The Spike (Short Story)

THE SPIKE

It sat, as it had for the last five hundred years, at the end of the salient. A towering sentinel of a building brooding over the estuary it overshadowed. It had commenced its life as a watchtower to warn of approaching Vikings, but during a clandestine raid the tower was set on fire and seen from the shore it had resembled a candle as it burnt, the air rushing up to feed a flame that stood thirty feet in the air. When the fire was extinguished the tower remained, blackened but still standing tall. A collapse of the upper stonework left the impression of a blade projecting from the top.

The nearest village was called Wyrmerton and the locals called it ‘the Spike’ and felt protected living in its shadow. Legends arose regarding the tower and the presence of an entity that would, in the event of a threat, come to the aid of the community.

 Also altering weather conditions caused the Spike to glow in different hues. Green if a storm was approaching, red if a period of good weather would ensue and blue if the weather was to turn wintry. A truly local barometer.

The land around Wyrmerton belonged to the estate of Lord Rayan Blenkinsop. He was a likeable rogue who regularly rode around his estate in a drunken stupor. Lord, did he love the contents of his wine cellar! No child he rode passed went away without one of the coins from his pocket and no villager he rode passed went away without a cheery greeting. He kept the estate rents low, often supplementing the repair bills with his own money. At Christmas he would often deliver food parcels to the poorer of his tenants. A truly Christian gentleman.

Sadly, on one drunken sojourn Lord Rayan fell off his horse and broke his neck. He had no other kin but a nephew on his dead wife’s side, who lived in Northumbria. Lord Rayan had never met the gentleman but by law the estate, money and all of his uncle’s goods and chattels fell to him.

The gentleman, if a wretch like Percival Greeley could be called a gentleman was a thoroughly reprehensible person. He was an inveterate gambler whose luck was never with him. The outcome of this shortcoming forced Percival to become a thief who regularly broke into his neighbour’s houses to steal money or goods to sell on.

When Percival received the news of his inheritance he thought that all his Christmases had come at once. He immediately contacted a few of his lay about ‘friends’ and shared the news with them.

 The upshot was that one week later, Percival and ‘friends’ travelled by coach up to Wyrmerton to inspect it and the lands that surrounded the village.

The weather was good with plenty of sunshine and a light breeze that gently swayed the tree branches.

The coach stopped in the village square and Percival stepped out.

“Hell’s teeth!” he swore. “What is that horrible smell?”

Earlier that day Dalziel Thomas, a farmer, had been spreading manure on all his fields which lay around the village. Unfortunately Percival Greeley’s first impression of his acquisition was tainted by the ripe smell of cattle dung.

Jay Ripley, the village elder, approached Percival to welcome him to Wyrmerton. The old man had seen great changes in the world over his seventy years on earth, but he hoped that Percival was as good a master as Lord Rayan had been. But his hopes were dashed when the young man turned and seeing him, said:

“Are you emptying a septic tank you old fool?  Don’t you know that I am the new owner of this stinking hole?”

Jay bowed and speaking respectively said:

“I am sorry my lord, had we known you were coming we would have made sure that everything was right for you.”

Lord Percival and his ten henchmen toured the area and upon returning to the village demanded to see Jay. The elderly man, when told of the summons, hurried down the road from his house and was quite out of breath when he arrived at the square where Percival and his men waited.

“I am sorry my lord,” puffed Jay. “I did not want you waiting. What can I do for you?”

Percival stood tapping his foot with his walking stick.

“I shouldn’t have to wait for the likes of you!” he snorted and swinging his stick he hit the old man in the face. Jay fell to the ground temporarily stunned.

“Get up you old fool!” shouted Percival poking the fallen man until he got up.

Once he had Jay’s attention, Percival pointed at the Spike.

“Can you tell me what that monstrosity is?” he asked. “It looks unsightly and in danger of collapsing.”

“The Spike is an old watchtower sir,” answered Jay. We regard it as a talisman of sorts.

“The Spike?” laughed Percival. “What a stupid name for an unsightly pile of rubble.”

Jay said nothing; it seemed that any answer might anger the lord and earn him another stroke from the walking stick.

“Here’s what I intend to do,” Percival said. “I intend to build a new house for myself on the large grass area on the edge of the village.”

“But sir, that is where we winter the sheep when the snows come!” pleaded Jay.

“Stop whining man!” shouted Percival. “You’ll just have to find somewhere else. Any how what I was about to say when you interrupted was, I intend to demolish your Spike and use the stones to build my new house!”

Jay stood speechless for a few seconds then he spluttered:

“You can’t my lord. It is of special importance to the village……..!”

SWWISHH! Percival’s walking stick smacked into the side of his face leaving a bleeding furrow.

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!” screamed the young man. “Now you will provide men to complete the demolition and to labour at building my house!”

The entire village turned out to see their mighty Spike tumble to the ground with a crash, a cloud of dust and an earth tremor. When the dust had settled all that remained was a pile of rubble – the building blocks for Lord Percy’s new house.

Suddenly everyone in the village felt vulnerable as if some guardian had died. The wind felt colder and blew stronger than when they had their champion.

After the men in the village working with Percy’s thugs had dug the foundations for the house the Spike’s rubble was transported to allow the builders to pick the best stones. Due to the age of the Spike quite a bit of the stone had decayed. It crumbled at the touch almost like skin sloughing of the bones of a dead body.

Gradually the mansion began to appear; the walls rose and soon stood high above the ground. Large turrets were situated at the four corners and gave the house a castellated look. More stone was brought from the nearby quarry to replace the substandard material and to meet the shortfall.

The villagers worked long hours often still at work after Percy’s men had finished. The general feeling was that the sooner the house was built; the sooner life could get back to some semblance of order.

Eventually the monstrosity was finished. Lord Percival invited several of his ‘bigwig’ friends up from London and put on a celebratory meal for them. There were fireworks, music played and champagne flowed but at no time did Percival have the decency or manners to thank the villagers for their massive contribution.

The base of the demolished Spike was still covered with broken stones and odd bits of rotten wood. In an evening the villagers would meet there to bewail their shoddy treatment by the new lord. The new house rose high above the village and sat like a vulture awaiting its next meal. Lights burnt in all the windows giving the impression of eyes watching every thing that was going on.

As winter approached and food became short the villagers just tightened their belts and prepared for a long siege. The elderly and the young were given preferential treatment when food was apportioned and the fitter and healthier often went to bed hungry.

So you can imagine the hue and cry that went up when Lord Percival insisted that the villagers billet and feed his men. “Things were very tight up at the house, “he explained. “And he knew that ‘his people’ wouldn’t mind sharing their food and cottages with one of their lord’s men.”

Sadly ‘their lord’s men’ were bullies and forced the poor men and women of Wyrmerton to give them the best of everything whether it was a bed or a meal. If the owner complained they were beaten up. The village of Wyrmerton lived in terror of its visitors, but could do nothing about the situation.

A heavy snowstorm hit the village as the end of the year approached. A northerly wind swept over the surrounding country blanketing everything with a six inch blanket of snow. The villagers shivered in their cottages unable to get out and collect wood or hunt for game.

A plucky young lad, well wrapped up against the cold, decided to go and try his hand at catching a rabbit for his mother’s pot. His father was an invalid and spent most of his time in a bed near to the fire. One of Percy’s ruffians had his parent’s bedroom and had decided to stay in bed as it was the warmest place!

The boy crept around the tree quietly, so as not to scare any rabbits that may be about. Suddenly he fell back in the snow in horror. A man or what was left of a man lay in the snow, a large puddle of blood which had frozen lay around him. His head had been savagely mauled and very little of it remained.

The boy took to his heels and ran all the way back to the village to raise the alarm.

“It’s Mulligan,” said Lord Percival looking down at the mutilated body. “This is the devil’s work, Bran!”

Bran was Percy’s ‘left hand man’. Standing six and a half foot tall, he dwarfed most men.

“It must have been one of these bloody villagers,” cursed Bran. “You know how they hate us!”

Mulligan was duly buried in the village cemetery. His cohorts attended the funeral, but the villagers stayed away. It was a very cold day and the ground had been iron hard because of the frost, but Bran had dug the hole using pick, axe and shovel.

Another of Percy’s men was murdered just one week later. His ravaged corpse had been thrown into the lower branches where it hung grotesquely upside down, dripping blood on the ground.

Lord Percival was seething with anger.

“This is not going to happen again, “he said, turning to Bran. “Get these bloody villagers out of their houses. I want to talk to them at the village square.”

“But…….sir,” began Bran. “It’s freezing and were due snow tonight, lots of it!”

“Don’t argue with me you clod. Just do what I say….now!”

The snow had begun to fall as the villagers collected in the square. Lord Percival’s men had brought everyone, even the invalids from their beds. They all stood shivering and glaring at the ruffians who had dragged them into the night, and what a night!

“Two of my men have been murdered,” screamed Percy at the crowd of people who were gradually being coated with snow. “I will not tolerate a repeat of this….ever! Do you all understand?”

The villagers shivered, shuffled their feet and a general mumble of assent was heard.

All they wanted was to get back under their roves as soon as possible.

“If another of my men is murdered,” continued Percival. “Reprisals will be taken. Do you understand?!”

A mumble went up that sounded like agreement.

“I said, do you understand?!!”

This time all the villagers let out a loud ‘Yes’.

“Alright, said Percival. “Now get back to your hovels, you all sicken me!”

Soon only Percival and Bran stood in the square. The wind howled round them and tugged at their clothes.

“I think there will be more killings,” said Percival. “I want you to chop down some of the trees and fashion some planks for me.”

“To be used for what my lord?” asked Bran.

“You will find out soon enough,” said Lord Percival Greeley.

The snow storm continued through the night, but at first light Bran and six of his men made their way across to a copse of trees that stood to the east of the Wyrmerton. It had originally been a minister’s glebe, but now it was owned by Lord Percy.

They worked steadily till dusk, chopping down the trees, sawing and producing long planks of wood. One of the men went back to the village to commandeer a horse and chains to drag the finished wood to the area in front of Percy’s new house.

All the men who had laboured were treated to large amounts of liquor which as well as quenching their thirsts, helped them avoid hypothermia.

The days passed and no further incidents occurred. The snow began to melt and soon grass could be seen protruding from the drifts. Over the past few weeks the villagers had been able to drag several massive broken branches to the village where they were cut up and shared out.

Percy’s men were now spending most of their time up at ‘the big house’ and only returning to the village to bed down. They ate and drank well while they were with Lord Percy and often returned well and truly drunk.

One of the villagers, Jon, a young man of twenty five had a very beautiful wife. Fay was only twenty two and had come from a village thirty miles away. They had met at a country market and instantly fallen in love. They had married the following year and were still hopelessly in love.

This night Fay had been out visiting a sick neighbour and she happened to meet one of Percy’s men, a man called Decker. Now Decker had been drinking for most of the night and was making his way to his bed when he met Fay.

“Come here and let me kiss you,” shouted the drunken Decker. “No, don’t run away. I want you!”

He grabbed Fay’s cloak and almost pulled it of her shoulders. Fay, who had three older brothers, knew how to protect herself and brought her knee sharply up and into Decker’s groin. The man fell to the ground, gripping himself but recovered quickly and grabbed Fay’s ankle, toppling her down on her back.

“Now you bitch I’ll show you what a real man can do!” he screamed climbing on top of her.

Fay screamed loudly and thrashed about trying to unseat Decker, but whatever she did Decker countered and soon she just lay still expecting the inevitable.

As his hand crept up her thigh a shadow fell over them and Decker paused and looked up. Suddenly he let out a loud scream as something black dropped over his head. Fay was suddenly blinded by a warm liquid that fell on her face. All at once Decker’s body was lifted off her and as she rubbed her eyes she wondered what had happened to him.

She got up and ran all the way to her cottage where Jon waited. As she came in the door he just about fainted.

“Fay! You’re all covered with blood!” he shouted. “Are you injured?”

As Jon carefully washed the blood from his wife, Fay told him off Decker’s attack and the struggle that ensued. Apart from a few scratches the young lady was unhurt, but much shaken due to the near rape and by whatever had dispatched Decker.

Jon got his wife to go to bed and prepared her a hot drink of herbs that would help her sleep.

The next morning the village was wakened by the cry:

“Murder! Foul murder!”

Decker’s body had been found – headless. This time the body had been left in a dry ditch where his blood had seeped into the earth.

Later that morning a horseman left Lord Percy’s house and rode off down the road.

Decker’s body had been buried next to his colleagues in the cemetery.

Everyone in the village waited with bated breath to discover what Lord Percival meant to do.

The next day two carriages arrived and twenty rough looking men disembarked. They made their way up to the big house and not long after that, the sound of hammering and sawing was heard.

At about midday six gibbets were set up in front of Lord Percy’s mansion. Ropes with nooses were hung from the arms and the villagers realised that their master intended to execute the murderer, but why so many gibbets, surely it was just one man who was carrying out the killings.

As the sun lowered in the west, the villagers were again forced from their houses but instead of the square they were herded to stand in front of the gallows. They stood looking around at each other uncertain of what to do. The twenty extra men who had arrived had spread out in a circle behind the villagers. It was obvious that this was to prevent anyone escaping.

“I warned you!” screamed Lord Percival from the balcony in front of his mansion. “I warned you that reprisals would be taken if any further murders took place, but you thought that I was bluffing. Didn’t you?”

He turned and pointed at the crowd of villagers.

“Bran,” he screamed. “Select six of them, tie their hands and put a noose round their neck. We’ll see if anyone will admit to the murders!”

Percy’s thugs dove into the crowd of villagers and began pulling people out randomly.

Old Mother Rubins; a lady of ninety summers, James Barlass; a husband and father of four, Jenny Whitely; a young sixteen year old maiden, Thomas Burley; a seven year old boy, Tom Whiskey; the village simpleton and Zachariah Pooley; a great grandfather. They all shrieked as they were dragged towards the gallows and several villagers were injured attempting to rescue them. Percy’s men were merciless.

Lord Percy Greeley paced in front of the gallows. The six victims stood rigidly with tears pouring down their faces. The rope nooses were biting into their necks as they struggled to stand upright. The rest of the villagers stood looking on aghast.

“Right!” said Percy, turning to the crowd. “You have five minutes to tell me who carried out these murders or I will hang these six people. It is your choice.”

All that could be heard was the wind soughing in the trees and the quiet weeping of the villagers and the condemned. An owl called from the neighbouring woods, a dirge like lament from nature.

“Bran, stand ready!” shouted Percy. “These dolts think I am kidding!”

Suddenly from the direction of the pile of stones that marked the site of the Spike came a roaring and a shuddering of the earth. The rubble and bricks were thrown skyward as something burst out of the ground. It rose high above the village and hung there observing what was going on below it.

The worm looked for all intents and purposes as high and as large as the Spike had been. Its body was covered with sores and half healed scars. Tough bristly hair stuck out at intervals between the segments of its body. The sightless head swayed to and fro seemingly hunting for something or someone to attack.

Percy screamed and fell onto his back. The villagers scattered trying to find somewhere to hide. The shadow of the great creature moved over the land beneath.

Then, as if suddenly finding a target, the worm drove down towards Percy. Its maw opened and there for everyone to see was a large single fang, dripping in a red mouth. The weapon that had made the single puncture in the dead men.

Percy vanished beneath the worm’s head, his screams terminated by the piercing tooth. Having vanquished its main enemy the creature turned its attention to Bran and his men. They had turned and were running for cover, but the worm killed each of them as if it knew which were the villains in this plot.

Jon crept up towards the gallows as the worm carried out its gory work. The six people were near to physically collapsing and Jon knew what would happen then.

Slipping a knife from his pocket he cut the bonds of each of the chosen victims and with the help of Jay and Dalziel Thomas, carried them down from the gibbets and to safety.

When Jon returned he could see the large worm rearing up in the sky before him. The villagers had gathered into a group and they seemed uncertain as to what the creature intended to do.

Jon stepped forward and looking up at the behemoth said:

“Thank you! You have saved us as was promised from times before. You are the true Guardian. Now return to your slumber brave creature.”

The worm’s sightless head pointed at Jon and it slowly nodded seemingly pleased at this accolade. Then it swivelled and seemed to be looking towards the late Lord Percival Greeley’s new mansion. It swayed from side to side then snaked over the plain and crashed into the house, smashing most of it to rubble. In fact after the worm’s onslaught all that remained was the west tower topped with a turret. It stood stark against the pale sky resembling for all, its forebear the Spike.

“Slumber, great beast,” shouted Jon. “Hopefully, for all time, but we know that you are there to protect us, should the need arise.”

The worm seemed to be assessing the ‘new’ Spike and having approved; it dove into the ground beneath the tower and vanished into the earth to lie dormant until a need for it arose again.

Nowadays, Wyrmerton is a picturesque village where the traveller will receive a warm welcome from the inhabitants. The land is overseen by an aged lord who is content for the village elder to run things, as long as the revenue from rents and feus are sent to him. A true ‘sleeping’ partner.

 A new inn has been built with the rubble and a stone collected from a local ruin, where all that remains of the property is a free standing tower topped with a gothic turret. The name of the inn? Why the ‘Wyrm and Spike’ of course!

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