us over the brow and on to a wide shelf of rock. I stopped, but Histrio went on until he was standing almost on the very lip.

‘That’s Ox Valley,’ he said.