Thus it was that Clements and Molton were clad in what was, for the time, considered more than suitable attire for a descent beneath the earth: stout boots, strong tweeds, and stiff leather gloves. Lengths of rope lay coiled at their feet, alongside two packs filled with water, some roast chicken, two loaves of freshly baked bread, and a flask of burgundy. They had brought four lanterns with them, and enough fuel to give them light for about twelve hours, although they expected to be belowground for no more than half of that time.
Molton’s gaze drifted across the rocky landscape, then alighted like a crow on a vertical wooden stave that stood off to his right.
“I say, what do you think that is?” he said, pointing with his right hand.
Clements squinted, then walked toward the pole. It was about three feet in height, and was set deeply into the ground. A metal ring hung from the top, adorned with strands of old rope.
“It looks like a tethering post,” said Clements.
“Odd place to tether an animal,” Molton replied.
Clements shrugged.
“They’re odd people.”
He rubbed his hands together and headed back to the opening in the rock.
“Right, then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
While Clements anchored the rope, Molton checked the kit and tested the lamps.
“How deep did you say this was?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Clements replied. “Couple of hundred feet, maybe.”
“Huh. A few hundred feet doesn’t sound like much of an abyss.”
“It’s merely an estimate,” said Clements. “It could be more. Nobody knows. It’s virgin territory.”
The Wakeford Abyss, as it was known locally, extended for about fifty feet along the south face of Bledstone Hill, like a scar in the earth that had never quite healed. At its widest point it opened to about twenty feet, narrowing at either extreme to mere inches before losing itself among the bare rocks. By standing on its very edge, one could see only the first fifteen feet of the interior before the curvature of the rock blocked out the sunlight.
It was not entirely clear what had caused this geological anomaly and, in truth, few in the region cared much to discover more about it. Clements and Molton had dined at Wakeford’s sole inn the night before, and made efforts to plumb the depths of local knowledge about the hole torn in the hillside. For their troubles they received a hodgepodge of myth, tall tales, and regional superstitions. The abyss was said to be the lair of a dragon in ancient times, according to one regular at the bar. Another claimed that it was formerly known as The Devil’s Hole, a name as much bound up with the locals’ penchant for earthy humor as with any satanic origins. There was talk of druidic sacrifices, of long-dead lords tethering animals to the rocks as a means of appeasing the appetites of whatever lay within. As the evening wore on, and the beer flowed more freely, the stories grew more and more extreme in their details until a credulous listener might have felt that Bledstone Hill contained every form of devilment known to man, and more besides.
Finally, while they were finishing their ales in preparation for bed, a farmer took the seat nearest to the two ex-soldiers. He was a small man, with the dark, worn features of one who has spent most of his life out-of-doors confronting the harshest of elements. The other men and women at the bar did not greet him by name, although they followed his progress carefully as he crossed the floor to join the two strangers.
“I hear you gentleman are intent upon visiting the abyss tomorrow,” he said.
Molton advised him that yes, that was indeed the case.
“Have you another tall tale to add to our collection?” asked Clements. “We seem to be accumulating quite a number.”
The impatience was audible in his voice. Clements had earlier hoped for some useful information that might have aided them in their exploration, but two hours spent in the best company that Wakeford could offer had left him no wiser than before, although slightly poorer and considerably more weary.
“No, I’m not much of a one for telling tales,” replied the farmer. “But my fields lie at the base of Bledstone Hill, and you’ll be passing through them tomorrow on your journey, I don’t doubt.”
“We’ll take care to close the gates,” said Molton. “You don’t have to be concerned.”
The farmer took a sip of his beer.
“I’m not concerned about gates,” he said. “I told you: I don’t have any tall tales to share with you, but I do know this: there was a time when flocks grazed on the lower reaches of Bledstone. They do so no longer.”
Clements shrugged. “We’ve seen it from afar. It doesn’t look as if there would be much grazing there.”
“Sheep, and goats more, will find food in the barest of places,” said the farmer. “This is hard land, and we can’t be choosy about how we fill the bellies of our livestock. But I’ve lost animals on Bledstone, and never found them again, and now I’d be hard pressed to make even sheep graze on that hill. They don’t like it, so I leave them where they are.”
Molton and Clements exchanged a glance, and the farmer picked up on their skepticism.
“I don’t expect you gentlemen to listen to much that I have to say. You’re from the city. Army men too, I should say. You think you’ve seen it all, and it may be that you’ve seen much, it’s true. But I’ve found substances on the rocks, sticky in the morning sun, as though something had passed that way in the night. I’ve found the bodies of birds drained of life. You talk to other people here, the ones who kept their own counsel tonight, and you’ll hear the same from them.”
“Nonsense,” scoffed Clements.
Molton, ever the diplomat, attempted a more conciliatory tone.
“Has anyone ever seen anything?” he asked. “I mean, it’s all well and good telling us these things, but Clements here has a point: there could be a hundred explanations for what you’ve just told us, and none of them stranger than the next.”
The farmer shook his head. He seemed untroubled by the doubts expressed by the two men, as though he were so certain of the truth in his own mind that he had long since learned to hide his frustration with those who chose not to listen.
“No,” he said. “I’ve not seen anything, and anyway there are precautions taken now to keep it at bay. Whatever’s down there knows better than to show itself too, for fear of being exposed or hunted. I’d say it tries to venture out only when it’s desperate, and can live long on the poorest of suppers. It’s been in the abyss for a long, long time, and must be old now, older than any of us can imagine. Why should that be so hard for you to believe? From what I hear, they’re finding new creatures all the time, animals that nobody could ever have imagined existed living quietly in remote places. Why not here, under the ground?”
Despite his better judgment, Clements found himself drawn into the debate.
“I accept that such things can be,” he said, “but why has nobody ever encountered one? Surely such an animal would be glimpsed, even at a distance. Even the shyest of nocturnal creatures exposes itself to view at some point.”
“Because it’s not like them,” said the farmer simply. “They’re poor dumb animals. Some may be more cunning than others, but in the end they’re just no match for us. Whatever’s down there knows how to keep hidden. I’d say it’s sensitive to us. It’s learned how to wait.”