The Skull (2 page)

Nash didn't move.

‘Do you want me to call the abbot away from his prayers?'

Nash hesitated, then turned his back on the prior without another word and stumbled off into the rain.

Alfred watched him go. ‘It has been a bad year,' he said. ‘The crops are washed out all along the valley.'

‘I know,' said the prior. ‘And we have more than we need here. But we don't have enough for the whole world, and so we have to choose.' He put his hand on Alfred's shoulder. ‘Come on.'

They ran out from under the cover of the pillars and into the storm.

They were soaked through before they reached the woods. Above them, the wind thrashed the branches against each other, and the rain, which had fallen on to the top leaves in fine sheets, poured off again in concentrated torrents.

Underneath their feet, the ground was soft – almost liquid. As they climbed down the steep hillside on which the ancient wood grew, it seemed as if the soil was flowing away beneath them.

Alfred knew the woods well. He'd followed this route many times on his way to and from the monastery, but he never liked it. It was too dark. If
you accidentally strayed off the path, thick, ancient thorn bushes tore at your hands and clothes, odd rocks sticking out of the ground tripped you, and loose overhangs hid steep and sudden drops. Although he didn't believe any of the stories the older boys told about the place, he still felt as though there was something wrong with the wood. Something menacing.

Tonight the whole place seemed alive. Even the trunks of the trees appeared to be groaning. Far off, there was a splintering crack as one old tree gave way. Alfred followed the prior closely, head down, watching his feet sink deeper into the pale mud with every step.

Deep underground, where the soil and chalk gave way to harder rock, giant sheets of limestone supported the mountain. Tonight, water was seeping through the chalk, forcing its way into cracks in the limestone, widening, fracturing and weakening the stone. On the surface, mudslides carried away smaller rocks and undermined the roots of trees. As the heavy rain continued to fall, slowly but surely, the balance of the landscape shifted.

The path wound steeply down, then equally steeply back up, and around a huge sharp rock jutting out of the hillside. Four flat stones protruded from the sodden ground, allowing the prior to quickly step up and climb around the rock. Alfred had to put both hands down into the mud to lever himself up on to each step, one at a time. As he heaved himself to a standing position on the top step, the rock began to tremble under his feet. He managed to leap off and grab hold of a bramble as the slab, nearly as large as himself, suddenly slid sideways and tumbled into the darkness.

By the time Alfred regained his footing at the top, the prior was out of sight. Alfred stared into the trees. The path was invisible, lost in a sea of darkness, mud and thrashing trees. Alfred shouted out, but he could hardly hear his own voice against the roaring of the storm. He fought the panic rising in his stomach and struggled in the rough direction of the path, hoping to catch sight of the prior's dark robes ahead, but there was nothing. It was as though the prior had been swallowed by the storm.

Suddenly the lightning rescued him. A flash and an almost instantaneous crash of thunder shook the ground. Light exploded around him. The trees in
front of him were lit up, and beyond them, high up where the sloping backbone of the hill met the sky, not one, but two figures were silhouetted against the night.

One was the prior. The other, Rolfe Nash. In the brief flash of light, Alfred saw Nash's fist, clenched and shaking. His mouth wide open, teeth bared in a shout. Without thinking, Alfred grasped the ground and hauled himself onwards, towards the angry man.

As he got closer, he could see Nash shouting over the roar of the storm. He was clearly ranting. The prior said nothing – even if Nash had stopped for long enough to let him speak, it would have made no difference.

Alfred was still in the shadow of the trees. If he came forward, at least Nash would know the prior wasn't alone in the forest. He took a deep breath and was about to step out of the shadows when he saw the prior's hand, waving him back. The prior couldn't see him, but must have known he was following close behind, and did not want him to be part of this argument.

Alfred stepped back and watched.

Nash seemed to be shouting louder and louder now, but Alfred could not make out his words over the
howl of the storm. Nash pointed down to the village at the bottom of the hill and then gestured violently out to the fields. He leaned forward, pushing his face towards the prior.

The prior simply shook his head. Nash's hands shot out. He shoved the prior backwards onto a wide, flat rock. The rock wobbled, started to slide, then stopped abruptly, caught by some larger structure underground. The prior staggered for a moment, recovered his balance, then froze. The rock started to move again. Not suddenly this time, but slowly, steadily, as though it were a lever that had turned a great wheel deep in the ground, taking with it the whole side of the hill. Even the trees were sliding now, the ground beneath them churning like an angry river.

Then the trees started to fall. Saplings at first, then a huge old oak, older than the village, crashing into the mud. The ground was sinking faster now, massive rocks upending and tumbling downwards. A deep cliff had opened up, just a little way in front of Alfred's feet. On the other side of the growing chasm, Nash stood staring down with panic in his eyes. Below them, the prior's rock tipped. For a second, Alfred saw his arms flail, as he stepped back trying
to keep his balance. Then he fell forwards, over and over, down through the widening abyss and out of sight into the darkness.

Alfred gasped, trying to take in what he'd just seen. He looked back up at Nash, and at that moment a bolt of lightning illuminated both of them. Nash was looking straight at him. Instinctively, Alfred ducked back, but it was too late. He had been seen.

Nash had just been responsible for the death of one of the most respected men in the community, and Alfred was the only one who knew it. If Alfred made it back to the village, Nash would be on trial for his life.

Alfred turned and dived back into the woods. He had a few moments' head start before Nash could find a way around the landslide, but there was still only one way down to the village, and that was through the densest part of the forest.

Branches scratched Alfred's face and legs as he ran blindly into the darkness. Away from the path, the thorny brambles grew in thick patches. He dodged one clump and leapt over another. As he swerved to avoid running into the enormous trunk of an ancient oak tree, he crashed sideways into a wide thicket of ivy and blackberry. The brambles tore at his
clothes, catching around his ankles and dragging him backwards. He scrambled over the matted branches where he could, but soon found himself on the ground, on all fours, pushing underneath the thorns, ignoring the mud and the stinging nettles.

The bottom of the thicket was easier to fight through than the top. The plants grew towards the light, and the underside of the brambles were dark and thin. Even so, Nash would be close behind, and Alfred was sure he was making so much noise that he would be easily heard even against the storm.

He scrambled on through the mud. Suddenly the brambles opened out into a tunnel just wide enough for him to crawl through, and Alfred dived into it. It was almost made for him, winding through the thorn bushes, forking and dividing as he pushed his way onwards. He knew immediately what these tunnels were; he had read about them in the prior's bestiary. They were the trails made by badgers searching for food. He knew that they would lead from the badger's sett out to the edge of the thicket. As long as he was moving in the right direction, he would eventually find a way out.

Abruptly, the thorns gave way, and Alfred was back in open woodland. He clambered to his feet and
started to run. He had no idea where he was, but the village was at the bottom of the hill, so he headed downwards. The hillside was steep, and he had to zigzag back and forth to avoid falling headlong. His lungs were gasping and his heart beating fast. Around him, the storm was still at its height. The wind blew leaves and sticks and rain in gusts from every direction, and the loose mud and stones threatened to topple him at every turn.

He struggled to hear sounds of pursuit over the gale, but every sound could have been Nash's shouting. His eyes tried to focus on the jumping shadows as he fought his way down the hill, but each time he thought he saw a hand reaching out at him or a cloak billowing, it turned out to be just a branch waving violently or a frightened animal scurrying off into the night.

Under his feet, the ground suddenly levelled out. He had hit the path. He pelted along the wet, slippery surface as fast as he could, at last able to run without worrying that he would hit a tree. The path turned downwards in a familiar arc. In an instant he knew where he was. Just a few more turns, back and forth along the hillside, then a sharp straight drop and the road would level out into the village.

Alfred took a great gulp of air. It felt as though he'd been holding his breath without even realising it. He followed the path, picking up speed. The path made a sharp bend around four solid tree trunks, blocking his view, but he knew it well.

He leaned in around the bend and smashed straight into Nash's open arms. Alfred crashed into him so hard and so fast that they both went flying to the ground. Nash tried to grab him. Alfred flailed and struggled. He jumped to his feet, but Nash gripped his ankle and he twisted and fell again. Nash was on his feet now, and stooping over to get hold of him. Alfred kicked his legs hard against the man's chest, and the force of it pushed the boy off the path and onto the muddy slope. Suddenly he was rolling over and over. Mud and stones were sliding around him, as he half-skidded, half-fell down the hill. Behind him, Nash was shouting and cursing, but he couldn't follow. His furious yells disappeared into the storm.

Abruptly, Alfred's fall stopped. The trees and the hillside were at an end, and he lay in the grass, exhausted.

Now he felt the rain again. It was coming down almost in solid sheets, but he didn't care. He could see the first huts of the village, hear the animals inside,
almost feel their warmth. For as long as he could remember, he had never thought of the village as somewhere he belonged. It was somewhere to escape from. But tonight, it felt like home.

Above him a single star shone through a tiny break in the cloud. The prior had pointed it out to him one night. Mars. He fixed his eyes on it, forced them to focus, as if that effort alone could draw him up out of the mud.

With one last effort, he pulled himself to his feet, still staring upwards. His ankles and his knees were weak and bruised, and he could feel the scratches on his face and legs as he stumbled towards the nearest hut.

As he pushed his way in, he was barely aware of the people huddled inside. He swayed on his feet, and saw someone step forward to catch him as he fell.

‘The prior…' he managed as the darkness swam around him. ‘Nash has killed the prior!'

By the time Alfred awoke, the storm was over, and the dawn was clear and bright. The whole village was gathered outside the hut as he emerged to tell his story. He knew everyone. He had grown up with them, but he had always felt like an outsider.

It seemed to Alfred that the village was irrevocably tied to the sequence of planting the fields: beetroot, then beans, then fallow, then back to beetroot again. Over and over, year after year, going back as far as anyone could remember, and on and on forever. Nothing else seemed to concern them; it was all they knew and all they wanted to know. The fact that Alfred was, by some accident, better than most at growing beetroot and beans meant he was fed and
kept, but these crops were something he wanted to leave behind. He wanted a different kind of future, and last night, with the prior's kind offer, it had almost become a reality.

But that was all over now, of course. All the future would hold for him would be beetroot and beans… forever. All the youngest faces he saw around him had already sworn themselves to be his enemies. He had worked for most of their parents in return for a share of food and shelter, and the children had learned to hate him for it.

The parents' faces were not set as hard against him, but he knew they were suspicious of the time he spent at the monastery. The monks were rich enough to give charity to those they chose, and powerful enough to make rules for the villagers, but the books they read and wrote were viewed as a dangerous mystery by most of the farmers. Alfred had tried to explain what the bestiary was, but his talk of dragons and creatures that could turn you to stone just by looking at you only seemed to make things worse.

He started to tell the crowd about how the prior had offered to walk with him through the storm, and how Nash had waited for them on the hillside. As he spoke, he realised something strange was happening.
The adults' expressions begin to change. They might be suspicious of Alfred and of the prior, but they all knew Nash, and they had all seen his anger.

When Alfred described how Nash had pushed the prior and the landslide had taken him, he was sure he could see understanding, even sympathy, in their eyes. For the first time in years, he began to feel he was a part of the village. His voice became stronger. He started to almost enjoy his story as he recounted how he'd fled through the thickets, fought off Nash, and then rolled down the hill and into the village.

By the time he had finished, even the other children were staring, open-mouthed, willing him on. Alfred was smiling now. He couldn't believe it. They were actually listening to him. Taking notice of him. He wasn't just a necessary nuisance, another one of the animals to be fed and worked. He was one of them.

The stonemason brought him back to earth.