body, the crenelated silhouette stark
and jagged against the milky midnight blue of the sky.
As
Skelgill takes in the scene his gaze settles upon a vague outline – a construction
– in the centre of the lawn. Around its base are clustered several
small tussocks, dark shapes crested with silver – and then as if by magic
one of these hops – for they are grazing rabbits – alert
sentinels that tell him no one is yet afoot.
Drawn nearer,
he scatters the creatures – and begins to perceive the form of the edifice.
It is a simple ring of posts – twelve round stakes five feet tall –
driven into the turf, creating a circle perhaps four paces in diameter.
Ostensibly it could be something the gardener has rigged up to protect ground under
repair. There are pale shapes draping each of the uprights. But as
he closes to within a yard or so their nature becomes clear. His narrowed
eyes signal his alarm – this is a crazy modern artwork, a circle of death
– each post is adorned with a horned skull, bleached white, great eye
sockets black as jet – jawbones gape in mute bleats, wired leg bones
dangling and redundant.
The ghoulish
arrangement sees Skelgill drop his bass-bag and free his mobile phone from the
breast pocket of his outer shell. But now he must remove his left glove,
and he plucks with his teeth through the fabric of the Buff . The
glove slips off only with difficulty and he bites on it while he manipulates
the settings on the screen. He cannot risk the flash, and to disable it delays
him a moment, and – before he can attempt the shot – a light flickers
high in the tower to his right. Instinctively he drops to one knee behind
the ring of posts, though it makes only a partial screen. The window is
narrow and arched – barely more than an arrow-slit – and the flame
seems to be a candle or a lantern that is being moved as if to follow the
flight of a moth. As he watches there is just the vague impression of a
person within – a glimpse of head and shoulders – perhaps fair
hair, or perhaps a pale hood – but it would be too easy at this moment to
imagine the castle’s white lady.
And
now a sudden sharp sound splits the silence – the metallic clank of an iron
latch – it emanates not from the direction of the arrow-slit, but the
main door in the centre of the castle. And dogs begin to bark.
Skelgill
is pricked into action. In a single movement he grabs the bottom of his
bass-bag and shakes out the remaining contents, rises, turns and sprints away.
Behind him the door throws a widening fan of neon upon the grass. The Alsatians
spill out; their baying resonant about the stage-set created by the jutting
towers. There comes the angry exclamation of a man – but Skelgill has
breached the treeline – he careers onwards for another twenty yards, then
strikes out at a tangent to the right of the path – and tumbles for the
black shadow beneath a Wellingtonia’s low-slung boughs. He slithers
against the great corked trunk and freezes.
But
the cry was evidently not directed at him. A wiry figure stands halfway
between the door and the wooden henge, facing back towards the tower.
And, now – incredibly it seems – he raises a rifle at the
window. Yet it is not a bullet but a powerful torch that strikes its
target – it must be mounted above the sight of the weapon – and the
man again yells – a bellowed warning “Oi!” drawn out for effect.
The
beam illuminates the arched window, driving the shadows from its deep
recess. Almost immediately the flame is extinguished and the man watches
for a moment. Satisfied, he turns his attention outwardly. The
dogs, their initial bravado short-lived, have fallen silent, and he tries to
call them in by name – Hansel and Gretel , of course –
and Skelgill might visualise the Grimms’ cannibalistic witch, were it not for his
recognition of the harsh tones as those of the equally disagreeable gamekeeper,
Jed
and jagged against the milky midnight blue of the sky.
As
Skelgill takes in the scene his gaze settles upon a vague outline – a construction
– in the centre of the lawn. Around its base are clustered several
small tussocks, dark shapes crested with silver – and then as if by magic
one of these hops – for they are grazing rabbits – alert
sentinels that tell him no one is yet afoot.
Drawn nearer,
he scatters the creatures – and begins to perceive the form of the edifice.
It is a simple ring of posts – twelve round stakes five feet tall –
driven into the turf, creating a circle perhaps four paces in diameter.
Ostensibly it could be something the gardener has rigged up to protect ground under
repair. There are pale shapes draping each of the uprights. But as
he closes to within a yard or so their nature becomes clear. His narrowed
eyes signal his alarm – this is a crazy modern artwork, a circle of death
– each post is adorned with a horned skull, bleached white, great eye
sockets black as jet – jawbones gape in mute bleats, wired leg bones
dangling and redundant.
The ghoulish
arrangement sees Skelgill drop his bass-bag and free his mobile phone from the
breast pocket of his outer shell. But now he must remove his left glove,
and he plucks with his teeth through the fabric of the Buff . The
glove slips off only with difficulty and he bites on it while he manipulates
the settings on the screen. He cannot risk the flash, and to disable it delays
him a moment, and – before he can attempt the shot – a light flickers
high in the tower to his right. Instinctively he drops to one knee behind
the ring of posts, though it makes only a partial screen. The window is
narrow and arched – barely more than an arrow-slit – and the flame
seems to be a candle or a lantern that is being moved as if to follow the
flight of a moth. As he watches there is just the vague impression of a
person within – a glimpse of head and shoulders – perhaps fair
hair, or perhaps a pale hood – but it would be too easy at this moment to
imagine the castle’s white lady.
And
now a sudden sharp sound splits the silence – the metallic clank of an iron
latch – it emanates not from the direction of the arrow-slit, but the
main door in the centre of the castle. And dogs begin to bark.
Skelgill
is pricked into action. In a single movement he grabs the bottom of his
bass-bag and shakes out the remaining contents, rises, turns and sprints away.
Behind him the door throws a widening fan of neon upon the grass. The Alsatians
spill out; their baying resonant about the stage-set created by the jutting
towers. There comes the angry exclamation of a man – but Skelgill has
breached the treeline – he careers onwards for another twenty yards, then
strikes out at a tangent to the right of the path – and tumbles for the
black shadow beneath a Wellingtonia’s low-slung boughs. He slithers
against the great corked trunk and freezes.
But
the cry was evidently not directed at him. A wiry figure stands halfway
between the door and the wooden henge, facing back towards the tower.
And, now – incredibly it seems – he raises a rifle at the
window. Yet it is not a bullet but a powerful torch that strikes its
target – it must be mounted above the sight of the weapon – and the
man again yells – a bellowed warning “Oi!” drawn out for effect.
The
beam illuminates the arched window, driving the shadows from its deep
recess. Almost immediately the flame is extinguished and the man watches
for a moment. Satisfied, he turns his attention outwardly. The
dogs, their initial bravado short-lived, have fallen silent, and he tries to
call them in by name – Hansel and Gretel , of course –
and Skelgill might visualise the Grimms’ cannibalistic witch, were it not for his
recognition of the harsh tones as those of the equally disagreeable gamekeeper,
Jed
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