Crooked Valley

Chapter Seven

Henry was the first to see it as they approached the brow of the hill. A scuffed, brown boot lay on its side in the grass, something appeared to be protruding from it and as they drew closer, Gregg suddenly realised what it was. Henry let out a weak cry and crumpled onto the ground.

"Oh my God ...", Argyle put his hand to his mouth and turned away so that he no longer had to witness the scene which greeted them.

Sorn's work boot was still laced to the base of his ankle although what remained of the splintered bone extended only a couple of inches above the leather rim. Rapacious black flies engrossed with this gruesome treasure claimed it as their own, frenzied in their barbarous pillage of the feast on offer. The reality of what he was seeing finally caused Gregg to stagger backwards as he also became aware of the already powerful stench leading an unwelcome assault on his nostrils. He glanced down at Henry whose arms were wrapped around his knees, body curled into a fetal position gently rocking back and forth. "In there", he whispered, his gaze fixed upon the abandoned shack. As Gregg approached the building he was vaguely aware of the sound of Argyle losing his lunch in the nearby bushes. The dilapidated wooden door lay slightly ajar and as he pushed it open he found that the grim odour was much stronger inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust after the brightness of the sun outdoors. He had to step to his left to avoid a torn, bloody shirt and a sticky, black mass crawling with insects of all descriptions. The air hung heavy with dust suspended in sharply defined shafts of light which burst through the cracks in the panelled walls, decayed after years of neglect. The sunlit shafts did little to dispel the long shadows that reached out like searching fingers. The floorboards creaked as he took tentative steps forward avoiding the thick, dusty cobwebs which hung low from the roof. He felt a deep dread in the pit of his stomach that he was not alone, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

A rustle behind Gregg caused him to freeze on the spot and as he glanced anxiously over his shoulder he thought he saw a quick movement low on the ground. Not daring to blink, his eyes searched frantically trying desperately to see more clearly in the lightless corners of the hut. There was another rustle closely followed by a bang and he held his breath gripped with fear of what may leap out of the darkness. Shutting his eyes tightly, he braced himself for what would surely come.

Instead, there was a scuffling sound and as he peeped he saw a small, brown mouse. It's curious yet sharp, beady eyes fixed and watching him intently. Gregg let out a rush of air and waved an arm at the creature to shoo it away, but instead, it continued eyeing him carefully. Only when Argyle burst in through the door did it eventually scurry away between the man's feet and out through the open door.

The weather seemed to reflect the mood as they made their way back. The earlier sunshine giving way to the volumous, grey clouds inviting rain. None of them felt the urge to discuss what they had witnessed at the old cabin, the scattered, broken bones Argyle and Gregg had found behind the crates. This was all that remained of their old friend. Each of them walked in silence, in shock and lost in their own swirling wave of incomprehension.

Long robes were hardly practical when one spent most of their days clambering up and down stone staircases especially when trying to balance a tea tray. It really didn't help when most of the steps were crumbling or practically non-existent. The multitude of bruises on his knees were an ever painful reminder of what he considered to be the worst decision of his life. The prospect of working at the farm had seemed abhorent to him at the time. A lifetime of shovelling pig manure, working his fingers to the bone and tending crops may have been fine for his brothers, but not for him. He was cut from a different cloth and meant for a higher purpose. At least this was how he had always felt growing up, now he wasn't so sure. Working for the old Sage wasn't at all how he had imagined it, maybe at first, but not after all these years. Expectations of spending his days writing poetry, learning to read the skies and the ways of the magical arts had not panned out the way he had imagined. As he reached the top of the winding staircase, he laid the tray down. Reaching up he wrapped his white, linen scarf around his nose and mouth and tucked it into the neckline as firmly as he could manage. In an attempt not to dislodge it he bent down as carefully as possible and scooped up the tray, pushing the door open with his elbow. The smell was overwhelming and he tried not to show the battle that was beginning within him, despite preparation his defenses were down, the nasal assault too great. His instinct was to drop the tray and run but retreat was not an option. It was Arnon, a fellow student, whose job it was to open the window every morning before Prolix The Windy Sage came in to start work, clearly today Arnon had not bothered.

Prolix glanced up from the heap of books piled high on his desk, "Ah, Wendell, there you are. Put that on the table will you?" Wendell eyed the surface which was just as cluttered as the desk, finding an edge, he used the tray to slide the scrolls and various other bits out of the way. Swiftly he made his way to the window and opened it as far as he could. "I've been waiting for you. The guest room needs to be prepared, I'm expecting visitors tomorrow."

"Guests, sir? Here?"

"Yes, Wendell, that is what guest rooms are generally used for."

"I'm sorry sir, it's just that in all the years I've been here ..."

"Yes, yes, well if there's nothing else."

Guido leaned back in his chair, a wide grin spread across his face, displaying the absence of several teeth, a rosy glow high on his cheeks. Bartleby returned with two more glasses of cider placing them precariously on the unsteady table. Arthur, the serving boy, slipped past scooping up the empty jars and adding them to the already towering stack which he balanced effortlessly. "Did you gentlemen hear the news?"

Guido glanced up at Arthur, "What's that, son?"

"About Sorn, the blacksmith." He gathered more glasses from the table next to them. "He was found up on the hill, poor fellow, or what was left of him anyway. Aye, they're saying some'at attacked him, could only recognise him from 'is clothes an' boots." Arthur laid the tower of glasses down on the shelf over the open fireplace and leaned back, hands on his hips.

Bartelby looked horror-stricken, the former hilarity in his eyes now erased completely.

"Well, that's bad luck, what do they think did that, then?" Guido looked at Arthur expectantly, eager to hear all the details of the apparent tragedy. But Arthur had no chance to answer, their attention drawn by the door slamming open against the wall and two men walking in, expressions grim, oblivious to the upturned faces all around them. Gregg squeezed between the tables and behind the door, patted his brother-in-law on the shoulder and poured a pint each for Argyle and himself. The two settled into the alcove not far from Bartleby and Guido, Arthur busied himself hurrying off to clear the bar area.