LEITMOTIF

 

 

“Sounds – possibly musical – heard in the night from other worlds or realms of being.”

- H.P. Lovecraft

 

Viktor was woken by the sound of soft, sweet music.

He lay there listening, hands clasped across his chest, fingers intertwined.

The music filled his head with an assortment of images:

Magic circles chalked on stripped bare floorboards. Scattered scraps of hand drawn sheet music. A photograph of a smiling couple in a frame propped up on the lid of a grand piano. A dusty bookcase crammed with esoteric tomes and crumbling grimoires.

Darkness tugged at the corners of his vision. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Sleep was pulling him back in its full embrace. But the music was haunting, almost impossible to tune out of, its magic brushing away his lethargy and suffusing him with joy.

His arms dropped to his sides, his fingers lightly tapping the base of the bed. The music, he realised, was coming from a lone violin. This unlocked precious memories within him, each one startlingly vivid and emotional in detail.

They helped draw him to his feet at last, the bones in his body popping. He edged across the room, pressing his hands up against the door. The door yielded, creaking quietly open.

Beyond the door stood a woman, her eyelids fluttering, a baroque violin tucked under her chin. Moonlight glinted off the necklace she wore: a large silver pentacle attached to a chain. Long black hair with grey roots fell about her face as she shimmied and swayed, a discarded padlock lying on the ground between her feet.

She lifted her head, catching his gaze.

Immediately, her eyes widened.

Her jaw dropped.

She played on, the melody painting the night and the insides of his skull with wonder.

She was smiling and crying, all at the same time.

And then he remembered.

It was his song.

The song Ilse had written.

Ilse, he thought; of course!

The song that spoke of a special bond, stronger than any obstacle, than any adversary. And he was the song – it was part of his essence, his very being intertwined with the sparse, ghostly refrain.

Her black lace dress swished about her ankles, tears leaking down her aged but still breathtakingly beautiful face.

When the music stops, he thought, sleep will steal me from the world once more.

But for now, he remained entranced in the doorway of his small stone house, watching, listening to her play his song amongst the crosses and headstones of the garden.

 

 

 

Where The Wounded Trees Wait

 

 

Dedicated to the memory of William “Billy” Edwards

11/11/1908 – 31/08/1991

 

Introduction

 

Iesu! Cyfaill f’enaid cu!

 

Iesu, cyfaill f'enaid cu,

I dy fynwes gad im' ffoi.

Tra bo'r dyfroedd o bob tu,

A'r ym tymhestloedd yn crynhoi.

Cudd fi, O fy Mhrynwr! cudd,

Nes 'r el heibio'r storom gref;

Yn arweinydd imi bydd

Nes im' dd'od i dyernas nef.

Noddfa arall gwn nid oes,

Ond Tydi i'm henaid gwan;

Ti, fu farw ar a groes

Yw fy nghymorth yn mhob man;

Ynot, O fy Iesu! mae

Holl ymddiried f'enaid byw:

nerth rho imi i barhau,

Nes dod adref, at fy Nuw.

Pob peth ynot, Iesu, mae;

Mwy na phopeth ynot sydd;

Cyfod Di'r syrthiedig rai,

Ac i'r cleifion meddyg bydd;

I'r gwangalon cysur rho,

Deillion tywys yn dy ffyrdd;

Ninnau yn dragyddol rown

Ar dy ben fendithion fyrdd.

Gras sydd ynot fel y mor,

Gras i faddeu fy holl fai;

Boed i'w ffrydiau, Arglwydd Iôr!

Oddi wrth bechod fy nglanhau;

Ffynnon bywyd f'enaid gwiw,

Rhydd im' gysur ar fy nhaith,

Llona f'ysbryd tra b'wyf byw,

Tardd i dragwyddoldeb maith!

 

(Welsh soldiers sang ‘Jesus, Lover Of My Soul’ to composer Joseph Parry’s tune, ‘Aberystwyth’, before going into battle at Mametz in 1916. The words represent a deep, heartfelt calling on God to provide, if not protection physically, then at least the courage to face whatever may lie ahead.)

 

***

 

“You have it…” the old woman reached out, touching the crown of the child’s head, “…but don’t be frightened – it’s a gift! That’s what your grandfather believed, anyway.” She took her hand away, tilting her head to the side and smiling. “I’ve only been able to look back. Perhaps it’s the same for you… although it’s more than scrying, remember? And it’s important to talk; not to brush it under the carpet and pretend it’s not there. What hope do we have if we don’t talk about it, if we don’t try and understand?”

Her fingers brushed the child’s face, as light as feathers. “When I was your age,” she said, “I couldn’t read a book without having to scan the last few pages first. I had to be sure there was a happy ending, see.” She shook her head, chuckled to herself. “But I’ve learnt to let the future be.” Her eyes clouded suddenly and for a moment or two she was miles away, locked in some other world, some other time completely. Then, blinking twice, refocusing, added: “I think I knew, in my heart of hearts, what would happen. Perhaps I should have tried harder… Maybe there could have been some way of…preventing it.” A deep frown joined her eyebrows together. “But whenever I scry, I discern loops and terrible dark patterns…”

Her fingers slipped away from the child, and a powerful silence enfolded them both.

The child gazed at the woman’s troubled expression, no longer feeling quite so alone.

 

 

Chapter I

 

28 Years Later

 

She walked barefoot toward the gaunt skeletons of the trees. Mud splashed and squelched, squishing up between her toes, spattering the backs of her legs. All around the land was an eerie nightscape of smoking craters, dead bodies, broken picket posts and barbed wire. Some men, still alive, mortally wounded, were crying out and begging for water. Some plucked at her legs as she went by.

In blasted shell holes she saw men who’d had limbs blown off and others who, having been shot, had crawled in from the machine gun fire to die. She scanned each face, looking for him, but couldn’t make him out, couldn’t see him yet.

Horror and frustration threatened to overwhelm her. A fusilier with half his head blown away lay against his machine gun, hand still on the trigger. Another was kneeling close to the wood, a red trickle creeping from his bayonetted throat. To her left, a young man was running in wild circles, shrieking, his mind clearly broken by war.

The wood loomed, all light shrinking away suddenly, unnaturally. The trees were calling for her, she thought. Beckoning her in. Wanting her for their own. “We gravitate together,” she breathed. “It’s what we do.”

Lumps of flesh hung over branches like discoloured rags. Decapitated heads gazed up with glassy, soulless eyes. A human hand crouched in a bisected tree trunk like a pale grotesque spider.

Then the trees were moving, waving in a strange, hypnotic fashion, their branches reaching down slowly, mesmerizingly, enfolding her like they were arms, holding her close, still and tight. In the blink of an eye they were arms – sinewy and stripped of flesh, dripping blood on the leaves and twigs scattered around her.

She closed her eyes as they eased her to the ground, a weird sense of serenity descending as she hugged them back, easing her racing heart and reeling mind.

And then, for the first time since she could remember, before she would wake up, choking and gasping, she felt at peace, whole.

 

***

 

I do not want to die out here alone…

Huw’s words ghosted through Caryl’s head as she sat patiently at the table, eyes fastened on the clock on the wall. She felt unusually calm, focused and ready for scrying.

Gene’s hand slid into his pocket, fidgeting with an object. His gaze drifted from her face, fixing itself on some indeterminable spot above her shoulder.

“How will you…? he began, then dropped his gaze to his knees, pensive and silent. Moments later, he looked up and tried again. “Do you know exactly…?” He shook his head, defeated.

The waiter came over with a bottle of Côtes du Rhône, showing Caryl the label. He uncorked it, poured a small amount into Caryl’s glass.

She sipped. “C’est bon.”

“Aimez-vous?”

“Oui, c'est très bien.”

The waiter smiled, nodded and filled their glasses before moving on to the next table.

Caryl ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass. “I’m here. We’re actually here, Gene.”

The crimson light of the swiftly setting sun trailed through the windows, spilling slanted beams across the table top and floor.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, reaching out, stroking his knuckles. “I didn’t think you would.”

It was a conscious change of tack. She’d grown increasingly aware over the past few days that she’d been irritable and dismissive of him. Anxiety had been bubbling up, clawing for release.

“It is pretty here,” Gene conceded. “Quiet, though. Perhaps a little too quiet for my taste.”

She knew he had an agenda; business of his own. He was waiting for the right time to broach it, she supposed. Whatever it was that he wanted to say, she hoped he wouldn’t raise it here, at the table, because all she wanted to talk about was scrying.

Fleetingly she thought of Jake and how he’d talk incessantly and passionately about everything and anything, it seemed. They were chalk and cheese, Gene and Jake. Couldn’t be more different if they tried.

A week ago, she’d slept with Jake again. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t do it, but she fell under his spell and spent the night at his. In his bed, he’d made the usual idle promises, whilst listing reasons why her relationship with Gene would fail.

The waiter reappeared, setting their main courses down in front of them.

“The battlefield’s about a mile from here.” She threw a hopeful glance at Gene. “Perhaps we could go for a walk after supper?”

“Must be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Think I’ve pinpointed it, thanks to Nan’s efforts over the years.”

Gene thanked the departing waiter, then puffed out his cheeks and sighed.

What did this mean to him, if anything, she wondered? Could he imagine himself here, seventy-two years ago, crouched in a trench, miles from home and knowing that he could die, at any given moment, far from everyone and everything he loved?

She set her cutlery down, reached under the table for her rucksack and opened it. Maybe this would make it real, she thought, taking out the photograph, passing it to him.

He put his fork down and studied the photograph.

She knew the picture like the back of her hand. Huw, in his 1902 Pattern Service Dress tunic, trousers and hat. He’d a kind, compassionate face and eyes that seemed to convey a message which she couldn’t quite decipher.

The photo was old and brittle. The thought of it perishing someday distressed her. “I think you look like your Nan,” he said, handing the photograph back. “You, your Mum; your Nan. You all look the same.” He picked his fork back up and resumed eating. “You should smile more, Caryl. I never see you smile.”

She pretended not to hear him.

Leaning across the table, teeth bared, she said, “I can find him. I know I can.”