James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

She found the path easily enough, and very shortly she found herself alone in the quiet afternoon, the path winding around toward a distant wood. After she had walked for fifteen minutes, the rectory itself appeared ahead, built of black stone, apparently ancient and fallen into disrepair, the slate roof of the house overshadowed by great trees. A broad lawn surrounded the house, the lawn cut by a brook that ran out of the wood. She stood for a time looking into the clear water, at the smooth stones along the bottom, her mind disengaged by the idyllic scene before her. There was a path along the side of the brook, but where it went she didn’t know, nor where the limekilns lay, with their mysterious smugglers’ tunnels.

Abruptly there sounded a muted singing, apparently coming from within the rectory, and she saw now that a wagon stood behind the structure and that a horse was tethered nearby. She made her way toward the wagon, finding herself looking into the rectory through an open door at a very old man who was applying plaster to a decayed frieze on a wall. She watched him work for a time, seeing the care that he was putting into it, working with a number of small trowels and scrapers. He stood back to survey his work, taking a pipe and a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket. It was then that she knocked on the door.

He turned and said, “Hello, ma’am,” cheerfully enough, and began packing tobacco into his pipe, shreds falling to the floor.

“Are you the caretaker?” she asked.

He shrugged. “After a fashion. The old place keeps falling down – bits and pieces of it – and I do what I can to put it back up. It’s a scrimshaw, you might say – something like.” He lit the pipe, drew on it, tamped it, and lit it again.

“It’s very fine work to my mind,” she told him. “The house appreciates it, you know. They develop something of a soul, houses do, over the years. I dare say this one’s watched the centuries pass.”

He smiled at her now. “That it has. I’m not fond of seeing good things in decline, you might say, although comes a time when a body can’t stop it happening. If it’s not drink and the devil, then it’ll be something else that’ll have done with us sooner or later. What might I do for you?”

“I’m looking for directions to an old inn, very notorious, called Shade House.”

He shook his head. “You oughtn’t to go near it, ma’am. It’s far enough into the marsh to be isolated-like. It’s got an evil reputation, and well deserved. If it has a soul, it’s a black one. It’s been damned these many long years.”

“I’m not planning on walking the entire distance,” she said. “Partway, that’s all. I’ve been told the wood is very beautiful in summer. I might pick a mushroom if I see it. My Bill particularly fancies a mushroom.”

“Ah,” he said, apparently happy with this. “Look for the bloody beefsteak,” he said. “Do you know it?”

“No. Sounds perfectly awful.”

“None better, ma’am. Vast great thing, grows on the sides of oaks, the older the more succulent. You cut it and it bleeds, believe it or not. Fry it in butter, and you’ll have something, you and Bill. For your own good, though, turn around and return after an hour’s walking. You’ll have seen what there is to see, and you’ll be safe from the men who frequent Shade House – smugglers and pirates, the lot of them.”

“I thank you for your concern, sir.”

“Bob Mayhew, at your service.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and tipped his hat.

“Harriet Laswell, at yours. People have called me Mother Laswell this last age. I’m pleased to meet you.”

He nodded at her. “Easy enough to follow the stream, Mother. I’ve done it many a time. There’s trout in the deeper pools that’ll take a fly in the early morning.”

“I’ll just be on my way, then,” she said. “It’s good to have met you.” He nodded again, and she left him to his work, setting out across the lawn again and into the shadow of the wood.

The path along the stream was covered with grass and moss, for the most part, although it was sometimes rocky, and now and then she had to push her way past encroaching bushes. She covered ground at a good pace despite that, however, and there was enough shade so that the warmth would have been pleasant enough, had she not been in such a hurry. She cast her mind roundabout her, opening it up to the chance that she might sense remnants of Bill’s having passed this way, but nothing came to her except for a tolerably lonesome feeling.

Several hundred yards along the brook, she saw what appeared to be brickwork off through the trees – almost certainly old limekilns, apparently falling down, their arches half-hidden by willow and hazel. There was something both mysterious and morbid about the ruins, abandoned for so many years and now being reclaimed by the undergrowth. She walked toward them, looking for the tunnel mouth that Bill had told her about. There was a muddy, low area in front of the kilns, and she stopped before it, not wanting to foul her shoes merely out of curiosity. She saw, however, that someone had, for there was a line of footprints, half full of water, which led away into the midst of the kilns and brush. There was a patch of darkness beyond, perhaps the tunnel, perhaps dense shadow. She was quite certain that the footprints were Bill’s, having seen their muddy image on the kitchen floor often enough at Hereafter Farm, and she suddenly wished that he hadn’t gone alone into the tunnel, if in fact he had.

She hastened back to the path and set out again. She had a distinct presentiment of danger now, or if not danger, something amiss, something troubled, and she made an effort to clear her mind in order to let particulars into it, and although nothing more suggested itself, the presentiment didn’t fade. She was aware that the sun was lower in the sky, and wondered how long she’d been afoot. She had no idea of turning back until she had reason to, but she didn’t want to rush headlong into any foolishness, either. The path crossed the brook – not much of a ford, just a half dozen barely submerged stones. Immediately she slipped from one of them and plunged in with both feet, calf-deep. She slogged to the shore and went on, thinking that the cold water felt good on her tired feet, which were growing painful again. Bill had been right to leave her behind, she thought, because this trek would just about cripple her if she didn’t turn back soon. But she was right in her way, too, and she was determined to go on. She listened hard for sounds besides her own footfalls, but heard only the splash of water, the calls of birds, and the wind sighing in the trees.

Very soon she stopped again. The presentiment had returned, doubly strong – troubling enough for her to move quickly off the path in order to hide behind a particularly broad trunk. Within moments a small boy appeared, hurrying along and looking back down the path. It scarcely seemed possible, but it was the boy Eddie. She called his name and stepped out from behind her tree, hoping that he would recognize her from their brief acquaintance in the alley last night. He stood stock-still and stared at her as she approached him. He had a wild look about him, and seemed ready to bolt, but he didn’t. He took her hand right enough when she offered it, and she patted his head and hugged him to her. He sobbed once or twice, holding onto her dress, and then hiccupped and fell silent, looking back again, evident fear in his eyes.

“Are they following you?” she asked.

He shook his head, as if he didn’t know, and she realized that it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a moment to lose if she wanted to gain something from her strange odyssey. She set off toward Cliffe Village again. She hadn’t gone out looking for Eddie, but by the grace of God she had found him, and she wasn’t going to let him slip away, not again. Then she thought of Bill and misgivings flooded in upon her. He was still out there somewhere – at the inn, wandering through the tunnels, perhaps injured. What would he say to her, though? He wouldn’t risk the boy’s life, not for a moment.