A Change In The Weather

Act 1. Chapter 1: October 31st - An uninvited guest

13 December, 2007 – 1:23 am

Act 1

Bracken Wood

 

In the kitchen, the kettle was blowing its top like a runaway steam train.

Eliza wrapped a towel around the handle and heaved it from the stove. Wispy curls of steam rose to the ceiling as she poured the boiling water into the waiting teapot, infusing the air with the delicate scent of bergamot.

She left the tea to brew for a moment and walked across the kitchen. From out of the corner of her vision something caught her eye, and she automatically looked up. Did something just pass by the window? Wiping the condensation from the glass, she peered out past the garden to the dark tangled trees of Bracken Wood beyond.

Eventually, she shook her head, convincing herself that it was nothing, and poured the Earl Grey tea into a fine bone china cup.

A radio babbled away in the background, but its half-heard gossip was more a distraction than anything else and she reached over to switch it off. She raised the cup absently to her mouth to take a sip but ended up scalding her lips. With a wince, she placed the cup back on the kitchen table and ambled to the doorstep to take in the wood-scented air.

The moon sat there behind wispy clouds, bathing the ancient oaks and sycamores with an eerie glow that seemed to twist their trunks and boughs into evermore bizarre shapes. It was as if, under the myriad stars that peppered the canopy of heaven like a scattering of fairy dust, the forest had suddenly taken on a life of its own. After all these years there was still something about Bracken Wood that fascinated her, and so it was that with the coming of the twilight, the night seemed to bring about a profound change - as if a magical spell had weaved some enchantment over it.

This time though the silence from the wood was deafening. Something wasn’t right, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

But this didn’t entirely surprise her: her beloved deck of Tarot cards – the first thing she always turned to when things demanded a little clarification – appeared to be just as muddled and confused as she was.

They were shabby to the point of neglect, but she treated them with the utmost care, keeping the fragile worn cards in a velvet pouch. They were old even when Eliza had been given them and she’d been told never to lose them, mistreat them, sell them, or even let anyone else so much as touch them. It was bluntly pointed out to her that there were things in this world that couldn’t be explained away by mere reason.

Every day she would withdraw to her study, light a candle and draw the curtains. Then she would sit down, reach into the top drawer of her desk and take out the velvet pouch and its contents. After shuffling the deck and cutting it three times she would carefully draw the top card and leave it face down on the table whilst she went to get breakfast. When she returned, she would turn it over and scrutinize it. She repeated this same little ritual every morning. It seemed to help her focus on the day ahead.

Except that, against all the laws of probability, the last three times she’d sat down to consult them she’d somehow drawn the same card.

To the casual observer who knew almost nothing of the major arcana, it was certainly one of the more disturbing cards of the Tarot, but Eliza knew its real meaning, its occult meaning, though it was putting it into context that was proving difficult. She felt that tempting the cards again would be a futile gesture. In any case, she definitely didn’t want it underlined by the same card being drawn again. You see, she of all people could take a hint.

She held the card up to the light and squinted at it:

The overgrown tower reached into the sky. Its rambling steeple and belfry had been struck by lightning, forcing the masonry to collapse outwards in an explosion of rubble. Frozen in mid-air, amid the shards of shattered stone, were two figures - a boy and a girl - tumbling helplessly through the air from the top of the tower to the jagged rocks below.

The card made no sense.

But having drawn the same card three times in as many days it just reinforced her view that something extraordinary was underway and the more she thought about it, the more it began to trouble her.

And so, for some reason that she couldn’t fully fathom, she found that she’d put her cottage up for sale. The business with the cards had affected her so much that she hadn’t even told her friends what she’d done, insisting on following her own decisions – no matter how strange.

A crooked little sign outside the cottage declared it for sale, but curiously in the weeks since it had been on the market it hadn’t attracted any potential buyers – not one in fact. She kept telling herself that it was just a matter of time, and that Fate would reveal itself eventually. Deep down, she knew they’d come, and they’d be special people – whoever they were. She’d seen it in the cards. They’d told her so.

She returned to her little kitchen to rummage around in a pot on the worktop. As well as being somewhat reclusive, she was a notorious magpie and squirreled-away anything and everything, from corks and bottle-tops to loose change and stray buttons. Finally, with a cry of discovery, she held aloft a small bunch of keys that had confounded her.

She turned back to the door, and stopped dead in her tracks.

A tall hooded figure filled the doorway, dressed head-to-toe in black with robes that billowed and flapped as the cold wind of the autumn night blew in from behind. She tried to look into the shadows of its cowl, but it did no good - there seemed to be no face there. It was like staring into an abyss.

Without invitation, the figure crossed the threshold and into the kitchen, shambling across the tiled floor towards her in a way that sent shivers down her spine. Terrified, she dropped the keys, which fell to the floor with a jangle and stared dumbfounded at the intruder.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered, breathlessly.

The hooded figure shuffled in further, almost touching the low ceiling as it drew itself up to its full height.

‘Stay away from me or I’ll call the police…’ she threatened, backing away until she hit the lip of the table.

She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the figure who just stood there, silent as the grave.

‘Get out of my cottage!’ she shouted, pointing to the kitchen door with a shaky finger.

‘You don’t know us old woman, but we know you…’ said the hooded figure, in tones full of menace. ‘In fact, we know all about you.’

Eliza frowned.

‘How do you know me?’ she whispered.

Her gaze darted about the kitchen for something - anything - to defend herself with, should the need arise. Finally, her attention was drawn to the cutlery drawer, but it was no use - the knives were hopelessly out of reach behind the intruder.

‘Where is your friend?’ said the hooded man eventually, apparently ignoring her question.

‘Which friend would that be?’ she replied quickly. ‘I’ve got lots of friends.’

Her gaze shifted to the antique clock on the wall and nervously ran her tongue over her dry lips.

‘Oh come now.’ continued the hooded man. ‘Let’s not play games here. You know perfectly well who I’m referring to.’

Eliza looked puzzled, and waited for the question. The man in the hood stood there, silent and still, breath condensing in the cold air.

‘Where are you hiding the dragon?’ he said, finally.

Eliza blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could think of nothing to say at all.

The hooded man sighed wearily.

‘Well? Has the cat got your tongue? Speak up old woman!’ the hooded man barked, impatiently.

And then - without warning - he thrust an outstretched hand towards her, which caught her by surprise and she stumbled backwards. With eyes wide open, she stared at the dirty cracked fingernails. The hood may have hidden a face, she thought, but the gold ring on the finger was a dead giveaway.

She gave a yelp of surprise as she recognised the engraving.

‘Impossible!’ she mumbled, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘But you’re all meant to be…’

Her words trailed off as she felt her legs go weak.

‘Dead?’ he said, finishing off her sentence.

Eliza nodded slowly.

‘So you do know who we are…’ he said, with a trace of mirth. ‘You don’t know how glad it makes me feel knowing that.’

‘But you’re all meant to be dead…’ she repeated, hollowly.

‘Very possibly old woman. But the sad truth of it is that we are plainly not. Do you realise how long it took us to finally find this place? There were years of false trails, chasing tails, clues that lead to nowhere and dead-ends. And then, when it seemed all hope had failed, we finally stumbled upon this little cesspool of a village, and you.’

‘Me?’ stammered Eliza, not wishing to believe the words.

‘Yes my dear. You lead us here you see. We did our research, and all the pieces of the jigsaw fell together. Call it fate if you like…’

Eliza couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘You see you could help us in lots of ways.’ he continued. ‘Of-course if you prefer to remain uncooperative I’m sure we could find ways of being more persuasive? You will help us, you see, one way or another. Mark my words.’

Eliza snorted. ‘What makes you seriously think that I’d help you of all people? You’re the very last person I’d help.’ she said, with a contempt that she couldn’t hide. ‘Your order betrayed a family and destroyed a way of life. You’re all murderers! Had you forgotten about that after all these years?’

‘Betrayal and murder sound so melodramatic don’t they? Despite what you’ve been told though, they were great days indeed. Of-course you weren’t there and couldn’t possibly have known…’

But Eliza wasn’t listening. For some reason, her attention was centred firmly on the kitchen clock, and she looked back as the hooded man continued.

‘You see, we commanded armies a thousand years before even you were born old woman. We had power over people…’

‘Yes, yes, I was told all about it in stories when I was a girl.’ she said dismissively. ‘The people loved you and yet you turned against them.’

The hooded man snorted. ‘Of-course. What else did you expect?’

Eliza screwed her face up in disgust. ‘You make me sick.’

Suddenly, the kitchen clock struck twelve, and for one brief moment the hooded man was startled and turned to look around. Eliza seized her chance. Grabbing the cup from the table, she hurled its contents at the hooded man who screamed in pain as the hot liquid splashed his face and ran as fast as she could to the bathroom, latching the door quickly behind her.

Frustrated and in pain, the man pounded at the door with his fists.

‘Where is the secret that you hide?’ he hissed.

‘I’ll never tell you!’ she spat back from the other side.

Eliza looked around desperately trying to find a way out, but it was no use. She cursed herself for being so stupid.

The bathroom was a dead end.

* * * * *

He could have easily smashed the door down out of sheer rage, but he promised he’d leave no signs of a struggle, so he waited there patiently. It was only a matter of time, and besides, he knew the room lead to nowhere so he had plenty of time to spare. In fact, he had all the time in the world.

He moved his head closer to the door.

‘What a pity no one warned you about us. Didn’t your friend tell you? Ah, of course not. He thought we were all dead too.’

He sighed, staring at his hands.

‘We just want to talk to your friend that’s all,’ he said, soothingly. ‘We wouldn’t want anything drastic to happen now would we?’

He waited, but there was no reply.

‘Despite what you think, we’re not monsters you know…’

He licked his teeth and waited for a reply.

‘Come now,’ he said. ‘You know we’ll find what we’re looking for eventually with or without your help. One way or another, have no fear…’

But still there was no reply.

The room remained silent except for the sound of the leaves gently rustling in the midnight breeze outside. With a crack of his knuckles he tried the door again, which much to his surprise was now unlatched.‘

‘So be it old woman.’ he said, with a bitter hiss. ‘I prefer it this way…’

As he spoke, he pulled a wicked-looking hooked knife from the depths of his robes and held it out in front of him, its shiny blade glinting in the light of the kitchen.

The door creaked open slowly.

But all he could do was stand there for a moment, not daring to believe his eyes.

Impossibly, the bathroom was empty. But how could that be? He was sure there was no escape route because he’d double-checked the grounds beforehand. There was a small window at the far end of the room, but that was latched from the inside and it was far too small to squeeze through.

Finally, he let out a growl of frustration.

‘Where are you?’ he snarled, through gritted teeth.

And then there was a sound from the corner of the room, which made his ears prick up. It was soft, almost like a rustling, and out of curiosity he found himself walking towards it. In his mind he was hoping to find the old woman cowering behind the bath like some frightened child.

And yet what he discovered was the last thing he’d been expecting.

From behind the bath, a large owl casually hopped up onto the rim by the taps, and perched there, staring back at him through deep black eyes that betrayed no emotion.

The man blinked out of curious surprise, watching as the owl spread its wings wide to give two slow flaps. He assumed that the bird would stay where it was, but events happened so quickly that within seconds, faster than he could react, the owl had lunged through the air towards him, in a whirling flurry of beating wings and talons.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the owl let lose an ear-piercing screech, and the hooded man found the knife slipping from his hand to the ground as his arms flailed about in a gesture of protection. Angrily the bird gouged at his face with its talons before making its escape through the open kitchen door, past the little garden and out into the quiet of the night.

Shaking and boiling with rage, the man scrambled around on the floor for the knife before staggering out of the cottage clutching his blooded face to disappear into the deep dark of Bracken Wood.

Six months passed…

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