King's Oak, Oakton Farm, Wiltshire, August 1, Lughnasadh
The red and white golf buggy carrying the Master of Oakton rolled smoothly along the path through the oak forest on his Wiltshire farm, under the spreading green branches of oaks hundreds of years old, younger oaks, holly, and other forest growth. Clumps of green mistletoe hung from many of the trees.
Drew Ramsey, current master and the last Ramsey, sat in the front passenger seat, hands gnarled with arthritis resting on his thin legs. A bell, engraved with a stag's head, and dark with the centuries, rested between his feet. Ben Muir, his solicitor, drove the buggy around a curve and deeper into the woods.
"Musselwhite!" Drew's weak voice reached the man in the back seat. "Musselwhite, fancy a drink?"
Mark Musselwhite twisted in the rear-facing seat to answer Ramsey. "Yes, Mr. Ramsey, a drink would be good right about now. Sun's almost set." He grabbed the silver flask Drew handed him, ignoring the old man's wince. Mark would rather to be at the pub with his mates, but the offer of £300 pounds from Ramsey had been irresistible. He felt the five tenners he got as an advance in his pocket, and grinned, a crescent revealing a few green teeth. As soon as he pocketed the rest of the quid after whatever Ramsey wanted him for, he'd head to the pub. He could afford to buy a round for the house, for a change.
He eyed the silver flask. Sterling. Worth a bit. Pity he couldn't nick it. Another arrest would land him in jail for a few years, though, and he liked freedom. No pubs, no mates, no Mrs. to cook his meals and take care of the house. He unscrewed the cap, and the scent of good whiskey filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, then swallowed. His throat burned with the fine liquor and his belly warmed.
"This is the good stuff, sir, thanks."
"It's the best stuff, Musselwhite. Drink it all and you can keep the flask."
Mark's nostrils flared, but greed made him suspicious.
"Thank you, sir, it's a very generous gift. Why, seeing as you're paying me well for a few hours' attendance at your druid meeting?
"Grove. The proper term for our Druid meeting is grove. This grove is important to me. I'm old and won't see many more. It's customary to give important attendants at my final grove gifts. If you don't want it, drink the whiskey and return the flask."
The potential loss of the silver flask distracted Mark. "I accept, Mr. Ramsey, and thank you. I hope you get what you want out of this mee—grove." He took another generous swallow. He felt a little dizzy. Better slow down, you fool, he told himself. You screw this up and he may decide not to pay you the rest.
Drew met Ben's eyes and nodded slightly. Ben said, "Finish the whiskey, Mark, we're almost at King's Oak."
Ben pulled up to a small clearing surrounding King's Oak and parked the buggy. "Mark, please carry that box to the stone." Mark got out slowly. He was dizzy. The whiskey was really strong. He picked up the box and wobbled slightly as he carried it to the stone and set it down.
The stone was about six feet by three, and well-worn down. Ramsey told him it had been there since before the Romans. Ben carried the bell over, holding the muffle on the clapper, careful not to let it ring. He set it at the foot of the stone. He returned with another box. From it he took and lit torches and several candles. They gave sufficient light to see in the clearing under the ancient oak as the sun set and the shadows lengthened.
"Sit down, Mark. You look dizzy."
"Whiskey. Strong." Mark looked around at the darkening woods. The shadows of the leafless branches made him think of long thin arms with bony fingers reaching for him. "We be here long?" he mumbled. "Don't like the woods."
YOU ARE READING
The Passing Bell
Horror'The Passing Bell', ONC2022 The Passing Bell" is based on Prompt 62: The old man you've been taking care of at the hospital has passed on. And in their will, you've been given their Wiltshire mansion. It's your first day in the house but something s...
