Hallowe'en challenge 2
Sep. 8th, 2005 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessAnd onwards - it is loooooong
DI Simmons was anything but relieved. He felt like he’d just stepped into a surreal TV programme - the ones that made police detective work mysterious and dramatic. This wasn’t what he was used to. It wasn’t the murder, you could find murders all over the place these days, but they weren’t all that dramatic for all that. You got used to them, here a fight gone wrong, here an obvious domestic, here some gang warfare, here an obvious mugging. Most were fairly simple, almost mundane. You may not know who had killed them but you were pretty certain why and how. Most of the time.
This went beyond mystery and came out as plain weird. He stood alone over a corpse. The victim was a Mr. Stanton, going by his driver’s license. White, fifty-three, male, medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, medium build. A very medium person all round, Mr. Stanton. It looked like he worked for Arnet Houses Ltd, the construction company that was building the new housing estate.
DI Simmons looked around, the area was wooded, but not enough to impede progress. The trees were largely oaks, and very old, the ground around them denude of vegetation. Took a strong plant to grow in an oak’s shadow. This was the area slated for clearance for the new houses. At least that explained the man’s presence in the woods. DI Simmons looked back down to the body. To the reason why he stood alone. Even the paramedics had kept as much of a distance as they could manage from the corpse once they had established that he was dead and he wasn’t likely to get any better. The area around the body was very clean as well. No scuff marks either - if the body had been moved here he hadn’t been dragged. If he had been killed here, he hadn’t struggled much. Either that or the scene had been cleared up.
It was his face that had driven away the medics. The man’s face was white, completely chalk white. The medics had made a note to check for any wounds leading to massive blood loss. DI Simmons wasn’t hopeful - there were no rips in the man’s uniform nor any blood stains. The lips had skinned back from the teeth in a pained grimace. No, not pain. Terror. Utter terror. The eyes were wide and staring - not just the glazed look of death but the wide eyed, wild madness of some terrible fear. The fingers had spasmed, they curled, empty but clawed, muscles tightly knotted. The medics had said they had locked like that while the man was still alive or shortly after death at most. There had been no time for rigor to set in - which was another cause for disturbance. When they’d arrived the body was practically still warm. He’d sent out a search team to comb the woods but for some reason he had a feeling they wouldn’t find anything.
He shivered and looked back at the body. He hoped the pathologists could find some sense in all this. He knew he couldn’t.
*****
Mr Arnet didn’t need this. In fact, he was beginning ton think he didn’t need this contract. It had looked so good to begin with - the town was becoming one of the most fashionable places in the country. It was bordered by woodland, had no crime to speak of, good schools, a great university and a rapidly growing tourist industry and a thriving town centre. Employment was doing so well there was actually a demand for workers. Even without that it had a perfect rail link for commuters - probably the last trains in the country to consistently run on time. Everyone was healthy, wealthy and happy. It had looked too good to be true. It had looked, really, like a perfect place to build a new housing estate. Perfect for retiring couples looking for somewhere quiet to settle down. Perfect for young couples looking for their first home. Perfect for yuppies looking for a fashionable country place. It was just perfect.
It had been perfect, anyway. But he already expected to have spent more than twice his budget by the time this whole fiasco was over. And that was if he was lucky and nothing else went wrong. First of all there was the ludicrous opposition of some of the towns people. You always got some - would be Swampys and tree hugger. But whoever heard of so many, even in a university town? It had taken him years to finally force his planning permission through the council, and that had taken massive ‘gifts’ to every councillor. He’d barely got near the sight before he had to hire a private security company to clear out the endless stream of protestors. So many of them! And so many different people! He’d never thought he’d have to hire men to cut the chains of an eighty-nine year old grandma who’d decided to tie herself to a tree. It had taken 4 grown men to drag her clear in the end, one of them was still walking with a limp.
Some were still getting in though. He’d lost count of the amount of equipment they’d had sabotaged or stolen. He was amazed at some of it - how does even the most dedicated tree hugger manage to turn a JCB into small piles of scrap metal? Still, if that was all, he thought he could handle it.
But then there was the luck. It was uncanny, like they were being cursed. Industrial accidents that set them back weeks. Freak events - a contrary wind had plastered half the bulldozer’s windscreens with fallen leaves that had stuck like glue. Another gust had driven a twig into a man’s eye (and innumerable more were rumoured to have bounced off the other’s safety goggles. He thought that was just paranoia, though). three men had actually choked to death on their packed lunches - thee! At least not even the most vicious solicitor could blame that on him. And that was before you counted all the broken legs, sprained ankles, falling branches and everything else that made simply walking though the forest more hazardous than tramping through a war zone.
"Mr Arnet?" One of his foremen broke his depressing reverie. "I think you better come and look at this."
He groaned, not even trying to hide it, and staggered out of his portacabin office. He always liked to be close to the build sight. It was a decision he was beginning to regret. He followed the foreman outside to see what the next disaster was going to be.
A bulldozer and two lorries were parked on the bare dirt outside. They were immobilised. Mr. Arnet’s jaw dropped. Each vehicle had been paralysed by a tree - a tree growing up through the body of the vehicle. He could see where the metal had buckled as the trunk forced itself through the metal floor and engine into the cab. Branches had punched their way through windows, a canopy had forced itself out through the roof to spread dappled shade over the crippled vehicles and the growing audience staring at them.
It was then that DI Simmons called.
*****
A week later the town was still in uproar. Well, maybe not uproar, Sara conceded, but it was still ridiculously chaotic. There were so many stupid rumours flying around - like the one about trees growing over night to crush machines. She snorted angrily, more likely an excuse by the Arnet man to justify his company’s incompetence. It was bad enough that they were tearing down that wonderful forest but did they have to be so pathetically inefficient about it as well? Some men had died, it was true. Four so far. Everyone was talking about curses- she had had to lecture several people at great length about giving in to unproductive stereotypes and archaic prejudices. She fingered her pentacle irritably, rumours of malignant witchcraft and curses was the last thing they needed, especially this close to Samhain. More likely it was an accident - a tragic one, it was true, but hardly the first on the building sight. In fact the number of accidents - fatal and otherwise, at the place was appalling, a cruel indictment of just how incompetent they were. She had decided to dedicate as much of her precious free time as possible to pointing this out to the ignorant and credulous people around her - she was not going to get aught up in a witch hunt just because some building company is trying to play on people’s superstitions to hide their own health and safety failures. That was probably the source of it, play on some local legends about evil spirits in the woods and hope it will distract people from taking the whole sorry mess to court and suing them into bankruptcy.
Still, she had other things to concern her today, she had no time to waste on silly stories. Today was the end of the first week of October, and the night of the first of three rituals her coven would perform in the run up for Samhain. They had decided, well, she had decided and managed to eventually convince the others that she was right, as usual, that because this year was going to be a Sabbat and an Esbat they should make longer preparations and early build up rituals - how else could they possibly honour both the Lord and the Lady in just one night that was sacred to both?
Naturally, it had fallen to her to gather the coven together before going out to the woods where the ritual would take place. Well, Graham had arrived at her flat first, but it was still she who had to virtually drag him out to collect the others.
"Really, Sara, the ritual is at noon. Is there any real need for us to be gathering together at eight in the morning?" Graham chided gently behind her.
She didn’t even bother to turn round as she strode through the campus. "Better an hour early than a minute late." She growled, "enough time is never enough - you never plan for contingencies, you’re never really organised. What if…"
"I won’t argue Sara," Graham’s deep rumble gently cut through her rising tirade. "But neither Fiona nor Matthew will appreciate an early wake up call. It could put them in a bad mood for the rest of the day."
Sara snorted again, quickening her stride. She wasn’t going to make allowances for Fiona’s ludicrous temper of Matthew’s mood swings.
Nor, Graham mused, for the possibility that Matthew might have a hang over, as he watched her hammer loudly on his door. Sara must have been a lot stronger than she looked as the door was nearly shaking on its hinges as she banged louder the longer it remained unanswered. Her patience spent, she kicked the door, nearly shattering the window.
It creaked open to reveal Matthew’s bleary brown eyes and sleep tousled hair. A dressing gown was draped over him roughly, one shoulder and a long line of chest and stomach bare. He blinked at them groggily, painfully trying to pull his thoughts together. Sara growled irritably and pushed roughly past him. He staggered and nearly fell sprawling to the floor, his dressing gown slipping enough to make it clear he wasn’t wearing anything under it. Graham caught him before he fell and gently nudged him towards the shower. He’d almost got the poor guy through to the bathroom before he heard surprised voices coming from the bedroom.
“Sara?! What are you doing here?!” A female voice, someone who recovered better in the mornings than Matthew did.
“Making sure Matthew’s organised for once in his life.” Sara growled back. Graham left them to it and pushed Matthew into the shower, pulling the dressing gown off in one smooth notion. Matthew didn't seem to notice, just slumped against one wall seemingly trying to sink back into sleep. Graham turned on the water and sat down on the toilet, waiting for the warm water to finally rouse his coven mate.
“What’s taking so long?” Sara growled as she barged into the bathroom. She caught sight of Matthew still near comatose in the shower...
Graham spent the next half hour in the other room. He was the one who showed Andrea, the girl who had shared Matthew’s bed last night, out (he loudly insisted they were rehearsing for a play. Graham had his doubts). Not that she’d needed much encouragement after Sara and Matthew had started snarling. Perhaps it had been unnecessary to turn the taps on the shower to ice cold, though he couldn’t deny how effective it was. He’d never known Matthew be up and dressed in ten minutes before now, certainly not at this hour of a weekend morning. Of course the time saved was then wasted in screaming at each other.
“Sara, is this really the most.. efficient use of our time?” Graham threw the words carefully between the combatants from the doorway, ready to step back if hostilities flared again. Thankfully it worked, caught in the middle of the dire crime of inefficiency, Sara shot into action. Not even the flowering and virtually hissing Matthew could resist her shunting them out of the flat and virtually dragging them to Fiona’s.
Where, again, there was no answer. In this case it was because no-one was home, and thankfully Fiona did show up before Sara knocked the door down in frustration. Just. Following in her wake was Michael, the new guy at the university.
Matthew grinned. “Had a late night away, Fiona?”
“Oh yes...” she purred contentedly, draping herself languorously across Michael’s arm. “A very... busy night.” Michael looked a little stunned. Fiona could have that affect on people, Matthew let his grin widen, sizing up the couple.
“You are, of course, going to share, dear coven mate?” Matthew whined wistfully. Graham was impressed, Matthew and Fiona together and Michael barely even winced.
Fiona snuggled a little closer to her new acquisition. “Maaaaaybe, But I think a coven should strengthen bonds by doing things together...” Michael did twitch just a little then. Just a little
“So soon have you forgotten the fair Andrea?” Graham rumbled above them, deeply amused.
Matthew sighed dramatically. “Alas she will have to take poison in disappointment...”
“Or join in.” Put in Fiona, drawing Matthew to her left side to balance Michael on her right. Her next words were interrupted by a growl.
Fiona looked around, staring at the floor in mock confusion. “Either one of us has stepped on a cat or Sara’s getting impatient.”
Matthew’s eyes widened in shock. “Sara impatient? NO! Surely not! Not our infinitely patient, kind and understanding Sara!”
Sara didn’t answer, well not aloud, she just stomped off ahead of them,. running a break neck pace that had even Graham half running to keep up., Her outraged muttering growled around them, like distant thunder as they followed in her wake.
At that speed it took them little time to finally reach the forest. Even in her storming mood, Sara had to pause a moment to take in the first trees. They had always held their Esbat and their Sabbats in the woods, at least some of them., They were ancient woods, woods that had never known any axe beyond the lightest coppicing. Woods that ancient ancestors had once harvested for their lumber, firewood and brought their pigs to hunt acorns. Woods that had somehow managed to survive centuries of forest reclamation, industrial revolution and hordes of ill-trained backpackers and ramblers. Until today anyway. they stood on the edge of its welcoming shadows, gazing up at the first pale boughs of the birches that lined the border. Birches that would give way to rowan, ash, horse chestnut and finally the great oaks that dominated the centre. The odd sycamore fought for room among the leafy canopy, the rapid growing trees trying to raise their trefoil leaves among their ancient brethren., Occasional breaks in the canopy allowed flourishing undergrowth of thick gorse and furze, vines wrapped some trees so completely that barely a glance of the greyish trunks could be seen. In brighter seasons they would open vibrant flowers to contrast strangely with the soft green of the leaves all around them and the strange colours of the various fungi that clung to the forest giants and clung to the forest floor in concentric rings, emitting a strange fluorescence into the dim shadows.
In autumn the fungus abounded, especially the gleaming circles that Sara was sure was exclusive to this forest. There was little left of the soft greens, though some leaves yet clung to the branches, testament to the mild weather they had enjoyed so far. But then life always did seem reluctant to leave this forest, the leaves and the flowers always did seem to hang on a little longer each year. The branches were now bathed in fire and gilded with copper and brass. When the breeze picked up, the ground was showered with a rain of bronze, like the air itself had caught aflame. The forest never failed to be breathtaking, whether in the shining colours of spring with its many blossoms competing with a carpet of flowers, the noble majesty of summer as the powerful sunlight streamed its light through the verdant leaves creating a dazzling display of emerald and gold, the harsh austerity of winter, when bare branches rimed with frost danced wildly to the wind. No matter what doubts ever assailed the coven, they only had to come here and feel in their hearts that there was magic in the world.
But today... today was different. They had always felt welcome under the boughs of the trees. It had always been their place, their place in a way that went far beyond mere paper and seals and legal contracts., It was theirs and they were always welcome there. Always had been anyway. For the first time they stood beneath those first shadows and felt the tingle of fear. The burning feel of a guest unwelcomed, and intruder unwanted...
For the first time, they crossed the threshold into the ancient wood with a feeling of trepidation. the very forest seemed to turn its hostile attention on the interlopers, trying to drive them out with the malign intensity of its gaze. The land seemed to reject them. What had always seemed a simple and joyous walk became a perilous and arduous journey. Roots that had ever been contented to lie deep within the rich soil now humped up, angrily snaring at feet under a concealing blanket of amber leaves. Branches that had always allowed free passage through the gentle paths of the forest now lashed out spitefully, fine twigs scratching at exposed flesh, tangled in hair and snagged at clothing. Every step became a battle for ground.
Sara’s pace quickened, breezing forwards, blowing past the hindering foliage by sheer force of will and anger. Her facer hardening in the face of a new obstacle she was determined to overcome. Matthew wilted, he endured the fight with a martyr’s resilience while deep currents of anger rose up to mark his face, strong emotions flowing in the deep pools of his eyes. Graham stiffened, motions stronger yet more careful, her face set with rocky determination, ignoring the lashing wood with stony stoicism. Fiona flared up, fiery eyes challenging the wood to do its worse, lashing out in a burning rage at her half seen assailants. Michael followed in her wake, less hampered by the wood due to their passing and having no cruel memories of better days to hold him back.
It was a long, nerve wracking walk to the heart tree, made far worse for the coven members by the sudden shock of something so familiar being made so alien. unseen watchers tracked their every step, trees rustled their disapproval all around. Even Michael, who had never benefited from the verdant foliage’s comforting embrace before, seemed uneasy in the forbidding environment.
At last Sara gusted through to the hearty tree, bringing the coven to bask in the place of power they had visited ever since they had started worshipping together many years ago., The great oak towered over them, for untold centuries the great forest giant had grown here, reaching for the distant sky and stretching above the surrounding carpet of greenery. It was majestic and incredible, only half the great giant’s leaves had fallen, but so many were they that they formed a thick, deep carpet that piled in drifts like a heavy snow fall. Carvings dotted the old oak’s bark and branches, carvings that were a source of most of the local legends - that and the wonderful forest of which the oak was king. Faces peered out from every direction, faces that had been put into the tree so many decades ago that age had worn them down, worn until they seemed to be more a part of the tree than the work of human hands. No vines choked the ancient trunk, but sinuous carvings of fantastic, flowing vines and the most intricate flowers chased each other up the tree, encircling the wooden faces and strange sylvan creatures. The carvings seemed to reach right to the tips of the branches and were a wonder in the town for none would admit to carving them and all looked as old and weathered as even the most ancient inscribed into the bottom of the huge bole. The very top of the tree bore a blackened scar, where a lightening strike had torn a branch from the king of the forest not very long ago. So great was the king that not even the power of lightening had caused it great harm... but more than one person now remembered that the strike that had wounded the king had fallen on the day the land had been sold to Arnet Houses Ltd.
Nervously, the coven moved to the foot of the king. Defiance fading as they faced the intense disapproval even within the king’s shadow. None of them could suppress as shudder as they felt the many faces gazing down on them. Not with amusement or curiosity or supp[ort as they had previously imagined, not even with the mischief the coven had once joked about, but with hostile intent and outraged affront.
Michael hung back, content to remain as an observer as Sara quietly walked a circle in the shadow of the king. her voice was a bare whisper, when one it could have been a loud, proud chant. She quietly walked the circle as the coven swept the ground and swept within the consecrated space. With deep solemnity she called the watchtowers, the four guardians of the elements and the winds. Ever before they had been called to witness their ritual so that coven could honour them. But today, by silent agreement, the watchtowers were called to protect as well as watch. Her voice grew stronger as she called for their aid, sprinkling a tiny dusting of salt on the rich earth at four equal points of the circle. Finally her chant reached a conclusion, as she placed a candle in a small red holder at the southern most point.
Fiona stepped forward, “I stand for Fire, the South Wind. I honour the watchtower of the south, the guardian of flame and welcome him to our circle to witness our presence. I stand with him and ask he protect us in this difficult time.”
Sara moved further along the circle, facing north she set down a blue bowl of pure water on which floated a small cup of burning sweet oils. Matthew stepped forward. “I stand for Water, the North Wind. I honour the watchtower of the north, the guardian of water and welcome her to our circle and to witness our presence. I stand with her and ask she protect us in this difficult time.”
Sara walked back round the circle’s boundary to the westernmost point. Here she placed a green mat on which she laid a shallow stone bowl in a circle of late blooming flowers. In the stone bowl she places a small sachet of herbs and set it to burn with a rich, musky scent. Graham stepped forward. “I stand for Earth, the West Wind. I honour the watchtower of the west, the guardian of earth and welcome him to our circle and to witness our presence, I stand with him and ask he protect us in this difficult time.”
Finally Sara came to a stop at the eastern most point, here she laid down a yellow incense holder. Its smoke was heady yet light as it drifted in the fitful breezes of the forest. “I stand for Air, the East Wind. I honour the watchtower of the east, the guardian of air and welcome her to our circle and to witness our presence, I stand with her and ask she protect us in this difficult time.”
With the last words, the coven felt some of the hostility draw back. The forest seemed less menacing, the king looked merely disapproving as opposed to hateful., Sara suspected it was more to do with the power of habit and comfort of belief than any actual power of magic, but she had to admit she felt grateful for it. And for her coven standing so close.
Fiona seemed to think so as well, and held out a hand to Michael who still stood outside the circle. “We can open the circle, Mike. You’ll feel better inside, trust me.”
he looked uncertain; eyes tracing the line of an imaginary circle around the,. He opened his mouth to answer when...
A scream. It cut through the forest and seemed to echo from every direction. Despite the balmy weather and warm clothing, the coven shuddered. Never had they heard such a sound, a sound so anguished that it was impossible to tell if it was a man, woman or child doing the screaming. A sound so tortured that it didn’t even sound human, the pain in it was so deep it went beyond mere species.
Before the echoes of the scream had even died away it was chased by a roar. A feral, deeply animal sound. It wasn’t feline or canine or even reptilian. It was all and none. It was as if someone had taken the feral fury of every predatory creature that stalked the wild and taken the rat rage and turned it into pure sound. It was a sound that denied reason, overruled it and plugged straight into ancient blood soaked instincts of fear and pain. It was a sound that demanded flight, demanded you put as much distance between yourselves and the certainty of death.
Without thought or reason the coven fled, throwing themselves blindly through the forest, uncaring if branches tore at their clothes or even their skin. Instinct had taken over, only the drive to get away occupied their minds and drove their feet. Even without knowing where the terrible sound had come from, the driving fear called upon them to move, to keep running, bursting through half perceived gaps in the thick foliage and looming trunks in the gloom under the trees.
None of them knew how far they had run. They were only thankful that some deep connection, hidden instinct or massive luck had kept them running in the same direction. They staggered down to the forest floor, collapsing into the leaves, gasping for breath from the mad dash. No-one had breath enough to talk, and no-one knew what to say.
Minutes passed while sanity returned to them, and realisation dawned. Michael was not with them. If he had run he had not run with them, or maybe he had but had fallen prey to the hostile forest in the mad dash for escape.
“We have to go back.” Fiona said, her strong tone contradicting the fear written large on her face. Slowly, solemnly, Graham nodded his head. There really was no choice. Sara and Matthew exchanged looks, doubt flickering between them.
“We have to go back.” Fiona repeated, more firmly, raking them with her eyes. “Or do you think you could live with yourselves if we didn’t?” Graham loomed above them, a silent disapproving statue.
Slowly, they shook their heads. There really was no choice.
The way back was perhaps even worse than the mad dash through the trees . Now they had the time to think and imagine. Now they were moving slowly enough to peer into the dim wood, time enough for their imagination to populate every shadow with hidden dangers, fill every branch with lurking strangers and add sinister meaning to every whispering of the wind and every sound of the forest creatures. Their eyes began to ache from peering into the shadows, and their nerves grew frail as they followed their trail back to the king of the forest, every sound causing them to start in panic. The darkness seemed unnatural, no matter how thick the forest canopy was, it shouldn’t be able to suppress she bright autumn sunlight, certainly not with the trees half bare... The shadows shouldn't have been this dark, the light should never have been this dim.
Their nerves were worn through by they time they finally found Michael, wandering confused through the woods, eyes wide and darting constantly. He ran towards them as soon as he saw them, panting desperately for breath. Graham put one solid hand on his shoulder, steadying him with his immovable presence. Fiona wrapped one arm round him from one side, Matthew sliding up on the other. They huddled in each other’s presence, drawing comfort from the closeness of warm flesh as they walked past the king of the forest on the way back to the outside and safety.
Fiona lifted a hand, brushing a drop from her face. Just to make the trip back worse, it was beginning to rain... She walked a few more steps before a frown creased her brow. Rain? This deep in the forest, under the shadow of the king’s impenetrable canopy? She rolled the rain drop between her fingers... the red, sticky, warm rain drop. Shock dragged her eyes upwards while ever fibre of her being screamed against it, fought against having to see.
She saw. For a brief second her mind shut down, pure horror blanked her mind, prevented it from understanding the scene before here. One last chance to embrace ignorance and move on. It passed. She saw. She understood. She screamed so loud it tore at her throat coming out.
Her coven jerked round to see what was attacking her, then followed her gaze. They saw the shapes hanging from the tree. Dozens of shapes speared on the thick boughs of the king, smaller parts tangled in thinner branches, even tiny gobbets intertwined in the thin twigs between the yellowing leaves. Long wet ropes draped like tinsel from branch to branch, drawing your gaze along from one macabre decoration to the next, dragged the eye in a spiral upwards to the very top of the tree. Every branch had its ornament and the very leaves seemed to have developed a reddish hue as they feasted on the ghoulish bounty. Blood dripped down in steady spatters from the massacre, hot and thick. Rivers of it poured down the trunk, flowed along the intricate carvings of vines as if along a perfectly designed channel. The faces laughed at their fear, gloried in the red ruin all around them as the flow draped the world in a red curtain.
None of them knew how they left the forest. Their memories were confused shreds full of screams and running and desperate pleas. The only thing that stood clear through the ruins of shock was the king. The terrible red king and the echoes of a scream in their ears.
******
DI Simmons was anything but relieved. He felt like he’d just stepped into a surreal TV programme - the ones that made police detective work mysterious and dramatic. This wasn’t what he was used to. It wasn’t the murder, you could find murders all over the place these days, but they weren’t all that dramatic for all that. You got used to them, here a fight gone wrong, here an obvious domestic, here some gang warfare, here an obvious mugging. Most were fairly simple, almost mundane. You may not know who had killed them but you were pretty certain why and how. Most of the time.
This went beyond mystery and came out as plain weird. He stood alone over a corpse. The victim was a Mr. Stanton, going by his driver’s license. White, fifty-three, male, medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, medium build. A very medium person all round, Mr. Stanton. It looked like he worked for Arnet Houses Ltd, the construction company that was building the new housing estate.
DI Simmons looked around, the area was wooded, but not enough to impede progress. The trees were largely oaks, and very old, the ground around them denude of vegetation. Took a strong plant to grow in an oak’s shadow. This was the area slated for clearance for the new houses. At least that explained the man’s presence in the woods. DI Simmons looked back down to the body. To the reason why he stood alone. Even the paramedics had kept as much of a distance as they could manage from the corpse once they had established that he was dead and he wasn’t likely to get any better. The area around the body was very clean as well. No scuff marks either - if the body had been moved here he hadn’t been dragged. If he had been killed here, he hadn’t struggled much. Either that or the scene had been cleared up.
It was his face that had driven away the medics. The man’s face was white, completely chalk white. The medics had made a note to check for any wounds leading to massive blood loss. DI Simmons wasn’t hopeful - there were no rips in the man’s uniform nor any blood stains. The lips had skinned back from the teeth in a pained grimace. No, not pain. Terror. Utter terror. The eyes were wide and staring - not just the glazed look of death but the wide eyed, wild madness of some terrible fear. The fingers had spasmed, they curled, empty but clawed, muscles tightly knotted. The medics had said they had locked like that while the man was still alive or shortly after death at most. There had been no time for rigor to set in - which was another cause for disturbance. When they’d arrived the body was practically still warm. He’d sent out a search team to comb the woods but for some reason he had a feeling they wouldn’t find anything.
He shivered and looked back at the body. He hoped the pathologists could find some sense in all this. He knew he couldn’t.
*****
Mr Arnet didn’t need this. In fact, he was beginning ton think he didn’t need this contract. It had looked so good to begin with - the town was becoming one of the most fashionable places in the country. It was bordered by woodland, had no crime to speak of, good schools, a great university and a rapidly growing tourist industry and a thriving town centre. Employment was doing so well there was actually a demand for workers. Even without that it had a perfect rail link for commuters - probably the last trains in the country to consistently run on time. Everyone was healthy, wealthy and happy. It had looked too good to be true. It had looked, really, like a perfect place to build a new housing estate. Perfect for retiring couples looking for somewhere quiet to settle down. Perfect for young couples looking for their first home. Perfect for yuppies looking for a fashionable country place. It was just perfect.
It had been perfect, anyway. But he already expected to have spent more than twice his budget by the time this whole fiasco was over. And that was if he was lucky and nothing else went wrong. First of all there was the ludicrous opposition of some of the towns people. You always got some - would be Swampys and tree hugger. But whoever heard of so many, even in a university town? It had taken him years to finally force his planning permission through the council, and that had taken massive ‘gifts’ to every councillor. He’d barely got near the sight before he had to hire a private security company to clear out the endless stream of protestors. So many of them! And so many different people! He’d never thought he’d have to hire men to cut the chains of an eighty-nine year old grandma who’d decided to tie herself to a tree. It had taken 4 grown men to drag her clear in the end, one of them was still walking with a limp.
Some were still getting in though. He’d lost count of the amount of equipment they’d had sabotaged or stolen. He was amazed at some of it - how does even the most dedicated tree hugger manage to turn a JCB into small piles of scrap metal? Still, if that was all, he thought he could handle it.
But then there was the luck. It was uncanny, like they were being cursed. Industrial accidents that set them back weeks. Freak events - a contrary wind had plastered half the bulldozer’s windscreens with fallen leaves that had stuck like glue. Another gust had driven a twig into a man’s eye (and innumerable more were rumoured to have bounced off the other’s safety goggles. He thought that was just paranoia, though). three men had actually choked to death on their packed lunches - thee! At least not even the most vicious solicitor could blame that on him. And that was before you counted all the broken legs, sprained ankles, falling branches and everything else that made simply walking though the forest more hazardous than tramping through a war zone.
"Mr Arnet?" One of his foremen broke his depressing reverie. "I think you better come and look at this."
He groaned, not even trying to hide it, and staggered out of his portacabin office. He always liked to be close to the build sight. It was a decision he was beginning to regret. He followed the foreman outside to see what the next disaster was going to be.
A bulldozer and two lorries were parked on the bare dirt outside. They were immobilised. Mr. Arnet’s jaw dropped. Each vehicle had been paralysed by a tree - a tree growing up through the body of the vehicle. He could see where the metal had buckled as the trunk forced itself through the metal floor and engine into the cab. Branches had punched their way through windows, a canopy had forced itself out through the roof to spread dappled shade over the crippled vehicles and the growing audience staring at them.
It was then that DI Simmons called.
*****
A week later the town was still in uproar. Well, maybe not uproar, Sara conceded, but it was still ridiculously chaotic. There were so many stupid rumours flying around - like the one about trees growing over night to crush machines. She snorted angrily, more likely an excuse by the Arnet man to justify his company’s incompetence. It was bad enough that they were tearing down that wonderful forest but did they have to be so pathetically inefficient about it as well? Some men had died, it was true. Four so far. Everyone was talking about curses- she had had to lecture several people at great length about giving in to unproductive stereotypes and archaic prejudices. She fingered her pentacle irritably, rumours of malignant witchcraft and curses was the last thing they needed, especially this close to Samhain. More likely it was an accident - a tragic one, it was true, but hardly the first on the building sight. In fact the number of accidents - fatal and otherwise, at the place was appalling, a cruel indictment of just how incompetent they were. She had decided to dedicate as much of her precious free time as possible to pointing this out to the ignorant and credulous people around her - she was not going to get aught up in a witch hunt just because some building company is trying to play on people’s superstitions to hide their own health and safety failures. That was probably the source of it, play on some local legends about evil spirits in the woods and hope it will distract people from taking the whole sorry mess to court and suing them into bankruptcy.
Still, she had other things to concern her today, she had no time to waste on silly stories. Today was the end of the first week of October, and the night of the first of three rituals her coven would perform in the run up for Samhain. They had decided, well, she had decided and managed to eventually convince the others that she was right, as usual, that because this year was going to be a Sabbat and an Esbat they should make longer preparations and early build up rituals - how else could they possibly honour both the Lord and the Lady in just one night that was sacred to both?
Naturally, it had fallen to her to gather the coven together before going out to the woods where the ritual would take place. Well, Graham had arrived at her flat first, but it was still she who had to virtually drag him out to collect the others.
"Really, Sara, the ritual is at noon. Is there any real need for us to be gathering together at eight in the morning?" Graham chided gently behind her.
She didn’t even bother to turn round as she strode through the campus. "Better an hour early than a minute late." She growled, "enough time is never enough - you never plan for contingencies, you’re never really organised. What if…"
"I won’t argue Sara," Graham’s deep rumble gently cut through her rising tirade. "But neither Fiona nor Matthew will appreciate an early wake up call. It could put them in a bad mood for the rest of the day."
Sara snorted again, quickening her stride. She wasn’t going to make allowances for Fiona’s ludicrous temper of Matthew’s mood swings.
Nor, Graham mused, for the possibility that Matthew might have a hang over, as he watched her hammer loudly on his door. Sara must have been a lot stronger than she looked as the door was nearly shaking on its hinges as she banged louder the longer it remained unanswered. Her patience spent, she kicked the door, nearly shattering the window.
It creaked open to reveal Matthew’s bleary brown eyes and sleep tousled hair. A dressing gown was draped over him roughly, one shoulder and a long line of chest and stomach bare. He blinked at them groggily, painfully trying to pull his thoughts together. Sara growled irritably and pushed roughly past him. He staggered and nearly fell sprawling to the floor, his dressing gown slipping enough to make it clear he wasn’t wearing anything under it. Graham caught him before he fell and gently nudged him towards the shower. He’d almost got the poor guy through to the bathroom before he heard surprised voices coming from the bedroom.
“Sara?! What are you doing here?!” A female voice, someone who recovered better in the mornings than Matthew did.
“Making sure Matthew’s organised for once in his life.” Sara growled back. Graham left them to it and pushed Matthew into the shower, pulling the dressing gown off in one smooth notion. Matthew didn't seem to notice, just slumped against one wall seemingly trying to sink back into sleep. Graham turned on the water and sat down on the toilet, waiting for the warm water to finally rouse his coven mate.
“What’s taking so long?” Sara growled as she barged into the bathroom. She caught sight of Matthew still near comatose in the shower...
Graham spent the next half hour in the other room. He was the one who showed Andrea, the girl who had shared Matthew’s bed last night, out (he loudly insisted they were rehearsing for a play. Graham had his doubts). Not that she’d needed much encouragement after Sara and Matthew had started snarling. Perhaps it had been unnecessary to turn the taps on the shower to ice cold, though he couldn’t deny how effective it was. He’d never known Matthew be up and dressed in ten minutes before now, certainly not at this hour of a weekend morning. Of course the time saved was then wasted in screaming at each other.
“Sara, is this really the most.. efficient use of our time?” Graham threw the words carefully between the combatants from the doorway, ready to step back if hostilities flared again. Thankfully it worked, caught in the middle of the dire crime of inefficiency, Sara shot into action. Not even the flowering and virtually hissing Matthew could resist her shunting them out of the flat and virtually dragging them to Fiona’s.
Where, again, there was no answer. In this case it was because no-one was home, and thankfully Fiona did show up before Sara knocked the door down in frustration. Just. Following in her wake was Michael, the new guy at the university.
Matthew grinned. “Had a late night away, Fiona?”
“Oh yes...” she purred contentedly, draping herself languorously across Michael’s arm. “A very... busy night.” Michael looked a little stunned. Fiona could have that affect on people, Matthew let his grin widen, sizing up the couple.
“You are, of course, going to share, dear coven mate?” Matthew whined wistfully. Graham was impressed, Matthew and Fiona together and Michael barely even winced.
Fiona snuggled a little closer to her new acquisition. “Maaaaaybe, But I think a coven should strengthen bonds by doing things together...” Michael did twitch just a little then. Just a little
“So soon have you forgotten the fair Andrea?” Graham rumbled above them, deeply amused.
Matthew sighed dramatically. “Alas she will have to take poison in disappointment...”
“Or join in.” Put in Fiona, drawing Matthew to her left side to balance Michael on her right. Her next words were interrupted by a growl.
Fiona looked around, staring at the floor in mock confusion. “Either one of us has stepped on a cat or Sara’s getting impatient.”
Matthew’s eyes widened in shock. “Sara impatient? NO! Surely not! Not our infinitely patient, kind and understanding Sara!”
Sara didn’t answer, well not aloud, she just stomped off ahead of them,. running a break neck pace that had even Graham half running to keep up., Her outraged muttering growled around them, like distant thunder as they followed in her wake.
At that speed it took them little time to finally reach the forest. Even in her storming mood, Sara had to pause a moment to take in the first trees. They had always held their Esbat and their Sabbats in the woods, at least some of them., They were ancient woods, woods that had never known any axe beyond the lightest coppicing. Woods that ancient ancestors had once harvested for their lumber, firewood and brought their pigs to hunt acorns. Woods that had somehow managed to survive centuries of forest reclamation, industrial revolution and hordes of ill-trained backpackers and ramblers. Until today anyway. they stood on the edge of its welcoming shadows, gazing up at the first pale boughs of the birches that lined the border. Birches that would give way to rowan, ash, horse chestnut and finally the great oaks that dominated the centre. The odd sycamore fought for room among the leafy canopy, the rapid growing trees trying to raise their trefoil leaves among their ancient brethren., Occasional breaks in the canopy allowed flourishing undergrowth of thick gorse and furze, vines wrapped some trees so completely that barely a glance of the greyish trunks could be seen. In brighter seasons they would open vibrant flowers to contrast strangely with the soft green of the leaves all around them and the strange colours of the various fungi that clung to the forest giants and clung to the forest floor in concentric rings, emitting a strange fluorescence into the dim shadows.
In autumn the fungus abounded, especially the gleaming circles that Sara was sure was exclusive to this forest. There was little left of the soft greens, though some leaves yet clung to the branches, testament to the mild weather they had enjoyed so far. But then life always did seem reluctant to leave this forest, the leaves and the flowers always did seem to hang on a little longer each year. The branches were now bathed in fire and gilded with copper and brass. When the breeze picked up, the ground was showered with a rain of bronze, like the air itself had caught aflame. The forest never failed to be breathtaking, whether in the shining colours of spring with its many blossoms competing with a carpet of flowers, the noble majesty of summer as the powerful sunlight streamed its light through the verdant leaves creating a dazzling display of emerald and gold, the harsh austerity of winter, when bare branches rimed with frost danced wildly to the wind. No matter what doubts ever assailed the coven, they only had to come here and feel in their hearts that there was magic in the world.
But today... today was different. They had always felt welcome under the boughs of the trees. It had always been their place, their place in a way that went far beyond mere paper and seals and legal contracts., It was theirs and they were always welcome there. Always had been anyway. For the first time they stood beneath those first shadows and felt the tingle of fear. The burning feel of a guest unwelcomed, and intruder unwanted...
For the first time, they crossed the threshold into the ancient wood with a feeling of trepidation. the very forest seemed to turn its hostile attention on the interlopers, trying to drive them out with the malign intensity of its gaze. The land seemed to reject them. What had always seemed a simple and joyous walk became a perilous and arduous journey. Roots that had ever been contented to lie deep within the rich soil now humped up, angrily snaring at feet under a concealing blanket of amber leaves. Branches that had always allowed free passage through the gentle paths of the forest now lashed out spitefully, fine twigs scratching at exposed flesh, tangled in hair and snagged at clothing. Every step became a battle for ground.
Sara’s pace quickened, breezing forwards, blowing past the hindering foliage by sheer force of will and anger. Her facer hardening in the face of a new obstacle she was determined to overcome. Matthew wilted, he endured the fight with a martyr’s resilience while deep currents of anger rose up to mark his face, strong emotions flowing in the deep pools of his eyes. Graham stiffened, motions stronger yet more careful, her face set with rocky determination, ignoring the lashing wood with stony stoicism. Fiona flared up, fiery eyes challenging the wood to do its worse, lashing out in a burning rage at her half seen assailants. Michael followed in her wake, less hampered by the wood due to their passing and having no cruel memories of better days to hold him back.
It was a long, nerve wracking walk to the heart tree, made far worse for the coven members by the sudden shock of something so familiar being made so alien. unseen watchers tracked their every step, trees rustled their disapproval all around. Even Michael, who had never benefited from the verdant foliage’s comforting embrace before, seemed uneasy in the forbidding environment.
At last Sara gusted through to the hearty tree, bringing the coven to bask in the place of power they had visited ever since they had started worshipping together many years ago., The great oak towered over them, for untold centuries the great forest giant had grown here, reaching for the distant sky and stretching above the surrounding carpet of greenery. It was majestic and incredible, only half the great giant’s leaves had fallen, but so many were they that they formed a thick, deep carpet that piled in drifts like a heavy snow fall. Carvings dotted the old oak’s bark and branches, carvings that were a source of most of the local legends - that and the wonderful forest of which the oak was king. Faces peered out from every direction, faces that had been put into the tree so many decades ago that age had worn them down, worn until they seemed to be more a part of the tree than the work of human hands. No vines choked the ancient trunk, but sinuous carvings of fantastic, flowing vines and the most intricate flowers chased each other up the tree, encircling the wooden faces and strange sylvan creatures. The carvings seemed to reach right to the tips of the branches and were a wonder in the town for none would admit to carving them and all looked as old and weathered as even the most ancient inscribed into the bottom of the huge bole. The very top of the tree bore a blackened scar, where a lightening strike had torn a branch from the king of the forest not very long ago. So great was the king that not even the power of lightening had caused it great harm... but more than one person now remembered that the strike that had wounded the king had fallen on the day the land had been sold to Arnet Houses Ltd.
Nervously, the coven moved to the foot of the king. Defiance fading as they faced the intense disapproval even within the king’s shadow. None of them could suppress as shudder as they felt the many faces gazing down on them. Not with amusement or curiosity or supp[ort as they had previously imagined, not even with the mischief the coven had once joked about, but with hostile intent and outraged affront.
Michael hung back, content to remain as an observer as Sara quietly walked a circle in the shadow of the king. her voice was a bare whisper, when one it could have been a loud, proud chant. She quietly walked the circle as the coven swept the ground and swept within the consecrated space. With deep solemnity she called the watchtowers, the four guardians of the elements and the winds. Ever before they had been called to witness their ritual so that coven could honour them. But today, by silent agreement, the watchtowers were called to protect as well as watch. Her voice grew stronger as she called for their aid, sprinkling a tiny dusting of salt on the rich earth at four equal points of the circle. Finally her chant reached a conclusion, as she placed a candle in a small red holder at the southern most point.
Fiona stepped forward, “I stand for Fire, the South Wind. I honour the watchtower of the south, the guardian of flame and welcome him to our circle to witness our presence. I stand with him and ask he protect us in this difficult time.”
Sara moved further along the circle, facing north she set down a blue bowl of pure water on which floated a small cup of burning sweet oils. Matthew stepped forward. “I stand for Water, the North Wind. I honour the watchtower of the north, the guardian of water and welcome her to our circle and to witness our presence. I stand with her and ask she protect us in this difficult time.”
Sara walked back round the circle’s boundary to the westernmost point. Here she placed a green mat on which she laid a shallow stone bowl in a circle of late blooming flowers. In the stone bowl she places a small sachet of herbs and set it to burn with a rich, musky scent. Graham stepped forward. “I stand for Earth, the West Wind. I honour the watchtower of the west, the guardian of earth and welcome him to our circle and to witness our presence, I stand with him and ask he protect us in this difficult time.”
Finally Sara came to a stop at the eastern most point, here she laid down a yellow incense holder. Its smoke was heady yet light as it drifted in the fitful breezes of the forest. “I stand for Air, the East Wind. I honour the watchtower of the east, the guardian of air and welcome her to our circle and to witness our presence, I stand with her and ask she protect us in this difficult time.”
With the last words, the coven felt some of the hostility draw back. The forest seemed less menacing, the king looked merely disapproving as opposed to hateful., Sara suspected it was more to do with the power of habit and comfort of belief than any actual power of magic, but she had to admit she felt grateful for it. And for her coven standing so close.
Fiona seemed to think so as well, and held out a hand to Michael who still stood outside the circle. “We can open the circle, Mike. You’ll feel better inside, trust me.”
he looked uncertain; eyes tracing the line of an imaginary circle around the,. He opened his mouth to answer when...
A scream. It cut through the forest and seemed to echo from every direction. Despite the balmy weather and warm clothing, the coven shuddered. Never had they heard such a sound, a sound so anguished that it was impossible to tell if it was a man, woman or child doing the screaming. A sound so tortured that it didn’t even sound human, the pain in it was so deep it went beyond mere species.
Before the echoes of the scream had even died away it was chased by a roar. A feral, deeply animal sound. It wasn’t feline or canine or even reptilian. It was all and none. It was as if someone had taken the feral fury of every predatory creature that stalked the wild and taken the rat rage and turned it into pure sound. It was a sound that denied reason, overruled it and plugged straight into ancient blood soaked instincts of fear and pain. It was a sound that demanded flight, demanded you put as much distance between yourselves and the certainty of death.
Without thought or reason the coven fled, throwing themselves blindly through the forest, uncaring if branches tore at their clothes or even their skin. Instinct had taken over, only the drive to get away occupied their minds and drove their feet. Even without knowing where the terrible sound had come from, the driving fear called upon them to move, to keep running, bursting through half perceived gaps in the thick foliage and looming trunks in the gloom under the trees.
None of them knew how far they had run. They were only thankful that some deep connection, hidden instinct or massive luck had kept them running in the same direction. They staggered down to the forest floor, collapsing into the leaves, gasping for breath from the mad dash. No-one had breath enough to talk, and no-one knew what to say.
Minutes passed while sanity returned to them, and realisation dawned. Michael was not with them. If he had run he had not run with them, or maybe he had but had fallen prey to the hostile forest in the mad dash for escape.
“We have to go back.” Fiona said, her strong tone contradicting the fear written large on her face. Slowly, solemnly, Graham nodded his head. There really was no choice. Sara and Matthew exchanged looks, doubt flickering between them.
“We have to go back.” Fiona repeated, more firmly, raking them with her eyes. “Or do you think you could live with yourselves if we didn’t?” Graham loomed above them, a silent disapproving statue.
Slowly, they shook their heads. There really was no choice.
The way back was perhaps even worse than the mad dash through the trees . Now they had the time to think and imagine. Now they were moving slowly enough to peer into the dim wood, time enough for their imagination to populate every shadow with hidden dangers, fill every branch with lurking strangers and add sinister meaning to every whispering of the wind and every sound of the forest creatures. Their eyes began to ache from peering into the shadows, and their nerves grew frail as they followed their trail back to the king of the forest, every sound causing them to start in panic. The darkness seemed unnatural, no matter how thick the forest canopy was, it shouldn’t be able to suppress she bright autumn sunlight, certainly not with the trees half bare... The shadows shouldn't have been this dark, the light should never have been this dim.
Their nerves were worn through by they time they finally found Michael, wandering confused through the woods, eyes wide and darting constantly. He ran towards them as soon as he saw them, panting desperately for breath. Graham put one solid hand on his shoulder, steadying him with his immovable presence. Fiona wrapped one arm round him from one side, Matthew sliding up on the other. They huddled in each other’s presence, drawing comfort from the closeness of warm flesh as they walked past the king of the forest on the way back to the outside and safety.
Fiona lifted a hand, brushing a drop from her face. Just to make the trip back worse, it was beginning to rain... She walked a few more steps before a frown creased her brow. Rain? This deep in the forest, under the shadow of the king’s impenetrable canopy? She rolled the rain drop between her fingers... the red, sticky, warm rain drop. Shock dragged her eyes upwards while ever fibre of her being screamed against it, fought against having to see.
She saw. For a brief second her mind shut down, pure horror blanked her mind, prevented it from understanding the scene before here. One last chance to embrace ignorance and move on. It passed. She saw. She understood. She screamed so loud it tore at her throat coming out.
Her coven jerked round to see what was attacking her, then followed her gaze. They saw the shapes hanging from the tree. Dozens of shapes speared on the thick boughs of the king, smaller parts tangled in thinner branches, even tiny gobbets intertwined in the thin twigs between the yellowing leaves. Long wet ropes draped like tinsel from branch to branch, drawing your gaze along from one macabre decoration to the next, dragged the eye in a spiral upwards to the very top of the tree. Every branch had its ornament and the very leaves seemed to have developed a reddish hue as they feasted on the ghoulish bounty. Blood dripped down in steady spatters from the massacre, hot and thick. Rivers of it poured down the trunk, flowed along the intricate carvings of vines as if along a perfectly designed channel. The faces laughed at their fear, gloried in the red ruin all around them as the flow draped the world in a red curtain.
None of them knew how they left the forest. Their memories were confused shreds full of screams and running and desperate pleas. The only thing that stood clear through the ruins of shock was the king. The terrible red king and the echoes of a scream in their ears.
******