Bella

THE DAY BEFORE THE SOLSTICE

MY SHIRT'S WET WITH SWEAT by the time I enter Tome, the light breeze lifting sticky hair from the back of my neck. I'm heading for the village pub as I can't afford to eat in the hotel restaurant for every meal (only breakfast's included in the room rate). It's also the next spot on my treasure hunt into the past.

Tome is freakishly quiet. Thatched houses made from local pale gray stone cluster along its streets, some held in the clutches of a climbing rose or honeysuckle. There's no one in sight. Maybe everyone's inside hiding from the heat. But I can't help feeling there's something watchful about the emptiness. Several times I'm sure I catch a shiver of movement beyond the windows that glitter below their fringe of thatch like small, dark eyes.

Up ahead I see the village cross, an antique stone structure, and I step under its shade to get my bearings without the sun frying my brain. I sit down on the stone seat, cold beneath my sticky thighs, wipe the sweat out of my eyes and find myself looking straight at the stonework panel opposite me. The image of twelve hooded figures standing in a circle, heads bowed so you can't see their faces. Trees surrounding them, as if they're in the middle of a forest. My heart's beating a little faster. One of the figures seems to be holding a long, sharp-looking knife.

My gaze slides to the next panel. This one shows a man in medieval clothes: a belted tunic and pointed boots, a look of terror on his face, holding something in his hands. I step closer to get a better look.

"It's a feather," says a soft voice, close behind me.

I almost jump out of my skin. I thought I was alone under here. I turn and see a woman with a sensible gray bob, dressed all in black despite the summer heat. "Beautiful, aren't they? Very old. Fifteenth century, I believe." She's smiling at me, curiously. "They've affected you, I can see."

"Oh," I say, "I suppose they're just very... vividly rendered."

"Well, they were a way of reminding local people to behave themselves. Centuries ago, these were wild, out-of-the-way parts: no police to keep the peace. So a different kind of authority grew in their place. To protect the community, to satisfy grievances. To deliver justice."

"The messages in the tree. Did they always act on them?"

She frowns, cocks her head to one side. "I didn't say anything about messages in trees. Are you familiar with the legend?"

"Oh," I say, casual as I can. "Suppose I must have heard about it somewhere..."

"Well," she says, "it depends. Firstly on whether the messenger—the one who put the note in the tree—had a true grievance. The Birds had ways of establishing the facts. Then it would depend on the magnitude of the crime and whether the culprit showed due remorse, made reparations. And if not..." She grimaces. "Let's just say it was a different time. Bleaker, bloodier..."

I watch her, waiting for more, but she falls silent. I realize that what I assumed was a slightly eccentric black smock is topped with a white dog collar.

"You're a vicar?"

"Yes," she says, smiling coyly at me. "Does it seem odd, my taking an interest? In these parts the pagan and the church have always been closely linked."

I turn back to the panels to take another look.

"But they're historic," I say. "Aren't they? I mean, presumably this group... the Birds, whatever they are, they ceased to exist a long time ago?"

I wait for her to answer but nothing comes. I turn around, only to find that she has gone.

I feel jittery, spooked by the whole encounter, by the memories that are threatening to surface. Perhaps some food in my stomach will help.

On my way to the pub I wander past the sort of shops you'd expect in a village like this, a Spar, a post office, a bookshop called The Crooked Shelf. I pause to look in the window. Next to the usual bestsellers there's a standalone collection: Wyrd West Country, Occult Britain, Runes: the Definitive Guide. And there it is: Legends of Tome. I avert my eyes and hurry on.

Finally I reach the pub. It's not as I remember it. Only part of the old Tudor building remains: some of the old stone frontage, the low doorway and shutters. But the roof is tiled where once it was thatch, modern casement windows instead of mullioned glass—the new additions tacked onto the old parts like a bad skin graft. The sign, though, is the same, swinging back and forth in the hot breeze. And whatever's fixed to the bottom of the sign is making a tinkling sound—some sort of wind chime. No: looking closer I see that it seems to be made from lots of tiny bones.

As I step inside a hush descends. I can hardly see a thing; it's so dark compared to the white glare of midday. Cool too, probably due to small windows and thick stone walls, the air a fug of wood, vinegar, and spilled beer. When my eyes adjust it seems like all the people missing from the empty streets of Tome are in here. Quite a few of them watching me from the tables in the corners. I take a stool at the bar.

A couple sitting nearby catch my eye; they're younger than most of the other punters—or at least the pretty, maroon-haired girl definitely is. On second glance the guy is dressed like a teenager in bleached jeans and faded T-shirt that reads IT'S ONLY A CRIME IF YOU GET CAUGHT, but he's thinning on top and probably a few years older than me.

Suddenly I realize I know them: they were the leaders of the rabble on the beach throwing stones. Their heads are bent and they're talking in whispers, but a few phrases slide my way.

Him: "We're gonna make it a night to remember all right. Spoke to Gaz. He's gonna bring all the gear. It'll be fire."

Her: "Yeah... I just dunno if it's such a good idea, Nate."

"Nah, it'll be grand. Yeah? Come on, Lyles. It's just a bit of fun."

"It better be—" The girl glances in my direction and clocks me watching before I can look away. "Let's talk later, babe. People eavesdropping on private conversations. Rude."

There's a rap on the bar and I turn to see the landlady looking pointedly at my hotel-branded tote bag. "You're from The Manor?" She's early sixties with buzz-cut bleach-blonde hair and an open, suntanned face, smile lines scored white around her eyes. She's not smiling at me, though. As she reaches up to pull a pint I spot the dark shape of a small tattoo on the underside of her bicep, which underscores the ageing punk look lent by her haircut.

"Oh," I say, "yeah. Just thought I'd come and explore Tome." I can feel the maroon-haired girl and the guy watching me. In fact, I suddenly feel like everyone in the pub is looking at me, like I have OUTSIDER tattooed across my forehead.

"There's some here that'd say I shouldn't serve you," the landlady says, nodding her head toward the other punters. "Not much love for that place round here. Killing people's business. Barring us from the land. But I'm feeling friendly today. Maybe 'cause you pronounced Tome right. Out-of-towners always say it wrong. You said ‘tomb,' same as we do. So what'll you have?"

I order a ploughman's.

"What happened to the pub?" I ask, when she brings it out. "All the original features?"

She frowns at me. "I mean, you're going back now. That was at least fifteen years ago. Someone tried to burn it down."

"Oh." I'm truly shocked. I think of it, packed full of people every night back then as now. "That's... awful."

"No one hurt or killed, so it could've been a lot worse. Never caught 'em. But at least the insurance money came through in the end." She peers at me. "Do I know you? I'm good with faces. Years could go by and I'd recognize someone."

My mouth has gone a little dry. "I don't think so," I say. "Thanks for the food. Can you point me to the toilets?"

"That way," she says, nodding to the right, but still studying me. "Corridor."

Actually, I remember exactly where they are. Out toward the pub garden.

In between the gents and the ladies is a third door, slightly ajar: FUNCTION ROOM, I see, in brass letters. FUCTION ROOM, actually, as the N's fallen off. Then I glimpse some sort of structure inside the room, visible through the gap in the door. I see hundreds—maybe even thousands—of woven, twisted branches. If I just step a little closer, I'll be able to make out the whole of it properly—

"Can't go in there, love," a voice says. "Private."

I jump and find the landlady standing a couple of feet behind me. Her tone was light but her gaze is chilly and that "love" had zero warmth in it.

"Oh, right, sorry. I was just looking for the toilets."

"Symbol of a woman in a dress on that door right there? Doesn't say Function Room—that's a fairly big clue."

"Of course—how stupid of me!"

I feel her watching me the whole way back down the corridor.