“Let’s go and have a look.”
They wandered down the narrow lane, spotting another three figures made from metal before they found another turn off. This one led straight into a field, the grass snipped down to make a tidy path, and in the middle of it was a caravan and a shed. The shed doors were open wide, and it was possible to see a jumble of machinery and tools, half-finished statues and what appeared to be a very elderly car in the midst of being reduced to its parts. The caravan was old, too, but clean and shiny, with a neat sign on the side: Harry Bozen-Smith, Artist.
“Hello?” Heather called, and after a moment a man emerged from the shed, wearing a pair of dungarees streaked with oil and paint, and a black t-shirt. He was rubbing his hands on a rag, and as he emerged into the daylight, Heather glanced quickly at Nikki, catching her raised eyebrow.
Harry Bozen-Smith was unreasonably attractive. He had untidy dark hair, a carefully trimmed beard, and large brown eyes framed by a pair of thick expressive eyebrows. His arms, as he moved to throw the rag into a bucket, were firmly muscled, although not excessively so. Seeing them both, he smiled—a dreamy Disney prince sort of smile.
“Holy shit,” muttered Nikki.
“Are we in a jeans advert?” muttered Heather back.
“Hello!” He walked down to meet them. He was wearing a battered pair of Dr Marten boots, and had a tattoo that circled the top of his bicep, almost hidden under his t-shirt. “Can I help? Have you come to buy something? You’d make my day.”
“We saw your man on the corner,” said Heather. “Harry, is it?”
The man nodded. “Don’t see many people around here this time of year.”
“You work out here by yourself?”
Harry Bozen-Smith shrugged. “Live out here, really, at the moment. Did you want to look at my work?”
Nikki nodded and stepped up to follow him, while Heather battled a sinking feeling—she’d been to enough final shows at art colleges to dread this sort of thing, but when he led them around the back of the caravan, she was pleasantly surprised. There was a small awning attached to the caravan, and underneath were a series of shapes and figures, all pieced together from junk or unidentifiable pieces of metal. She saw a great copper hare, his eye a shining bicycle light, and a crowd of bats, their tight formation held together by pieces of wire. The most striking piece was a great snarling wolf made of silver and black metal. Heather leaned down to look more closely, and caught sight of her reflection in its shining flank. I know what you are, and I think you do too. She looked away hurriedly.
Nikki knelt to examine a crow more closely—the black metal had been treated with oil somehow, so that its feathers shone rainbow-like even in the shadows.
“This is incredible,” she said. “You take your inspiration from the landscape?”
Harry beamed, his hands in his pockets. “I do. This place …” he looked away, across the field. “This place is full of strangeness.”
“We’re trying to find out more about it, actually,” said Heather. “Do you know much of the history of Fiddler’s Mill?” She tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear; the wind was picking up, and the awning caught the flat sound of the first few drops of rain. “We met a chap yesterday who said there’s a haunted field around here somewhere.”
“There is, that’s true. I’ve been there. I didn’t see any ghosts …” Heather glanced at him, but couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Some powerful energies though. Very powerful.”
“And there was the hippy commune up at Fiddler’s Mill House. Did you hear about that?”
Harry straightened up. For the first time, Heather thought to wonder at his bare arms—it was hardly a warm day.
“You know that’s infamous around here.” He grinned. “I grew up in the little village down the road, and my mum used to talk about it with the neighbors when I were a lad. Enough scandal to keep them talking for decades.”
Nikki returned his smile. “Scandal? Do tell.”
“Oh, you know.” Harry shrugged. “Nothing especially scandalous to people from London, I’ll bet, but up here? Drugs and drinking and loose women. I always preferred my nana’s stories about Fiddler’s Mill—she was more about ghosts and that, fairies and witches, you know. I always …”
His words were lost in a gust of wind, and the pair of them shuffled further under the awning.
“Sorry?” Heather nodded encouragingly. “Please, local folklore is a special interest of mine.”
Harry looked faintly embarrassed now, and he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Aye well. She said there was a woman who haunted the woods around here, a woman wearing a red coat. Swore her life on it, she did. You’ve heard why it’s called Fiddler’s Mill, have you?”
“No?” Heather wrapped her arms around herself and glanced out across the grass. The line of dark woods continued there, waiting for them.
“Well,” Harry said, “There was a mill, a long time ago, but that was named after the woods, you see. And the woods were said to belong to the fiddler, a man who came to the village with a magical fiddle. When he played it, the children became so caught up in the music, so absorbed in it, they would do whatever he wanted them to do. He took them away, to his secret home in the woods, and they never came back.”
“What?” Heather ignored the look of surprise Nikki shot her. “What are you talking about?”
“The wood,” said Harry, mildly enough. “The villagers got angry, and when he came back to collect more of their children, they chased him into the trees but lost him there. He never came back, and neither did any of their kids.” He shrugged. “It’s a
