Dowling clambered to the ground. ‘Every strange thing, I would know what it means.’
A neatly stacked woodpile stood in front of the hut, and upon the woodpile lay a flat piece of board, with words written in chalk.
‘Wood for thee. Hurry up. Approach with caution,’ I read aloud. ‘What does that mean?’
‘He shall kill the bullock before the Lord,’ Dowling recited. ‘He shall flay the burnt offering, and cut it into pieces. And the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar, and lay the wood in order upon the fire. Then the priests shall lay the parts, the head, and the fat, in order upon the wood that is on the fire which is upon the altar.’
Which left me none the wiser.
I joined Dowling on the forest floor and approached the hut, cautious. A scrap of red twill hung from the doorframe. Inside, some animal had been scavenging. A rudimentary table lay upon its side, and bits of chair lay scattered about the floor. The spine of a book protruded from a pile of rotting leaves, the leather red and water-stained. Too thin to be a Bible. ‘
Astrological Judgments for the Year 1666,’ I read.
Though the book felt damp, I could turn the pages and read without difficulty. Some passages were marked with ink. ‘It is most certain,’ I read, ‘that when the dregs of the first comet are ended, the
Hollander shall pay the piper, and sing lacrima; in a manner even to their final and utter destruction. They shall be able to send forth no more than a small company of little pimping ships, neither well-manned nor equipped.’
I flicked the pages. ‘As for the second comet, it may inform us, that after many casualties, losses, damages, and enormities received from the several navies and ships of his Majesty of Great Britain, the Hollanders may again upon humble addresses make first unto his Majesty, with their submission besides for peace.’
I turned to the next marked passage. ‘The figure of the Sun giveth warning unto the monarch of Great Britain, both of external and internal plots and designs against his peace and government, yet with no success to the undertakers.’
‘Astrology.’ Dowling shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Does the book have a name in it?’
I turned to the front of the book, which was wettest. A name and a date were penned in smudged ink. Ne’ertheless, the name was clear enough. James Josselin.
‘Whether he went to Shyam or not, he came this far,’ said Dowling. ‘Leaving signs that all who pass further should take wood with them.’
‘To build their own altar, you say.’
Dowling shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I think we should do as the sign suggests and take the wood.’
What did wood have to do with anything? Did they not have wood in Shyam? The forest stretched as far as the eye could see. I felt a sense of deep disquiet. Though it was a summer day, the air grew colder. The birds stopped singing. About our heads and shoulders sunk a white fog, so thick it resembled something solid.
‘Dowling,’ I called out, for I couldn’t see him.
‘Fetch your horse,’ his voice sounded close by.
I did as he suggested and stood upon the track unable to see in any direction. The horse snorted and shook its head, like it sought to clear the mists from inside its skull.
‘What do we do?’ I shouted.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Dowling said, emerging from the whiteness. ‘We cannot walk in any direction. This part of the world is stopped until the fog is lifted.’
So we sat upon the dry ground, holding the reins of our horses, afraid of losing ourselves. Peculiar how sharp a man’s hearing becomes when his eyes are blinded. I felt my senses reach out into the thick blanket about us, searching for the faintest sound. The fog created strange shapes, mysterious figures drifting in the mists.
I fought to keep the tremor from my voice. ‘What will we find, Davy?’
‘The dead and the dying,’ he replied. ‘As we did in London, as we did in Chelmsford, as we did in Colchester. Nothing we haven’t seen before.’
‘A sign from God,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t want us to go.’
‘O full of all subtlety and mischief, thou child of the Devil, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord?’ Dowling mused. ‘And now the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind. And immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness.’
I found myself whispering, it was so quiet. I waited for hands to spring from the surrounds and seize me. ‘I have no desire to pervert the right ways of the Lord.’
‘You haven’t perverted the ways of the Lord any more than usual,’ Dowling replied. ‘This fog may not be for your benefit, Harry. God has others in his sights besides.’
We sat there another hour or so, the odd sensation of nothing happening. Then the fog felt warmer and assumed a yellow tinge. At last it began to clear, not much, just enough to see the ground ahead of our feet.
The fog gave way to a swirling mist, blinding us one moment, blowing aside the next, giving us unbroken perspective twenty or more yards ahead. The dirt track gave way to stones and pebble, twisting downward between giant boulders and ancient trees. Cliffs climbed high above us, in and out of view. A thin stream wound its way about the valley floor, creating small pools about which grew bright flowers, white and violet. At the bottom of the valley the water formed a pool, green and still.
In the distance a great, flat rock lay upon a ledge, like a table balanced upon a giant boulder. Three baskets sat upon it, all empty.
I stared up at the cliffs, searching for faces, then into the trees. ‘This must be the boundary.’
‘Someone from Colchester rides up here every day to leave provisions,’ said Dowling.
‘Then let’s wait,’ I suggested eagerly. ‘Wait for someone to leave the food and the villagers to come and collect it. The villagers can tell us if Josselin is in there or not and we don’t have to go into Shyam at all.’
‘There are nearly three hundred dead in there, Harry, barely a hundred left alive.’ Dowling pushed me forwards. ‘This is the work of God, that ye believe in him whom he hath sent. You are sent by Him, and I believe in you.’
What an extraordinary thing to say. Was the butcher deranged? I followed him betwixt the great boulders, still leading my reluctant steed. We came to a small, wooden bridge, beneath which trickled a narrow stream. Beyond the stream we found a well-worn path, broad and bare, of grass. To our left, visible around the corner, tucked into a cluster of sycamores, stood three cottages in a line, walls and roofs covered in ivy.
‘This is the Town-head,’ Dowling murmured, standing still. ‘The western end of the village.’
‘You’ve been here before?’ I asked.
‘I read a map.’
No one moved, no one called out. We approached the front door of the first cottage, Dowling calling out cautiously. No one replied. He pushed the door with his finger and it creaked slowly open. Dowling poked his head in, then withdrew.
‘Empty,’ he announced. ‘And a mess besides. Someone has ransacked the place.’
He walked to the next house, again announcing his presence before opening the door. And the third.
‘Empty.’ He turned to face me. ‘I wonder if they have abandoned the whole village after all.’
We headed east, back past the bridge. It didn’t look abandoned to me. Deep ridges carved through the soil, freshly cut. We passed another six cottages, still and quiet, all of them empty.
We came to a church, grey tower partially hidden within a ring of linden trees, like an army of grim angels guarding the passage within. We walked the path between gravestones, many of which appeared freshly chiselled, the ground trimmed short. A small porch framed the door, upon which perched a small cross. Dowling stepped inside while I waited, listening for any strange noise amidst the cacophony of nature. Dowling tried opening the door.
‘It’s locked,’ he frowned.
‘If there were a hundred alive last Friday, who is to say they have not all died by now?’ I hated the fog and the mist. I yearned to be able to see what might be hiding in the distance. I thought I heard a man’s voice, distant and pitiful.