The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. (14 page)

I leant against the side door, muddy hands running through my hair.

Hadn’t the fourth person – the little old lady – been covered in glass? Coincident? Most probably a bird. Possibly an owl had flown into its own reflection. I had seen pictures of what happed when birds hit a window. Their feathers are covered in a fine dust and once it struck the glass it left an impression of itself behind, almost like a powered photocopy. The pictures I had seen looked eerie.

But could an owl’s weight carry it through a car window, which was up to ten times stronger than a house window, even if it hit it beak first? I knew car windows where made of tempered glass, heated to a high degree then quickly cooled, which gives it its strength. It’s also designed to shatter into small pebbles instead of jagged edges. But if it was an owl where was it now? It couldn’t have gotten back out again, not with the amount of blood it had lost.

But I knew I was clutching at straws. Strange things had been happening. My memory getting confused. Doing things I couldn’t remember. And as normal I was ignoring the obvious, locking the truth away, deep, deep down inside the basement of my memory warehouse.

The old woman couldn’t have arrived in my car because the snow had blocked it in for over two weeks. None of the roads were open, and besides who would have driven it? Not me.

The snow had receded fast though, considering how deep it had been.

I continued thinking about everything that was transpiring around me, while I got a bucket of hot soapy water and some Oxy Clean and started to clean out the back seat of my truck. My mind refusing to notice the bloody hand print on the back seat. I taped a couple of doubled up thick black bin bags over the broken glass, in case I wanted to use the truck anytime soon, now that the snow had receded, or more to the point – vanished.

Then I decided, yes, why not. I would go down to the closest village to replenish some of my groceries. That’s if all the roads are open. I would soon find out. I looked forward to seeing some living people for a change, going about their mundane, everyday, living routine.

It didn’t take long to pull my dirty clothes off and shower again, getting the mud and sweat from my body. Also all the digging had helped with the throbbing pain that had pulsated through my aching muscles. They say when your muscles ache it’s best to work the pain out, rather than sit and let it linger.

Retrieving the keys from down beside my couch, and noticing I hadn’t picked up the broken bowl pieces; I jumped into my truck and setout towards the shops, and even more disturbing news.

Number One Fan

T
he roads were clearer than I thought possible. There weren’t even any isolated patches of snow still scattered around like I was expecting. Not even on the tall rocky outcrops.
Surely it wouldn’t have thawed this quickly?

I drove with my side window down. The truck smelt strange and it was irritating my sinuses, making me gag at the back of my throat. I had to spit a few times out the window to clear my mouth.
Cat piss?

The chilly fresh air was a welcome change, but I still had the heater blowing hot air to take some of the chill of the open window away. The black bags that were taped against the broken window flapped about madly, making a loud irritating racket.

Few other cars were around. It was January and the weather could change at the drop of a hat. Only the foolish drove about this far onto the Moors for no reason at this time of the year. Where – as I have said – the weather can be treacherous.

My home is situated a few miles from the famous rock called Hay-Tor, around the area of a village called Widecombe-in-the-Moor. There are many rocky outcrops all over the Moors, Bench-Tor, Pew-Tor, Vixen-Tor, Kings-Tor, Hound-Tor, Cox-Tor, White-Tor, Steeperton-Tor just to name a few, but Hay-Tor is by far the most popular and famous.

It’s a large granite boulder that has been pushed up through the earth long ago. It’s a favourite gathering point. Climbers practised on one steep side of it. Walkers walk around it and around the ponds just behind it, where old quarries used to be. The Templer family – I have read – leased the quarry, from the Duke of Somerset. James Templer had made his fortune in India and had then established a countryseat in the middle of the eighteenth century, in a nearby area called Stover. The Templer family was also well known for many other landmarks on the Moors, another was a long train track called Templers Way.

But more often than not, everyday people came to Hay-Tor with their children and friends and climbed all over it. Why? I couldn’t say. But it’s just what they do.

In fact, there is a famous walk each year called The Ten Tors Challenge, where up to four hundred teams walk fifty-five miles around the ten main Tors. I remember reading about it in the local paper. It was covering a story, referring to the fact that this year is the fiftieth anniversary of the walk. But what really caught my attention in the story was The Ballad of Denbury Common. My favourite part:

Away to the moors, every hill, every glen. Beckoning young leaders, brave girls gallant men. Well trained to resist any thought of retreat, from the weather or time, the tors or the peat.

Something in this verse moved me. I’m not sure why.

I had to drive past the two main car parks of Hay-Tor. One close up the hill, leaving a shorter walk to the rock. The other was a little further down, promising a longer, steeper walk, but it had a toilet and information center.

I stopped at the toilet, simply to stretch my legs and relieve myself, a weak bladder being one of my downfalls. I was quickly outside again because the interior of the toilet was even colder than the air outside, and what with the water gathered in small stagnant pools on the tiled floor and the dirty sink and cracked tiles. It was a dismal place. One you would have to be desperate to even consider having a shit, your buttocks would probably freeze to the seat.

Also, apart from its eighteenth century style toilet, and quaint information center, no matter what time of the year, or how cold or hot it is, there is always a small Mr. Whippy ice-cream van parked here, with the same little old man that has been selling ice-creams since before your grandmother was born. He should have been placed in a museum with a little red rope around him, with a sign saying,
Owned by the National Trust.

There is even a famous ice-cream and hotdog van up by Hound-Tor called:
Hound of the Basket meals
. It always made me smile when I drive past.

I strode slowly across the gravel-strewed car park. Only a handful of cars and one camper van shared the same car park. The old man was sat down inside the back of the van, with The Sun newspaper held in gloved hands. His face almost lost behind a wide thick brown scarf – what could be seen – was so wrinkled it was hard to make out what you were in fact looking at. It looked like a very thin small hairless Shar-Pei.

I had to cough twice to get his attention.
Time to change the batteries granddad.

He slid the glass window open. “Sorry, m’ beauty, didn’ hear ya drive in,” he said in his thick Devonshire accent.

He was so deaf he probably wouldn’t have heard a large meteorite strike.

“What’ll it be milove?” He folded the paper open on the sports section and placed it on his seat. One fragile wrinkled old hand fiddling with his hearing aid. It gave a loud high pitched shrieking sound that the old man didn’t even notice which then became merely a sonic assault that made my ears sting.

“Just a hot sweet milky coffee please.” I stood rubbing my hands together; using all my willpower from cupping my ears against his hearing aids bombardment.

He slowly went about arranging my order, his hearing aid going wild, screeching and beeping loudly.

For some reason, which was normally unlike me, I continued trying to strike up a conversation. Possibly because I had only spoken to dead people, and a fallen angel, over the last week.

“Bad for business I suspect, what with all the snow we’ve been having?”

“Wha’ waz tha’?”

“BAD FOR BUSINESS I SUSPECT?” I shouted over the top the screeching hearing aid.

“I’m not deaf, sonny,” he said in a peeved voice. “And what’s this about snow? Wouldn’ call it snow as such. Just a sprinkling, gone in a few hours.” And in hindsight added. “Shame, snows as good as money in ya pocket, ya know. What with all them nippers up ’ere with their parents and the like.” He turned and placed the steaming coffee on the orange well-worn Formica surface, forgetting its lid and giving the surface a hot splashing of steaming brown sludge.

I noticed the backs of his hands were covered in big brown
lentigo senilis
, or liver spots, to the layman. Also he was wheezing at his exploits, with his breath bellowing out in small white clouds, which was streaming from his wrinkled purple lips, now that he had to pull his scarf down in order to speak to me. The air stunk of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges.

I was confused. Hay-Tor was as high up as my home, if not higher. If I had snow, it defiantly would have been here. But I simply played the ignorant fool. My heart beating rapidly inside my constricting chest.

“No snow you say?” I clutched the steaming Styrofoam cup in both hands. They were both trembling, making the coffee vibrate and spill over the cups edge. For an instant it reminded me of a time I was at Jiaxiulou in China. A monk had sat in front of a large copper bowl filled with water, he had rubbed the two handles with the palms of his hands, making the water vibrated and fly into the air, mimicking a small storm. Hence the expression,
a storm in a tea cup
.

I snapped out of it, coming back to the moment at hand. My mind kept leaping back to old events, as if trying to grasp something familiar all the time, as if reality was slowly slipping away.

“But my friend up at Berry Farm, oh, say about two miles from here, said he was snowed under all week.”

The old man gave a chuckling dry laugh, which quickly turned into a full blown coughing fit. His face eventually turned back to its normal waxy pale complexion before he spoke again.

“He’s simply been pulling ya leg. I come from that direction every morning. Been clear sky and open roads for weeks now. Not saying it’s not gunna snow mind ya. But not yet.” He stood waiting for his money, his hand shaking while being held out.

I stood staring at nothing.
No snow?

“That-ta be one pound fifty please, good sir.”

No snow?

“Sir?” Another dry rattling cough.

“Sorry, miles away there.” I fumbled for some money, dropping a two pound coin on his counter, ignoring his outstretched hand. I walked away without waiting for the change. I heard him talking behind me, obviously mentioning the difference, but I walked back to my truck ignoring him, because so much was running through my mind. The cold wind whipped at my Regatta coat.

I sat hugging the coffee, the steam filling up the truck and misting out the front windshield.

No snow?

Suddenly exhaustion engulfed my body. I closed my eyes, just a short nap. Just a few moments to collect my thoughts. My mind drifted off, sleep engulfed me.

An image of the old monk knelt in front of the huge copper bowl filled my mind. The water jumping and flying into the air, just like a mini tempest storm. But when he looked up his face wasn’t Chinese, as I remembered it, rather he looked like an old Native American Indian, his face a pile of weathered, sun baked, wrinkles. He gave me a weary smile.

I looked back down into the churning copper bowl. Out of the mini rain tempest rose Hay-Tor rock, with churning black clouds above, fork lightning striking between the two…

I must have napped. The coffee was still in my hands, but now long cold, with a thick film on top.

The light had faded from the sky; evening had arrived while I slept.

The car park was now empty apart from one red Ford Focus car that was in the far corner; its interior light was on, the windows steamed up.
Lovers
, I thought. Good luck to you. Enjoy it while it lasts, as soon as you marry her she’ll change in to a nagging, hysterical, paranoid stranger. But then that might just be the effect I have on women.

I dumped the cold coffee in a bin, stretching as I walked back to the truck. The sound of gravel under my trainers was the only noise around.

I noticed the ice-cream van was long gone.

I still decided to go to the nearby village. Bovey Tracey it was called. A large collection of new homes surrounding an unchanging small village centre. A long road of shops, pubs and a few restaurants, with the ever-present Fish & Chip shop, which every English village or town has at least one of.

I parked up on the main street and then walked down to the twenty-four hour mini-market. I ignored the local pubs, which I would normally pop in to for a quick pint. Sometimes even a Kopparberg pear cider, which I had started to get a taste for. But I didn’t even want to think about drinking again for a while, the last thing I needed was alcohol poisoning.

I meandered around the mini-market filling my small trolley with a selection of things I needed. Of course being the only main shop for groceries in the area – unless you wanted to drive to Newton Abbot – you always met someone you knew.

“Jacob!” said a female’s voice that came from around the corner of the frozen food section.

“Ah shit!” I said under my breath.

It was Ms. Cuddy – stalker extraordinaire. She always calls herself my number one fan. It brings to mind the Stephen King novel,
Misery
. In fact the film version is one of my favourites. All about a number one fan who abducts a writer, and makes him rewrite his last novel, one that he was about to kill off the main character. Ms. Cuddy even looked like Kathy Bates, same build, face, everything, probably even has a pet pig called Misery or most probably Jacob.