Water's Edge

Chapter XIX

The Particulars

Viv pulled me up at the property of the professor. It was a lovely old cottage, one of the last on the estate of Camerton, a hamlet just outside Thorngumbald. I vaguely remembered Bux telling me that the Professor would walk all the way into town and back, whatever the weather, to enjoy this Colloquy he kept behind the bar. Deadly stuff. Why are all academics drunks? Who was I to judge?

"Thank you."

"No bother." She leant across to fling my door wide, "I am sure we'll keep bumping into one another."

"Say hello to Margaret for me."

"Oh, I will. She's next on my list to get ready for the day." She drove off before I could remark on the state of the pathologist. Viv Handsome. I never would have guessed she'd be the one to have an eye out for me. I sensed she'd be a good friend on the job.

I debated whether I could have that cigarette before walking down Camerton Hall Lane, and decided against it. The nicotine hum had returned, but I had no idea how Babbitt would find me. And I hadn't even gone back to change—Oh, that was what the smirk was all about. Viv may have woken me up but she was still going to punish me.

I traipsed down the lane and quickly came across the cottage Viv had described. White as snow, thick dark vines clambering up the roof. Before I even knocked on the door, it opened wide, and the green-rimmed Particular peered over the lenses scrupulously, "You're a mess."

"It's your fault."

He barked laughter, "That it is. Instæppan!" I sighed; I was too hungover to be dealing with posh eccentrics.

His abode was simple, and cosy. As an academic, no wall was spared bookcases or artefacts of archaeological note: old spear heads, a scabbard—I was directed into a living room with a grandmother clock chiming softly. The hangover, I had to admit, dissipated in the calm of the house.

"I won't torment you with more of my Colloquy, Detective Fields, and I am afraid the tea is anachronistic of the same period. It's Earl Grey."

"Thank you." My god, why did they all talk like this?

"I have to admit, even I think my latest batch is a bit strong." He groaned into his armchair, "I am of the belief that beor and ealu are not beer and ale, as you would expect. I think beor, as Fell described it as 'precious', refers to something more akin to a Saxon vodka, or—" He looked over his spectacles, "You already told me, in your stupor, you did not want to hear any of this. I thought I would torment your waking soul with it nonetheless."

"How rude was I?"

"I mean, Saxons are born to be rude. You've met Bux."

I sipped the Earl Grey and felt some colour return to my cheeks. I realised I had taken the patchouli with me, "I apologise." I said sincerely, "It isn't like me."

"No, terrible business with your Dad." Who else had I told? "It's understandable. It's why I invited you stay here for the night, but even I struggled with the walk. I suppose you're here to learn about The Hælsings."

I tried to wrack my brains of the evening, but the name didn't inspire anything specific. Whatever I had been intrigued by at the time must have vanished along with whatever memories the Saxon Moonshine had eaten, "Yes." I said, nonetheless, not very convincingly.

Another of those sly glances and Professor Babbitt creaked over to a bookcase, "You'll have forgotten but I told you about them. I'll show you my proof I'm unrelated." He tossed a small volume into my lap, and I flicked to the front page, "People think I set them off, but I came to the town after Godwine started that cult. In fact, it's why I came."

I peered at the front page of the book, from the local Thorngumbald Library. It depicted a heraldic arms, a yellow goat with red horns on a black background: Hälsingland, "What is this?"

"Oh god, you were far gone. Let me go through it all again. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Oh, not at all, do you mind if I?"

"I do, actually. It's very rude to make a scholar repeat himself." He smiled, "But it's just lucky that scholars love going on and on and on, ey?"

As we both smoked, me a roll-up I made on my lap, putting the book on the arm of the chair, he a thin cigar, Professor Particular Babbitt retold the story of The Hælsings.

Particular had been an archaeological and sociological advisor for Saxon cultures since time immemorial; when Neo-Saxon cults began to spread across the country – inspired by that damned man and his blog – Babbitt had been too curious and begun following them from county to county. He had studied The Wodenboys in the North, The Knives of Frige in the south, and now he had come out to the Humber to study The Hælsings.

"You see the emblem in the book. It's for a real group of people mind, a real place, but googling cultists don't think about where they steal from. It's from a copy of Widsith, their poem. Godwine Seamark – I have to admire his ability to Google Saxon sounding names... I remember Bluetooth, the man, the blogger, not the infernal ear majigger... I remember Bluetooth had put up the Widsith as a rite of passage. It appears Godwine had taken it to heart."

The Hælsings were the local Neo-Saxon tribespeople. I wondered why I hadn't been told of them before, but it became apparent quickly. Usually, Neo-Saxon tribes were clumps of white supremacists throwing rocks and camping in farmers fields. They quickly dispersed, and if they did maintain ranks everyone had a second job; it was LARPing for racists. But some got a grip of what it meant, fully appreciated the anarcho-primitivism, the rejection of civilisation, and every single one did the easiest method of protection, "Godwine's running a religion?"

"Yes." Particular sighed, "It's all very anachronistic, all these boys prancing around the woods are, but Godwine Seamark has really got quite the following. They are fascinating. But very secretive. No one can upset their natural balance because they are regarded as, would you believe it, a minority group! Protected by international law! It's baffling really, especially as they aren't even following Saxon wiċċecræft with much efficacy at all."

"And why did I want to hear about them, other than the usual reasons of course." Even if Godwine had protected his cult like the National Trust would list an old building, most of these Saxon cultists ended up terrorising the local community. But I must have wanted to know something specific, if Particular had remembered me even after making such a fool of myself.

"Only I know where they worship their gods."