The Dark Stone Page 11

  A column of smoke was rising up over the bay, in stark contrast against vivid blues. Although Sam couldn’t see the Mount, he guessed the small fires had been allowed to take hold and burn unchecked. He wondered if any others had escaped. Maybe they’d also crossed the causeway in the night, or taken a boat from the harbour. When he thought of his brethren he pictured them in his mind’s eye, sizzling and turning black.

  The track was made muddy by the storm and puddles gathered in ruts made by past traffic. Sam gave up trying to avoid them and slipped more and more often as his legs weakened. More than once he ended up sprawled out on the sodden earth but each time he picked himself up and forced himself onwards, hoping more than anything that some kindly wagon driver or traveller would happen across him, take pity and offer him a ride. As it was, he saw no one.

  With chattering teeth he forced himself to press on and pulled his arms up inside his sleeves, wrapping them around his body inside the robes. Following his soaking from rain and sea, the shivering had become uncontrollable and hurt almost as much as the hunger which had taken a hold, making Sam feel sick. He wanted nothing more than to sit and rest but feared he’d freeze or just be too tired to stand up again and die in the road.

  The day was almost halfway through when Sam staggered into a collection of small, round huts. Smoke was rising through the roofs of some, offering the promise of warmth. Upon his approach, children who had been playing, scattered and watched the filthy, half dead monk from behind barrels and nearly-closed doors. The sun had done little to dry his damp robes and mud coated him from head to toe. Halfway through the cluster of dwellings, Sam’s body finally gave out and he collapsed face first into a puddle. A mangy dog with its ribs on display through greasy, matted fur, came over and snuffled at his face. Sam finally let his eyes close.

  When he next opened them he was lying on a hard, straw covered floor of compacted earth and with a roof over his head. Wood-smoke filled the small room, which came from an open fire in the middle. A small hole in the ceiling was there to take it away, but it wasn’t an effective chimney. He lay still, soaking up the warmth and letting it penetrate his body. Steam was rising from his robes.

  Slowly, he moved his head to one side to see three men standing near him, enthralled in debate. One was old and toothless and kept smacking his lips between words, sucking back strings of drool which kept trying to escape down a wrinkled, leathery chin. “I say we can’t leave a man of God out to die.” He was saying.

  “But we don’t have enough food for the others, never-mind our own children,” a much younger and heavy-set man said. “Poor Millie there hasn’t had a proper meal in as long as I can remember. We need to look after our own first, and who knows how many more there’ll be.” He was gesturing towards the edge of the hut and Sam turned his head to see. Crouched in the shadows was a small girl with matted blonde hair and a face streaked with grime.

  A pitiful groan escaped Sam’s lips.

  At the sound of his awakening all three men looked down, their faces etched with anxiety. “What’re you doing here?” the third man asked without bothering with pleasantries.

  “They’re all dead,” came Sam’s hoarse reply. His throat hurt and he thought he might be coming down with a fever.

  “Who’s dead?” the older man asked while shooting one of the others a glance.

  “He’s delirious,” piped up one of the others.

  “Shh, let him speak.”

  Sam continued. “The monks… All dead.” Smoke was stinging his eyes. “And St Peter’s. They burned it all and killed everyone.”

  “We’ve had a few from there already.” The old man smacked his lips. “Not sure how we’re going to feed you all if truth be known.”

  “There’s others?” Sam tried to sit up but found he hadn’t the strength and flopped back to the floor. “Who are they?” he croaked.

  “All kids. Old Martha’s seeing to them. Have any others escaped?” The old man glanced at the others, mindful that more hungry mouths might be arriving imminently.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Sam felt a little flutter of hope.

  “Millie,” one of the other men said to the girl in the corner, “Go and organise some look-outs up the road.”

  Without a word she nodded, jumped up and pushed open a door made of twigs before running from the hut. Daylight flooded the small room, forcing Sam to a squint against it. She left the door open and smoke billowed out, which helped to clear the air. Sam took a deep breath before starting to slip into unconsciousness once again.

  The argument as to whether to feed him or not became resolved when a woman entered the room, bearing two earthenware bowls. After she snapped a few unintelligible words at the men, they took hold of Sam’s shoulders and gently helped him sit up. She held the first, smaller bowl of steaming liquid to his lips. The vapours filled his nose and lungs before he tasted the bitter infusion. He almost spat it back out but the woman gently guided his head while tipping the liquid into his mouth. “It’ll do you good,” she whispered in his ear.

  When satisfied he’d drunk enough, she took away the first bowl and fetched the other from where she’d set it down. In it was a thin broth of vegetables and this time Sam managed to hold it himself and he drank greedily. His own needs expunged any guilt he felt for taking food from the mouths of children.

  “Thank you.” He muttered. “Are you Martha?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes I am.”

  “Can I see the others who came?”

  “When you can stand,” she said. Martha’s voice was curt but not rudely so. She snorted and took the bowl from him before retreating back to the edge of the hut. The other bowl was left next to him and she told Sam to finish it when he could stomach the taste of it again.

  He’d lost track of all time but when he woke up again he felt stronger, but also thirsty. Someone had covered him with a blanket and the room was dark apart from a faint glow from dying embers in the hearth. His joints ached when he clambered to his feet and went slowly to the door, being careful not to knock anything over or wake the figures he could see sleeping near the edge of the hut.

  Outside, the stars were shining bright and the Milky Way cut a swathe across the sky. From inside one of the huts he could hear the low murmur of late night conversation and went to find out if he could get a drink. The door creaked as he pushed it open and the couple inside turned to face him, their faces lit by fire-light. “Hello,” the man said.

  Sam tried to recall if it was one of the men he’d seen before, when he’d first woken up but couldn’t, and then his attention was captured by the half-dozen sleeping figures on the floor, all wrapped in blankets.

  “We were trying to decide what to do with you all.” The man gestured to those sleeping.

  “Oh,” said Sam, reading the tone of the man’s voice.

  “If there were any other way,” said the woman with him.

  Just then, one of the sleeping figures let out a small groan. Sam recognised it instantly and bounded the couple of steps over to her. “Elle,” he said, shaking her. “Elle.” A bit louder.

  “What?” She sat up, sleepy eyed. “Sam! It’s really you,” and she threw her arms around his neck.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “It was horrible.”

  Sam cast his eyes about the room. “Is there anyone else?” Elle just hugged him tighter and started to cry.

  The man interrupted them. “We’ve got you some food together. It’s not a lot but I’m afraid it’s all we can spare,” he said to both Sam and Elle.

  “You’ve done more than enough, thank you.” Sam said, truly grateful. Already he could feel his strength returning.

  “So, where will you go?” the woman asked, choking back tears of her own.

  Sam knew exactly where he was heading. “Riverford I guess.”

  Elle shot him a look then turned back to the couple, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  The two of
them shared a glance before the eldest spoke again. “That’s a long way for ones so young to be travelling.” He said while looking at the children curled up in bundles on the floor.

  “It’s not that bad,” Sam replied, trying to recall the journey when he’d first travelled to the monastery, although that time he’d been in a covered cart.

  “I wish we could do more to help, I really do,” the man said. “You’ll need all the strength you have.” He paused for thought. “You can stay until morning, but then I’m afraid you have to go.”

  All of them fell silent, savouring the heat from the fire. Sam tried to clear his mind, concentrating on the warmth and wishing there were a way to store it for later use. Tiredness overcame him and he let his eyes close, falling into a fitful sleep. For a short while he was in sweet oblivion and the attack on St Peter’s and the monastery, a distant dream.

  23

  “They’re coming, they’re coming,” came the shouts from outside. The door flew wide open and light streamed into the hut. A face showed itself in the doorway, “Get up, they’re coming.” And then it was gone again.

  Sam and Elle shook the children awake and helped them from their blankets before ushering them to the door. Most of the villagers were already gathered in the middle of the road. Men were talking excitedly over each other while gesticulating wildly with their arms and nearly all of them were clutching an axe or a scythe. Mothers clung to children to prevent them from straying while others were making hurried preparations to leave.

  All eyes turned to Sam when he burst out of the hut to join them and excited chatter dissolved to a low murmur. The old man from the day before stepped forward from the group. “How many are there?” he asked.

  Sam told them he couldn’t even hazard a guess, although there were too many for the villagers to fend off. The murmurings grew louder again as each tried to offer their opinions on what to do.

  “Go,” he said. “Take the children and good luck to you.”

  “This is madness,” Sam mumbled, shaking his head. Everyone turned to face him.

  “Why?” said the man.

  “You should run,” pleaded Sam. “What about your children?”

  “We’ll take care of our own. Now go.” His voice increased in volume and had taken on an air of authority.

  “You don’t have to stay!” Sam pleaded.

  The old man looked him directly in the eye. “You take good care of the children and say a prayer for us.” It was a clear statement for Sam to leave.

  Before he could answer, the faint sound of unruly laughter carried to them on the breeze and for a moment the village fell silent. “It’s time.” The man turned to Sam. “Please take good care of them?” he asked with a lump in his throat.

  “I will,” Sam promised although he was still weak and barely able to fend for himself.

  Elle, Sam and the handful of children trudged out of the village with only the clothes they were wearing, a tinderbox and a handful of blankets someone had shoved towards them. No one spoke. They didn’t get far along the road before hearing a commotion of shouts and screams coming from the direction of the village. All the children stopped dead in their tracks and one or two let out a small gasp.

  Sam was unsure what to do. Part of him wanted to go back and try to help the villagers, but he knew it would be futile and a waste of his life. He was about to urge the others to follow him and lead them away from danger when Elle started to run back along the road.

  “Stop!” Sam shouted but she ignored him. He started to give chase but she was quicker than he was. “Get off the road” he yelled over his shoulder to the children before calling ahead to Elle. “Wait,” he shouted between breaths, “I’m coming with you.”

  She slowed, allowing him to catch up and Sam placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to tell her there was nothing she could do, but she pulled away. “I have to see,” was all she said. By the look in her eye, Sam knew she wouldn’t be dissuaded.

  They jogged back along the road and Sam needed to work hard to keep up with her. More than once, his exhausted body threatened to give out on him.

  They stopped running at a small rise just shy of the village, and found themselves a viewpoint behind a mound of earth, which had formed over the roots of an ancient and twisted oak.

  The carnage was plain to see. Dismembered bodies lay in the mud while men were systematically going through each of the huts and looting whatever they could find, which didn’t amount to much. Some of the huts were already burning and as another was cleared, they doused the roof with oil and set it ablaze with torches. They were laughing while they worked and all turned to jeer when two of them dragged a half-naked woman by the hair into a hut.

  In the middle of the road a small group were gathered around the old man, the same one who'd told Sam and Elle to leave, who was now on his knees with two men holding his arms out straight behind his back, pushing him forward by his shoulders. His head thrashed wildly as he tried to free himself from their clutches. When the sword came down and chopped it off, the executioner took a leap backwards to avoid the voluminous gout of blood which erupted. They let go of his arms and the body slumped, bleeding stump first, into the mud. “No, no, no, no,” Elle kept on repeating under her breath. “Say a prayer for them?” she asked quietly.

  Sam tasted bile. He felt weak, powerless to act and a coward. “Of course.” Resigned to shame, he reached into his robes to take out the bible he’d become accustomed to carrying, before remembering he’d dressed in a hurry when the Mount was pillaged and left it propped on the desk.

  Instead his fingers brushed against the smooth rock. He didn't remember leaving it there but as his fingers made contact with the smooth surface, he felt a sudden and sharp burst of energy, almost like being pricked with a needle. Closing his hand around it, he gripped hard and the sharp jolt became a steady thrum of power which slowly travelled up his arm until it filled his entire being with pulsating warmth. Sam bowed his head and it filled with strange sensations and half-memories of something ancient, primal and long forgotten from the world. A violent tugging on his arm snapped him from his trance. Elle was in a panic, pointing down at the village where a group of the armed men were making their way toward the forest.

  "Wait." Sam placed his hand on her arm and didn't run. With new found confidence, he refused to be afraid and instead focussed on each of their faces, committing each one, as best he could, to memory. It was only for a second or two but Elle was frantic.

  "We need to get off the road," he said, blinking and rising to his feet.

  24

  The run back along the muddy road was exhausting and before long they’d both slowed to a walk and their breathing was heavy. Sam’s face glistened with sweat but Elle’s did not. His eyes lingered on her for a while before he looked to the ground.

  “Do you think they’re following?” she asked .

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “We’d better keep moving just in case.”

  “And we need to catch up with the others,” she said before they shared a solemn smile and clambered over a fallen tree, brought down by the storm.

  Elle was deep in thought and kept glancing over to Sam, who was contemplating what had happened back at the edge of the trees and didn't notice her attention. Without doubt he knew what he’d experienced at the edge of the village was real and not a symptom of nerves.

  The children hadn’t strayed far and were milling about near the edge of the road. "John. Anna." Elle shouted into the woods while trying not to make herself too loud.

  The rustling of leaves and shaking of branches heralded a young boy and girl bounding out of the undergrowth.

  "There you are," she said, relieved. "Now follow us." She looked over to Sam, who nodded and plunged off the road and into the trees. The rest of the group followed - Elle bringing up the rear to make sure no children were left behind - and were quickly swallowed up by the dense forest. They walked in silence, picking their way through under
growth and over roots, each caught up in their own thoughts. "I'm tired," said a boy ducking under a low branch to the side of Sam.

  "I know."

  "When are we going to stop?"

  Sam was about to tell him it would be a little longer when Elle shouted forward, "Soon, Edward my love."

  Sam would have liked to press further into the woods, thinking they were still too close to the road for comfort, but he was also too exhausted to complain. So they stopped in a small clearing made by an uprooted silver birch, where grass had been allowed to grow and a small animal-track passed through it and into the woods on either side.

  "I'm hungry," another of the youngsters said as soon as they'd come to a halt.

  Elle and Sam looked at each other. "We'll have to find our food," she told the children as they exchanged another glance. The people of St Peter’s were fisher-folk and had little knowledge of woodland food. Sam was from the city where his meals came from wooden stalls and backstreet taverns. When he’d lived at the monastery they had grown whatever they needed and he hadn’t studied plant-lore.

  "Let's split up," she said to everyone. "Find things you think we can eat and bring them back here for us to look at." She turned her head to look into the trees all around. "And don't go too far."

  Sam took the opportunity to slip away on his own into the woods and didn’t walk far before he came across a moss covered tree which had fallen across the trail. It was a good place to sit and he hopped onto the spongy and deeply cracked bark, with no intention of finding food. He shoved his hand into his pocket and glanced around before taking the black stone and holding it up in front of his face.

  Its surface was jet black, not shiny but in no way dull either, like the sky between the stars on the darkest of moonless nights. Tiny glyphs were inscribed all over its surface, the language unknown, but full of a meaning which lay just outside his grasp. He put his hand to the lettering and felt the dull vibrations in his fingertips and the sense of raw power and primeval knowledge which flowed through him. He closed his eyes to savour the sensations coursing through his body and inhaled deeply of autumnal woodland scent. It smelled alive and he felt part of it.