Дэвид Уоллес - Island of Fog and Death

“I know you,” Tori muttered to herself.

A voice in her head, almost too faint to be perceived, said, “I should hope so, Helene.”

Tori stiffened. Then Maxwell’s boyish smile filled her field of vision. “Want to stretch your legs?” he asked. “You’ve been driving this beast for hours now.”

She shook her head. Maxwell moved over to talk with Owain and Gilda. The man and the dog were gone.

The van Tori had been driving was a rented VW T4 Transporter with a retro green and cream paint job reminiscent of the classic VW Camper of the 1950s. Behind it, Gilda and Owain were climbing down from a white Aero Plus, a more spacious vehicle that they had to share with most of the little expedition’s gear.

“Right,” said Maxwell. “There are shops down the road there, so let’s stock up on necessities like food.”

“And beer,” and Owain.

“Necessities unlike beer,” said Maxwell, firmly. “Meantime, I’ll see if I can find out how we get across to the island.”

“Excuse me, sirs, madam,” came a voice from behind them. They looked round to see a policeman walking towards them. “I have to ask you to move your vehicles. We have a couple of emergency vehicles on the way that’ll be held up otherwise.”

The three historians looked, as one, back along the lane they had followed into the village.

“What? Where…?” started Gilda.

“Any minute now, they’ll be needing to get by,” the policeman said. “If you carry on the way your vans are facing, you’ll find parking down by the chain ferry.”

“Gilda, why don’t you and Tori move and park, and we’ll follow,” Maxwell said. Turning to the policeman, he tucked his hair behind one ear and smiled his boyish smile. “Officer, you mentioned a ferry, and that’s what we were just going to ask about. We want to get across to the island.”

The policeman stepped carefully out of the way of the vans as they started moving. “Well now, sir,” he said. “The chain ferry normally runs through daylight hours. But just now, see, it’s reserved for emergency services only. If you wait down by the port, there, you’ll be able to cross later in the day.”

“What’s happened?” asked Owain. “Has there been an accident?”

“An unfortunate gentleman is being fished out of the water, I’m afraid. He’s washed up island side, see. So we’ll be needing to get over there – ah, mind your backs, now.”

They stepped well into the side of the road as a little procession of ambulance, fire engine and two unmarked police cars passed by.

“The ferry only takes the one vehicle, you see,” the policeman continued. “So there’s four trips already. Were you to ask, I’d have to say you won’t get over until mid-afternoon.”

“Thank you,” said Maxwell. “I take it you know the island, officer?”

“Passable well. Not there’s very much of it, mind.”

“I’ve been told there’s a tiny chapel in the middle of the island. Do you know it?”

“A chapel,” the policeman chuckled. “There’s no more than two dozen people over there. Not enough to warrant a chapel.”

“It’s very old,” said Maxwell. “It might well be nothing but a ruin, a pile of overgrown rubble.”

“There’s not even a ruin, see, as far as I know. Tell you what, though. Inside the door of the Inn, across the street there, they have the Ordnance map of the area hanging in a frame on the wall. You take a look at that, and if you find a chapel on it, well, I’ll owe you both an apology. But you won’t.” He started walking away, laughing.

Maxwell and Owain looked, and had to agree that the policeman did not owe them an apology. There was no place of worship marked on the Inn’s map.

A few minutes later, the four of them sat in the Aero van comparing maps. The chapel had vanished from the Ordnance Survey maps between the 1935 edition that Amanda had copied, and the digitisation of the geographical data in the 1990s.

“Why would it have been removed from the map?” Owain wondered.

“I’d guess the most likely reason is that it just didn’t exist any more when they included revisions and corrections,” said Maxwell. “Anyway we can see where it was quite clearly.” He pointed. “This here is a farm. What does that say? Clifftop? Yes, Clifftop Farm. If I were to make a guess, at some time in the last seventy years or so, the owner of that farm just appropriated the church for his own use and pretended it wasn’t there. I mean, who wants something that might end up being a protected building on his land if he can avoid it? We’ll probably find he has pigs living in it, or something.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Gilda.

“When we get across on the ferry, we head up to Clifftop Farm and ask for permission to have a poke around,” said Owain.

“Not quite,” said Maxwell. “We head up to this picnic site by the cliffs, and we stroll back down and do some reconnaissance. No point worrying the poor farmer unless we must. Let’s see what’s there first. We may need Amanda’s company to pitch some cash in to sweeten the farmer, but that could take time.”

He broke off, and looked out through the van’s windscreen. “Aha! I think we may be able to get across, now. Come on, let’s get organised. We have a dragon to find!”

“I think it must be over that way, where those trees are,” said Maxwell.

They had driven the length of the island before leaving the two camper vans parked in the picnic area at the north side of the island, and setting off down Harbour Way. To the left of the road was a large open field, with some goats in the distance standing apparently watching them. There was a cluster of buildings south of the field, just off Harbour Way, which according to the map must be Clifftop Farm. Maxwell was pointing diagonally off to the right, on the opposite side of the road from the farm, where the view was obscured by a copse.

“I think you’re right,” Gilda agreed, after scrutinising the map she carried. “It looks like it should be just beyond the trees.”

“Come on, then,” said Maxwell. “Tori, sweetie? Are you with us?”

“Ah, yes, Maxwell,” was her reply. “Go on, I’ve got something in my shoe. I’ll catch up.”

Maxwell strode on, closely followed by Owain and Gilda.

Tori took off one shoe for the sake of appearances, and leaned on the fence by the side of the road, facing across the fields towards the goats. But she was not paying them any attention; in fact, her eyes were closed. Her focus was on the energy pervading the area. Life’s energy. Its strongest source was underground, beneath her feet, and it carried ominous overtones of hunger and anger. Something very big was down there, and it wanted out. She smiled as she spoke aloud, adapting Uli’s words. “I am the midwife of chaos, darling monster, and I will see you delivered into this world.” Her mind conjured images of freedom, of light and air, of feasting to the point of repletion; she pushed these into the energy field of the creature’s savage thoughts, and felt the anger that surrounded her shift towards gratitude and encouragement. She had been noticed, and the creature understood her purpose. She had detected the life energy from the underground creature’s clones as soon as she had stepped out of the camper. Now, she could sense the flow shifting as the creature directed them away from the road, clear of the way to the chapel, and the entrance beneath it. She opened her eyes, and now that she knew where to look, she could see the grass and shrubs twitch and sway as things moved. She saw that the goats were still there, watching, and sensed the parasites within them. She laughed aloud. “Be patient and wait, monster, and I will open your door,” she murmured.