Prologue
THE NIGHT WAS silent. A soft breeze swayed the branches of the forest trees coming in from the western valleys. It brought a hint of pine and sea salt. It brushed down across the harvested wheat fields and continued to follow the contours of the land until finally fading away towards the east after passing a solitary farm dwelling.
The soft call of an owl echoed from a neighbouring field.
Silhouetted against the star filled horizon, a windmill gently turned, its frame groaning with each pass in the unusually humid, silent night. The fabric of each sail was cut into a rectangular shape that covered the wooden lattice frame beneath. Over the years several small patches had been sown roughly into the white cloth using thick strands of tightly wound string, mending tears that had opened. This allowed the sails to capture the wind, no matter how small, pushing them around in a lazy circular motion. Deep within the structure, massive circular stones endlessly turned to grind wheat into flour. Perched on top of Cravmore Hill, the windmill overlooked the sleeping town of Arlyne.
To the south east, not far from where a dense treeline of ashwood, thick oak, and silver birch that marked the edge of the town, a solitary farm house stood amongst the expansive fields of wheat. Grey smoke drifted from a crumbling chimney. A rotten bucket with an egg sized hole swung above the arch of a small, collapsing well. The stone wall of the deep hole had several loose stones, with a twisted section that leaned dangerously off to one side mirroring the crooked wooden door of the farm house. Light radiated out through the front window from the fireplace. Every few seconds a shadow would pass inside obscuring the light.
Standing in front of his open fireplace, Jonathyn’s stomach growled angrily as the smell of bubbling stew invaded his nostrils. The open fireplace was built into the wall on the right side of the kitchen. Directly behind him was a small square table which was pushed up against the wall directly beneath the window. It only had three chairs. Over the years, rot had eaten through the back brace of the fourth, working the nails loose, and together with excessive usage its collapse had been inevitable. Jonathyn still remembered Eleanor’s squeals when the fates had finally chosen the chair’s demise, with her particular rear. Her cries had bounced off the walls and rung in his ears until she crashed to the floor with a thud. Both he and Eleanor’s husband, Altan, had tried their best to stifle their laughter, as her skirt went up over her head. At seeing Eleanor’s glaring eyes, they had both stopped instantly. He had not envied his friend’s return journey home that night. Jonathyn shuddered with a chuckle.
Tending to the stew he smiled at the memory. He’d served stew that day as well. Rabbit freshly caught that morning mixed with thickly sliced vegetables, just the way he liked it. Just like now it had been seasoned to perfection, as his mother had taught him, though this time around rabbit had been replaced with thin strips of beef. To get it just right the meat had to be seasoned and smoked for a day in the outhouse. Then starting early in the morning the pot itself was prepared. While cooking the meat over a low heat, vegetables were peeled and sliced. After mixing together with wine and stock, Jonathyn was now approaching the final and most critical stage.
Lifting the lid steam instantly surged up. It hugged the wall and lifted through the chimney to escape into the humid night air. Taking in the hot scents one more time, and ignoring his stomach’s protests, he took the smallest sample to taste.
“Needs a‘ittle more salt...” he muttered, with a deep growling huff. Opening the various cupboard doors of his kitchen, what instantly stood out was the fact that none of the containers, vials, or jars were labelled. They contained all manner of different herbs and spices, from dried sage to freshly picked mint from his garden patch. Most of the seasonings and spices he ignored, seeking what he required seemingly by instinct alone.
Opening the first container, a healthy pitch of white granules went into the stew followed by a handful of dried leaves from another. With each new ingredient added, he grabbed the wooden spoon and stirred with slow steady strokes to make sure the influx of taste became infused with the stew. Every few minutes he sampled his creation, adding more where needed.
Kneeling at the base of the pot he expertly regulated the heat by adjusting the burning logs beneath, even adding one or two smaller pieces into the gaps created.
OUTSIDE THE NIGHT was still and quiet. The tree branches swayed lazily. Out of the darkness what first appeared to be a low standing bush, suddenly... moved.
JONATHYN HUMMED TO himself while stirring the stew, smiling contently. A low noise in the background broke through the cobwebs of his distracted mind grabbing his attention. Frowning he turned to look at his front door.
In the light of the fire Jonathyn looked every bit his age. His face was covered in hard wrinkles and scars, yet beneath there was a strength yet to yield to time. An old white faded scar ran across his right cheek ending at the right side of his nose, which was missing. Only able to breathe through one nostril caused Jonathyn’s breathing to sound laboured. It also made his voice sound as if he suffered from a constant cold with a blocked nose.
A piece of steaming mushy carrot slowly slid down the head of the spoon. The carrot slipped closer and closer to the edge, until finally it fell. It landed on Jonathyn’s other hand, cupped beneath the spoon to stop any sauce from dripping, but what he wasn’t expecting was a steaming hot vegetable seeking vengeance.
The carrot burned the palm of his hand causing him to yelp in surprise and pain. Cursing, he quickly wiped it across his clothing, smearing the orange mush over his already stained shirt. Returning the spoon to the stew pot, along with the lid, he paused at hearing the noise again. The first time he was half set on ignoring it, putting it down to his old age, with his mind playing tricks, but the second time he found it far harder to ignore.
Licking his lips nervously he approached the front door.
“A-a-any-anyone there?” he stammered, fighting against the growing frustration of his stutter. He released his breath after managing to push the words out. “’Ello!?”
There was no answer.
Swallowing hard he gripped the handle and pulled the thick wooden oak door open, inch by inch, so he could peer out through the gap.
Still nothing.
The night was quiet. Glancing up, the sky above appeared to be clear. A solitary cloud passed over the half-moon that otherwise shone brightly amongst the many hundreds of stars. Cautiously he stepped out onto the porch.
A noise to his left caused Jonathyn to gasp in panic, but looking it was only the leaves rustling in a breeze. Clutching his chest, he looked out onto his farm though his eyes never strayed long from the treeline, as if half expecting something to jump out.
Directly behind Jonathyn at far end of the hallway, which cut through the farmhouse to the back of the dwelling, a dark figure stood. Shrouded in shadows it watched, and waited. It stood impossibly still, as if a statue, and though its eyes were hidden by darkness, they were fixed on only one thing – Jonathyn’s back.
“’Ello?!” Jonathyn called out again, though a little quieter. After receiving no reply, the old man stepped back into his home, satisfied he’d done enough to quench his nervous curiosity. Once he’d pushed the door firmly closed for peace of mind he locked it by lifting and dropping a wooden plank between two iron gates.
Huffing to himself Jonathyn turned from the door. Stepping away he gave the rest of the house a sideways glance. The hallway was empty.
From the kitchen, a soft noise rose through the silence cutting the tension. Jonathyn had started humming to himself as he began setting the table for his supper. A good-sized bowl, as he never gained his shape by eating meek portions, was placed on the table in front of the nearest chair. A half-eaten loaf of bread already sat waiting on the table along with a small tanker for ale. All that was left was to fill it, and the bowl.
Licking his lips, he did just that.
SITTING ALONE AT the table, Jonathyn paused for a brief moment, hands clasped together with his head bowed, as he muttered a silent prayer. It was a quick prayer, more out of tradition than any actual sense of faithful appeasement. Lifting his head, his eyes glanced at the empty chair directly across from him. His wife’s chair. His eyes lingered on the bowl and spoon laid out as if someone was moments away from joining him. ‘When had I done that?’ Tears swelled within his eyes. Sniffing loudly, he quickly set his jaw, and like all men pushed the feelings deep down until they were nothing more than a dull ache in the deepest regions of his soul.
Defiantly he grabbed the loaf of bread and tore a section free, spilling crumbs across the table. Ignoring the mess, he dipped the bread into the steaming stew before devouring it in two quick sharp bites.
Despite his efforts his eyes continued to glance at the empty chair. One... two... three times, before finally a deep sigh escaped and he had to stop, with a mouth still half full of stew. Juices ran freely from the corner of his mouth down into his grey beard, which already contained several flakes of bread. He stared at the empty chair.
“What?” he coughed, asking the empty chair after swallowing hard.
Only silence answered him.
With a brief shake of the head he returned to his stew, stirring it a few times with half glances across the table. “Thought as much...” he muttered bitterly under his breath.
The rest of the meal passed without uttering a word.
Though his eyesight was borderline blind, multiple joints painful with arthritis, and a bad limp from when his old horse, Ren, kicked him ten summers back, Jonathyn’s taste seemed the only faculty that still remained undiminished. Scooping up the last of the juices from the now empty bowl, with another piece of torn bread, Jonathyn stretched his right leg. He felt the muscles tighten as the memory resurfaced. He had to grip his thigh to fight against the growing ache, rubbing it down to his knee while still half chewing the last of his meal.
“Damn that fucking bloody horse,” he cursed pushing the empty bowl away. Grabbing the tanker, he drained what remained in one large gulp, tasting the sharp bitterness. “I got the last bloody laugh though!”
The horse had been in a foul mood all that day, from the moment Jonathyn had stepped into his stable to water and feed him. He knew the stable was too small for the horse and had plans to build a new one that autumn after the harvest, or so he’d often told himself.
He had harnessed Ren hundreds of times without fuss or problem, but that morning it had been a battle of wills, which the farmer had won - much to his satisfaction. With the rope bit fitted he was half way through hitching Ren to his small cart, ready for their trip into town, when the damned horse bucked.
Jonathyn was standing at the front of the cart, between it and Ren, when the horse had lashed out with his hind legs. Turning at the noise, Ren’s left leg had missed him by a hair’s width smashing into the cart, snapping one board while at the same time throwing the cart back against the rear wall. Ren’s right leg however, had caught Jonathyn’s full on the right thigh just above the knee. The damage had been severe with fractured bones and torn muscles.
“Jonathyn! Jon!” Altan’s deep gruffy voice had sounded like the sweet calls of an angel, as he lay barely conscious on the stable floor. Altan had saved his life, of that he had no doubts.
Three weeks he had spent in bed, under the tender care of Janiya. The old farmer shuddered at the memory, grinding the few teeth he still had. He was sure the witch had added an extra week to drag out his torment. Despite her best efforts, his right leg hadn’t set correctly. The damage had been too extensive. It ached constantly, but more so during the cold winter months.
As if karma had answered his prayers, Ren had fallen sick that same winter. The bastard had died during one of the hardest nights. ‘A bloody waste of meat,’ Jonathyn thought bitterly, giving the horse’s passing a bittersweet taste. Janiya had warned against eating it, not knowing what illness the horse had died from. Jonathyn had suspected it had merely been old age, but eventually Janiya had persuaded him to err on the side of caution. Due to the ground being too hard for a burial they had burned the remains. The smell had lingered for days after, tormenting him.
With contempt, his eyes glanced at the wooden cane resting against the side wall.
THE HOUSE WAS dark and silent. The only light came as a low flickering glow from the wood logs beneath the cooling pot of stew. The wood crackled and spat releasing tiny embers that floated up to cool in the air before simply fading away into the darkness. Jonathyn’s bowl lay in the sink unwashed. The discarded remains of the loaf had been left on the kitchen table, with bread crumbs scattered across its surface.
From the hallway, soft snoring echoed from the master bedroom. It was the only sound in the house.
Jonathyn slept soundly, muttering in his sleep. As he slept, the thick wooden door leading into the master bedroom opened, quietly creaking in the darkness. Something shifted within the cold dark recesses of the room. It stirred the particles of dust that hung lazily in the air. A floorboard creaked. Another groaned.
A shadow slowly loomed over the bed, inching closer and closer to the sleeping Jonathyn until finally it covered him.
Stirring at a noise, the old farmer opened his tired eyes. Looking up in a barely conscious half dozed expression he glanced to his left and the window. Had he left the window open again? The curtains were still. Frowning at the sight he caught something in the corner of his eyes. Gradually his eyes looked to the right, towards the door. The tiredness instantly vanished at the sight before him, but in the end, all he could do was scream.
