The Journal of Elliot Wallis, Chapter2 A million questions swarmed like flies in my mind, questions for Ellie, for the patrons of the teashop, for the owners of the handful of businesses that clustered around the village green; hell, I had questions for the whole damned community! Good sense prevailed, however; I’d seen a hundred small communities like this the world over, and I’d seen how the population closed ranks in hard times, so I fought the urge to return to the teashop and resolved to scout out the territory instead. The village lay in a long narrow crescent that followed the natural curve of the bay in which was built the harbor, home to twenty or so fishing vessels. Every house on the West side of the road backed on to the harbor walk, a wide swathe of cobbles that served as marketplace and trade station for the fishermen each morning, and became a walk of some beauty as the sun sank low in the evenings, turning the sea to molten gold and glazing the harbor wall with fire. I had taken the walk myself on two previous evenings, marveling at the fact that such beauty had gone unnoticed by the rest of the world, and that this little haven was not full of sightseers and tourists. The East side was no less picturesque, its homes having an unobstructed view of mile upon mile of farmland dotted with the occasional homestead or red- painted barn, stretching away to rolling, tree- covered hills at the horizon. It was, in a word, idyllic; none of the back to back housing that was so popular in the cities, no dirty red brick and garishly painted doors, just a single, sweeping curve of brown stone and thatch, clear vistas and clean sea air. At the South end of town stood the old churchyard, final resting place for countless generations of the same families that lived here still, and the place where I would meet Cole Barton this evening. The little church was built of the same brown stone as the rest of the village, its West wall dominated by an unusually large and ornate stained glass window, and its well- tended grounds littered with markers of all sizes; the South- West corner, however, was devoted solely to the ancestors of the most influential family in town, the Cavetts, and it was their name that had brought me here. Opposite the churchyard stood the train station, a single short platform with a ticket booth, serviced by one spur of track that terminated here. Twice a day, an engine would pull up to the platform with a single carriage in tow, pick up a handful of passengers and take them to the nearest big town, thirty miles distant. It was rare to see more than half a dozen board the train, and even rarer to see an unfamiliar face exit the carriage. Every other day saw the addition of a freight wagon on the morning train, delivering supplies for the few stores here, and leaving loaded with a smattering of saleable goods from the village. I had walked the South end a number of times, as I was lodging with a family less than fifty yards from the station, so I turned North to view less familiar territory. Stepping away from the tea shop, I first headed across the oval village green, noting the standard rural fare that stood around the edge; the tea shop, a baker, butcher, general store and grocer, and, of course, the obligatory village pub. The pub’s name, The Night’s Watch, struck me as slightly unusual, but in every other sense, this was the same layout you would see in any village on our fair isle. At the centre of the green stood the old water pump, redundant and rusting since the introduction of running water to the village, and next to it was a large, rough- hewn and jet- black stone set on a square plinth of polished marble, doubtless placed in memory of some great or tragic event in village history. I walked over to view the memorial, checking all four sides for any indication of why this was placed here. On the North face of the plinth, I noted four empty screw holes where a plate had been removed. I ran my fingers lightly over the vacant space, feeling the roughness where flakes of marble had loosened as the plate had been pried away. The black stone radiated heat from the sun, now high in the late- morning sky and hot enough to make me sweat. The unusual nature of this memorial and the haste with which the marker had been removed sparked more questions, so I jotted a quick reminder in my notebook to ask someone about it at the first opportunity. Loosening my tie, I set off up the road. The North end was much the same as the south; brown stone and thatch, following the curve of the bay, but as I reached the last of the houses, the road swept away East to curl around the base of a fairly large and steep hill. A small dirt track wound upwards from the edge of the road, and I could see the tail end of it like a brown scar on the green cap of the hill; a trek to the top would offer a good view of the whole village, so I decided to follow the trail. At several points, the trees crowded close enough to the path to offer a brief respite from the baking heat of the sun, but still, by the time I reached the top, my shirt was wringing with sweat, clinging to my back and arms, and the dust from the dry earth under my feet burned my nostrils and stung my throat. The view, however, was spectacular. I stood atop a sheer cliff, one hundred feet above a stony swatch of beach that stretched from the harbor wall and away as far as the eye could see to the North, curling out into the sea just enough to allow me to note that the hills met the beach further along. The clear blue August skies reflected brightly on the water, and the mid afternoon sun danced and pulsed with the beat of the waves as gulls swooped and dived below me. I shielded my eyes and scanned the empty horizon from left to right until my gaze fell on the tiny scrap of village; from here, it looked like two golden- brown lines, widening at the centre, with a thread of grey running through the middle and away, due south from one end, north- east from the other, until it was lost in the tangle of trees or hidden by the bulk of a hill. A secondary artery of glinting black iron led in from the north- east to end at the station platform. The sense of isolation was heady, palpable, and for a moment I felt utterly lost. “Ye lookin’ fer the clowns?” said a rheumy old voice from behind, startling me. I spun around, gawping with surprise at the wizened old figure leaning heavily on a walking cane not ten yards from where I stood. “The clowns?” he enquired again, “Ye know, ‘em fellas wi’ the tattoos an’ silk trousers. I calls ‘em clowns, ‘cuz they look funny.” Cackling softly, he planted himself on an old tree stump. “How did you…?” I stammered, looking down the hill, then back to his cane. “Oh, I’m always up ‘ere,” he said, “I likes to watch ‘em. ‘Course, ye don’ see ‘em til a’ter dark, but it takes me a little longer to get ‘ere now, what wi’ the years an’ my little injury. Anyways, I jus’ figgered ye wouldn’ be up ‘ere ‘lest ye were lookin’ for ‘em. “So, are ‘ye?” he asked again. I looked down the hill again; it had been as much as I could do comfortably, yet my companion had to be seventy, and crippled. Perplexed, I resorted to pleasantries. “Elliot Wallis,” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. “Pete Lafferty,” he replied, taking my hand with gnarled and twisted fingers, “but folks in these parts jus’ call me Laffs.” “Have you lived here long?” I asked. “All m’ life,” he said, nodding, “Boy an’ man, I been part o’ the village. Seen it all, prolly more’n I was ‘sposed to. Why, I cud prolly tell ‘ee things that’d make ye toes curl… “Aah, but ye don’ want ta hear an ol’ man run on.” “No, please, go on,” I said, my genuine interest blatantly obvious; this was my first bit of good fortune since this morning. For the next half hour, he talked of his father and mother, fetching water from the village pump, and helping at weekends offloading his father’s boat; he told of basic schooling and of his first trip to sea when he was just thirteen. The life he described was hard, but simple and clean. Then, in his early twenties, he had lost his one and only love to tuberculosis and this is where his tale took a darker, much more sinister turn. “I started wand’rin’ the beach at nights, keepin’ myself to myself, lookin’ fer a way to make life pass me by, an’ fer the most part, it did. I was forgotten, ignored by ‘em all. Then, ‘bout this time o’ year it was, I saw ‘em for the first time. “I had walked half the night, jus’ me ‘n the full moon wand’rin’ the dark together, an’ I happened to look out to sea. There was a dozen boats, ‘eavy in the water, headin’ for shore jus’ down there. I hid, an’ I watched as they pulled the boats up the sand, marvellin’ at their bright silks flashin’ in the firelight from dozens o’ torches- reds, golds, greens, colours I can’t even describe, a sight to behold as they offloaded boxes an’ crates an’ bags, pilin’ ‘em neatly above the shoreline. “Course, livin’ in a fishin’ village, I’d seen tattoos a’fore, but ne’er on faces. Ev’rywhere from head to foot, they was covered in lines an’ patterns an’ swirls, each one diff’rent from the rest. I couldn’t ‘elp but watch, wond’rin’ all the time what was in those boxes. Ye wouldn’ believe ‘ow quick they was to offload them boats, a quarter hour an’ it was done. Then one o’ them raises a whistle to ‘is lips an’ gives it a blast, an’ bugger me if I don’ see a score o’ the villagers come down the beach on carts to take it all away! “It was then I made my mistake. See, the villagers was a shock, but more so was ol’ man Cavett, it was ‘im leadin’ this little parade, struttin’ around barkin’ orders. Nobody sees ‘im, not ever, yet there ‘e was, fancy suit an’ cane, large as life. I must ‘a shifted a bit in surprise, ‘cuz I sent a rattle o’ stones skitterin’ away from where I was ‘id in the trees. “Well, the clowns- did I tell ye that’s what I calls ‘em?- the clowns, they comes a’ runnin’ an’ quick as lightnin’ they’re on me, pinnin’ me down while ol’ Cavett comes over casual as ye like an’ prods me wi’ the cane. “You spying on me boy? ‘e growls an’ prods me again. “Nossir, I says, Jus’ walkin’ by, an’ ‘appen to see the boats. I was jus’ watchin, is all. “Well, ‘e jus’ grinned an’ stared at me wi’ ‘is cold, cold eyes, an’ then ‘e says Watchin’ IS spyin’ boy, an’ I don’t like spies. “Ol’ Cavett beat me within an inch o’ my life that night, blinded me in m’ left eye an’ broke my leg in three places, then two o’ the villagers pick me up, dump me on a cart an’ take me back to the village. Father found me on the green ‘bout sunup, I ’member that much. Don’t recall the doctor comin’ in, only when I woke days later, my right leg ‘ad gone from the knee down.” Laffs tapped his walking stick on his right shin, eliciting a hollow wooden thump. “Didn’t you tell anyone?” I asked, stunned, “Your father, the local authorities, anyone?” “I was young, not stupid,” he replied, “Who could I tell? Fer all I knew, ‘ole damn village was in on it. Reckon I was lucky t’ still be alive, so I jus’ took my beatin’ an’ kep’ myself to myself.” He pulled a flask from his jacket and offered it to me; I took a gulp of what appeared to be a very fine whiskey, and handed it back. “Do you know where the carts were heading?” I asked. “Figger they was goin’ to the ol’ Cavett mansion,” he replied gesturing north. I walked to the edge of the cliff and scanned the northern stretch; there in the distance, I could see a clear spot surrounding a sizeable structure. Squinting and shielding my eyes, I could just make out a large house. “How would I get there?” I asked, “I’d like to ask Mr. Cavett a few questions.” Laffs cackled and said, “Well you’re a bold one ain’tcha? Invite only, an’ the likes o’ you an’ me don’t get invites. Here, try this.” Laffs pulled a spyglass from his pocket, offering it up to me. I opened it out and looked across to the house; it was huge, ornate and incredibly old. It also looked in dire need of attention, crumbling masonry, tumbled boundary walls and unkempt grounds telling a tale of years of neglect. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives there anymore,” I said. “Don’t you be fooled,” Laffs replied, “a Cavett still lives there an’ no mistake. Always ‘ave, always will. You won’t see ‘im, I ain’t seen ‘im anymore, an’ I watch for ‘im mos’ nights, but ‘e’s there alright, jus’ you believe it. My advice, don’t go lookin’ too ‘ard.” He offered the flask again, and I exchanged the spyglass to take another swallow. The second mouthful combined with the relentless heat of the sun sent my head spinning, so I sat on the grass with my back to a tree as Laffs rattled on, telling me tales of his latter years, mundane details of a life more ordinary, and the sun sank toward the western horizon. At first, I asked a few questions, but as time wore on, I settled for listening while he rolled out the details of his life. “I wonder what was in those boxes,” I said with a yawn. I must have dozed off for a while, and when I woke, Laffs was gone. Lying on my lap were the spyglass and the flask and the sun was casting long shadows that reminded me of the appointment I had at seven thirty. I checked my watch; it was six twenty. Cursing, I stuffed the gifts in my pocket and raced down the hill. Whatever else happened, I could not miss my meeting with Cole. ************************************************** Hope you all like this, full- size image is going up at http://thorkis.co.uk