The Owl Killers (32 page)

Now the path was nothing more than a sheep’s track strewn with
stones and rocks. It was so perilously narrow in places that several times I lost my footing and came close to plunging into the raging river below. I cursed myself for having neglected to bring a lantern. How could I have been so foolish as to embark on such a climb without any means of lighting my way? Maybe I’d already passed the cottage in the gloom. Surely not even a witch could find anywhere to nest among these rocks. The path vanished beneath my feet and I found myself walking over a flat stretch of grass. The rocks and the hillside rose all around me like the walls of a fortress, blocking what little light remained in the sky.

Then out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed something moving in the darkness. I turned. A human skull was hanging upside down, suspended in midair. As I stared aghast, the hollow eye sockets suddenly blazed with flame. I screamed and staggered backwards, slipping and crashing down with such force that I rolled over. The ground disappeared from beneath my head and shoulders.

I had tumbled right to the edge of the bank. I was lying on my back, suspended over the river. I felt the icy spray on my neck and heard the deafening roar of the water crashing over the rocks below. I flailed about, trying to find a handhold on the bank to pull myself back, but the grass I clutched at came away in my hands and I found myself slipping further over the river.

Then I felt someone grasp my arm. I clung to the outstretched hand and inched myself back on the bank until I was crouching on all fours on the solid earth, gasping, my limbs shaking beneath me. I raised my head. I was staring into the stinking, filthy skirts of a woman. I scrambled to my feet. The old witch was standing in front of me, holding the skull with its blazing eyes. Now that I was close to it, I could see that inside the upturned skull was a mound of burning tinder. Red and orange flames licked around the yellowed teeth.

I dared not move for fear I would step backwards into the river. Every word, every prayer that should have protected me, had vanished from my head. I pulled my iron crucifix from about my neck and grasping it tightly in my fist pushed it towards her face.

“Get away from me. I … I am a priest. God will protect me.”

The old hag cackled with laughter. “Wasn’t God that saved you from a wetting.”

“What evil do you intend this night, old woman? I warn you, whatever mischief you plan, I am here to prevent it.”

“So you’ve come to stop me kindling my hearth fire, have you? Seems a lot of trouble to go to, to stop a poor old soul cooking her supper.”

“Don’t lie to me, woman,” I shouted. “The only fire you are lighting is to brew some deadly potion. What wickedness do you intend to make with that?” I pointed at the skull but, to my shame, I saw my hand was trembling.

The old woman chuckled. “Don’t you know all fires must be doused on Samhain, and lit again from the need-flame to see us safe through the dark winter?” She held up the fire-filled skull. “You’re a priest. You’re not afeared of dead things, are you? What harm can a bit of old bone do to you?”

The flames danced in the sightless eyes. I couldn’t tear my gaze from them. I felt as if I was being pulled closer to the old woman and yet neither of us was moving. Such a small skull, it could almost be small enough to be a child’s. I squeezed my eyes shut. Saint Michael and all angels defend me!

“That’s the head of the little boy, isn’t it? That’s Oliver … What have you done, you foul hag? Where’s the rest of the corpse? The flesh, how did you remove the flesh so quickly; he’s only three days dead?” A wave of nausea flooded up from my stomach. “God in Heaven, did you boil and eat … You did, didn’t you? Tell me the truth, you demon, tell me what you did to that child!”

I leapt forward, swinging the iron cross hard at her evil face. It caught her across the cheek and she fell backwards. The skull rolled down her legs, spilling the burning tinder. In an instant, her skirts were on fire.

Horrified, I stood and stared as flames shot upwards into the dark. The witch was writhing on the grass, screaming and pleading for me to help her. But I couldn’t move. I was mesmerised by the yellow flames. With a desperate effort she rocked onto her belly trying to smother the fire beneath her own body. A lifetime seemed to pass while I stood transfixed as the old woman rolled on the ground, beating at the flames licking around the dark outline of her body, then finally they were gone and we were in darkness.

The old woman lay still. I thought she was dead, but then I heard her moan. I collapsed onto my knees and pushed her over onto her back. The stench of burning cloth hung in the air. In the darkness I could see little of what the fire had done to her, but I saw the glittering of her open eyes as she stared up at me.

“God did this to you, Gwenith, because you lied. God struck you down with fire for your foul deeds. You were screaming when you felt the heat and pain of those flames. Imagine how much more you will scream when you are burning for all eternity in fire that is a thousand times hotter than any fire on earth.”

I was still gripping the iron cross. I ground it against her mouth, forcing her lips to touch it in the semblance of a kiss. “If you lie now you damn your soul to Hell. If you speak the truth, I will pray that you may be spared a little of the suffering that is about to fall on you. Now, Gwenith, I charge you to tell me what you did with the child you stole from the grave. Show me where I may find his body or at least his bones, so that I may return them to his grieving mother. If you do not I shall see you hanged and I shall send your maleficent soul straight to Hell.”

“A bairn’s … been taken … from a grave?” she gasped.

“You know that, you fiend. You took him. This is his skull.”

“No, no …” She shook her head. “That is my daughter’s skull … Gudrun’s mother … it’s my daughter who brings the need-fire to us … I loved my daughter … I keep her with us … I’d not leave her in a cold grave all alone …”

“You are lying,” I shouted at her.

“Pick up … the skull … Feel it. Those aren’t the teeth of a bairn …” She gripped the front of my robe with a surprising strength. “The bairn’s corpse, you mustn’t let them use it … Three generations ago, five cunning women joined their powers to send the creature back into the twilight time. My great-grandam was one … They thought no man would ever have the knowledge to conjure him again … But Aodh braved the bull oak and the hide … Aodh has the knowledge … Now he has the boy … He means to bring the creature back … I’m the only cunning woman left. Can’t fight him alone … I hoped the grey women … but there is not enough time. Only one way to stop the
Owl Masters now. You must go back to Ulewic and get the bairn’s corpse afore they can use it …” She groaned. Her grip momentarily tightened, then slackened as she fell back.

I shook her. “What is this creature? What will it do? Tell me!” “Go … hurry. If you want to prevent evil this night … stop the Owl Masters afore it’s too late.”

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN EASIER
going down the river path than up it, but it wasn’t. The moon had risen, but the light that it cast deceived the eye. Shadows masked holes. Rocks which looked solid rolled away beneath the feet. Only the moonlight shining on the tumbling white foam of the river differentiated between ground and water. I knew I should slow down. Several times I slipped and had to clutch at bushes and rocks to stop myself falling right down the hill. My back and arms were bruised and smarting, but all I could think of was what the Owl Masters were even now doing down in that village.

How could I have been so stupid as to let myself be tricked into coming up here? I should have known that there was something odd about the men’s story. The sexton must have noticed the grave had been opened long before Oliver’s mother found it in the afternoon. Why had he not come to me straightaway to tell me about the grave? Had Phillip D’Acaster instructed the sexton to send me on a fool’s errand, just to get me out of the way? Or did the men really believe that old Gwenith had stolen the corpse?

I heard the hounds howling long before I reached the first of the cottages. All the flea-bitten curs in Ulewic seemed to be joining in. But the streets themselves were deserted. Chinks of light escaping through cracks in shutters showed that not all the villagers had gone to the Samhain fires. Women and children were doubtless cowering behind those closed doors, terrified of the dead or of the Owl Masters. But despite the chill of the night, no smoke rose from any cottages. As old Gwenith had said, all the hearth fires had been extinguished. They would not be lit again until the men came home bearing flames from the Samhain fire.

But something was burning in the village; I could smell the wood
smoke on the air, and as I rounded the corner I saw it: A crackling bonfire had been lit right in the centre of the graveyard, in front of the very church itself. Scarlet and orange flames were twisting into the night sky. Showers of red sparks burst around it, as the wood crackled and spat.

A large group of villagers, men and women, had encircled the blaze and were dancing round it, their hands linked and arms raised. Their feet stomped in a slow heavy rhythm to the beat of a drum. Some of the dancers were dressed in long white shifts, their faces masked by wooden carvings of human faces or shrouded with white cloth in which holes had been cut for eyes and mouths—crude imitations of the dead, come back to dance among the living.

The drummer sat cross-legged on top of one of the D’Acaster family tombs. He was naked save for a deerskin wrapped round his loins. On his head he wore the skull of a stag. The sharp antlers gleamed white and the drummer’s bare skin was bronzed with sweat in the firelight.

I tore through the church gate, hardly able to contain my anger, shouting at the villagers to stop, but no one took any notice. The dancers’ heads were thrown back, their eyes closed, as they surrendered themselves to the beat of the drum. I was beside myself with rage. How dare they perform this heathen rite on holy ground, right before the door of the church, trampling over the graves, making a mockery of those Christian remains which lay beneath their filthy feet?

I strode towards the dancers and seized a stout, matronly looking woman by her arm.

“Cease this godless spectacle at once!” I ordered.

But she flung me off with such force that I bounced on the ground and lay there winded and gasping. Shocked by her strength, I stared up and realised that she wasn’t a woman at all. Those dancers I had taken to be village women were all men. There were no women in the graveyard.

Any attempt to break up the dance would be futile. The men had been drinking and were too carried away by the rhythm of the drum to pay any attention to me. They could wait. I would deal with their sins in the confessional. The important thing now was to find little Oliver’s body.

I struggled painfully to my feet. If Gwenith was right and they intended to use the corpse in some dark rite, it must be somewhere close by. Then I saw them. Four masked Owl Masters stood in the doorway of the church, beneath the carved Black Anu, blocking the entrance to St. Michael’s, as if they were guarding something. They had put the body in the church. Maybe the rest of the Owl Masters were inside, already committing their foul deeds upon the corpse. Perhaps they were performing their rites upon the very altar itself.

I ran round the circle of dancers towards the church door where the Owl Masters stood guard. The flames of the Samhain fire glinted red on the bronze beaks of their masks and on the drawn short-swords in their hands.

“Out of my way!” I tried to push past them, but two of the blades flashed upwards and were at my throat before I could take a step.

“How dare you threaten me; I am your priest. I could have you flogged for this.”

But the Owl Masters didn’t move. Deep behind the masks I glimpsed the flicker of eyes watching me.

“What is going on in the church? This is the house of God. If you violate a sacred building, God will smite you down and damn you for all eternity.”

I fumbled for the cross about my neck and held it up in front of their faces. “I command you in the name of …”

I sensed someone behind me and in the same instant saw one of the Owl Masters gesture with his sword. I half turned, but too late to prevent myself being seized on either side by powerful hands and dragged towards the dancers.

“How dare you lay hands on a priest! I will have you arrested for this.”

But the men only laughed. They knew the threat was an empty one. They had my arms pinioned behind my back. How could I punish them when I couldn’t even identify them, for they were both dressed in white shrouds, their faces concealed behind grinning wooden masks and hair of straw.

“You must join the dance, Father,” one of them said. “Else the dead will think you don’t welcome them.”

“Let me go,” I yelled, struggling to get out of their grip, but it was
no use. I found myself pushed and pulled round the circle with the other dancers. A priest’s strength is no match for burly villagers, strong as oxen from years of labouring in the fields.

Ducking under the upraised dancers’ arms, an Owl Master entered the ring and strode across to the fire in the centre. He was holding a straw figure in his arms, about the size of a child. The straw figure was more than large enough to contain the corpse of little Oliver. They meant to destroy it, burn it to ashes. And without a body what hope was there of resurrection for the boy on the Day of Judgement?

“No! No!” I screamed. “Not an innocent child.”

The Owl Master turned his head in my direction, raising the straw figure high in his arms, as if delibrately taunting me, then he tossed the effigy into the flames. The straw smouldered and burst into flames. An unpleasant, pungent stench began to mingle with the wood smoke, heavy and soporific. But it was not the smell of flesh. Some herb or leaves must have been stuffed inside the straw figure, something that was sending up clouds of dense smoke.

I felt light-headed, almost dizzy. I found that I had ceased to struggle. I no longer had the will to do so. The beat of the drum grew louder, until it seemed to be coming from inside my head. I found my feet obeying its rhythm, stamping with all the other feet; it was impossible to do otherwise.