A Gift in the Dark

Watcher

Watcher

Now it is that time of night,

That the graves all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way paths to glide.

(from A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare)

~

Joe stumbled in the moonlight, the laces of his trainers snagging on a bramble. After untangling them, he picked a couple of tasty looking blackberries from the hedge, adjusted his headphones and wandered on along the footpath.

A tall gangly form, weaving in and through long moonlit shadows, he hummed along to his favourite album, the beats of the song faintly audible to the darkness around him. He loved the walk home from the hotel. It gave him time to forget the clash and noise of the kitchens, the heat and sweat of grills, and the organised chaos of the preparation areas. He savoured the taste of the sweet berries in his mouth and started thinking about food again, looking up at the far distant stars. All he'd ever wanted to do was cook, and the job in the hotel had been a dream come true. But the hectic pace of evening service always wound him up to an adrenaline high that only the walk home helped dissipate enough to allow him to sleep.

Joe sighed contentedly and meandered on home, the tall Devon hedges looming darkly either side of him, and trees shrouding the sky above with their latticework of branches. The shadows cast by the bright moonlight made him look like a hooded fisherman wading through an ink dark sea, the moonlight swallowed by the black waves. All was still, calm and clear; only the occasional silver cloud drifted across the starlit sky, and every now and again a bat zipped past in haphazard hunt through the night. Everything was at peace.

He'd been walking the route along the old greenway between the two villages for two months now, ever since finishing school. At first the darkness and lack of street lights had spooked him, but he'd learned to love the calm, even if the occasional sheep coughing sounded like a murderer waiting in the shadows for the unwary. Once his imagination had worked past the idea of a haunted path, the night sounds of foxes calling, owls screaming and creatures rustling through the hedgerows, he'd provided his own soundtrack to the night with the addition of an MP3 player bought with his first wage packet.

Although comfortable in himself and enjoying school, he'd known for a long time what he wanted to do, and now at 16 he could live his dream. Being obsessed with food wasn't a common thing for a teenage boy and he'd taken his fair share of bullying when he had been the only lad in his year to take Home Economics. But the hard work had paid off and, after pestering the chef in the hotel to let him cook for him one night, he'd been promoted from sometime pot washer and vegetable chopper to junior chef. Michelin Stars sparkled in the happy dreams of his future.

A few hundred yards on, he slowed. On a bench tucked into the hedge was the shadowed figure of a man. Pushing his hair out of his eyes he moved forwards to get a better look. As he got closer, he recognised him as Archie, one of the regulars in the pub that nestled in ramshackle companionship next door to his own home: a gentle, quietly spoken old man who tended to sit in the corner with his terrier, he seemed unchanged for decades. Tonight though, he looked very different. As he approached, he noticed the old man was a deathly white, his pallor highlighted by the cold silvery light of the moon, and he appeared drunk, slumped back into the hedge. Or maybe it was something worse.

Joe stooped, and with some trepidation tapped him gently on the arm. "Archie... Archie. Are you okay?"

"Eh? What? Oh, hello Joe. What're you doing here?"