Gallows at Twilight (32 page)

‘Mothe—Mrs Hobarron? This is Jacob. I just wanted to say—’

‘Go away.’

It hurt to hear that voice. He remembered a hundred scoldings and a thousand loving words.

‘Please open the door,’ he murmured.

‘For God’s sake, leave me be,’ the woman cried. ‘I cannot lose you again.’

Jake had left with the wailing of a heartbroken mother in his ears.

Now he joined Josiah’s father at the church gate. Eleanor was busy packing the last of their provisions into the pouches of a saddlebag. Last night, after the madness in the church, Jake had returned to the house and knocked on Eleanor’s door. Again, he had tried to apologize but his words had met with silence. She was equally silent now. Ignoring his ‘good morning’, she draped the bag over the horse’s back and adjusted the straps of the saddle.

Two horses stood side-by-side in the lane, heads busy in their nosebags. The first mare was golden-brown, the second, black with a sprinkling of grey hairs. To an average rider’s eye, Jake guessed that these were standard-size mounts, their withers level with his own shoulders. Eleanor removed the nosebags, placed her foot in a stirrup and swung herself onto the back of the black mare. With her eyes on the road, she asked, ‘Are you ready?’

Jake swallowed. ‘I’ve—ah—I’ve never been on a horse.’

They turned to him, amazed. Even the horses flicked their ears as if they couldn’t believe what they had just heard.

‘You’ve never ridden?’ Eleanor marvelled.

‘Um. No. Sorry.’

‘Then how do you get from place to place in the future? Have horses died out? Do you walk everywhere?’

‘I’ve seen it in my visions,’ the Preacher chirruped excitedly. ‘Glimpses of people moving at incredible speeds, twice as fast as any horse. They are encased in the bellies of metal carriages. Perhaps Jacob rides such a beast.’

‘Er … no,’ Jake said, ‘I’m not old enough. Next year I can start having lessons.’

‘You aren’t old enough to ride these metal horses and you can’t ride a normal horse.’ Eleanor shook her head.

Blood rushed into Jake’s face. He snatched hold of the brown mare’s rein, grabbed the pommel on the saddle and tried to jump up. His sudden movement unnerved the horse. She trotted forward and Jake fell back onto the path. He groaned through gritted teeth—a sound of pain and embarrassment.

Eleanor jumped down and helped him to his feet. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

The briefest of riding classes followed. Jake was taught how to mount on the nearside of the horse and how to bounce himself into position. How to lace the rein between his fingers, how to loosen it for speed and pull it taut to stop. The pressure of his knees on the flanks was the key, Eleanor said: the tighter the grip the faster the horse would go. Like Marian, Eleanor’s horse, Pepper was a mature mare and, despite Jake’s fumbling, wasn’t easily startled. As long as she was handled with respect, Pepper wouldn’t throw him. After twenty minutes of practice, Jake had managed to trot down the lane without falling off .

‘I think that’s the best we can hope for,’ Eleanor said, stroking Pepper’s neck. She looked to the horizon and sighed. ‘This is going to be a
long
journey. I’ll help you where I can, Jake, but we’re going to have to ride fifteen hour days to reach Havlock Grange in reasonable time.’

‘Fifteen hours in the saddle,’ Jake said. ‘Easy.’

Eleanor laughed despite herself and mounted Marian.

‘My dear, I wonder if Jacob and I might have a private word?’ the Preacher said.

‘Of course.’

Eleanor made a clucking sound and Marian clopped down the lane. The Preacher listened to the fading sound of hooves on stone, then turned to Jake.

‘It is time to say goodbye. We shall not see each other again in this life … or the next.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘More mysteries, I’m afraid,’ said John Hobarron.

‘You remind me a bit of my dad. He’s a pain in the backside, too.’

Jake looked down to where Eleanor waited for him.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ he said. ‘I should go alone.’

‘Hasn’t she proven herself to you?’ the Preacher asked. ‘You underestimate that girl at your peril.’

‘It’s not that. I don’t want her putting herself in danger on my behalf.’

‘Again, you sound like my son. Eleanor would plead with Josiah to allow her to accompany him on his travels. He always refused, not because he doubted her abilities, but because the thought of her in the clutches of some witch or monster was too painful for him to bear. In the end, it was selfishness on his part. When he died, alone and helpless, she suffered more pain than a thousand dark hexes. So tell Eleanor that you forbid her to go with you.’ The Preacher smiled through his sorrow. ‘And I will go into the house and plug my sensitive ears.’

‘Just because I look like him doesn’t mean she owes
me
anything,’ Jake argued. ‘It wasn’t her fault he died, and it won’t be her fault if I die.’

‘Four hundred years of progress and still men seem unable to understand the strength and the heart of women. Ah well, all will become clear before the end.’ The Preacher reached up for Jake’s hand. ‘Goodbye, Jacob Harker.’

Jake pulled off his leather riding glove and took the Preacher’s hand. At the touch of that weathered skin a fragment of memory flashed into his mind. He turned to the churchyard and there, amid the gravestones, he saw two figures looking up at the old church. A small boy and a middle-aged man, hand in hand. Jake gasped at the image: the boy looked exactly like his five-year-old self.

‘
Why is the church all bent and broken, Papa?
’ the boy asked.

The Preacher appeared to shiver.
‘Because of the storm.’

‘
A storm? With wind and rain and lightning?’
young Josiah asked.

‘
Something like that, yes. Five years ago the church was hit by … lightning, as you say. A terrible strike that smashed through the roof and trembled the walls askew. I was in the church myself at the time and … ’
His hands went to the hollow sockets where his eyes had been. ‘
It was a blessing, my child—the storm that came to Starfall.’

Jake took a sharp breath and the ghosts in the graveyard vanished. He tried to speak, but the Preacher cut him short.

‘Do not ask, for I cannot tell you.’

Jake gripped the reins and pressed his knees against Pepper’s flanks. He’d had enough of mysteries.

‘Murderer!’

John Hobarron had not laid eyes on his wife in over nineteen years, but in his mind he saw a vivid picture of her. Eyes raw from months of crying, Elizabeth Hobarron hurtled down the lane to meet him. She flailed her hands against his face and body, striking the old man hard. When at last she tired, the Preacher went to his wife and put shaking arms around her.

‘Murderer, murderer, murderer,’ she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper.

‘I’m sorry, my love,’ he said, ‘but I’ve always done what I thought was right.’

‘Right for who? For our son? For that boy? You sent Josiah to his death and now you are happy to send him again.’ She wailed as if her soul was being crucified. ‘Last night, while he slept, I sat beside him and stroked his hair. Deep brown, just like our child’s. What I would not have done to have spoken to him this dawn and to have received his kiss. But I could
not
. Not when I knew you were sending him to his ruin.’

‘I have no choice, woman! The very world hangs upon the boy.’ The Preacher rested his head against his wife’s shoulder. ‘It always has.’

‘Then why not tell him all?’

Her words made John Hobarron shudder.

‘Why not tell him that Josiah was
not
our son?’

The Preacher released his wife and turned his face to the church. In his world of endless night, he sensed a deeper darkness stir.

‘Josiah never knew and nor shall he.’ His speech had the grandeur of a sermon. ‘Not until the End is near and this world stands in the shadow of nightfall. Until then, let Jacob Harker find what peace he can … ’

Her laugh was malicious and cracked with age, but to him it was beautiful. Her scent, the stale aroma of unwashed clothes and poisonous herbs, was a sublime perfume. Her smile, seldom seen and always cruel …

‘Beautiful,’ he whispered in his sleep. ‘My beautiful Esther.’

The ghost of Esther Inglethorpe haunted Tobias Quilp, as it had every night since he had learned of her death. Her murder. The dream always ended in the same way, with Quilp’s fury finding its voice in the dead witch—

‘They killed me, Tobias. Struck me dead without a second thought.’ She stalked through the dream world. ‘You are my avenger, my dark angel. Hunt them down, strip the still-warm flesh from their bones and wallow in their hot blood. The father pulled the trigger but the son stands guilty, too. Jacob Harker … ’

Light flashed against Quilp’s closed eyelids. The vision of Esther Inglethorpe began to fade.

‘Be merciless, my love,’ she called. ‘Be cruel.’

Quilp came squinting out of the dream. He looked to the woman at the window and felt a little of his fury seep out.

‘I told you I was not to be disturbed.’

‘Forgive me, Master Quilp,’ Lethe Crowden bowed, ‘but my sister and I thought you might like to know—Frija is spinning again.’

Quilp had been lying on the four-poster bed fully dressed, Mr Pinch curled like a baby in his arms. Now he set the sleeping demon aside, strode out of the chamber and plunged down the stairs.

Taking the steps three at a time, Quilp’s thoughts returned to the day of his arrival in 1645. How long ago had it been? Two weeks? Three? Four? Wrapped up in thoughts of revenge he had failed to keep track of the time. His mission had been to convince the Crowden sisters that he was an emissary sent by their brother from the future. His arrival inside Marcus’s nightmare box, his intimate knowledge of their brother’s appearance, character, and history had convinced the sisters of his story. He had been welcomed as an honoured guest and shown directly to the witch ball.

It had been strange, striding through the corridors of the old-new house. Seconds before, he had been standing in the ruined shell of Havlock Grange; now here he was, in the dusty but unspoiled Great Hall. Drude had gone to a little cupboard under the stairs and retrieved a leather bag from its hiding place. Passing the bag to Quilp, the witch had said, ‘Frija saw the ball in one of her visions. It seemed important and so Lethe and I travelled to the cave and stole it. A waste of time, of course.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘See for yourself.’

Quilp felt inside the bag and his fingers brushed against the cold glass of the witch ball. Bringing it out into the light, he had stared into the orb’s dark heart.

‘But it’s—’

‘Dead,’ Lethe nodded.

‘Powerless,’ Drude added.

‘This is Josiah Hobarron’s witch ball,’ Tobias cried. ‘Its magic is legendary!’

‘Its power is spent,’ Drude said. ‘Frija’s vision must have been at fault, it sometimes is. We punished her severely, of course. Still, it is rather funny.’

Caught up in thoughts of what the Demon Father would do to him if he brought the dead ball back through time, Tobias snapped, ‘Funny?’

‘Why yes,’ Lethe tittered. ‘You
and
the boy using such powerful magic to come looking for this glorified bauble!’

‘Jacob Harker,’ Tobias murmured. ‘How did you know he was here in 1645?’

‘Frija. She sees many things. The boy is presently a prisoner in Cravenmouth, a town many days’ ride from here. Frija has foretold that he will suffer at the hands of a witch-finder, but will escape and come looking for the ball. In a few weeks hence, Jacob Harker will be at our door.’

That had settled matters. If he returned to the Demon Father with this powerless orb, Quilp was as good as dead. If, however, he could bring Jacob Harker with him … He would lay the boy at his Master’s feet and then, after the Demon Father had had his sport, Quilp would be allowed to kill him.

And so the weeks passed and Quilp waited for news of Jacob’s coming …

Now he burst into the Crowden sisters’ chamber.

‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.

His eyes flitted between Drude and Frija. Lethe slipped in from the corridor and joined Drude at the long oak table. She began to nibble at a bone taken from her sister’s cauldron. A rib, Quilp thought, though he was not an expert in the size and shape of children’s bones.

‘Don’t just sit there eating!’ he barked. ‘I said—what news?’

Drude got up from the table and took him by the arm. She led him to the veiled woman sitting at the spinning wheel.

‘The cloud has dispersed, but while it held we saw the boy leaving the village of Starfall. He will be here soon. Tell him, Frija.’

The woman at the wheel turned her head aside. The chains that bound her to the floor clanked as she moved.

‘You will tell him or I will be forced to boil my cauldron … ’ Drude reached out and caressed her sister’s veil, ‘and hurt you all over again.’

Drude’s cauldron; Frija’s spinning wheel; Lethe’s harp; Marcus’s cabinet. Quilp had met other witches whose demons took on the form of objects, but usually familiars were more comfortable in the guise of monstrous creatures or, like Mr Pinch, malformed humans. Such things possessed the horror of the strange and the ghastly, but the Crowden demons were different. Their apparent ordinariness lent them a quiet terror.

Quilp’s gaze turned to the black cabinet that stood in the corner of the room, waiting. His journey into the past had taken less than ten seconds, but ten seconds in the nightmare box had seemed like a lifetime of horrors. Soon he would have to make the return trip. The thought made him shudder.

Drude’s voice returned him to the moment.

‘I will do it,’ she purred, ‘I will heat the magical oil until it is bubbling, and then I will—’

‘Please, sister,’ Frija sobbed.

‘Then tell him what you saw.’

‘Jacob Harker,’ she gasped from behind her veil. ‘In two days he will be at our door.’

‘And?’ Drude prompted.

‘Another will be at his side. A girl. He … he already cares for her.’