The Mound

Suffolk, England, 1646

They drank at the alehouse, sour, small beer being all the tapster had to draw. But it was wet, and it was better than water. With the wars dragging on and army pay months in arrears, finding a decent draught was an ungodly trial.

Nem Garrow, a corporal of foot, drained his blackjack and slammed the boiled leather down upon the trestle.

—I tell ye, this hole is not for us.

—Look ye, Nem is clean losing faith in our venture, Giles Hawke grinned, wiping froth from his lip before draining his own mug.

—Nem speaks true, muttered young Rob Fallowfield. His fingers picking at the frayed wool of his sleeve. —I know not what we tarry here for.

—Hark at the lad, Giles growled, rolling his eyes toward the low, soot-blackened rafters. —Snivelling after his dam’s apron again.

—Peace, Giles. Nem hath the right of it, said Wat Callow.

A pikeman and a yeoman’s son, Wat was a great, slab-sided presence in the taproom, his bulk matching Nem’s own.

—Such prating buys us no bread. If we move, let us move now.

The four soldiers pushed out into the drizzle, boots sinking into the churned ruts of the lane. What few village folk were abroad scuttled clear into doorways or behind hawthorn hedges. They had good reason. War battled-hardened the four men. They had rough-hands and bristled with daggers and sidearms, with Nem bearing a notched halberd over his shoulder.

—Where go we in this foul Suffolk muck, then? Rob asked, hunching his neck against the cold needles of rain.

—An old recluse keeps a hovel at the edge of the parish waste, Nem said, eyes fixed ahead.

—Warm in the purse, so they whispered in the dark corners back yonder. A miserly rogue. I say we ease the old fox of his silver.

—Better we took horses, Giles grumbled, hitching up his belt.

—All this a-foot tramping sore wearies my bones.

They reached the margin of the parish where the enclosed fields gave way to desolate heath. A solitary wattle-and-daub cottage stood huddled there against the grey. Behind it, swelling unnatural and stark out of the flat ground, rose a great earthen mound. Crows circled its crest, turning slow, ragged rings against the leaden sky.

—This is Snape waste, Wat said, halting. He pointed a dirt-caked finger at the rise. —What heap is yon?

—An ancient burial barrow, a voice answered from the hedgerow. —No place for Christian men. Nor soldiers.

The four men started, hands dropping to pommels and hilts. An old man stood before them, stepping out from the drippings of the briars. He wore a long, drab mantle of coarse frieze cloth, his hair wild and matted with thistle-burrs.

Nem stepped forward, resting the heavy haft of his halberd in the mud.

—Stand clear, grandfather. We are upon Parliament’s business.

—I seek no quarrel with you, the old man said softly. —Only tarry not here. Touch not the barrow.

—Fear not, old fox. We’ll have naught to do with yon mound, Rob said with a nervous sneer, easing a dudgeon dagger from his waist.

—We’ll only share thy purse.

The old man’s pale eyes turned on him. —Would you plunder an aged man?

—We will if thou’rt stubborn, Giles said, stepping up beside Rob.

—I have no silver.

—Thou speakest not the truth, Nem snarled.

He drew his Hounslow hanger, the short, heavy cutlass clearing the scabbard with a dull rasp. He tapped the flat of the curved blade against his thigh.

—I fear not your steel, said the hermit, unblinking.

—Marry, thou shouldst! Nem spat.

—We’ve spilt better blood than thine from here to Marston Moor.

He lunged forward. Shoving the old man back toward the threshold of the cottage. The hermit stumbled in the slick clay, but kept his footing with eerie grace.

—What call they thee, old rogue? Rob demanded, keeping his distance.

—Men call me Toby Skep.

Rob took a step back, the point of his dagger wavering.

—Corporal… have a care. That is the name from the alehouse.

—What of it? Nem barked.

—A cunning man, Rob whispered, his voice cracking. —A conjurer. They swore he deals with foul spirits.

Wat and Giles chuckled, a dry, ugly sound.

—Thou fearest shadows, boy, Wat scoffed. —He is but an old dotard in a ditch.

—Silver, Skep. Out with it. Nem stepped in close, jabbing the spear-point of the hanger into the heavy cloth of the old man’s chest. —My patience runs clean out.

—I spoke plain. I have no coin.

Wat drew his own heavy blade.

—Look ye, grandsire. We are soldiers of the Covenant. We know no gentle mercies. Only the cold edge of iron and the musket-butt. Yield the coin and keep thy skin.

Toby Skep stared past the steel, looking straight toward the looming earthwork.

—All that I have lies buried at the foot of yon mound.

—Lead the way, then, Nem growled, wrenching the old man around by the collar of his mantle. —Stir thy shanks.

They trudged past the cottage through the gorse. The rain fell heavier now, a dull, relentless patter beating down from a slate-coloured sky. The mound seemed to swell with every step, dominating the heath. A blind, ancient swelling of earth that felt utterly alien to the flat landscape. Atop it, the crows wheeled and screeched, their calls harsh and mocking.

—Pray tell, old man, Rob stammered, teeth chattering. —Whose grave is this?

—Men who walked this heath afore the Saxons had names, Toby Skep whispered.

—Bah! Old wives’ fables, Giles spat into the heather. —Prithee hold thy prating, Rob.

—Heed my counsel, Skep said, turning back to face them at the base of the rise. —Do no violence upon this ground.

—Thou’dst do well to unearth our silver, Nem said, closing the distance between them.

—Quick to it, dotard, ere my hanger bites through thy ribs.

The old man did not dig. Instead, he planted his bare feet into the sod and cast both arms upward toward the darkening sky.

—Antiqua terra, he cried.

The voice was shockingly huge, vibrating through his chest with the deep resonance of an iron bell.

—Cease thy prating—! Giles shouted, raising his fist.

Beneath their heavy soldier’s boots, the earth twitched. It did not crack like dry stone; it groaned, a deep, cavernous rumble like the belly of a beast waking.

—What devilry hast thou raised? Wat roared, lunging forward.

Before Wat could strike, the heather beneath Rob simply liquified. The youth shrieked as his legs vanished instantly to the knee, sucked into a black slur of peat and choking clay. Giles and Wat sprang backward with curses, while Nem dropped his halberd and grabbed Rob’s leather collar.

He pulled with all his strength, but the earth pulled harder. The boggy ground sucked and slavered with wet, greedy violence. Rob’s mouth opened in a wide scream. But the soil surged upward, filling his throat with black mud before the sound could leave his lips. With a sickening, wet squelch, it dragged him clean under.

—Witchcraft! Giles howled, tumbling onto his back as the ground buckled beneath him.

Nem surged with soldier’s instinct, driving the broad, heavy point of the Hounslow hanger with two hands straight into the old conjuror’s ribs. The thick steel punched through wet wool and cracked savagely through bone, sinking half its length into the old man’s side.

Skep did not drop. He did not even cry out. Dark blood welled thick and black across his mantle, but his eyes burned white under the rain.

—Aeterna maledictio, he intoned, staring down into Nem’s terror-struck face.

Nem tried to wrench the weapon free, but the wound clamped down on the carbon blade like a vice. He tore it loose with a wet, tearing drag as the old man finally collapsed face-first into the heather.

There was no respite. The mound shook with an intolerable, sickening pulse.

A few paces away, Giles and Wat were thrashing wildly. The earth had split into an open, wet trench that dragged them down by the hips. They clawed desperately at the roots of gorse and scrub, fingernails ripping, but the ground churned like living jaws. One by one, the mud choked out their gurgling shouts as the mud closed over their caps.

Nem turned and fled, abandoning sword and halberd. He threw himself wildly toward the track, but the sod rippled beneath his boots like a churned sea. The turf gave way under him.

A deep fissure opened beneath his chest, reeking of ancient rotting peat and tomb-damp. Nem clawed at the heather, screaming an oath to God, but the suction clamped tight around his waist and legs. The earth drew him inexorably downward. It packed into his nostrils, his ears, his screaming mouth, until darkness crushed his chest and his vision went black.

With a long, shuddering sigh of shifting soil, the breach closed. The turf rolled back smooth over the roots.

The rain beat steadily down upon the empty waste. There was no corpse. No soldiers. No coin. Only Nem’s halberd lay cast aside in the brambles, its iron rusting in the drizzle.

High above the mound, the crows settled on the crest, their black feathers glistening wet in the dark.