Chapter Thirty-Two

On the true Day of St Nicholas, Thursday the sixth of December, the village which bears his name does not rejoice. All rejoicing is postponed for two days till Saturday’s festival, when saintly celebrations happen at a time that suits everyone. Feverish sewing of costumes, decorations of tractors, last-minute music rehearsals, labelling of jams, allocation of stall space and car parking demarcation has worn everyone out. After the pub closes, the villagers make their way home through fallen leaves and the promise of a frost, each to dream of the festival, the biggest day of their year.

In the distance, a church clock strikes twelve, its sonorous bells echoing across the river, over the fields and into the woods. The village sleeps, not one window still lit. But for the occasional street lamps to give its presence away, a traveller might pass Upton St Nicholas without even knowing it was there.

Above, the cloudless sky deepens to a crow-black, with the new moon invisible to the naked eye. Without its dominant glow, stars sparkle all the brighter, like crystals of salt on Cornish slate. A stillness settles over the landscape. An owl screeches. In the undergrowth, leaves rustle. A fox padding past stops to listen, head cocked, only the tip of his brush visible as his rust-coloured coat blends into the forest floor.

Yet on this night of St Nicholas, nocturnal predators are not alone. At the edge of Appleford Woods, where the road widens to accommodate picnickers in summer, three figures walk single file into the midnight-black forest. Only once they are out of sight of the road does the leader switch on a torch to illuminate their path.

Without hesitation, they head for the clearing and the tall wooden platform at its centre. Now the two followers switch on their beams and all three make a steady sweep of their surroundings. Apparently satisfied, they kill all lights and lift their gaze upwards.

A dim glow from the platform above tells them they are expected. They begin to climb.

In the black canvas hide, three others await their arrival, seated in a semi-circle on the floor around a lantern, their faces lit by the steady flame.

The trio completes the ring and all six women push back their hoods.

Eyes flicker with uncertainty until one person withdraws a box. Everyone is transfixed as gloved hands open the lid. Instinctively, they all lean back.

Inside lies a mushroom. White, innocent and perfect.

The clock strikes one.