Dennie’s sense of clarity drained away. She wasn’t just having a moment – she was in the moment, always had been and probably always would be until she found out what it was that Sarah, or her own mind, or whatever was responsible for this, wanted. She opened the back door and followed Sarah out into the night. After a quick pause to take advantage of the unexpected floor feast, Viggo followed.
The moment folded around her again and held her in its bubble, making the outside world dim and hard to see. Some part of her knew that it was night, it was cold, and she was walking barefoot in her nightie along wet pavements, but that part felt like it was dreaming. The only thing she could focus on with any certainty was Sarah, who maintained a constant distance in her slippers that didn’t seem to get damp at all, with Sabrina continuing to peep over the shoulder of her pink hoodie, either encouraging her to follow or warning her not to.
The village streets gave way to country lanes, hedgerows dripping and rustling with the furtive movements of small animals. Then there was a gap, and a wide wooden gate with a freshly painted sign that read ‘Farrow Farm’. A bright light grew behind her, sending her own long shadow skewering ahead, and Viggo began to bark.
Sarah was gone, and the moment burst.
* * *
‘I could run her down,’ the deserter suggested. ‘Nobody would ever know.’
Gar grunted in agreement.
Ardwyn considered it for a moment. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘It’s still too soon. And she’s too easily missed, not like the others. Let’s stick to the plan. She’s an annoyance at best, and that’s not a reason to kill her.’
‘But what’s she doing here?’ the deserter insisted.
‘What does it matter? She can’t do anything. I mean, she’s done us the biggest favour she could have by coming out here like this. They’ll have her taken away if we choose to tell anyone, and we can hold that over her. She still might be useful.’
‘I think you’re being complacent.’
‘I don’t care what you think. I am Mother. Gar, get out of the van. And take the remains with you.’
‘Why?’ he growled.
‘Because Everett is going to take nice, confused old Mrs Keeling back home and we don’t want to be driving that back and forward all night, plus her dog wants to kill you. That’s why.’ There was unhappy muttering from the back and then the sensation of the vehicle shifting on its suspension as Gar opened the back doors and hopped out, carrying the empty vessel. Then he slammed them again and Everett heard him trudging back along the road.
Ardwyn got out and approached the old woman. ‘Mrs Keeling? Are you all right?’
The old woman shook her head as if waking up, and shushed her dog. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice stumbling. ‘I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here.’
Ardwyn took off her coat and draped it over the old woman’s shoulders. ‘Well, why don’t we get you back home, hey, before you catch your death? What’s your address, dear?’
Keeling looked at her, obviously suspicious.
‘Or, if you like, I can call someone to collect you? Your daughter, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Keeling immediately. ‘No, that’s fine. You don’t have to call anybody. I’ll… a lift would be very kind. Thank you.’
Keeling told her where she lived and Ardwyn helped her into the van. The dog balked at getting into the back, growling and whining and obviously not at all happy about what it could smell in there, but the old woman coaxed him in and they set off. She still seemed distracted and he didn’t attempt to make conversation. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to take care of her off in the fields somewhere – there were plenty of small pools and reservoirs in this part of the Trent valley, not to mention old pit workings, quarries, and any number of other places to dispose of a body. Ardwyn was Mother, and he might still be nothing more than a deserter, but he’d fixed his colours to her for good or ill and he would stay loyal to that, at least.
So he saw the old lady safely back home and returned to the farm, where Ardwyn was waiting for him in bed with warm arms, but there was something that needed to be done first.
Gar was waiting for him. He had lit a fire by the hole where they would soon be burying the empty vessel. It lay partially wrapped in a tarpaulin, awaiting disposal.
The deserter looked at it and shook his head. ‘What a waste,’ he said, taking out his butcher’s knife.
The deserter cut two slices from the vessel’s flank and tossed one to Gar, then removed a large flat stone that had been sitting in the embers and placed his slice on it. It began to sizzle, and the smell of cooking flesh made his mouth water in a way that the meat of no other animal could. ‘First flesh, first fruit,’ he murmured, watching it sear and shrink, muscle fibres contracting in the heat. ‘Thank you, Ben.’ Gar ate his raw, chewing noisily.
The deserter missed the monthly replenishment feasts in Swinley, where the vessel swine would be thanked and eaten with celebrations, dancing and music, light and fun. It was different now, he accepted that; reforming the worship of Moccus to include human sacrifice meant that certain practices would inevitably have to stop. Emptying a vessel was one thing. Feasting on human flesh was entirely abhorrent. Ardwyn would certainly never understand. There was no danger that Gar would tell her what they were doing, he reflected as he turned his strip of flesh over to cook on the other side, because in this he was of the same mind: that there were some forms of worship even older than praying to gods.
Sometimes he wondered if Ardwyn
