Fred made a point of watching the TV report closely that night. Sandra came home with wild boar sausages from the same farmer friend based near Keswick, and she cooked them on the fire with a berry sauce and some chard from late summer offerings in their garden. They’d invited Jock, as often happened. Freshly pulled potatoes smothered in butter and salt finished the fayre and they were all satisfied. Sandra tidied the dishes, leaving the men to watch the news. Fred didn’t tell Jock about Joe’s visit but he watched him carefully as the police photo came on screen.
‘Police are appealing for a woman who was found wandering around the stone circle at Castlerigg on Saturday morning to come forward. The Cumbria Constabulary has issued a statement seeking confirmation that the woman is safe. She left the Penrith and Lakes Hospital at around two p.m. on Monday afternoon in clothes similar to these in the photograph, given to her by hospital staff. The woman, who is said to be around twenty years of age, is said to be suffering from amnesia and may not be capable of looking after herself. Police are eager to establish her wellbeing. Anybody with information should contact the help desk number shown on the screen now, or email us, message us on Twitter, using the hashtag #cumbriaconstabulary, or use our Facebook page. It is unknown whether the woman is local to the area or just visiting. As the cold nights draw in, folks, keep a lookout for the woman shown in the photograph.’
Jock looked at Fred, who nodded and stared back at the TV. Fred noticed his friend pale and swallow hard. Silence sat heavily between them.
Sandra came back into the room and showed no interest in the TV. She took up her knitting. Another grandchild was due in December. Sandra always knitted in neutral colours before they knew the sex. She chose either white, yellow or mint, not wanting to use pink or blue for fear of bad luck. Their children had been raised in the natural way, but had wandered to different leanings, what with the pressures and allure of modern life. It was their choice. They’d enjoyed a wonderfully free childhood, attending gatherings and pursuing organic pastimes, but partners, jobs and universities had caught up with them and pulled them away. All three lived in or around London.
Fred didn’t draw any more attention to the news, and Jock coughed, as if embarrassed in front of Sandra. Sandra looked up but once to smile at her guest. Jock Harris was a gentle giant who’d seen much of the world and the evil within and, for some, he was difficult to read. The old man remained silent and Fred switched channels. Joe was right. There was no mistake. In the photo, she had the look of an innocent, despite Fred knowing the opposite to be true of the poor girl. Fred’s heart ached and he wished he wasn’t such an empath. It burdened him from time to time but that, he supposed, was the whole point. He felt what others did not. He saw pain, despair, hunger, malice and desolation, often before those who were struck down saw it. His life in general was a peaceful one but, occasionally, somebody would walk into his private space – wittingly or not – and present him with a dilemma.
Kirk Junker was one of them.
Kirk had styled himself as a guru type figure, higher even than a High Priest, and created his own coven, away from the central group that they’d been members of for years. He unsettled the nest. Kirk thought he knew better, even than Mother Nature herself. He was a loose cannon, and the High Priest knew it. If Kirk hadn’t left the roost when he had done, he would’ve been shortly expelled. That was essentially what had put Joe’s wife off joining them. It was bloody bad timing. No matter how many times Fred had tried to explain to the lovely Annie that Kirk was the poorest example of their beautiful faith, it didn’t matter: she’d made up her mind. It was saddening. She wouldn’t let their boys anywhere near him. Fred and Sandra were an exception, obviously, and Joe continued to bring his family to visit often. The calls and drop-ins tailed off though, until they went months, and then almost a year without contact. Having Joe pop in unannounced was heart-warming and he’d told Sandra with enthusiasm. She too was thrilled, and began planning Sunday dinner early, looking around the garden and deciding what she might have to buy in. They were essentially self-sufficient, but, occasionally, they craved food from the supermarket like everyone else, and, of course, their group needed factory processed treats from time to time. Sandra made her own ice cream, pancakes, pastries, cakes and biscuits, but even she couldn’t replicate a packet of pink-covered donuts or takeaway pizza. They weren’t puritans.
Bertha sat in front of the fire at Jock’s feet and looked up to watch Fred, as he pondered what Joe had told him. Fred didn’t notice his faithful hound staring at him. He’d advised Joe not to approach the police with the information about the girl. Joe had been indignant and a little scared, but Fred was adamant. It was welcoming unknown forces into their lives, and the girl must have been at Castlerigg for a reason. What it didn’t make clear was if Kirk Junker was still in the area. Perhaps the girl had left his clutches and gone it alone. But, whatever Joe Spencer said, Fred didn’t believe him that the girl was amnesiac and failed to recognise him. There was always something other-worldly about the youngster, and that was why she’d created such a stir for Kirk.
Seventeen? Eighteen? Maybe she’d run away because legally she could.
It pained him to recall how the girl had been treated, but there was nothing any of them could have done. Besides, there was no evidence. The girl simply seemed withdrawn and uneasy most of the time. She wore long garments and a scarf covering her hair, so no sign of abuse was ever discussed. Though they all suspected Kirk had taken the child as his own partner. It was the way she looked, the way she walked, and the way she flinched from touch.
Fred settled on a channel discussing deforestation and replanting in Cumbria. Jock looked at his friend and at Sandra.
‘Another cider, Jock?’
‘Aye.’ It was all they said.
After Jock had gone home, Fred couldn’t get the girl out of his mind. She’d been given the temporary name of Carla Rigg by hospital staff, but Fred knew her real name, or at least what Kirk Junker told them.
Her face burned inside his skull and a memory came searing into his mind. He sat back in his favourite chair and closed his eyes. He had no choice but to allow it, despite the pain it caused. He knew from his conscious memory of self that if he denied access to his spatial wanderings then they would only revisit stronger than the last time, until they haunted his every waking thought. He glanced across at Sandra, who was happy clicking her needles across one another. The noise soothed him and became the only thing he heard as his mind opened and he fell into the abyss.
Kirk Junker stood by a tree. He was an accomplished carpenter. It was what they’d found charming in the man: a trade of godliness. Any man who used his hands to create such beauty was a divinity in himself. Though Kirk looked defiant with a scowl and a jutting chin.
A carving on the tree caught Fred’s attention and he witnessed the engraving move. The figures depicted danced and cavorted inside the bark, making the tree move in grotesque ways. Fred kept still. The click-click of Sandra’s needles enchanted him.
Kirk touched the tree and Fred was impelled to go forwards towards the etchings. They still moved and now Fred looked at Kirk’s face, which was set in a lurid smirk. The images were of nymph-like creatures, svelte and feminine, gyrating in positions Fred had never seen before, but found it difficult to tear his eyes away from. He felt Kirk take his hand and force it towards the tree trunk. He felt the movement of the tiny beings and a throbbing radiating from the trunk. His heart beat faster and matched the pulsing of the life of the tree. It was an animal, alive and vital.
Kirk placed Fred’s hand on the jagged edge of the wood and Fred flinched away. He realised that the tree was in fact a real person and what he had seen as twigs, branches and foliage, was now the garments and skin of a beautiful woman – no, a girl. He tried to back away, but Kirk was stronger than him and the girl offered herself, revealing her pure, cream coloured back to him. She peered over her shoulder and smiled enticingly. Her eyes shone the purest blue but Fred could sense that her heart was not so.
With an electric jolt, Fred broke free of the shackles of Kirk’s hands and untangled himself from a thousand fingers, wrapped around him in bondage. The girl sank back inside the tree and looked away: rejected and forlorn. But not before Fred noticed a single basic tattoo on her flesh. It was so tiny that it could have passed for a group of freckles, moles or spots. But it wasn’t any of those. It was the symbol of the Moon Goddess with the three moons: waxing, waning and full, and it was near her neck. As quickly as she had come, the girl disappeared and her long hair hid the vision. The tree became petrified and Kirk disappeared, along with his daughter, but not before Fred had witnessed her eyes pleading with him to set her free. The image stayed with him and his heart pounded in his chest until he opened his eyes.
Fred looked around the room: he was back home, in the sitting room, in front of the fire with Sandra. Her needles click-clicked and Bertha watched him from her bed. The fire crackled and he realised that a fresh log was required.
He shivered, despite the room being stiflingly hot. Bertha sauntered over to him and rested her muzzle on his lap.
‘It’s all right, girl. There, there.’ The dog’s eyes grew less droopy and the corners of her mouth turned up. Fred knew that the presence had gone.
For now.