Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘It’s all about weight with birds of prey,’ the man continued (as if Beede hadn’t actually spoken). ‘If they aren’t hungry then they won’t come back. He was an ounce over his flying weight, but I flew him anyway. I suppose I got too cocky, too bold …’

As he spoke he drew a large flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid and took a long swig of its contents. He shook his head, bitterly. ‘I thought there was a bond between us — a strong bond — but I was wrong. He deceived me. I was a fool —a soft-touch. I shouldn’t’ve trusted him.’

He proffered Beede the flask. It smelled of rum and coffee.

‘Thanks,’ Beede said warily, ‘but I’m fine.’

‘Suit yourself.’

The man scowled at him and then took a second, even longer swig.

‘Will he survive out here?’ Beede wondered. ‘In this bitter weather?’ ‘No.’

Silence

‘He’ll die.’

The man shoved the flask away again as Beede continued his search. ‘I don’t know how I’ll get home without my glasses,’ Beede murmured, growing increasingly pessimistic about his chances of finding them. ‘I couldn’t possibly drive …’

‘Where to?’ the man asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘Where’s home?’

‘I live in Ashford.’

‘Oh.’

The man grimaced, as if coming from Ashford was somehow unconscionable.

‘I’m Beede , by the way,’ Beede straightened up and held out his hand, ‘Daniel Beede.’

The man stepped forward (he was huge: 6’4”, 6’6”…) and grabbed hold of Beede’s outstretched fingers. Then he squeezed them (Beede winced), and squeezed them. He held on to them for four — perhaps even five — seconds longer than Beede might’ve thought appropriate. He had huge hands. Spotlessly clean. Dry. Surprisingly warm.

‘You have very cold fingers,’ the man slurred, ‘ very cold.’ Beede managed to disengage himself from the man’s tight grip and then continued his search. Gringo joined in. She sniffed around in the pine-needles with an audible enthusiasm. Then she began to dig. Soil and needles flew everywhere.

‘Careful, girl,’ Beede cautioned her, flinching, not sure if her contribution was entirely helpful. But the dog ignored him. The man stood by and watched, making no effort to restrain the dog or to help in the search himself.

After several minutes, Beede stood up again. ‘I just can’t seem to find them,’ he said, worriedly.

‘What will you do?’ the man wondered.

‘I don’t know,’ Beede shrugged (perhaps a fraction irritably).

‘Well at least the rain’s stopped,’ the man volunteered.

Beede peered up into the sky. The rain had stopped and the wind had calmed, but the cold was even fiercer than it had been previously. His hands were almost frozen. He shuddered, then shoved his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew–

Eh?

— a piece of unfamiliar fabric. Damp. He blinked as he unfolded it–

Oh, yes…

The pair of boxer shorts. He shone the torch at them for a moment, then he scrunched them up and shoved them away again, pushed his hand into his other pocket and withdrew his gloves. He pulled them back on, then slowly ran the torch over the forest floor one final time.

‘It’s like they’ve just vanished,’ he said, mystified.

‘Are those your shorts?’ the man asked. His voice had a new, slightly menacing tone to it.

‘Pardon?’

‘In your pocket. The shorts. Are they yours ?’

‘Uh…’

Beede put a tentative hand to the pocket.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I found them in the Brambles. A few minutes ago. I thought they might actually belong…’

He paused, judiciously. The man stared at him, in silence.

‘I should probably start to try and work my way back,’ Beede said, turning and aiming the torch in the approximate direction of the larger track.

‘These woods are packed full of mischief,’ the man murmured, ‘like you wouldn’t hardly believe.’

Beede opted not to comment. He grabbed hold of his compass.

‘Due north east,’ he said cheerily, inspecting it closely in the torchlight. He pointed the torch ahead of him again. Everything was just a blur.

‘The things I’ve seen,’ the man said, his voice suddenly an unsettling mixture of rage and longing, ‘behind the trees and in the bushes. Things I can’t get out of my mind…’ he slammed his hand, hard, into the side of his own head. ‘Just can’t seem to get rid …’

‘Right,’ Beede said abruptly. ‘Well good luck with the kite. I do hope you find it.’

He took a rapid step forward.

‘Hey…’

The man called out. Beede half-turned.

‘Your glasses!’ He pointed towards his feet. ‘Down there. Look! ’

Beede directed the torch to the the place he’d indicated. As he angled it he could’ve sworn he saw something glinting in the man’s hand. A blade, perhaps. A long blade. His heart began racing. ‘I can’t run,’ he thought. ‘If I run then I’m done for.’

‘I am the Guardian of the Woods,’ the man’s voice boomed, portentously.

‘I don’t see the glasses,’ Beede said (at normal volume).

‘I am the Guardian of the Woods,’ he boomed again.

‘I spent ten years in the Merchant Navy,’ Beede announced. He spoke with confidence. He threw back his shoulders. He tried to look like a proposition.

‘You know what they say about sailors,’ the man sneered.

‘I don’t , actually,’ Beede said, sharply.

‘Anyway,’ the man continued, ‘you’re looking in the wrong place. I meant over there…’

He pointed to his left, and as he pointed he staggered slightly.

‘I already searched over there,’ Beede said, firmly.

‘Perhaps you should look again,’ the man said, thickly.

‘No,’ Beede stood his ground, ‘the glasses are gone. I don’t want to waste any more time on this.’

He turned.

‘ Here they are!’ the man exclaimed.

Beede glanced over his shoulder. The man was holding out his huge hand. Inside his hand were what looked like a pair of glasses. Beede paused. He turned the torch on to the man’s hand. Yes. They were definitely his glasses. They stared at one another. The man’s other hand (his right hand) was hidden behind his back.

?

Beede suddenly heard a curious grunting sound and redirected the torch downwards. There he saw the dog — Gringo — rocking back on to her haunches and panting.

‘Is your dog all right?’ Beede asked.

‘I am the Eyes of the Wood,’ the man intoned, sonorously, drawing his hand from behind his back. The hand held a knife; a long, sharp hunting knife.

‘Good for you,’ Beede said, ‘but I’m actually more concerned about your dog right now…’

‘I am the Ears of the Wood,’ he chanted, almost trance-like.

‘She seems in some discomfort,’ Beede persisted.

‘I am the Heart of the…’

He shot the dog a quick, sideways glance. The dog was panting quite loudly.

‘Stop that, Gringo,’ he said harshly. Then, ‘She’s fine ,’ he insisted. ‘No. No she isn’t. There’s blood,’ Beede murmured, ‘there’s definitely blood…’

‘Don’t be a fool .’

‘It’s pretty bad,’ Beede said, drawing in closer. ‘I’m virtually blind without my glasses and even I …’

‘Where?’ he butted in.

‘Her hindquarters. At the back. It looks like a…a haemorrhage of some kind.’

The man crouched down. ‘Shine the torch on her,’ he instructed. ‘More closely. Up closer.’