Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts

  The camera pulled back, showing a long shot of the street full of villagers, the church and the wood. Everyone stares at the wood, the tension sharp on their faces.

  The moaning cry grows louder. People crane their heads forwards. The chained couple stare too.

  Then it happens.

  Rachel didn’t see exactly what did it. But it was like watching one of those news reports from a war torn city. There’s people standing in the street, reporter talking to the camera; then suddenly there’s gunshots. Instantly people are running in the same direction.

  This was similar, only there’s no gunfire.

  Suddenly the villagers were running, all in the same direction, away from the wood, their faces showing a mix of terror and delight. The cameraman was running now, the picture jigging wildly; first a jerking shot of the street, a cockeyed flash of houses, down to show running feet, people breathlessly shouting, more houses, a wild shot of the couple pulling the chains and shouting.

  And all the time that primeval sound. That deep, deep calling, making you think of pain, and sorrow, and years beyond counting. And hunger. Pitiless, pitiless HUNGER.

  Then a house: moving in closer, a red front door; the door opens, pushed by the cameraman. Darkness. Sound of the door slamming. Wonky views of telephone table, framed pictures of dogs on walls, through the door to a tidy living room. It’s mid-day but the curtains are closed. The camera advances. Benjamin’s hand comes up to tease aside enough curtain so the camera can peep out through the window.

  Mouth dry, heart pumping, Rachel watched the screen, obsessed by what she’d see next.

  Now a long shot. In the background the Wyvern Inn. Then the four stone cylinders to which the couple are chained. They stand there, bewildered. Just wondering what the hell is happening.

  Awkwardly now, because Benjamin is filming through a crack in the curtains, he turns the camera to show the church and the trees beyond.

  Zoom in. Camera shake. The excitement is building.

  Trembling close up of trees; there is no breeze. The leaves don’t move.

  It looks peaceful. Still.

  Then… there it is!

  No.

  Rachel leaned forward, not afraid now, only burning with curiosity to see what will emerge.

  She thought she’d seen a—no, no, it was only the darker mass of the trees behind.

  But suddenly birds fly from the trees, flapping up in a great cloud, startled by some presence.

  Movement now. There it is. She sat up straight, her eyes hard on the television, stretching her neck forward. A group of trees are moving, swaying from side to side, like something just behind is forcing its way through as easily as a man walking through long grass.

  Rachel held her breath, fingernails digging into her palms. Here it comes, here it comes, HERE IT COMES!

  Then a female hand jerks into shot to pull the curtain shut, cutting the scene.

  But not before Rachel saw a jerking shot of the chained boy and girl. They are screaming.

  Fade to black.

  When the picture flickered on the screen showed the stone pillars. Someone has painted them. With a rich gloss paint that is a deep, deep red. The chains hang down. Scattered here and there on the grass are handfuls of something that looks like strawberry mulch. There’s no sign of the peroxide blond girl and her tattooed lover.

  Villagers come out to stand and stare. the tension spent. Everyone looks tired but satisfied. From the distance comes a throbbing moan, long drawn out; infinite, infinite melancholy.

  The scene fades to black.

  The next shot was of Rachel and Paul cycling toward the camera. Paul scowls, Rachel smiles and waves. “Hello. It’s a beautiful day.”

  * * *

  By mid-day Rachel and Paul were chained between the stone pillars, iron cuffs around their wrists, their arms stretched out in the crucifixion pose they’d seen earlier.

  All the villagers were there, dressed in their Sunday best.

  Children ran up and down the street laughing and shouting.

  Rachel looked at Paul; he was in shock; saying nothing; he didn’t even seem to know where he was. He never even reacted when Benjamin held the camera ten inches from his face for a close up.

  The landlord approached, feeding his fiat cap round and around through his fingers. He sounded apologetic. “It’s not a pleasant business, lass. But you see it’s either you, or it’s us… Don’t fret yourselves any road—it’ll soon be over and done with.” He turned.

  “Wait a minute,” said Rachel quickly.

  “What really killed those two runaways?”

  “The Wyvem.”

  “This Wyvern. You’ve seen it?”

  “Oh aye.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re not allowed to describe it, lass,”

  “But you have seen it?”

  “We’re not supposed to, but some of us can’t resist a little peek.”

  “Where’s it come from?”

  Still feeding the cap through his fingers in that embarrassed way, the landlord turned away shaking his head.

  Rachel pulled at the chains that pulled her arms out straight between the stone columns. “Tell me. Where does the Wyvern come from?”

  An old man with a walking stick limped up. “Reckon you’ve told her enough, Bill.”

  The landlord nodded and hurried back to the pub.

  The old man told Rachel. “Now think on. Don’t go yelling your head off because no-one will hear you. And don’t bank on any through traffic to interrupt it because the road into the village ends at that there church. Nowt’s coming through, alright?”

  The old man limped away.

  Rachel called to Benjamin who stood impassively videoing children playing Ringa-ring-a-roses on the grass. “Benjamin. Where does the Wyvern come from?”

  Without taking his eye from the viewfinder he said, “He expresses ‘imself from the wood.”

  “Expresses himself from the wood? What’s that mean?”

  “Like I said. He expresses ‘imself from the wood.”

  The landlord had returned with the old man who prodded Benjamin with the walking stick. “No more gassing Benjamin. Film up yonder.”

  Rachel sensed something wasn’t quite right. “This Wyvern, does it always sound the same?”

  “Now, no more questions, lass. He’ll soon be here.”

  “Does it always make the same sound as it did when it took the runaways?”

  There was no reply. The old man looked annoyed, the landlord stared down at the ground like a schoolboy caught with his tongue in the sugar bowl.

  Rachel felt a flash of understanding. “No, it doesn’t does it? On that earlier recording of the two men on bikes it sounded different.”

  The old man grunted, “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

  “That cry it made last time it came, it didn’t sound right, did it?”

  “It sounded right enough,” snapped the old man.

  “No it didn’t. Because it was dying!”

  The old man and the landlord looked at her shocked.

  “Don’t you dare say that, lass.”

  “I dare say it because it’s true. Five years since you last saw it? Does it always wait five years between feeds…Or did it go away to die?”

  “You’re talking rubbish.”

  “No, I’m not. Ask any of those women there to listen to a baby crying and they’ll tell you whether it’s a hunger cry, a colic cry, or a hurting cry. We know instinctively, like I know instinctively that thing was crying because it was in pain and because it was exhausted. Listen to me: that thing you call your Wyvern is dead.”

  Shocked, the landlord said, “Oh no it’s not lass. And in another twenty minutes you’ll see it’s not!”

  Twenty minutes passed. Then an hour. The villagers stood looking down the street in the direction of the wood. Paul stood in a shocked d
aze, not knowing what happened around him.

  Rachel watched the faces of the villagers closely. That tense excitement she’d seen on their faces on that old video was absent. They looked puzzled and unhappy.

  Two hours elapsed. People exchanged glances and a lot of heads were shaking.

  They listened and all they heard was bird song.

  The church clock chimed away the hours.

  The sun burned down on their heads. Now there was a steady stream of people to the pub; they returned bringing cold pints. Rachel looked longingly at them.

  Four o’clock chimed from the church. Rachel’s legs ached; hunger and thirst burnt like a fire in her stomach; the chain hurt her wrists and numbed her fingers.

  “Loosen the chains,” she asked. They ignored her.

  Five o’clock came. A moment later Paul gave a groan and fainted, his face as white as lard beneath his red hair. The villagers tried to revive him by splashing him with water and slaps. When that failed they unchained him and took him to the pub.

  “When you’ve got him awake,” said the old man, “bring him back. Wyvern’ll be here before long.”

  Just before six, Rachel moaned rolling her head and slumped; only the chains held her upright.

  “Same wi’ her,” grumbled the old man. “They’ve both got to be awake or he won’t come.”

  A couple of farm labourers began unchaining her. She watched through virtually closed eyes.

  She slumped limply as they unlocked the padlock securing the chain to the pillar, but left it still attached to her wrist by the iron bracelet. Three feet of chain hung down from it.

  They unlocked the other, again leaving the bracelet around her wrist that dangled three feet of chain.

  As one of the men hoisted her over his shoulder, she lifted her head sharply and crunched her teeth down onto his nose. Howling he dropped her.

  She leapt up swinging the long chain on her wrist like a whip. It smacked across the face of the other man, the iron links raking across his eyes. Howling he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyelids, blood trickled down his wrists.

  Instantly the old man was shouting and a mob ran at Rachel.

  The farmers were physically strong, but they’d not won gold medals for running as Rachel had.

  They cried out in frustration as she easily out-ran them, her long legs carrying her like a gazelle across the grass. They tried to cut her off but she weaved round them, leaving them swearing and shaking their fists.

  The ferocious burst of jubilation at escaping; and the sheer joy of running free filled her with a strength she’d never felt before.

  She sprinted through the village as big men panted clumsily after her, some even tripping over their big feet.

  A few had managed to block the bridge which prevented her from leaving the village via the road she came in on. Not that it mattered.

  She headed for the wood that ran along the valley floor. With luck she’d lose them in there. Then she’d jog to the nearest payphone and call the police. In five hours this lot of murdering barbarians would be behind bars.

  She raced by the church and into the shadows of the wood.

  She guessed none of the men would dare follow her. They’d be too frightened of coming face to face with the feared Wyvern.

  After a hundred yards or so she looked back. She was right. The men had stopped to stare after her.

  She ran along the narrow woodland paths; the gloom after the sun disorientating. And she was suffering from heat exhaustion. Thirst and hunger became a solid lump of pain. Still she forced herself to run on.

  The sooner she put a few miles between herself and Hambrooke the better.

  Thirst raged, her throat burned.

  Not much further, she thought, ducking low under branches, and climbing over knotty out-growths of root. Then she could drink from the stream and rest for a moment.

  Sometimes she saw trees that had been snapped as if tanks had crunched through here. Birds no longer sang. It grew darker. Her head buzzed; her eyesight blurred. This thirst and hunger, they crucified her.

  She had to eat; she had to drink. Those were the only two realities in her universe. Food. Drink. Cold water running down her throat.

  She ran on.

  Sometimes she sensed a huge form following her through the bushes, swimming through the vegetation like a shark swims through the sea.

  On the edge of collapse she limped on. Once she had to hold onto a tree trunk to keep herself standing. Sap oozed through the bark. Light headed she licked it, not caring if it was poisonous. She craved moisture to ease the cracking pain in her throat.

  Then she ran on, hurting from head to toe now; so dehydrated she felt she was cracking from the inside out like a week old breadstick.

  Food and water, food and water—the words rang through her head like a nursery rhyme. Food and water, food and water.

  A sobbing moan panted from her lips with every step. And with every step it got louder and louder until it vibrated her head; she cried it out to the trees and Earth and sky.

  She had to stop this hurt inside of her; before it ate her whole.

  At last. She saw the trees thin and open land beyond. Her heart soared. There were houses and a church…

  A church built of tangerine brick. And a stream; a bridge and an inn. The sign hanging from the bracket said THE WYVERN. A hundred men and women stood in the street; they stared at her. She had run in one huge circle.

  Hunger and thirst had merged into one blazing fire inside of her. She didn’t care what happened now. She must eat. She must drink. She pushed through the remaining trees like they were grass stalks. When she groaned with hunger the people clamped their hands over their ears the noise was so great.

  She stamped a scaled foot on the earth and the vibration set the church bells rolling and clanging within the steeple. The pain inside became a glorious rush of power, bursting and shooting through her enormous limbs; so strong; so powerful she could only release it in a window shattering hoot of joy.

  She pounded along the main street, the little, little people scattering in terror. Ahead, stood a man with red hair; he was chained between two stone columns. In terror he cried and tugged his chains.

  She was still hungry.

  And now she saw:

  FOOD.

  Portrait of a Girl in a Graveyard

  “All the answers to your questions can be found in the graveyard. You only have to know how to look for them.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You have questions going around and around your head all the time, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so; I suppose everyone has.”

  “Everyone has questions like yours?”

  You shrug looking puzzled but I see you are interested in what the old man has to say. You’ve walked all the way from the pit village where you’ve lived all your life to Hampole. Hampole is just a few houses, mainly old agricultural cottages clustered around the dead end of a road.

  Your clothes say lot about you. You’re a nineteen year old girl, all in black. Your bedroom at your parents’house is painted black, too, with posters on the wall of Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Dylan Thomas, Vincent Van Gogh self-portraits: troubled artists, died young. The music you listen to is dark, doomy, the lyrics melancholy. Something happened in your teens to change you into the person you are today. You take long walks alone, your expression sad. Yet you don’t know why. Your eyes are permanently cast down to the grass verge that’s sprinkled white with daises and dandelion clocks which you clip with your black ankle boots. Only you don’t see them. Those questions absorb you. You look like someone who’s been told they must solve a riddle in a day or the whole world will end.

  Your destination is always the metal plaque bolted to a cairn of limestone blocks at the very end of Hampole Lane. On the plaque, the words:

  Nearby is the site of

  HAMPOLE PRIORY

  burial place of

  RICHARD ROLLE—C. 1295 AD — 13
49 AD

  Mystic, Evangelist, Spiritual Guide and Author of many

  religious writings, including The Fire Of Love.

  HIS BURIAL PLACE LIES WITHIN

  THE PRIORY GROUNDS

  You read that plaque over and over; then you look up at the trees that overgrow the priory site in that sad and dreamy faraway way that makes your old schoolfriends nudge each other and giggle, “Look, it’s Carol Honeybone. Can you believe how weird she is?” “You know, she’s never had a boyfriend?” “Have you seen that black dress she’s wearing? She looks like something from the bloody Addams Family!” “I wouldn’t be seen dead with my hair dyed jet black like that. What do you think she’s on?”

  No drugs. You evolved from shy schoolgirl into what you are now. But what are you now? What makes you dress and look and feel like you do?

  You’re startled when the old man spoke to you. You’d not even noticed him cutting the long grass round the priory copse with a scythe. What he said at first alarmed and then fascinated you. Like you’d found an ancient coin in a molehill, you turn the sentence over in your mind, examining it with obsessive attention.

  You watch the old man smoothly scything the grass and stinging nettles, slicing juicy green stalks right down to earth level. He talks and, although you don’t always understand the words, you understand the meaning. The scythe uncovers a thrush, little more than a chick, its yellow speckled feathers shining brand new in the sunlight. It sits in the nettles, black bead eyes staring in a frightened way as if expecting an attack but not knowing what to do. The old man gently picks it from the nettles and puts it out of harm’s way on the grass bank.

  For a moment, he pauses, leaning on the long handle of the scythe that’s worn to a high gloss from years of use. You wonder who he is. He’s tall, gentlemanly and reminds you of a teacher or a clergyman. His short white hair covers his head in fluffy waves. His blue eyes are kindly. The fingers that hold the scythe unusually long and graceful.

  He’s talking now as you watch the bird he’s rescued. As it flies away he asks you a question.

  You say, “Yes.”

  He rests the scythe across his shoulder, the curving blade slicked green with the sap of plants. Then he walks into the copse of trees.