Beastings Read online

  THE PRIEST SPOKE.

  Your leg.

  Yes.

  You limp.

  What about it.

  How did that occur?

  How did I get my limp?

  Yes.

  I didn’t think you cared Father said the Poacher.

  I don’t.

  So why ask.

  Because you’re slowing us down by at least one mile an hour. One mile an hour over a day – that could be twelve miles we’re losing because of it. Because of you. Suppose we begin travelling at the same speed as the girl. By nightfall she’ll be twelve miles ahead of us. And that’s assuming we’re even going in the right direction. So I’m curious.

  It was morning and sleep still fogged their eyes. Warm parts chafed under damp clothing as they walked and the Priest carried himself with an even more determined sense of purpose – as if the hills were there to be assaulted and conquered and owned. Availed of all mystery. They were God’s obstacles. Nothing more. The Poacher was unhurried in his movements and the panting dog looked at him sideways for instruction.

  Curious is it Father said the Poacher.

  Yes.

  About my limp.

  That’s what I said didn’t I.

  My limp.

  Why do you have to turn every conversation into a long drawn out charade?

  I think it’s the first real question you’ve asked me Father. I’m just surprised.

  The girl has taken a child said the Priest. A baby. A living breathing creature created by God. A baby that belongs to someone. To people. To people who are in my parish; who are in my congregation. The girl is my responsibility and the child is my responsibility. Now I know the greatest responsibility you’ve ever known is to fill your stomach with meat and beer but this matters. If we do not find the girl soon the child may die. The child may already be dead. And then it is on our heads.

  It’s not on my head shrugged the Poacher.

  Yes said the Priest. Yes it is. We will have the community to answer to.

  I’m just here to guide you that’s all. That’s what you said. I’m just here for my knowledge. The bairn’s life has nowt to do with me. It’s not me what took her.

  And if you don’t help me find them you might as well have taken that baby and stabbed it through the heart yourself with that pocketknife of yours and fed it to your dog because soon that helpless child will be nothing but useless dead meat if you don’t get a move on and do what it is I had paid you to do.

  The Priest said this without drawing breath.

  The Poacher listened for a moment then he said I’ll tell you then Father.

  Tell me what?

  About my leg.

  I’m really not that interested now.

  Well I’ll tell you anyway and then you can decide if you’re interested.

  This is what I mean. A long drawn out charade of wasted words. Wasted words equal wasted energy. Wasted energy slows us down. You’re making yourself into a murderer of children.

  I’m no murderer of children Father and your God can strike me down here and now if that’s what he thinks. He’s already punished me the once.

  If I had known –

  Known what Father? said the Poacher.

  That I was travelling with a bloody cripple.

  That’s not very Christian of you Father. What does the Bible say about the sick and the needy?

  You don’t look sick and needy to me. Just impeded.

  That’s as maybe Father. But I am injured. Struck down I was. It must have been a quarter century ago now. I was not yet a teenager. It was winter.

  Let me guess: you tripped over during Bible study.

  Sarcasm Father. It suits you no more than a bonnet and rouge would.

  I’m being sarcastic because I know what you are going to say.

  How can you know Father? Do you read minds as well as judge us ordinary everyday folk?

  I have spent entire months – maybe even years – of my life listening to the confessions of your kind –

  My kind?

  Yes said the Priest. Uncivilised idiots. Earthy folk. The stricken. You’re much the same. My ear has long been trained to your banal stories of self-inflicted woe and hardship. Adultery poverty incest skullduggery inter-breeding. Your tawdry animalistic existences in your pigsty hovels. I have a good idea what your lot are going to say before you even say it. You’re not exactly deep and erudite thinkers around these parts are you.

  I thought you cared about your congregation?

  All I care about is serving Him snapped the Priest. Everything I do is for Him. If I had it my way I wouldn’t have to listen to another mangled word of English from your ugly rotting mouths. If I had it my way I’d whip your stupid eyes. But such is the way of this calling. And as you yourself said you’re not a believer so why should I care about you or your gammy leg or any of your other misfortunes. You are a sinner and you are going the way of all sinners: to hell.

  If the Poacher was insulted he did not show it.

  What about this girl then? he countered. The imbecile. Is she going to hell too for her physical afflictions and humble beginnings?

  My point is I know fine well you lost your foot in a man trap while out thieving or contracted gangrene due to neglect or a lack of vitamins or a wall fell on you while you were sodomising your sister or maybe debridement by maggots went awry or your father held your foot in the fire because you spilled his hallowed nightly libation –

  You’re not from Cumberland are you Father?

  No.

  Or Westmorland.

  No.

  Or the countryside of the northlands.

  No.

  Where then?

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’d like to know said the Poacher. I really would.

  Well you’ll have a long wait.

  Why are you so full of hatred Father?

  I wasn’t aware I was.

  Oh I would definitely say you are.

  You don’t know anything about me.

  I’ve seen and heard enough.

  You’ve seen and heard nothing.

  I’ve heard plenty smirked the Poacher. You cut quite the figure around town in your cape. A different nun with you every time. People talk.

  People are stupid.

  Tongues do wag Father.

  The words of the wicked lie in wait for blood but the speech of the upright rescues them.

  All I’m saying is –

  Where is the girl? said the Priest.

  What?

  Where is the girl? he said again. Do your job and answer the question.

  I believe she’ll have headed for the lake Father but the lake is busy on these summer days and I reckon the crowds will have put the fear in her. So she’ll have carried on and be headed for the next town over Father. She’ll go where the food is. You’ll not need telling that’s some thirty odd hard miles over crag and boulder yet. Likely she’ll take a back way though. Away from prying eyes. She’ll surface sooner or later – if she makes it. The hills can be cruel if you’ve got nowt about you. We just need to keep our eyes open. We’ll find her and the bairn though dead or alive I couldn’t say.

  THE RAIN FELL for a long time. It pecked at the soil and flattened the leaves on the trees and drenched the carpet of needles and the clumps of moss in the clearing but the girl was dry and the baby was dry and their things were dry.

  Yet despite the noise and the violence of the rainfall it wasn’t cold. And between the elongated wet bolts there was a stillness. A sense of the day beginning anew; a refreshment of the fells.

  The girl watched the rain. She tried to train her eyes to follow individual drops but they fell too fast and she felt dizzy if she looked at them too long. Then she watched the impact that the d
rops had on the ground and the trees and the scrub all around her. As she watched the rain rake the land she felt like a creature in a hole.

  And she spoke to the baby. She held it up close and bounced it on her chest then she rolled onto her side. She didn’t use words – only her thoughts. She shared them with the child and it tried to grab her nose and put its fingers in her mouth. The girl pulled faces and puffed her cheeks and stuck her tongue out and the rain fell. And she spoke to it from inside her head.

  They ate berries from the tin can and their lips turned the darkest purple once again.

  After a few hours the rain slowed. The drops shrunk and then they stopped altogether and the sky was clear. The tension had gone and when the girl breathed in deep the air smelled sweet.

  She took the baby down to the tarn to drink water. The storm had stirred up the silt so it was cloudy and swollen and at the far end there was a new run-off that carved a watery path down the hillside into the next valley. The mountains beyond formed the rim of a giant basin that was jagged against the clear sky. She thought she could see movements up there. Tiny dots walking along the crest; two or three of them so small they might not exist at all.

  Anxiety pierced her core and she knew that she would have to move again soon.

  They washed and drank and by the time they had walked back to the clearing the sun was setting and soon the day would be over. The girl was wet up to the waist from the grass and bracken.

  The baby began to cry so she took a breast out to let it suckle a while. Soon she was dry and sore but the baby had stopped crying so she set it down and gave it her dolly rag to play with.

  She pulled the kindling out from underneath the tree and she took the matches the man had given her and lit it. When it was burning she piled bigger sticks on there and then let the fire settle in. She worried about someone seeing the smoke so she let the fire become small and then rolled her potato into the embers with a stick and sat and watched it then she turned to tickle the baby.

  She left the potato in the fire for a long time. She put a big stone in there too. She stared into the embers and when she looked up the sky was darker.

  When it was fully dark she first rolled the stone out then the potato and set one of the tins on the stone to warm it.

  The potato was black. She set it aside to cool a little then she rolled the tin off the stone and set that aside too then when she could wait no longer and her stomach was growling in frustration she opened it. It was broth. It smelled delicious.

  She mashed the potato with the spoon and ate some. It was soft and fluffy. She put some on a bracken leaf to cool. The broth wasn’t warm near the top so she fed it to the baby who took it hungrily and grabbed for more. She gave it more. A spoon of broth for the baby then potato for herself.

  Broth for the baby. Potato for herself.

  Then she swapped it and gave some of the cooled potato to the baby and took some soup for herself.

  Potato for the baby broth for herself.

  Potato then broth. The fire crackling.

  Potato then broth. Blowing on the embers.

  When the potato was done she folded the skin and put it away for later. They finished the broth. The girl scraped the tin. Contorted her tongue. Lapped at it.

  The girl threw bracken onto the fire to kill the glow but not the heat. It started smoking then but she liked the smell it made so left it a while even though it was making her eyes water.

  The baby belched.

  So did she.

  The baby slept.

  So did she.

  THE DOG PICKED up the scent strong and hauled them up a tree-covered hill near to the end of the lake. The going was steep. The two men conserved their breath.

  The dog was panting and salivating. Its wet nose swept the ground and it pulled at its rope until the Poacher untied it and it sprinted on through the trees kicking dirt and dead needles behind it.

  They heard it barking up ahead and they quickened their pace. The Poacher withdrew his skinning knife.

  When they reached it the dog was crouched low and growling at a man who had pressed himself up against a trunk. Its teeth were showing. Its nostrils flared. Drool suspended. Pendulous.

  The Poacher called the dog off but it still kept its eyes on the man and emitted a low curdling growl.

  Have you seen a lass? said the Poacher.

  The man kept his eyes on the dog.

  Well now gentlemen.

  Carrying a baby said the Poacher.

  The man looked from the Poacher to the Priest. Saw the knife. Saw the Priest’s eyes. His strange small teeth. The dog bayed. A low noise. Like rusted metal cogs turning.

  The Priest looked beyond him and through the trees to the gaping aperture of a cave.

  You’re Solomon said the Priest. Aren’t you.

  The man straightened and sniffed. Shrugged with forced nonchalance.

  The Cave Man said the Priest.

  I’ve heard of him said the Poacher. I’ve heard of you. Didn’t think you existed.

  I sometimes wonder myself.

  Have you seen her? said the Priest. A girl carrying a baby.

  Tom Solomon shrugged.

  I see many people.

  The Poacher spoke. His voice raised into a tone of incredulity.

  What – up here in the middle of nowhere? I doubt it.

  The child’s not hers said the Priest. She stole it.

  I’m sure she had her reasons.

  So you have seen her said the Poacher.

  I never said that my good men. Besides. I’m not someone to pry in another’s business. Similarly if you two want to skulk around up here in the woods then skulk away. That’s your prerogative. You can be assured I’ll say nothing about it to anyone. Discretion is valour.

  Don’t get smart.

  Aye said the Poacher. Smart-arse.

  He stepped forward.

  How about we have a look around this cave of his Father?

  Father? You’re a man of the cloth are you asked Solomon. Well now. I’d love to engage you in a debate about the merits of atheism – try and coax you over to my side if you like. Futile I’m sure but a lively theological discussion is always welcome.

  Not you as well said the Priest.

  As well? I just wondered where you stood on the whole God-is-dead strand of thought.

  The Priest moved forwards and spoke.

  There’ll be no debating.

  We’re turning over your hovel said the Poacher.

  Solomon raised his hands. The dog growled again. A threatening baritone gurgle from deep within its straining gullet.

  Gentlemen. I’m afraid entrance is by invite only. If you’d like to schedule a dinner date with my secretary I would be more than happy –

  Fucken smart arse tramp said the Poacher as he strode forward and swung the knife in front of Solomon’s face. It caught his cheek and opened it up in an instant. He stumbled backwards. The dog growled. Nothing happened for a moment. Then a sheet of blood ran down Tom Solomon’s gaping cheek and he gasped. He put his hand to it then looked at the smear across his palm. A flap of skin hung from below his cheek bone. He felt his hanging flesh again then again looked at his hand in disbelief. Through it the men could see a top row of teeth set deep in the jawbone.

  The Priest unscrewed the vial from his necklace. He inhaled deeply and he sniffed and then he exhaled and then he spoke

  I will leave your flesh on the mountains and fill the valleys with your carcass he said.

  Yeah said the Poacher.

  I will water the land with what flows from you and the river beds shall be filled with your blood.

  The Poacher nodded.

  He will and all.

  When I snuff you out I will cover the heavens and all the stars will darken said the Priest.
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br />   And that’ll learn you.

  7.

  IT WAS IN those moments before the birds start singing when everything seems quiet but when she actually stopped and listened – really listened – that she could hear the sky making a dull flat distant roaring noise like giants were doing battle three valleys over that the girl wriggled out from beneath the tree. She thought the roar of the sky was the true sound of loneliness and could not stay there any longer.

  She stood and stretched and then packed up her tin of food her tin opener the empty cans – one slotted inside the other – the spoon and matches. Then she scooped up the baby and started walking.

  It was still dark and she didn’t yet feel awake. The child felt heavy.

  She walked away from the lake and left the hill. She passed the tarn and traversed a series of mini crags that lead down to a long sloping meadow. The meadow stretched all the way along the valley and was dissected by stone walls.

  As she crossed it she felt exposed. She felt as if eyes were on her and was relieved when she reached the other side and climbed over a stile and into a wood.

  She walked all morning and only stopped once to rest for water and to feed the baby the rest of the bilberries: they had already started to turn in the tin. She pulped them with the spoon so that they were easy to eat.

  Then she was at the bottom of an empty dale and there was a stream that was too wide to cross so she walked alongside it for a mile or two. It ran down a series of smoothed stone shelves. Some running fast and violent and others silent and steady slowing only to dip through clear pools. The stream was the run-off from the mountain tops – the confluence of dozens of tiny flows that ran from peat bogs puddles and mossy marshes like broken glass being swept up. It had been reinvigorated by the rainfall from the previous night.

  The girl stopped to fill her tin can and take a long drink. The water was cool and tasted of the ancient rounded stones that lined its bed. She drank until she couldn’t take any more.

  She should have known that the stream would lead to the lake and where streams meet lakes there is often life. She should have noticed the pollarding of the trees that took a more orderly formation around her the further she moved down the valley but she was too busy watching where she put her feet as the path was pitted with pot-holes and divots caused by many centuries of footfall and horse hooves. And though the incline was mild the ground was challenging.