To Pay the Ferryman

I knew something bestial was out there in the dark, waiting. I could sense its impatience. Its desire for completion, satiation for its terrible hunger. It would not wait for much longer, it did not have human restraint

Ledswater was a little village, off the beaten track. Away from the prepossessing motorways that split the country up. This was a backwater, a haven and a place to relax. Although the weather wasn’t the best it could be at this time of year, at least it was dry and allowed me to get about.

Let me introduce myself, I am John Kelly, an archaeologist working for one of the many museums in London, the Historical Trust situated in Flanders Street W1. You probably have never heard of it, but the whole setup locates, collects and distributes artefacts to other museums. We run a sort of clearing house for antiquities.

 I am sent out to locations throughout the British Isles to search for items of historical importance hidden away in dusty, hardly ever visited, local museums or to explore possible sites for a dig to expose our country’s historical past.

Ledswater was built near to the site of a Roman camp which was set up by Cornelius, a general in charge of the Thirty Second Imperium. This was a large contingent of foot soldiers who had set up a camp right in the middle of a race of barbaric after defeating them at the battle of Carstine. The dead from both sides were piled high and the outcome could have gone either way, but it was said that the Roman military prowess won the day.

The natives were subjugated and soon full Roman domination was introduced. The camp was built by the indigenous population with directions from their Roman masters and for a period of time, peace reigned, although an uneasy one.

Still, enough about Ledswater, lets see what the local pub has to offer in the way of ale and a bed for the night. I feel I could eat a horse. The journey down here was bad enough with British Rail sandwiches that you could have heeled boots with and tea that tasted of ditchwater! A man needs a hearty meal and a cold pint to keep body and soul together.

As I neared the “Basilisk Arms” the wind had risen and the pub’s sign creaked to and fro. A light was on in one of the windows and the golden glow that it threw out into the darkening evening gave a feeling of welcome to potential customers.

“Evening, landlord!” I said as I slammed the door shut against the rising gale. “Can you offer me a room for the night?”

The landlord was a large man with a florid complexion. He was in the middle of pulling a pint for a small, scruffy looking man who sat at the bar. He lifted his eyes from the frothy liquid and glanced in my direction.

“Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to walk another mile to the “Rumpty Duck” to get accommodation. I don’t take in lodgers.”

“Well, can you provide me with something to eat and a pint of your best ale?”

The man completed drawing the beer and with a grunt handed it over to his customer.

“Daresay I can knock something together for you sir. What would you like to drink? Bottled or draft?”

I sat down at one of the tables and struggled out of my coat. A large fire burnt in the grate and I was beginning to feel its heat.

“Come far tonight, sir?” asked the scruffy looking character.

“You look like you’ve packed for a few nights away from home.”

I laughed and looked down at my battered suitcase that had seen better days.

“You could say that,” I replied.

The meal that the landlord brought was fit for a king and I commented so to him as I swallowed the last piece of game pie.

“If that is what you can ‘knock together’ I would love to see what you could produce if I had ordered ahead.”

“I’ll just clear away your plate, sir,” he said, putting down a large piece of plum pudding covered with custard on the table in front of me.

After the meal was over I felt exceedingly full and mellow. I got up from my chair and joined the man at the bar.

I introduced myself to him and mentioned that I was here to investigate the site of General Cornelius’ camp.

The landlord returned from taking away my dish to the kitchen and laughed as he resumed his seat behind the bar.

“You’ve picked the right person to talk to, sir. This ere’ is Jack Lyne, he’s the local historian for the area and has collected some strange stories and legends in his time.”

The man groaned and held up his empty glass.

“It’ll cost you, sir. Information comes expensive round here.”

After buying several pints for Lyne I learnt quite a bit about the Roman general and his camp.

“The camp was eventually razed to the ground and the survivors limped off home,” said Lyne. “That is why not a lot is known about it. The real rot set in after the murders began.

“What murders?” I asked. “I thought the camp was abandoned when the General and his soldiers were recalled back to Rome.”

“No, the entire garrison was routed and sent packing,” whispered Lyne. “It’s local knowledge and not printed in a lot of history books.”

“But what happened? It sounded from what you said that the local inhabitants had accepted being ruled by Rome.”

“It was, until Cornelius decided to build himself a grand house at the East end of the camp,” Jack Lyne said, draining his pint glass.

I indicated to the landlord to recharge our glasses. I hadn’t been conscious of finishing my drink due to the story that was unfolding.

Lyne raised his full pint and quaffed some of the dark liquor before continuing.

“Silly bugger built it on a burial site didn’t he?”

It transpired that Cornelius had decided to place his new domicile on a raised bit of ground which just happened to be the area’s local cemetery for fallen warriors. The locals raised Cain but were ignored by the Romans. Cornelius didn’t understand or chose to ignore the concept of not defiling the dead and thus invoked the hatred of the defeated population.

“Not long after the murders started,” Lyne said. “Roman soldiers were found with their throats ripped out or their skulls crushed. Cornelius ordered reprisals against the local population, but no matter how many natives he put to death, the Roman soldiers continued to die. Eventually the camp was abandoned and the walls of the old camp were broken down and incorporated into other buildings. Soon the grass and weeds grew over the site and Nature reclaimed what was hers.”

“So, was it ever discovered who was responsible for the deaths?” I asked.

The publican and the historian looked at one another and laughed. It was a sinister sound and I felt as if ice cold water had run down my spine.

“Not who, sir, what,” hissed the landlord. “It was raised to punish the Romans for their sacrilege, wasn’t it Jack?”

The wind outside suddenly gave a ferocious scream and I felt my hair stand on end.

“What a hellish night,” remarked Lyne. “I hope it calms down before you have to go, sir. I think I’ll ring for one of Bill Brenham’s taxis. Don’t fancy risking getting clobbered by a tree branch.”

The historian drew out a handful of coins from his pocket and grunted in annoyance.

“Thought I had some change to phone for a taxi. Can you change some of this dross for a couple of pound coins, sir?”

I fumbled in my pocket for my loose change. I was eager to hear more about the doomed Roman camp and selected a couple of coins from the mixture of currency.

“Here man, take this, keep your dross, just finish your story I must know what became of the area after the Romans decamped.”

“No, sir, you must take the change. It’s only fair. I will ring for the taxi now, but it will take Bill Brenham a good thirty minutes to get here, by which time I will have completed my tale.”

By the time Lyne had returned to the bar I had ordered another pint for him. He groaned when he saw the full glass, but I brushed his complaint aside.

“A nightcap Mr. Lyne, now please continue.”

He raised the glass to me and took a sip.

“The killings continued after the Romans were gone,” he said quietly. “Whatever had been invoked seemed to have got a taste for human blood. Soon the inhabitants were locking themselves in at night. People walked around carrying weapons, ready to protect themselves and their families.”

“So what stopped it, Mr Lyne?” I whispered.

“Nothing stopped it, Mr Kelly. All that happened was that it was brought under control,” said Lyne. “The tribe’s shaman transmuted it into a guardian that was always available should any outsider attack.”

“So, it disappeared into the form of a myth or local legend?” I grunted, clearly disappointed.

“No, it is still here. Admittedly in a dormant state, but still demanding human blood,” the landlord hissed.

“Yes, we choose people every month to provide blood for the creature,” said Lyne, with a grin on his face. “They don’t know they have been chosen until the sacrifice has to be made, but the creature must be fed.”

A car horn hooted outside and Jack Lyne, historian raised his glass and emptied it one gulp.

“Must be going, Mr Kelly. It has been great talking to you.”

“But how do you mark the proposed sacrifice?” I asked breathlessly. “You must tell me that.”

“Two coins were placed on the eyes of the Dead to pay Charon the ferryman to cross the river Styx. The coin was an obolus,” said Lyne as he crossed to the door of the pub. “This was the marker.”

The wind howled in as he opened the door and a few leaves swirled in on the gale.

“Safe trip, Mr Kelly!” he shouted before he went out the door and slammed it shut.

Suddenly a silence prevailed within the pub, although the wind shrieked outside, the landlord and I sat in an enclave bereft of sound.

“Another for the road, sir?” he asked. “Only I really  will have to close up now.”

Now I stood outside the “Basilisk” and listened to the publican locking the heavy door and pushing across the heavy metal bolts. Although the wind still roared about like a wild stallion, I was conscious of something waiting in the dark wood that surrounded the inn. Something that demanded human blood as its right. It was impatient and I knew that the inn’s heavy door with bolts would not hold it back.

Luckily I knew what an obolus looked like, but had not spotted it amongst the change Lyne had forced me to accept, but upon sorting through my money to pay for my last drink, I had spotted it, so like a two-pence piece and

the landlord had accepted it as such.

I hoped that creature would take its tithe quickly and that I would be out of earshot before the screaming began.

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