looking for it, then they might let the creature out.
What was more, if the Vanes were concerned that Marcus had actually seen the creature, and might report it, they might let it out to silence him.
Except, of course, that Marcus was ready for it. He had brought a camera, and a large scouting knife, and a baseball bat. He had tried to persuade Roger to lend him his shotgun, on the pretext that he wanted to go clay-pigeon shooting, but he didnât have a licence and Roger was a stickler for things like that.
More than anything else, though, Marcus wanted to go back to Duncan Greenleaf and show him that he hadnât imagined the creature in black, and that he had done his very best for the tiny boy in the mouth of the hungry moon.
He waited until well past midnight before he walked past Rogerâs house and along the lane that led to the woods. The night was clear and still and the moon shone like a lamp. He left the lane just where the sign said âStrictly Privateâ and began to crunch and rustle his way through the dry leaves and the blackberry bushes. He was tense, and a little jumpy, especially when a bird suddenly fluttered out of the undergrowth right in front of him, but he wasnât especially afraid. It seemed as if he hadbeen destined to do this, ever since he had first seen the hungry moon on the cereal packet. It seemed as if he had been chosen all those years ago to right an outstanding wrong.
He had looked up more about the witches of Thessaly, and Duncan Greenleaf was quite right about their appearance, and what they could do. Apparently they could also transform themselves into birds and animals, and they had an intimate knowledge of aphrodisiacs and poisonous herbs. A Thessalonian witchâs den would be filled with incense, and strange engravings, and the beaks and claws of birds of prey, as well as pieces of human flesh and small vials of blood taken from the witchâs victims. They particularly relished the noses of executed men.
Duncan Greenleaf was quite right about the woods, too: the brambles were worse than barbed wire. Marcus hadnât ventured more than a hundred feet into the woods before his hands and his face were scratched, and he had torn the shoulder of his jacket. It seemed almost as if the undergrowth were viciously alive, cutting and tearing and catching at him.
He kept criss-crossing the undergrowth in front of him with his torch, in case of man-traps. It might be absurd to suspect that they were still set here, after more than sixty years, but it was no more absurd than suspecting that a Thessalonian witch-creature was lying in wait for him in the half-darkness, with glittering eyes and teeth like a shark.
After ten minutes of struggling forward, he began to reach the edges of the boggy ground. He heard an owl hooting, and then a quick, loping rustle through the bushes. His heart beating, he pointed the torch up ahead of him, and it reflected two luminous yellow eyes. He said, â
Ah
!â aloud, and almost turned and ran, but thenthe creature loped off in the opposite direction, and he glimpsed the heavy swinging brush of a large fox.
He hefted his baseball bat and continued to edge slowly forward over the soft, muddy ground. He wondered how far the bog extended, and how deep it was. He tried to walk quietly, but his boots made a thick, sucking sound with every step.
He took one more step, and the mud began to drag him in, right up to his knees. He tried to pull his left foot out, but he overbalanced, and fell forward, dropping his baseball bat and stretching out his hands to save himself.
He heard it before he felt it. A ringing, metallic
chunk
! Then suddenly his left hand was ablaze with pain, as if he had thrust it directly into an open fire. He tried to pull his hand out, but the steel trap had caught him by the wrist, half-chopping his hand off. By the light of his fallen torch, he could see tendons and bone and bright red muscle. The man-trap
What was more, if the Vanes were concerned that Marcus had actually seen the creature, and might report it, they might let it out to silence him.
Except, of course, that Marcus was ready for it. He had brought a camera, and a large scouting knife, and a baseball bat. He had tried to persuade Roger to lend him his shotgun, on the pretext that he wanted to go clay-pigeon shooting, but he didnât have a licence and Roger was a stickler for things like that.
More than anything else, though, Marcus wanted to go back to Duncan Greenleaf and show him that he hadnât imagined the creature in black, and that he had done his very best for the tiny boy in the mouth of the hungry moon.
He waited until well past midnight before he walked past Rogerâs house and along the lane that led to the woods. The night was clear and still and the moon shone like a lamp. He left the lane just where the sign said âStrictly Privateâ and began to crunch and rustle his way through the dry leaves and the blackberry bushes. He was tense, and a little jumpy, especially when a bird suddenly fluttered out of the undergrowth right in front of him, but he wasnât especially afraid. It seemed as if he hadbeen destined to do this, ever since he had first seen the hungry moon on the cereal packet. It seemed as if he had been chosen all those years ago to right an outstanding wrong.
He had looked up more about the witches of Thessaly, and Duncan Greenleaf was quite right about their appearance, and what they could do. Apparently they could also transform themselves into birds and animals, and they had an intimate knowledge of aphrodisiacs and poisonous herbs. A Thessalonian witchâs den would be filled with incense, and strange engravings, and the beaks and claws of birds of prey, as well as pieces of human flesh and small vials of blood taken from the witchâs victims. They particularly relished the noses of executed men.
Duncan Greenleaf was quite right about the woods, too: the brambles were worse than barbed wire. Marcus hadnât ventured more than a hundred feet into the woods before his hands and his face were scratched, and he had torn the shoulder of his jacket. It seemed almost as if the undergrowth were viciously alive, cutting and tearing and catching at him.
He kept criss-crossing the undergrowth in front of him with his torch, in case of man-traps. It might be absurd to suspect that they were still set here, after more than sixty years, but it was no more absurd than suspecting that a Thessalonian witch-creature was lying in wait for him in the half-darkness, with glittering eyes and teeth like a shark.
After ten minutes of struggling forward, he began to reach the edges of the boggy ground. He heard an owl hooting, and then a quick, loping rustle through the bushes. His heart beating, he pointed the torch up ahead of him, and it reflected two luminous yellow eyes. He said, â
Ah
!â aloud, and almost turned and ran, but thenthe creature loped off in the opposite direction, and he glimpsed the heavy swinging brush of a large fox.
He hefted his baseball bat and continued to edge slowly forward over the soft, muddy ground. He wondered how far the bog extended, and how deep it was. He tried to walk quietly, but his boots made a thick, sucking sound with every step.
He took one more step, and the mud began to drag him in, right up to his knees. He tried to pull his left foot out, but he overbalanced, and fell forward, dropping his baseball bat and stretching out his hands to save himself.
He heard it before he felt it. A ringing, metallic
chunk
! Then suddenly his left hand was ablaze with pain, as if he had thrust it directly into an open fire. He tried to pull his hand out, but the steel trap had caught him by the wrist, half-chopping his hand off. By the light of his fallen torch, he could see tendons and bone and bright red muscle. The man-trap
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