Sometimes the fiddler is accompanied by a dog which later reappears from the tunnel entrance, or the hole in the ground, or some other earthly opening (suggesting that they link, connect, beneath the surface), and the dog comes back completely hairless, mad with fear and tainted somehow with the smell of burning. This was generally taken to mean that the fiddler had met his fate at the hands of the Devil. taken to mean that the fiddler had met his fate at the hands of the Devil.
And the Devil! There is another story, recorded in the 1930s, that in Bushey, on the Middles.e.x border, on moonlit nights, the Devil sat on a stile and played the fiddle. If you stayed and watched, then after a while you would see the Devil leave his post and walk towards the woods, still playing the fiddle, until he disappeared. In English folklore there is this a.s.sociation between stiles and the Devil maybe something to do with crossing over, as if being in between places you were more susceptible to something, or more likely to just step out of the world completely.
A sensory stimulus intruded on my chaining together of stories a flaring up of lights, many and flickering, down at the eastern end of Wast.w.a.ter, and the moment I noticed them, they stood out like beacons. The music was coming from that direction, and the other sounds.
"There," I said, pointing. "That"s where they are."
"Who?" Taylor asked.
"The others," I said. "Those others from the party. The fiddler."
"Right," Taylor said. "Hey. Maybe that"s the other party Kenny was talking about."
"What?" I said.
"Kenny. Kenny said that-"
"What?" I said. "When? Has he been here tonight?"
"Yeah," Taylor said. "Did you not see him?"
"No," I said. "Jesus, Taylor. I wish you"d told me."
"Why?"
"That"s where we have to go," I said, and pointed down to the fires. "That"s where she"ll be. Jennifer."
The fellside was clear before us. It was a beautiful night, aside from the strangeness that gnawed at the back of my head, my mind. The stars were bright. The lake shone beneath them. We trudged onwards in silence.
We were approaching something, something black and hulking, unidentifiable by the starlight. We slowed down as we got closer because everything we could not immediately identify was threatening; we were at the bottom of the sea, or on an as-yet-undiscovered planet. Life could look like anything.
"What"s that?" Taylor asked.
"I don"t know," I said, shaking my head.
"I don"t like it," Taylor said.
"It"s just a f.u.c.king tree," Graham said. "For f.u.c.k"s sake." He walked on before us and put his hand against it. "It"s just a f.u.c.king" he raised the axe "f.u.c.king tree." He swung the axe into the trunk of it, and the snow shivered off to the ground, and the bark came off in hand-sized splinters. He hit it again, and again. tree." He swung the axe into the trunk of it, and the snow shivered off to the ground, and the bark came off in hand-sized splinters. He hit it again, and again.
"Graham," I said. "Come on. We haven"t got time for this." Graham looked like I didn"t know what in his suit, stark against the snow on the ground, hammering the twisted naked tree with the axe, his face a mask. I noticed with a shock that the tree or the two trees looked like two people having s.e.x, and Graham was cutting into what would have been the man"s stomach. Why had I not found this place before? I could have taken notes, drawn it for an article. People turning into trees is something that happens in stories up and down the land, all over the world, something to do with falling in love and putting down roots, or stagnating, becoming entrenched, bored, I couldn"t quite remember... I shook my head. As if it mattered. would have been the man"s stomach. Why had I not found this place before? I could have taken notes, drawn it for an article. People turning into trees is something that happens in stories up and down the land, all over the world, something to do with falling in love and putting down roots, or stagnating, becoming entrenched, bored, I couldn"t quite remember... I shook my head. As if it mattered.
"GRAHAM!" Taylor shouted. "Stop it!" He turned to me. "Jack. That tree. Jesus."
"I know," I said. "Graham! Will you will you just stop it! Put that thing down down!"
He did, eventually, and then he fell to the ground, and started to cry. I almost physically jumped as I noticed that, on the other side of the tree, there was a huge red stain in the snow. "This is where we found Francis," I said.
"I can"t believe he wasn"t dead," Taylor said. "Look at all that blood."
"What"s wrong, Graham?" I crouched down and put my hand on his shoulder.
"I think I killed somebody," he said. "In the barn. I think I killed somebody and I don"t know who." He put his head in his hands and, hunched over like that, sobbing, looked like some sort of shivering rock. The axe was solid and static beside him, as were the humanoid trees. They were like two damaged giants standing there, making love, curving up and over his hunched body.
"What do you mean," Taylor whispered, "killed somebody?"
Graham shook his head. I had that feeling again, like I was a body of water with cold, heavy metal things floating down through me, like hammers, or axes.
"Graham," Taylor whispered again, "what do you mean killed killed somebody?" somebody?"
Graham fired up off the ground like a jack-in-the-box, spitting and screaming.
"What the f.u.c.king f.u.c.k do you think I mean?" Taylor and I jumped backwards as Graham flew at us, his eyes red-rimmed and wild, his hands bunched into pale fists. "You pair of numb f.u.c.king imbeciles imbeciles!" he roared. "What the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l is wrong with you? I hit them with the axe until they stopped is wrong with you? I hit them with the axe until they stopped f.u.c.king f.u.c.king moving. What were you doing? Where were you? Where are you now? Are you in there? Eh? Soulless f.u.c.king f.u.c.king w.a.n.kers!" moving. What were you doing? Where were you? Where are you now? Are you in there? Eh? Soulless f.u.c.king f.u.c.king w.a.n.kers!"
He spat on the ground and then sat back down.
There was a long silence.
"Graham," I said, slowly, trying not to let the fear or the anger creep through. "What do you mean you don"t know who it was?"
"It was dark," he muttered. "I couldn"t see them. And they were they weren"t looking at me. They were on the floor, eating one of the, uh, one of the bodies. I could hear them, and I couldn"t just couldn"t stop myself from, uh, hitting them."
Taylor and I looked at each other. Taylor was pale, tired-looking, and I thought that I must have looked similar. In that light, in our current state, even Graham probably struggled to tell the difference between us. Sometimes I looked at other people and wondered if I looked like them. People used to get Francis and me mixed up all the time. Occasionally I just picked up attributes of the people that I spent time with. I think a lot of people did that; they were composites of people they knew. Still, people wouldn"t have any trouble telling Francis and me apart any more. He"d be the one that couldn"t walk. looked at other people and wondered if I looked like them. People used to get Francis and me mixed up all the time. Occasionally I just picked up attributes of the people that I spent time with. I think a lot of people did that; they were composites of people they knew. Still, people wouldn"t have any trouble telling Francis and me apart any more. He"d be the one that couldn"t walk.
"f.u.c.k"s sake," Taylor said. "For f.u.c.k"s sake, Graham. What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you? Eating a body body? Are you on drugs?"
Graham just shook his head, returned to his trembling, deathly silence. After a while he answered, briefly. "I know what I saw."
"You can"t really be sure, though," Taylor said.
Graham didn"t reply.
"Did you see their face?" I asked.
He shook his head again.
"You didn"t see their face," I said. "Male or female?"
He shrugged.
"Graham," I said. "Male or female?"
"I don"t know," he said.
"What do you mean, you don"t know? Male or female?"
"I don"t know."
"Long hair or short hair?"
"I don"t-"
"You say you don"t know one more time," I said. "You say it just one more time. Now I"m asking you. Graham. Was it Jennifer? Did you kill Jennifer?"
"What?" he said, looking up at me, confused. "Look, Jack. Taylor. You weren"t there. You don"t get it. It was dark. I was scared. And they were there was something about them that just wasn"t wasn"t right. They were too tall." Taylor. You weren"t there. You don"t get it. It was dark. I was scared. And they were there was something about them that just wasn"t wasn"t right. They were too tall."
"What?" I said. "Too tall? Is that some sort of what does that even mean? You couldn"t make out their gender because they were too tall?"
"Why the f.u.c.k would Jennifer be on the barn floor eating some poor dead f.u.c.ker?" Graham said.
"I, um, well," I said.
"We"re not there"s something wrong," Graham said. "Can you not see? Don"t give me any s.h.i.t, Jack. Can you not see that the normal ways of looking at things, the normal ways of acting, thinking, aren"t making sense? The things we know that define one thing from another are gone. It"s like the boundaries between things have been lifted away, suspended. Do you ever think of there being a grid or or a system of some sort that lies over the land and wraps around the edges of things? Connects things together? Makes a tree something different to a person?"
"You want the honest answer?" I said, "I don"t know what you"re talking about. I"m worried about Jennifer. OK? That"s what I"m thinking about. Not one of your hallucinations. Your weird grid."
"I need to get through to you, Jack," he said. "I think it"s to do with Jennifer. That thing in the barn, Jack. Please. You saw those people at the party that we didn"t know. You saw the look of whatever took her. Whatever was in the barn whatever I killed I mean, it was dark, but I know know that it wasn"t just a person. Please. At least try to believe me. And what"s that f.u.c.king music?" that it wasn"t just a person. Please. At least try to believe me. And what"s that f.u.c.king music?"
"It"s a fiddle," I said. "He was playing at the party. And now he"s playing down there." I pointed down to the small orange glows that trembled and shook amongst the trees down by the lake.
"Apart from that thing in the barn," Graham said, "they were all gone by the time that I got up to the house. n.o.body there."
"They didn"t pa.s.s us on their way down," Taylor said.
"How can we really trust anything you"re saying?" I asked. "You"ve been taking G.o.d knows what all night, you"re talking nonsense, you"re basically telling us you"ve killed killed somebody how do we know you haven"t lost it completely?" somebody how do we know you haven"t lost it completely?"
"Think whatever you want," Graham said.
"Jack," Taylor warned. "Come on. Let"s not lose it ourselves."
I glared at him, at Taylor, and he held my gaze, his eyes calm and his brow slightly creased. He shook his head slightly. I didn"t say it, but I still thought that if anybody out here was dangerous then it was probably Graham. "There are hundreds of paths up and down this thing," I said after a moment, stamping my feet in order to indicate the ground beneath us, the fellside, but instead coming across as petulant, or maybe just cold. "They could have taken any one of them. They could have just run straight down to the valley and then along the valley road. They could have headed over the other side and then circled round. They could have hiked up the crest and then dropped down further along. They could have-" circled round. They could have hiked up the crest and then dropped down further along. They could have-"
"OK!" Taylor snapped. "Jesus! Are we going down there then? Or what? I don"t know. I"m worried about Erin. I"m worried that we"ve left Erin."
"Come on, Taylor," Graham said. "All the trouble is in front of us now, down by the lake. Erin"s with Francis. We need you with us. It sounds like there are a lot of them down there. Having a big f.u.c.king party. Come on."
I didn"t say anything, but looked down towards the flickering flames by the lake. We were standing at the place where I found Francis, the bloodstains looking black in this light, black on the white, and two black, b.l.o.o.d.y trails led away from it, and one of them led back to Fell House. We followed the other one.
It led us to the beginning of the scree slopes a skin of broken bits of stone, grey shards that slid and rolled over each other, no easier to walk on than ice. The gradient too was unhelpful it was steep enough for you to slip and fall and roll helplessly into the valley if you were lucky, or, if you were unlucky, straight into some ravine, or, worse still, some immovable piece of rock that would snap your neck.
Taylor fell. He was in front, concentrating on the trail of blood rather than on his feet, no doubt, and it was as if we all became aware at the same time of how his feet were sliding, and they slid down, and he landed heavily on his right side. The rock moved beneath him and started to carry him away, but he plunged his hand into it, in between the moving stones, slate knives, and grasped hold of something more solid beneath, like bigger rocks, maybe. Slower-moving. Graham and I just stood and watched as his hands helped him decelerate until he was completely stationary. between the moving stones, slate knives, and grasped hold of something more solid beneath, like bigger rocks, maybe. Slower-moving. Graham and I just stood and watched as his hands helped him decelerate until he was completely stationary.
"I"m coming back up," he said, at length.
The pale darkness around us seemed to elongate the time between him speaking and me speaking.
"OK," I said.
He gradually crept back up, like an injured spider, and every movement was wary because he knew that the ground beneath his feet was unstable enough to tip him off again, to throw him. It seemed an age before he reached us, and when he did he held up his hands. They were shredded. His shiny red knuckles were surrounded with white skin that had been grated away from the bone. His fingernails were cracked vertically, with various nails fully or partially missing. The soft flesh of his palms was lacerated with snags and gashes, and all over his hands and wrists blood sprang from raised points and ridges that looked like they"d been created by the skin getting caught between two equally unyielding pieces of stone pressing together.
I remember reading that people came from all over the world to climb these mountains, they came to climb and walk and scramble and test themselves against something bigger than they were. They came with horrendously expensive clothing and equipment and years of experience and knowledge and maps and compa.s.ses, and still some of them died.
"We need to go higher up," I said. "If we stay on this scree, one of us is only going to fall again."
"Also," Taylor said, "the trail is gone now all of this stupid rock has moved."
"Shouldn"t it be getting light by now?" Graham asked. "What day is it, anyway?"
Neither Taylor nor I answered. We turned so that we were facing the hard ground that reared up to the right of the route we"d been trying to take, and headed on up.
FRANCIS.
Everything is black. I"m rising, at speed. I"m falling upwards. Or maybe just falling. I"m travelling at a terrifying speed now. Falling. There can be no doubt that I"m falling.
My back hits something hard, too hard. My eyes open again and I"m looking up at the ceiling. The beam. The dead body of the hanging farmer. Every part of my body is full of blades and vinegar. My body is shuddering across the surface of the floor with the pain of the impact. I have no control over it. It twists and jerks like a kitten with a pin in it. I don"t know why that image comes to mind.
It is a minute or two before my body stops moving.
I lie still for a while longer. Then I sit up. I"m sick. This time all over myself. I realise that I"m still naked. The vomit is dark brown. I start to shake again. I start to cry. Now all I can feel is the cold. The biting cold of the snow. And the bitterly cold wind that worms its way in from outside. And the clammy cold emanating from the body above me. And the shameful cold of being naked and wet. And some other, deeper cold, radiating from somewhere in the back of my head. Like fear. Like the tendrils of some disease. above me. And the shameful cold of being naked and wet. And some other, deeper cold, radiating from somewhere in the back of my head. Like fear. Like the tendrils of some disease. The The disease. The big one. disease. The big one.
"Do you know what has happened?" Balthazar asks. He"s still sitting on the bed. "Have you any memory of it?"
"No." I shake my head. "I need her, Balthazar. What happened? I need her here. I don"t want to talk to you. You remind me that I"m ill."
"You emerged, Francis," he says. "We are all very proud."
The way the candlelight is moving sickens me. The constant flicker and flux. The regular creaking of the body hanging from the beam above sickens me as well. I look at the walls. The contrast between the white stripes and the blue stripes makes me vomit again. I roll over. I try to push myself up with my arms, but they fold beneath me. I fall on to my chest. I see that the floorboards are slick with blood. I see it pooling in between them. I cannot tell what is blood and what is vomit. Maybe the cancer has spread. Maybe it is in my throat or stomach. I should speak to Dad. I should ring him up. The pain within me is focusing. Narrowing. Breaking down so that I can tell that it is specific to certain internal wounds. Great rips and tears. I have come apart inside. The evidence is streaming from my mouth. Overflowing. Relentless. Unstopping. Unstoppable. There is nothing I can do to stop the. There is nothing I can do. To stop it. There is nothing I can do to stop the. To stop the. My face is pressed into the stinking floor by the weight of my head.
I find myself on my back again. I"m looking up at the dead farmer. The pain has gone away.
"Have I got cancer?"
"The story of the farmer who hangs up there serves as a warning to those like you."
"Like me? What do you mean? Balthazar? Have I got cancer? I don"t understand." I try to sit up. But don"t have the strength.
"Let me tell you the story."
"I don"t want to hear the story. I don"t want a story. f.u.c.k you, Balthazar. What"s happened to me? Where"s Erin?"
"They were very much in love. The farmer and his wife. Until one day a young man came back to Fell House and claimed it to be his. A young man who went by the name of Bearpit. Still does, actually, and he"s grown a little older now, but they age slowly, these lycanthropes. Anyway. The farmer closed the door in Bearpit"s face. But he came back after dark and waited for the beautiful woman to put the cats out for the night. He grasped her wrist and pulled her out of the house, into the outside world, and the woman screamed. By the time the farmer had picked up the wood-axe that had been resting against the door-frame and arrived at the scene, she appeared dead. The farmer struck Bearpit with such force, Francis. Such force." Balthazar shakes his head with an icy crackle.
"If he had been able to kill bears," I say, shivering, "why was she not dead?"
"He wasn"t trying to kill her. Just ... you know. Bite her, maybe. Turn her. Anyway. He had his spine severed for his efforts." maybe. Turn her. Anyway. He had his spine severed for his efforts."
The body above spins. Swings. Hangs.