Read Online Ancient Echoes by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Holdstock
Ads: Link
and showered at six in the morning, dressed in walking clothes and stared out at the sweeping rain, the waving trees, the tumbling, tormented clouds rolling in from the Atlantic.
‘Great day for a walk!’ he sneered at the world outside. Then thought,
so let’s go walking!
When his parents came down to breakfast, he had already finished eating and was standing, fully clothed and ready for the elements, grim-faced and twitchy.
‘Hurry up,’ he said, to the amusement of other guests in the breakfast room. ‘Let’s not waste a moment of the day. Let’s get
walking.’
His father smiled at him half-heartedly. ‘It’s too wet for the moors. They’ll be too dangerous. We thought we’d take a coast drive, look at some castles.’
‘Not to cast any aspersion on the joys of a coastal ride, I’m for the moors. The black dogs are waiting for us. I feel a family like ours can take them on and triumph.’
His father stared at him, frowning. ‘Shut up, Jack. It’s too risky to walk in weather like this. The mud softens up …’
‘Then I’ll see you later.’
‘Where the hell are you going?’
By the time his father had gathered his wits and come outof the small hotel into the rain, Jack was standing in the bushes, concealed and grim. When the man on the steps disappeared inside again, he ran quickly through the grounds, across the main road, and began to pick his way across the fields to the rise of land that marked the bleak moors.
In two hours, he was high above the town and could look back at the grey stones and slates of the hotel itself, nestling among black winter trees in the curve of the river. The rain had eased, but was still strong; importantly, the wind had dropped and the wind-chill was no longer as discomforting and dangerous as it had been earlier.
There were a few other people striding up the slopes, some of them with dogs which ran in a bedraggled, miserable way rather than leaping and barking for exercise. Jack followed them, pacing along the muddy path, stopping only when he saw a distant shape, a solitary figure moving along the ridge, dark against the grim sky, ascending a path towards the main Tor.
Something about the stride …
He pressed on. Sheep moved away from him, almost silent in the downpour. A vixen moved around them, a huge creature, rust-red and lithe as she trotted cautiously downwind of the flock, looking for anything lame or small. After a while she vanished into the mist and the sheep relaxed.
He was suddenly alone on the moors, no sign of life, animal or human, just the dull if verdant bog grass, the grey, mist-shrouded rocks of the tors, the swirl and drum of rain. He struck out for Wolf Tor, the highest point, and after crossing a ruined stone wall, an old boundary marker, he found a crude path that wound towards the summit.
Between one glance at the Tor and the next, the tall man had appeared there, watching him, rain pouring from his leather hat, glistening on the long raincoat.
This was Jack’s second encounter with Garth before the Spring, and he sensed at once that something was wrong. He trudged along the path, wiping the water from his eyes, awarethat the man was standing in the lee of the craggy rocks, smoking and staring back.
Face to face, Garth looked pale and haunted, his gaze watery, unfocused, cast more to the wide and bleak land below this summit than to the breathless boy in his anorak, jeans and muddy boots.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
Garth ground the cigarette against the massive grey monolith beside him. ‘Angela told me. I paid a visit to her father two days ago. I thought it might be an idea to see you. Especially out here.’
‘On the moors?’
With a cryptic smile, Garth said, ‘Wide, wild open spaces – easier to dowse. Easier to hear. If there’s anything below the earth, moorland like this reveals it quickly.’
‘I saw you in Exburgh – before Christmas. You ran away …’
‘I had things on my mind. I couldn’t
‘Great day for a walk!’ he sneered at the world outside. Then thought,
so let’s go walking!
When his parents came down to breakfast, he had already finished eating and was standing, fully clothed and ready for the elements, grim-faced and twitchy.
‘Hurry up,’ he said, to the amusement of other guests in the breakfast room. ‘Let’s not waste a moment of the day. Let’s get
walking.’
His father smiled at him half-heartedly. ‘It’s too wet for the moors. They’ll be too dangerous. We thought we’d take a coast drive, look at some castles.’
‘Not to cast any aspersion on the joys of a coastal ride, I’m for the moors. The black dogs are waiting for us. I feel a family like ours can take them on and triumph.’
His father stared at him, frowning. ‘Shut up, Jack. It’s too risky to walk in weather like this. The mud softens up …’
‘Then I’ll see you later.’
‘Where the hell are you going?’
By the time his father had gathered his wits and come outof the small hotel into the rain, Jack was standing in the bushes, concealed and grim. When the man on the steps disappeared inside again, he ran quickly through the grounds, across the main road, and began to pick his way across the fields to the rise of land that marked the bleak moors.
In two hours, he was high above the town and could look back at the grey stones and slates of the hotel itself, nestling among black winter trees in the curve of the river. The rain had eased, but was still strong; importantly, the wind had dropped and the wind-chill was no longer as discomforting and dangerous as it had been earlier.
There were a few other people striding up the slopes, some of them with dogs which ran in a bedraggled, miserable way rather than leaping and barking for exercise. Jack followed them, pacing along the muddy path, stopping only when he saw a distant shape, a solitary figure moving along the ridge, dark against the grim sky, ascending a path towards the main Tor.
Something about the stride …
He pressed on. Sheep moved away from him, almost silent in the downpour. A vixen moved around them, a huge creature, rust-red and lithe as she trotted cautiously downwind of the flock, looking for anything lame or small. After a while she vanished into the mist and the sheep relaxed.
He was suddenly alone on the moors, no sign of life, animal or human, just the dull if verdant bog grass, the grey, mist-shrouded rocks of the tors, the swirl and drum of rain. He struck out for Wolf Tor, the highest point, and after crossing a ruined stone wall, an old boundary marker, he found a crude path that wound towards the summit.
Between one glance at the Tor and the next, the tall man had appeared there, watching him, rain pouring from his leather hat, glistening on the long raincoat.
This was Jack’s second encounter with Garth before the Spring, and he sensed at once that something was wrong. He trudged along the path, wiping the water from his eyes, awarethat the man was standing in the lee of the craggy rocks, smoking and staring back.
Face to face, Garth looked pale and haunted, his gaze watery, unfocused, cast more to the wide and bleak land below this summit than to the breathless boy in his anorak, jeans and muddy boots.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
Garth ground the cigarette against the massive grey monolith beside him. ‘Angela told me. I paid a visit to her father two days ago. I thought it might be an idea to see you. Especially out here.’
‘On the moors?’
With a cryptic smile, Garth said, ‘Wide, wild open spaces – easier to dowse. Easier to hear. If there’s anything below the earth, moorland like this reveals it quickly.’
‘I saw you in Exburgh – before Christmas. You ran away …’
‘I had things on my mind. I couldn’t
Similar Books
