By now, the vibration had built up into a loud, nagging drone, so that sawdust was drifting from the ceiling and the hooks holding the tent to the joists above it were jiggling and clinking, and the empty wine bottles on the shelves were tinkling as if they found it amusing that he was so frightened.
With his heart palpitating, he circled around the tent, shining the flashlight this way and that. On the far side of the tent, he found where the tarpaulin was joined together. Both sides had been pierced by metal grommets and knotted together with cords.
There was another groan from inside the tent, followed by a long slurring sound, like somebody trying to breathe with congested lungs, and then a rustling noise.
Oh shit. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here. How is this going to bring Timmy back? I’ve lost him, just like so many grieving parents lose their children. I’ve lost him for ever and I’ll have to accept it. Martin, too. And Ada Grey. I simply can’t do this.
Strangely, though, as if it didn’t belong to him, his left hand drew the kitchen knife out of his belt and started to slice evenly and deliberately at the knots that were holding the two sides of the tarpaulin together. The rope was hemp, tarred black like liquorice, and tightly twisted.
From inside the tent came yet another groan, and then a voice said, ‘Art thee?’ At least, that was what Rob thought it said, because it was gurgling and clogged-up and it had such a strong accent.
He didn’t answer, but kept on slicing. He cut through three, four, five knots, and gradually the two sides of the tarpaulin started to sag apart.
‘What art thee?’ the voice repeated – still gurgling, still thickly accented, but much clearer this time. ‘Not grove, art thou? Not conventus? And not holy Papist, neither.’
‘I’ve come to release you, that’s all,’ Rob said, in a voice far less steady than he had intended. ‘I’ve come to let you out of here.’
‘Thy coming… it was foretold! The rule of three! A sacrificer, then a priest, and then a kiffy man of no faith!’
Rob cut through the last knot but he kept his knife in his hand. Using only his forearms, he pushed the tarpaulin flaps wide open and shone his flashlight into the tent. The smell was so sweet and so foul that he couldn’t stop himself from retching. Two grey reflective eyes looked up at him.
‘So… thou hast come to release me at last, as it was spoken in the stars a hundred and twenty thousand and sixteen days ago – a hundred and twenty thousand and sixteen days ago to the very day. Here, then, sever my bonds, o man of no faith. Thee and me, we shall ride the moors and be faithless together. My name is Esus, and thou may call me Esus, and consider thyself my servant from this day forth.’
39
Inside the tent stood a long wooden trestle, draped over with layer upon layer of filthy grey blankets. The figure that was lying on the blankets appeared to be a man, but he was at least a foot taller than most men. He was dressed in a jerkin and breeches of rough black suede, criss-crossed with thin leather straps, with leather gauntlets on his hands and heavy black riding boots with bucket tops. His wrists and ankles were bolted to the trestle with thick iron hoops. The stench he gave off was almost unbearable, as if he had soiled himself again and again, for every one of those a hundred and twenty thousand and sixteen days.
Rob shone the flashlight into his face. It was long and narrow, with sharp triangular cheekbones, a long curved nose with white hair sprouting out of his nostrils and a chisel-like chin. His hair was white and long and wild, shoulder-length at least. His lips were white, too, as white as the ghost slugs that Francis had stuck on the wall, and drawn back across his pointed irregular teeth in a condescending snarl.
It was his eyes that disturbed Rob the most. They were plain silver, with no pupils or irises, and slightly wolf-like in shape, but even though they had no pupils or irises they still seemed to be staring at him directly, with an expression that was partly pleased and partly mocking, as if he were thinking, You don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for, do you?
Rob stood beside him, the back of his left hand pressed against his nose and mouth, trying to suppress his breathing so that he wouldn’t retch a second time.
‘Was it Matthew Carver who brought you here?’
Esus tossed his white hair contemptuously. ‘Carver, that dawcock! Thought he could best me. Locked me down here right enough, but I dragged the raymes right out of him before he could walk half a chain.’
‘Do you know why he wanted to lock you up?’
‘’Course I do. It’s ’cause of my power to hold back time, should anyone call on me to do it, and should anyone chant the right chant.’
‘You know that there are people in this house who are trapped in time, because of you.’
‘I have no say in it. If the chant is chanted, my power is drawn from me, if’n I will it or if’n not.’
‘But when you leave here, when I set you free, those people will be set free too?’
Esus looked at Rob slyly. ‘Why dursn’t thou release me, burd, and discover that
