#moors mutt

The beast I knew only in folkloric snippets. Hedge whispers perverting history to arcana through time immemorial. Perhaps too I had known it in nightmares, shapeless until named, becoming then familiar as a bedchamber.

That morning I was reading the Chaldean magazine in the kitchen over a morning coffee, milk and six sugars. In my humble opinion, the Chaldean is unsurpassed as a publication in the field of paranormal inquiry, I have been a subscriber since its inception as a send-away pamphlet penned and printed by a duo in Marsham. A colleague recommended this coffee brand. Lost City Coffee it was called, from the misty jungles of Bolivia, picked by virgins and crated by warrior kings he told me, imported at a criminally cheap rate (his sister married the Bolivian consulate giving him cause to visit frequently). I pay a flat fee for the raw beans, plus something on top for grinding, boxing and whichever vices this colleague, whose name I will not print, pursues recreationally.

Spectacles grand and quaint oft commence inauspiciously. It was grim autumn when the letter arrived. I heard lifeless leaves exploding beneath the postman's purposeful stride as he took the drive in three swift steps, pushed the envelope inside and was out before the latch struck.

The letter landed with a thud, dubbing me sole executor of the late Lady Renton Sizemore's last will, a grim charge requiring a trip to her home, listed in the Briarscombe country house register as the third most bloodstained holding in England.

I read the clinical words which were writ without sadness with no sorrow of my own. Dislike isn't the word. Lady Sizemore and I, while not enamoured, were quite civilised when last we spoke thirty years ago. I remember the way my father spoke up to her, half the force he was talking to anyone else. Even as a child I noted how meek he became in her gaze, his shoulders usually propped gave slack, eyes which held like steel at compliment or provocation zipped furtively if ever her voice rose.

After meeting her, I grumpily demanded to know why I had not been informed prior if we were to be visiting homes. He claimed to have forgotten the place ever existed, which the infant mind had a hard time accepting.

"Some things" he searched for the right words "are lost in time. You're young now. Everything is new. Your brain cannot yet differentiate between what is pertinent and that which is merely unexperienced. When you are old like me or older even" which in purity I didn't believe I could or would ever be "a word you read on a sign or catch broadcasted over a speaker or hear whispered on the wind, spied in bubbled writing on a traincart flank, you will remember a thing or a place which you loved so much and swore never to forget, and however many days were languished in this place, you will realise it was lost." I sniffled that it sounded sad and he told me that it was, but only a bit. "Bittersweet, lad. Sad you forget, glad you remember, content it ever was."

Why I was suddenly favoured for this sensitive task that required more mental finesse than anyone gave me credit for out loud puzzled me greatly. This was no flippant request to send your best man as soon as can be spared, I was summoned by name. Typically correspondence came via the agency, who set the most able body to task. This was different. Delivered to my home address.

Without a signature I was at first sceptical, but it bore an official seal and a title was supplied in lieu of a name, which I thought perhaps was proper in such circles. Whoever wrote it went on to confirm they had spoken with my seniors already and any absence from the office was on the books, so to speak.

Once the money was apportioned I was to ensure no stone went unturned, apt phrasing. Cairn Cottage stood oppressively atop the mound some two hundred winters, a plundered megalith shielding against the bracing gales. Up there the flowers bloomed blighted, grass grew sideways and only the sturdiest roots survived. Without the megalith's girth the winds might have toppled the twisted demesne, but she held firm now as old.

Mystics, druids and spiritualists alike extolled the house's phantasmic virtues. Fringe groups scrambled to reserve exclusive use for ceremonies. Lady Sizemore didn't care, provided she was soundly remunerated.

Upon receipt of instruction, I spurred my carriage toward Cairn Cottage, the house in whose shadow no local walked without rosaries. Although my visit was primarily administrative, there was another matter pertinent to my interests. One muttering which above all others inspired fear. A tale told to me by my father by the amber glow of a dying fire, crackling its reluctant passing. Worse than druids, he said a beast lived on the Moors. A hulking creature, whose snarling teeth bared in fullness of dark glowed like spears of starlight. However the rumour started it long sprouted legs of its own, more exciting with each recounting. I intended to find the single primal ember, the lone truthful element, stripped of frill and frock, fancy and folly, bereft of myth, or loyalty to tradition. Was there something in the fields by night? If so, was it dangerous?

First came Sperrin, a grizzly hamlet outside the estate's confines. For a penny a local boy in drab rags with golden locks bowl cut like a medieval page promised to find a suitable nook for my trap while I visited Lar's, a nearby tavern which was not entirely charmless. It offered low quality vintage at honest prices to low quality individuals. If the circuitous reels they plunked and the endless laments the older men wail through tears can be considered music, there's a ceile every night. A curious rustic flattery is about its inhabitants and rusted horseshoe decor. Most tantalisingly, the croppy boy who took my horse told me this was a prime spot for talk of the beast.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further, the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors, where badger, fox and mole alike strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid.

Part II coming on Tuesday!

I. Old Stone

The beast I knew only in folkloric snippets. Hedge whispers perverting history to arcana through time immemorial. Perhaps too I had known it in nightmares, shapeless until named, becoming then familiar as a bedchamber.

It was grim autumn when that fateful letter arrived, setting in motion a chain of events both strange and unlikely. In retrospect, that a series of vignettes so bizarre could start with the simple act of a posted letter seemed comical.

The letter landed with a thud, dubbing me sole executor of the late Lady Renton Sizemore's last will, a grim charge requiring a trip to her wicked home, listed in the Briarscombe country house register as the third most bloodstained holding in England.

Dislike isn't the word. Lady Sizemore and I got on famously when last we spoke, thirty years ago. I wasn't the doting schoolboy turned dribbling manchild spending Saturday nights at bingo. Neither was she the elderly relation procuring coins from behind ears to the delight of the youngers.

We were not eachother's keeper. Why I was suddenly favoured for this sensitive task that required more mental finesse than anyone in the family gave me credit for out loud, puzzled me greatly. Somebody must have annoyed her at one of her events. Sandwich gala on the Pringle Estate destroyed by careless nephew's untucked shirt. In true family style, whatever infuriated her she took to the grave.

Once the money was apportioned, I was to ensure no stone went unturned, apt phrasing given its namesake. Cairn Cottage stood oppressively atop the mound some two hundred winters, a plundered megalith shielding against the bracing gales.

Up there the flowers bloomed blighted, grass grew sideways and only the sturdiest roots survived. Without the megalith's girth, perhaps those winds might have toppled the twisted demesne, but she held firm now as old.

Mystics, druids and spiritualists alike extolled the house's phantasmic virtues. Fringe groups scrambled to reserve exclusive use of the land for Candlemas ceremonies. Lady Sizemore didn't care, provided she was soundly remunerated.

Rumours abounded of hauntings, anomalies occurring on the land by midnight's trickery.

Upon receipt of instruction, I spurred my carriage toward Cairn Cottage, the house in whose shadow no local walked without rosaries.

Although my visit was primarily administrative, there was another matter pertinent to my interests. One muttering which above all others inspired fear. A cautionary tale warning children from the grounds by night. And sometimes, on cold and lonely nights, a brave man wandering alone might see fit to take the longer road home.

Worse than druids, they said a beast lived on the Moor. A hulking creature, whose snarling teeth bared in fullness of dark glowed like spears of starlight, whose stark brightness was dulled only by the gleaming viscera of previous engagements clinging in ragged flaps.

However the rumour started, it long sprouted legs of its own, more exciting with each recounting.

No smoke without fire. I intended to find the single primal ember, the lone truthful element, stripped of frill and frock, fancy and folly, bereft of myth, or loyalty to tradition. Was there something in the fields by night? Was it dangerous?

First came Sperrin, a grizzly hamlet outside the estate's confines. For a penny, a local lad promised to find a suitable nook for the trap. I visited the sole watering hole, a squalid cellar named Lar's. The tavern itself was not charmless, offering average vintage for below average prices, warmth, music, rustic flattery and inimitably, whispers of the beast.

The tavern's proprietor Lar was a man out of time. With his arms folded across his simian chest and those big lugs like trophy handles either side of his substantial forehead, he could have easily passed for a saxon chieftain. He stood astride the bar against a backdrop of coloured bottles. Immediately upon entering his eyes set upon me with great intensity. Unlike the merry keep of fireside tales, he offered no warmth in greeting. That you were found fit to sit his barstool was kindness enough.

Inebriates remained nursing drams, glowering at their respective lecterns. Occasionally I'd catch one staring at me, then turn away as I waved. After a while sitting and sipping, making a game of catching their nosy glances, I signalled Lar's attention. 'This is probably going to sound strange. Probably because it is. Hear me out though. Have you ever heard or seen anything strange out on the moor?'

Widened like an owl, Lar's right eye scanned me once, twice, three times before he moved a muscle. 'Have in fact. Not now though. Too many around. Later.' His lips barely moved. I tipped my nose.

Nearer closing, he poured a cup and sat, remaining on the business side of the bar.

'The beast, you say?' He leaned in close, one eyebrow raised, its shape the arching rod of a hooked line. 'I could tell you a thing or two about the beast alright.'

'Prithee speak, my curiosity is burning. I won't rest a wink until it's satiated. Tourist talk aside, do you believe, as men do God, a beast prowls these forests?' I inched forward, as if by closer proximity, the truths would be truer.

'Regular Theseus, eh? Monster hunters, we have had plenty. Lovers of darkness too. Students of forbidden arts. All are served here. Kings and paupers alike. Did you come all this way to hear me say that?' Lar spoke with great confidence. The manner of his prattling meant the tales he told were true, or this was practiced.

'No.' I replied, 'I have business in the cottage. My heart though, she belongs to this creature. I am not a quack, nor a holder of séances. I am not a man of low learning on the hunt for falsehoods. I am a lover of stories. Pray, continue your captivating narrative.'

He continued, 'Let it be said I was coaxed. You wanted this.'

In this ominous portent he let slip a mask of deft craft. There was artifice in his smile, a cheshire grin that touched either cheekbone. A whispered suggestion of hidden intent.

Everything made sense. Was I seeing clearly? More than ever. I saw his ruse; city boy down for the day, take him for a ride, tell him the usual stories. A pal of his will burst in at just the right time, scare me half to death, then they'll take me to the supposed hot-spot for the low price of everything I've got. Lar took me for a lettuce. Something in his warning tipped me. A little over-arch. If his performance was not theatre, then Shakespeare never wrote.

Doubtless once finished, Lar would proffer some overpriced talisman no fellwalker could risk refusing.

'Enough pussyfooting. Spill it. I'll need all the advice I can get.' Like a drill tip, I pressed my index finger into the bar.

'No matter what image I conjure in your mind's eye, the beast is yet more ferocious and terrible in the flesh. It's the great unreality of it.' He tapped his forehead. 'Your mind doubts what it's seeing, unable to comprehend its stimulus. Brave men are made mice in its shadow.'

'What evidence have you of such a creature?' I asked, draining my tankard. He did the same, then wiped the amber residue on the back of his hand. He looked me over once, as if to ask who I was to question. I returned a withering gaze, maneuvering my features to convey a similar message. For a moment the air felt charged with kinetic possibility. As when two pugilists circle to begin a contest, lead hands pawing. Neither of us wished to be responsible for qualms.

He broke the armistice. 'Evidence? If you didn't think it weren't here, you wouldn't have come. If you believed in your heart this week you'd be contending with a monster, you'd have stayed at home in your jams.'

'Nonsense, man! You forget I am summoned, not here of my own volition.'

'We, each of us, tell ourselves sweet little lies to justify how our limited time is spent. I have a right mind to think if the lady yet lived, you and I might still have met. On a yawning stretch such as this, arriving as you have: alone and curious. If there's one thing I can't respect, it's a self hating believer. Swanning around with all the cynicism of a non-believer, clad in the robes of an adherent, so that when the hobby is proved spurious you can point to your skepticism. You'd be first to the papers tomorrow if scientists verified the beast's existence, how you had journeyed and studied on your own dime to further the science.' Lar pursed his lips, knowing he'd cut me to the quick, vanished was his earlier reticence.

I hated how right he was. I was exactly this sort. Insulting people who believed the same things as me. First to refuse to enter a haunted house for fear a demon might take my soul.

I'd never concede his point though. I riposted, 'Few are more loathed than the opinionated barman. You speak much too readily. Do so again, I'll see your manners are checked for the next weary traveler willing to pay good coin.'

Lar's eyes lit, bulging with imagined riches. 'Let me fill your drink, sir. I meant no offence. We speak freely here. Manners soften. Soon one finds truths cannot be digested unperfumed. Here in the wilds, it's a duty to voice quarrel. Far from crown and court, unaired anger festers.' Lar gladly dispensed his pearls of rural wisdom as if they were sweets from a bulging striped bag.

'Really, man. Every idea can be made ridiculous if extrapolated to that degree. Manners take the edge off. I'm not offended by your candor. I intend to find the creature, if such exists. Have you no doubt about that.' I watched him pull another drink.

The returned tankard was too full to raise without spilling. I slurped loudly, head bowed. Like a pulled plug, half the liquid gone in a single gulp.

'What evidence is sufficient? Look around you.' Lar held aloft his hands, urging me toward his empty business, still cast in a sickly light from the last flickering sentinels.

He pointed toward the empty seats. A single patron remained hidden in the shadows. A local by his boots.

'We did a roaring trade before that bloody woman inherited the place. Once she came, the trade died. When I was a lad, that land was free to roam. No walls. She had them built to spite us. Worse rumours too and all, that she built those walls to house it.'

'It?' I asked

'It. The beast.' Lar's voice lowered to a whisper. 'A cage for a pet beyond control. That's your sort all over. Dabbling where you shouldn't.'

'Her sort.' I corrected, 'I'm not aristocratic. You're a presumptuous sort, you know.'

'Believe you're not the first to say. Her sort, whatever pleases. I don't subscribe to this theory. Me personally, I think it came from hell. One thing's for certain, it got worse when they shifted the cairn.'

'You say you have seen it?' Part of me thought I was the one stringing him along, but another more gullible me firmly believed, or wanted to believe, that he had seen something. Hoping not to seem needy, I drew myself close to him, the bar still between us, 'With your own eyes if you saw it, you must swear it now. Did you see it as I see you now, or as one sees the distant stars and erroneously assumes knowledge.'

'As I stand before you.' Lar gestured to his stained apron, which he then removed and hung on a hook overhead. He nodded to the barfly, who stumbled from his seat and shot the bolt across the lock, an angry black mechanism like a bas-relief, which clanked against the timber as he let it fall. 'That's Fergus.'

Fergus lurched over. One leg trailed behind him. I couldn't help imagining him as a gothic manservant, dragging corpses to the laboratory in pursuit of higher knowledge. He came to stand beside me. There were giants on the earth is those days. Though our eyes observed the same setpieces, his countenance betrayed little comprehension. He had the chiseled jaw of a marble bust in profile, but his mouth hung open permanently, moist lips pursed like a fish.

He placed an enormous hand on my shoulder. Such space was permitted between his splayed fingers that ten legions abreast might find passage unmolested. His knuckles protruded unnaturally, evidence of labour, something harder than masonry or smithcraft. Mayhaps soldiering overseas.

I stared at his hand. He never looked at me. I coughed, first mannerly, then more harshly, thinking to approach cautiously lest my assumption prove provident, that he had lost his sound during foreign campaigns, of whose spoils we all were beneficiaries.

'Don't mind him.' Lar said. He spoke softly in the presence of his friend, observing his movements closely, ready to interject with a steadying hand or a warning to the cruelly curious. I wondered were they brothers. They bore little resemblance, though stranger things I had heard. Lar took Fergus' wrist and pressed gently, disturbing the folds of his motheaten jacket. They shared a moment I could but observe, radiating warmth and glad tidings in a wordless wave.

'I mean not to speak boldly, and lash me with spite if I transgress overmuch, but I must know or I should forever wonder, are you kin?'

Fergus shared Lar's laugh with the same look of bemused ignorance.

'You hear that? Fancy man reckons we're brothers. Probly thinks we're all related down this end, and not in a godly way.' Lar laughed, a viking bellow.

Lar released his grip and the folds of Fergus' sleeve righted themselves. He spoke several octaves lower, miming offence at my observation. I started to explain I intended no hidden subtext, but Lar waved to indicate all was taken as delivered.

'We are not brothers. Close friends. Known Fergus here forever.' He gently tapped the giant's hand, slapped on the bar like some enormous muddy bird print. 'Used to be a keen cookie too, once upon a forever ago. Loved languages, Welsh mostly. Pugilism he loved more. One passion consumed the other. Anything burning so intensely inevitably cannibalises itself. Took one knock too many, stole his wits in an instant. A left hook across the bar sent him erstwhile. Twenty five minutes he was on the shores of night, learning the landscape of the dreamworlds, while we fanned his rigid form, wet his brow and whispered familiar names in his ear. When at last he woke a part of him was left forever in that place. I like to think, boyishly perhaps, it awaits him upon leaving this plain of lousy strife, like the belongings awaiting a homeward jailbird. The cloak of a lost lifetime. Not for him. He'll slide right into it, fit like a tailored piece, and all of eternity to speak. Not here though.'

Tears welled in his eyes. I took the reins, 'Think nothing of your emotions, man. We each have them. Doubtless I will shed a tear up in the old witch's place. Another life awaits, that much is sure. Grander than this. I'm sure he made, and makes, a fine man. Built like a gladiator. I am sorry to have dredged unpleasantness. I meant only to satisfy my own selfish curiosity. Forgive me. Please, continue.'

'I will at that.'

'It were one night, three years ago. Ferg was there. We'd been called out on account of strange noises near the workers' cottage. They wouldn't work until the evil was killed or driven away. We came down from the high road proper and saw it between the trees ahead. Like a horse it stood, with clumsy stilts supporting an ursine bulk that swayed as it shambled. It drank shadows to conceal its dread presence. Blackness it took for robe. In walking its front paws propelled its cumbersome form, while the rear set, less lengthy, dredged channels in the dirt. In motion it arched to reveal a belly spun of lighter felt, ashen in the scant moonlight. Bundled, it became an orb of shadow, nothingness.'

'Unbeknownst we watched it watching, green eyes like blazing protostars probing for movement. Well it knew to choose this site, one of only two wells being located nearby. In a flash then it was gone, satin-shoed away into the night.'

The tale Lar knew was a scorcher paused. He beamed, an actor awaiting applause. I gathered my jaw from the floor, brushed it and set it back properly.

Each word drew me closer, which Fergus mirrored, until we three sat as witches about the bubbling lip of their cauldron, a coven of pallid specters.

Lar paused to sip and nodded we join.

I wondered had my hobby, in a blink, become too dangerous to justify. It was well telling my employers of ghost hunts, but a wild beast - my insurance wouldn't have it! If it turns out some menagerie escapee, what then was it? Quest for wonder or recklesss folly? Weiss, Wellie and Wardun insurance, even in their most obscure policies, don't pay out for fools. That's why I chose them!

Lar went on, a fresh cigarette painting the air blue in his articulation, 'Each new, shifting moon we came to that spot and watched. We took it upon ourselves to rid the land of danger.'

'Fergus knows a bit about a bit, that's what's left to him, God bless. What he knows is knots. Army training dictates every officer have at least passing knowledge of ten or more useful fastenings.'

'Me? I know about animals. We make a fierce duo. We inquired in advance about a reward, to which the estate responded agreeably, so we set off with lengths of rope overshoulder and the angriest looking traps the furmen could spare, determined to snare it. We planted snares all about its presumed domain.'

'Nothing came. Not a rat. Not a wisp. Not never again. It's the mystery disturbs me most. I'd die happy knowing.'

In his voice a single note of longing rang, dispelling the subterfuge of his intentions and, in the length of a breath, his beings and inner machinations were laid bare. Far from the sinister goldlust and murderous intention I had silently attributed to him, he seemed eager in an earnest fashion, willing in the name of a job done.

I observed Lar, powerful and straight. 'Do I sense an unfinished quest?'

'Aye. Not too subtle, mind.' Lar flashed a toothy smile, the sort a condemned man spits at his executioner. 'You seem a serious man. I didn't know when you first came in parading your manners like fancy knickers. You can't be too sure about a man who gives too many pleases. You're not that sort and have proved such twice over.' Lar imagined that was a compliment from the look he gave me. Expectant almost, between child submitting scribbles for display and cat batting dead mouse onto pillow.

Well, of course I had something to say about that. Cats were hissing. A donnybrook of claws and torn fur not even a hearty stock of iodine could salve. 'And I might say also that I too had cast aspersions on your character, maintaining you were of sinister country stock. As you claim to have been rapturously convinced otherwise, as have I.'

'Once the lady's estate is divided and bequeathed I'll receive my own. I mean to inherit a substantial bursar. I will pay to you a fair sum. In exchange, you will guide me to the hotpots, generally ensuring nothing eats me. When we find it, you're in charge until it's bound.' If he came, it would be on my terms.

'Find it? Slow down. We've seen it once in a hundred times. I'll take you gladly all the same.'

Wordless, we shook hands and drained our horns.

'Tomorrow?' Lar asked. He drew my gaze to an unopened whiskey bottle, which I declined.

'Not so, good man. Tomorrow I will tend my affairs. In the evening, if all is ordered, I will return to discuss further a plan of action. Have you a room I might rent?'

'Not for everyone mind, so don't go saying. There's one in the back. I'll light the fire.'

'Please do.'

I left a generous tip. Before following the publican to the warm hollow, I shook Fergus' hand, assuming he too would be part of our fortean friendship.

While I slumbered, the nightmare broke free her paddock, thundering across the veil of my somnambulant phantasmagoria, its clanging hooves ringing shrill terror.

I saw spined creatures oozing pus, many-eyed. Edgeless orbs hissing like flying snakes from one black abyss to another.

Cats with human faces screamed. A hairless man with a tail curled upwards like a scorpions noxious pike disemboweled himself with a broken mirror.

Last came the bestial form, not unlike that which Lar had described, striding evilly. Two venom coated fangs, uncontained by its snarling mouth, curved inward toward its breast. Catlike claws glinted menacingly. Turning my third eye downwards as if to look upon my feet, I found I was formless, yet the beast circled knowingly around the space my corporeal form should occupy.

I knew instinctively this reverie was more tangible than the others. That if the beast should strike I would die or wake screaming with a crimson pool spreading below me. It sniffed the air, pawing closer.

I woke to my beastless chamber. Sodden, I sought a candle and in its gloam chronicled my nightmare. That night sleep ne'er returned, making groggy my morning plod toward Cairn Cottage.

First draft of the edit, forgive any spelling errors or duplicate words. All will be mended with time. Just back from a wedding. Aoife vomited out the door on the highway. Gnarly. Happy Friday.

III. Beastbound

Night fled day and I read the sky. Through bores a fiery sliver shone, conjuring fantastical images of great city somewhere past the clouds, its denizens craning to the light's dying. I stood waiting for a sunrise which never came. In her place a bruised bank of laden clouds arrived to the beat of mjolnir's blows.

The storm, furious mute, spoke through our works. Droplets exploded musically, dull on timber, shrill on sheet, like crackling fire against thatch.

Lar the blackbird rose early, stretching and emerging from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution, his wingspan filling the alcove.

Foot travel was impossible, even treacherous. Lar wouldn't have it. 'I know someone.' he said 'Unpaid tab, lovely spacious wagon. Hold tight.'

Lar inquired if I had thought in my wisdom to pack a rainmac, to which I said no. After deriding my urban foolishness he opted to lend me his own, an enormous caul like a bear pelt, waxy and unpleasant against my neck.

Unpaid tab, yes. Lovely wagon, no. Against the rising slope, his contraption strained. Its light frame shed water at every judder. We veered, almost fatally, at least twice, prompting a sudden whiteknuckled plee for forgiveness from whichever deity hated me, but the man knew his charge and kept us steady.

Soon the ground levelled and in relative peace I gelded the day's larger duties into manageable tasks. Ten had a certain motivating roundness. Ten labours set to Heracles condemned to misery by jealous Hera. Ten commandments from on high.

After a short time at work my mind lost its typical easy-focus. Each sentence I read twice or three times. At common words I stared with newfound curiousity. A single letter roused me, pertinent by its pompous wax rosette, a bill of sale for several oxgangs, including Talbot Church, to be sold to Lady Sizemore, with a transitory period of two hundred years during which no litigious action could be sought by either party for the purposes of solving any dispute of ownership. I paraphrase, for each word writ was careful chosen.

There was little ambiguity as to the tone the bill's author Henry Wales, the estate's executor, attempted to convey. Beside the Lady's seal and sinister scrawl Henry, presuming wont to associate with the Sizemore name, printed his agency's crest, ruby pomegranates on a kylix with a lidded eye acentre.

Harder to discern, in an unpracticed hand was the seller's signature, a reluctant cluster of slanting characters keenly reflecting the scribe's defiance at his enforced shift, rudely contrasting the infernal airy loops of Mr. Wales and his evil brood at the Wales, DeLien & Hensonbore firm.

Perhaps fearing her legacy unworthy of envy, Lady Sizemore extended the empire's borders at considerable expense. In the same batch of papers I found also two drawings, one a surveyor's border outline, the other an older document bearing the Holy seal, a plan of the churchyard containing records of nearby antiquities. Aside from the cairn, Lady Sizemore's new lands encompassed two dolmens, four standing stones, eight middens and one fulacht fiadh, thought to date back 3000 years - the cartographer had noted in margins interesting asides. Originally the cairn, which stood now like a greatshield at the shoulder of her manse accepting winds against her bulk like oil on the head the anointed, was situated outside the kirkyard, itself in the shadow of the chapel.

The newer sheet, written by Lady Sizemore's resident conceptual botanist, revealed prescient plans for its transfer; the route was marked in ticks from Talbot Church to the old hill, past the sucking bog and high grasses, which stood strong and wilted not for man or wind and made going hard as over jagged stone.

I wondered how many men it takes to move a thing like that, eerily reflecting the thoughts of my ancient forebears in their creation of graven idols. I couldn't find anything else. Checked every drawer, leafed alphabetically, held the sheets to a candle carefully and waited for any hidden ink to react, but I found only my own gnawing curiosity.

I wondered why she closed the church. Why move the stone at all if she owned the lands. Surely it must be easier to enforce a harsh penalty for trespassing to deter ramblers over time than shift a megalith. Above all else I hoped to never climb that hill to the church.

Little else of note occurred. I found interesting some newspaper snippets concerning the then day’s pugilistic affairs, to which the upper classes had enured themselves, to such degrees that even the leisurely apolitical pages of Country Living magazine included a column notating the latest heroes and villains of the prize ring - most from Broughton’s.

Gull-winged Dan Donnelly was bold in Vetruvian repose. His shoulders wrapped the borders. I noted a scribble in the margin, not her Ladyship’s hand, H’s looping like drunk P’s and S’s like broken 8’s; the person had written, ‘Jew though he is, he is more twelve trys than twelve tribes.. Did you see that match last week? Mendoza has a head like a breastplate.’ Witty, though I stayed my smile as punishment for his beastly opening stipulations, but he was right - Mendoza was incredible.

The day otherwise passed quickly. I worked mostly absent of mind. Near freedom the final banality seemed yet more soul destroying, but fortunately it was easily done. I signed the final field with flourish.

On the doorstep gazing out at the torrid tempest, for a brief moment Cairn Cottage seemed inviting. I cast a final backward glance. Inside Acrisian frames, there lay yesteryear's gentry in oils, frozen in perpetual offence.

As arranged Charon ferried me back to Sperrin. In the carriage I thought of Talbot Church. Desirous of its contour I pierced the veil of evening and through the smoking air rifled the horizon. I wished it a modest place, far from the ostentation of Cairn Cottage. The church loomed out there somewhere in the vild. I imagined a modest place, with trees once forming a wondrous girdle reclaiming their purloined land, where roots and shooted tentacles bored the aged concrete, flourished in the open and grew upward until the church itself resembled a pagan kingdom, a mask of blushing ivy hosting colonies of resident bats.

Outside Lar's, wet as it was possible to be, some queer curiosity took me and I paused on the threshold. Fingering the doorhandle, I brought my ear to the wood. Lar joked, joyous overmuch at his own humour. I turned the handle and let the door swing open. All attention on me, I let them drink in the sight of the soaked city rat. 'In you come.' A wave of relief swept Lar, which he wrestled into a piteous pout. Relief more that his finances were secure than any concern for my wellbeing.

Two drinks waited, patient as unconfessed sinners. When I peeled off the mac he smiled and I offered reluctant dues.

We feasted like sentenced men. For to uphold our strength we ate lashings of gravy thickened by meat juices, steaming Yorkshire puddings, slabs of succulent pork, bog mushy peas, and custard to follow.

We reclined afterwards. Fergus slipped the bolt unbidden when the small crowd shifted, loudly dragging his stool the short distance to our barside council. We traded nothings, batting pleasantries back and forth with all the vigour of two exhausted tennis players;  he shamelessly imparting tall tales of field endeavors and cabbage patch dalliances; I feigning amusement, ascribing his stories more laughter than their content deserved, desperate to avoid frank discussion. I was eaten witless. My mind in grave custardy.

'Are we, like lantern thieves, away with the light?' Lar undid the top button of his trousers and swelled an inch before my eyes.

'We are.' I answered curtly.

'Handled a gun before?' Lar braced for a hasty response, which I gladly supplied.

'I have and don't intend to again. I'm not sure about guns.' Lar's brow furrowed. 'I believe with alternate ends, disagreements often arise.' I thought carefully and to his credit he waited patiently. 'How can I put this.. I don't want a fox hunt.'

'I never said it was.' Lar replied. 'If I might be bold, why hate the gun and not its wielder? Is a rifle always an instrument of terror no matter the context? On the shoulder of an adventurer piercing the interior, emboldened by its weight, is it the selfsame tool dispensing random death in the hands of a deranged?'

He continued on in a similar fashion for several minutes. After zoning out, I had to nod with extra vigor to his next points, just enough to convey attentiveness but not agreement.

Foam pooled at the corners of his mouth. 'It's a fool that lowers caution in victory! Wear these chains. Be it upon your head.'

I tried to interject, 'Lar, really that's a bit dram-'

He continued unabated, 'Should the beast prove strengthful and beguiling and somehow catch us unawares, it won't make a good look for that book of yours.'

Admiring of his passion, I had none to share. 'Any given situation is more likely to end in a leaden exchange with guns present, vise a vie, sans guns we are overall safer, despite feeling less protected individually.'

'Your charisma won't stop a beast. If in some desolate future you find yourself alone, bloodied and fatigued, you'll embrace your firearm like a lost lover and thank Mars for the gift of battle.' Empassioned, Lar slapped the bar.

'Point taken. I'll pack one. Don't intend on using it though. My only stipulation is that I choose my own gun.'

Pulling aside a rug Lar revealed a hatch, the entryway to his private cave of wonders. Fergus tossed the heavy door aside to reveal stone steps and a low unlit corridor. As he descended, candlelight revealed walls streaked and sticky with the dregs of drams spilled in violent melees.

He fetched the swaddled armoury and laid it for my reluctant perusal. I felt something like guilt looking at them. I couldn't pinpoint the feeling. Not a betrayal of principals; I am indignant, but I know my principals only matter until they don't fit my schedule. Nothing is too sacred to reconsider. Still, there was a lingering sense that I had wronged someone. My unease was perhaps a consequence of past lives lived conscience-free. When I rode with Cortez greedily discharging my sizzling firearm into the chest of a scout; when I stood a wart-faced archer at Agincourt and rained death across the mire, athwart a river of Francish blood.

I chose a revolver, its relative snugness more graceful than the longnecked pistols and bayonetted-rifles otherwise offered. Six shots, lightweight, swift off the hip.

Once the guns were again squirrelled away, we untensed with a fifth drink, and a sixth shortly thereafter.

'Have you a route in mind?' Lar slurred at length, his jaw shifting from side to side like a cow's chewing the cud.

'You tell me. You're the gun weilding adventurer.' I teased.

'I have some notions. Let's have one more drink. Don't go to bed bitter.' He fingered a bottle and seductively circled the cork, but his indecision had angered me.

'Notions are actions without legs! As joint expeditionaries, in name rather than eventual royalty I add, I offer no pronouncement on the route. What am I paying you for? Hardly your winning anecdotes. We're following your route to success or failure.' I departed, lifting the flap for myself this time.

Drink deep of nightwine and give to tumbling, so say the texts. I have read them all, from Hobbes' Essential Oneiria to Throughland's Night Study. Through the circle’s end, overboard the sil of sanity I fell to a gallery of my own being, divided into layers, each some fractured facet of the whole, where each feeling untempered by its counterparts unfolded in wicked fullness; galleries of nudes in lust’s royal academy, raging red the river of anger, rocky the paths untold which might have been. I saw shades of myself in every variation, vexing and charmful, until at last to the untamed plains I came, savage and noxious. It was there I found the church.

What place more apt for spiritual contrition than a chapel of the mind where only the clanking templar’s ghost sat in solemn judgement, his observations vocalised in clanks and bumps, selfsame the thud of ladders against the walls of Jerusalem.

I perceived the structure was a mental construct, but its myriad details and idiosyncratic flourishes hinted at a verifiable corporeal existence. A modest church of grey stone, low ceilinged with a single stained glass. I crouched at the fingertips of a stumped transept, at the left hand of the scoured christ on the cruciform. Talbot, who  took no pleasure, busied as was his charge. He stared at empty pews. His name I knew implicitly and his face was one familiar, even through the scrambled madness of dreams. He strained from the pulpit without address toward where I watched. I never moved. What should happen if i did? Nothing. No more than the wild sun stirs at the opening of a bud.

Pried from the altar in a chaos of streaming robes and flicking pages, he descended the stairs, alone carpeted, toward the front row where a soiled shovel propped. He took the shovel in hand gravely and exited the church.

Upon his return he came to where I stood. Of the shovel there was no sign. In its place he carried a banded scroll and a small wooden lockbox fit for its length. He placed them by his feet, swept his robes backward and with a trowel from his belt began chipping away over an existing foundational weakness, until the trowel stove and the trough of the block was splayed. When the scroll was placed and the box sealed, he hid it away inside then set to repairing the flagstone.

I woke shortly thereafter to thunderous footsteps. I feared the storm had abated little in the night. Conditions so adverse would delay our expedition, but as the cacophony continued it seemed closer, from within the house. I walked from the bed wrapped in a sheet and opened the door a sliver to see Fergus stomping up and down the corridor gathering supplies.

https://www.wattpad.com/676844776-the-moors-mutt-ii

II. Limbo

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

When the machine architect of our world was in infancy, men of old, men of renown, used more than sight in their primitive observations of our world. Already we, we as mankind, had realized what appeared as reality was deeper yet than simple tangibility. Further back towards the chaotic and infinite churn of the burning epoch, when mankind had not language to manifest destiny and lived subordinate to Echidna's descendants still fearsome on the plain, parts of the brain which one day became memory centers first stirred to life, elongating the possibility of human memory. Scent still is brother to memory.

The air was heavy with scent when I relinquished vision, only for a short time, and let wind corral me. The breeze carried faint lavender.

A pebbled stretch I crossed stirred a memory of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he purchased, whose high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six, maybe seven years old, tales of old Arabia appealed greatly. Fabulous kingdoms wrought of yellow stone against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot sun bemused of countenance, scorpions armoured like chargers sending rodents to their redoubt, the cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumping from the path of unruly camels, watching the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of Royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often broody boys who preferred quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger stories, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards. Older, into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales most. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand moved me. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where the pyre burned. Since, when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the beach at Troy.

I heard the crunch of a trap and waited hopeful until the crude plume fixed atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the man, a being of wind, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood in disarray. A peak stole his brow, but a smile waved me aboard. He never spoke, though carried me within shouting distance of the manse.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper, not coin. Hundreds, thousands of jaundiced sheets, all in disorder busying every surface. Before a single coin changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in the avoidance of work that should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day was required before I indulged my cryptozooligcal fancies.

*

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived prematurely. I gathered my belongings, wondering where the time went, then ran to the track and the sounds of the the last husbandmen bound for Sperrin. I found easy passage. Too easy perhaps; I was cursed to endure indignity on a wagon halfheartedly scraped of its stinking contents; with my legs lolling over the side, I was soaked in every splash. I arrived back mud-caked, a shambling golem. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating my thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel, enjoying relief akin to weightlessness by contrast, and we drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, speaking of weather. I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to seem overeager, I spared him my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision.

Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted, pretending to clean.

'Short delay actually. I'd have said from the doorway, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.'

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen folks pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' He shot a glance at Fergus, a pale lance cleaving his brow.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a cask, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the splash of ale. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. Fruity, potent, sickly almost. 'This expedition diary I mean to publish, any thoughts?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes is the answer. Humbly, in my hand, the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?'

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of the last, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch spoiling any hope of a dramatic exit, but I hovered over the stool while I spoke. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once the story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored his step, slipping through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground.

Waking, it seemed I fell to the mattress from a height. Not far enough to endanger, but enough to worry the springs. I lurched, took my journal from the bedside locker, levered its purple tongue to split its leather cuirass and let it whip to a clean page.

One mark on the opposite face demanded attention. A black circle, subtle as a bearded chin, formed by the swift fury of a graceless wrist, its blackness total.

How strangely the lines blended. One moment a nest of fastened rat tails, one mark indistinguishable from another, the next a clear set of growing rings. In its swirling centre around the maelstrom's eye, the paper tore with the fury of the quill.

I found the pockmark on every page. Someone strained greatly to make an impression so indelible. First I thought Fergus with his ham hands, unknowingly forcing the nib through the page. When he had the chance, or the notion? It seemed unlikely. Throughout the workday it was with me, resting once for a moment unattended on the desk.

Despite concerns, I knew no progress could be made at this hour. For now it seemed safe to be about my duties without much extra precaution. I returned the journal, pulled the duvet across my shoulders and turned to sleep, when suddenly a violent jolt racked the shutters so fiercely they juddered back into place with a great thunk.

I winced toward the disturbance and found mocking empty blackness. As my head sank back into the pillow, a shuddering pulse shook the building. A rippling seismic attack. Unlike quakes from within, which sally in waves, this was a single detonation, like a dying star; one magnificent shockwave that stirred everything in the world at once, only for a moment. I stemmed panic, falling to courageous platitudes that would embarrass the most shameless Kipling-mimic. Without panic, I deduced more likely my head sharply turning had disturbed my equilibrium, giving the walls the appearance of motion. As if in answer to my doubt, dust sprinkled from the rafters.

Nothing else came. I waited, steeled. I pretended to be brave and at some indeterminate point, felt into a brave slumber.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove.

He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping his pipe twice on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' The rain beat harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.'

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday, despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.'

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left more spritely than when he entered.