There were strange looks and an instant silence when Cohlm had said he needed to go across to the island tonight. The whole bar had stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at him. Aside from an instant feeling of discomfort, he took the opportunity to ask who was in control of the ferry.
“Why on earth would you want to go o’er there at this time o’ year man? There’s nowt there, an’ the weather’s closin’ in. Once this storm front reaches this bay, you’ll be stuck there for days, maybe even weeks. An’ there’s only one other possible way off if’n it’s urgent.”
There was a murmur of agreement from around the little room and a few sharp intakes of breath. Cohlm frowned looking across at the barman and the woman who sat close by him who had almost dropped her glass. He shrugged his broad shoulders and held his hands out in question, hoping someone would explain the sudden cold shiver everyone seemed to be suffering from.
“Up there,” the barman jerked his head in the general direction of outside, “at the north side of the bay, there’s a bridge of spiked rocks that jut out of the water.”
“Yes, I’ve seen them,” said Cohlm.
“The waters go on for another three miles, swinging around to the west before it reaches the sea again.”
“That’s what makes it an island,” Cohlm put in a bit smart. He regretted it the moment he said it, but these people did seem as though they’d come from two centuries earlier.
“There’s another bridge of spiked rocks at the other end,” the barman continued as though he’d not heard Cohlm’s comment. “It creates a sort of lake, but it’s fed by the sea from both sides, and it’s riddled with those rocks throughout. It’s treacherous even in calm weather.” Cohlm shrugged his shoulders again, not really understanding why they were telling him about this lake. All he wanted was they ferry to the island, not the bloody history of the entire region.
“You will listen if you have any care of your life,” the barman snapped, “there’s many a man gone over there never to return at this time of year, only for their body to wash up on the rocks of yon lake weeks later.”
Cohlm stood back in surprise frowning again. What on earth kind of place had they sent him too this time?
“There is a way across the lake,” the barman began again, only this time he appeared to be speaking much quieter as though he didn’t want anyone outside that room to hear. His voice had become rough, as though he’d been gargling razor blades. “It’s where the ferry ran for hundreds of years. The same family ran it, generation after generation, passed down from father to son. Until he came.”
There was another sharp intake of breath from around the room and Cohlm was more surprised to see every one cross themselves as though to ward off some evil spirit.
“Who?” he asked, “who came? I just want to get across there, I have business to attend too and I only have two days.”
“You’re wasting your time with business. There’s no one there now except her.” Again they all crossed themselves and Cohlm was beginning to lose his patience.
“Well there must be someone there or the bank wouldn’t have sent me,” he said in an irritable tone, “I just need to get a signature from a Francis Locklear and then….” He stopped as everyone in the room gasped. Some of the women put their hands up to their mouths and once again, they all crossed themselves.
“Alright,” he said with an ironic smile, “this has gone far enough. Who’s in charge of the ferry? I just need to…” Everyone in the room, without exception turned away from him and picked their drinks back up from the various places they’d all left them when he’d first mentioned the island.
“I can see the boat out there,” Cohlm said in a loud tone, making sure everyone in the room would hear him. “It looks simple enough to operate. Looks like I’m going to have to have a go myself.”
That at least got a response. A small wizened man near the door stood up and stepped in front of it. In any case, all eyes had turned to him before he moved.
“If it’s that urgent,” he said in a painful whisper, “I will take you. But I’m not waiting. If the weather stays calm, I’ll come back across for you in the morning. I’ll wait one hour, and then you’ll have to take your chances.”
“If you’ve any sense,” called the barman as Cohlm reached the door, “which is doubtful, you’ll be there in the morning.”
Cohlm sniffed and followed the old man out of the door. It seemed they liked to create a mystery in this place, but he just needed a signature. How hard could that be?
Once outside the door the icy blast took Cohlm’s breath and looking up at the sky, he was a little startled at the slate colored clouds that had swept in from the south in the short time he had been in the bar. He was forced to quicken his pace a little to keep up with the old ferryman, yet another surprise.
“So what on earth was all that about?” he asked nodding his head back at the bar as the old man cast off the rope and pushed the boat free with an ancient wooden oar.
“It was a warning for yer,” he said as he sat himself on the middle bench and fiddled with the oars, “an’ yer’d do well t’ eed it. Tis an evil place at this time o’ year.”
“It’s just an island,” said Cohlm, “are there many live over there?” The old man shook his head as his shoulders strained and his muscular arms pulled on the oars. The boat lurched forward and Cohlm almost fell backwards off his seat.
“There’s just ‘oliday ‘omes o’er there, but f’ one,” he continued between strokes, his voice rising and falling as he strained and then relaxed. “They all go when’t’ dark nights start t’ come in.”
Cohlm indicated to his brief case and then asked; “What about this Locklear woman? Is she going to be there?”
“Oh aye,” he scowled as he spoke, “she’ll be there alright. An’ you’d better watch yerself.
‘E don’ take kindly t’any as goes near ‘er.”
“Who don’t?” Cohlm fell into the old ferrymans lingo, and then realized, “I mean, who doesn’t take kindly?”
“The ferryman of course.” As he spoke the wind gusted from the south and the little boat lurched to the side and then rose on a sudden violent surge of the waves. Cohlm had to grab tight hold onto each side of the boat to stop himself being thrown overboard. The old man carried on rowing as though nothing had happened.
“Does everyone round here speak in riddles?” Cohlm had to shout to make himself heard over the rising wind and the spray that now began to wash into the little boat.
“Tis no riddle,” the reply came from the old man in his usual husky tone. Cohlm found it strange that he could hear the old man clearly despite the on setting storm.
“The ferryman was the last in his line, save f’ ‘is daughter,” he continuesd, jerking his head to the north to indicate what he meant. In the growing dark, Cohlm could see the milky wash around the jagged bridge of rocks the barman had spoke of, black and intimidating they stood guard over the entrance to a place of fear.
“’Twas a night such as this, when that escaped prisoner from city gaol called ‘im to take ‘im t’ th’island. An’ then butchered ‘im on t’ far shore.” Cohlm looked up in surprise. The old man had a grin on his face, or maybe it was more of a grimace as he strained against the oars as the waters became rough, Cohlm wasn’t sure which, but felt uneasy never the less. What have they sent me into? He wondered as he waited for the next sentence.
“So now it’s on night’s like this ‘n, when ‘e rides again, an’ takes revenge on the fools that want to cross in this foul weather!”
The boat lurched forward throwing Cohlm out of his seat again as it ran aground on the shore of the island. Picking up his brief case, he clambered gingerly out as the first big spots of rain began to bounce against his head.
“Folla that path yonda,” he said pointing a bon finger in the direction of the hill. “’Er ‘ouse is on t’ far side o’ t’hill, facin’ t’ lake. If this weather keeps up, ya’ll be wise t’ stay indoors. Don’t stray down by t’ lake.” With that he pushed his boat back out into the water and began to turn away, Cohlm said a feeble thank you and waved, but the old man had already turned away and was straining on his oars again.
Turning his attention to the job at hand, Cohlm began to walk up the steep path away from the water. Slate clouds had covered the sky now and big drops of rain began to splatter constantly in the dirt all around him, penetrating his light clothes at a touch. At the top of the hill the land opened out to a flat bare plain with wet silver strips of pathways leading off in all directions catching the very last beams of light. Cohlm quickened his pace. In the growing darkness he couldn’t tell how far it was to the edge where the path dipped again over the side and down towards the lake. To either side dark forms of cottages loomed here and there, flanked by bent and wizened trees and shrubs, hanging on to their last crisping clothing of leaves. It seemed an eerie place and Cohlm wished now he’d waited till morning.
By the time he’d dropped over the north side of the hill, Cohlm was soaked to the skin and the cold was creeping into his bones. On the water below he could see the white foam of the tide washing violently around the jutting rocks of the lake, and from his high vantage, he could even make out the dark line of the path through the rocks. Following up the hill from that path with his eyes, he at last spied what he wanted, a warm light glowing from a house window.
Francis Locklear was an old woman, small and bent through years of hard work, but with a kindly face. She didn’t seem surprised when she answered the door to Cohlm, though he himself would have thought it strange to have someone knock at his door in the late hours in a storm, knowing the island was deserted but for himself.
“Get yourself in here by the fire,” she said without even asking him his business, “you need to get those wet things off. You’ll catch your death.” Giving him a thick brown blanket to wrap himself in she bustled off to the kitchen to make him a drink while he undressed.
When she came back he introduced himself and told her why he was here. The papers he’d brought for her to sign related to her house, which had been placed in trust for her when she was a child.
“I don’t understand why they’ve taken so long to return them to you,” Cohlm said between sips of his steaming hot cup of soup, “it strikes me you should have had these back years go.”
“There’s always a reason for everything young man,” she said sitting down in the chair opposite him. “It doesn’t really make any difference to anything. I’ve been here all my life and I guess I’ll be here for the rest of it.”
“Looks like I’m going to be stuck here for the night,” said Cohlm looking towards the window where a thick fog appeared to be rolling in from the sea. “The old guy that brought me across said he wouldn’t come back for me until morning, and told me I should stay indoors while I’m here.” Francis laughed. It was a strange sound to come from an old lady who seemed quite refined.
“I suppose they told you about the ferry man who stalks the lake in the storm and butchers any fool who dare to take his boat.”
“Something like that,” smiled Cohlm, “though they seemed reluctant to talk about it other than to surround it in mystery.”
“Superstitious fools!” she spat. “It’s really quite simple. My father was murdered some fifty years ago by an escaped metal patient. He in turn was never caught. They think he escaped off the other side of the island and more than likely perished in the open sea.
“Now when anyone washes up on the shores of yonder lake, and it is quite often, they think it’s my father coming back from the dead to take his revenge.”
Cohlm smiled and nodded. The story made sense now. It was quite feasible; those people in the bar did seem to be living in a different century.
Once he’d warmed up by the fire, Francis showed Cohlm to a spare room and told him he could spend the night there. Through the window he could see the fog swirling and thickening in the breeze from the sea. It appeared that the rain had stopped.
“You’ll be fine here for the night,” she said, “it’s not the sort of night you’d want to be out in with this fog, though the storm does at least seem to have passed. I’ll see you in the morning Mr,..er..what did you say your name was?”
“Colhean,” he answered sitting down on the bed and staring out of the window, “Cohlm Colhean.” She nodded her head slowly with a thoughtful expression on her face.
“It’s an unusual name,” she said, “especially around these parts.”
Cohlm dozed off fairly quickly in the darkness, with little sound but that constant wash and spray of the waves on the rocks out on the nearby lake. And then something woke him suddenly and he sat bolt upright on the bed. Movement at the window caught the corner of his eye and he stood and peered out into the darkness to see a strange tall hooded figure disappear into the fog. He felt a little shocked and wondered if he was dreaming, and so pinched him self to make sure that he was not.
He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but after fumbling for five minutes in the dark with his clothes, he crept back out of the room. There was no sound of movement, and the only light came from the room fire which still crackled and flickered to itself. It appeared well made as though it had just recently had new logs thrown on, but there was no sign of Francis. Assuming she had gone to bed, Cohlm crept out side into the fog. The night was cold and damp and the fog threw an eerie grey light around the cottage.
Setting off in the direction he was sure the figure had gone, Cohlm knew he was heading towards the water and came to it much quicker than he’d expected. He felt it around his ankles before he saw it, and as the mist swirled and broke he was shocked to see the bow of a small boat push up onto the shore beside him. Cohlm jumped back in fright, and as the mist broke again he caught sight of a tall hooded figure standing in the stern holding a long pole.
Cohlm stepped back as a sudden fear grasped him and he fell over. The figure moved lightly across the boat toward him and he felt a scream rising in his chest but no sound came. He could see no face within the hood and scrambling back to his feet he turned and ran back for the house.
After two minutes of blind panic Cohlm realized he’d missed the house in the fog. Catching his breath and trying to steady the thump of his heart in is ears, he traced his way carefully back down the slope until he reached the safety of the house where he worked his way around to the door. As he opened it he hesitated. There was a light inside that hadn’t been lit before. Had he woken Francis?
Creeping inside and closing the door quietly something caught his eye. Catching his breath, he turned to see a large grey hooded cape hung from a coat hook to the side of him. He felt the leaden fear growing swiftly up his legs and down his arms as he saw the tall figure stood before the fire. Confusion added to his fear as the figure spoke to him in a woman’s voice.
“You didn’t think you could escape this day did you? Cohlm Colhean.” Cohlm couldn’t speak. Fear captivated him as he watched the icy breath coming from this tall figure’s mouth.
“Fifty years I’ve waited for you,” as Francis Locklear turned to face him Cohlm fell back against the wall as his legs turned jelly and gave way beneath him. She was no longer stooped like an old woman, but tall like he’d never suspected and her face transformed into a mask of bitter hatred. The sickle she held in her hand glistened in the firelight as she moved towards him.
“From the day your grandfather butchered my father out on those rocks, I knew that one day you would come to me, and my quest would be at an end.” She swung the sickle high and brought it down with a force…
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