The Ice Fair

Chapter 5 A Constable Calls

Constable Wildthorn stood before the stone gated pillars of Warr and Pinkle and peered over the railings. Fumbling in the pockets of his woollen overcoat his fingers found his clay pipe. Drawing it out he deftly skimmed the bowl with a sharp knife, slipped the skinny cylinder between his cracked lips and with a vociferous puff of air from his ruddy cheeks, blew the pipe clear of any debris. Then with a flick of his wrist he summoned forth a crisp white handkerchief and dabbed away the rheumy liquid bought on by the cold from the corners of his streaming eyes.

Before him lay the vicarage. A drunken assemblage of slipped tiles, crooked walls and bent, lead lined windows sitting within frosted gardens of icicle strung apples trees and lopsided, cracked marble statues. Far off, beyond the cloudless blue sky he could make out the hammering of the coffin maker.

He'd arrived by struggling up the half blocked lane, kicking his way through the thick layer of snow, leaving a scar on its surface that appeared from afar as deep as flayed cat skin. Past the ancient churchyard, empty except for the slumbering skeletons that lay stacked underground like the devils playing cards since before Pagan times he'd fought his way, his progress measured by a sprinkle of raggedy crows perched atop the rime covered headstones, heads tipped crookedly sideways in curiosity at this lone visitor to the house.

A thin, tall man, Wildthorn's shrunken, pockmarked face held the shadow of a long childhood illness crippled with withering bouts of tuberculosis. The sickness' legacy to Wildthorn was a pair of weakened lungs and a reedy flute of a voice that made pretty young ladies laugh when they heard it. Having a frame that did not fit his aspirations nor the Constabulary norm, his uniform jacket hung loosely over his hollow chest and his trouser hems seemed hesitant to meet the top of his stout, police issue boots.

In the middle of the lane, before the rusted gate leading to the vicarage he'd paused for breath. Pulling out a leather pouch he reflectively packed his pipe with tobacco, tucking down the shaggy mixture with the edge of his fingernail until it lay perfectly flat across the bowl. Then, with a mercurial flare of a lucifer struck on stone he ignited the noxious compound and sucked a blast of the bolstering smoke into his lungs.

Standing, eyes closed, he contemplated his purpose. To see the girl, check upon her condition and review the circumstances leading to her arrival at the undertakers.

As he sucked upon his pipe, his ruminations were disturbed by a sound of movement. Someone, something was coming stealthily up the narrow lane behind him. Slowly, rhythmically the scrunching advanced upon him until it was so close he could feel it's hoarse, hollow breath warming the back of his neck.

The constable, stood, eyes half closed, in an air of relaxed self contemplation as he prepared himself to face his adversary. Suddenly, he span around, sliding his pistol from under his jacket as he whirled. Drawing himself up and steading his feet on the slippery surface, his whipped up his gun, cocked and ready to fire.

His fingers tightened in confusion around the revolver. For a moment, facing the low sun, he was confronted with a monstrous shaggy head set with eyes as black and large as two lumps of coal. Above the head two devilish growths sprung, a spreading pair of horns, wide as man, both the size of immature oak trees. In surprise Wildthorn staggered away. The beast barked deafeningly sending a plume of mucus into the air and lunged its head down almost knocking him backward into the snow.

Wildthorn steadied himself, the monster towering above him was a giant red stag of impossibly large proportions. As bigger beast he'd ever encountered, taller in body than the largest carthorse, wider in girth than the fattest of bulls, it regarded him steadfastly through eyes so wide and fathomless they reminded him of the midwinter, eclipsed moon.