from Monkslip-super-Mare, traces of sea fret often crept inland. Max knew that from a distance he would appear to be walking on air, an image that pleased him. He heard the river tumbling in the distance and imagined a gleam of moonlight frosting its surface.
Theaâs game had brought them nearer the lake, where a chill coming off the water hinted at the winter to come. Max thought he could hear the sound of crickets; surely they would have but days to live now. Through an opening in the trees he glimpsed the formal gardens surrounding the house, with evergreens shaped into symmetrical forms. In the shade and darkness, they looked like giant human figures. This imposed civilization seemed barely to hold back the untamed forest surrounding the estate. Where Max walked might in ancient times have been part of a green path, a wide track used for herding animals. He had a sense that the cloak between the prehistoric and modern worlds had worn thin here, as Awena would have it; that he was walking in some forgotten holy place, perhaps a burial ground, or a place of sacrifice. Nether Monkslip, as he had learned, was dotted with places like that.
The shortest way to the village from here would be to cut through an opening in the hedgerows, some of which dated to Anglo-Saxon times. While the lord of the manor might have the right to restrict access to his land, in practice the bad feeling this engendered made active enforcement not worthwhile for the old family. Sheep and cows were driven across any available opening, as had been done for centuries, and schoolchildren found their way home in much the same way.
It was getting dark, and he wished briefly heâd thought to bring a torch with him. All he had was a small promotional torch attached to his key ring, something heâd picked up at a religious conference. âShine a light,â it read, beneath part of a verse from John 8:12.
He called for Thea, no longer wishing to meander, but now in haste to get home to his wife and child. At the thought of them, a breeze stirred, carrying that heady mix of sea and forest smells, and joy coursed through him in one of the many exquisite moments of grace heâd been granted since Owenâs arrival.
Which was why he jumped and turned, heart pounding, when Thea sent up an unearthly howl, a sound he had never heard from her before. It was a sound that startled birds from the trees and scattered whatever small wildlife had been in hiding, waiting for her to leave.
What in the name ofâ
Max fumbled the small torch out of his pocket as he broke into a run, leaping into the forest in the direction of the sound, jumping over rocks and tree branches fallen in the winter storms long past. He plunged into an area where the trees grew closer together, impeding his progress, as no moonlight could penetrate here. All he had to go by was Theaâs unearthly howling, reduced to a fretting whine as she heard him approach and realized help was on the way to sort out this event, unprecedented in her experience. He skidded to a halt on a mat of wet fallen leaves that nearly tipped him on his backside.
Thea had found Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, or a significant part of what remained of him, which was his decapitated head. Its eyes, thank God, were closed.
Of all the things Max might have expected to see on this serene evening, it would never have been this.
He called Thea sharply to his side to keep the area undisturbed, for surely where a head was, a body would be nearby. He pulled her lead from his pocket and attached it to her collar, for in her agitated state he didnât entirely trust her not to run from him, to start helpfully looking for the remains of this poor human.
The canopy of tree branches parted at this spot where the head lay, giving Max a momentâs clear view of the area. Looking around and craning his neck, aiming the small torch upward, he saw a worn spot on the tree trunk nearest him, a rubbing away that
Theaâs game had brought them nearer the lake, where a chill coming off the water hinted at the winter to come. Max thought he could hear the sound of crickets; surely they would have but days to live now. Through an opening in the trees he glimpsed the formal gardens surrounding the house, with evergreens shaped into symmetrical forms. In the shade and darkness, they looked like giant human figures. This imposed civilization seemed barely to hold back the untamed forest surrounding the estate. Where Max walked might in ancient times have been part of a green path, a wide track used for herding animals. He had a sense that the cloak between the prehistoric and modern worlds had worn thin here, as Awena would have it; that he was walking in some forgotten holy place, perhaps a burial ground, or a place of sacrifice. Nether Monkslip, as he had learned, was dotted with places like that.
The shortest way to the village from here would be to cut through an opening in the hedgerows, some of which dated to Anglo-Saxon times. While the lord of the manor might have the right to restrict access to his land, in practice the bad feeling this engendered made active enforcement not worthwhile for the old family. Sheep and cows were driven across any available opening, as had been done for centuries, and schoolchildren found their way home in much the same way.
It was getting dark, and he wished briefly heâd thought to bring a torch with him. All he had was a small promotional torch attached to his key ring, something heâd picked up at a religious conference. âShine a light,â it read, beneath part of a verse from John 8:12.
He called for Thea, no longer wishing to meander, but now in haste to get home to his wife and child. At the thought of them, a breeze stirred, carrying that heady mix of sea and forest smells, and joy coursed through him in one of the many exquisite moments of grace heâd been granted since Owenâs arrival.
Which was why he jumped and turned, heart pounding, when Thea sent up an unearthly howl, a sound he had never heard from her before. It was a sound that startled birds from the trees and scattered whatever small wildlife had been in hiding, waiting for her to leave.
What in the name ofâ
Max fumbled the small torch out of his pocket as he broke into a run, leaping into the forest in the direction of the sound, jumping over rocks and tree branches fallen in the winter storms long past. He plunged into an area where the trees grew closer together, impeding his progress, as no moonlight could penetrate here. All he had to go by was Theaâs unearthly howling, reduced to a fretting whine as she heard him approach and realized help was on the way to sort out this event, unprecedented in her experience. He skidded to a halt on a mat of wet fallen leaves that nearly tipped him on his backside.
Thea had found Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, or a significant part of what remained of him, which was his decapitated head. Its eyes, thank God, were closed.
Of all the things Max might have expected to see on this serene evening, it would never have been this.
He called Thea sharply to his side to keep the area undisturbed, for surely where a head was, a body would be nearby. He pulled her lead from his pocket and attached it to her collar, for in her agitated state he didnât entirely trust her not to run from him, to start helpfully looking for the remains of this poor human.
The canopy of tree branches parted at this spot where the head lay, giving Max a momentâs clear view of the area. Looking around and craning his neck, aiming the small torch upward, he saw a worn spot on the tree trunk nearest him, a rubbing away that
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