Devils And Unicorns

Chapter 7

The biggest threat to one's safety when travelling alone across the wastes, especially at night, came from the wild animals that stalked the plains. Of course, there was always the possibility of meeting one's end by stumbling down some rocky crag, or perhaps even falling victim to travelling bandits. But across northern Driftland, wolves and feral dogs ran in packs, and had been known to chase down lone riders if they were hungry enough. Florence had never forgotten the time she was crossing the desert to Ramnock as a girl of no more than eight or nine years old, riding on the back of her father's assistant's pick-up truck, staring up at the sky to pass the time. The men had started talking loudly from the cab, and the vehicle came to an unsteady halt. Florence, of course, had hastily sat up to investigate; but her father's face had immediately filled her vision, and then his hand covered her eyes.

"Don't look, Florence, it's nothing," he had ordered. This remained one of the most contradictory, perplexing and terrifying instructions she had ever received. He had told her, many years after the event, that he had been shielding her from the torn remains of some unfortunate soul - a victim of the wolves - whose blood and organs had stained the sand and baked under the sun. But he could not protect her from the smell. Even today, she could still detect the foul stench of rotting tissue in her memories.

Dissent was blessed with stamina in buckets and so he was able to maintain a steady canter all the way to Ramnock. Out here, under the failing light with the distant howls of wolves following her like spirits, Florence felt like her father was still with her, shielding her from it all: for he had given her Dissent, her guardian angel.

Nevertheless, when she felt the hollow clatter of his hooves on paved ground below and saw their combined shadow falling across the ground under lamp light, signifying their entrance into Ramnock and safe return to civilisation, she was finally able to breathe easily.

"Who's there?" the night watchman demanded from atop his rickety wooden lookout tower. She glanced up at him, half afraid that she would see some weapon trained upon her, but she had no way of making him out in the darkness.

"Florence Acreman," she called, pulling Dissent to a halt. "I've just come across from Marsh Crossing."

"Okay, go through," he said, having regarded her for a second. She was relieved that she was seen to pose no threat, and she kicked her horse on down the wide track that led straight onto the main marketplace. At this time of night it was quiet, but not completely deserted. The market stalls stood empty, the canvas sheets covering them billowing gently in the cool evening breeze. Lining the street: Ramnock's homeless, curled up by themselves or conversing softly with each other. They gathered here because it was well lit and much safer than lurking down some dark back alley. In the distance, the raucous sound of the bar resonated through the night, rowdy voices and upbeat music carried on the light wind. In a place like Ramnock, one could never feel truly alone. That was what she wanted right now.

Florence guided Dissent past the stalls, drawing nothing more than transient attention from the vagrants. Within a few minutes they reached the corner of the racecourse, also the site of the sales ring. The pens stood eerily empty, the rusting fences interlocked as always and the cells between them vacant, bits of bailer twine and loose strands of straw waving under the balmy moonlight. It was difficult to equate this lonely sight with the noise and bustle of a sales day when every pen was occupied and you could not move for the number of people packed around them.

She stopped at the end of Wellvale, her eyes scanning the dim light for number 14, Charlie's house. It was easily visible, situated quite close to the main road as it was. The lights were on. Was anyone home?

She dismounted Dissent and led him forwards down the passage between the houses. They were not like the large, well-spaced homes up in Marsh Crossing, and nothing like the lavish mansions of Perchborn Hill. The residents of central Ramnock were packed like sardines into these modest, painted brick houses, with clothes lines strung between them and precarious stacks of pallets and mouldy old sacking piled outside.