Writing for Fun
May 2016
Judgement - Pete Norman
Grotesque black tendrils silhouetted against the grey night sky. Skeletal fingers clawing hopelessly toward the heavens, desperate to escape the death grip of the land. But not once in nigh on five hundred years, not once since the army of Tudor thugs had torn the holy edifice to pieces, had it ever managed to break free from the top of the hill. The cadaverous remains of Whitby Abbey loomed eternal, lonely, desecrated, angry, one hundred and ninety nine steps above the cold, savage waters of the North Sea.
A cloud passed before the thin, setting sun. The faint light extinguished and for an instant – for a few pounding heartbeats – the great pile faded ominously into the darkness. The man held his breath, his heart beating out of control, but the moment quickly passed and, as the wan light returned, the vast hill and the eerie black stones re-emerged from the gloom.
The man shuddered. He knew that at the end of days, on the Great Day of Judgement, a savage reckoning would be visited upon the human race for the sacrilege; for the callous throwing down of the Lord's house into ruin.
He turned his back upon the nightmare, raising his lantern to his face for the scant comfort it afforded, but the light blinded him and he quickly dropped the lamp back down to his side. The breeze had faded away to an unnatural calm and the sound of the waves was diminishing. A dank mist had begun to drift in from the sea engulfing his meagre lamp in a halo of sulphurous yellow light.
He shuddered again. He wished that he was elsewhere, he wished that he was anywhere else but in this Godforsaken place, but he had given his word – he had agreed the reward – he stood by his task. It was not the first time on this coast that a purse had changed hands for little more than the guiding of a smuggler's boat into a secluded bay. At the Inn the Captain had slipped into the seat opposite, had slipped a full jug of ale in front of him, had slipped a weighty purse out of his pocket, but only for effect, because it had soon slipped back out of sight when he reached for it. It was not to be his until after the deed was done. He looked out to sea for the boat, but shrouded by the cloying mist he might as well have been blind. He strained his ears for the slightest sign, for the dull note of the oars pulling water, for the slap of the wave on the prow, for the creaking of the timbers as they took the oarsman's strain, but in the unearthly silence he might as well have been deaf.
His universe ended at the tips of his fingers, at the cold damp pebbles beneath his feet. He was truly alone . . . and for some inexplicable reason he was more desperately afraid than at any other time he could remember.
Then finally the great bell of the Church of St Mary sounded the hour, the hollow monotonous ring a tuneless portent of his imminent demise, the tolling of his funeral bell . . . his resolve evaporated.
Damn the promise. Damn the money. Damn the Captain for his silver tongued persistence. He would wait no longer.
He turned on his heel to leave but above the scraping of his boots on the wet stones a faint sound caught his attention. A soft splash, a slight creaking . . .
He thrust out his lantern, waving it furiously from side to side. He thought to shout a 'halloo', but the captain had cautioned against it, so he held his breath.
The mist began to swirl as a dark shape loomed towards him, gathering form with every pull on the oars. A rowboat, piloted by a huge bear of a man, struck the pebbles. He set aside his lantern and rushed forward to heave the prow up onto the beach. His fingers froze on the wet timbers as his eyes alighted on the cargo: the immense rough wooden box which almost completely filled the space must surely be dreadfully heavy as the large boat was lying perilously low in the water.
The man was tough, a prerequisite in his illicit profession, and the Captain had all the strength his giant frame allowed, but it still took all their effort and many a muttered curse before they finally managed to heave the great box out from the boat and up onto the low boards in the back of the cart. The wheels creaked under the enormous weight and Meg let out a soft whinny in surprise as she took the strain.
The man stroked her cheek to give her some token of reassurance and then urged her forwards. The Captain fell into step beside them, one hand on his precious box to steady it as the cart's wheels rolled and bumped over the uneven ground. The path was narrow and rutted, it had never been intended for such a cart or for such a heavy load, but by its very nature it was a favoured route for clandestine business transactions such as this.
By the time they had gained higher ground and escaped the dank mist darkness had enveloped them just as effectively and only the light from his dim lantern exposed the narrow way which stretched before them. They walked on in silence for an age, an age in which the man speculated wildly about the contents of the box. Over the years Meg had eased many a cask of brandy, many a sack of tea or bale of tobacco up this hillside, hidden from the eyes of the Excise Men . . . but this load was somehow different, it was larger, heavier and the slick of the mist still clinging to its rough timbers lent an air of unholy menace.
But however wild the path his flights of imagination took him along, he continually strived to steer his mind back to the equally heavy purse which would be his in just a few short minutes when they reached the old Weirstone Mansion. Long abandoned, it had been falling irretrievably into decay for countless years. Many a time a barrel or two had been concealed in its cavernous cellars, but it was not the kind of place he would ever linger for long, there was a dreadful feeling that pervaded the very stones, that filled him with dread and quickened his feet with an urge to put as much distance between him and that awful place as possible. But if the Captain was prepared to pay the price, he was prepared to take Meg and the awful cargo to the gates of Hell if that was what was what it took to achieve it.
Illuminated only by the scant light of the lantern the Mansion loomed black against the dark night sky, almost, but never quite, managing to match the moody magnificence of the ruins of Whitby Abbey. The man shuddered involuntarily as they passed through the wrought iron gates with long forgotten crests rusting at their pinnacle. Meg drew to a halt in front of the great oak doors, studded with huge iron nails and bounded by a crumbling marble portico. He wanted nothing more than to offload the cart, collect his reward and be parted from this dour Captain and his detestable box without delay.
On more solid ground the load should have seemed less of a burden, but by the time they had shrugged the great box onto a trestle in the vast entrance hall the man's broad back and his strong arms were aching beyond measure. He held out his hand for his purse, but the Captain shook his head, instead he placed in his hand a long iron bar. Most reluctantly the man prised open the lid of the box, the ill formed nails squealing in protest at the abuse as one after another they yielded to the pressure. With a final great heave the lid sprang back and crashed to the floor.
The man gave out an agonised cry and leapt back, shielding his eyes from the dreadful sight . . .
From within the box a slender man, his features shrouded by a heavy black cowl, slowly rose upwards. The cowl slipped back to reveal a face, deathly pale, skeletal thin, a smear of hair as black as night slicked to the crown of his head. The stranger smiled . . . a soulless parody of a smile . . . a smile with an unusual profusion of needle sharp teeth . . . the smile of a predator, a hungry predator, the like of which was seldom seen twice . . . and the unfortunate man knew, he knew in that instant, that he was not like to be an exception to that rule.
His reward was not to be . . . his own Day of Judgement had arrived.
