A rather grisly little tale of mine called Wistman's Joy has been published in the first issue of online horror magazine Rotten Leaves.
You can find it here:
http://www.rottenleaves.com/category/allissues/issue1/
Happy Halloween folks!
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Thursday, 15 October 2009
The Sound of Shiant
*This is the Prologue from my work-in-progress novel, The Sound of Shiant.*
13th February 1847
Lashed by the teeming rain, the deck of the Zarna was awash. Captain Lorentzen barked an order to his men and watched as they set about lowering the foresail. Moving to the bow of the schooner and bracing a leg against the rail, he brought the telescope up to his eye and frantically searched the horizon for any sign of land. Darkness had fallen quicker than he had expected and the ferocity of the storm concerned him. An experienced sailor, Lorentzen knew that the ship’s best chance of surviving the storm would be to ride it out at sea and stay away from land. His concern was the possibility that the ship might be driven towards the nearby islands.
“I can’t see them,” he hollered, “What are they called again?”
“The Shiants,” the mate replied, “They must be nearby.”
“I hope not,” Lorentzen roared over the howling wind, “I don’t think the mainsail can take much more of this!”
Lorentzen watched the mate move cautiously towards the stern of the ship. Without warning, a huge wave crashed against the side and knocked him off his feet. The telescope fell from his hands and was swept into the sea. Spluttering curses, Lorentzen hauled himself upright and followed the mate.
“This is madness,” one of the men yelled to Lorentzen as he passed, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It will pass,” Lorentzen reassured him, his own confidence shaken by the fall.
In the shelter of the cabin, the mate studied the charts laid out on the table before him.
“Well?” the captain burst into the cabin accompanied by the wailing of the storm, “Where are we?”
The mate looked up, his face ashen.
“I... I don’t know,” he stammered.
Lorentzen leaned over the map and gave it a cursory examination. Though he had sailed the passage from Liverpool to Christiansand countless times, he knew the storm could well have blown them several miles off course. Without the stars to fix their position, the map was useless. A cry from the deck brought both the captain and the mate back outside.
“What is it?” Lorentzen called to the nearest sailor.
“There’s a man in the water!” the sailor replied, pointing to the heaving waves.
Lorentzen and the mate quickly conducted a head count of the crew and both noted that all twelve men were onboard.
“All hands accounted for,” Lorentzen shouted to the sailor, “There can’t be anyone in the waters!”
“I saw him,” the terrified sailor answered, “Just to starboard.”
Captain Lorentzen clung to the rail and checked the starboard side of the ship. The seething waters rose and fell, making it virtually impossible to see anything amidst the chaos of foam and spray.
“There’s no one there now,” he stated.
“Captain!” another sailor waved to him, “Over here! I saw a body!”
Hurrying over to the larboard side, Lorentzen joined a handful of sailors who gazed into the endlessly churning depths.
“I saw it,” one man spoke, not moving his eyes from sea.
“It was a man,” said another, “He looked straight at me.”
“Are you sure?” Lorentzen asked, “The darkness plays tricks on your eyes.”
“Captain,” the first man dragged his gaze away from the waters to address him, “I know what I saw. There was a man there, I swear it.”
Before Lorentzen could respond, a huge wave crashed into the ship. The Zarna lurched wildly to the side as the torrent of water cascaded over the deck. Terror stricken, the men hung onto the rail until the ship righted herself. Wiping salt water from his eyes, Lorentzen pulled himself to his feet and looked back out at the rolling sea.
“There,” he called, pointing to a figure who flailed in the waters, “I see him!”
“It’s young Julius!” the mate cried, “He was just swept over the side.”
“Throw him a line,” Lorentzen instructed, “We’ll haul him back.”
He watched as the rope was tossed out to the floundering man. Julius grabbed hold of it and the men at the other end began to pull. The storm continued to rage all around them and the icy rain began to sting Lorentzen’s cheeks.
Julius yelled something but the roaring wind and the crashing waves smothered the sound.
“What’s that he says?” the mate asked.
“He says to pull harder,” a sailor responded.
The man in the water yelled again, his cries growing more vociferous.
“Pull harder,” Lorentzen ordered, “You need to pull harder.”
“No,” the mate shouted, “He says that something is pulling him.”
“We’re pulling him,” one of the sailors answered as he hauled on the rope.
Lorentzen peered into the darkness at the struggling figure that clung to the end of the line. Three strong men hauled on the rope but seemed to be having little success bringing Julius back to the ship. The young sailor cried out again and sank beneath the waves. The men holding the rope fell backwards as the weight on the other end suddenly vanished.
“Julius!” the mate shrieked, leaning over the railing with a lantern in his hand.
“He’s gone,” Lorentzen groaned, “We’ve got to save the ship. Turn her about!”
“Come about!” roared the mate.
The helmsman turned the ship’s wheel and the boom of the mainsail swung over the deck as it caught the wind. Most of the crew had heard the mate’s call and so ducked but one unlucky fellow was struck with the full force of the boom. Lorentzen watched in horror as the man was thrown into the water.
“Man overboard!” he yelled.
The ship swung about as she tacked and by the time the crew were able to respond to Lorentzen’s cry the body was nowhere to be seen. The mate staggered over to his side and pointed towards an indistinct dark mass that rose out of the gloom before them.
“Over there,” he bellowed, “There’s land. It must be the Shiants!”
“We’ll have to sail against the wind if we want to stay off those rocks,” Lorentzen stated, “Trim the sail!”
The men hauled on the lines to bring the sail in. The canvas was stretched taut as the men fastened the lines to the cleats. The ship ploughed on in the face of the wind. For a time, it seemed that she was making progress, but the strain on the lines proved too much. One by one, the cleats snapped and the sail, free from its bindings, took the full brunt of the storm. A jagged tear appeared in the canvas and the torn sail began to flap wildly in the wind. A sharp crack told the crew that the mast had broken and they covered their heads as it crashed to the deck.
“Faen!” the mate swore, “What now, Captain?”
Lorentzen did not answer, his attention focused on the swirling waters. Something grey and sleek had surfaced momentarily before slipping back into the depths. He rubbed his eyes as the mate grasped him by the arm.
“Captain!” he implored, “What should we do?”
Shaking his head, Lorentzen pushed past the mate and examined the mast. There was no chance of repairing it in the storm and without it the ship was drifting helplessly. The remaining sailors stared at him, expectantly waiting for orders. Lorentzen’s head swam as he looked at the devastation on deck. His hands shook as he reached for the cross he wore around his neck.
Fear spread quickly amongst the men. Some began to pray whilst others fastened themselves to the ship with rope. A few ran to the side of the ship and bawled pleas for help into the darkness. Lorentzen pulled his cap down tighter on his head and stepped over the fallen mast before moving to the stern of the ship. Turning his back on the crew, his eyes searched the dark horizon for any sign of respite from the storm.
“Tha breac an rionnaich air an adhar...” a voice was carried on the wind.
“Who is that?” Lorentzen called in response.
He leaned over the rail and looked at the billowing waves. Beneath them darted the strange grey shape he had seen before.
“There’s something here!” he exclaimed, “It’s in the water!”
His calls went unanswered as the ship turned in the storm. Without the sail, she was defenceless against combined force of the wind and the tide. The men clung to whatever was to hand as she was spun and tossed by the squall. The waves broke over the sides and swept whatever was not tied down into the tumultuous waters. The wind lifted any ropes hanging loose and whipped them in the air. One lashed the mate on the side of his face, the swipe leaving him bloodied and bewildered. He lurched towards Lorentzen and pointed to the starboard side where a band of white surf could be seen in the darkness.
“Breakers, Captain!” he screamed, “She’s going to run right into them.”
The timbers of the ship cried out as she was thrown against the rocks. The starboard side crumpled and splintered with the impact. The deck beneath the sailors’ feet ruptured, the planks bowing and splitting as they were wrenched from their housing. Lorentzen looked down with horror at the foaming white waters beneath the ship.
“Stay on board!” he shrieked to his crew, “There’s something in the water!”
“I see them!” the mate whimpered, “Dozens of them. They’re swimming round us!”
The ship listed as another wave crashed into her side, pounding her onto the rocks. Thrown off balance by the impact, the mate plummeted over the side. The groan of breaking wood and the roar of rushing water smothered his cries for help as he floundered in the surging waves. The mate struggled to keep his head above water and Lorentzen quickly lost sight of him.
Broken by the rocks, the Zarna began to take on water. Knowing the ship was doomed, the sailors began jumping overboard and clinging to any ballast they could find. Resolving to go down with his ship, Lorentzen hung onto the ruins of the stern. He watched with dread as the grey shapes circled those who bobbed in the water. Seeing the strange forms surrounding them, the men cried out with terror and began paddling back towards the remains of the ship. One by one, the men disappeared, dragged beneath the surface by unseen hands.
Scrambling to find purchase on the slick remnants of the deck, Lorentzen uttered a prayer. The freezing rain continued to pelt him and he shivered as he huddled beside the ruined stump of the main mast. The cries from the water had ceased and only the chattering of his teeth competed with the sounds of the storm. There was a tremendous crash and the stern broke off from the rest of the wreck. Lorentzen plummeted into the cold waters and went under. Fighting his way to the surface, he gasped for breath and treaded water as he got his bearings. With the loss of the stern, there was nothing to prevent the rest of the ship breaking up. The sea was littered with floating debris and Lorentzen watched despondently as the larger pieces of the schooner slipped beneath the waves.
Caught by the ferocious current, Lorentzen found himself drawing near to the white foam where the waves broke against the rocks. Knowing that it would be futile to fight against the tide, he swam towards the breakers. Lifted by a huge wave, Lorentzen was slammed onto the rocks. The wind knocked out of his lungs, he desperately clung to the slick black rock, squeezing his fingertips into the cracks along its surface. Wave after wave mercilessly battered him but he held on, sobbing with each breath he was able to draw.
Exhausted by the relentless fury of the storm, Lorentzen’s grip on the rock began to weaken. As his legs slipped into the water he felt a hand clamp around his ankle. The grip was strong and a sharp tug further loosened Lorentzen’s hold. He clawed desperately at the slippery surface but was gradually pulled further and further into the water. His bleeding fingers slithered out of the cracks and Lorentzen felt a cold arm wrap itself around his neck.
“Latha math a-mà ireach,” the creature whispered in his ear before it dragged him beneath the waves.
13th February 1847
Lashed by the teeming rain, the deck of the Zarna was awash. Captain Lorentzen barked an order to his men and watched as they set about lowering the foresail. Moving to the bow of the schooner and bracing a leg against the rail, he brought the telescope up to his eye and frantically searched the horizon for any sign of land. Darkness had fallen quicker than he had expected and the ferocity of the storm concerned him. An experienced sailor, Lorentzen knew that the ship’s best chance of surviving the storm would be to ride it out at sea and stay away from land. His concern was the possibility that the ship might be driven towards the nearby islands.
“I can’t see them,” he hollered, “What are they called again?”
“The Shiants,” the mate replied, “They must be nearby.”
“I hope not,” Lorentzen roared over the howling wind, “I don’t think the mainsail can take much more of this!”
Lorentzen watched the mate move cautiously towards the stern of the ship. Without warning, a huge wave crashed against the side and knocked him off his feet. The telescope fell from his hands and was swept into the sea. Spluttering curses, Lorentzen hauled himself upright and followed the mate.
“This is madness,” one of the men yelled to Lorentzen as he passed, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It will pass,” Lorentzen reassured him, his own confidence shaken by the fall.
In the shelter of the cabin, the mate studied the charts laid out on the table before him.
“Well?” the captain burst into the cabin accompanied by the wailing of the storm, “Where are we?”
The mate looked up, his face ashen.
“I... I don’t know,” he stammered.
Lorentzen leaned over the map and gave it a cursory examination. Though he had sailed the passage from Liverpool to Christiansand countless times, he knew the storm could well have blown them several miles off course. Without the stars to fix their position, the map was useless. A cry from the deck brought both the captain and the mate back outside.
“What is it?” Lorentzen called to the nearest sailor.
“There’s a man in the water!” the sailor replied, pointing to the heaving waves.
Lorentzen and the mate quickly conducted a head count of the crew and both noted that all twelve men were onboard.
“All hands accounted for,” Lorentzen shouted to the sailor, “There can’t be anyone in the waters!”
“I saw him,” the terrified sailor answered, “Just to starboard.”
Captain Lorentzen clung to the rail and checked the starboard side of the ship. The seething waters rose and fell, making it virtually impossible to see anything amidst the chaos of foam and spray.
“There’s no one there now,” he stated.
“Captain!” another sailor waved to him, “Over here! I saw a body!”
Hurrying over to the larboard side, Lorentzen joined a handful of sailors who gazed into the endlessly churning depths.
“I saw it,” one man spoke, not moving his eyes from sea.
“It was a man,” said another, “He looked straight at me.”
“Are you sure?” Lorentzen asked, “The darkness plays tricks on your eyes.”
“Captain,” the first man dragged his gaze away from the waters to address him, “I know what I saw. There was a man there, I swear it.”
Before Lorentzen could respond, a huge wave crashed into the ship. The Zarna lurched wildly to the side as the torrent of water cascaded over the deck. Terror stricken, the men hung onto the rail until the ship righted herself. Wiping salt water from his eyes, Lorentzen pulled himself to his feet and looked back out at the rolling sea.
“There,” he called, pointing to a figure who flailed in the waters, “I see him!”
“It’s young Julius!” the mate cried, “He was just swept over the side.”
“Throw him a line,” Lorentzen instructed, “We’ll haul him back.”
He watched as the rope was tossed out to the floundering man. Julius grabbed hold of it and the men at the other end began to pull. The storm continued to rage all around them and the icy rain began to sting Lorentzen’s cheeks.
Julius yelled something but the roaring wind and the crashing waves smothered the sound.
“What’s that he says?” the mate asked.
“He says to pull harder,” a sailor responded.
The man in the water yelled again, his cries growing more vociferous.
“Pull harder,” Lorentzen ordered, “You need to pull harder.”
“No,” the mate shouted, “He says that something is pulling him.”
“We’re pulling him,” one of the sailors answered as he hauled on the rope.
Lorentzen peered into the darkness at the struggling figure that clung to the end of the line. Three strong men hauled on the rope but seemed to be having little success bringing Julius back to the ship. The young sailor cried out again and sank beneath the waves. The men holding the rope fell backwards as the weight on the other end suddenly vanished.
“Julius!” the mate shrieked, leaning over the railing with a lantern in his hand.
“He’s gone,” Lorentzen groaned, “We’ve got to save the ship. Turn her about!”
“Come about!” roared the mate.
The helmsman turned the ship’s wheel and the boom of the mainsail swung over the deck as it caught the wind. Most of the crew had heard the mate’s call and so ducked but one unlucky fellow was struck with the full force of the boom. Lorentzen watched in horror as the man was thrown into the water.
“Man overboard!” he yelled.
The ship swung about as she tacked and by the time the crew were able to respond to Lorentzen’s cry the body was nowhere to be seen. The mate staggered over to his side and pointed towards an indistinct dark mass that rose out of the gloom before them.
“Over there,” he bellowed, “There’s land. It must be the Shiants!”
“We’ll have to sail against the wind if we want to stay off those rocks,” Lorentzen stated, “Trim the sail!”
The men hauled on the lines to bring the sail in. The canvas was stretched taut as the men fastened the lines to the cleats. The ship ploughed on in the face of the wind. For a time, it seemed that she was making progress, but the strain on the lines proved too much. One by one, the cleats snapped and the sail, free from its bindings, took the full brunt of the storm. A jagged tear appeared in the canvas and the torn sail began to flap wildly in the wind. A sharp crack told the crew that the mast had broken and they covered their heads as it crashed to the deck.
“Faen!” the mate swore, “What now, Captain?”
Lorentzen did not answer, his attention focused on the swirling waters. Something grey and sleek had surfaced momentarily before slipping back into the depths. He rubbed his eyes as the mate grasped him by the arm.
“Captain!” he implored, “What should we do?”
Shaking his head, Lorentzen pushed past the mate and examined the mast. There was no chance of repairing it in the storm and without it the ship was drifting helplessly. The remaining sailors stared at him, expectantly waiting for orders. Lorentzen’s head swam as he looked at the devastation on deck. His hands shook as he reached for the cross he wore around his neck.
Fear spread quickly amongst the men. Some began to pray whilst others fastened themselves to the ship with rope. A few ran to the side of the ship and bawled pleas for help into the darkness. Lorentzen pulled his cap down tighter on his head and stepped over the fallen mast before moving to the stern of the ship. Turning his back on the crew, his eyes searched the dark horizon for any sign of respite from the storm.
“Tha breac an rionnaich air an adhar...” a voice was carried on the wind.
“Who is that?” Lorentzen called in response.
He leaned over the rail and looked at the billowing waves. Beneath them darted the strange grey shape he had seen before.
“There’s something here!” he exclaimed, “It’s in the water!”
His calls went unanswered as the ship turned in the storm. Without the sail, she was defenceless against combined force of the wind and the tide. The men clung to whatever was to hand as she was spun and tossed by the squall. The waves broke over the sides and swept whatever was not tied down into the tumultuous waters. The wind lifted any ropes hanging loose and whipped them in the air. One lashed the mate on the side of his face, the swipe leaving him bloodied and bewildered. He lurched towards Lorentzen and pointed to the starboard side where a band of white surf could be seen in the darkness.
“Breakers, Captain!” he screamed, “She’s going to run right into them.”
The timbers of the ship cried out as she was thrown against the rocks. The starboard side crumpled and splintered with the impact. The deck beneath the sailors’ feet ruptured, the planks bowing and splitting as they were wrenched from their housing. Lorentzen looked down with horror at the foaming white waters beneath the ship.
“Stay on board!” he shrieked to his crew, “There’s something in the water!”
“I see them!” the mate whimpered, “Dozens of them. They’re swimming round us!”
The ship listed as another wave crashed into her side, pounding her onto the rocks. Thrown off balance by the impact, the mate plummeted over the side. The groan of breaking wood and the roar of rushing water smothered his cries for help as he floundered in the surging waves. The mate struggled to keep his head above water and Lorentzen quickly lost sight of him.
Broken by the rocks, the Zarna began to take on water. Knowing the ship was doomed, the sailors began jumping overboard and clinging to any ballast they could find. Resolving to go down with his ship, Lorentzen hung onto the ruins of the stern. He watched with dread as the grey shapes circled those who bobbed in the water. Seeing the strange forms surrounding them, the men cried out with terror and began paddling back towards the remains of the ship. One by one, the men disappeared, dragged beneath the surface by unseen hands.
Scrambling to find purchase on the slick remnants of the deck, Lorentzen uttered a prayer. The freezing rain continued to pelt him and he shivered as he huddled beside the ruined stump of the main mast. The cries from the water had ceased and only the chattering of his teeth competed with the sounds of the storm. There was a tremendous crash and the stern broke off from the rest of the wreck. Lorentzen plummeted into the cold waters and went under. Fighting his way to the surface, he gasped for breath and treaded water as he got his bearings. With the loss of the stern, there was nothing to prevent the rest of the ship breaking up. The sea was littered with floating debris and Lorentzen watched despondently as the larger pieces of the schooner slipped beneath the waves.
Caught by the ferocious current, Lorentzen found himself drawing near to the white foam where the waves broke against the rocks. Knowing that it would be futile to fight against the tide, he swam towards the breakers. Lifted by a huge wave, Lorentzen was slammed onto the rocks. The wind knocked out of his lungs, he desperately clung to the slick black rock, squeezing his fingertips into the cracks along its surface. Wave after wave mercilessly battered him but he held on, sobbing with each breath he was able to draw.
Exhausted by the relentless fury of the storm, Lorentzen’s grip on the rock began to weaken. As his legs slipped into the water he felt a hand clamp around his ankle. The grip was strong and a sharp tug further loosened Lorentzen’s hold. He clawed desperately at the slippery surface but was gradually pulled further and further into the water. His bleeding fingers slithered out of the cracks and Lorentzen felt a cold arm wrap itself around his neck.
“Latha math a-mà ireach,” the creature whispered in his ear before it dragged him beneath the waves.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
The Untamed
*I'm really proud of this story but as yet have had no success in getting it published. It's set in the same area as my first novel, The Great Absolute. The conflict between the owners of the Mazeppa and the Telegraph is based on real events from the market town of Kingsbridge in Devonshire's South Hams.*
Opinion was divided as to exactly what it was that ran the Mazeppa off the Plymouth road that dark November night. Some said that it was a black dog whilst others maintained that it must have been a wild pony or a stray cow, for no dog ever grew so big. One thing was certain and agreed upon by all those who survived the crash, one moment the four horses were running steadily, the next they were rearing up and panicking at the sudden appearance of the creature on the road before them.
From the wreckage of the coach one woman, a Miss Kitty Fenwick, claimed to have seen the creature vanish before her very eyes, melting into the shadows of the night. Another survivor, Mr. Hugo Kettering, who was thrown some twenty yards by the crash, claimed to see the creature which he described as the bastard offspring of a bear and a wolf. The extent of Mr. Kettering’s injuries were such that he lost consciousness shortly after witnessing the creature being led away from the wreckage of the coach by a young lady.
With so many conflicting accounts of the events of that fateful evening, it will come as no surprise to learn that the authorities chose to believe the most plausible explanation, namely that the driver of the Mazeppa, Mr. John Tucker, was under the influence of alcohol and had driven his coach into a ditch. The resulting accident cost Mr. Tucker both his livelihood and his life and claimed the lives of three of his passengers. The Mazeppa never travelled the Plymouth road again, which suited Robert Foale, the owner of the rival coach, the Telegraph, very well indeed.
To understand the full details of the case, one must go back to the opening of the South Devon railway in 1848. The swift travel between Exeter and Plymouth offered by train put a number of coach drivers who had plied their trade along that route out of business. One such driver was Mr. John Tucker who had come to the town of Thainsbridge that year looking for a new route.
The town of Thainsbridge, however, was already served by Mr. Foale’s Telegraph which ran a twice-weekly service to Plymouth. Being a business-minded gentleman, Tucker decided to run the route thrice-weekly on the days the Telegraph was not travelling, thus providing a valuable service to those who would otherwise have found themselves waiting up to three nights in the quiet market town. As Robert Foale’s custom halved overnight the enmity between the two rival coaches was born.
Mr. Foale would claim that by relocating his business to Thainsbridge it was Mr. Tucker who made the first move. Mr. Tucker would claim that it was Mr. Foale who landed the first foul blow by employing a gang of local children to tear down any advertisements for the Mazeppa around town. Tucker replied in kind by painting the Mazeppa a striking yellow and offering his passengers a free glass of grog to sweeten their journey and ensure their return custom. Both men would attest to the fact that it was Foale who first tried to run Tucker off the road in May of 1849 but Foale would always claim that he did this in retaliation against a vicious rumour spread by Tucker that the Telegraph was so slow it was once overtaken by the local postman on foot.
The feud continued through the summer months when business was at its peak. Both drivers employed underhand tactics to disrupt the passage of the other’s coach. It was in the winter of that year that the Telegraph suffered a broken axle and shattered wheel after driving into a deep pothole that had a suspiciously man-made appearance. Sabotage then became the next stage of the rivalry. Horses were drugged, reins were cut and seats were booby-trapped with hidden needles. So frequent were the mishaps that occurred on both routes that soon the customers began to look upon both coaches with a distrustful eye. By the autumn of 1850 Tucker and Foale had reached an uncomfortable stalemate.
It was on a grey September evening that Robert Foale first became acquainted with the girl. Having returned with the coach to Thainsbridge he spent the twilight hours sitting at his desk and grimacing at the financial records. A sudden gust of wind had blown the door open and lifted a number of papers from the desk. When Foale had finished collecting them by scrabbling around on the floor, there she sat in the chair facing him.
She was beautiful that much was true. She had smooth olive-tanned skin, long delicate fingers and plump lips. She was wearing a light cotton dress that clung to and revealed much of her slender figure. This beauty, Foale felt, was marred somewhat by a touch of wildness about her. The girl’s straw-coloured hair showed few signs of ever having known a comb. Her fingernails were dirty and cracked in places. Most discomfiting of all were her eyes, which seemed ill-suited to such a fair face, being as cold and grey as the winter skies. Those eyes fixed on Foale and stared at him with an intensity he found unnerving.
“Cain I help you, Miss?” he asked politely, trying to hide his initial shock at her strange appearance in his office.
“You want a driver,” she said plainly in an accent so strange that Foale was unable to determine whether she was asking a question or making a statement.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t quite…”
“You want a driver,” the girl repeated, “To drive the coach to Plymouth and back.”
“I drive the coach to Plymouth,” Foale replied, “And back again. I don’t need another driver.”
“That’s what Tucker said,” the girl replied with a smile which revealed a row of perfect white teeth, “He was wrong. I can drive your coach to Plymouth and back in a day.”
“Impossible!” Foale snorted dismissively, “It can’t be done, not even with a change of horses.”
“I don’t need a change of horses,” the girl countered, “Just need to know how to talk to them right.”
“My dear girl,” Foale sneered as he rose from his chair and led the young woman to the door, “I have been working with horses since long before you were born. What I don’t know about coaching isn’t worth knowing. Now, I’m a busy man so I will bid you good day!”
With that, Foale slammed the door on the young lady and settled back behind his desk to continue his struggle with the finances.
In the mind of Robert Foale that was the end of the matter, or at least it would have been had not one of his horses come up lame on an empty stretch of road halfway to Plymouth and a good distance from anywhere.
“Blast,” he muttered as he clambered down from the driver’s box, “Damn and blast.”
A male passenger hung his head out of the coach to find out why they had stopped.
“Is something wrong?” the man asked wearily.
“No,” Foale lied, “Nothing wrong. The horses need a short rest is all.”
With a sinking heart Foale examined the horse in question and discovered that a sharp stone had found its way past the iron shoe and was sticking out of the hoof. He removed the stone but saw that the horse could go no further that day. Desperately, he looked around the empty moor for some sign of help. A cold wind blew through him and he buttoned up his long travelling coat.
“I can help,” a familiar voice spoke.
Turning round, Foale saw the strange girl standing by the lame horse running her hands through its mane.
“Where did you come from?”
“I can help,” the girl repeated, ignoring his question, “I can fix up the hoof if you’ll let me ride with you.”
Seeing no-one else around who could offer assistance Foale reluctantly accepted. The girl carried a small wicker basket from which she removed a bunch of wild flowers and a pestle and mortar. She smiled as she held the bowl to his lips.
“Spit,” she instructed him.
Suspiciously, Foale dribbled a little into the bottom of the clay vessel. The girl looked at it and shook her head.
“That won’t do,” she chuckled, “More.”
Foale spat into the bowl until his mouth was dry and he watched the strange girl break the heads off the wildflowers. Taking the bowl from him, she added the heads and used the pestle to grind the contents into a fragrant paste. As she did so, she hummed a tune to herself, whilst unfamiliar to Foale it served to calm his nerves and left him feeling very relaxed given his situation.
By now the passengers were eager to set off again and a few had become quite vocal in their protestations. Foale assured them that they would be resuming their journey shortly whilst the girl applied the tincture to the injured horse’s hoof. At first the horse whinnied and snorted its disapproval but after a few minutes it settled and was able to rest its weight on the hoof as before.
Silently impressed with the strange young woman’s handiwork, Foale made room for her next to him on the driver’s box. Once seated, he cracked the whip and the coach resumed its journey along the Plymouth road.
Aware that the unexpected stop had cost him valuable time, Foale used the riding whip unsparingly. The wounded horse kept up with the pace of the others without difficulty. Most interestingly, it was the other horses who appeared to tire first. With each crack of the whip the girl flinched, as though she shared the beasts’ discomfort.
“Must you lash them so?” she asked after a time.
“We’re late,” Foale muttered grimly, “I’m never late.”
Dissatisfied with his answer, the girl snatched the whip out of his hands and stowed it away behind the driver’s box.
“Making them suffer won’t encourage them. You just need to talk to them right.”
Foale allowed himself to smile and shook his head. The girl was right, the coach would arrive at Plymouth an hour later than predicted at most, something not unheard of in the winter months. Besides which, he reflected, without her help the coach would still be stranded in the middle of the moor.
“You’re an odd character,” Foale said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Wilda,” the girl answered.
“The accent, I can’t place it... Where are you from?”
“Oh, here and there,” Wilda replied vaguely.
“Well, you’re not from these parts, I know that much.”
The girl looked at him quizzically so he continued,
“A pretty young thing such as you would be married off by now if you were.”
The girl coloured, not out of flattery but anger.
“No man will have me,” she scowled, “I will marry no man.”
Aware that the conversation had strayed onto sensitive matters, Foale returned his attentions to the road ahead and occupied his mouth by whistling. Shortly the girl began to hum to herself as she had done before when using the pestle and mortar. Noticing that Wilda’s tune was infinitely superior to his own, Foale fell silent and listened with reverence to the young woman’s song. Whilst the girl spoke no words the tune itself seemed to tell a story of love and loss, mourning and heartache. It gripped Foale from within and held his attention such that he barely drew breath until the song was completed.
“That was beautiful,” he said quietly, “Where was it from?”
“My home,” she answered plainly.
“Will you sing another?”
Wilda smiled bashfully as she began another song. Foale recognised it as the same one that she had hummed when making the tincture only this time she sung openly in a tongue which Foale did not recognise but seemed as old as the earth itself.
The song was gentle and its sweet cadences were soothing but Foale had the strange feeling that relaxation was being forced upon him, as though one had been plunged into a warm bath and force-fed a mug of sweet cocoa. As the song continued, Foale felt his eyelids grow heavy and without his realising they began to droop shut. It was only a matter of moments before Foale was fast asleep, his head resting on Wilda’s shoulder. She took the reins from him and the coach continued into the gently spreading night.
Foale woke feeling disorientated. The last thing he could remember was being on the Plymouth road. Now he lay fully clothed in his bed in Thainsbridge. He scrambled from beneath the covers and headed downstairs. A fire was lit in the hearth and Wilda sat before it stirring a blackened pot filled with a rich broth.
“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up,” she smiled, her eyes sparkling with that same wild quality which had unsettled him on their first meeting.
“What happened?” Foale asked as he shook his head to clear it of the lingering grogginess.
“You fell asleep on the road to Plymouth,” Wilda answered, “I took the reins for the rest of the journey. And the one back.”
“The one back?” Foale gasped, “How did you manage that? The horses would have been exhausted. What time is it?”
As if to answer his question the grandfather clock which stood in the hallway struck ten.
“Impossible,” he muttered, “We could never have returned so quickly, not even if the horses had galloped the whole way.”
He paused as a thought struck him,
“It is still Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Calm yourself,” Wilda said soothingly as she thrust a bowl of broth into his hands and pushed him into a seat, “It is still Saturday and the horses are fine, I stabled them myself. Getting them to go that distance isn’t impossible. As I said before, you just need to know how to speak to them right.”
Foale nodded his head silently, his mind spinning with the day’s events. He sipped the broth and felt invigorated, its heat coursing through his body and filling the empty void in his stomach. He drained the contents of the bowl and watched hungrily as Wilda took it from him and refilled it.
“If what you say is true,” Foale said as he slurped the soup, “And you can make the journey to Plymouth and back in one day then we can offer a service Tucker never could...”
Wilda smiled as she seated herself before him.
“Does this mean you’re hiring me?” she asked.
Foale grasped her by the hand and shook it energetically as he spoke.
“Indeed! You can have your own room here if you need it and I’ll have a uniform made for you. We’ll run the service four days a week, there and back again. Oh yes,” he beamed, “I can see a bright future for the Telegraph!”
Needless to say, the loose-lipped gossips of Thainsbridge were kept busy over the next few weeks as the new driver of Foale’s Telegraph was revealed to be a woman. As if employing a female driver was not enough to set tongues wagging, it was the fact that Foale had hired such a beauty that really caused a stir. A few malicious folk labelled the girl as his mistress whilst others rightly dismissed such rumours outright, Robert Foale’s dedication to the memory of his late wife being well known around town. One thing was certain, from the moment Wilda appeared in her smart riding jacket of twilight blue and took her seat on the driver’s box the Telegraph became the talk of the town. The fact that the Telegraph, under the skillful command of the girl, was now able to make the journey to Plymouth and back in one day only served to boost business even further. The customers were thrilled with such efficient transportation, Wilda seemed very content when tending to the horses and Foale spent his time counting profits which he had hitherto accrued in his dreams. The one person who was not pleased with the Telegraph’s new found success was John Tucker who watched with horror as his regular custom all but dried up in the space of a few weeks.
“It’s a bloody disgrace, it is!” Tucker raged to all those who would listen as he propped up the bar of the Farmer’s Flail Inn, “A woman? Driving a coach? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Come now, John,” Ashford Brookes said, laying a placating hand on his arm, “Folks are saying that the girl can handle a team of horses better than any man they’ve seen. Now stop drinking before you make more of a fool of yourself.”
But John Tucker did not stop drinking that night. With reckless abandon he continued pouring ale down his throat until the landlord Godfrey Trull called time. Even then it took three men to carry Tucker outside. By that point he was in such a state of intoxication that he could barely stand, let alone walk in a straight line. Refusing all offers of help returning to his rooms, Tucker staggered into the night, roaring curses and tripping over his own feet.
After spending several hours stalking the darkened streets, a slightly more sober but no less angry John Tucker found himself standing before the stables where Robert Foale kept his horses. Curious as to what the secret of their unbelievable stamina was, Tucker opened the door and crept inside. The horses were each housed in a stall of their own. They drank ordinary water from a communal trough (Tucker tried a mouthful just to be sure) and were fed what appeared to be an ordinary mixture of hay, oats and barley. Tucker gazed around the gloom of the stables trying to fathom what their secret might be.
Returning to the stable door having given up all hope of solving the mystery, he spotted something lying on a pile of hay in a far corner. Closer inspection revealed it to be the strange girl, curled up like a cat and fast asleep. Such was Tucker’s shock at the unexpected sight he was unable to stifle a cry of surprise. As so often happens when one is snapped back into consciousness, Wilda panicked and tried to run for the door. Though drunk, Tucker moved quickly and blocked her way.
“Well well,” he slurred triumphantly, “What have we got here? Foale’s little bitch, are you not?”
“I’m nobody’s woman,” the girl hissed defiantly.
“Got you sleeping in the stables, has he?” Tucker leered.
Wilda wrinkled her nose as she smelled the fumes of alcohol on the man’s breath.
“I like it here,” she replied, “I have a room in the house but I prefer to sleep here with the animals.”
“Do you indeed?” Tucker said, moving closer to the girl who despite the dim light of the stables seemed more beautiful than Tucker had previously thought.
Wilda tried to move away, uncomfortable with the drunken man’s proximity. A lascivious smile plastered on his face, Tucker matched each step she took backwards with one of his own. Soon she found herself with her back pressed against a wall and John Tucker before her, his bloodshot eyes shamelessly devouring her shapely body.
“Come on girl,” he rasped, “What’s a pretty thing like yourself doing sharing a bed with beasts? Wouldn’t you rather share it with a real man?”
Though Wilda struggled to escape, Tucker held her fast as he pressed his reeking mouth to hers. She raked her nails down his cheeks leaving swollen red marks but even this did not deter his advances. When she tried to call out for help, Tucker clamped a filthy hand over her mouth and continued his vile attack. Afterwards, Wilda lay whimpering amongst the hay and her torn clothes, unable to look her attacker in the face. Tucker dressed quickly and left without a word.
The next day was grey and overcast, heavy clouds perpetually threatening rain. Robert Foale woke as normal and, as was his habit, prepared breakfast for himself and Wilda. When she did not answer his call he checked her room, only to find it empty. Thinking she must have spent another night in the stables, Foale hurried outside to discover them inhabited only by the horses. The girl appeared to have vanished. Enquiries around the town did not solve the mystery of her disappearance and it was with a heavy heart that Foale realised his business had lost its best asset. After two days of searching he resignedly dusted off his old riding coat and climbed back onto the driver’s box of the Telegraph, whip in hand.
John Tucker was not surprised by the girl’s disappearance but relieved nonetheless that his drunken attack had not attracted the attentions of the magistrates. A week or so after the wild rumours regarding Wilda’s departure had stopped circulating, the locals of Thainsbridge watched with interest as the old rivalry between the Telegraph and the Mazeppa was resumed. The real talking point became the days when both coaches made the journey to Plymouth, leaving Thainsbridge mere minutes apart. Despite having to return to the old system of taking a full day to travel in each direction, Foale had continued to run the service six days a week which proved popular with his customers, though less popular with his horses. On such days the locals would line the sides of the roads for up to half a mile out of the town and cheer as the coaches jostled for the lead position. Bets were taken and money changed hands over the outcome of these races. More often than not, it was Foale’s team of overworked horses who would be forced to breathe the dust left in the Mazeppa’s wake.
As the weeks passed Foale spent more time despairing over his financial losses and less time tending to his horses. Inevitably, one of the poor beasts fell sick from exhaustion and died. Having little money, Foale was unable to replace the horse and could only watch with grim resignation as the Mazeppa stole his few remaining customers. When Tucker offered to buy his horses Foale had just enough self-respect remaining to decline, but knew that without some kind of miracle he would eventually be forced to sell both coach and horses.
The miracle came in the form of a strange visitation one night. Feeling unwell, Foale had retired early to bed with a medicinal glass of brandy to read a ghastly gothic novel by candlelight. Without warning a peculiar breeze blew through the room and extinguished the candle. Foale cursed quietly as he fumbled with the matches but screamed aloud once the candle was relit, its illumination revealing a familiar but unexpected visitor sitting at the end of his bed.
“Wilda!” Foale gasped, “What on earth are you doing here? How did you...”
He stopped speaking when his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he began to see the girl more clearly. She wore the same twilight blue riding jacket he had bought for her though in its current state it took a few seconds for him to recognise it. When he had last seen the coat it was in pristine condition whereas it now hung in tatters about her slender frame. Her hair was wild and unkempt, small twigs and leaves trapped within its matted tangles. Her pale skin was filthy, coated with so much mud and grime that it gave her fair countenance a feral aspect which chilled Foale as he gazed upon her.
“Hush,” she whispered, “I’m not staying long so listen carefully.”
“Wilda, you must come back,” he begged, “Tucker is ruining me. I’ve lost a horse and its only a matter of time before the moneylenders come and collect. It’ll be the debtors’ prison for me! Oh, you must help!”
“Tucker is a bad man and he’ll get his just deserts,” the girl said quietly as she looked at Foale. He shivered as he gazed into those cold grey eyes and saw the unmistakeable taint of madness.
“Two nights from now,” she continued solemnly, “There will be a crash on the Plymouth road as it runs across the moor. Don’t travel the road that night, whatever you do. The barghest cannot tell one coach from another.”
“The barghest?” Foale spluttered, “What on earth are you talking about, girl?”
Wilda silenced him with a look. Whilst he had seen the wildness in her, lurking below the surface in their past encounters, now he saw that this untameable part of her nature had broken its bonds and was running rampant.
“I have warned you, Mister Foale. A deal more notice than Tucker will get!”
With these words the girl sprang to her feet and left the darkened room before Foale had the chance to respond. By the time he had composed himself and set about searching the house she had vanished once more into the night.
Despite her strange appearance that night, something in Wilda’s earnest tone led Robert Foale to pay heed to her warning. He avoided the Plymouth road for the next few nights and when news of the Mazeppa’s fate reached him he was unable to dismiss it as a mere accident, knowing that the strange girl had played some sinister part in it.
As was his habit, John Tucker had been swigging from a flask of brandy on the night in question. He claimed the strong spirit kept the wind off his bones and his eyes bright in the darkness. The evening was cold and overcast. What little light the thin sliver of moon provided was supplemented by the lanterns that swung at the front and rear of the coach. Tucker wore a heavy coat over his riding jacket and had raised the collar as high as possible to keep the biting wind off his ears.
The coach was little more than half full. It was often that way on the return journey from Plymouth. Tucker could hardly complain – a half-full coach was better business than he had done during the time Foale’s girl had been driving. Now she was gone he was at least able to make a living. He felt no remorse for his actions on that drunken night. After all, he had managed to scare off the girl and claw his business back from the brink of bankruptcy. His thoughts began to drift to the memory of her pale skin writhing in the moonlight and he felt a stirring in his loins. Before his imagination was able to recreate more lurid details, a piercing howl ripped through the tranquillity of night.
The baying of the creature was like nothing he had ever heard before. A wolf? Impossible. A dog? What manner of fearsome hound could create such a spine-chilling noise? Icy cold fingers closed around his heart and with shaking hands he cracked the reins and urged the horses into a gallop. Having heard the fearful call themselves the horses needed little prompting. The coach picked up speed and bounced along the desolate road. Tucker was aware of the vast expanse of moorland stretching out into the darkness on either side of him. Within those pitch black depths was the beast whose howl filled him with terror. These thoughts running amok in his head, Tucker reached for the whip and with a lash from its vicious tongue coaxed more speed from the horses.
Over the thundering of hooves on frosty ground and the creaking and groaning of the coach and its ageing suspension, Tucker became aware of another sound. Amongst the familiar noises he perceived an unfamiliar panting, far deeper and more guttural than the accustomed gasps and snorts of his team of horses. The sound was that of another large creature and soon Tucker could hear the dull thud of its footfall on the road behind them. His heart pounding, he cracked the whip again, hoping to drive the horses even faster. However, the poor beasts were already galloping as fast as they could and were beginning to tire.
Movement in the darkness made Tucker turn his head and within the gloom he saw a creature so terrible that a shrill scream of dread escaped his lips. It ran alongside the coach on all fours. Though cloaked in shadows, its sleek black fur glistened in the pale moonlight. The creature was large, far larger than any dog he had seen before. Long white teeth showed in its substantial mouth and a pair of yellow eyes glowed with supernatural brilliance in contrast with the darkness surrounding them.
Sensing the presence of the terrible beast, the horses’ previously measured strides became more agitated and erratic. Though the sight of it twisted his insides with fear and made him scream like a frightened child Tucker was unable to draw his eyes away from the creature. A sound much like laughter broke the spell and he redirected his gaze to the road before them, only to screech with alarm and jerk the reins as he saw the smiling figure of Wilda standing mere feet away from the lead horses.
Led by the panic-stricken beasts the coach veered to the side, left the road and plunged into the ditch that ran alongside. Horses, coach and passengers were thrown about as the momentum carried them tumbling down before coming to a sudden, shattering halt.
His body broken by the fall, John Tucker lay dying beneath the darkened sky. His last few ragged breaths wheezed and rattled above the eerie silence following the impact. A cold wind blew and the faint sound of singing was carried on the breeze to echo across the desolate moor.
Opinion was divided as to exactly what it was that ran the Mazeppa off the Plymouth road that dark November night. Some said that it was a black dog whilst others maintained that it must have been a wild pony or a stray cow, for no dog ever grew so big. One thing was certain and agreed upon by all those who survived the crash, one moment the four horses were running steadily, the next they were rearing up and panicking at the sudden appearance of the creature on the road before them.
From the wreckage of the coach one woman, a Miss Kitty Fenwick, claimed to have seen the creature vanish before her very eyes, melting into the shadows of the night. Another survivor, Mr. Hugo Kettering, who was thrown some twenty yards by the crash, claimed to see the creature which he described as the bastard offspring of a bear and a wolf. The extent of Mr. Kettering’s injuries were such that he lost consciousness shortly after witnessing the creature being led away from the wreckage of the coach by a young lady.
With so many conflicting accounts of the events of that fateful evening, it will come as no surprise to learn that the authorities chose to believe the most plausible explanation, namely that the driver of the Mazeppa, Mr. John Tucker, was under the influence of alcohol and had driven his coach into a ditch. The resulting accident cost Mr. Tucker both his livelihood and his life and claimed the lives of three of his passengers. The Mazeppa never travelled the Plymouth road again, which suited Robert Foale, the owner of the rival coach, the Telegraph, very well indeed.
To understand the full details of the case, one must go back to the opening of the South Devon railway in 1848. The swift travel between Exeter and Plymouth offered by train put a number of coach drivers who had plied their trade along that route out of business. One such driver was Mr. John Tucker who had come to the town of Thainsbridge that year looking for a new route.
The town of Thainsbridge, however, was already served by Mr. Foale’s Telegraph which ran a twice-weekly service to Plymouth. Being a business-minded gentleman, Tucker decided to run the route thrice-weekly on the days the Telegraph was not travelling, thus providing a valuable service to those who would otherwise have found themselves waiting up to three nights in the quiet market town. As Robert Foale’s custom halved overnight the enmity between the two rival coaches was born.
Mr. Foale would claim that by relocating his business to Thainsbridge it was Mr. Tucker who made the first move. Mr. Tucker would claim that it was Mr. Foale who landed the first foul blow by employing a gang of local children to tear down any advertisements for the Mazeppa around town. Tucker replied in kind by painting the Mazeppa a striking yellow and offering his passengers a free glass of grog to sweeten their journey and ensure their return custom. Both men would attest to the fact that it was Foale who first tried to run Tucker off the road in May of 1849 but Foale would always claim that he did this in retaliation against a vicious rumour spread by Tucker that the Telegraph was so slow it was once overtaken by the local postman on foot.
The feud continued through the summer months when business was at its peak. Both drivers employed underhand tactics to disrupt the passage of the other’s coach. It was in the winter of that year that the Telegraph suffered a broken axle and shattered wheel after driving into a deep pothole that had a suspiciously man-made appearance. Sabotage then became the next stage of the rivalry. Horses were drugged, reins were cut and seats were booby-trapped with hidden needles. So frequent were the mishaps that occurred on both routes that soon the customers began to look upon both coaches with a distrustful eye. By the autumn of 1850 Tucker and Foale had reached an uncomfortable stalemate.
It was on a grey September evening that Robert Foale first became acquainted with the girl. Having returned with the coach to Thainsbridge he spent the twilight hours sitting at his desk and grimacing at the financial records. A sudden gust of wind had blown the door open and lifted a number of papers from the desk. When Foale had finished collecting them by scrabbling around on the floor, there she sat in the chair facing him.
She was beautiful that much was true. She had smooth olive-tanned skin, long delicate fingers and plump lips. She was wearing a light cotton dress that clung to and revealed much of her slender figure. This beauty, Foale felt, was marred somewhat by a touch of wildness about her. The girl’s straw-coloured hair showed few signs of ever having known a comb. Her fingernails were dirty and cracked in places. Most discomfiting of all were her eyes, which seemed ill-suited to such a fair face, being as cold and grey as the winter skies. Those eyes fixed on Foale and stared at him with an intensity he found unnerving.
“Cain I help you, Miss?” he asked politely, trying to hide his initial shock at her strange appearance in his office.
“You want a driver,” she said plainly in an accent so strange that Foale was unable to determine whether she was asking a question or making a statement.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t quite…”
“You want a driver,” the girl repeated, “To drive the coach to Plymouth and back.”
“I drive the coach to Plymouth,” Foale replied, “And back again. I don’t need another driver.”
“That’s what Tucker said,” the girl replied with a smile which revealed a row of perfect white teeth, “He was wrong. I can drive your coach to Plymouth and back in a day.”
“Impossible!” Foale snorted dismissively, “It can’t be done, not even with a change of horses.”
“I don’t need a change of horses,” the girl countered, “Just need to know how to talk to them right.”
“My dear girl,” Foale sneered as he rose from his chair and led the young woman to the door, “I have been working with horses since long before you were born. What I don’t know about coaching isn’t worth knowing. Now, I’m a busy man so I will bid you good day!”
With that, Foale slammed the door on the young lady and settled back behind his desk to continue his struggle with the finances.
In the mind of Robert Foale that was the end of the matter, or at least it would have been had not one of his horses come up lame on an empty stretch of road halfway to Plymouth and a good distance from anywhere.
“Blast,” he muttered as he clambered down from the driver’s box, “Damn and blast.”
A male passenger hung his head out of the coach to find out why they had stopped.
“Is something wrong?” the man asked wearily.
“No,” Foale lied, “Nothing wrong. The horses need a short rest is all.”
With a sinking heart Foale examined the horse in question and discovered that a sharp stone had found its way past the iron shoe and was sticking out of the hoof. He removed the stone but saw that the horse could go no further that day. Desperately, he looked around the empty moor for some sign of help. A cold wind blew through him and he buttoned up his long travelling coat.
“I can help,” a familiar voice spoke.
Turning round, Foale saw the strange girl standing by the lame horse running her hands through its mane.
“Where did you come from?”
“I can help,” the girl repeated, ignoring his question, “I can fix up the hoof if you’ll let me ride with you.”
Seeing no-one else around who could offer assistance Foale reluctantly accepted. The girl carried a small wicker basket from which she removed a bunch of wild flowers and a pestle and mortar. She smiled as she held the bowl to his lips.
“Spit,” she instructed him.
Suspiciously, Foale dribbled a little into the bottom of the clay vessel. The girl looked at it and shook her head.
“That won’t do,” she chuckled, “More.”
Foale spat into the bowl until his mouth was dry and he watched the strange girl break the heads off the wildflowers. Taking the bowl from him, she added the heads and used the pestle to grind the contents into a fragrant paste. As she did so, she hummed a tune to herself, whilst unfamiliar to Foale it served to calm his nerves and left him feeling very relaxed given his situation.
By now the passengers were eager to set off again and a few had become quite vocal in their protestations. Foale assured them that they would be resuming their journey shortly whilst the girl applied the tincture to the injured horse’s hoof. At first the horse whinnied and snorted its disapproval but after a few minutes it settled and was able to rest its weight on the hoof as before.
Silently impressed with the strange young woman’s handiwork, Foale made room for her next to him on the driver’s box. Once seated, he cracked the whip and the coach resumed its journey along the Plymouth road.
Aware that the unexpected stop had cost him valuable time, Foale used the riding whip unsparingly. The wounded horse kept up with the pace of the others without difficulty. Most interestingly, it was the other horses who appeared to tire first. With each crack of the whip the girl flinched, as though she shared the beasts’ discomfort.
“Must you lash them so?” she asked after a time.
“We’re late,” Foale muttered grimly, “I’m never late.”
Dissatisfied with his answer, the girl snatched the whip out of his hands and stowed it away behind the driver’s box.
“Making them suffer won’t encourage them. You just need to talk to them right.”
Foale allowed himself to smile and shook his head. The girl was right, the coach would arrive at Plymouth an hour later than predicted at most, something not unheard of in the winter months. Besides which, he reflected, without her help the coach would still be stranded in the middle of the moor.
“You’re an odd character,” Foale said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Wilda,” the girl answered.
“The accent, I can’t place it... Where are you from?”
“Oh, here and there,” Wilda replied vaguely.
“Well, you’re not from these parts, I know that much.”
The girl looked at him quizzically so he continued,
“A pretty young thing such as you would be married off by now if you were.”
The girl coloured, not out of flattery but anger.
“No man will have me,” she scowled, “I will marry no man.”
Aware that the conversation had strayed onto sensitive matters, Foale returned his attentions to the road ahead and occupied his mouth by whistling. Shortly the girl began to hum to herself as she had done before when using the pestle and mortar. Noticing that Wilda’s tune was infinitely superior to his own, Foale fell silent and listened with reverence to the young woman’s song. Whilst the girl spoke no words the tune itself seemed to tell a story of love and loss, mourning and heartache. It gripped Foale from within and held his attention such that he barely drew breath until the song was completed.
“That was beautiful,” he said quietly, “Where was it from?”
“My home,” she answered plainly.
“Will you sing another?”
Wilda smiled bashfully as she began another song. Foale recognised it as the same one that she had hummed when making the tincture only this time she sung openly in a tongue which Foale did not recognise but seemed as old as the earth itself.
The song was gentle and its sweet cadences were soothing but Foale had the strange feeling that relaxation was being forced upon him, as though one had been plunged into a warm bath and force-fed a mug of sweet cocoa. As the song continued, Foale felt his eyelids grow heavy and without his realising they began to droop shut. It was only a matter of moments before Foale was fast asleep, his head resting on Wilda’s shoulder. She took the reins from him and the coach continued into the gently spreading night.
Foale woke feeling disorientated. The last thing he could remember was being on the Plymouth road. Now he lay fully clothed in his bed in Thainsbridge. He scrambled from beneath the covers and headed downstairs. A fire was lit in the hearth and Wilda sat before it stirring a blackened pot filled with a rich broth.
“I was beginning to think you’d never wake up,” she smiled, her eyes sparkling with that same wild quality which had unsettled him on their first meeting.
“What happened?” Foale asked as he shook his head to clear it of the lingering grogginess.
“You fell asleep on the road to Plymouth,” Wilda answered, “I took the reins for the rest of the journey. And the one back.”
“The one back?” Foale gasped, “How did you manage that? The horses would have been exhausted. What time is it?”
As if to answer his question the grandfather clock which stood in the hallway struck ten.
“Impossible,” he muttered, “We could never have returned so quickly, not even if the horses had galloped the whole way.”
He paused as a thought struck him,
“It is still Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Calm yourself,” Wilda said soothingly as she thrust a bowl of broth into his hands and pushed him into a seat, “It is still Saturday and the horses are fine, I stabled them myself. Getting them to go that distance isn’t impossible. As I said before, you just need to know how to speak to them right.”
Foale nodded his head silently, his mind spinning with the day’s events. He sipped the broth and felt invigorated, its heat coursing through his body and filling the empty void in his stomach. He drained the contents of the bowl and watched hungrily as Wilda took it from him and refilled it.
“If what you say is true,” Foale said as he slurped the soup, “And you can make the journey to Plymouth and back in one day then we can offer a service Tucker never could...”
Wilda smiled as she seated herself before him.
“Does this mean you’re hiring me?” she asked.
Foale grasped her by the hand and shook it energetically as he spoke.
“Indeed! You can have your own room here if you need it and I’ll have a uniform made for you. We’ll run the service four days a week, there and back again. Oh yes,” he beamed, “I can see a bright future for the Telegraph!”
Needless to say, the loose-lipped gossips of Thainsbridge were kept busy over the next few weeks as the new driver of Foale’s Telegraph was revealed to be a woman. As if employing a female driver was not enough to set tongues wagging, it was the fact that Foale had hired such a beauty that really caused a stir. A few malicious folk labelled the girl as his mistress whilst others rightly dismissed such rumours outright, Robert Foale’s dedication to the memory of his late wife being well known around town. One thing was certain, from the moment Wilda appeared in her smart riding jacket of twilight blue and took her seat on the driver’s box the Telegraph became the talk of the town. The fact that the Telegraph, under the skillful command of the girl, was now able to make the journey to Plymouth and back in one day only served to boost business even further. The customers were thrilled with such efficient transportation, Wilda seemed very content when tending to the horses and Foale spent his time counting profits which he had hitherto accrued in his dreams. The one person who was not pleased with the Telegraph’s new found success was John Tucker who watched with horror as his regular custom all but dried up in the space of a few weeks.
“It’s a bloody disgrace, it is!” Tucker raged to all those who would listen as he propped up the bar of the Farmer’s Flail Inn, “A woman? Driving a coach? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Come now, John,” Ashford Brookes said, laying a placating hand on his arm, “Folks are saying that the girl can handle a team of horses better than any man they’ve seen. Now stop drinking before you make more of a fool of yourself.”
But John Tucker did not stop drinking that night. With reckless abandon he continued pouring ale down his throat until the landlord Godfrey Trull called time. Even then it took three men to carry Tucker outside. By that point he was in such a state of intoxication that he could barely stand, let alone walk in a straight line. Refusing all offers of help returning to his rooms, Tucker staggered into the night, roaring curses and tripping over his own feet.
After spending several hours stalking the darkened streets, a slightly more sober but no less angry John Tucker found himself standing before the stables where Robert Foale kept his horses. Curious as to what the secret of their unbelievable stamina was, Tucker opened the door and crept inside. The horses were each housed in a stall of their own. They drank ordinary water from a communal trough (Tucker tried a mouthful just to be sure) and were fed what appeared to be an ordinary mixture of hay, oats and barley. Tucker gazed around the gloom of the stables trying to fathom what their secret might be.
Returning to the stable door having given up all hope of solving the mystery, he spotted something lying on a pile of hay in a far corner. Closer inspection revealed it to be the strange girl, curled up like a cat and fast asleep. Such was Tucker’s shock at the unexpected sight he was unable to stifle a cry of surprise. As so often happens when one is snapped back into consciousness, Wilda panicked and tried to run for the door. Though drunk, Tucker moved quickly and blocked her way.
“Well well,” he slurred triumphantly, “What have we got here? Foale’s little bitch, are you not?”
“I’m nobody’s woman,” the girl hissed defiantly.
“Got you sleeping in the stables, has he?” Tucker leered.
Wilda wrinkled her nose as she smelled the fumes of alcohol on the man’s breath.
“I like it here,” she replied, “I have a room in the house but I prefer to sleep here with the animals.”
“Do you indeed?” Tucker said, moving closer to the girl who despite the dim light of the stables seemed more beautiful than Tucker had previously thought.
Wilda tried to move away, uncomfortable with the drunken man’s proximity. A lascivious smile plastered on his face, Tucker matched each step she took backwards with one of his own. Soon she found herself with her back pressed against a wall and John Tucker before her, his bloodshot eyes shamelessly devouring her shapely body.
“Come on girl,” he rasped, “What’s a pretty thing like yourself doing sharing a bed with beasts? Wouldn’t you rather share it with a real man?”
Though Wilda struggled to escape, Tucker held her fast as he pressed his reeking mouth to hers. She raked her nails down his cheeks leaving swollen red marks but even this did not deter his advances. When she tried to call out for help, Tucker clamped a filthy hand over her mouth and continued his vile attack. Afterwards, Wilda lay whimpering amongst the hay and her torn clothes, unable to look her attacker in the face. Tucker dressed quickly and left without a word.
The next day was grey and overcast, heavy clouds perpetually threatening rain. Robert Foale woke as normal and, as was his habit, prepared breakfast for himself and Wilda. When she did not answer his call he checked her room, only to find it empty. Thinking she must have spent another night in the stables, Foale hurried outside to discover them inhabited only by the horses. The girl appeared to have vanished. Enquiries around the town did not solve the mystery of her disappearance and it was with a heavy heart that Foale realised his business had lost its best asset. After two days of searching he resignedly dusted off his old riding coat and climbed back onto the driver’s box of the Telegraph, whip in hand.
John Tucker was not surprised by the girl’s disappearance but relieved nonetheless that his drunken attack had not attracted the attentions of the magistrates. A week or so after the wild rumours regarding Wilda’s departure had stopped circulating, the locals of Thainsbridge watched with interest as the old rivalry between the Telegraph and the Mazeppa was resumed. The real talking point became the days when both coaches made the journey to Plymouth, leaving Thainsbridge mere minutes apart. Despite having to return to the old system of taking a full day to travel in each direction, Foale had continued to run the service six days a week which proved popular with his customers, though less popular with his horses. On such days the locals would line the sides of the roads for up to half a mile out of the town and cheer as the coaches jostled for the lead position. Bets were taken and money changed hands over the outcome of these races. More often than not, it was Foale’s team of overworked horses who would be forced to breathe the dust left in the Mazeppa’s wake.
As the weeks passed Foale spent more time despairing over his financial losses and less time tending to his horses. Inevitably, one of the poor beasts fell sick from exhaustion and died. Having little money, Foale was unable to replace the horse and could only watch with grim resignation as the Mazeppa stole his few remaining customers. When Tucker offered to buy his horses Foale had just enough self-respect remaining to decline, but knew that without some kind of miracle he would eventually be forced to sell both coach and horses.
The miracle came in the form of a strange visitation one night. Feeling unwell, Foale had retired early to bed with a medicinal glass of brandy to read a ghastly gothic novel by candlelight. Without warning a peculiar breeze blew through the room and extinguished the candle. Foale cursed quietly as he fumbled with the matches but screamed aloud once the candle was relit, its illumination revealing a familiar but unexpected visitor sitting at the end of his bed.
“Wilda!” Foale gasped, “What on earth are you doing here? How did you...”
He stopped speaking when his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he began to see the girl more clearly. She wore the same twilight blue riding jacket he had bought for her though in its current state it took a few seconds for him to recognise it. When he had last seen the coat it was in pristine condition whereas it now hung in tatters about her slender frame. Her hair was wild and unkempt, small twigs and leaves trapped within its matted tangles. Her pale skin was filthy, coated with so much mud and grime that it gave her fair countenance a feral aspect which chilled Foale as he gazed upon her.
“Hush,” she whispered, “I’m not staying long so listen carefully.”
“Wilda, you must come back,” he begged, “Tucker is ruining me. I’ve lost a horse and its only a matter of time before the moneylenders come and collect. It’ll be the debtors’ prison for me! Oh, you must help!”
“Tucker is a bad man and he’ll get his just deserts,” the girl said quietly as she looked at Foale. He shivered as he gazed into those cold grey eyes and saw the unmistakeable taint of madness.
“Two nights from now,” she continued solemnly, “There will be a crash on the Plymouth road as it runs across the moor. Don’t travel the road that night, whatever you do. The barghest cannot tell one coach from another.”
“The barghest?” Foale spluttered, “What on earth are you talking about, girl?”
Wilda silenced him with a look. Whilst he had seen the wildness in her, lurking below the surface in their past encounters, now he saw that this untameable part of her nature had broken its bonds and was running rampant.
“I have warned you, Mister Foale. A deal more notice than Tucker will get!”
With these words the girl sprang to her feet and left the darkened room before Foale had the chance to respond. By the time he had composed himself and set about searching the house she had vanished once more into the night.
Despite her strange appearance that night, something in Wilda’s earnest tone led Robert Foale to pay heed to her warning. He avoided the Plymouth road for the next few nights and when news of the Mazeppa’s fate reached him he was unable to dismiss it as a mere accident, knowing that the strange girl had played some sinister part in it.
As was his habit, John Tucker had been swigging from a flask of brandy on the night in question. He claimed the strong spirit kept the wind off his bones and his eyes bright in the darkness. The evening was cold and overcast. What little light the thin sliver of moon provided was supplemented by the lanterns that swung at the front and rear of the coach. Tucker wore a heavy coat over his riding jacket and had raised the collar as high as possible to keep the biting wind off his ears.
The coach was little more than half full. It was often that way on the return journey from Plymouth. Tucker could hardly complain – a half-full coach was better business than he had done during the time Foale’s girl had been driving. Now she was gone he was at least able to make a living. He felt no remorse for his actions on that drunken night. After all, he had managed to scare off the girl and claw his business back from the brink of bankruptcy. His thoughts began to drift to the memory of her pale skin writhing in the moonlight and he felt a stirring in his loins. Before his imagination was able to recreate more lurid details, a piercing howl ripped through the tranquillity of night.
The baying of the creature was like nothing he had ever heard before. A wolf? Impossible. A dog? What manner of fearsome hound could create such a spine-chilling noise? Icy cold fingers closed around his heart and with shaking hands he cracked the reins and urged the horses into a gallop. Having heard the fearful call themselves the horses needed little prompting. The coach picked up speed and bounced along the desolate road. Tucker was aware of the vast expanse of moorland stretching out into the darkness on either side of him. Within those pitch black depths was the beast whose howl filled him with terror. These thoughts running amok in his head, Tucker reached for the whip and with a lash from its vicious tongue coaxed more speed from the horses.
Over the thundering of hooves on frosty ground and the creaking and groaning of the coach and its ageing suspension, Tucker became aware of another sound. Amongst the familiar noises he perceived an unfamiliar panting, far deeper and more guttural than the accustomed gasps and snorts of his team of horses. The sound was that of another large creature and soon Tucker could hear the dull thud of its footfall on the road behind them. His heart pounding, he cracked the whip again, hoping to drive the horses even faster. However, the poor beasts were already galloping as fast as they could and were beginning to tire.
Movement in the darkness made Tucker turn his head and within the gloom he saw a creature so terrible that a shrill scream of dread escaped his lips. It ran alongside the coach on all fours. Though cloaked in shadows, its sleek black fur glistened in the pale moonlight. The creature was large, far larger than any dog he had seen before. Long white teeth showed in its substantial mouth and a pair of yellow eyes glowed with supernatural brilliance in contrast with the darkness surrounding them.
Sensing the presence of the terrible beast, the horses’ previously measured strides became more agitated and erratic. Though the sight of it twisted his insides with fear and made him scream like a frightened child Tucker was unable to draw his eyes away from the creature. A sound much like laughter broke the spell and he redirected his gaze to the road before them, only to screech with alarm and jerk the reins as he saw the smiling figure of Wilda standing mere feet away from the lead horses.
Led by the panic-stricken beasts the coach veered to the side, left the road and plunged into the ditch that ran alongside. Horses, coach and passengers were thrown about as the momentum carried them tumbling down before coming to a sudden, shattering halt.
His body broken by the fall, John Tucker lay dying beneath the darkened sky. His last few ragged breaths wheezed and rattled above the eerie silence following the impact. A cold wind blew and the faint sound of singing was carried on the breeze to echo across the desolate moor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)