Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts Page 16

  “You’re going to burn me aren’t you?” Wainwright’s voice came thickly through swollen lips. “You’re going to put me on a bloody bonfire and set me alight.”

  His calm voice drew a nod of approval from the chief. “Yer learning lad.”

  With an ugly smile the woman studied his face. “Why on earth would we do that, Mr. Wainwright?”

  He managed a half shrug. “You’re lunatics. Too much inbreeding. Too much pesticide sprayed too near the village. It’s rotted your brains.”

  She shook her mis-shaped head. “Far from it. We’re sane. Saner than anyone else in this mad world.” As she talked laughing villagers piled the wood into a huge bonfire. Apart from it being mid-summer, Owston-in-Elmet could have been a village anywhere preparing for a bonfire night celebration. In a detached way he noticed women wrapping potatoes in foil and laying out raw sausages and hamburgers on trays. Once the flames had burned down they were going to turn this thing into a barbecue.

  The woman talked in a low eager voice as she watched the preparations. “Look at them—just look at them, lad. They’ve been doing this twelve thousand years, ever since these hills were covered by glaciers a hundred feet thick. Every year—without fail. And the Gods have been good to us. So good we didn’t look twice at the Roman Gods, the Celtic Gods, and you can keep your cow-eyed Christ God. They’re all resoundingly feeble in comparison to ours.” She looked at Wainwright pityingly. “Oh, you wouldn’t know our Gods if I told you their names. You don’t learn about our Gods in Sunday school: you feel them. Like electricity they blast through everything, the tress, the waters, sky, earth, why they even run through you, Mr. Wainwright. Through your thin arms and legs and soft little belly of yours.”

  Every so often someone would speak to the gargoyle woman. They addressed her as Mam. They did it in an affectionate, but respectful way. And Wainwright realised she wasn’t a mother in the physical sense but a matriarchy; a mother to her people; a spiritual leader; an oracle.

  “We are a strong community bound by our faith; bound to this valley more tightly than you are bound to this tree.” She gave a lop-sided grin. “Do you know why the Gods care for us so deeply?”

  Wainwright parted his lips, they stuck slightly where the drying blood had gummed them together. He spoke one word. “Sacrifice.”

  “That’s right. You really are an intelligent young man.” She nodded her huge head. “Sacrifice. Each one carried out as tradition dictates.” With relish she told him the about the last one. “A man, oh forty-five or so. Manager of a supermarket in Barnsley. Brought him here, like you, Mr. Wainwright, just like you. Stripped him naked, laid him on the ground, face up, buttocks kissing the grass. Paint his chess with clay and the blood of doves. Then Mr. Braithwaite, he’s our butcher you see, takes his knife, a thousand years old if it’s a day and carefully, carefully slides the tip of the blade beneath this man’s white, white skin. He peels the skin back to expose the ribs beneath. Oh he does it with such skill you would marvel, you really would.

  “Then the difficult part. He opens up the ribs to expose the beating heart. Oh the man, this little manager of supermarkets, is crying like a little spoilt boy,” Stop it, stop it, you’re hurting, stop it… Stop, stop, stop, stop… “Then Mr. Braithwaite carefully cuts the tissue around the heart, and you know, his hand is steady as a rock. A surgeon would envy these hands.” She sighed, remembering. “By this time our gentlemen is looking down at his beating heart with eyes that bulge out so far they look fit to burst. And he’s begging and pleading us not to touch his heart.” You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing,” he keeps repeating. Oh but we do, Mr. Wainwright. We know perfectly. We are making the best investment possible. The Gods will be very grateful.”

  Wainwright’s eyes stared wide. The woman was a sadist.

  “Now the part I never grow tired of. The next stage of the ritual is magical. While four warriors hold down our gift to The Gods, Mr. Braithwaite gently lifts out the heart, lays it on the man’s bare stomach. There for five minutes it is allowed to beat, still connected to the arteries, still pumping blood perfectly. The man cries:” Don’t touch it, you could damage it—you’d kill me, you’d kill me.” Do you know Mr. Wainwright I really think that the man believed he would still live if we left him alone.” She picked a hair from her flap of a mouth. Looked at it, then dropped it to the ground. “Then two warriors, our strongest, take the heart and they lift. They lift and they lift. The man is held down to the earth. He shouts and screams, purple face, wild bulging eyes. Then POP! Out come the lungs like two wet bags. The arteries stretch to, oh, a full yard. Then CRACK! The arteries split under the strain. And you know the blood pressure is so enormous there is a tremendous spray of blood, like a whale’s spout. The blood, a fine, fine spray, hangs in the air for a full moment in a beautiful, gorgeous red fog. It envelopes everyone. It turns the sun into the deepest, deepest red imaginable. Then… Then we burn him on the fire.”

  During this, the chief along with a few of the warriors had paused to listen to the woman. They hung onto every word. She was obviously loved and respected by the villagers. To them she was worth her weight in gold: They waited for Wainwright’s reaction. Would he beg for mercy, or scream; scream until his mind split.

  Then the tall man tied to the tree did what no-one expected.

  He laughed.

  He laughed, shaking, until his eyes watered and he nearly choked on his own spit.

  They exchanged puzzled looks. The gargoyle woman creased her hideous face into a frown. The man forced himself to stop laughing. He looked round at the collection of puzzled expressions. Then he laughed again. “You are going to do what to me?” he asked when the sobbing laughter had passed from his body.

  “Sacrifice you,” said the woman, annoyed now.

  “You did say sacrifice?” Wainwright was grinning as broadly as his split lip would allow. “Listen to me, people of whatever-it-is-in-Elmet, you do not know the meaning of the word sacrifice.”

  “Shut your mouth,” snarled the chief, “or I’ll hack out that bloody tongue of yours myself.”

  “Suit yourself. But you’re making a hell of a mistake.”

  “What would you know?” hissed the she-gargoyle.

  “Okay, don’t believe me. But just look around. Your village is falling to pieces. The houses are shabby. Just look at your children. There can’t be more than a dozen here. A population this size would have double that.”

  “Stop him,” hissed the woman.

  “Why stop me? I’m doing you a favour. I’m correcting your mistake. You’re a farming community, right? Listen, someone tell me. Has your milk yield gone up or down in the last five years?”

  One of the younger men started to speak but the woman silenced him with a glare.

  Wainwright nodded, smiling. “That proves it. You’re falling out of favour with your Gods because you don’t know what to give!”

  The chief gritted his teeth. “A life is the most precious thing you can give!”

  Wainwright shook his head. “Tell me this. If you go to that wishing well of yours to make a wish, do you look on the ground for a pebble or piece of broken glass to throw in?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” sneered one of the younger ones, “you throw money in.”

  “Exactly.” Wainwright looked flushed. Excited. “Money. Cash. Coins. Money you could buy a beer with or put toward a new tyre for your car. You throw in something you value. Listen, how many times have you said ‘I’ll sacrifice going to the pub tonight so I can buy a new jacket on Saturday.’ When you give something up you enjoy or you value you talk of sacrificing it.” Wainwright’s eyes shone. “Now you talk of sacrificing me to your Gods?”

  “Aye, and we will,” snapped the woman.

  Wainwright looked at the chief. “So you value me?”

  The chief looked uncertain.

  “Well am I your friend? No. Because you don’t know me. I’m just a stranger from a race of
people you despise. I don’t mean a toss to you lot. You tie me up, you give me nothing to eat, drink, you punched me. I mean nothing.” He talked faster, triumph powering his voice.” I’m just something you picked up from the moor. You might as well pick up a piece of old chewing gum and drop it in the wishing well. Would that please the fairy in the bottom of the well? Would killing me please your Gods? Of course it bloody wouldn’t! You value money. When you drop it in the wishing-well you are sacrificing it. To please The Gods you must give up something you love, something you treasure. It must be something you do not want to give but you know you must please them.” The men looked at one another, their confidence gone, their demeanour changed. “Now,” said Wainwright confidently. “In all your village who do you value the most?”

  Without hesitation they all looked at the woman.

  “Nonsense,” she squealed. “Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.”

  But the warrior’s attentions were locked tight on their spiritual leader—and the most treasured member of the village. For a moment the chief appeared to be engaged in a massive internal struggle.

  Then his face cleared. It would pain them all; they would grieve: yet it must be done. Gently, reverently, he took her by the arm. “Mr. Braithwaite,” he called in a hoarse voice. “Mr. Braithwaite. It’s time for you to come now.”

  Wainwright had only chance to briefly see the gargoyle-woman’s face twisted into an expression of horror.

  Her sharp eyes darted from side to side, seeing each face in turn. And recognizing what lay in each expression. Perhaps for a moment she really could read minds—for without a shadow of a doubt she knew there and then what her beloved people would do to her. Then they crowded round her and she disappeared from sight.

  No-one watched the tall man tied to the tree. He was of no value. No-one wanted to know.

  It took no time at all for him to slip his arms from his bonds and step out from the flex looped about his legs. Silently he walked away up the hill. Below, the people of Owston-in-Elmet did what they’ve always done. Before Christ hung from his cross. Before the first Pharaoh raised the first pyramid from out of the desert. Before the wheel.

  He walked quickly now, his limbs unaffected by the time spent tied to the tree. His stride lengthened. There was somewhere he had to go.

  Behind him a blurred yellow glow wavered in the valley below, gouts of smoke rose into the darkening sky to kiss the stars like forbidden lovers.

  Presently the tall man reached a lake. Its deep waters reflected the stars until it looked as if a chunk of the universe in miniature had fallen on the Yorkshire landscape.

  Anyone watching the man, who the villagers of Owston-in-Elmet had thought was a common town-dweller, would have noticed a change. He looked taller still. Until his shoulders were level with the trees. His face had absorbed a smokey look, shadows formed a cloak around his shoulders. Of his town-dweller clothes there was no sign.

  He looked into the waters. And the waters looked into him. A face, smokey, similar but no reflection appeared on the water. “Success, brother Earth?”

  The smokey head above nodded. “Success, brother Water.” And above and around them the night winds that blew the lonely spirits from this world to the next murmered their vapourous approval.

  Tonight, the old ones were satisfied: The gnawing hunger within appeased. But this… this was only a beginning…

  The Old Man at the Gate

  “I bet you daren’t.”

  “Bet I dare.”

  “Daren’t. There’s a ghost that lives in there.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  Ivan chipped in, “Ghosts won’t live in there anyway. Ghosts are dead people.”

  “If ghosts are dead how do they move about and moan and that?”

  It was an interesting philosophical point, and the boys debated it noisily.

  That day in August was a great day to be eight. Blazing sunshine worked up a thirst for an ice cream, and there were still three weeks of summer holiday left, making school seem as far away as Timbucktoo. The four sat on the fence, chewing sweet clover stems and looking at the gatehouse to the park.

  “My dad said in olden times a man would stand guard at the gatehouse and not let anyone into the grounds,” John told them.

  “Why’d they do that? It’s a park; anyone’s allowed in.”

  John, who was looked on as the brain-box of the group, said,” It wasn’t always a park

  with swings and things. There used to be a big house and the park was its garden.”

  “Even the football field?”

  “Nah, they didn’t have football then. But they had the gatehouse, and a guard to keep trespassers out of the grounds.”

  Ivan scratched his head, ruffling his thick ginger hair. “And that’s where the ghost is.”

  John sighed. He wanted to be a scientist when he grew up. “Ghosts aren’t scientific. That means they don’t exist.”

  Still, the gatehouse held their attention. It was set in the ten-foot-high brick wall that ran around the park, and resembled something like a miniature version of the Arc de Triomphe. Park visitors walked through the archway beneath. The gatehouse itself had two windows at either side of the arch—now bricked up, which added to the air of mystery—and an ancient timber door set at one side. It hadn’t been opened in years, and from what the boys could tell had been nailed shut.

  There are no ghosts, thought John, as he chewed his clover stem. Even so, he wondered what it was like in the gatehouse now, so dark and airless after all these years.

  At last Ivan spoke. “What’s a trespasser?”

  It was still early in the afternoon, and they were reluctant to go to the park too early. Their money was limited, and the call of the ice cream van parked beside the park lake would be irresistible. They dared Ivan to knock on the gatehouse door and run away, which he did; and he was satisfyingly terrified when they made ghostly cries as he knocked. Then as a diversion they went down to the river to throw stones, and then to the railway line to watch the high speed electric trains tearing by.

  The railway line and the river created an effective barrier at this side of the park. In fact, the only way home was either via a footbridge across the river, or through the gatehouse archway into the park. Ivan, who had gone on ahead, came puffing back to the others, his face as red as his hair.

  “Hey! Look at what they’ve done to the bridge!”

  The gang hurried to the bridge full of expectancy. Something dramatic had happened.

  DANGER. KEEP OFF. UNSAFE STRUCTURE.

  “It was alright this morning when we crossed it,” Ivan said, poking the sign with a stick.

  “Well, it isn’t now,” said John. “They’ve closed it off. Look at all that fencing. You can’t even climb up the side to get onto it.” He surveyed it more critically. “Look, it’s dipping in the middle. It’d collapse and you’d fall in the river.”

  After waiting ten minutes to see if the bridge would collapse spectacularly into the river, they grew bored. And thirsty. Ivan began to reminisce about the huge ice creams he’d eaten on holiday in Spain. The temptation grew so intense they all agreed to return to the park. As they approached the gatehouse, Ivan pushed back his ginger fringe and said, “John, it’s your turn to knock the gatehouse door.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Is.”

  “Nah. Can’t be bothered.”

  “John’s afraid of ghosties!”

  “Am not. Scientists say there’s no such thing as a…”

  “Do it then.” Ivan grinned.” If there’s no such thing as ghosts they can’t get you.”

  The other three looked at John. It was a challenge. If he even tried to laugh it off they might think he was a scaredy cat. They might not even bother calling for him tomorrow.

  “Yeah,” John said finally. “Why not.”

  The others walked in single file into the park and onto the sunlit football pitch. The allure of the ice cream van was so
great they started to run towards it. John decided to walk past the locked gatehouse door; after all, the rest of the gang were too excited about ice creams to bother about the dare. They’d never notice.

  As he walked through the arch, however, he stopped; then he reached out and, with as much coolness as he could muster, knocked on the timber door. He waited to see if the others would notice; but their eyes were locked onto the van with the big plastic cone on top. John was about to follow when there was a tremendous squealing noise. He froze. It was the sound of ancient hinges creaking; rusty metal screeched on rusty metal. Then the gatehouse door opened so violently that the vacuum it created nearly sucked the boy inside.

  Terrified, John watched the door swing inward. Darkness, as solid as stone, lay inside. Then something was rushing towards him, seemingly from an unimaginable distance, even though the room must have been small. It was as if something was running from a tunnel that led deep inside the park walls. As it ran, a distant shouting grew louder and louder until it battered John’s ears with such ferocity that he did not dare run. He could only watch.

  From out of the darkness came a huge red face. He did not notice a body: only a face that emerged from the doorway to fill his field of vision. It was an old man, who was nearly bald and whose jaw was shaded with stubble.

  John was appalled. He couldn’t think coherently. All he knew was that this angry man was shouting at him. He was so angry that his face burned a fierce red, and John couldn’t understand what he was shouting. He only knew that it went on and on.

  John tried to pass by him into the park, but the old man barred the way and yelled out in his fury. A long, long way away, John saw his friends at the ice cream van. They hadn’t noticed he was missing.

  Again he tried to dodge by the shouting man, and again his way was blocked. He turned and ran away from the gatehouse back to the river. He was so frightened he couldn’t even run properly; he felt as if his arms were unnaturally stiff by his side, pointing down as if he was a soldier standing to attention. All around him the world seemed too bright and too big.