The thing turned and fled. I followed. I began to run, but still it eluded me. Some snakes can move faster than a galloping horse, but this was not a snake. Some boys can move faster than a beer-filled teacher, but slowly I managed to gain on it. At last it was just ahead of me. One spurt, and I stamped on it.
I felt it squirming underneath my feet, struggling to free itself. I had the impression of powerful muscles working furiously; however I am grossly overweight, and the thing was pinned down. For a few seconds I enjoyed the victory.
Then agony like a hot iron lashed across my shins as the rope struck with the force of a flying whip. I stumbled back with a yelp as the thing struck again. Unprepared and off-balance I crashed to the pavement. The rope came down across my back. If I had not been wearing my best Donegal tweed, that last blow would have torn a furrow across my shoulders. The air was knocked from my lungs, and the next breath I took was spent in a wail of pain. I curled into a foetal position waiting for further chastisement. It did not come, but I lay until I felt a hand on my shoulder.
Slow Harry lifted me to my feet.
“Bad,” he said, shaking the saliva from his chin.
“The rope,” I gasped, waving to where it should have been. There was, of course, no rope; but Harry seemed to understand.
“Rope,” he repeated, as though it was an everyday occurrence—like finding a schoolmaster rolling in the gutter.
He assisted me, limping, to my front door. I thanked him—brusquely, but I was anxious to cosset my wounds. He seemed reluctant to leave my doorstep. His face, usually a blank fleshy mask, showed unusual signs of agitation. His mouth twitched, and there was a light in his eyes: not exactly intelligence, but as though he was trying to express thoughts for which words did not exist.
“Rope,” he said at last. He put his hands to his throat and shook his head.
He wiped his chin and went away. I busied myself with warm water and ointment. When the news about Sue reached me next day, the only effective medicine was a large brandy.
The entire village seemed crushed by the second killing. If two such healthy beings could be struck down, where could anyone find safety? Mindful of our mortality, we all attended Sue’s funeral. No one could remember such a mass of flowers. No one could remember the church so full.
Goat was in the graveyard as before, coughing, giggling, or bleating, while the vicar intoned the last words, and the coffin was lowered. As dirt hit the wooden lid, Goat fingered his cheek. The marks left by Sues nails showed dimly under the grime. Then I understood.
Fernie struck Goat, and died. Sue struck Goat, and died. Kate Fernie had seen a bundle of twigs walking, and I had seen what I had seen.
“Heh-heh-heh,” went Goat.
I looked across the grave into those slanting, yellow eyes. They were defying me to speak. Goat had powers, but I could no more accuse him than I could accuse the Archbishop. I drank, didn’t I? I knew the old blackmailer’s secret, and knew that he held my life in the palm of his filthy hand. Harry saved me from toppling into the hole.
The momentary faint left me light-headed. Why else would I address Goat across the newly-dug grave?
“What did you do with the rope, Goat?”
Faces turned to look at me; heads shook; tongues clucked; there were several loud sniffs, reminders of my pre-ceremony brandy.
“Did you bum the rope?” I mumbled.
Goat said nothing, but his lurid eyes seemed ringed with fire. I was aware of a freezing hollow inside me. I, too, was going to die. Unnaturally.
Goat slipped away ahead of the crowd. I watched them all leave until Harry and the sexton were with me, waiting to fill in the grave. The sexton spat on his hands—while others enjoyed the funeral’s baked meats, there was still work to be done. Harry nodded to me.
“Feather,” he said. It was a warning.
In point of fact it was not a feather, but a scrap of thistledown. From time to time I tried to catch it, but inevitably I clutched at nothing. The class treated the episode as a comic turn until rapped heads and randomly distributed detentions reminded everyone where they were. I believe I gave a passable imitation of a schoolteacher at work, without revealing the panic fermenting inside of me.
After school I hurried to Harry’s cottage. I had no idea how Slow Harry might give aid or comfort, but I believed he knew something of the terror which clawed at my heart. Harry knew things.
He was expecting me, offering me an inch-thick slice of bread and dripping, and a mug of black tea. Then he made the door fast—the first time in years that it had been locked and barred. I noticed that the bolts were freshly greased. Harry lifted into the fireplace the great iron pot that had been constantly on the boil in his mother’s day. Even he grunted as he heaved it up, and weights that would have flattened me were toys to him. He winked and nodded at the pot.
“Iron,” he laughed. “Iron.” I could not see the joke.
Then we waited. A trying time because Harry was no conversationalist, and I gradually became tongue-tied with the fear which possessed me. I was not even allowed to leave, even though it was past opening time at The Ox. When I tried to open the door Harry lifted me bodily away.
“No,” said Harry.
I fell to thinking that I might be in greater danger here than anywhere. What if Harry should be in league with Goat?
“No,” said Harry. “Not Goat.”
After which I tried to keep my thoughts under control; but they turned again and again to death—quick death, slow death, easy death, agonizing death, but always death. Harry patted my shoulder: this was as reassuring as a medieval executioner’s formal request for pardon.
The day faded, and Harry brought out candles. We sat pale-faced in the flickering light. The windows were fastened, the clock was stopped, and there was no sound except the rumbling from my belly.
Suddenly the window was shattered, and one of the candles fell, cut in half. Something whistled past my face, and hit the wall behind my head.
I dropped to the floor. The object that had shot by me had returned, scored my left buttock, and drilled the table top. I could see the candle light through the hole. I screamed, shut my eyes, and lay still.
I heard sounds like ricocheting bullets. Things were broken—a teapot, a pudding bowl, a picture of Queen Victoria’s coronation. Whatever the thing was, it intended to get Harry too. I heard him skipping about the room, and was amazed that a man of his bulk could move with such agility. Moreover he had the knack of knowing just where the object would strike next, and of arranging to be elsewhere when it did.
A moving target has more chance of survival than one lying prone, so I decided to join the dance. As I rose, everything seemed to freeze. Even the candle flame forgot to flicker. Harry was standing by the fireplace holding the cooking pot in one hand, and its massive lid in the other. In the center of the table lay a thimble, pointing straight at my chest.
I felt Harry’s great boot kick me sprawling, while simultaneously I heard a clang. A bullet hitting an iron pot would make such a noise.
By the time I had struggled to my knees again, Harry had set the pot upside down on the stone floor. Whatever was inside clattered incessantly like an alarm bell. A covering of peg rugs eventually helped dull the sound.
I was panting like an old hound, but Harry stood as stolid as ever, without even a hint of sweat on his face. He rubbed his sleeve across his chin.
“Goat,” he said.
There was no answer when we called at Goat’s cottage. Harry would have broken down the door, but I persuaded him to fetch the constable first. We found Goat on his bug-infested mattress, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling.