Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter Two

February 18th 1684

The night was cold outside. Franklin James felt the chill on his neck as if a thousand pins were stabbing him.  When the breeze brushed against the sweat, he shuddered.  But he was not outside.  Franklin sat in his armchair, which was as weathered as the stone-walls of his humble cottage and as the old man himself.  Even the embers from the flickering fire, flying up to touch his cheek with several warming kisses, could not stop the shivers.

The front door was no match for the chill either.  For years it had been battered by bouts of harsh winter rain and wind from across the moors and failed to fight off the inevitable attacks from woodworm.  It now clung to its hinges drunkenly, almost inviting passers-by to enter the house and help themselves.  Not that Franklin had much of any value.  Not anymore.  He felt that the past few years had been sent to mock him, as the yield on his potato crops - for which he was known throughout Wildermoor -  had dried up without warning.  Franklin had to watch as his customers - and livelihood - walked away from him.  He had lost his wife to the cholera epidemic that had gripped the villages two Christmases ago, leaving him to wither away.  She had been the life and soul of him and had given him his most precious belonging – their daughter Evelyn.

But now she was gone too.

Franklin cursed himself for what must have been the hundredth time that night.  The door creaked again against the strain of the relentless wind that seemed determined to break into the house.  The creak did nothing more than to fan his guilt.  When his business had dried up, he‘d drunk away what was left of his profits. There was no more money left for the upkeep of what had been the James’ family home. 

He had been meaning to fix the front door for the past eighteen months but had always found a reason not to.  He blamed the door.  It should have been secure enough to protect them, especially when they were vulnerable at nightfall. 

Then he blamed himself.  Again.

He had become weaker over the years, letting himself succumb to the damage brought on by years of toil, working the land to support his family.  Arthritis had racked his hands and joints, grief and drink had weakened his heart.  Now he was unable to protect his daughter when she needed him most.  That night his legs had failed too.  He had been awoken by her screams, which he heard as clear as a bell from his room at the back of the cottage.  Only the open living area seperating the bedrooms lay between them, with no walls to muffle the cries.  For those moments, Evelyn was to Franklin but a baby again; defenceless, scared, vulnerable.  That sound lived with him with every minute, as would the time it had taken him to raise himself out of his bed and stagger down the short hallway which linked his wing of the home to hers.

He knew he was too late the moment he reached the central living room.  Her screams had stopped.  For a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was a dream he had finally managed to wake from.  Then as he edged closer to the husk of the front door, which lay open to the elements, feeling the biting wind as it whistled into their home, his blood too ran cold.  He could hear Evelyn’s faint cries across the clearing of the fields, getting fainter with each turn of his head, desperately trying to locate her in the darkness.  Once or twice, he thought he could hear her calling him, as if it was eighteen years ago and she was still lying on the sheepskin rug behind where he stood now in front of the flickering fire.

But Evelyn was gone.  He knew it then, just as he realised there was no warmth from the fire.  Franklin could even sense the presence of snowflakes starting to fall, the wind brushing them inside onto the cold stone floor in place of the sheepskin rug.

He sat staring into the flames that cast forth shadows of that night that was now four days in the past.  Searches had been fruitless but persistent.  For a while the local folk around him had admired Franklin for his success on the crop plantation he had acquired and grown to an enviable size. Now they pitied him as they watched him sink deeper into himself and become swallowed by his grief.  They wanted to help though, even if it was to just give the old man a thread of hope to cling to.  However, they too were beginning to flag with the effort of the long days and nights they committed to the cause, knowing that with each day they were getting closer to having to call off the search.

Franklin decided to pour himself another drink – a brandy.  It seemed that this was the only comfort and warmth he could afford himself.  It also helped mask the images in his head of where Evelyn might be, of what might be being done to her, or even whether she was alive.  But it only numbed the pain for a few seconds.  He took another gulp from the tankard and waited as he felt the alcohol warm his throat, continuing down through his body, hazing his mind.  It had become almost like his best friend over the last couple of years, always there when he needed to forget.

Franklin heard the door creak open again.  It felt different this time.  The bitter chill did not come with the sound but he could sense a presence.  Edward Childs, Franklin’s oldest friend, former business partner and the current landlord of The Weary Traveller stood in the doorway.  Franklin turned his head to greet him from his chair. 

Edward showed signs of wear and tear himself.  His hands were rough and knotted from years of manual labour on the moorlands that had afforded him the chance to settle into retirement, the revenue from the Traveller helping to keep money trickling in.  Edward too had experienced loss over the years, but he emitted a strength and reserve that Franklin did not, and had undertaken the role as chief of Evelyn’s search party.  Edward stood in his thick sheepskin coat and heavy boots, his shoulders lightly dusted from the beginning of another snow shower.  His eyes were rimmed with black,  heavy bags underneath highlighting the lack of rest from the last few nights.

Franklin raised his eyebrows as a greeting but Edward returned it with a solemn shake of his head.  This had become a silent code between the two at the end of each day. Franklin clung on to the hope that Edward would finally offer him a nod.

Edward removed his boots and brushed off his coat and laid them down on a stool at the side of the door.  He sat in the other armchair opposite Franklin. This chair had previously belonged to Christina-Rose, Evelyn’s mother. She and Franklin had spent many an evening sitting opposite each other, looking into each other’s eyes as the night drew in.  Franklin couldn’t seem to pull himself away from this tradition, even now, and his eyes always showed a hint of disappointment when their gaze met Edward’s.

Edward broke the silence.

‘The frost has already started to set in across much of the ground.’

Franklin nodded slowly in reply, his eyes fixed on the cold floor.  It was debatable whether he even listened to anybody when they spoke these days.

‘There’s more in the air, and the snow is beginning to fall,’ continued Edward, ‘It is going to make it hard for us to find any tracks come dawn.’ This time there was no response, not even a cursory nod from Franklin.

‘Frank, you must really start to consider-‘

‘No.’ Franklin snapped, ‘Just don’t.’

Edward sat in wait, considering the best choice of words.

‘It’s been four days, that’s all.’

‘Then we are one day closer.  She is still out there, Ed.’

Edward, feeling that this was not a conversation that was best pressed at the current time, stood up, gave Franklin a loving pat on the shoulder and nodded.  He then walked over to the canteen on the sideboard, popped the stopper on the crystal decanter and poured himself a swig of brandy.  He downed the measure in one, exhaling sharply as it stung his throat.  He was not as accustomed to the taste as Franklin.  After another hard day in the scathing wind, scouring every inch of the plantation and surrounding woodland, he needed it to soften the edges.  Edward placed the glass on the sideboard once more and poured himself another.

‘I can’t give up on her. You know I can’t,’ Franklin said behind him. ‘I made a promise,’ he referred to the dying wish he had granted his beloved Christina, that he would always protect their daughter.

‘I know you can’t, and none of us are going to.  I loved-‘ Ed started, before catching and correcting himself, ‘I still love her like she is my own daughter, Frank.’

Franklin gave a knowing nod and felt the tears sting as they welled up again.  He brought his hand up to his mouth to stifle his cry.  His unkempt stubble scratched against his fingers, reminding him how little he had managed to look after himself.  Edward could see for himself that Franklin was a shell of the strong figure he used to be and felt a sadness overcome him.  He had once been a pillar of the community. Now it seemed he was merely clinging to existence.

Chapter Three

Franklin reached the doorway and wearily clung to the dilapidated frame to steady himself.  He dared not look outside from fear.  Edward stepped into the snow without his sheepskin coat and sheepskin lined boots.  The rider halted the horse in the courtyard at the front of the house.  It was then that Franklin’s heart sank back into its cave. The voice that greeted them was not that of his daughter.

The rider climbed down off of the horse and Edward embraced him immediately, with each giving the other hard pats on the back like long-lost brothers.  It was not Evelyn. It was Ewan, Edward’s middle son.  With his arrival came more apprehension for Franklin. Edward had appointed Ewan his main foot soldier in the search for Evelyn.  He would not have come back from his post without good reason… or harnessing bad news.

Edward hugged his son close as if it had been years since they last met.

‘I was certain I had sent you to your death in this storm,’ Edward said, the relief blossoming with his words.  Then once again aware that it was not the right time to show this emotion for his son’s return, he released Ewan from his grip. The young man’s eyes then met the gaze of the pleading old man in the doorway.

Franklin stood with expectation written over his face, his eyes searching Ewan’s for any hint of hope he could muster. Ewan took a sharp breath in preparation for the inevitable questioning.  He had ridden for so many miles, playing this moment over and over in his mind.  Not once had he convinced himself it was going to be easy.

‘Please don’t make me ask.  Save me from any more uncertainty,’ Franklin pleaded.

Ewan’s gaze stayed strong.  He did not want to betray Franklin’s trust nor dash his hopes with a harsh truth.

‘We have found a trail,’ he said finally, ‘something which we believe can lead us to her.’

Franklin could hardly feel the air in his lungs and his heart pounded in his ears as the blood rushed trying to keep him from passing out in the cold.

‘We found this.’ Ewan handed over a silver locket on a slender chain that had been broken in two.  Franklin’s hands trembled as he took hold of the locket. He clenched his fist around it with the little strength he could muster.  He knew it well.  It was the gift he had given to Evelyn on her sixteenth birthday; the day after her mother had died.  He dared not open it but needed to know for certain.

Finally Franklin prised it open. There staring back at him were those enchanting eyes and sultry black hair tied up on the back of the woman’s head and cascading down to the nape of her neck.  The image of Christina-Rose never ceased to bring a chill to his bones as well as warming his very soul.  A tear welled in his eye as memories and fears came flooding back in a torrent.

‘Where?’ Franklin asked struggling to make his voice resonate.

‘About twenty miles west. There’s a track through the woodland leading to Harper Falls,’ Ewan seceded.  ‘We were more than fortunate to have found anything before the snow set in.’

‘We must go,’ Franklin offered immediately.

‘Not tonight.’ Knowing his old friend would not listen, Edward spoke with authority. ‘We all must rest before making such a trek.  You have barely slept and are not strong enough to stand more than a few minutes in these conditions.’

‘No, we have wasted too much time already,’ Franklin shot back.  ‘I have been kept here for so long just waiting for one of you to come back to tell me the worst and now you are telling me not to go?’

‘My father is right, Mr. James,’ Ewan interjected. ‘A few more hours will not hinder our search.  The track will already be covered by snow.  We will need the morning sun to chase it away so that we do not die in the cold trying to retrace my steps.  We can set off at dawn.’

‘Then dawn it is,’ Franklin relented, ‘But no later.  And don’t expect me to sleep.’