Hell to Pay - Christmas Free Short Story by S P Oldham

Hell to Pay

Bayard leaned over the frail figure of his mother, where she lay sweating and moaning in the low cot bed, grateful that the light of the smoky candle no longer allowed him to fully see her face, twisted in pain. He had borne anxious witness to that for the last three days.

Bayard worried for his own health as much as his mother’s. The tiny hut they shared meant that they were always close, breathing one another’s air; inhaling one another’s odour. During the daylight hours he was out, working as much as he was able, to bring a pittance home if he was lucky; or payment in other form, perhaps vegetables, eggs, wool; anything that might be put to good use, help them get by. Sometimes, when he was bent to his work, the wind pulling his hair, tugging at his clothes, a gentle sun to take the edge off the chill, he managed to forget for a little while that he lived in a meagre hovel, where a sick mother lay waiting for him to tend to her. Other times he set about his work with grim resentment, half-wishing she would die, freeing him from the burden of providing for her.

He knew that to think such thoughts was to sin against God, yet at times he could not help himself. Times when he had grown so weary, exhaustion hanging off him like a cloak, that the days tumbled into one long round of work and sleep. It was hard to be grateful and give thanks when they had so little to be thankful for.

He leaned over his mother, feeling the heat radiating from her. Fever was setting in. He remembered how, if he took ill as a boy, his mother would make him a broth of vegetables, barley, whatever herbs of the season were available. Sometimes she would lace it with thin strips of chicken, the darker meat of the bird, or perhaps fish, if someone had any to spare or to barter. The little hut would fill with the mouth-watering aromas. He remembered how she would make him eat every scrap. That was what she needed now, he reckoned. A tasty broth with chicken or some other meat to give it flavour, nourish her old bones and help her fight off the fever.

Decided, he pulled the worn woollen blanket up over her thin chest, laid a strip of water-soaked cloth across her forehead, then blew out the smoky candle, leaving her in darkness. She barely seemed to notice.

Bayard ducked behind the blanket that had been strung up to divide the space into two. He had not shared a bed with his mother since he was ten years old. There was very little on his side of the room; a second low cot stuffed with straw, covered by a couple of blankets so threadbare you could see through them, the stub of a candle in a holder on a rickety table under which sat a small wooden pail, a few small cooking and eating items and a small box at the foot of the bed.

Bayard crossed to what had once been his mother’s dowry box, opened the lid and took out his knife, a tool he had made himself and which he kept bright and sharp with regular grinding. It also contained a small sack, rope tied around its neck to hold it closed. He picked it up, folding the knife into it carefully before stuffing the bundle under his tunic, feeling the dull thud of his own heartbeat against the blade.

The box looked empty; Bayard knew better. He felt around the edges of its base until he found a tiny lever which he pulled, allowing a false bottom to rise just enough for him to get his fingers around it, lifting it free. His mother had never explained why the box had such a secret. She never spoke of life before her fall to misery. The dowry it had once contained was long gone, either sold for pennies or worn away to nothing. Now, the secret base made the ideal hiding place for Bayard’s animal trap. He took it out, hoping to catch something in it tonight.

Bayard rarely poached. It was simply not worth it. If caught, punishment was swift and severe. Now, he felt a grim justification for going out to catch a meal. A rush of anger coursed through him; resentment at a way of life that saw the landowners grow fat and lazy while their workforce scraped for every measly mouthful. He and his mother would eat well tomorrow, he vowed silently.

There were a few crumbs of the hard flatbread his mother had made, scattered on the table, He scooped them carefully into his palm, wrapping them in a scrap of cloth which he put into his pocket. He put out the low fire that burned in the hearth, something he would never usually do. Keeping the fire lit meant it was always ready to cook with, as well as being a source of light and warmth. No matter. He did not know how long he might be gone. If caught he might never come back. With his mother too weak to tend to the fire, he could not in any conscience let it burn while he was away. To die wrapped in the embrace of a fever in her own bed was one thing. To perish in the burning agony of a fire as it latched onto a stray length of hay, going on to consume the entire hut and everything in it, was quite another.

He considered taking his cloak down from the peg, deciding against it. It was cold outside but not raining. He did not want anything that might slow him down, catching on thorns, snagging on branches. He stood at the door a moment, listening. The moon was high, the hour was late. If anyone was abroad at this time they were about a business as questionable as his own. No honest soul would be out now. The thought was oddly reassuring.

As quietly as he could, Bayard lifted the wooden slat which lay across the door, opening it just wide enough to slip out. He had no way of securing the door from this side. All he could do was pull it shut. He prayed that no one saw him leave; that his mother was alone inside, with no one to protect her or the few measly belongings they owned.

He went on his way, rounding the huddle of small huts, gaining as much distance as he could. Once free of the settlement he relaxed a little, his tense shoulders loosening.

The bright moon was on the one hand some help; on the other a hindrance. It allowed him to see quite clearly, which also meant that he could quite clearly be seen. Bearing this in mind, he hugged the ditches and hedgerows, walking under cover wherever he could. Now and then he started at the sound of an animal fleeing at his approach. The busy snuffle of a hedgehog, the flutter of small wings. Once he even had to change his route, coming across a large and determined badger that had no intention of letting him pass. Wary of its teeth and claws, mindful of its warning growl, he stepped aside.

An owl hooted somewhere overhead as he left the leafy pathway to step under the canopy that was the edge of the forest. His heart began to beat a little faster. This was where the danger lay. There could be no reasonable excuse for a man wandering the King’s forests in the small hours, a dagger, a trap and a sack folded at his breast.

Bayard gritted his teeth. He had come too far now to change his mind. He pressed on, eyes straining against the sudden gloom, his senses alive, alert to danger and opportunity in equal measure. He slipped his hand under his tunic, withdrawing only the blade. His tread slow and soft, Bayard winced at every snapped twig underfoot, every leafy swish as he brushed against a shrub he had not known was there. He experienced a moment of genuine panic when he came face to face with a deer, the animal as surprised as he was himself. They shared a silent, shocked exchange, staring into each other’s eyes. The deer was far too large a prize for Bayard to attempt. Even if he managed to slay it, he could never carry it home, nor explain it away if anyone asked where the sudden plentiful supply of meat and skins had come from. As if the deer read this in his face, it gave a snort, its breath steaming in the cold air, before turning at speed, vanishing like a ghost into the wilderness.

Bayard took a deep breath, steadying his nerve. As tempting as venison might be, it was not what he had come for. Boar were too fearsome for a man alone. Bayard hoped he would not accidentally stumble upon one, nor a pack of wolves, though none had been heard in these parts for years.

There were other things said to walk the forest at night. He shuddered violently, forcing his thoughts upon another path. Alone in the woods at dead of night was not the time to dwell upon the spirits and ghouls that were supposed to roam there. “Stories to keep us poor folk away, that’s all!” Bayard said aloud. At his words, something small and fast scurried across the forest floor, too quick to identify. Bayard started, his skin beginning to prickle.

“Pull yourself together man, or all you’ll catch is a chill!” He admonished himself. He went on, deeper into the forest, straining his eyes in the gloom, tripping over countless roots, he almost fell headlong once, making him curse under his breath. He stopped, looking ahead to find that there was an open patch not much further on, where the trees thinned, allowing moonlight to stream down into the space below. He headed for it like a thirsty man makes for water, the darkness beginning to feel heavy against his back, as if it was a solid presence.

It took all his willpower not to stumble into the clearing and bask in the light of the moon. He held back, stopping to watch for any activity.

As far as he could tell, there was nothing moving there. Cautiously, he stepped into the space, scanning the ground. He almost gave up and turned round in despair, when he spotted the tell-tale sign of rabbit droppings.

He sighed heavily in relief. The hard part was yet to come, but at least he had real quarry now. The spot he chose to lay his trap, lacing it with the crumbs, was slightly off centre of the clearing. All ready, he stepped back into the darkness, hoping he was far away enough to encourage the rabbits, if any were around, to step into the light just as he had done.

In hopeful anticipation of hearing his trap snap shut, Bayard sought for a comfortable spot to sit down. He knew he had a long wait on his hands. There were a few fallen trees here, long since toppled, that had become homes for insects, mosses and lichens. He scouted around, looking for one that would not be too damp to sit on.

His hand brushed against something cold and unexpected as he eased himself down. It didn’t feel natural to him, not made of nature. Cautiously, he reached out a hand to feel for the object in the gloom.

His fingers traced the hard outline of something smooth and thin, shaped like a half-moon. It appeared to be buried in the wood. Puzzled, Bayard let his hand explore the tree trunk further, his rough hands snagging on more of the same. Realisation dawning, he snatched back his hand, wiping it frantically down his tunic. This was a wishing tree; where people took a coin that had been in the possession of a sick friend or relative and pressed it deep into the dead wood in the hope that it would take on the disease in place of their loved one. Such trees were said to be possessed of magical powers, forces beyond human understanding. They were almost sacred in the minds of the people.

He had just run his hand all over those coins. Thank the gods he had not accidentally dislodged one, transferring some malady onto himself. To remove a coin was something only a fool or a madman would ever do. It was said that if a thief chanced his luck and took out a coin, he would release the sickness it had held trapped in the tree and fall ill himself; fatally so.

Bayard sat back, making the sign of the cross in protection against such a fate. He would not sit here any longer, he would find somewhere else to rest.

Hours passed. When the first faint light of dawn stretched down into the clearing, Bayard had to give up. He could just make it back without being seen if he was quick. He stood, stretching and yawning, deciding on a whim that he would leave the trap where it sat. He would come back again tonight in case it caught something while he was gone.

As he turned to leave, a faint beam of light lit upon the wishing tree, showing for the briefest of moments the ridges of buried coins, protruding like rows of tiny headstones. They were dull and faded. One coin stood out amongst them. One gleaming, silver coin that caught Bayard’s eye for a heartbeat, before the light was extinguished by a passing cloud.

Bayard made his way home more quickly in the improving light. All the way back, that coin shone bright in his mind.

*

It rained all day, heavy and relentless. Bayard struggled to relight the fire, the rain finding its way down the chimney. When at last it took it was so smoky it brought on a coughing fit which made him open the door and stagger out into the rain for breath. When it cleared, he made a sparse pottage, devoured it hungrily, taking a bowl to his mother.

She had not wanted it. He sat her upright, allowing her thin back to rest against his thigh as he attempted to spoon the food into her mouth. She spat it out, pushing his hand away weakly, muttering incoherently. He gave up, managing to get her to drink only a few drops of cold camomile tea he had left to steep, before letting her rest undisturbed.

He was exhausted. There would be little work to find today. He planned to return to the forest tonight, to inspect the trap. Securing the door against a growing wind, he hung his damp tunic on a peg beside the fire before curling up beneath the thin blankets on his low cot. Sleep claimed him almost immediately.

*

His dreams were strange; rapid, feverish. He woke with a start, eyes flashing open in a panicked glare. The sounds of his nightmare had followed him into wakefulness; a baleful moaning, long and drawn-out, reaching a wailing screech that had him covering his ears.

There was a deep drawing in of breath before the wailing began again. Bayard dropped his hands from his ears, understanding that it was not the hellish cacophony of his dreams, but a sound rooted in reality. Here, in this hut.

It was his mother. Bayard went to her, pulling back the dividing blanket to find her hanging half-out of her bed, the blanket bunched and knotted at her feet. The sound she was making was so dreadful that for a moment Bayard was scared to approach her. He shook his head in disbelief. The thought of being afraid of her was ridiculous. She was a frail, thin, aging woman, so ill she was bed-ridden. There was nothing to fear here.

He went to her, putting aside his misgivings. Gently, he guided her back into the bed, surprised at the strength of her resistance. He made her as comfortable as he could, her chest rising and falling too quickly, her ribs visible through the thin fabric of her shift, soaked with sweat. Bayard found the scrap of cloth he had laid across her forehead last night. He soaked it again, wringing out the drops onto her neck and chest, curls of steam rising, before once more placing it across her head, hoping its cooling affect would soothe her. He spooned the last of the camomile tea into her, having to push up her chin to persuade her to swallow.

She quietened gradually, muttering words breathily; words he did not recognise. Strange sounds he had never heard before, which left his skin crawling. He put it down to the effects of a raging fever, making her speak gibberish, that was all.

When she was subdued, he drew the blanket up over her, adding his own, making her as warm as he could. He put out her candle, afraid she might knock it over if she had another fevered attack. He drew the blanket curtain on her, then crossed to the fire. He took down his tunic, relishing the warmth of it against his body, missing it the moment it dissipated. This time he left the fire burning, stacking another log for it to lick at greedily. He could not risk being unable to light it again when he came home. He needed it ready to cook whatever prize he may have bagged, intending to make a quick job of skinning it as soon as he was inside.

The torrential rain was cover enough. Bayard dared to go through the settlement this time, confident of not being seen. Trying not to slip in the mud, he traced his path back to the forest, eager to be under the shelter of the trees, running where he could though the ground was treacherous. From the corner of his eye, he saw shapes flit by; animals, as keen to be out of this weather as he was. He never saw where they went, seeming to disappear into the air. Bayard did not care, his only focus the forest and the trap within.

He ducked into the trees with relief, his clothes sodden, sticking to him and making him shiver with cold, sucking unpleasantly at his skin with every step. He wiped raindrops from his face, shaking his head like a wild animal.

The forest felt more alive in the rain. Through every gap, a drop found its way down to the ground, rapping upon the greenery like tiny, unseen drummers. Leaves bounced and jostled as the rain hit them. Impossible to tell if that was a bird scurrying out of his way up ahead. All he could do was make for the clearing and hope that his trap was full.

It seemed to him that the rain began to ease the deeper he went; or perhaps it was just that the forest canopy was thicker and more protective. Either way, by the time he had reached the edge of the clearing the drummers had stopped, the air was clear and faint light painted the area a pale shade of grey.

It was enough to see in. Enough to show him that he had been successful. A wave of relief and gladness washed over him, happiness an unfamiliar feeling these days. Whatever was in the trap was already dead, no need for him to finish it off.

He went to it, expecting to find the forlorn little body of a rabbit. Instead, he was amazed to find he had caught a large pheasant. He wasted no time, bagging the bird, lifting his trap and making to leave.

That was when a single bright beam of sunlight broke through clouds, bathing the clearing in warm, golden light. Bayard stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes to enjoy the sun’s blessing. It felt heavenly to him. When he opened them again, he saw the light had spread, somehow reaching the edges of the clearing. He watched as it swept across the wishing tree, making the dull copper coins shine fleetingly, lingering on the silver coin which seemed to him to be standing proud; glinting, glittering with temptation.

It sparkled on, irresistible. There were no coins to be found at home in his humble dwelling. Bayard and his mother were dirt poor, the last of their few pennies gone months ago. How could he put a coin into the tree in the hopes that it might take his mother’s illness with it, if he had no coin at all?

He could no more prevent himself than he could stop the rain. Bayard’s fingers found the coin, pulled it too easily free, as if it had just been waiting for him. He stood, staring stupidly down at it, more valuable than anything he had ever in his life held before.

He gripped it tight in one hand, tucking the trap into his tunic, dropping his knife into the sack with his prize, turning for home. By the time he had reached the border of the forest all trace of sunlight was gone. The rain hammered down like a punishment.

*

Bayard stumbled into the hut like a drunkard. Barring the door, he looked down at the coin, which he had held so tight it had made an impression on his skin. Dropping his things where he stood, still in his dripping tunic, he took it in to show his mother.

She did not so much as turn her head at his approach. Encouraged by his new-found treasure, he lit her candle so she might see better. It was not until he had pressed the coin into her unresisting hands that she finally acknowledged him; tilting her face up to him as her eyes filled with tears, her horrified expression chilling him to the bone.

Exasperation became swift anger at her reaction. He clamped his large hand around her small one, making her grip the coin.

“Can nothing I do please you, mother? Are you content to just slip away despite my efforts? Do I not deserve more from you than that? Not even a thank you?”

He became aware that he was leaning into her, his mouth a snarl, bare inches away from her face. She was white with fear, her eyes searching, as if incapable of recognising this angry man as her son. Ashamed, he let her go, watching her sink into the grubby bed.

Taking a deep breath, Bayard forced his frustration aside. He took his mother’s hand again, more gently this time.

“Just hold it for tonight. Keep it close to you. I have found a wishing tree. Tomorrow, I will take it from you and bury it once more, burying your illness with it. Trust me.”

Even as he spoke those last words, he doubted himself. The coin was so clean and bright, of such value. He was not sure he would be able to simply put it back where he had found it.

He looked down to see his mother’s eyes scan his face knowingly. She said nothing.

Pheasant was a rare prize. Bayard knew that the meat needed to be hung for a few days to be at its best, but he had no time for that. He skinned the bird, removing its innards which he set aside in a dish, keeping the finest feathers to use for fishing. Congratulating himself on his luck, he filled a cooking pot with water, herbs and a handful of barley, then sliced a hefty chunk of the breast meat into it. His hunger making him careless the knife slipped, sinking into the flesh of his palm. Bayard yelped, unable to prevent his blood from dripping into the pot before he dropped the knife with a clatter, clasping his hand and cursing under his breath.

His mother cackled loudly. Bayard froze, turning to look at the blanket hanging still and unmoving, hiding her from view. She could not have seen what had just happened. Even if she had, she would never laugh at his pain.

The play of the candle’s flame sent shadows dancing across the blanket. It must have been the shock of his injury. Bayard swore he could see tiny figures flitting across the cloth. The hairs on his neck rising, he turned away, tending to his wound. It had spoiled the impression that the coin had left there. All he could do was wrap a strip of cloth about it, tying it as tightly as he could, one end in his hand, the other gripped between his teeth as he made a knot. The pain was sharp, making him wince.

Only then did he hang the rest of the meat, wrapping it about with strands of hay and string, the bowl full of innards suspended beneath it to catch the blood and keep it safe from rats.

While the meal cooked, Bayard stripped himself bare, setting his clothes to hang around the fire, steam filling the room, releasing the cloth of its odour. He needed a wash, longed for one. He fetched the old pail, setting it outside the door. It would soon fill. Feeling oddly vulnerable, his blankets on his mother’s bed, his clothes too wet to wear, he stood rubbing his arms and legs, trying to warm his bones.

When he brought the pail back inside, he was pleased to see it was more than half full. He set it as close to the fire as he dared, to take the cold edge off the water. The stew was bubbling, thickening nicely, He gave it a stir, breathing in deep as its aroma reached him.

He sat cross-legged on the damp floor, allowing the fire to soothe him as he tried to be patient and let the meat cook. He felt himself become drowsy, his eyes drooping. Trying to stay awake, he thought through what he would do tomorrow. He would go back to the forest, set his trap again, in the same place. He would put the coin back into the wishing tree.

He would not. He could not return the coin…

He would lift the burden of the illness that was wasting his mother away to nothing. He would come home with more fresh meat to fortify them both, with a clean conscience and a glad heart.

Something thudded to the floor behind him. He swivelled where he sat, watching as the coin his mother had been clutching rolled unsteadily towards him, under the hanging blanket, across the grimy floor. It came to a stop in front of him. Just standing there, on its edge, as steadily as if someone was holding it. Heart pounding, Bayard reached for it.

It fell flat, as if it had dropped dead where it stood. Hesitantly, Bayard picked it up. It seemed to have lost its shine. Perhaps it was just the way the light fell here. He stood, taking it to the fire, letting the orange flames illuminate it. It glinted dully; no more special than any other coin he had seen wedged into the old tree trunk. Bayard frowned, puzzled.

A fat bubble in the pail of water burst with a loud pop. Alarmed, Bayard grabbed the handle, hot to the touch, pulling the pail away from the fire. It was not so close that the water could have boiled.

He glanced again at the blanket curtain. No sound came from behind it. She could wait while he washed. Surprising though it was that it had reached such a heat, and so quickly, the thought of a wash in good hot water was too much to resist. He set the coin carefully, reverently, in the dowry box, for safekeeping.

He had to add some cold rainwater to the pail before it reached a temperature he could tolerate. He dipped his hands in, savouring the heat as it seeped into his skin. Grabbing a handful of hay, he dipped it into the water and scrubbed himself clean.  

By the time he was finished, the smell of the boiling meat was making him ravenous. He thought about taking a blanket from his mother’s bed so that he would not have to eat naked. But when he leaned to stir the pot again, to prevent the meat from sticking, he saw that his clothes were already dry.

Bone dry. Impossibly dry. So dry that when he pulled them on, they cracked as if they might split, reminding him of the dry earth of the drought when he was just a boy. He was perplexed, but he was hungry more. The meat of the pheasant fell apart when he stirred it, setting the cooking pot on the little table. He ladled out two bowls, putting his mother’s aside to cool while he ate. Stomach rumbling, he spooned the first mouthful in.

A sound like hissing came from behind the curtain. Bayard chewed slowly, determined to let nothing spoil the best meal he’d had in weeks. He took another mouthful. The hissing became a growl, like no beast Bayard ever heard before. Slowly, he lowered the spoon.

He approached the curtain, knowing how stupid it was to be afraid of his own mother. When he pulled it aside, his mother was sitting up in her bed, looking better than she had done in days. She smiled at him, “Do we have something to eat?”

Bayard found he could not smile back. He took in her dramatic recovery, the pinkness returning to her cheeks, the spark returning to her eyes. He should be dancing for joy. He should fall to his knees to give thanks. Something stopped him. Something that he could neither name nor describe.

“I’ll fetch you some.” He said uncertainly.

He brought her the dish of stew. It had not had time to cool, yet it seemed to him even hotter than when he had ladled it out. He knelt at her side, the stew hissing where it touched the sides of the bowl as he stirred.

“Mother, it is scalding. Let me cool it for you.”

“I am hungry.”

“You will burn your mouth.”

“I am hungry. Pass me the bowl!”

She grabbed it with both hands, wrenching it free, sending globules of fatty liquid spitting out onto her chest. Bayard watched, horrified, as her skin inflamed, dozens of tiny blisters appearing.

“Mother, look! Look at what you are doing!”

She ignored him, oblivious to the pain. She spooned the stew into her mouth, devouring it like a debauched woman. Even as she ate, the skin around her mouth began to blister, her lips becoming blackened. Steam issued like smoke, billowing in small clouds from her nostrils like the ancient dragons in old tales.

Bayard stumbled backward, entangling himself in the blanket which wreathed around his neck like an arm. He struggled with it, finally pulling it free of the rope that held it aloft, throwing it to the ground where it sat like a wounded animal.

His mother had finished eating. She was licking the bowl clean, a grotesquely long tongue finding every last scrap that remained. Bayard, rooted to the spot, could not take his eyes from her. She grinned up at him, handing him the bowl with a pleading expression.

“Is there more?”

His mother ate it all. The stew that was left in the pot, as well as the bowl he had set out for himself. He found he had lost his appetite, unable to eat as he watched his mother consume it all. When she was done, she complained of still being hungry.

“There is nothing else mother. You ate the last of it.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“There is more.” Her tone was final, her eyes glancing meaningfully at the hanging pheasant.

“You cannot expect me to cook it all? I have put it aside for the days ahead mother. We cannot…”

“No need to cook it!” her voice was deep and somehow warped, cutting him off, “Pass it here boy!”

Had things been normal, Bayard would have denied her request. He might have put it down to her fever talking, or her raging hunger. But a dark suspicion had begun to grow in Bayard’s mind. Instead of reasoning with her further, he took down the raw pheasant and gave it to her.

The moment her hands fell upon the hay wrapped around the bird it began to ignite, singeing the raw meat beneath it. Bayard edged away as his mother gorged herself, ripping off lumps of meat, swallowing them whole. Dark specks of the pheasant’s blood joined the burned, blistered patches around her mouth, spattering her face and neck. Small bones cracked and splintered. She tore off the limply hanging head, swallowing it whole. Nauseated, Bayard looked away, covering his ears with his hands to block out the sickening sounds of her feasting.

When the bird was gone, she ate the innards, shovelling them in as they twisted and slipped through her bony fingers. She washed it down with the blood that had pooled in the bowl. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she threw the bowl down, nothing more of interest in it.

She turned to look at Bayard fully, grinning weirdly. Bits of flesh and bone were stuck between her teeth, a phlegmy hanging of bloodied drool oozed from the corner of her mouth.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she slurred, collapsing into a wheezy laugh.

Bayard hardly dared move. It was only when she turned her gaze away from him that he found the courage to retrieve the blanket from the floor and hang it over the rope, drawing it as wide as he could to keep her out of sight.

Hands trembling, he sat on the edge of his cot, mind racing. His mind went back to when he was wandering through that forest late at night, all the scuttling, scurrying things that went before him; all the flitting shadows; the screeches and shrieks. He believed now that it was not small woodland creatures that went before him but something else; something hellish. He had been a fool to venture into the cursed place. There were rumours aplenty that it was haunted, that strange beasts walked among the trees when night fell. He could believe now that those stories were not merely meant to keep poachers such as himself out of the King’s forests; that there was some truth to them.

Too late now to regret it. There was only one course of action left to him. He would have to take back the coin, bury it in the wishing tree and hope that it would be enough to rid himself and his mother, his innocent, injured mother, of the demon he had brought home with him.

He pulled on his tattered boots, stuffed the trap into his tunic and wrapped his cloak about him. Then he went to the dowry box to retrieve the coin. It would not open. The lid refuse to yield to his touch, even though he had opened it a thousand times before. Panicked, he flicked the hidden lever, hoping that might force something to give way. It would not move; stuck fast, as if rusted into place.

“You cannot have it.”

He could see the outline of his mother’s shape through the hanging blanket, her bare feet below it, where it did not cover her. They were oddly misshapen, the nails thicker and greyer. Hair grew round her ankles like a priest’s tonsure. Horrified, Bayard stood. If he could not get the coin out then he would take it, box and all. He made for the door, reaching with his bandaged hand to lift the bar out of its bracket.

“No!” A shriek so loud it made Bayard cringe. “No! You will not return me to that mouldering prison! You will not!”

The hem of the blanket took on an amber glow. Bayard watched as it spread across its width, a sooty band ahead of it. Dirty brown smoke began to billow as the blanket burst suddenly into flame. He had the briefest glimpse of a figure standing behind it, but it was no longer his mother. This thing had grown tall, its features stretched and deformed as if melting. Its arms were raised, nails like blades raking the air. Its mouth opened wide.

That was all Bayard saw. He forced his legs into action, careless this time of whether he was seen. He ran despite the downpour and the sodden ground underfoot; even though he was near blind with rain and fear. Only once did he dare look behind him. What he saw spurred him on even faster.

The burning figure followed, the ground scorching where its cloven feet touched. The deluge did nothing to quench the flames that should have consumed it, but instead seemed to come from it. It was not panting, ribs heaving for breath, as Bayard was. It was striding towards him, a devilish determination to its gait.

Bayard clutched the box to him as he ran, its hard edges digging into his belly. He reached the forest, fled into it, his feet flying as he leapt over fallen logs, branches, protruding roots. He could not afford to fall. Already the beast had reached the forest, the gloom behind him lit with a dark flame.

On he ran, eyes wide, searching for the wishing tree, the fallen trunk from which he had taken the coin. He found it with a sob of relief. All he had to do now was open the box.

It would not give into him, no matter how hard he tried. Throwing constant glances the way of the approaching glow, he threw the box down in one last desperate bid to get it open.

It gave a loud crack. He seized it, seeing that it was not yet breached. He lifted it over his head with both hands, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot through his injured palm. He slammed the box down hard and this time it worked. The lid fractured and split, popping open to reveal the coin inside.

He could hear the footsteps of the approaching demon now; could smell burned wood and soil as it came ever closer. Hands shaking, Bayard grabbed the dull, lifeless coin.

“Too late, you paltry whoreson. Too late!” It roared.

Bayard knelt at the tree; coin held poised over the empty space he had taken it from. The beast crouched on its hind legs. It pounced; its vicious, claw-like hands ready to rake his skin, to flay him alive.

The coin slotted into place. Bayard cringed, expecting the blow of demonic hands to reduce him to cinders where he knelt.

He crouched there an age, the rain pelting his back, before he realised that nothing had happened. The forest had fallen quiet in the way places do after they have been ravaged and ill-used. The place held a sense of foreboding he had not noticed before, yet it seemed that the only living thing there now was him, Bayard.

He unfolded himself slowly, lifting his arms from around his head to look about him. There was no horrible corpse at his feet, no dead, twisted minion of the Devil. Nothing to show that it had ever existed other than a few smouldering leaves and a foul, sulphurous stench in the air. Nothing at all to see but the forest, rain bouncing off the leaves, the clearing which sat in a shade of pale grey, and the wishing tree, trunk full of dull coins except for one, which sat shiny and clean among them.

Bayard stood hurriedly, stepping away from it. Even as he looked, a sudden shaft of sunlight filled the clearing with brightness, washing it clean of all colour except that of the sun. The light moved, tracing its way to the wishing tree, where it swept over the buried coins that stood like rows of headstones; one standing proud and dazzling in the glow.

Bayard’s blood ran cold. He saw now that this could not be pure, clean light. It could not be the sun, bathing the place in its mellow warmth. How could it be; when the sky was full of clouds so dark that midday was the same as midnight and had been for weeks? When it had done nothing but pour cold, hard rain with barely a glimpse of the sun, much less the blessing of its luminescence, for all this time? He must have been out of his mind with hunger and worry to have not seen it for what it was before now.

This light had come from a different place. An image of the burning, incandescent figure that had chased him burst into his mind, making him shudder. He turned to look at the clearing, where he had snared the pheasant, wondering now if he had caught it at all. The thought that some other force might have snapped its neck and left it for him to find made him go colder still. His mother had eaten it.

His mother. He turned and ran, discarding his cloak that had become heavy with rain. His heart filled with a sense of urgent dread as he turned off the grassy pathway, down into the little settlement of huts. A column of smoke rose ahead. Bayard groaned, hoping against hope that what he feared was not true.

A chain of people had gathered outside his hut, passing on pails of water. He could see now that it was alight at one end, where his mother slept.

“Get out of my way! Out of my way!” Bayard bellowed, pushing past the orderly line. He forced his way inside, took in the burning cot, the flames licking up the walls, trying to reach the thatched roof overhead. He saw the small, frail shape of a body in the bed, charred and smoking, hair aflame, droplets of blood dripping from an unburned hand that dangled over the side.

“Come Bayard, it is too late! We couldn’t not save your mother, rest her soul, but we may yet save your home. Come now!” A pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders, a second encircled his waist. He was escorted awkwardly outside, left to stand in the rain and watch as they pointlessly fought the fire. Nothing touched it. It licked up the walls and along the roof, taking hold with a small wumph as if in triumph. The villagers were growing tired, their arms aching, shaking their heads in amazement.

“I have never seen such a fire,” an old woman observing the commotion said, “it is not natural, if you ask me.”

“No one asked you, old woman,” Bayard said resignedly. He turned to the line of hastily organised fire-fighters, shouted, “Give up! Go home, back to your dry hearths. You stand no chance of beating these flames. Just look at them!” He gestured. As if playing to the crowd a huge flame leapt high, bending and whirling in the wind.

“What if the flames reach our huts?” A woman demanded, “What then? We can’t just leave it to burn!”

“It won’t touch you. It wants this hut. My hut. My mother. Me. That is all it is greedy for. Go home all of you. Say your prayers that they may keep you safe.”

The crowd swapped worried glances, looking at Bayard oddly. They began to trail away, casting furtive backward glances at the fire which had begun to settle. Strange, they said, how the flames outlined the hut like that, as if they wanted to contain it.

Bayard stopped one of the last men as he trailed away, his neighbour Edgar, who had known since they were infants together.

“Edgar, a moment,” he said, his hand on the man’s arm.

Edgar stopped, eyeing Bayard guardedly, “What is it?”

“You can see I have nothing left in the world,” Bayard gestured to the burning hut, “Don’t worry, I don’t want much from you. Just a candle, a flame and a promise, if you will?”

Edgar frowned, “I have a candle. Look, forgive me Bayard for saying this, but there are plentiful flames here for the taking.”

“I don’t want a light from there. It must be a clear flame, a pure flame. I will not take it from there.”

Edgar, bemused, raised his hands, palms flat, “Easy brother, be easy. I will fetch you a clean flame, as you say. But what of the promise?”

Bayard sighed, choosing his words with great care, “In the forest there is a log where rows of coins are buried. A wishing tree, no less. There may be more than one such tree, I don’t know, but this one lies near a clearing where a strange light shines.” Edgar made to interrupt him. Bayard waved it away, “You will know it when you see it, because one coin stands out among the rest. It is beautiful when you first see it. Radiant, glowing, full of possibility. Edgar, listen well. You must not give into it! Do not be tempted to lift the coin out of the wood, do you hear me? Anyway, I mean to drive it in so far that no one will be able to free it.”

“A radiant coin? A strange light? Bayard, are you feverish? It is the shock. Come and sit a while, let me…”

“I am not feverish! I don’t need to sit down! I know what I must do. I brought this hellish blaze home to my mother! Listen to me man, I need your help! Your brother works at the shipyard, doesn’t he? You must go to him, get from him a gallon of pitch. When you have it, you must find the wishing tree with the buried silver coin and cover it, do you hear me? Bury it deep in the pitch so that no one will ever be tempted to take the damned thing again! Promise me Edgar. Promise me!”

Edgar looked at Bayard with pitying eyes, but when he spoke, he agreed, “I promise Bayard. I give you my word.”

“Good,” Bayard said, his voice hoarse, “Good. Thank you. Goodbye my friend.” He laid a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, then turned, to leave the burning hut and his puzzled friend standing in the rain.

*

Bayard was exhausted by the time he reached the wishing tree. The silvery sparkle of the coin no longer had any power to entrance him. Instead, it brought forth a deep anger, a well of resentment made greater by fear.

On his way out of the village he had found a large, heavy square of rock which had come loose from the stone-built wall there. It fitted the shape of his hand comfortably, with enough weight to do what he intended.

He stood over the coin now, gripped the stone firmly, and brought it down with a hard strike, on top of the coin. The first few blows did nothing. Bayard adjusted his stance, then tried again. This time, to his alarm, sparks flew with each strike. Enraged, Bayard gave into his fury, bringing the stone down again and again on the coin, driving it deep into the wood even as he imagined it was the head of the beast he was pounding, each split and crack in the wood a fresh cut in its monstrous features.

Then it was done. He stopped, gasping, spittle dribbling, looking down at his work. Some of the surrounding coins were bent now, but the silver coin was deep in the trunk of the wishing tree. Edgar would still see enough of its silver if he came close enough. He hoped he would keep his word about covering it in pitch, but Bayard had done all he could now, to make it safe.

There was only one thing remaining.

The trap made a bulky shape beneath his tunic. He pulled it out, wincing as it came free of his skin, driven into it as he had driven the coin into the wood. Small spots of blood began to dot his tunic, but he was past caring.

He strode into the clearing, where almost immediately a strange grey light lit up the space, turning to yellow, then to gold as it gained strength. Bayard did not watch as it sought out the wishing tree. He was beyond that now.

He placed the trap, setting it with an expert hand. Then he lay down in the clearing, closed his eyes to the otherworldly brightness, to rest his head upon the trigger arm.

*

At the edge of the forest, all that could be heard was a hard snap, as if a heavy animal had trodden upon a brittle stick. Slowly, life returned, beginning with the crawling creatures, the scurrying rodents, the chittering birds. Sometime later a deer passed by, stopping under the skirting canopy of the trees to look down at the village. A column of grey smoke twisted into the air. The deer wrinkled its delicate nose, chewing constantly as it turned away, the lives of humans of no consequence.

Edgar slept fitfully that night. Bayard had been right. The fire, the greatest fear of everyone in the huddled cluster of dwellings, had not strayed further than his own hut. By the time morning came, all that was left of it, and of his mother, was a smoking pile of ashes.

It wasn’t dread of the fire that had made Edgar restless. When he finally took to his bed, all he could see was the beaten expression on Bayard’s face. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that his goodbye had been final.

He kept going over what he had said in his mind, all that talk of silver coins and strange lights. He began to regret making that strange promise about coating a wishing tree in a layer of pitch, but he was a man of his word. He would set out for the shipyard tomorrow, whatever the weather, and fetch some back.

He began to doze, flinching in surprise as the image of an enchanting coin flashed into his mind, silver as frost, spinning and twisting before him, twinkling invitingly in the light of a blazing sun only to come to rest buried deep in the wood of an ancient tree stump.

In his sleep, Edgar stretched out, as if to touch it. Such a coin must have value more than he had ever owned. If only he could wrest it free.

S P Oldham