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[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] something. 'The poor bugger's hurt.' Subconsciously Peter understood why people living alone developed the habit of talking to themselves, needing to hear the sound of a human voice and their own the only choice they had. It was unlikely that the animal's leg was broken, otherwise it wouldn't have been able to use it for support when it reached a flat piece of ground. Most likely it had gashed itself on a strand of barbed wire hidden beneath the snow, or trodden on some broken glass. Whatever its injury, it had transformed the beast into a pathetic creature, a deposed leader who had become an outcast, a loner. Probably another buck had sensed its weakness, fought it and driven it off from the main herd. Now it was fighting to survive against the rigours of a winter which had begun with a vengeance. Peter felt a sadness as he stood watching it until it was lost to sight. There was no sign of the other deer; presumably they were sheltering in the forest, huddled together for warmth. There were times when nature could be very cruel. Suddenly Peter realised how cold he was. He tugged at the window sash; the frame shuddered with the sudden impact but he could not make it close. 'Sod it, it's frozen.' He was afraid to slam it again in case the glass shattered. 'Jesus Christ, now I can't shut the bloody window properly!' He wedged it, hoping that tomorrow, if the sun shone, the ice would melt. Lesson number one, don't open the windows when there's a hard frost, he told himself. It was too cold to undress properly so he took off his denim jacket and jeans and crawled in between the blankets. The white reflections of the snow outside meant that the room wouldn't get properly dark, and the frosty starlight would be cosy once the bed was warm, he thought; if only Janie had been here life would have been very pleasant. But then he was dozing; listening; almost afraid of sleep. Which was silly, he told himself, because they wouldn't come tonight. The lanes were blocked, the snow on the fields was too deep to walk through. It had taken the wounded buck all its time to reach beyond the stone circle. Even black magicians were incapable of melting snow to enable them to hold outdoor rites. They'd have to make do with some weird circles and chalk marks on the floor of the living room at home. What the hell did they call it? A pentagram, that was it. Well, they were bloody lucky, because the next time they came back here there was a charge of birdshot waiting for them. He drifted into an uneasy, unwilling sleep. Fragments of unrelated dreams disturbed him without waking him. But throughout his subconscious he was listening, picking up faint sounds which were recognisable and could be dismissed: a fragment of ice falling from the partly closed window where it had been dislodged; an owl hooting dismally because there were no small rodents about; the vixen screaming in the distance because her mate had not showed up. Then something heavier, a crunching noise as though heavy booted feet were treading on scattered breakfast cereal. That was when Peter was jerked awake and knew instantly that there was someone outside. The blizzard had not deterred those who roamed Hodre by night! 13 Peter had to force the window hard to open it, with a sound of crunching and splitting ice that surely would be heard for hundreds of yards around Hodre. He picked up the shotgun and cocked it even as he looked out. At first he could see nothing except a barren white landscape where nothing moved. Not even a deer this time, nothing dark that stood out starkly against the virgin white background except shadows. And more shadows. Yet something was moving, something he saw and yet didn't, like ripples in water that disappeared even as one watched them. His eyes narrowed, his flesh goosepimpled. Not even a shape, nothing. It was as though the snow had shifted, but that was impossible because it was frozen solid and there was no wind. Then he saw it, like a patch of white suddenly puncturing the massive shadow cast by the dead elm at the bottom of the steep slope; not snow, because it moved and it wasn't white enough, more a kind of grey, but it was only visible against a black background. It seemed to glide silently across the frozen surface. His nerves reacted like taut steel rope under pressure. His whole body went rigid, the shotgun paused half way to his shoulder, his thumb in a cocking action. It was like stepping into a cold store; an icy chill threatened to freeze him into permanent immobility. His brain slowed with confusion, the computer rejecting data because it was impossible to process it, fighting for an explanation where there was no logic. The shape beneath the elm tree was vaguely human in that it had a head and body rather like a child's attempt to build a snowman. Yet the head tapered to a point and seemed to change shape with each slow movement of the legless body. And suddenly it was recognisable; a figure cloaked and cowled in white raiments, limbs hidden beneath the flowing material, face masked by shadow. Oh God, he didn't want to look on those features for surely they could not be human! It had stopped, as though it sensed his presence, and turned as though looking back towards the cottage. Peter winced, feeling its malevolent stare with a force akin to the blinding beam which had sent him staggering back from the window on the previous night. And in that instant he knew; he recognised the shape from an artist's impression he'd seen many years ago in a book on ancient religions. There could be no possible doubt in his mind; the locals' fears had been more than rumours based on primitive terror - the thing before him was one of the ancient druids returned to its place of worship in search of yet another blood sacrifice! Sheer panic broke the spell of petrification and released his trembling limbs from a frozen hypnotism. The shotgun, his only weapon, was futile, but the cold steel in his hands was real and instinct was taking over whilst logic faltered. He saw the shape again, this time against the small sight on the end of the barrels. His forefinger curled round the front trigger. A deafening roar and a stab of flame, then the recoil threw him back. Instinct again, man's oldest: that of survival. His finger found the second trigger. The flash seemed even more vivid, lightning that briefly turned the snowy landscape a deep orange; the acrid stench of Neoflak gunpowder an instant stimulant that made him stand his ground. Watching. A cry like that of a wounded timber wolf, an inhuman sound that hung in the still atmosphere, and he saw the cloaked figure lurch, almost fall. Then it was gone, as though its evil contempories had materialised out of the night to snatch it to safety. Peter was breathing heavily, trembling so that the shotgun barrels vibrated on the frosty window ledge, straining his eyes into the whiteness, searching the shadows. But there was nothing. Whatever the thing out there had been, it was gone. He pulled the gun inside, closed the window as far as the layers of ice would permit, and found himself extracting the spent cases and reloading, sitting on the bed with the old hammer gun cocked across his knees. If anything moved anywhere he would shoot. And keep on shooting. Bravado. Futility. But without it he knew he would go mad. It was fully light before Peter ventured from Hodre. His features were white and strained, his square jaw unshaven. With the coming of dawn his terror had lessened but it had not fully disappeared. Which was why he still carried the loaded shotgun. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |