Growing up, Mari Ann Cabbage as she was known, was a figure of both fear and fascination. Rumours abounded about her, the most notable being that she was a witch. Another (one I had forgotten but seem to have buried deep in my conscience) was that she was hanged for the theft of a sheep. There is even a stone in Pentyrch, which is said to be her headstone. Largely unreadable now, it may well be. Perhaps some day, someone will investigate beneath it and find human remains - who knows? I would be fascinated to find out.

None of my little story about Mari is real. It is just a fanciful little tale based on the feelings she evoked in my childhood. Pure coincidence, I think, about the theft of the sheep.

Alas, I am not a Welsh speaker. However, a point to note: I am reliably informed that the word 'Bugail' means 'shepherd.' I hope you enjoy.

Growing up, Mari Ann Cabbage as she was known, was a figure of both fear and fascination. Rumours abounded about her, the most notable being that she was a witch. Another (one I had forgotten but seem to have buried deep in my conscience) was that she was hanged for the theft of a sheep. There is even a stone in Pentyrch, which is said to be her headstone. Largely unreadable now, it may well be. Perhaps some day, someone will investigate beneath it and find human remains - who knows? I would be fascinated to find out.

None of my little story about Mari is real. It is just a fanciful little tale based on the feelings she evoked in my childhood. Pure coincidence, I think, about the theft of the sheep.

Alas, I am not a Welsh speaker. However, a point to note: I am reliably informed that the word 'Bugail' means 'shepherd.' I hope you enjoy.

 Mari on the Mountain

Hywel Bugail shivered in spite of his thick woollen cloak and the small fire he had lit. The night was chill and damp; a rising mist saturating his woollen stockings, making his skin clammy and uncomfortable. He shifted position, rising from his hard seat atop the low dry-stone wall. As he stood, he swapped his crook into his left hand, tentatively bending and flexing the fingers of his right. They had become so stiff and numb with cold and inaction that movement now was almost painful. Gingerly, he held his aching digits above the fire, frowning as the small heat did what it could to thaw them. The patch of ground where the circle of fire sat was mist free, the air around it clear; a beacon in the gloom. Well used to the dark and the sounds it held, Hywel felt an unusual foreboding this night. The fire offered some reassurance: after all, if the mist itself could not breach the space around it, nothing else could, either.

A loud yet dismal bleat reached his ears, telling him that the small flock of sheep he was guarding were still close by. Hard though it was to see them in the poor light, now and then one or two of them would pass by like shabby ghosts, looming in and out of his vision unexpectedly. They would not come too close to the fire, but appeared just at the edge of the light’s outer reaches. If he did not know better, he would suspect that the sheep were keeping an eye on him rather than the other way around.

The thought made him smile. That would be something to tell Branwen in the morning; the night he spent on the Garth Mountain when the sheep guarded the shepherd. He pictured how she would call him twp and daft, a foolish fellow. Yet she would laugh, and he loved nothing more than making Branwen laugh. Those deep brown eyes would sparkle, her cheeks would blush prettily, she would dip her gaze coyly and look away, making him want to reach and tilt her face back to him, so that he could look into those laughing brown eyes a while longer.

The fire sank suddenly low, its flames crouched and blue, their previous golden tones gone. All thoughts of Branwen’s smile vanished as Hywel instinctively crouched with them. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, his skin prickling. With his free hand, he reached behind him to grab the torch he had left leaning against the wall. It was well made, with a long, sturdy wooden handle like that of a club, its head wrapped in layer upon layer of cloth soaked in lamb’s fat. All he needed to do was hold it in the flames and it would ignite. Fire was enough to frighten off most beasts, he had found, especially when waved around vigorously on the end of a blunt instrument.

Except such a thing was impossible now. The fire had sunk so low that if he held the torch over it, it would likely extinguish it altogether.

He gripped the cold torch anyway, its solid weight comforting. His crook was a handy weapon too, and he knew how to put it to good use. Heart pounding, his eyes widened as he stared out into the blackness, the sense of impending attack growing ever stronger.

The mist had begun to encroach, gaining courage at the loss of the flames. It swirled and eddied, daring now to draw near. To Hywel’s dismay, the flames dimmed still further as the mist began to thicken and settle, like cloud. Then all at once it fell away and the flames were back, taller and stronger than before, leaping and licking at the skies above.

Hywel shuddered, still crouched and tense, skin raised like gooseflesh. His brow creased in puzzlement; no earthly creature could have dulled the fire so. No wolf, bear or wild cat could have done such a thing, nor any foraging thief from a rival village.

For the first time, it crossed Hywel’s mind that the cause of the recent attacks upon the flock might be something other than animal. The thought filled him with dread. He lifted the rabbit’s foot that hung around his neck, pulling it free from his clothing and holding it to his lips to press a small, fervent kiss against the soft fur.

A noise came from somewhere to his left. A harsh, grating sound unlike any a sheep might make. Standing up abruptly, he dropped the rabbit’s foot, letting it bump against his chest as it dangled from the cord around his neck. He turned to face the sound, brandishing his tools like weapons.

It came again; a dry rasp, a sharply caught breath at its end, like someone was struggling to take a full breath. Hywel began to sweat, his hands growing slick, loosening his grip on the weapons. He could hear his own breathing, heavy and ragged.

He almost dropped his crook in fright when three sheep emerged from the darkness, running wild-eyed, silent and frantic. Hywel cried out loud; half-laugh, half-sob. Damned sheep! He cursed inwardly, gazing after them as they fled, to be once again swallowed by darkness.

Something about the way they ran disturbed him. Their utter silence, the look of panic in their eyes. Remembering the torch in his hand, Hywel dipped it into the newly risen fire. The flames lapped at it greedily. Soon he held a brightly burning torch, hissing and spitting as the fat was consumed and the strips of cloth set alight.

Behind him, a twig snapped. Not so strange a sound, except that the tread that broke it was deliberate and steady, not the random placement of a cloven foot. A sound like a sigh feathered the night, so low Hywel felt more than heard it, setting his nerves thrumming. He was overcome with a sudden and all-encompassing dread. It took all his will power not to drop his tools and run, as mindless and heedless as the sheep.

Limbs heavy with dread, Hywel slowly turned, hellish images flitting through his mind. Pictures of monsters from stories he had heard since he was a small child crept into his head; the ancient, elemental beast of Devil’s Drop, the long-horned figure of Nightshade Jack, the slack-jawed spectre of a crossroads hanging, condemned never to escape its earthly bonds even in the face of death…

He let out a stuttered breath at the sight waiting for him, becoming weak at the knees with relief. A girl of around fifteen years, barefoot and shabbily dressed, stood before him. He almost laughed again, calling himself a fool for being so terrified of a mere girl.

Then he looked at her more closely, and his dread began to build again.

The girl’s straw-coloured hair was long, wild and matted, knotted with leaves and twigs. Her face, possibly once pretty, was hidden beneath a mass of scratches, scars and bruises, caked dirt and greying smudges. Her black eyes were intent upon him, yet showed no flicker of awareness or of life. Dark circles ringed beneath them, adding to her deathly pallor. Involuntarily, Hywel shivered.

She was small; shorter than him by a good way and petite with it, her frame thin and bony. A long smock hung from her angular shoulders in a dirty shade of grey. Small, rust-coloured stains speckled its front. It was torn, worn so bare in places that it had holed, showing pale skin beneath. Its hem, ragged and soiled, brushed the top of her equally filthy feet.

Just a girl, yet there was something in her demeanour that unnerved him. She stood there, still and silent, simply staring at him. Her arms hung limp at her sides, pale hands protruding from the long sleeves of the smock to show long, bony fingers extending into jagged, uncut nails. He had a feeling those hands were not as helpless as they appeared.

He cleared his throat, trying to find the courage to speak. He knew it should be ridiculous, a well-armed, muscular young man such as himself afraid of this scrap. Except in his heart he knew that it wasn’t ridiculous at all.

His first attempt at speech failed, his voice barely a whisper that sunk into the night without trace. He tried again, watching her for any reaction.

“It’s not safe to be out alone, wandering so late at night,”

He had a feeling that she was not the one in danger of harm, but it was all he could think of to say. She did not respond in the slightest. Hywel, unsure of his ground, spoke again,

“You look like you might be a long way from home,” he ventured, once more taking in her neglected appearance.

“Home,” the girl echoed, her words sending small clouds of breath to join the swirling mists around them. At the sound of her voice his heart sank, his stomach turned somersaults.

“Home,” she said again. This time, he thought he saw something more in her gaze; something pitiful and beseeching. Her expression never changed though, and it was gone in an instant, leaving him wondering if he had imagined it.

He wanted the encounter to end, the strange girl to go away and leave him to his sheep. He had no idea how to be rid of her and she showed no sign of leaving. Choosing his words carefully, unwilling to anger or antagonise her, Hywel said,

“Well, I’ll be getting back to the flock.”

Even to his own ears his words sounded feeble and unconvincing, but now that he had said them, he had to act upon them. He did not dare to turn his back upon the girl. Not taking his eyes from her, he took a backward step, as if to make good upon his words.

The world plunged into darkness, the fire and the flaming torch extinguishing as one. Hywel’s heart near stopped with fright. It was the girl’s doing, he knew.

Still stupidly holding the smouldering torch aloft, Hywel fought to control a rising panic. He floundered, uncertain of his next move, when the girl spoke again. In the murky light, he could make out her shabby form. He watched as she raised a hand and pointed, her head never turning, her gaze never shifting from him:

“Home,”

Despite himself, Hywel turned to see where she pointed. Along the ridge of the mountain top a fire blossomed into life. It made no sense; there was no fire there to burn and no one to light it.

He turned to face the girl again, and jumped with fright when she was not there. She had been so close it was not possible she could have moved without him knowing.

Something pale flickered upon the ridge, drawing his eye. He squinted, once more making out the form of the girl mid-way between himself and the new fire. She was beckoning to him, those wicked fingernails curving inwards, calling him on. His legs leaden, his heart heavy, Hywel set out to follow her like a man wading through a mire.

The girl moved on ahead of him, not once looking back to see if he had obeyed her summons. She waited at the fire until he drew level. They were plunged into darkness as this fire too, went out. A third fire burned bright only a moment later, this time at the foot of the rounded outcrop upon which they stood; a grassy slope, slippery enough by day, treacherous by night with an insistent fog adding moisture to the already wet grass.

“I can’t follow…” Hywel began to protest, but knew it was useless. The girl had already moved on, effortlessly rounding the slope and disappearing below it. Hywel sighed, using his staff to steady himself as he cautiously descended the slope.

Once again, no sooner did he reach the girl and the fire than it went out, its flames dousing as quickly and completely as if water had been thrown upon it. This time though, the torch he was still gripping burst into life, burning brighter and more intently than it had before.

Hywel once more held the torch aloft. He was mightily glad he had broached the slope successfully. At its base sat a large rock, which would easily have cracked his skull open had he lost his footing and fallen. The girl was pointing at it now, her gaze at last removed from Hywel to focus intently upon the rock.

Hywel dared to take a step closer. She didn’t flinch as he held the torch over it, to better make out what looked like an inscription in its side.

Indeed, wording had been roughly hewn into the rock. There was a date, and what of it was readable appeared to be recent. Below it there appeared to be a name. Hywel ran his hands over the carving, spelling out the words as his fingers felt them.

“Mari Ann Cabbage?” he read aloud, his voice quizzical.

There came a sudden movement behind him. He turned, spinning around to face the girl. She was doubled over, clutching her hands to her breast as if in anguish. Her dark eyes spilled with tears, her passionless face at last wracked with signs of feeling; that of despair. Hywel felt an unexpected surge of pity for her.

“Home!”

Her voice was a painful screech. A hiss of malevolence, ire and agony all in one. Hywel dropped both the torch and the crook as he sought to defend his ears against the sound. All trace of sympathy left him as he watched her features change from that of yearning to a face full of vengeance and spite.

“Home!” She shrieked again, spittle flying from her mouth as she spoke. It was picked up on the wind that had come from nowhere and had begun to blow hard and cold across the mountain top, to spin away madly across the open blackness. Once more, Hywel found himself crouching, this time against the elements as well as the shrill, deafening voice of what he now knew to be Mari Ann Cabbage.

He wished he knew how to help her get home, or even where her home had been. He wished she would stop her dreadful wailing long enough for him to tell her so. Yet the noise was endless and unbearable. The wind itself took up the cry as it screamed and shrieked its way across the mountain in mimicry of Mari Ann’s harsh and grating tones.

Looking down, Hywel was amazed to find his torch still burning, despite the raging wind and the blanket of damp moss upon which it had fallen. He lifted it gingerly, dreading it blowing out and leaving him alone in the dark once more with this entity. For he believed in his heart that was what he was faced with; the spirit of a young girl somehow wronged and buried here upon the mountain, alone with no one to mourn her nor tend to her grave. If only she would quieten for a moment, perhaps he could find a way to help lay her tormented soul to rest; a way to keep his precious sheep safe from harm for ever more. For he was also certain now that it was she who had been ravaging the flock.

He kneeled, bracing himself with one hand upon the stone. The flames flickered wildly, but they burned bright enough for him to catch sight of a word that had escaped him before. A word that turned his blood cold and filled his mind with terror.

Beneath the inscription that bore the date and the girl’s name was another word: ‘wrach.’

Witch.

Hywel froze in fear, too terrified to make even the slightest movement. She would know now, that he understood the truth of her. He knew beyond all doubt that she would never allow him to leave, now that he knew.

She was not buried and contained beneath that stone, as she ought to be. She was loose; wild and unfettered upon the mountain top.

He needed to get back to the village, to tell them what he knew. He needed, ironically, to go home.

He dared to risk a glance over his shoulder. The wind still raged; moans and shrieks still sallied back and forth across the mountain, but Mari Ann was once again unmoving in the centre of it all; not a fold in her dress riffling in the wind, not a strand of hair blown across her once more lifeless features. She was placid, peaceful even. A mere girl, lost and alone on the harsh mountain top.

Her cruel black eyes looked down upon Hywel. He thought sadly of Branwen’s sparkling brown eyes; of her gentle, stirring smile.

The torch blew out.

All was darkness.

S P Oldham

Another piece I had forgotten all about, but was unwittingly reminded of when someone on Facebook made a post about a fairy tale by Sheridan Le Fanu.

This one was intended to be a competition entry, the criteria being that it had to be a dark fairy tale more suited to adults than children, and within a certain word count. However, when I sent it off it turned out that the competition had been cancelled but the call for submissions online had not been deleted, which is why I have never done anything with it since!

Anyway, although I have altered the original word count very slightly, it is still more or less as it was first written.

The Feathered Nest

Once upon a time there lived a bird. A giant beast, a sight to behold; brilliant of plumage, magnificent of grace. She was known as Silent Wing.

Silent Wing lived in the ancient woods at the foot of Glass Mountain. She would glide high above it, noiseless as a cloud, bright as the sun, the mountain mutely reflecting her as she passed over. The trees of the ancient wood grew tall and straight, their trunks smooth and pale and it was at the top of the tallest of these trees that Silent Wing had her nest.

Men working in the woods, women and children gathering nuts and berries, would sometimes find huge white feathers, as glossy as oil. They would carry them home, believing them to be lucky, to keep them in a place of honour in their houses; above a mantel, before a mirror, to be marvelled at and cherished every day.

In return for the precious gifts Silent Wing bestowed upon the villagers, the people would scatter bread crumbs, entrails of fish and ears of corn on the ground below her tree, leaving her in peace to eat them at her leisure.

Silent Wing was often seen in flight above the mountain, easy to distinguish even from the village below. As accustomed to her presence as they were, the people never tired of the wondrous sight, believing it to be a good omen for the day ahead. And so Silent Wing and the people lived in quiet harmony for many years.

One hot summer day, a salesman wandered into the village. Dusty and dirty, tired and worn, he collapsed in a heap in the town square, bags and satchels piling untidily on top of him.

The good villagers rushed to help, Brewer and Blacksmith heaving him to his feet, sitting him on the stool Milliner had run to fetch from his shop.

When the man had drunk the water Goodwife Sloane gave him, he felt well enough to speak.

“Thank you all,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, “I have been walking for days, my water all gone, my way lost,”

“What makes you wander the world so?” Tanner asked.

“I am a travelling salesman. I go from place to place selling my wares, making life easier and more pleasant for folk such as you,”

“Making yourself a fortune, more like,” Spinster said, but the crowd silenced her.

“I make enough,” Salesman said, “I mean only to help.” He looked around, to see that, kind folk that they were, the people believed him. They gave him a room and food and water aplenty, asking nothing in return.

Except for young Elise. The most beautiful girl in the village, set to marry Councillor’s son, she eyed Salesman’s bags greedily.

“Do you have something pretty for a veil?” Elise enquired.

“A simple ring of flowers is all a beauty such as you would need,” Salesman flattered her.

Elise blushed prettily, “It is not enough. I wish to cut such a vision of loveliness that every man who lays eyes on me will forever have the image etched upon his mind! I wish to look as vivid and as bright as, as…” Elise wracked her brains for a suitable comparison, “as Silent Wing herself!”

Salesman sat up a little straighter, “Silent Wing?”

“Have you not heard of her?” Elise breathed, “She is a magical bird who lives in our woods and glides over the Glass Mountain. Her feathers are a purer, more brilliant shade of white than you ever saw! Sometimes folk find feathers she has shed. My father has one above his bed; come and see!”

She took the unresisting Salesman by his hand and brought him to her house, showing him the feather. Even encased behind a glass frame, Salesman was struck by the depth of its whiteness and its mystic aura.

“Such feathers would make a wonderful headdress,” he mused

Elise’s eyes widened, “They would! But we should never find enough; if we should find one at all.”

Salesman’s eyes narrowed, “What price would you be willing to pay for such a headdress?” He asked.

“Anything!”

“Anything? Including your hand in marriage?”

Elise quite forgot her purpose in making a headdress. Enchanted by the idea that she might own not just one but many of Silent Wing’s feathers, her lust for fortune overcame her love and she said simply, “Yes”

Satisfied, Salesman left the house full of plans.

It was impossible to get lost on the way to the wood, lining the base of the mountain as it did. By the time Salesman reached its shade the day was cooling, though the sun still glared off Glass Mountain, into the valley below.

Salesman began to scour the woodland floor, searching in vain for a dropped feather. By the time darkness had begun to fall he was exhausted. He sank to the cool ground, resting his back against a giant tree.

He closed his eyes. Something light brushed against his cheek. He flicked at it, thinking it a moth or a spider web. Whatever it was, it hit the ground beside him and Salesman opened his eyes.

He could not believe it. One of Silent Wing’s feathers! Although he had never seen her, he recognised the plumage at once.

There came a rustling from above. Through the foliage of the tree, Salesman could make out the huge form of Silent Wing, settling into her nest.

“Send me some more, beauteous creature,” he implored, but Silent Wing did not respond.

All night long, Salesman crooned to her from the bottom of the tree, begging her to loosen a feather or two more. He tried tempting her with trinkets, hoping she was as seduced by shiny things as are magpies. He cooed to her like a dove, sang to her like a blackbird; to no avail.

As morning broke, Salesman had begun to show his true nature. He hurled stones at the nest; his aim poor, his throw weak. Frustrated, an idea began to take shape in his dark mind.

He filled his rucksack with the biggest stones he could find. Using two sharp knives as grips, he began to claw his way up a neighbouring tree.

Many times he thought he would plummet to his death, or scare Silent Wing away, but neither happened. Finally he reached the top of the tree and rested, panting, on a strong, wide bough.

Silent Wing was still some way above him, but he could see her clearly in her nest now. The bird’s graceful neck formed an S-shaped, her massive wings folded delicately around her. She was staring placidly ahead, her eyes opaque and glossy; sleeping.

Salesman saw his chance. He reached into his rucksack, took out the largest stone he could find, and took aim.

Forever after, the villagers wished that this was where the story ended. That Salesman lost his balance and fell, leaving Silent Wing unharmed. But it is not.

Salesman’s aim was strong and true. It struck Silent Wing hard, sending her plummeting to the ground, heavy and graceless, her magnificent wings never beating; dead before she landed.

Salesman hurried down the tree after her as if he were the one with wings. He was amazed at her size but it did not deter him from setting to work as fast as he could. Soon, his rucksack was empty of stones, feathers taking their place. Satisfied, he went back to the village, ready to receive the applause of the people and of Elise, his new bride to be.

They say the sun did not rise so high that day, nor did Glass Mountain shine as bright. Salesman strode into the village square, calling the people to come and behold a wondrous sight. Excitedly, they came pouring out, eager to see what the stranger had brought. Elise was first to arrive, a smug smile on her face.

The people formed a circle, Salesman at their centre. “Good people!” He declared, “I have been on an errand for the beautiful Elise, to procure for her the most stunning headdress ever to be made, in return for her hand in marriage”

The thrilled gasps of the crowd turned to shocked amazement at what the man had claimed. “Is this true?” demanded Councillor, his son disbelieving behind him.

“It is,” Elise said shamelessly, “but wait ‘til you see what he has brought!”

“What prize could possibly be worth more than our love?” Her erstwhile fiancée asked.

“This” shouted Salesman, shaking out the rucksack triumphantly.

Silence fell; a deep, weighty quietness, until Salesman finally stammered, “What is this? I do not understand…”

Before him, in a straggly, shabby, fraying heap, was a mountain of dull grey feathers. They lay like doused ashes, lifeless and lacking in brilliance.

“Are these Silent Wing’s feathers?” Spinster asked softly, “Did you think that in stealing her beauty you could make it your own?”

The people were horrified; they began searching the sky for Silent Wing. Men set off to the woods in search of her; even though in their hearts they all knew that Spinster was right. Silent Wing was dead.

“I will not keep my promise, since you have failed in yours!” Elise spat spitefully to Salesman.

At this Spinster fell to her knees, shovelling feathers and dust into the rucksack. She thrust the bag into Elise’s hands, pulling Salesman alongside her.

“Off with both of you; you are well matched!” She hissed, shoving them beyond the village gates, “May dry dust and ugly feathers be the only fortune you shall ever know!”

Those who heard her trembled, believing the curse of a spinster to be as effective as that of a witch.

And a so a beautiful young woman who had known only love but who wanted fortune, and a man who knew nothing of love but whose heart was filled only with lust, set off into the world, joined together forever by the terrible thing they had done.

And nobody lived happily ever after.

S P Oldham

 There was a prompt months ago on Facebook, in which we were shown a picture of very old doors and asked to write a story based upon them. It caught my imagination and so I tried to rise to the challenge. I can't use the original picture here as it is not mine, so I hope this one suffices. Because of word restrictions the story is not overly long, but I had fun writing it and I hope someone out there might enjoy reading it too.

 Legend has it that there is only one who can turn the handle that opens these doors.Back in the mists of time, the town elders used to lay down the challenge far and wide: be the one to come and open the Great Grey Doors! In return, the successful one could claim one tenth of all the town’s profits; a handsome fortune to be made from oil and olives. Could choose bed-mates of their own preference from any of the town’s young women – or men – or both. Could have the finest, fastest, horses; the largest, coolest house; the deepest, fullest chest of treasure. Best of all, most important of all, the victor could claim rulership over the town.

It sounds a rich prize, but the town elders hid a curse among the blessings. The town was lawless, a hotbed of violence, upheaval and riots, the worst of the trouble always occurring closest to the Great Grey Doors. Anyone eager to claim the prize would be bound to rule; accepting the problems that entailed. All or nothing. The town elders were tired of trying to tame their wild inhabitants. They were bound to their duties until someone willingly took them from them. There was no other prospect of escape. The only way anyone ever left this town was feet first, in a box. The elders wanted, needed, someone to open those doors and lift their burden.

The Great Grey Doors. No one seemed to know when they were fitted, or to whom they belonged. No one could date how long they had been there, or knew where they led. Town records were vague about their creation. It seemed almost as if they simply appeared one day, set firmly into the dusty yellow sandstone walls as if they had always been there. When people first laid eyes on them, there was a moment of curious puzzlement, a brief space in time when their minds knew such a thing was not possible. Then they were accepted, suddenly as familiar as the well in the town square or the steps up to the church. As if the doors refused any further scrutiny than that.

They stood there like a challenge, at once daring and defying anyone to try the handles.

Instinct is a strange thing. Most people obey it without even being aware of it. They just get a ‘funny feeling’ or decide that it’s probably best to leave well enough alone. Instinct is also a vital thing, if you have any plans for staying alive and breathing a while longer, that is. Yet occasionally, just now and then, someone is willing to supress it for a chance of a big payload. Either that, or their instinct is repressed by drugs, or wine, or some trick of the psyche that normally picks them out as due any day now to be the next choice of Natural Selection.

The town records showed only two previous attempts at opening the doors. The first was way back, when the roads were little more than mud-tracks, traversed more by free-roaming chickens and bare-footed children noisily playing and pretending they could not hear their mothers calling than by anything else. An elderly man, bent almost double on his walking stick, suddenly declaimed loudly that he was tired of the children’s racket, that he wished to be elsewhere. He hobbled up to the doors, onlookers watching him with morbid fascination. His veiny hand came to rest on the handle. The old man turned the handle, the motion making a metallic grinding noise in the heat of the afternoon.

This was followed by a snap; muffled and somehow fleshy. The people watched as the old man’s hand slipped from the handle. He bent over double on his walking stick, his head resting on the sand adjacent to his feet, his spine poking through his coarse woollen shirt where it had snapped clean in two; for all the world as if someone had folded him fully in half. Fat droplets of blood fell like rain to the sand. The flies were on him in seconds.

The other attempt came many years later, when the mud roads were cobbles and children no longer played upon it for fear of being run down by the huge and heavy wagon wheels that travelled up and down. A woman had been walking the streets, trying to earn a coin or two selling her body, even though it was long past its best and she was tired of pretending to like the men who used her.

Her wandering had brought her somehow to the doors. The evening was settling in, bringing a chill with it. She wished she had a door of her own she could open. A door she could hide behind, where she could wash, sleep and eat without fear of disturbance. If asked, she probably could not have explained why she suddenly stretched out her hand to try the handle. But there was no one around to ask her, and she was anyway beyond speech by then.

The handle did not grind this time, her touch being altogether more gentle, less insistent than the old man’s had been. She curled her fingers around it gently, squeezing as she turned it.

When they found her next morning, the people knew at once she had been murdered. Her face was mottled black and blue, a mass of bruising. Someone had squeezed her skinny neck so hard it met in the middle; like a grotesque hourglass, except it was life that had been drained here, not grains of sand.

A ripple of horror ran through the townspeople. Yet afterwards, no one made much effort to find the one responsible. The woman had been a street walker, after all. She was always going to meet a bad end. A few people cast uncomfortable glances up at the doors, unable to explain why they felt so uneasy at their presence.

Many years later, the elders sent out another challenge. Whoever could open the doors, thus revealing what lay on the other side, would win a worthy prize indeed!

Word of this reached eventually reached Brassus. The Strong Man in a travelling fair, Brassus felt morally obliged to take up the challenge and to beat the doors, once and for all. He was a strong man, after all. Even so, he knew he was not getting any younger; best to do it while he still had his muscles. While he could properly enjoy all the fruits of his labours.

So it was that Brassus stood before the Great Grey Doors, pondering. It had to be a trick! Any fool could just reach out and use the handles. Travelling the land as he did, he knew a wile or two, was too wary and experienced to be caught out by something so obvious. So he stood, simply staring at the doors; or trying to, they seemed to repel his concentration if he looked too long.

At last decided, Brassus thought he knew the way to win. He made sure to gather a great crowd, to witness the event so that there could be no challenge when time came to claim his prize. The people huddled, expectant yet subdued, knowing in the depths of their souls that something was very amiss. They did as crowds of people always do, as herds of sheep always do; they stayed mindlessly together. And they watched.

They watched, as Brassus resorted to the tactic that had served him well all his life; brute force. He had taken from the travelling fair a crow-bar, used to prise free the huge pegs that held the circus tent in place in the ground. Allowing himself a wide grin, Brassus did not even bother to touch the handles. Instead, he inserted the crow-bar in the hairline gap between the doors, and heaved.

At first, nothing. Brassus heaved again, and this time, tiny splintering sounds ruptured the silence. Small and spiteful chunks of dry, ancient wood flicked out to land at his feet. Brassus grimaced, changing his grip and heaving more.

The wood resisted, its creaking sounding like a roar of outrage.

Brassus grew red in the face, the veins in his neck pulsing and vivid. There came a crisis point when it was not certain which would give; Brassus or the Great Grey Doors. Then a cold wind came wailing, making the people turn away to shield their faces. Brassus gave a cry of triumph, which quickly became a gasp of horror. All went black and cold as the grave. Then the air lightened, the cold lifted and the people dropped their arms from their eyes to look upon the victor.

Brassus was gone. The Great Grey Doors were there, as whole and untouched as they had ever been. No splinters, no cracks, no crow-bar. They were there, more resolute than ever.

Then the weighty silence was broken. A horrible cacophony of screams, of cries of agony, as something splintered; something wet and meaty tore and ripped apart behind the doors. The people found they could not move, their feet stuck fast where they stood. A tangy, metallic odour reached them; one that was familiar yet abhorrent to them. The stench of blood. Something dark began to ooze from under the door, stretching towards them in gore-ridden waves; a tide of blood, leaving arcs of red upon the ground as it ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed.

All at once, the people turned and fled, their feet free of their entrapment. By the time they reached the safety of their own homes, they could not remember why they were running, what it was they had been so afraid of. They were left feeling faintly embarrassed, though some deeper part of them knew otherwise.

*The roads are cement and tarmac now. The town is modern and bright, flooded with electricity, fast-food outlets, restaurants, bars and shops. The town planners did not altogether forsake its history though. Some aspects were kept just as they always were. The old well still stands, protected now, in case some weekend reveller falls down it whilst posing for a photograph. The steps up to the church, and the church itself, both preserved for sight-seers and the religious. And, of course, the Great Grey Doors, set into the wall where people can marvel at the endurance of the wood, wonder at the craftsmanship of the carpenter who had first fitted them.

The planners had tried to protect the doors. They had fitted railings, then a wall of transparent Perspex, even an alarm across its threshold. Nothing worked. The railings simply would not hold in the old and soft brickwork. The Perspex refused to stay upright, falling on its face so many times that in the end it was taken away. The alarm proved useless. Far from sounding at any attempt of tampering, it went off continually, as if something or someone was standing permanent guard at that threshold.

In the end, they had to give up trying to protect them, and just hoped that people would show enough respect to leave them alone, which for the most part, they did. That the town had a higher incidence of missing persons than any in that region did not seem to be in any way connected to the Great Grey Doors. How could it be?

One of the planners had shrugged at their failure to protect the doors, and said “I think they can look after themselves.” The minute he uttered the words, he knew it was a strange thing to say. He felt slightly foolish at having said it. No one laughed at him, or asked him what he meant.There is a plaque set into the wall, a few feet down from the doors. It tells of the legend, not unlike that of the Sword in the Stone, that there is only one who can turn the handle and open the doors.

It is only a matter of time before someone else tries.

S P Oldham

 As he made his slow ascension from the depths of hell, Ramasbat saw that the flames grew smaller, their reach lessened. The stairs that lead the way were visible now; molten squares of smouldering rock, lava glowing crimson beneath a blackened crust. This crust moved, grinding softly at each cloven hoof placed, but Ramasbat never worried it would melt away, that he and his mount would fall. He had fallen once, to land in fiery hands. He could never fall again.

He paused upon one such step, looking up at a different kind of fire; one that glowed roundly in a pale sky. Grinning, his forked tongue flickering, he tasted the ashen-air, the first odours of the world above reaching him. His grin widened; they would never believe their stench was so great that it could reach him here. Arrogance, self-righteousness, superiority; their countless sins amused him.

He spurred his beast on. Eagerly, it obeyed, as keen to climb the stairs and step over the lip as Ramasbat himself. They went on, even as a well of molten lava bubbled and spat beneath them consuming the stairs they had just climbed.

They reached the top to find the last steps missing, offering nowhere for the beast to rest its hooves. They stepped out anyway, Ramasbat and his mount. The lava rose to meet them, buoying them up on a huge red crest that folded in on itself, curling down onto the mountainside almost gracefully, scorching the earth beneath it, rendering the pale sky black as it spat them out.

Ramasbat and the beast should have shrieked and withered, they should have melted and died when they were engulfed by that ruby wave. Yet Ramasbat gave a mighty roar, standing on the rearing beast’s back. He heard the people below cry Volcano! He saw the helpless mortals run, though they knew it to be pointless.

Ramasbat laughed, a sound like thunder. A second wave approached and Ramasbat jumped to it, riding it and every one that followed, laughing and jeering as he raced down the mountainside. A few men, too slow to escape, looked up and saw him approach. He saw the fear, the recognition, the understanding corrupt their flat, mundane features. He saw them burned to nothing as he rode them down. They would never speak of what they had seen.

Nor should they. Ramasbat was not to be announced. He would simply be where he had not been. He would appear where there had been no one. He would exist in hearts and minds yet not in human sight.

He was everywhere and nowhere. He was a myth and a reality, a tale and a truth.

And he was in the world, at last. 

S P Oldham