The Galloping Lantern Chapter 3

8/9/2019 The Galloping Lantern Chapter 3

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The Galloping

Lantern

Chapter 3

The flute players dream

Copyright belongs to Rowan Visser


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The flute players dream

Thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the stream,

Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

John Keans

A frosty wind stirred the leaves of the great oaks to the south of the town, imitating

the sound of waves on a sandy shore. The last rays of sunlight had disappeared behind the hill

tops and the valleys of Grim Forest had been cast in darkness. The glow of fires could be

seen through the narrow windows of the stone cottages dotted along the hillside. After dark

the streets of Grimspond were deserted. A few farmers and traders congregated in village

hall, swigging back mugs of ale, but on the whole most people preferred to be in the warmth

of their cottages sipping on steaming bowls of broth.

In one of these small cottages, not too far from the Northern Road crossing, in

between the town and the Whitaker house, little Toby was laying by the fire getting ready to

go to his straw-lined cot.

He had spent that day, like most days, playing by the stream to the left of the cottage.

The water was freezing cold this time of year and had turned his knuckles blue on a number

of occasions. Laying on his stomach, head perched in the palms of his hands, he silently

watched the flames dancing in front of him to the sound of the wind outside. The sound of the

wind mystified him. He kept his ears pitched for the mystical creatures he imagined were out

there in the pitch blackness creeping over the valley. The dancing shadows on the walls

around him fired his imagination as the dancing flames held his gaze.

Toby sat up quite suddenly and turned his head slightly, listening carefully to an


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unfamiliar noise drifting on the wind. At first it sounded like it was a wailing amongst the

trees, but not loud enough to be a wail. His dad always told him that his imagination was far

too active for his own good and it must have been that, he decided.

His heart sank as he heard it again. This time he was sure it was not the wind, it was a

single note, gently carried on the wind. Lonely it flouted and waned, riding the wind and

touching the tree tops before disappearing. Then it began, a soft tune being played far away.

It was difficult to make out. He really had to strain to hear it.

Toby pushed himself up on little arms and ran over to the only door in their humble

cottage. Opening the door wide he stood, barefoot, in the doorway, listening intently, the cold

from outside completely forgotten and irrelevant. There it was again, more clearly now and

definitely a tune.

Mummy, mummy! he shouted.

His mother had been outside tending to their four goats and came round the corner of

the house to find her little boy standing barefoot in the doorway. O, baby, go back inside,

quickly. Its too cold for little boys out here.

But, mummy, what is that noise mummy? he pointed across the valley, to where he

thought the music was coming from, as he looked up at her face. The sound of the solitary

flute was quite distinct. Riding on the back of the wind, rustling through the trees, as if

chasing its own tail, climbing the walls as it rose and fell and flowed and lingered. Catching a

single note she turned her head to hear better.

It sounds like a flute playing in the forest. How very strange! she replied surprised

at what she was hearing. It was a tune that she could almost place there was a memory, or

was there? It sounded ancient and beautiful, sad in its tones and captivating in its simplicity.

Whos playing it mummy? his blue eyes big and serious.

I dont know child, shhh... The sounds were so beautiful, so sad. She wasnt sure,

but she thought that she had never heard anything quite like it, the way the sounds seemed to


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echo and flow through the trees and between the valleys was amazing.

I want it to stop mummy, its frightening me. It could be a ghost, or a witch, or

maybe one of those man-wolves. Mummy, it could be anything. Can you make it stop

mummy?

She looked down at her little boy and could see that he was genuinely scared. Why

dont you get into bed and Ill sing you a lullaby so you wont hear the flute?

This sounded like a good idea to the boy and his little feet scurried quickly to bed,

back through the door, past the fire and to the other side of the single room that was their

house. He jumped onto his low stone cot, which was built into the wall, quickly worked his

feet under the blankets and pulled the covers all the way up to his chin.

Humming her lullaby she sat down next to him and tucked him in gently. She leant

over him and kissed his forehead whilst running her fingers gently through his dark hair. It

was not nice seeing her baby so distressed.

He focussed on her lullaby. It comforted him and he closed his eyes, the sweet sound

of her voice bringing escaping from the flute outside. Every now and then the frightening

tune from outside would play loud enough for him to hear, but, with time it grew weaker and

weaker and Toby relaxed in his mothers arms, feeling sleep take him in her embrace. He was

drifting off when he noticed that his mums lullaby was changing, the tune no longer hers. He

opened his eyes and found himself alone in his cot, her voice distant, distorted, lingering in

his ears. She was slowly starting to hum the flutes tune and he could feel her slipping away

from him, leaving him alone and scared. Her voice, which he loved so much, was dancing

out there amongst those ancient trees in the pitch black, dancing with that horrible flute. His

gentle childs heart had never known a fear so distinct, so positively terrifying. It made his

flesh crawl.

He gripped his blankets as hard as he could and squeezed his eyes shut. There was

something coming for him, he was sure and he hoped it couldnt take him with his blankets.

For a long time he just lay there, gripping as tight as he could, but his concern for his mother

grew with every note and every noise. What if the thing playing that flute was after her? Why


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had she gone? He did not know what to do, but with tears running down his face he slowly

made his way out of bed. He moved as quietly as he could, not wanting to draw unwanted

attention to himself, but every footstep shuffled loudly and he scolded himself under his

breath. What ever was out there had super sensitive hearing, he was sure of it.

With cold feet he made his way to the door of the small cottage and slowly stepped

onto the doorstep where he hugged himself tightly and tried to control his breathing. His heart

beat in his ears and every breath he took was like a drum announcing his presence to the

unspeakable terror in those woods. He shuffled off the doorstep, leaving the door open behind

him. Keeping his back to the wall he made his way to the left of the house when a noise drew

his attention to the top of the vegetable patch. The half moon cast enough light for him to see

a woman climbing over the fence there. Mum! he nearly shouted out. He pulled away from

the wall and ran over the yard towards her. By the time he reached the fence she was more

than half way across the field, making fast progress to the edge of the forest. He scrambled

through the fence, skinning his knee on the old wood and tumbled noisily to the ground. It

was only a scrape, but it hurt like hell and he had to grit his teeth not to cry out. He stayed

down, his ears listening for anything moving his way. When he was satisfied that he had not

been heard he got up again and made his way to the forest. He stopped twice to look for any

sign of her, but she must have made it to the edge of the forest quicker than he thought

because she was not in the field. He picked up the pace and ran for the forest, trying to muster

up the courage to call after her.

Mum! he squeaked. No answer.

Mum!! a bit louder, but still no answer. He did not dare shout any louder just for in

case it heard him.

He reached the edge of the forest and pushed himself up against a massive oak.

Leaning to his right he peered past the trunk into the blackness between the trees. It was so

quiet, nothing seemed to move in there. No sign of his mother. He got his courage together

and he scrambled up the next tree, deeper into the darkness. This time, when he peered round,

he could see a light moving between the trees in the distance.

Mum! he whispered again, loudly. The light kept moving and he ran to the next tree,


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only stopping momentarily before scrambling ahead. His chest burnt from the running, but he

could not stop. He had to get to his mum and tell her to come back to the house where they

would be safe. On and on he went, running this way and that, always deeper into the forest,

always further away from safety. His little feet were bleeding and the muscles in his legs felt

like fires burning under his skin, but he would not stop.

Toooby a voice whispered to his left. He jerked his head around and stared in the

direction where it came from. There was nothing but shadows.

Whos there? he whispered cautiously.

Dont cha goo any foorther, Tooby. Eet ees noot safe. the warning was whispered.

But my mum is over there, I have to get her. he looked over his shoulder and saw

the light had stopped moving forward. It just seemed to hang there.

Tooby, eet ees noot ya mamma. Eet ees a trap. .

It is my mother! Toby shouted.

Shhhh!! a small bald head suddenly appeared from the shadows in front of him, a

wrinkly finger pressed against its wrinkled lips. With the other hand he was pointing behind

Toby.

Toby looked over his shoulder again and saw the light speeding towards them.

Quickaly, the wrinkly man said and before Toby could look back at him grabbed the

boys wrist, foollow mee!!.

They were suddenly moving at lightning speed away from the light, the little man

violently pulling Toby along behind him. The boy ran as quickly as he could, but his short

legs and bare feet could not keep the pace up for long and he lost his footing, falling painfully

to the ground. Instead of stopping to help him up, the little man just kept on running and

dragged Toby along the floor like an old rag, rough stones scraping the boys arms and legs


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mercilessly.

Ouch! Toby shouted, Your hurting me! It felt like his arm was going to be pulled

off any second.

Let go of my wrist! he screamed, the grip on his wrist tightened like a vice, sharp

nails biting into his arm.

Nooo, a nasty little voice answered. He turned his wrinkly, bald, little head back and

caught Tobys eye, I toold ya eet was a trap! Heehee hee.

Toby!! it was his mothers voice, coming from the direction where he had last seen

the lamp. Toby, is that you?

Mummy!! he shouted back as loud as he could, but it was too late. The little man

sped forward with the boy in tow. Before long they were in Deep Grim, where no man would

go, far beyond the reach of his mother and father.

It was nearly dawn before his mother stopped shouting out to him, running this way

and that, looking for her five year old baby boy. When she got back home she was delirious

with grief and just kept shouting Tobys name. His father, who had been up all night looking

for his wife and child ran to meet her as she stumbled across the field towards the back of

their house and she collapsed into his arms, completely worn out.

Mary, what happened?! he held her close, stroking her forehead.

Toby she replied hoarsely.

I know, Toby is not here, what happened?! Where is he? She did not answer, only

repeated the boys name over and over again.

Come with me! her husband said and led her towards his wagon. With much effort

he managed to get her onto the bench, but she kept gouging at her face and trying to throw

herself off. In the end he had to tie her down, with her hands by her sides. When he was sure


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that she would not fly off again he took his seat next to her and whipped the horse all the way

to the village. It was only two miles, but with a woman trying to claw at herself or leaning to

throw herself off the wagon at every opportunity it seemed like an eternity before they

reached Grimspond market.

As with all village markets of the time, Grimspond market was busiest during the

morning, with the freshest produce on display and stall owners still in good spirits, ready to

strike a deal with a smile. Everywhere people were haggling, trying to be heard above the

throng, pushing this way and that, the smell of wood fire and animal thick in the air.

Patrick McTrystle and his poor wife, Mary, approached in their wagon, coming to a

halt at the edge of the busy market where Patrick climbed on top of the wagon bench.

Ladies and gentleman!! Patrick shouted as loud as he could over the crowd. A few

people turned to look at him. Some whispered to each other when they saw the woman next

to him.

Ladies and gentleman, please!! He shouted again. The crowd quietened down and

every head turned to look at the pair on the wagon.

Witch! Somebody from the back of the crowd shouted.

No, she is no witch! Patrick immediately protested. I can vouch for that, she is my

wife! No one shouted again and he look over the crowd, pleading with his eyes.

Friends, I come to ask your help. My poor wife is mourning the loss of our son,

Tobias. He is not dead, but disappeared. Last night he wondered off into the forest as if under

a spell and Mary here, bless her, looked for him all night. He had been taken! His voice

broke and he swallowed to clear his throat. Does anyone here know anything that could help

us?! He looked down at Mary who was sobbing, her head lowered to her chest, hair

dishevelled, covering her face. The crowd was quiet.

Please, anyone? There must be something we can do! He is our only child and he is

not dead. The faces around him were still, some dropped their gaze, uncomfortably feeling


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the McTrystles loss. Beside him Mary started wailing loudly again. Her heartbroken cries

the only noise above the deafening silence of the crowd. Patrick bent down to her and pulled

her head against his chest.

Hush now Mary. Well find him. I promise, I shall go and find him if it is the last

thing I do, he whispered into her hair, holding her tightly to him for a long moment before

looking back at the crowd, the devil in his eyes.

I am leaving in an hour from my house, armed and intent! Those of you who can

spare yourselves to this purpose, be there! The rest of you he let his eyes pass through the

crowd, memorising their faces, missing no-one, and then growled, damn you!! Damn you to

the deepest hell if you even think of washing your hands from this! There was a furious

expression on his face as he turned his wagon around and made the two miles back to their

humble house.

An hour later the market was deserted, no-one willing to show their face lest they

incur the wrath of Patrick McTrystle and the scorn of their neighbours. The news had spread

like wild fire and every able bodied person from the whole of Grimspond were gathered

outside Mary and Patricks house, armed with everything from muskets to hayforks and

although they were unsure of what to do they were all eager to help. The only people not

there were mothers with small children.

Patrick spread the assembled group out into a line, three deep and thirty odd wide, ten

foot from each other. He took the centre front and, shouting a strict instruction to keep a

watchful eye, marched the search party off into the forest with a fire in his heart and a

promise not to stop until the boy had been found.

They searched the entire day, everyone sticking to their position, determined to find

Toby, but when the light began to fail and the boy had not been found the mood quickly

changed and no-one said anything, returning to their houses one by one. Mary started wailing

again at the house, where she had been left for her own safety, and Patrick refused to turn

back marching on into the pitch blackness of Deep Grim.

Back in the village of Grimspond, in a house just opposite the churchyard, Sophie


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Alexander and her daughter, Beatrice, were getting ready to go to bed. The sun was just about

to set and Bernard, Sophies husband, who had been out with the search party all day and was

already asleep, exhausted from the days activities. As in every house in Grimspond the mood

was sombre that night and Sophie struggled to get Beatrice to calm down. The little six year

old kept giggling to herself, throwing her covers off and complaining that she was cold.

Ive had enough, Beatrice, she warned her, giving her daughter a scornful look,

whilst tidying a few bits away in her room, you have to go to sleep now.

The girl struggled with her blankets a bit more, huffing her annoyance at being cold

and then suddenly went quiet.

Beatrice? Her mother turned, worried, not liking the sudden silence.

Mummy, whats that noise?

Outside on the gentle breeze a sound was floating, the sound of a flute being played

deep in the forest. Alam AlKazaar chuckled softly to himself, flute to his mouth and Toby at

his feet.

The Galloping Lantern Chapter 3

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