Rites of Spring, Anders Motte [reading diary .TXT] 📗

grabs the dog whistle and lead and sets off.

She crosses the stone bridge, calling Emee’s name and blowing the whistle. Nothing. Maybe Emee has headed for the deer enclosure again? Thea turns left at the signpost and follows the track that will take her out of the forest.

Panic is bubbling up inside her; she tries not to think about the dead deer that she saw yesterday. Emee isn’t aggressive, she tells herself.

That’s not true though, is it? Margaux’s voice comes from nowhere. Don’t you remember how she used to catch rats in the yard outside the hospital? And that time there was a dead cockerel on the steps? We laughed, said she was a predator deep down.

Thea increases her speed, blows the whistle, shouts as loud as she can.

‘Emee! Emee!’

Something is crashing through the undergrowth up ahead. She sees a movement, a grey, muscular body hurtling towards her. The relief makes her want to cry.

Emee dances around her and Thea sits down, pulls her close and strokes her nose.

‘Good girl! Where’ve you been?’

Emee can’t keep still. She’s excited, pulls away, jumping up and down. Her eyes are shining, ears pricked, tongue hanging out.

Thea realises that her hand is wet. She looks down. There is a red, sticky mark on her palm.

35

Walpurgis Night 1986

Everyone has their secrets, that’s what they say. Tornaby is full of them. A morass of dishonesty and lies.

Soon I will leave it all behind me, spread my wings and fly away from here. Because no secret is greater than mine.

Arne had completely miscalculated the route. He’d thought that all he needed to do was cross the canal that separated the forest from the marsh. Five minutes and he’d be at the stone circle.

However, the canal turned out to be much wider than he expected. It was more like a stagnant river than the ditch he’d imagined: almost ten metres of mud, reeds and murky water that absorbed both the moonlight and the beam of his torch. He knew there was a ford somewhere, but it was impossible to find in the darkness.

He followed the water for some distance, treading in barely visible pools of mud and almost losing a shoe. The warmth of the spring day had disappeared, and the temperature had dropped below ten degrees. The damp air and his wet feet made it feel even colder.

He looked at his watch: ten to twelve. If he didn’t find a way to get across the canal very soon, he would miss the whole thing.

He was in luck. Just as he glimpsed the lights of the hunting lodge, he came across a large tree that had fallen across the water, creating a bridge to the other side.

He scrambled up onto the trunk. It was wet and slippery with algae, and had presumably been there for several years. He adjusted the binoculars around his neck, then took a moment to get his balance before he began to cross. Within a few metres he realised he wasn’t entirely sober.

The further he went, the worse the smell became. Stagnant water, rotting wood and dead leaves. The same as in his nightmare.

When he reached the middle, the water was greenish black, with insects dancing on the surface. Something made a loud splash. Arne stiffened, feeling the fear creeping up his spine. What if he slipped and fell? The canal looked deep, two or three metres, maybe more. It must be full of larvae and tadpoles and other creatures that he didn’t know the names of. Creatures with slimy bodies, shiny backs covered in scales, blue transparent wings, creatures that crept and crawled and . . .

Arne squeezed his eyes tight shut, swallowed hard several times. He’d come five metres, and he still had five metres to go. Trying to turn around and go back would be even more hazardous than carrying on.

All he had to do was take one step at a time. Calmly and cautiously.

He took a deep breath. One small step. Then another.

When he finally reached the other side he was so relieved that he had to go behind a tree and empty his bladder.

*

The noise frightened Arne at first, even though he didn’t want to admit it. A dull, rhythmic drumming that got louder and louder as he approached the stone circle. Between the tree trunks up ahead he could see a flickering glow, and he quickly switched off his torch. He plodded on through the darkness, but immediately lost the winding track and ended up among the brambles. The vicious thorns pierced his flesh through his shirt and trousers. He slowed down and eventually came to a stop; the brambles were too thick to allow him to proceed.

The drumming continued, accompanied now by chanting voices. The luminous hands on his watch showed five to twelve.

He had to see what the hell was going on, right now before it was all over. He fought his way onwards with blood trickling between his fingers until he reached a tree with low-growing branches that enabled him to pull himself free of the brambles. He kept on climbing until he could see the glade.

See what she had wanted him to see.

The spring sacrifice.

36

When Thea reaches the stone bridge she see that someone is leaning over the balustrade – a short man in dark clothing, puffing away at a cigarette.

It’s Hubert Gordon. He straightens up, touches the peak of his cap.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says.

Emee, who is normally so reserved, wags her tail and rubs up against his legs like a cat. Thea has wiped her nose and mouth with some leaves. There wasn’t much blood, but enough for the feeling of disquiet to linger. Has Emee been up to no good in the deer enclosure?

Hubert tosses his cigarette into the moat, crouches down and scratches behind Emee’s ear.

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs. ‘Good girl.’

Thea doesn’t really know what to say. The behaviour of both man and dog has taken her by surprise.

‘Thanks for your help the other day,’ she manages eventually.

Hubert merely