Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 31
A scattering of white clouds floated high above the picture-postcard landscape. It was hard to believe that the Devil’s allies were somewhere out there hunting them. For all Lucifer’s posturing, Timothy prayed the demon king had yet to regain his full strength. When Timothy thought back to last year, it was Lucifer’s control of the weather that symbolised his power. Timothy glanced up into the sky; the sun shone above him. Surely it was a sign of Lucifer’s struggles? Unless, of course, he was concentrating his efforts elsewhere. Timothy didn’t have the answers. Yet he had the nagging feeling they were in for a bumpy ride. The last battle loomed large on the horizon, and even though the skies were clear, Timothy feared a storm was coming.
‘Do you remember staying near here on a family holiday when you were little?’ asked Timothy’s father during their walk into Aysgarth.
Timothy thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You fell into the river up at the waterfalls?’
‘Oh, yeah. Didn’t I get stung by a wasp on the same day?’ Subconsciously, Timothy sucked the injured finger in question. He could still recall the fiery pain all these years on.
‘That’s right. And then you got chased by a cow up on the moors.’
‘Oh, God. That thing was psychotic!’ Timothy stared accusingly at his father. ‘You all hid in the car and left me running in the opposite direction!’
‘Happy days,’ reminisced Geoff with a smile. He glanced admiringly at his son. ‘Tim, I want you to know how proud we all are of you. You take everything in your stride like it’s routine. I doubt any of us could do so well in your place.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
Down in the village, they found Susan and Toby perched on beer barrel barstools outside The George and Dragon Inn slurping soft drinks and coffees. ‘Oh, thank the Lord. You’re awake,’ said Timothy’s mother. She leapt from her stool and fussed over her eldest as if she hadn’t seen him for a fortnight. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’
‘Err…no. Not yet, Mum.’
Susan glared at her husband. ‘For goodness sake, Geoff! You call yourself his father? Look at him, all skin and bone, and he hasn’t even changed!’ She scrutinised Timothy with an expression of disgust souring her features. ‘He’s been in those same clothes since Monday morning!’
‘I’m fine, Mum. I’ll change later. I just need to use the bathroom.’
‘Good luck with that,’ answered Susan with a shudder. ‘The only restroom not out of order in the whole of this insubstantial village is in the pub, and George is in there ― and it’s his third visit.’
Right on cue, George appeared. He stepped gingerly from The George and Dragon Inn, and with the help of Sigrid and Gunda, he hobbled over to Timothy. ‘Angelic transmogrification doesn’t agree with me,’ he explained, ‘or my bowels.’ A brief awkward silence followed. ‘Anyway, what about you? Did you win?’
Timothy grinned. ‘We won.’
‘I knew you could do it, Timmy,’ congratulated Sigrid. ‘You must tell us what happened.’
‘Yes, well done, Tim,’ said George. ‘And it proves you don’t need me.’ Any resolve or fighting spirit that George may have previously exhibited was rapidly dispersing.
‘We’ll always need you, George. Now more than ever.’ Timothy peered up at the sign hanging beside the inn’s entrance. ‘I think they should rename this pub in your honour. How about “George and the Goblins”?’
George blushed and grimaced at the same time. ‘Thanks, Tim, but I don’t want to think about what happened. It was awful. Please don’t ever make me go through that again.’ How many had he killed? Guilt sat heavily upon his shoulders.
‘I doubt you’ve got a choice,’ answered Timothy ruefully. It seemed the powers that be ― i.e., God and all his angels ― had chosen George whether he liked it or not. Now he knows how I feel, mused Timothy.
Timothy risked the pub’s overworked bathroom facilities, and after he’d finished, he found George waiting on the other side of the door.
‘One for the road,’ said George with a bashful smirk.
Enjoying the fresh air outside, Timothy investigated the village’s small square, where he discovered a tourist information board. The sign explained a short history of Aysgarth with the addition of a map showing walking routes to the waterfalls. ‘It says here,’ he said to his father, ‘that William the Conqueror granted this manor to Count Alan of Brittany after the conquest of England in 1066.’ Timothy shook his head wistfully. ‘I can’t believe I fought them both in my dreams.’ And not for the first time, Timothy was left contemplating the monumental impact a single day can have on the future of an entire nation. How different a place would Aysgarth be if King Harold and not the Duke of Normandy had won at Hastings?
Regrettably, Timothy’s insightful musings were shattered when George burst from the pub like a rampant wildebeest. ‘I think it best we make a move!’ he yelled from across the street.
‘Why? What’s up?’ Timothy and his father braced themselves for what could only be ― and if George’s face was anything to go by ― more bad news.
‘I may have accidentally flooded the pub.’ Angry shouting pursued George from inside the premises. ‘And the landlord isn’t at all happy about it!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Into the North
Having escaped the clutches of Mr Scrounger, the landlord at Aysgarth’s The George and Dragon Inn, Timothy and the gang found themselves back on the road. From behind the steering wheel, Isabella wore a face of cold stone. And the reason for the demon hunter’s displeasure? The reckless nature of what went on in Aysgarth. ‘Did I not say, do not attract attention,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘But do they listen? No, they do not. Careless jongens.’
Isabella wasn’t the only one with grievances. ‘I can’t believe I slept through a real-life police chase.’ Rupert was thoroughly dejected at having missed all the action. Although he was cheered to learn of his inclusion inside the national papers and cheered further by his rising status as a known felon. He was wanted in all the counties of England, Scotland and Wales, and the subject of the United Kingdom’s biggest manhunt since the search for Jack the Ripper in 1888.
Timothy wasn’t best pleased either. He was trying his best not to vomit in front of the Swedes. The undulating terrain wasn’t doing him any favours. He’d already begun turning his signature hue of ‘travel sick’ green. But perhaps the most disheartened of them all was little Toby. Somewhere north of Garsdale Head, the youngster had shrieked, ‘Winston!’ at the top of his lungs. He’d suddenly realised the awful truth that poor Winston, the family cat, had been abandoned back at the lair and left to his fate.
‘Don’t worry, Toby,’ consoled Timothy. ‘He’s a clever cat. He’ll be fine.’
Rupert opened his mouth to say something but received a timely glare from Gunda. She knew precisely the sort of thing Rupert was about to say, and it wasn’t going to be anything that a crestfallen six-year-old would want to hear.
‘I bet Winston escaped down into the sewers like us, didn’t he, Mum?’ continued Timothy doing his best to console his brother.
Susan ruffled Toby’s hair, momentarily ensnaring her right hand in the process. His curls were getting more dangerous by the day. ‘That’s right,’ she said with a smile. ‘There’ll be plenty of food for him down there.’
Toby appeared happy with the explanation and settled back down to imagine the big ginger feline scampering around in the sewers munching on rats and bits of goblin and generally having a really lovely time.
After a toilet break, experienced standing or bopping beside the road depending on the arrangement of the individual’s waterworks, Geoff took over the driving, giving Isabella a welcome rest. Yet their progress thereafter became a slow stop-start affair with George’s woefully inadequate bladder the culprit.
On one such occasion, George stood hunched amidst the undergrowth, mid-flow, pondering how these open-air locations lacked the hygiene of conventional toilet facilities but were more than compensated by the wonderful countryside views when the close attentions of a large black crow perched on a nearby branch startled him nigh on to death. The bird so unnerved George that he was compelled to cut short his business ― which is never a comfortable sensation ― and run back to the van in all haste squealing like a pig. ‘Oh, it was horrible,’ he explained to the others. ‘It looked so cruel and evil.’
‘Did it have red eyes?’ questioned Rupert with scepticism.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see,’ said George. ‘But the way it stared at me…’ He shuddered. ‘It was one of his. I know it was!’
Rupert grinned. ‘I doubt it. More likely, it just wanted a little snack and took a fancy to that tiny worm you were holding between your fingers.’
Turning bright red, George’s eyes narrowed. ‘When will you learn some respect!’ Making fun of someone’s private parts wasn’t remotely amusing.
‘Never, Georgie Porgie.’ Rupert loved winding people up, especially people like George. But when his friend started to glow, Rupert backed down quicker than he could say ‘angelic transmogrification.’
Isabella smiled. She’d been watching and listening, and she’d learned something interesting. George’s body wasn’t rejecting his newfound powers; he was. Isabella thought the information might prove useful. Subconsciously, George was accessing God’s divine power through rage, which was something of an irony. Although, mused Isabella, the wrath of God was well documented. Perhaps anger, forever associated with hatred, malice and evil, was misunderstood? If anger could be harnessed and used, not for darkness, but for light, the emotion offered many benefits: enhanced strength, increased speed, amplified courage. Of course, it was the opposite of everything Isabella had been taught. The preaching’s of Zen Lee encouraged inner peace, tranquillity and self-control ― the mind, body and soul as one. And Isabella certainly wasn’t about to abandon her lifelong beliefs in a moment of uncertainty, but it did give her food for thought. Was George’s disobliging gift another of God’s games or something more?
Heading northwest, they left the rolling hills and picturesque villages behind. In their stead, a bleaker scene unfolded before them ― stark and remote, a lonely, treeless moorland sweeping as far as the eye could see. Yet somehow, this inhospitable land commanded a strange, haunting beauty. And it was here, high up on the desolate moors, that the gang’s final destination was revealed. In the distant west, blessed beneath the late autumn sunshine, was the Lake District. A small corner of England that didn’t look right, as if it didn’t belong. Not because it was ugly or forbidding, but because it appeared like a lost kingdom ― a make-believe land amidst the modern world. A realm of enchantment and legend. A place of unspoilt beauty and wonder. At least, that’s how Timothy’s father liked to describe the place. Geoff always did have a soft spot for his favourite national park.
Begrudgingly, Timothy agreed. It wasn’t anything like how he remembered from all those dreary family walking holidays. From here, the park really did appear like a fairy-tale land. He spotted deep valleys, twisting lakes, shapely hills and higher peaks too. Not snow-capped giants rising into the stratosphere like those in the Alps or Rockies but mini-mountains accessible to the masses. All that was required were strong legs, a stout heart and a sturdy pair of boots.
After another short stop ― George again! ― Isabella reclaimed the driver’s seat and soon they were descending from the moors toward the lowlands between the two national parks. For Timothy, this was the last time he would see that magical view or any view for the foreseeable future.
This is how I remember the Lake District, thought Timothy miserably. The rain sheeted down like cats and dogs ― a rhythmic thumping against the sloped, slate roof that jutted from the rear of the farmhouse above Timothy’s head. He sat below on an otherwise exposed wooden veranda, staring into the blanket of greyness beyond. It was exactly how he remembered: dreary, dull and very, very moist. Supposedly, there was a lake out there somewhere, but the cloud hung so low and the rain came down so hard that Timothy couldn’t make out what was ground and what was sky. It all merged into one vast, grey shroud. The lake was ringed by high fells, some of the grandest in all the district, or so he’d been told. There was a waterfall, too, over a thousand feet high. Well, if they were out there, Timothy couldn’t see them. I’ll just have to take their word for it.
The relentless sound of water gushing down drainpipes and dripping from overflowing guttering became surprisingly relaxing. Timothy didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because he was warm, dry and safe from the elements. Or maybe it was because this old farmhouse was a demon hunters’ safehouse and its location so remote that not even Lucifer’s spies could find it. Timothy hadn’t felt this content in a very long time. He hoped his friends back home were safe and keeping out of trouble, too, especially young Tommy, who found trouble even when he wasn’t looking for any. And what about Mr Borenett? According to the newspapers, he was locked up awaiting trial inside HM Belmarsh ― a high-security prison in southeast London. Poor man. I hope Lucifer doesn’t get to him while he’s inside. Of all Timothy’s allies, Mr Borenett deserved his current fate least of all. A kind, thoughtful man, loyal and trustworthy ― although as dull as the grey weather surrounding Timothy. And what of the Reverend? There had been no news from him. Timothy feared the worst but hoped for the best. After all, the Reverend had prevailed against Asmodean at the London Museum, so why not for a second time in the lair?
The door onto the veranda opened, jerking Timothy from his thoughts. He peered up to see a dark-haired girl wearing combat trousers and an oversized hoodie. She crept toward him carrying a pair of steaming mugs, and by the concentration creasing her features, she was desperate not to spill a drop. ‘Room for a little one?’ she asked with a big smile.
‘Of course,’ answered Timothy. He budged along the wooden bench to accommodate his new friend.
The girl ― who at first glance might have been mistaken for a boy ― offered Timothy a mug. ‘Hot cocoa,’ she said in a distinctive Welsh accent. ‘Your great auntie made it.’ She sipped from her mug and the big smile returned. ‘Oh, blimey. That’s good, that is.’
If she is a boy, she’s a very pretty boy, thought Timothy with a grin. ‘Great Auntie Isabella has many talents,’ he said, ‘but I think making hot chocolates is her best.’
The girl nodded. ‘She’s a remarkable woman.’ She studied Timothy for a moment, which Timothy found slightly unnerving. ‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ she said, ‘you don’t much look like a demon hunter.’
Timothy sighed. ‘Truth be told, I don’t much feel like one either.’ And he would give nearly anything not to be.
‘I reckon it’s because you lot are all so young,’ she continued.
Timothy frowned. She couldn’t be more than a few years older than him and definitely no older than Sigrid and Gunda. ‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to your mother. It must have been awful,’ said Timothy before noisily slurping his hot chocolate with inappropriate timing.
‘Thank you. Nobody mentioned troglodytes in the holiday brochure,’ she said with a sad smile.
Betsy Jones was a demon hunter. She and her guardian, Father Macfarlane, a vicar appointed to the small local church of St James, worked for the League of Demon Hunters. Maintaining the league’s northern safehouse was chief among their tasks. The position didn’t come without its disadvantages. In addition to their duties, the pair were charged with keeping the district’s troglodyte population in check. Long ago, it was the scaly-skinned fiends who deprived a young Betsy of her mother, and ever since, she’d been fighting to get even.
Earlier, on arrival at the farmhouse, Timothy, Rupert and George had stood gawping at the size of the place. Timothy believed the house big enough to pass as a country retreat for the Royal Family. Toby had been so impressed that he’d snuck off to investigate. Susan had stomped after him, moaning under her breath. ‘What if he discovers the weapons vault unlocked?’ Or worse, the kitchen larder unprotected.
After the introductions, Father Macfarlane had treated his visitors to a grand tour of the grounds during which Timothy, Rupert and George got talking with Betsy.
‘You’re into explosives?’ Rupert was suitably impressed. Blowing things up was something he could aspire to. He hoped she would teach him a trick or two in the weeks to come.
‘Yeah, there wasn’t a great deal to do growing up in rural Wales, see,’ explained Betsy. She and the three boys trailed behind the adults on a dull circuit of the farmhouse grounds. There was nothing to see in the mist and drizzle other than wet grass, brown mud and the odd sheep.
‘How do you get supplies?’ asked Rupert eagerly, his eyes lighting up.
‘It was harder back home, but it’s easy now,’ explained Betsy. ‘I tell them what I want, see, the league that is, and they send it to me here. But my guardian doesn’t know, so mum’s the word! Got it?’
‘Cool!’ Rupert hadn’t got this excited since he was allowed to operate the holy water cannon outside Great Underwood Upper.
‘And he looks after you?’ queried George. He indicated the bedraggled, unkempt figure leading them all on this inept tour. He’d given Father Macfarlane the once over and wasn’t overly impressed with the outcome.
‘Well, he does. But to be honest, I don’t need much looking after, not really.’
Just as well, thought Timothy eyeing Father Macfarlane dubiously. By the state of him, he could barely look after himself. By all accounts, the man spent most of his time frequenting the Fish Inn drinking, well, like a fish.
According to Betsy, long ago, Macfarlane was exiled from his ancestral home. Apparently, except for Betsy, no one down south knew the reason for his expulsion. Betsy only ever referred to the affair as ‘the incident’. Fleeing south to find redemption for his deeds, the Scotsman took to religion, but religion didn’t take to him, not at first anyway. Eventually, beaten down by Macfarlane’s relentless begging for forgiveness, the church granted him a remote, forgotten parish deep within the English wilds and there he remained. The Scotsman’s grotesque consumption of alcohol and depraved use of foul language wasn’t a problem for the local congregation. St James’ regulars were more than willing to accept their preacher’s sinful misdemeanours if he would forgive them theirs.
