Crone

  CRONE

  Jeannie Wycherley

  Copyright © 2017 Jeannie Wycherley

  Bark at the Moon Books

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 099578180X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9957818-0-1

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  In memoriam

  Herbie Longfellow Alderdice

  9th September 2006 - 29th July 2016

  Prologue

  The cracking and snapping of dry bones reverberated through the stillness of the night. In the freezing air, at the very heart of the wood, in the slumped ruins of a long-forgotten dwelling, something dark began to manifest itself.

  Little more than a mummified corpse, she unfolded her outer layer in a shower of dust and dry mould. Her skin, what remained of it, creaked like ancient leather and her flesh stretched taut over foul stringy innards. Then reaching, stretching, groaning, retching, she hauled herself upright. Once risen, she floated inches above the ground, while the mist—salty from the nearby sea—enveloped her like a pall and covered her foul nakedness.

  She slipped out of the shack. The wildlife in the undergrowth shrank from her black charisma, keeping their distance from her rancid stench, the stink of putrefaction.

  In the treetops, caught out by her rapid return to sentience, an owl blinked uneasily. Fearful, he observed her as she moved beneath him, then hopeful of evading her gaze he casually pivoted his head, pretended she was unseen and he was unseeing. But Aefre, even in her newly woken state, was both observant and deadly.

  She was fast: lashed out at the owl, a missile of energy directed from her mind and he died instantly. Shedding a cloud of downy feathers, he slipped from his perch into her ready grasp. Her deformed claw-like fingers caught the remains and stuffed him into her mouth, whole. She chewed once, twice. Swallowed. A single line of blood dribbled from her chin, and the thinnest layer of fresh skin started to form a mouldering translucent veneer.

  There was a halo of light to the east. Civilisation. For Aefre, the time was ripe. She was awake. It was time to bask in the thrill of the hunt. This time she would locate her sisters and join them in a merry dance of carnage.

  First things first, however. She needed sustenance. She headed for town. She would find everything she needed there.

  *

  The boys tumbled out of the multiplex, blinking in the garish sodium lights of the car park, high on an adrenaline kick after enjoying the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Max was grateful that James now had a driving licence and a car to go with it and they weren’t dependent on the non-existent bus service. It was hell being stuck in Abbotts Cromleigh with nothing to do.

  Max was completing his A levels this year, and come September he would be off to University in a city where you didn’t need a car. Everything he needed would be on his doorstep. Live music venues, sporting facilities: Sheffield promised to be everything his small Devon home town couldn’t be.

  He’d miss The Storykeeper though. Sheffield had bookshops, sure, but The Storykeeper was something special. It was housed in a higgledy-piggledy Elizabethan structure that had been added to time and again over the years, and thus appeared to stretch back and up endlessly. Shelves meandered like mysterious rivers throughout the building, stacked with volumes containing millions and millions of words. Max found magic in words. If he was honest, he would rather have his nose in a book than go clubbing, but he was canny enough to realise that this wasn’t a cool thing to admit at almost eighteen. He didn’t mind. He had all of his life to read as much as he wanted, starting with his English Literature degree.

  Smiling broadly, he tussled with Euan about who should sit in the front seat. Euan, who was shorter than Max, gave up easily enough and sprawled indolently in the back of the ageing Peugeot 205, trading insults with Max who folded himself up into the front seat next to James and resumed munching on the popcorn he’d carried out of the cinema.

  “You can’t be hungry, Max, surely?” James asked as he slid the key into the ignition. “You ate all of your bucket and most of mine. Whose popcorn is that anyway?”

  “God knows. I picked it up as I left.” Max smiled impishly.

  “Gross. Well don’t spill it over the insides of my car or you’ll be on your hands and knees licking it up, arsehole.”

  Euan laughed from the back seat. “James, you’re so precious about this damn car. Anyone would think it was a Ferrari or something.”

  “You can laugh, but one day I am going to be at the wheel of a Lamborghini and it won’t be Maxie here sat beside me playing with my gear stick. Oh no, I’ll have some luscious blonde with huge tits and a tiny waist to keep me happy.”

  Euan roared with laughter. “Dream on.”

  James flicked through the available radio stations, before leaning across in front of Max to pop open the glove box. “Pick us out a tune, dude,” he instructed and Max rifled through some old-school cassettes to find something he fancied. The Peugeot had previously belonged to James’s aunt and was so antiquated it didn’t even have a CD player. James had inherited the cassette collection along with the car. Max found one simply labelled ‘Hits 1994’ and clumsily tried to slide it into the open mouth of the cassette player. After fiddling and getting it jammed, James intervened, flipping it easily into place. ‘Girls and Boys’ by Blur filled the car and simultaneously all three of the boys broke into song.

  *

  She’d had some luck feeding, but in spite of appearing more robust Aefre felt as wobbly as a new-born foal. Her hibernation had been relatively short this time, an interval of only fifty or so years. The world had continued without her, as it always did, and she needed to acclimatise to the changes.

  The wood itself was far smaller than it had been. Every time she woke she was witness to a shrinking natural world. Once she might have walked for some time to find a settlement, but now there were humans everywhere, practically on her hearth. The more humans there were, the more difficult it became to locate her sisters. She lifted her head, her sharp beak of a nose, as yet without skin, scanning the horizon. She could make out others like her—the Guardians were close—but not her sisters. She needed to grow strong again, and quickly. Her power to discern who and what and where was too weak.

  The stench of this new world overpowered her senses. Deeply unpleasant smells that she had no context for. The very air throbbing with an energy she only vaguely recognised. Electricity had been around for some time but now it pulsed and vibrated everywhere, and the great arc of artificial light from the nearby town masked the stars. They could not shine brighter than manmade illuminations.

  The hunting ground that she and her kind had once freely roamed was being destroyed and it made her unhappy. She bitterly detested the passing of time. Her anger flared, hot and poisonous.

  *

  The ageing Peugeot ambled through the dark country lanes. James, in spite of his age and gender, was a careful driver, and valued the freedom driving allowed him. He was alone among his friends in actually owning a car of his own. His folks were well off and wanted him to join the family firm when he finished school. Yes, he was going to spend the rest of his life designing, printing, and selling paper bags and cardboard containers. He realised that to many kids his age—intent on living hard and fast and travelling and playing—such a life might sound like an almighty burden, but he had always known where he was destined to end up. He planned to one day take over the firm from his uncle.

  And he would have that Lamborghini if it killed him.

  *

  Aefre floated stealthily down the hill towards the Sentinel tree. The foul reek of petrol and diesel fumes lingering in the lanes made Aefre gag. The vapours made her dizzy. But standing in front of the tree her excitement grew. Perhaps soon she would be strong enough to cross the portal and search for her sisters. At this time of year, when the shadows were long and bonfires burned, when the frost held the Earth in a tight grip at night, and the leaves were damp underfoot during the day, the threshold between this world and the other was more easily crossed.

  Across the lane from the Sentinel, the lights of White Cottage twinkled. Aefre cursed. The cottage had been purposefully built overlooking the great oak tree, the portal she needed to use in order to cross between planes to find her sisters. The Guardians were still in residence in the cottage. Damn them and their interfering ways. When would they die out?

  Her lingering thoughts naturally drew their attention. As she drew level with the cottage she felt the occupants reaching out—searching, enquiring. Their power touched at the edge of hers, and she hurriedly withdrew. She wasn’t strong enough to take them on.

  Not yet.

  The lights of a modern carriage driving her way momentarily blinded her. Aefre’s anger sparked once more.

  *

  The lane wound its way left and right, and James skilfully went with it, managing the curves with ease. The road was quiet this evening with little traffic about, so progress was relatively smooth. In places the mist was thick and he slowed down to accommodate it, elsewhere it was non-existent. Blur had given way to The Prodigy and then The Cranberries. Euan and James sang along to the lyrics they knew.

  The sky was dark, the moon backlighting a few clouds so that they shone, otherworldly, silver and grey. On this part of the journey, heading back through t
he rolling, fertile countryside to Abbotts Cromleigh, much of the sky was obscured by overhanging trees anyway.

  The cassette tape jammed. James lent forwards to flip it out, when from nowhere, a figure stepped out of the mist in front of the car.

  James yelled as he saw the movement—but it was too late. He yanked the steering wheel sideways with his left hand to avoid colliding with the figure, but he pulled too hard. Max screamed as the car ploughed forwards, hitting the verge on the left hand side of the road before crashing into a huge oak tree.

  The tree was centuries old. It was a scarred warhorse. An immovable force.

  Unfortunately, the car was not. The bumper hit the tree, followed immediately by the bonnet of the car. Metal and plastic crumpled, glass fractured and exploded, the engine was crushed, one wheel spun off. James’s body was flung forward, his chest impacting on the steering column. His head was flung forwards and sideways, twisting viciously and snapping his neck, before colliding with the side window. His skull fractured like a soft boiled egg. He was dead before the noise of the crash had travelled as far as the cottage across the road.

  Simultaneously Euan, who was not wearing a seatbelt, was thrown forwards against James’s seat. His right wrist splintered and his right leg was crushed as James’s seat crumpled back towards him. His back twisted and his head flailed. He lay against James’s seat, winded and unable to breathe, until gradually he became increasingly aware of his surroundings and his breath rasped into the sudden silence.

  Max was luckier. The right hand side of the car had taken the brunt of the impact. His legs were trapped under the crumpled dashboard and the airbag had broken his nose, but he was alive. He slumped back into his seat, his eyes closed, his heart pounding, waiting for the adrenaline to subside and the pain to begin.

  Total stillness after the violence of movement and noise. With all his heart Max wanted his Mum. He called for her and started to cry.

  In the back seat, Euan was making strange noises that spoke of a world of pain and discomfort. Max tried to say they were going to be all right. Help would come. But he could only mumble.

  Max sensed rather than saw movement close by. Someone opened the rear door and a shadow invaded the car. Euan screamed in pain. Max sensed someone looking over his shoulder at James, before withdrawing. Euan whimpered. Then the door opened next to Max, and someone was reaching in. Thank goodness. Help was here.

  A hand reached out to him, an old woman’s hand, liver spots on the yellow flesh. It was followed by a face, ancient and leathery, black eyes glittering hungrily. Lank hair brushed his cheek and she breathed in as he breathed out. A heavy fog began descending on Max. His breathing became laboured, his heartrate slowed. His chest tightened, so tight he thought his heart would burst. The woman was sucking his breath away. His vision blurred, and then he knew no more.

  *

  A savage encounter. She enjoyed it. Now it was over, she needed to take the time to reacquaint herself with her surroundings. The landscape was recognisable, but only barely. The tiny village of Cromleigh, population of one hundred and thirty-two within a two-mile radius, had exploded to many times its original size since her time. The town now boasted large municipal buildings, housing estates, and roads where once there had been country lanes and ramshackle farms and cottages.

  One hundred years or so ago, Aefre had hunted among the factories and warehouses. Some of those were dilapidated ruins now, while others had been torn down to make way for housing. A century ago she had been entranced by the elegant parade of shops on Fore Street but now only the bookshop remained. In the hands of the same owner too. She knew him, Kephisto, The Storykeeper. Knew him well. Had considered visiting him several times so they could become reacquainted.

  She skirted a group of new houses: little identical boxes sharing what had once been woodland and then a field. If she listened closely she could make out the sounds from inside: snoring, babies crying, moans of lust emanating from warm beds. The noise was overwhelming. This world was a crowded place. She yearned for the deep silence of her country of old.

  Where she could gain access to the houses, she did. She stalked through homes, gazing down at innocents as they slept, leaning in and inhaling the mustiness of their breath, glowering a warning at anything that moved.

  When dawn peeped above the horizon, she slipped like a shadow back into the wood. Tomorrow was another day. Humans were easy pickings.

  Somewhere close by, a dog barked a warning. Nobody was listening.

  ONE

  hEATHER

  Three Years Later

  Tendrils of cold mist slipped their fingers down the neck of my fleece. I barely noticed. Pressing one hand against the bark of the tree in front of me, I traced the old scars still evident in the bark. Was Max somehow here? Probably not. But this was where I felt closest to him. Here, where his life had been extinguished. Seventeen years of age. Too young. Forever young.

  I placed my flowers against a jutting root of the huge oak and kneeling, collected up some of the rubbish gathering in the hedgerow, stowing it away in a plastic bag for later disposal. I was careful not to disturb a fresh bouquet of carnations. Red for Liverpool FC. James’s favourite team. These friends, once inseparable in life were now inseparable in death.

  My breath caught in my throat and stuck there. My eyes filled with tears. I could never come here and not weep for my only son. Three years on and the pain, while no longer the hysterical, screaming kind, was a constant, aching reminder of my loss. I gathered some dead leaves into my hands, crushed them between my fingers, crumbled them to ash, and scattered them on the breeze, then kissed the fingers of my left hand and gently touched them to the tree, offering some vague blessing, before walking away.

  The road here was narrow, no more than a lane, so I had parked farther up where it was a little wider. I strolled towards the car, in no real hurry. As I approached the bend in the road, I turned back for one last look. The oak stood tall, its trunk gnarled and twisted, branches skeletal. It dominated the road. Most of the leaves were gone; winter had a tight grip of the countryside.

  This road descended from the small town of Abbots Cromleigh at the top and travelled in a south-westerly direction, ending twelve or so miles down the hill at the larger coastal town of Elbury. The huge oak tree was nestled in a dip in the road, a slight valley, with tall hedgerows on both sides. To the left was a cottage and a field, known locally as Pitcher’s Field, joining the wood that stretched out for miles, heading briefly uphill once more, before tumbling towards the cliffs that overlooked the sea.

  On days like today, when the sky was an ominous slate grey and the mist was rolling off the sea, it was a grim and forlorn place. A number of crows were perched in the oak tree, and they gazed down at me now, their eyes black and bright. One of them cawed loudly and flew across the road in front of me before settling on a ramshackle wooden fence that belonged to a neat cottage with a thatched roof.

  I had on occasion seen a woman pottering in the garden. A young woman, perhaps late twenties or early thirties. Once I had seen an elderly lady, dressed in black, watching me from the door of the cottage. She had given me a half smile but turned away when I had self-consciously acknowledged her. Smoke always drifted from the chimney, even during the summer. These cottages could be cold in spite of their thick walls.

  Neither woman was in the garden on this freezing afternoon, but thin curls of dark smoke rose above the thatch as usual, scenting the air. Logs were piled against the front of the house, and a number of lanterns hanging from the front porch shone in the dimming light.

  Dusk was falling. It was time to head home and walk Pip, Max’s old lurcher. Pip was getting on himself now and didn’t need to walk as far as he had in his younger days, but he liked to get out and about and have a good sniff among the leaves. I whispered my goodbyes to Max again.

  I had to shake off the feeling that someone was watching me as I headed for the car. Stupid, I know.