"The Beast!" Voices from the hillside in front of me took up the cry; the recognition had swept through all of the religiously minded. It was no respecter of persons; several of the Godly Army had thrown away their rifles, the better to clasp their hands in fervent prayer.
Another cry went up from around the hillside: "Its fiery breath!" Smoke and flames billowing along the device's wings had been spotted by several of the aghast onlookers. I could see sparks shooting from the metal joints; the results of Scape's hurried assemblage of the machine were now becoming apparent. The sheepskins covering the wings had begun to smoulder, sending greasy smoke trailing behind.
The machine started to disintegrate, from the inadequacy of its construction and the violence of its manoeuvres through the air. Flaming carcasses peeled away from the wings; sheep's heads, smelling of singed meat, rained upon the men circled about the hill. This last sent them into complete terror, as well it might; with inarticulate shouts, they turned, Godly Army and native Scot alike, and sprinted in all directions, fleeing the burning wrath of Satan visited upon them.
Above me, I saw the flying machine wheel about, the controlling lines in Scape's hands no longer functioning. Miss McThane screamed as the device turned upside down; she grasped desperately for one of the metal struts to keep from falling. Poor Abel howled as the cord tethering him to the disintegrating machine tangled into the gears and chains. Struck dumb, I watched in horror as it spun about, glided for a moment with flames and smoke billowing, then plummeted into the range of hills on the other side of the valley.
For a moment I was rooted to the spot. Then remembered my own plight; however tragic the consequences, the sudden appearance of the flying machine had afforded me a chance of escape. The beaters and the Godly Army had taken to their heels, pursued by the Biblical demons of their own imaginations. I hurried to the cliff's edge behind me and headed down the slope to where I could cross the river below.
"Dower!" the voice froze me in my tracks. I nearly fell forward as I halted, the small stones sliding out from beneath my boots. At the bottom of the slope, by the river's bank, Sir Charles stood waiting for me.
Our eyes met across the distance. He then lifted his rifle to his shoulder, his narrowed gaze squinting into my chest. The hillside afforded no place to hide;. I was trapped against its heathery flank. With no hope, no thought, I turned and ran, my feet scrabbling at the stony trail.
I heard the shot, sounding as if from miles away. For a moment I thought he had missed me, and I might yet reach the top of the hill and be able to scramble down the other side towards the sea. Then something seemed to hit my shoulder, and it felt unaccountably warm. The cliff's edge slipped out from under my boots, and I was falling even as the darkness welled up to swallow me.
The sound of water splashing against rocks came first to me. I opened my eyes and saw a dark mass of soil, tangled with roots, above my face. Daylight sparkled against the river, setting its reflections dancing across me where I lay beneath an overhang carved from the bank.
A dark face moved between me and the light. I focussed and saw the Brown Leather Man – as I had first seen him so long ago, the stitched covering masking his true features – peering at me. "Dower," he said. "You can hear me? How do you feel?"
I raised myself, my palms pushing against the wet gravel. The space was a hollow cleft only a few feet high; the top of my head brushed the roof of the space. "I feel… terrible," I announced. Every part of my body ached as though flogged, and when I moved my left arm I felt something binding it. I looked around and saw a bandage, fashioned from my shirt torn into strips, crossed over my shoulder blade. The centre of the cloth showed a faint red from beneath.
"Of that do not worry," said the Brown Leather Man. "You were already falling when the bullet struck you; the flesh was but grazed. Your fortune it was to land in the deepest part of the river; some bruises you have, but no bones are broken." He nodded reassuringly. "A fortunate man you are."
"Hm." I rubbed my throbbing brow. "I wish I could share your opinion." An anxious thought struck me. "Where is Sir Charles now? He must still be hunting for me."
"Of that have no fear. I was concealed nearby when upon you he fired; I saw him look down from the cliff for your body. One of his men, having his panic overcome, returned. I could hear them speak;, the conclusion was made that into the sea your body was washed and there lost."
I felt a certain relief at this assumption regarding my own death. "That is fortunate," I said. "I think – I'll just rest here for a while."
"No; no, you must not." He prodded my arm. "No time is there to lose. You must go to England, as quickly as is possible."
Again I noted the overriding urgency in his voice. "But why?" He shook his head. "No explanations can there be, so great is the crisis. Go to Bendray Hall; when there you will know all."
With his assistance, I crawled out from under the bank, and stood up. He bade me follow the river, which led away from the spot where Sir Charles and his followers were encamped, and towards a small village.
"Aren't you coming with me?" I asked.
"I cannot. Much else must I do. But you will see me again." He turned and headed in the opposite direction. When I was quite alone again, I struck out, limping, for my own destination.
• • • •
I made surprisingly rapid progress southward to England, given my somewhat battered state. Certainly Fortune, which had so often knocked me askew in recent days, now seemed propitiously disposed towards me.
The initiation of my travel was particularly wellomened. When I reached the small village a few miles along the river's course, I found it deserted. All had fled, leaving their valuables behind, and even their rough meals still in the trenchers upon the tables. Only one sour crone, tottering back from the well in the village square, remained behind; she waspishly informed me that the entire population had scattered to the hills upon hearing a report of Satan drawing nigh, leading a cavalry of a thousand flying dragons. She herself had a withering contempt for her neighbours' intellects.
From the inn I appropriated the sturdiest-appearing horse, a change of clothes from an upstairs room, and since all that was left in my pockets was the Saint Monkfish sovereign – a small quantity of money I found in a cupboard. I left a promissory note for these things pinned to the door, with my London address appended. On the road outside, I overtook the crone hobbling homeward, and she curtly directed me to the crossing that led to the border.
By stages, my strength renewing with every day of travel, and with every meal bought at a wayside inn – I only ordered beef, and never mutton – I made my way south to England. Reaching Carlisle, I had another stroke of fortune. A client, for whom I had restored several chiming watches built by my father, lived in the city. He recognised me from his visits to my shop in London, though he marvelled at how etched my features had become. Equally astonished was he to see me this far from my home. The most amazing reports had reached his ear from London, which he imparted to me, much to my distress. Great scandal (so he informed me) had become attached to my name. I had reputedly embarked upon a new career as a violinist – the Paganinicon had apparently found it more convenient to appropriate my identity and residence. My musical abilities were reportedly such as to have conquered the concert halls of Europe, while certain other talents generated a rapidly growing flock of female admirers. These certain attributes were apparently much whispered about in the most fashionable of salons; more than one hair-pulling duel had occurred in public, with myself gazing with wry amusement at the scene.