He was losing breath, and no matter how hard he struggled, the grip was not relinquished. Other hands grabbed him in other places, all pulling, trying to force him into the ground. As his face broke through the upper crust, he felt pressure rising beneath it, something below coming up to meet him. The shock caused him to yank his head back, the arms on either side rising with him. His face was only inches away from the dent he had made in the soil and, as he resisted the hands tugging him back again, the earth there began to erupt. The face that appeared, with its baleful pale eyes and gnashing clod-filled teeth, was grinning in a satisfied way, as if the creature knew it had him, that there could be no escape. The other hands around his arms, legs, his back and shoulders, renewed their efforts, dragging him down, welcoming him to their dark habitat, eager to bring him home, impatient to bury him.
And somehow, that enraged Thom. He had other things to do, more pressing matters in mind, than waste time here. With a fury that would have been intimidating had not these monstrosities been so dumb, he shot his head forward, striking his host below on its sorry excuse for a nose – mainly exposed cartilage around two narrow oval holes – a move he hoped hurt the thing as much as it hurt him.
Its grip relaxed and Thom felt a modicum of pleasure when he saw pain blossom in those eerily pallid eyes. He pulled free, then punched the other claws on his body so that bony fingers, with their jagged nails – good for digging? – uncurled. He had to prize off the more tenacious one with his own hands, but every time a leg was loose, so the other leg was grabbed. In desperation, he hauled himself to his feet, content to let his clothes rip so that all that the small hands clutched were bits of fabric or the air itself. He deliberately used a dome just breaking through the earth as a starting block for his continued run, stepping on it and pushing hard, the head sinking again, but slowly enough to give Thom impetus.
Ignoring the ground-dwellers that rose up on either side of the path like bizarre slow-motion Jack-in-the-boxes and hopping over those that appeared in front of him, Thom raced onwards, soon leaving them behind. He thought he heard their wails of disappointment, but it was impossible to tell over the noise of the wind. He was high on adrenaline now, energized by the short skirmish from which he had emerged victor, drawn on by thoughts of the impending danger to Sir Russell, which he knew, just knew, was not imagined.
There had been hefty individual spots of rain, but abruptly the rumbling clouds shed their full load. The sudden downpour drenched him immediately and, while to some extent it was refreshing, it bore down on his head and shoulders like a heavy load, making him hunched, his stride more awkward. It also made the path greasy within minutes, so that more than once he slipped, only keeping to his feet by good fortune rather than ability.
With the darkness of night, the howling wind, and the driving rain, the wood that had been home to him, his childhood playground, and was now his retreat, had become a hostile environment, the trees waving their arms as if to snatch him, thin leafy branches lashing at his face and body as if to punish him, and the ground at his feet with its hidden ruts and fallen debris, and now its mud, seeking to bring him down. A huge oak loomed spookily ahead as if to block the trail (in his feverish fright he couldn’t be sure if the tree had always been there, or had craftily moved position), its great low boughs both formidable and foreboding. Lightning drenched the landscape in its uncompromising glare and, with a gasp, Thom came to a skidding halt. In the stuttering light, he had observed squirming bodies and hideous visages ingrained in the oak’s bark, rough, moving, wooden shapes and countenances that resembled neither man nor beast, but which bore striking similarities to the monsters and demons that visited the worst kind of dreams.
An almost human head with an ugly disjointed face and the body of a slug turned to watch his approach; a thing with twisted horns and the black eyes of a viper slipped out a forked tongue from a lipless mouth to point in his direction; a female form with too many breasts and gorgon-like tresses for hair smiled wickedly at him as she thrust her naked hips provocatively forward; a pin-headed half-man (there was no lower body – perhaps his lower half was embedded in the tree trunk itself) with deepset holes for eyes and mouth squirmed around to ‘see’ who drew near. There were too many others to take in, sick rough-bark bodies that surely would only be recognizable under extreme circumstances, crooked shapes entwined and slithering among each other as if taking part in some kind of lazy orgy, some forms more horrendous than others, though all were unwholesome, and all appeared curious as to his presence on the path.
Thom, panting there in the darkness as the light died, body crouched, an arm outstretched before him, began slowly to edge sideways. No way was he going to go near that obscene oak tree, host to gruesome and loathsome parasites entombed in bark, even if it meant leaving the track.
Without a second thought, he plunged into the undergrowth to his left, intending to go around the distraction ahead, suspecting one of those great boughs might easily stretch itself to pull him into the writhing mob of peculiarities. Reality for Thom had become lost somewhere over the past few days.
Once among the bushes, he quickly became disorientated, the pounding rain limiting his vision, the woods themselves suddenly unfamiliar territory. He blundered around, cursing, biting into his lower lip, finally wheeling this way and that in exasperation, turning circles, utterly confused. There had to be a landmark nearby, something he knew, something that would give him his bearings. But there was just blackness out there, blackness and shifting trees and troubled skies.
Only when lightning next illuminated the landscape did he catch sight of the lone sentinel in the distance and realize where he was. It was the familiar long jagged trunk of the tree that had been struck by a lightning bolt long ago; it stood fiercely upright with its pointed, splintered top aimed defiantly at the clouds, easily visible among the other trees as long as the brightness remained. Thom took a quick bearing and made off in that direction.
He had to fight through bramble and rough undergrowth to reach it, sustaining more tears to his clothes as well as scratches and cuts to his hands and arms. But reach it he did, although by then he was beginning to limp and feeling was leaving his left arm. It wasn’t too bad as yet, but Thom knew the weakness would grow worse the more exhausted he became. Nevertheless, he took no time out to worry about it: as soon as he spotted the trail again, he was off, lumbering towards it, relieved to know his direction once more.
Soon – although after more falls, more lashings from thin branches, and more shadowy sightings, none of which, mercifully, bothered to reveal themselves properly – he reached the edge of the woods and the great field opened up to him. He thankfully sank to his knees, his shoulders hunched, drawing in great gulps of wet air. The rain beat down on him even harder out in the open, but he didn’t care, for it cooled him, refreshed him.
With a deep sigh, he was on his feet again and jogging across the grassland, a respite from the woods, no branches or bushes or unsightly things to stall him, nothing there to impede his progress. Except the muddy surface. And the grass snakes.
It seemed that every snake in the field and surrounding pastures had gathered to meet him, and instead of sliding between blades of grass, they stood half-erect, impossibly emulating the others of their species that had such power. Probably he would not even have noticed them in the grass had not he sprawled among them, tripped by an unseen slippery dip in the ground.
He fell only to his hands and knees, but immediately snakes coiled around his wrists like layered bracelets; he felt others nipping at his lower legs. They were not dangerous, merely unpleasant, and he ripped them away as he stood, then caught the others clinging to his legs by their tails and yanked them free, tossing them as far away as he could.
Even as he did so, he remembered the nasty little trick he’d played on Hugo all those years ago when they were boys, revenge for turning off the cellar lights and shutting him in. They were playing in this field and Thom had surreptitiously s
lipped a grass snake (which he knew was harmless, but Hugo didn’t) down Hugo’s shirt collar. Hugo had screamed and screamed and Thom had quickly pulled up his shirt and got rid of the snake. Too late, though. Hugo had gone into some kind of trance state, standing there like a zombie, but quivering, his eyes large and staring. When Thom had led him home, Sir Russell had hit the roof and Thom had been forbidden ever to play with Hugo again. Shortly after, his own circumstances had changed. So much for sweet revenge . . .
He kicked out at other snakes that endeavoured to block his path, their slim bodies visible only because the three-quarter moon had made a rare appearance among the stormy clouds, lightening the countryside in its fey glow, making the rain visible as silver streaks bombarding the earth.
He staggered a little as he went on, and wondered what else would try to hinder him reaching his goal.
Thom opened the gate on the far side of the field, leaning against it to stop himself collapsing. He didn’t bother to close it behind him when he went on.
He was in the trees again, but the path was much wider, a lane almost. A rough lane leading to the bridge over the river.
Knowing he was so close to the Big House rejuvenated him to a degree, although he still limped and plodded rather than ran, his left arm hanging stiffly by his side, spoiling his balance. The wind seemed even harsher blowing through the tunnel created by trees meeting overhead, but at least he was shielded from the worst of the rain. The raindrops still came through the leafy canopy, but their power was reduced; they splattered against his head and shoulders with far less force and unity. The bridge was a short distance away and he blinked water from his eyes, not quite sure of what now lay before him.
Water was gushing over the bridge’s low stone walls on either side, great waves that splashed on to its surface road, joining the rain to cause one huge rippling puddle along its length. What dismayed Thom, though, was that those towering waves that reached high over the walls were like watery arms and hands, throwing themselves at the bridge as if to catch anyone foolish enough to venture on to it. Another gauntlet to run.
Thom wondered what powers could create such a phenomenon. What was he up against? What forces had Nell Quick invoked to help her devious cause? It was all unbelievably insane – everything that had happened to him this past week was unbelievably insane – yet it was real, it was truly happening! Rainwater splayed from his hair as he shook his head vigorously, either to clear his mind, or refute the craziness, he didn’t know. He felt fury rising in him again and he allowed it reign, aware that it was good, it made him less of a victim, it was the magic that would see him through this ordeal, a rage that was even more real than anything he’d been confronted by yet. With a hoarse cry he ran for the bridge.
He was already soaked through, so the renewed drenching did not bother him. However, those arm-like waves had unexpected force and they flew at his body, knocking him one way to the next, great blustering towers that rose high over his head to plummet down in a torrent, engulfing him, almost forcing him to his knees. He raised his voice against them, receiving a mouthful of gagging water with each yell, spitting it out, sucking in air again so that he could yell some more. His defiance, his wrath, was not purposeless, he was aware of that. Somehow it created a balance, man against the . . . elements? No, this was rational man against unknown and irrational forces, powers that had no place, and no right to be in this world where the natural ruled and the supernatural was unacceptable – at least by those of pragmatic mind.
Thom roared again, the effect somewhat spoiled by the great rush of water that had him spluttering and retching, fighting for breath. Nevertheless he staggered onwards, buffeted by constant waves from side to side, his eyes stinging, his body bent like an old man’s, his steps wide rather than long, as if he were on the deck of an ocean liner in inclement seas. Once, twice, he went down on one knee, and each time the river below seemed to renew its efforts, sending up even more lashing waves as if to wash him from the bridge entirely. And it almost did so.
The sudden great heave of water caught him off balance and sent him reeling against the wall on one side, his upper body crouched over the stone balustrade so that he was looking straight down at the raging river below. For a moment, he thought he saw figures and faces patterned in the surging foam, ghastly things that appeared to delight in his stress; even as he looked, a huge spout of twisting water shot up to meet him. He thought he would be dragged over the side and he clung tight to the parapet, knowing that if he fell into that churning maelstrom he would have no chance, he would drown.
The geyser sucked at him and waves from behind pushed – even the rain plotted against him by pelting his back, bending his shoulders – but still he clung to the stonework, pulling himself down, sinking to his knees, body bowed so that the wall offered at least some protection from the determined river. On all fours, he inched his way along, battered by more and more waves, their power dwindling as he drew nearer to the end of the bridge, as if the water had a mind of its own and knew it was losing the battle. One last surge, the river rising up on both sides together to wash him away, the waves boiling with rage and frustration (it seemed to Thom’s own besieged mind), so that he had to flatten himself, press hard against the bridge’s narrow roadway, choking on water as he did so, the bridge totally flooded, a surging river in itself.
For almost a minute he was beneath the water’s surface, but still he clung there, fingers attempting to dig into the hard stone itself, willing a heaviness to his body; and then the water became shallow, was running away through drain holes cut along the bridge’s length, leaving Thom heaving and spluttering, gulping in great lungfuls of rain-filled air. At that moment he knew he had won and the river appeared to realize it too; the water slunk away, withdrawing from the bridge, no further waves leaping over its ramparts.
Still choking, hawking water, Thom struggled to his feet and plodded through puddles, not stopping until he was once more on the muddy track leading to Castle Bracken. He did not linger long, giving himself just enough time to catch his breath and regain at least some of his strength.
It felt hopeless though. He felt sapped, most of his energy gone, the left side of his body a dead weight, a burden to be dragged along. What use would he be to Sir Russell even if he managed to reach the eyrie? He was exhausted, hurting, almost as weak as when he had come around after the stroke. What could he do to defeat Nell Quick with all these strange powers she possessed? He would not even be a match for Hugo in this state.
Thom wanted to sink to the rain-soaked ground and rest, even sleep, despite the storm. His body sagged. He almost went down. But something held him erect. Something he thought must be outside his own body, something that willed him on with silent encouragement. But on closer examination, on listening to his inner self, he realized that it was his own determination that was instructing him not to give in, anger at the wrong that was taking place bullying him to go on and do his best, whatever that might be, for his grandfather. He stumbled along the track, mumbling to himself that he had to get to the mansion soon, before it was too late. He was going to spoil their game. Or – he paused for no more than a second – die in the attempt. From then on, he wasted no more strength talking to himself. He concentrated on taking one step after the other.
And, almost taken by surprise, he soon found himself looking up the gentle incline towards Castle Bracken.
It stood tall and dark and brooding against the violent night sky, an imposing but ugly building in these conditions, a place, it suddenly seemed to Thom, where bad things were meant to happen.
Even as he watched, a jagged bolt of lightning split the air and appeared to strike the mansion. Immediately, the few inside lights that were on blinked out.
The immense roar of thunder that was instantaneous with the lightning, though lasting much longer, made Thom cringe, made him cower away from it – made him cry out in anguish.
BY THE time Thom had dragged himself up the worn stone step
s to Castle Bracken’s huge single front door, the rain had ceased its torrent and the wind, while it still whipped his hair and snagged his clothes, had lost the worst of its wildness. The three-quarter moon, which was a long way off from the great black clouds that threatened the mansion and the immediate land around it, was now revealing itself occasionally, lighting the landscape with its queer metallic flush, then abruptly leaving it in darkness once more for long minutes at a time. Other clouds churned and rushed away – rushed away, Thom imagined, from the low deep cloud bank that loomed over Castle Bracken, the alliance between the black mass and the other storm clouds finally over.
Sodden and so weary his body was trembling, Thom smacked the flat of his hand against the brass doorbell set in the granite wall. He listened for its ring from within, but none came. The lightning. Of course. All fuses had been blown. Frustrated, he tried the door-handle, rattling against it in desperation when nothing happened. He banged on the wood with the heel of his fists, but there was no disturbance from within, in fact, no signs of life at all.
Taking a step back, he looked up at windows that were ominous and black. He cupped his right hand and called out Hartgrove’s name, but the wind was still strong enough to carry away the sound. Why call for the manservant? Thom asked himself. Bones had to be part of it, in league with Nell Quick and Hugo. How else could they succeed? The manservant was always around, always close to Sir Russell. If, as Thom suspected, Nell was poisoning Sir Russell over a period of time to avoid suspicion that might be caused by his grandfather’s sudden death – God, she knew how to do that with her brews and potions! – then Hartgrove was bound to know. Probably he was up there with her, in the eyrie, helping her finish the job.
Thom hobbled down the steps, at the bottom looking to left and right, searching for a way in. Break a window? That was the obvious choice. But wait, there was another entrance to the Big House. As a boy he had always known about it, but neither he nor Hugo ever chose to use it. Even now, the thought made Thom shiver over the trembling.