Death of a Ghost Read online

  “What did you mean then, when you told me that her face was pale?” asked Seth.

  “It’s a secret.” Ossian looked round furtively, as if to check for spies. “The fence had a gap. I glimpsed her, no more. Only a glimpse.”

  The small children nodded. They had seen the island from the bank, with its fence of fresh woven rushes – a green, floating crown at the last river bend. You couldn’t go there, of course, not unless you were a priest or the son of a priest, a warden or a ferryman, a bard or a smith or a king. But everyone knew that was where Sulis lived. Her sanctuary grew from the centre of the isle and shade from its long trails of leaf-beaded branch spread over the waters. You could not swim out to it, for the current was too fierce. If you tried, besides, your arms and feet would be seized from below and you would find yourself being dragged down into the river weed and drowned. Each year since Ossian could remember, two or three people had died that way. They had been killed and nothing had ever been found of them except their bones, kicked heedlessly ashore as shingle on the river bank.

  “You know who Sulis is, of course,” Ossian told the streak-faced tots and they nodded vigorously. Only Madoc did not nod, but smiled privately to himself. “Without her, we could not live by the river at all. The sea would flood in and drown our crops; the tides would refuse to turn.”

  Two of the children were whispering together. Ossian didn’t like that; he was affronted.

  “You there!” he cried. “What are you saying?”

  “We only want to know, what did you see through the rushes? Did you see the Lady of the Alder? Or the Moon Lady?”

  “I will not tell you that,” said Ossian piously. “My tongue would shrivel inside my mouth if I told it.”

  Madoc laughed softly. He did not believe Ossian had seen anything at all.

  “Take that back!”

  Ossian was on top of him at once. He was only eight, this boy; he did not have the breath to shout, or to take back anything.

  “You want me to toss your sniggering lungs to the river?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Do you?”

  “No.” The boy sagged. He was no longer pushing Ossian off; he was as limp as a cut rope.

  Ossian rolled off the lad, on to his back. At this angle he could just make out the martin’s nest under the roundhouse eave. A bird was twitching out of it, ball-headed, sharp-beaked. Wonderfully quick, then stone-still – it would make you dizzy to watch him. Ossian had already forgotten his anger.

  “What did you see?”

  It was gentle Seth asking. Seth who wasn’t clever, who lived on kindness and milk and spelt bread. She asked softly, as she asked everything. “Was she very lovely?”

  Ossian had to shut his eyes to remember. The rushes had crossed his face with swart shadow. Cinders of light, a gnat-cluster of them, floated through the clack of knuckle-bones. His father had been scrying. The others – Halter, Anvil, Potter’s Wheel – watched by the spitting flame, but their faces were closed and dumb. Only his father’s ancient face moved to the bones’ clatter, stirred words into the air, shaped the ash with his finger. On the distant bank the women were keening Cernunnos. His body is blown like thistledown, they cried. His limbs are scattered on the sea. Never again shall we see his bright and handsome face, who was once as generous as the May time…

  Each year their grief was green as holly, fresh as the first snowfall, bitter as rue.

  “Yes,” said Ossian. His eyes opened in blank tranquillity. “She was very lovely.”

  “They’re coming,” said Beli’s sister, who had shielded her eyes against the blink of light. And there were the three coracles shimmering back across the water, away from the island. The high trees spilt down sloughs of shadow and for part of their way the boats were bogged in it. Only Ossian’s father was clear, all in white, and he was looking back the way they had come. The rest were busy with paddles or watching for snags on the water. But he sat facing that heap of earth and rush as if he could scarcely bear to leave it, or had abandoned there the thing he loved dearly. The island itself had never lain so grey and still.

  By now, other people had joined the children on the bank. Men and women, waiting for the coracles. One, with a long pole, paddled into the shallows to help grapple the boats ashore. Ossian’s father, at any rate, could no longer do such work himself, not at his age, being who he was. He faced the island, oblivious of the zigzag course of the coracle under him, the cross-stress of the ribbed current.

  “The goddess has spoken to him,” Ossian heard someone say. “He is not in his right mind.”

  The men handed him out of the boat and he staggered through the tall grass, his robe catching his foot. His eyes, when they fell on the villagers at last, were blind, callused with hard seeing.

  “Where is my son?” he asked the rushes, and they whispered back reedy lies to him. “Is he here?”

  Seth looked at Ossian expectantly. Why didn’t he answer? Why didn’t he kneel for his father’s blessing? Ossian’s own eyes were vacant. The reeds had pleated the wind, doubled every sound and sent the old man back to the paddle splash of the river, calling Ossian.

  Ossian got to his feet slowly. He rubbed his hand across Seth’s hair, for luck or comfort. Then walked down the green bank where the people – there was a crowd now – parted to let him pass and find his father ankle-deep in river weed, there calling always for his son Ossian.

  No one touched him as he passed.

  He knelt in the water and asked for blessing. He placed the blind fingers on his own eyes, let their nails shock his flesh. On the Isle of Rushes the goddess of the river watched from her willow tower.

  “Give me your blessing, father.”

  The old man quivered like a poplar and his lips were dewed.

  “I – I can’t.”

  It was less than half a whisper and everyone heard. The entire village was gathered behind Ossian now. The other two boats were landed and their oarsmen had set a tinder-fire of rumour. The smith’s forge was silent. The people had run from hearths and yards, left fish to burn on the fire, the bucket to fall glittering at the spring. They stood mute as winter, as the leaf in the moment before its fall.

  “She has taken my blessing from me. It is no longer mine. You saw her face, Ossian. You are Cernunnos.”

  Ossian did not understand at first. His father must be talking about his initiation, a year from now. He knew something of that ceremony; how antlers were fitted to the novice’s brow and the juice of harsh berries pressed to his nose on a sponge of moss. He knew that one day he would be called to follow his father to that dream country. Why else had he been taken to the Isle of Rushes? And he had always been so apt – quick, yes, to see the pattern of the knuckles sprawled in the dust, even to guess the goddess’s temper. Not the detail, of course, not the sacred days she set aside to sow and reap, her particular demands for fruit or flesh, fresh or charred: not her sudden, onerous generosities. The priest alone was able to read these. But her mood he could tell keenly. Until this moment he had always felt her goodwill. He had not earned it, any more than the ripe fruit that drips with mist earns its sweetness, but it had been there, and he had lived subtly, half-consciously on her favour. Until now, at the moment of its withdrawal.

  He was alone, bolassed in straggles of weed, and his father was a fanatic stranger.

  “The goddess spoke to me!” the old man was crying aloud, and he waved his staff to the sky and threw out arcs of spray from the river’s skin. “Behold, here is Cernunnos!”

  Ossian saw the stick flick overhead against a sky scored with strange runes of cloud. The old man was there, and a plunge of feet, and the slopping water filled his nostrils, for he was lying in the river now, pushed and jostled there. And he could no longer hear what his father was praying for; the water was roaring in his ears and the words were strange to him – an ecstatic gibber, beautiful and senseless as a lark’s trill, hot words, there were no gaps, no breath, and his feet had been seiz
ed and there were hands under his shoulders taking him roughly and he knew the choice had fallen on him.

  OSSIAN STOOD BESIDE the Corn Stone. He was trying to remember

  what the place had once meant to him. The top of it had been level with his shoulder then, a solid stone block, solitary in the weedy field. Colin had claimed to be able to see blue water from its top, but Ossian had never dared climb it. He ran his finger across the place where a name had once been carved, a maze of baffling grooves and ridges that flaked at his touch. They were fragile, but they must have lasted years – centuries. Yet the Stone, so Sue said, was older still.

  He put his hand to its surface, feeling the gritty ridge against his skin. Just a stone after all. Oolitic limestone, he told himself, trying to feel scientific. And if anyone was ever sacrificed here… it was a long time ago. A rock is a rock is a rock.

  But – where was Sue?

  “Gotcha!”

  Ice-cold water was suddenly pouring down the back of his neck. He whisked round. Sue leered at him, a frosted bottle of water in her hand.

  “You gave me a heart attack!”

  She must have been keeping her cool bag on the far side of the Stone, in the shade. Now she was swarming across the top, clearly delighted with herself. “Serves you right, interrupting my quality time like that.”

  Ossian flapped the water from his shirt. He peered at her face. “Are you all right, Sue?”

  “Never better, thanks. Why?”

  “I thought I saw – you look like you’ve been crying.”

  “I do? Oh.” She wiped her cheek casually and laughed. “Just a stupid song – ‘Two-timer’ always gets to me – God knows why. Didn’t you realise I was the sentimental type?”

  She eased herself gracefully to the ground. Ossian watched the slight recoil of her breasts as she landed – so neat and trim and self-contained.

  “Why are you sunbathing out here, anyway?” he asked. “There are plenty of lawns at the house.”

  “You’re nosy today! I’m avoiding my mother, if you must know. You’ve seen how she likes me to do the hostess bit – pouring drinks and passing cheesy things on plates. Give me a break! This is supposed to be a holiday.”

  Sue looked sidelong at him, then bent down to get her clothes. Ossian followed the long curve of her ribs where her pale skin had been rubbed pink by the sun. The sight hit him like a furnace blast. He was dazed by it. In a place where smart answers were the only currency, he could do nothing but stare clownishly. And stare, until a cloud of gnats swam up before his eyes and he thought he was about to faint…

  When the swarm cleared, Sue was vaguely indicating the Stone with her foot. “So this is where it happened?”

  “Where what happened?” he managed to ask.

  “Oh, you know. Your deeds of darkness. The Death of Jeremy Fisher.”

  “We were only kids and it’s not like we murdered someone,” muttered Ossian. “You read too many detective novels.”

  “Perhaps,” acknowledged Sue, pulling on a shirt. “But I’m not really bothered about toads. It’s you I’m interested in, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She spoke lower and more urgently: “I’m fascinated by this strange attraction you seem to have. For ghosts, I mean!” she added, seeing his face. “You know I’ve seen them, moping after you.”

  “Maybe I’m a novelty,” Ossian muttered. “I suppose ghosts can get bored like anyone else.”

  “Rubbish! Listen, Ossian.” Sue leaned towards him confidentially. “Listen. This is something I haven’t even told Colin about.”

  Her eyes changed with the light from the emerald grass. They flashed turquoise.

  “I’m flattered,” said Ossian cautiously.

  “You should be. When they look at you, Ossian – and don’t deny it, because I know I’m right – they see someone like themselves. Up the Styx without a paddle.” She waited for him to react. “Maybe you’re a kind of amphibian after all. I think someone round here has mistaken you for a dead person – or someone who ought to be dead…”

  Ossian trod water in the deep silence that followed this. Hold on, he told himself, and it will sound absurd, ridiculous.

  “Want to tell me what you mean by that?” he said at last.

  “It’s just – a kind of warning, I suppose,” said Sue meekly. “But a useless one, because I don’t know what you can do about it.” She looked very serious. “I think you may be in danger here.”

  “Now I know you’re overdoing the detective novels. You have suspects?”

  “Far too many suspects and no crime as yet. People seem… nervous of you, hadn’t you noticed? You make my mother jittery, that’s a fact. I’ll admit, even I – why, when I was holding that croquet mallet and you were groping around in the bushes for your lost shot, I felt a strange urge to knock a hole in your skull. Nothing personal.”

  Ossian gave a short laugh. “Course not!”

  “I’d have been sorry to lose you, Ossian.”

  She smiled at him quite demurely – then caught the direction of his gaze, where her shirt was unbuttoned. He had been gawping, he realised. She shook her head a little, as if in disappointment, and stepped forward. And the scent was there again, encroaching subtly on his thoughts – not her coconut sun lotion but another smell, much more familiar though he could not place it. Leather was it? Charred wood? He remembered the way she had looked at him once or twice before, the tip of her tongue flicking and the turquoise eyes suddenly warm and hypnotic.

  “Sue, wait!”

  But Sue did not wait. She kissed him roughly. And he submitted as his body told him to and drew her close, and such was the rush of his desire that he did not even feel surprise at what was happening.

  Then she had pulled away and was looking at him from just beyond an arm’s length distant. Her expression was one of amusement, tinged with disdain.

  “There,” she said, slipping her sandals on. “That’s all. You were wondering, weren’t you? Now you know.”

  She regarded Ossian with a skewed smile. “Don’t look so horrified, Ossian! You might stick if the wind changes. It wasn’t so awful, was it? Look, bring in the cool bag for me, will you? I’m a bit laden.”

  Sue folded the tartan rug and set off across the field towards the house. Ossian tried to move his gaze away, but it was like pulling nails from a plank. Instead he leaned, winded, against the Corn Stone until she was out of sight. He groaned with shame and lust and with the humiliation of it all.

  “Oh, Lizzy!” he said out loud.

  He turned suddenly and punched his fist into the Corn Stone behind him. The shock of pain shot up his arm. His knuckles were bleeding, ugly rucks of thin white skin above the raw flesh. Good – he deserved it. Colin had warned him, after all. He should have listened to Colin.

  He picked up Sue’s cool bag and forced himself back towards the house as if he were dragging his own corpse. He watched the long grass bend and lie flat beneath his feet, and was aware of the flurry of legs and wings, the crushing of carapaced bodies and the sticky ruin of webs that accompanied his every step. But he did not look behind him until he came to the lawn again. If he had, he would have known that a furtive figure had followed him from the Corn Stone, that it had grown closer and more erect the nearer he came to the house, and that now it was just a few paces behind.

  He glanced over his shoulder only when he saw the shadow dancing along the hedge to his right. He half expected to find a ghost there, but it was only Colin Frazer. Colin was looking pale and rumpled, as if he had not slept. When he saw that Ossian had spotted him, he attempted an upright swagger and sauntered up.

  “Afternoon, Ossian,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  OSSIAN HAD worked it all out – up to a point. He would slip away from Adam while he was questioning Lord Hungerford. He would retrace his steps from Winchester Castle and be back at Lychfont before Adam realised he was gone. Wait until Mother Bungay was out with her gossips and make Susannah safe in the cart. Though Susannah was weak
, Adam had seen her wounds dressed and wholesome food provided for her before they left. Now, a week later, she might be fit to travel – a little way at least. But where could they go that Adam would not find them?

  Ossian tried not to think about that question, because there was no answer to it. It conjured a fog in which he could see and hear nothing. Still, he had groped the outline of a plan. He would start for the next harbour down the coast. There a fisherman might be persuaded (Ossian had saved a little money) to give them shelter and, in due course, passage to another port. He would settle and learn a new trade. He warmed to the fantasy a little, picturing himself as… a carpenter perhaps. He had always been a quick hand at drawing and making, and with the right master he would do well. Susannah would grow strong again. No one need know she was his sister…

  These thoughts were idle. Adam was too careful for that and knew him far too well. He would see each move in advance. Even the flight from Winchester was possible only because Adam was occupied as never before with this matter of Lord Hungerford. Hungerford was proving wilier than anyone had expected – wilier or braver or more stupid, and Adam complained that as yet it was hard to know which.

  “But we’ll smoke him out, Ossian; we’ll smoke him. The truth may be beaten thin as air, yet still be golden.”

  Yes, the truth was elusive. The true reason Ossian did not wish to think about the future was that for Susannah there was none. She was dying, and all he hoped for was to have her die beside him, in his arms. He wanted her to know she had been loved.

  He left Winchester in the hour before dawn, with the last stars guttering. The sky was written with small, curled clouds, gold like the parings Adam flaked off in his workshop and caught in a linen apron, their value was so great. Ossian took the main road. There were other ways, less public, he might have chosen, and there was light enough; but he knew it could not be long before Adam missed him – and Adam would be mounted. He was not sure of this country, besides. No, stick to the road you know, and hurry. Three miles, six, nine – across the striped fields and past the churchyards, through the hunting woods that grow thickest where the ground is too steep for the plough. A rich country, this – even the unplanted land is moist and black. A happy land – but watch for the eyes that watch you: deer, hawk, cony, fox. Avoid the charcoal burners’ smoky ruin, the ancient ramparts topped with beech, the shaggy rook-filled trees. Pass quickly by Druid’s Copse and find the river again, whose silver channels cross the road by bridge and ford a dozen times before they merge and flank it. Six, nine, twelve miles, and fifteen at last will crest the final hill and show you Lychfont Abbey, Dame of the Marshes.