The Spook 9 - Slither's tale Page 2

  I sat up but then remained very still. My nostrils dilated and twitched as I began to sniff the air.

  Blood . . .

  I raised my tail and used it to gather more information. Things couldn’t have been better and my mouth began to water. Ox blood was sweet and delicious, but this was the most appetizing blood of all. It was freshly spilled human blood and it came from the direction of Old Rowler’s farm.

  Instantly my thirst returned; I quickly got to my feet and began to run towards the distant fence. My long loping strides soon brought me to the boundary and, once under the fence, I immediately grew to human size. I used my tail again, searching for the source of the blood. It came from the North Pasture, and now I knew exactly whose it was.

  I’d been close enough to the old man to smell it through his wrinkled skin, to hear it pounding along his knotted veins. Old blood it might be, but where human blood was concerned I couldn’t be too choosy.

  Yes, it was Old Rowler. He was bleeding.

  Then I detected another source of blood, though this was far weaker. It was the scent of a young human female.

  I began to run again, my heart pounding with excitement.

  When I reached the North Pasture, the sun was an orange globe sitting precisely upon the tip of the horizon. One glance and I understood everything.

  Old Rowler lay sprawled like a broken doll close to the trunk of a yew tree. Even from this distance I could see the blood on the grass. A figure was bending over him. It was a girl in a brown dress, a girl with long hair the colour of midnight. I sensed her young blood too. It was sweeter and more enticing than Old Rowler’s.

  It was Nessa, his eldest daughter. I could hear her sobs as she tended to the old man. Then I saw the bull in the next field. It was stamping its feet angrily and tossing its horns. It must have gored the farmer who, despite his injury, had managed to stagger through the gate and close it behind him.

  Suddenly the girl looked back over her shoulder and saw me. With a little cry of terror she rose to her feet, pulled up her long skirt above her knees and began to run away towards the house. I could have caught her easily, but I had all the time in the world now, so I began to walk towards the crumpled body.

  At first I thought that the old man was dead, but my sharp ears detected the faltering rhythm of a failing heart. Old Rowler was dying, for sure: there was a massive hole beneath his ribs and his blood was still bubbling out onto the grass.

  As I knelt down beside him, he opened both eyes. His face was twisted with pain but he tried to speak. I had to bend closer, until my left ear was almost touching the old man’s blood-flecked lips.

  ‘My daughters . . .’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t you go worrying about your daughters,’ I said.

  ‘But I do worry,’ said the dying farmer. ‘Do ye remember the terms of the first trade we made?’

  I didn’t reply but I remembered them all right. The trade had taken place seven years earlier when Nessa had just turned ten.

  ‘While I live, keep away from my three daughters!’ he’d warned. ‘But if anything ever happens to me, you can have the eldest, Nessa, in return for taking the other two south to their aunt and uncle in Pwodente. They live in the village of Stoneleigh, close to the last bridge before the Western Sea . . .’

  ‘I’ll take care of them,’ I’d promised, realizing that this could be the beginning of years of useful trade with the farmer. ‘Treat ’em like family.’

  ‘A trade,’ the old man had insisted. ‘Is it a trade?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d agreed. ‘It’s a trade.’

  It had been a good trade because, according to the law of Bindos, each Kobalos citizen has to sell in the slave markets at least one purra – or human girl – every forty years or become an outcast, shunned by his fellows and slain on sight. As a haizda mage, I did not normally dabble in the markets and did not wish to own females in the customary way. But I knew that the time would come when I must meet my next obligation or suffer the consequences. Otherwise I would become an outlaw, hunted down by my own people. Rowler was old; once he was dead I could sell Nessa.

  And now here he was before me, dying, and Nessa was mine.

  The farmer began to cough up a dark clot of phlegm and blood. He hadn’t long now. Within moments he’d be dead.

  It would take a week at most to deliver the two younger girls to their relatives. Then Nessa would belong to me. I could force her north to the slave market, taking my time while I sampled some of her blood on the way.

  Suddenly the old man began to fumble in the pocket of his overcoat. Perhaps he was searching for a weapon, I thought.

  But he pulled out a little brown notebook and a pencil. With shaking hands, not even looking at the page, he began to scribble. He scribbled a lot of words for a dying man. When he’d finished, he tore out the page and held it towards me. Cautiously, I moved closer and accepted the note.

  ‘It’s to Nessa,’ Rowler whispered. ‘I’ve told her what she has to do. You can have everything – the farm, the animals and Nessa. Remember what we agreed? All you have to do is get Susan and Bryony to their aunt and uncle. Will you keep to our trade? Will ye do it?’

  I read the note quickly. When I’d finished, I folded it in two and pushed it into my overcoat pocket. Then I smiled, showing just a hint of teeth. ‘We made a trade and I’m honour-bound to keep to it,’ I said.

  Then I waited with Old Rowler until he died. It took longer than I expected. He struggled for breath and seemed reluctant to go, even though he was in great pain. The sun had sunk well below the horizon before he gave a final shudder.

  I watched him very carefully, my curiosity aroused. I had traded with Old Rowler for seven years, but flesh and blood is opaque and hides the true nature of the soul within. I had often wondered about this stubborn, brave but sometimes cantankerous old farmer. Now, at last, I would finally find out exactly what he was.

  I was waiting to see his soul leave his body, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  A grey shape began to materialize above the crumpled overcoat. It was very faint and ever so slightly luminous. It was helical in form, a faint spiral, and much, much smaller than Old Rowler. I’d often watched human souls before and I liked to wait and see which way they would go.

  So what was Old Rowler?

  Was he an ‘Up’ or a ‘Down’?

  I harvest souls and draw power from them, absorbing them into my own spirit. So I prepared myself to reach out and snatch the farmer’s soul. It was a difficult thing to do and, even with the whole force of my concentration, could only be accomplished if the soul lingered a while. But this soul did not tarry.

  With a faint whistle it began to spiral away, spinning up into the sky. Not many did that. Usually they gave a sort of groan or howl and plunged into the earth. So Old Rowler was clearly an Up. I’d missed out on a new soul, but what did that matter? He was gone now and my curiosity was satisfied.

  I began to search the body. There was only one coin. Probably the same one I’d given him earlier for the ox blood. Next I pulled out the sabre. The handle was a little rusty but I liked the balance and the blade was sharp.

  I swished it through the air a few times. It had a good feel to it so I thrust it safely into the lining of my own overcoat.

  That done, I was free to begin the main business of the night.

  Old Rowler’s daughters . . .

  IT WAS GETTING dark when I reached the farmhouse. There’d be no moon tonight and there was only one light coming from the house – the faint, fitful flicker of a candle behind the tattered curtains of the front bedroom.

  I loped up to the door and rapped loudly upon it three times. I used the black knocker, the one decorated with the one-eyed head of a gargoyle, which was supposed to frighten off anything threatening that approached by night. Of course, this was just superstitious nonsense and my triple rap echoed through the house.

  There was no reply. Those three girls had no manners, I thought. No manners at
all.

  Angrily, I dropped on all fours and ran three times round the house in a widdershins direction, against the clock, and each time I passed the front door I let out a loud, intimidating howl.

  Next I returned to the front of the house and blew myself up to three times human size. I placed my forehead against the cold glass of the bedroom window and closed one eye.

  With my left eye, I could just see through the narrow chink where the curtains met. I spotted Nessa, my inheritance, and her two sisters, huddled together on the bed.

  Nessa was in the middle, with her arms wrapped about the shoulders of her younger sisters, Susan and Bryony. I’d spied on them many times before. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about these girls.

  Nessa was seventeen, Susan a year younger. Susan was plumper than Nessa, with hair the colour of ripe corn. She would have fetched the best price at the slave market. As for Bryony, she was still a child, about eight summers old at the most; cooked very slowly, her flesh would be succulent, even tastier than day-old chicken – though many kobalos would prefer such young flesh raw.

  The truth was that Nessa was worth the least of all, but her sale would allow me to fulfil my duties under the law of Bindos. A trade is a trade, and I always keep my word, so I shrank to human size and, with one almighty blow of my left hand, struck the front door.

  The wood splintered, the house shook, the lock shattered and, with a groan, the old door swung back upon its hinges. Then, without waiting for an invitation, I stepped across the threshold and climbed the wooden stairs.

  NESSA

  I felt ashamed at having left my father like that. I’d left him to die alone. But the terror of seeing the beast so close had overwhelmed me.

  Having reached the safety of the house, I’d locked all the doors and then led Susan and Bryony up to my bedroom. My anguish and terror had rendered me almost speechless, but once there I could keep silent no longer.

  ‘Father’s dead!’ I’d cried. ‘He’s dead – gored by the bull!’

  My sisters both gave wails of grief. We’d climbed up onto the bed and I’d put my arms around them, trying to give what comfort I could. But then we heard the terrifying noises outside the house. They began with three loud raps, quickly followed by a series of terrible blood-curdling howls which made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  ‘Cover your ears! Don’t listen!’ I urged my sisters. Of course, my arms were still around them so I was forced to endure the terrifying sounds. I thought I heard heavy breathing from outside the window, and for one awful moment it seemed as if a gigantic eye was peering through the gap in the curtain.

  But how could that be? The beast was not that big. I’d glimpsed him on his visits to our farm and he’d seemed hardly taller than my poor father.

  Next there came a terrible crash from below. I knew exactly what it was and my heart began to beat even faster. The beast had smashed in the front door.

  I heard heavy feet stamping up the stairs, approaching the bedroom door. It was locked, but the door was nowhere near as stout as the one the beast had already forced – it would prove no defence at all. My whole body began to shake.

  The door handle slowly turned while I gaped at it in terror.

  ‘Nessa,’ the beast growled. ‘Open the door and let me in. I’m your new father now. Be an obedient girl and let me in.’

  I felt appalled at what he was saying. How could such a monster claim to be my father?

  ‘Your old dead father left the farm to me, Nessa,’ the beast continued. ‘And he gave you to me. And if you’re good to me, Nessa, then I’ll be good to your two plump sisters. He asked me to take your sisters on a long journey to live in happiness with your aunt and uncle. I promised him I’d do that because I always keep my promises to the dead. But you belong to me, Nessa. So you have to be obedient. Why don’t you answer? Don’t you believe me? Well, read this, then. It’s your father’s will.’

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. My sisters were whimpering in shock. How could my father have agreed to such a terrible thing? I wondered. I thought he’d loved me. Didn’t he care about me at all?

  The beast pushed a piece of paper under the door and I clambered off the bed, picked it up and started to read what was written.

  To Nessa

  I’ve promised the beast that he can have the farm and you. In return he’s promised to deliver Bryony and Susan to your aunt and uncle. I’ve tried to be a good father and, had it ever proved necessary, I would have sacrificed myself for you. Now you must sacrifice yourself for your younger sisters.

  Your loving father

  Despite the shakiness of the letters, it was undoubtedly Father’s handwriting, but I had to read it three times before its meaning sank into my befuddled brain. There were spots of blood on it – he must have written the letter in his final living moments.

  I couldn’t think straight, but I knew that I had to get the beast out of the house. If I didn’t agree to what my father had written, the dreadful creature would smash down the bedroom door and perhaps kill all three of us. So I took a deep breath to calm myself before speaking.

  ‘I accept the terms of my father’s will,’ I said. ‘But my sisters are terrified. I want you to go away and leave us alone for a while. Please stay away from the farm.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Nessa,’ the beast replied, surprising me with his agreement. ‘No doubt you’ll need some time to get over your father’s death. But you must come and visit me tomorrow just before sunset. I live in the largest ghanbala tree on the far side of the river. You can’t miss it. There we’ll talk about what has to be done.’

  *

  The following day I set off to keep my promise. I was terrified, and having to visit the beast at dusk only made it worse. I’d spent the day doing my usual farm chores in addition to those tasks usually performed by my father. Despite that, I hadn’t been able to keep at bay my fear of what was to come. Soon it would be dark and I would be alone with the monster and totally at his mercy.

  Neighbours had gone missing from time to time – something my father would never comment on. Once I had asked him whether he thought the beast was responsible.

  ‘Never speak of such things again, daughter!’ he had warned. ‘We are safe in our own house, so be grateful for that.’

  But now we were no longer safe in that house. If I did not visit the lair of the beast, he would return to our farm. What could be more terrifying than that?

  Perhaps he would devour me on the spot. After all, my father had given me into his ownership in return for the safety of my two sisters.

  I had told Bryony and Susan that, if I failed to return by dawn, they should flee to the house of a neighbour on the other side of the valley. But even there they wouldn’t be safe if the beast failed to keep his word.

  I reached the river bank and approached the fording place. There was no doubt about the location of his lair. He was right: I couldn’t miss it. It was twice as big as any other tree in the vicinity – a gigantic ghanbala with a trunk of a tremendous girth, its huge twisted branches stark against the fading light.

  I approached the tree, and as I moved closer to that vast trunk, it grew darker, the branches gathering above me to block out the last of the light from the sky. Suddenly there was a soft thud behind me and I whirled round in terror to face the beast.

  ‘Hello, Nessa,’ he said, giving me a hideous smile that revealed his sharp teeth. ‘What a good, dutiful daughter you are to keep your promise. Tomorrow, just to show you how grateful I am, I’ll bury your poor father’s body before the rats can spoil it too much. The eyes have gone already, I’m afraid, though he won’t be needing them now. But sadly those aren’t the only things he was missing: the rats had already nibbled off two of his toes and three of his fingers. Still, his body will soon be in the ground and I’ll cover his grave with rocks so that it won’t be dug up by a hungry animal, don’t you worry. He’ll be safe and snug in the dark, being slowly eaten by worms, as
is only right and proper.’

  That cruel, callous reference to my father brought a lump to my throat and I could hardly breathe. I bowed my head and was unable to meet the monster’s eyes, ashamed that I’d not plucked up the courage to go out and bury my father myself. When I looked up, he gave another grotesque grin, pulled a key from his pocket, spat upon it three times, and inserted it into a lock in the trunk of the tree.

  ‘This is a door I use only rarely,’ he said, ‘but it’s the only way to get you into the tree in one piece. Enter before me. You are my guest!’

  Fearful that he might strike me down from behind, I nevertheless turned my back on him and walked through the open doorway into the tree.

  ‘Most guests are usually dead when I drag them in here, but you are special to me, Nessa, and I’ve done my best to brighten up the place for you.’

  His words horrified me, and my heart began to palpitate, but I looked about me in astonishment. It was incredible to find such well-furnished quarters within a tree. There were thirteen candles, each in an ornate candlestick, set upon a dining table so highly polished that I could see my own reflection in it.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine, Nessa?’ the beast asked in his gruff voice. ‘Things always look better viewed through the bottom of a glass.’

  I tried to refuse his offer, but when I opened my mouth I could only manage a gasp of fear. His words made me shiver because that was one of my father’s sayings. In fact I could see that it was my father’s wine. I knew that he’d sold ten bottles to the beast the previous autumn: they were all lined up on the table behind the two glasses.

  ‘Wine is the next best thing to blood!’ he said, showing me his teeth again. He’d opened all the bottles already and they were now just loosely corked. ‘I’m feeling very thirsty and I hope you won’t expect more than your fair share. Four bottles should be enough for a human, don’t you agree?’

  I shook my head, refusing the wine. But suddenly a little hope flared within me. If he was offering me wine, maybe he wasn’t going to kill me now after all?