In The Grip Of Old Winter Page 8

  Frustrated and angry, Peter ran through the trees and when he reached the branch he gripped hold of it with both hands. “Granddad.”

  ***

  His eyes watered from the strange sensation of passing through light and shadow at such speed. This time he noticed the stars as they revolved across the sky as fast as spinning tornados. Their light streamed like comets tails and then vanished. Grey daylight filtered through the trees and as he rubbed his eyes, a large snowflake floated past and drifted to the ground.

  No sound of granddad’s shovel. Nothing stirred in the woods. He strained to hear voices. Did Almina follow him into the trees? He hoped that granddad managed to stop her, but she might have tricked him and hidden behind a bush, ready to jump out and grab the seal-amulet.

  He held his breath and peered and listened. With care to make as little noise as possible, he picked up his shovel and made his way towards the path. How much time had passed? Leonor and Oswald’s time happened in the day, the skin-walkers’ at night, did that make a difference to this time?

  He reached the edge of the trees. Before him stood the house and his heart jumped with happiness to see it again. The battlements and sills piled high with snow softened the forbidding gloom that he imagined seeped from its old stones. Covered and surrounded by thick snow, the house beckoned, cosy, inviting and safe.

  Granddad’s shovel, stuck into the drift at the side of the path, leaned at an angle. No sign of granddad, no sign of anyone.

  Peter hurried along. He glanced left and right, alert to the slightest sound or movement that might signal danger. A long wooden ladder stood propped against the barn. Dad promised to clear the snow on the roof, but it still lay in a great wedge as thick as before.

  Peter waited at the back door to catch his breath. He leaned the spade against the wall and then, with his thumb, eased the latch down so that it didn’t clank. He pushed the door open just enough to allow his head through the gap. Warm air flowed across his cold cheeks.

  Steam rose from a bubbling pot on the AGA. Vegetables, some chopped, the rest in jumbled piles, lay upon the kitchen table. His stomach tingled. Where had everyone gone? He stepped into the kitchen and shut the door. In the silence, the pot bubbled with loud pops and slurps. He tip-toed through the kitchen and into the hallway.

  He heard voices coming from The Hall. Grandma’s voice sounded loud and clear, though he didn’t catch the words. Then mum’s voice, soft and low, the way she spoke to him after he’d woken from a bad dream.

  Grandma hurried out of The Hall and jumped when she saw him. “Oh Peter, darling, there you are. It’s... oh dear, go in, go in...” and as she ran to the kitchen, she called over her shoulder. “Here he is. He did hear us calling.”

  Dad lay on one of the sofas and mum sat beside him with her hand on his forehead. She glanced up at the sound of Peter’s footsteps. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Your poor dad’s had a terrible accident.”

  Granddad stood by the fire and gave Peter a quick nod.

  Dad’s right trouser leg circled the top of his thigh in a loose roll. He still wore his sock and boot. A red gash, to the side and just above his knee, oozed blood that soaked into a towel under his leg. Steam rose from a large bowl on the floor beside the sofa.

  Grandma returned with a pile of towels. She knelt down by the bowl, dropped the towels and reached into her apron. “I’ve brought some camomile leaves.” She scattered a stream of dry flakes over the water from a small brown box. “The flowers have a soothing scent. Now then,” she placed the box next to the towels. “I’m going to bathe the wound.” She picked up one of the towels and plunged it into the water. “I’m afraid this is going to sting.” The soaked towel splashed water onto the rug as she lifted it out and wrung it hard. “Try and hold still now.” She placed it over the gash and dad’s body tensed and his face grimaced as he gasped with pain.

  Mum smoothed his hair and held him close. Grandma dropped the towel back into the bowl and the water went pink. Then she wrung it out and applied it again. A red circle on the towel under dad’s leg expanded as blood and water dripped from the gash.

  Granddad came and stood next to Peter and put an arm around his shoulder. He whispered as if he might be in church. “Your dad slipped off the ladder. Didn’t fall far, but when he landed his leg caught the blade of an old potato harvester that was outside the barn door...”

  Grandma interrupted. “I said to put salt on the rungs before he went up. And I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to move that useless piece of machinery. I always said someone would get a nasty cut off of it. Horrid, rusty old thing, it’s been sitting there being useless for years.”

  Dad groaned as grandma dabbed at the gash. Mum leaned forward to watch, her face clouded with concern. “It’s still bleeding.”

  “It’s very deep,” said grandma. “I don’t know what’s best to do.”

  Granddad said, “He needs proper medical help.”

  Mum reached across the table behind the sofa and picked up dad’s mobile. “It’s no use, the screen’s smashed.” She pressed the button on the top. “Nothing’s happening. Have you tried the land line again?”

  “A moment ago, still off,” said granddad.

  “Have you looked for Almina?” asked grandma.

  Granddad rubbed his nose. “I think she’s gone for a walk. I saw her come out of the back door when I was clearing the path, but she went into the woods on the other side of the house. No sign of her when I called. I don’t think she’d be of much use.”

  Grandma dropped the cloth into the bowl of bright pink water and used the sofa as a support to stand. “I know she said she had a mobile phone. I remember her saying so last night.” She picked up a corner of her apron and wiped her hands. “Uncanny, the way she’s never here when she’s needed.” From the apron pocket, she pulled out a thick wad of gauze and placed it over the wound. “I’m doing my best, but it needs looking at properly and I don’t think the bleeding will stop without stitches.”

  Mum held the gauze in place. “What can we do?”

  Grandma faced Peter and gripped hold of his arms. “Now, my love, granddad suggested this and I agree, that I’m going to have to ask you to run for help. Will you do that for me?” Peter nodded.

  “I know granddad would go, but I need him here to carry water from the kitchen. And we can’t drive your dad’s car in this snow.” She placed her hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Farmer Brunt lives down the lane about a mile away. At the end of our track, turn left. Follow the lane until you reach a gap in the bank with a gate across. His yard is on the other side of that gate. When you see him, explain what’s happened here. If his phone’s working, tell him to ring for the emergency services. If his phone’s out as well, ask him to drive the tractor down, or whatever he can use in this weather, to carry dad into town.” She pressed her hands into his shoulders and lowered her voice. “Make him understand that this is an emergency. Tell him to hurry.”

  Grandma picked up the bowl and gave it to granddad. “Boil up some fresh water and if you look in the larder you’ll find some sandwiches I made for later. Give some to Peter and fill the thermos with whatever he wants to drink.” She clasped Peter’s face with both hands and kissed his forehead. “Quick as you can now.”

  Mum, her face white with strain, gave a watery smile. “Thank you, Peter. Wrap up warm and take care not to slip.”

  Peter followed granddad out of The Hall and down the passage to the kitchen.

  As granddad poured the pink water down the sink, he beckoned Peter closer. “Almina followed when you left me, but then Richard appeared from the barn. I saw them talking and thinking that Almina had given up the chase, I went back to clearing snow.” He ran fresh water into the bowl, left it to soak and then filled the kettle. “The next thing I hear is a terrible cry.” He placed the kettle on to the AGA. “Almina must have heard it too, I mean she was so close, in fact I think she... well I don’t know, but I think I catch a glimpse of he
r as she runs behind the house - though it might have been... Anyway, by the time I reach the barn, she’s gone and your poor dad is lying in the snow, bleeding fit to die.”

  ***

  “Did Almina push him off the ladder?”

  Granddad opened the larder door and disappeared into its dark interior. “I don’t know. I didn’t see.” He re-appeared with a large plate of sandwiches. “Take as many as you want. What drink do you like?”

  “Hot chocolate.” Peter picked out six sandwiches and laid them on the table.

  Granddad opened and closed cupboard doors. “There’s some tin foil... Ah, here.” He handed Peter a long thin box with a strip of foil that poked out along one edge. “Is your backpack handy?”

  “It’s by the front door,” and Peter ran to fetch it.

  Back in the kitchen, granddad unscrewed the top from a thermos flask patterned in red and green tartan. “I wish I knew where Almina went. She won’t go far. She likes warmth and comfort, not long cold walks.” He spooned powdered chocolate into the flask. “Farmer Brunt lives the opposite way from where I saw her heading, so I’m hoping your paths don’t cross. Keep an eye out, she’s acting very peculiar.”

  The kettle on the AGA whistled and granddad added milk to the flask and then poured in hot water. “Stay to the lane. There won’t be no traffic. You can’t miss the farm.”

  Peter wanted to tell him about the skin-walkers and the carrier’s attack, but it didn’t fit now with this new emergency. He folded a square of tin foil around his sandwiches and dropped them into his backpack.

  Granddad handed him the flask. “You should make it before the light goes, but I’m thinking you should take a torch.” He strode to the sink and reached across to the window sill where a large black torch stood on its lens. “Here you are, put that in there too.”

  Peter drew the drawstrings together and slung the backpack over his shoulders. He didn’t want to see Almina, but he feared the carrier more. If he hurried and kept out of sight, he might make it without being caught by either of them.

  Granddad opened the door and they stepped outside together. “Stay here a moment,” and he shuffled through the drifts to the back of the house.

  Big, round snowflakes floated down and the cold against his cheeks made Peter wince.

  Granddad hurried back. “No sign of her.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out ‘til you reach the woods. Don’t be afraid now. Dad needs your help. Remember, left at the end of the track. Fast as you can.”

  Peter set off at a run. The backpack bounced up and down. His boots sank into the snow and before he had covered half the distance to the trees, his thighs and calves ached. He slowed and took long strides instead, which made it easier. When he reached the trees, he glanced back and granddad waved from the kitchen door. Peter waved back and saw, at a small window underneath the battlements, a pale white light. As he stared, it faded. He faced the track and hurried into the trees.

  Why would Almina push dad off the ladder? She wanted the seal-amulet, but dad didn’t have it. Did Almina know about the spae-wife? It didn’t seem possible, whole centuries separated them. Bear talked of time shifting forwards and backwards, he said the skin-walkers fought the spae-wife in Leonor’s time. If time mingled from past to present to future, then Almina might know about the spae-wife. Perhaps she was the spae-wife, but Bear wanted him to search for the spae-wife in Leonor’s and Oswald’s time. His head hurt from thinking it through.

  Leonor existed in this time too, though unaware of the effect her presence produced on those who met her now.

  Peter glanced to the right. He hoped to see the old tree and the charred branch. He wanted to return to Leonor’s time and do as Bear asked, but he must help dad first. He concentrated on the track, the sooner he reached Farmer Brunt, the sooner he’d be back. Anxiety sharpened his breathing. The charred branch offered an escape route and the further away he journeyed, the more vulnerable he became to attack or capture.

  He peered into the shadows and watched for any sign of movement. His ragged breathing and the heavy tread of his boots might be the last sound on earth.

  The track sloped down as it cut through the high banks. The trees towered above his head and where the banks had crumbled, thick roots pushed through the soil. Mounds of snow lay in uneven heaps where gaps between the branches exposed the grey sky.

  Peter reached the lane. A thin layer of unbroken snow covered its surface. No vehicle had passed to leave their tyre marks in its pristine whiteness. He checked left and right and listened. Darker shadows hung along the lane. He remembered that yesterday it reminded him of a tunnel. He turned left and hurried along.

  He kept to the middle and ran until his legs ached, when he slowed to a quick walk. At every turn, he glanced behind and noticed the line of uneven prints left by his boots. He dreaded the thought that he might see someone or something dart behind a tree, but all remained still and he tried to break his fear when he repeated the advice dad once gave him; ‘Remember, that when you are alone and scared, someone who sees you might be even more scared. Be the scary one and you won’t feel so bad.’

  “Be the scary one,” Peter repeated out loud. “Be the scary one.”

  The banks sloped upwards at a steeper angle and the light dimmed. A mile didn’t sound that far. At home he cycled a mile to school on his three-gear bike, but he’d done it so many times that he never noticed the distance. Even blindfold, he’d know the journey. This unknown route, as it twisted and turned, kept him alert. A mile went on for ever when you didn’t know the way.

  Ahead, the lane turned a sharp corner, the way forward blocked from sight by the steep right-hand bank and the trees that grew there.

  Peter stopped to catch his breath. Beyond the corner, the shadows deepened, though that might be his imagination, for the view through the trees made it hard to see.

  His breathing stilled. He expected to hear bird calls or the rustle and scrape of some woodland animal as it foraged amongst the trees. Unusual for there to be such complete silence and it frightened him for being unexpected. He wanted to hear familiar sounds, be comforted by what he knew and understood.

  Ever since he arrived at the old house, the ordinary drifted in and out of a mist that sometimes revealed the everyday as he knew it, but then shrouded everything familiar and replaced it with strangeness.

  He gripped the backpack’s handles and started off once more. Farmer Brunt’s farm must be close. Each step crunched on the thin layer of snow and he slowed his pace to make less noise.

  With a rumble like distant thunder, a deep growl echoed through the trees.

  Peter stopped and his heart beat hard. He crouched and peered into the gloom. If he ran, and he wanted to, then whatever made that noise might hear him and give chase. Wherever he looked, shadows lay like night, but none of them moved or slipped from view to hide in some darker place.

  He tensed and rose and slid his boots forwards through the snow a few inches at a time. Once past the corner, the way ahead opened out onto a wider view.

  About fifty metres in front of him, in the middle of the lane, stood an enormous black dog. As dark as night, its size hinted at a beast of monstrous strength. A dead deer lay trapped under its paws and as Peter watched, the dog clamped its jaws onto the neck. It lifted the kill with ease and with a single bound, left the road and disappeared into the trees.

  Peter gulped as fear tightened his chest. He didn’t know the dog as being any breed that he recognised. Was it a dog? The size and strength suggested some wild unknown animal, an imagined creature from a storybook... or a nightmare.

  He held his breath as he listened. A rook, high above in the trees, gave a raucous call. Relieved to hear that familiar cry, Peter guessed that the dog moved deeper into the trees to feast.

  His legs trembled and he kept to the far side of the lane. An imprint of the deer’s body marked the snow at the place where the dog stood. Beside it, the outline of a huge paw and across t
he snow’s ruffled ridges, a smear of crimson blood.

  ***

  Peter ran and his ears pounded with his heart’s fast rhythm. The light increased as the banks on either side of the lane sloped into a gentle rise.

  Opposite, a large holly bush covered in bright red berries spread its branches in a wide circle. He’d almost run past it when he saw the five-bar gate hidden behind the holly’s prickly leaves. Farmer Brunt’s, at last.

  Beyond the gate, a short track opened onto a large yard. A long two-storied redbrick house edged one side. A thin stream of smoke rose from the chimney and yellow lamplight glowed through some of the windows. A barn occupied the other side of the yard and in front of its double doors stood a green tractor.

  Peter ran up to the gate and pulled the spring-lever to release the catch.

  A man’s deep voice bellowed. “Stop right there.”

  Peter jumped back, unable to see the speaker. The holly bush shook and a red-faced man stepped out from behind its dark leaves and Peter’s mouth went dry as he stared down the twin barrels of a double-barrelled shotgun.

  “What you be doing coming into my yard?” The man wore a long black coat that gleamed with a waxy shine. The gun stayed straight and steady and aimed at Peter’s head.

  “I’m from...” Peter swallowed to stop his tongue from sticking to the roof of his mouth. “I’m staying at grandma and granddad’s - my dad’s had an accident - he’s hurt his leg.” He pointed back down the lane.

  The man’s thick eyebrows bristled as he frowned. “You’re from old ma and pa’s?”

  The man’s age seemed much the same as granddad’s, but Peter nodded. “I’m staying for Christmas.”

  The man lowered the gun and peered at Peter. “Aye, they told us you was coming down. Brought all this damn snow with you too, by the looks of it.” He grunted, in exasperation or humour Peter didn’t know. “Don’t have enough feed for the stock if it keeps on.” He pointed the gun towards the barn. “Though I won’t be letting them out if... er...” He released the spring-lever on the gate, stepped back as he opened it and then strode out onto the lane. He tucked the gun under his arm, though he kept the twin barrels’ horizontal. “Is it thunder I heard? Happened before you turned up - must be you carry the weather in your pocket.”