Ominous rain-laden clouds dangled above them, black and swollen, pressing their heavy weight down to engulf the rising crags of the mountain. The wind whipped at the exposed hillside, rattling through the dead trees their brittle branches creaking balefully at the disturbance. The air was thick with a dank, clammy mist that seeped in underneath the skin to chill their very hearts.

Harndall shivered drawing his arms around his body as the bitter wind tore at the heavy material of his robe. The crumbling remains of the old church clung to the mountainside behind him, like some rearing arachnid, the broken stained glass of its many eyes fixed on Harndall as it shifted its buttressed legs.

“It must be somewhere around here”, Lochan cried eagerly, his eyes scanning the hillside.

Harndall’s gaze roved amongst the mist too, following the undulating hills as they climbed upwards. The sickly green of the dying earth was met with dark shadows as the rocks clambered their way towards the menacing sky. They stood just outside the churchyard, the low ill-made, moldering wall beside them was hindrance enough to bar the souls that lay beneath their feet from heaven forever.

A large raindrop trickled down the back of Harndall’s robe, forming an icy trail as it dribbled down between his shoulder blades.

“I suppose one spot is as good as another”, Lochan pondered, looking around in consternation, “we can dig up the whole hillside if need be”.

Kelgar loped up to stand beside Harndall, a wolfish grin on his scarred face, “Well it depends Your Lordship what sort of dead body yew were looking for. If yew weren’t too picky I’m sure these hills are probably riddled with ‘em”.

Harndall felt an unprecedented surge of irritation and turned to Lochan muttering, “Don’t you think that these poor souls are tormented enough as it is. We should not do them the disservice of disturbing their unsettled sleep more than is strictly necessary”.

He had spent too many days locked away with this man, listening to his every snort of annoyance, trying to ignore the sound of his impatient tapping feet. When the Duke was thinking he jiggled his leg, when he was bored he scuffed the floor with his boots and when he was waiting he rapped his fingers unconsciously on the heavy, wooden table. Harndall was even sick of hearing the Duke breathe. Who would have known that another person’s breathing could become such a source aggravation but there it was. He knew it wasn’t very patient or priestly of him but he couldn’t help it, the slight whistle in Lochan’s nose when he exhaled was slowly driving him mad. He thought God would understand, perhaps he had even given Lochan a head-cold just to test Harndall. Well it had worked, he had failed but if he had given his Lord something to chuckle about then he was glad of it.

“Yes I suppose you are right Father. I wasn’t being very kind”, Lochan’s replied with a small sniffle.

“Me too”, Kelgar said mournfully, “Sorry Father”.

Kelgar was one of those incongruous men that Harndall had sometimes heard the confession of. While he faced life with a devil-may care attitude it seemed Kelgar had a deep respect for the church and for Harndall himself. Harndall could never quite equate the jovial lists of indiscretions with the man who prayed so fervently at mass. Perhaps Kelgar felt he had a lot to make up for.

Osras trudged up through the churchyard, throwing the shovels on the ground before them.

“Well”, he demanded, “are we going to actually dig up this thing or are we going to stand about gossiping like a bunch of women. I for one am cold and soggy and would like to get this done as quickly as possible. There is a warm spot waiting for me at the kitchen bench with a steady supply of ale. The rest of you too if you want”.

“And is there warm attentions from your kitchen maid wife for all of us too oh brother of mine. No. A pity”, Kelgar replied with a smirk, “Well then, if yew would be so kind as to point out exactly where we should be digging then we would be most happy to oblige yew”.

Osras stared back at them, an incredulous scowl plastered across his dripping face. Behind him stretched the churchyard, a scattering of crumbling tombstones pinned to the spongey hillside like insects tangled in a web. Harndall found his eyes drawn to the mournful figure of a women, her back hunched as rain drops trickled over her eroded, grey curves.

“Are you being serious?”, he asked, with a sigh, “Doesn’t it seem like the marked grave would be a good place to start?”

They followed his gaze to a small stone cross almost hidden from sight at the very corner of the dilapidated wall. Harndall felt nauseous, the sharp angular lines of the cross sickening him rather than offering the comfort they usually bestowed. He was suddenly reminded of its true purpose, the sharp nails piercing tender flesh, forcing apart bones. Christ had hung from such a structure, his skin slowly ripping as the weight of his mortal body pulled him down. His blood had flowed down over those harsh lines, soaking into the splintering wood, pooling at the base to fester in the midday sun.

Harndall was suddenly deeply afraid of what lay beneath those fine layers of soil. Somewhere below them something was stirring, he could hear it now, a very faint rustling, a scratching. A chill crept up his spine, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck all standing on end.

He rubbed his tired eyes with his hand, running it through the short strands of his hair. He was exhausted, too many nights pondering the mysteries of the journal. Now he was hearing things. It was only the hushed thud of raindrops hitting the waterlogged earth at his feet.

“First one to the coffin wins a kiss from Polina”, Kelgar jeered at his brother, picking up a shovel.

He lifted it high and Harndall flinched involuntarily as it arced through the air coming to rest deep in the hide of the hillside. Harndall let out his breath in a quiet hiss when nothing happened. He realised he had been expecting a scream. The soggy ground subsided a little beneath Kelgar’s feet so that he stumbled and fell to his knees. He righted himself, gripping the shovel again in determined hands.

“Have some respect for the dead brother”, Osras snarled burying his own shovel deep into the loamy earth and carving out a great chunk of it, “and I certainly wouldn’t wager a kiss from my wife”.

“Fine then”, Kelgar pouted, “but you really are no fun my dear old brother”.

Harndall understood Kelgar was only trying to ease his fear by bantering with his brother but he wished the other man would stop. It seemed wrong to speak so loudly in such a place, his loud jeers echoing off the surrounding cliffs and reverberating around them. It was as though even the slightest noise would be like frantically tugging at the silken thread and awaiting the creeping horror.

He wondered if Kelgar felt it too aching in his scars, a deep rot from her touch that ran through his very veins. He felt her teeth again, piercing the translucent skin of his neck, sinking into him, violating him. He shivered in terror as the pile of dirt beside them grew bigger and the cavernous hole ever deeper.

“Whoops”, Kelgar cried, tapping Osras’ shovel hard so that he dropped the large load of dirt perilously balanced on the mouth of the shovel that he had been trying to carefully maneuver out of the hole.

“I’ve had enough of your stupidity Kelgar”, Osras barked, “You can finish the bloody hole on your own”.

He threw the shovel over the side of the hole, grunting as he pulled himself over the edge. He stomped over to the nearest dead tree, sitting heavily at its base, leaning his sweaty back against its hollow trunk.

Harndall gazed at the tree, its rotten branches stretching upwards like the arms of a cross. Harndall could almost see the globby, putrid blood oozing from the cankered knots and dripping down the bark to pool where Osras was sitting. He swallowed back the bile that was rising in his throat and turned back to the yawning cavity where Kelgar still dug.

His nostrils were filled with a rancid rising scent that made him retch. He gagged, spitting the taste from his mouth but it was no use. It filled him, prising open his mouth and seeping inside, pouring down his throat to turn his stomach, clawing its way into his sensitive nose.

“It don’t smell pretty does it Father”, Kelgar gasped, “I’ve reached the coffin though. What do you want me to do?”

“Smash it open then Kelgar”, Lochan commanded, sliding his sword from its sheath, “we’re with you”.

Osras lumbered over, his rusty sword in hand. Lochan gave a nod and Harndall braced himself for what was to follow wishing he too had a sword. He reached inside the neck of his robe, his trembling fingers fumbling for the comfort of the small silver cross that hung warm against his chest. He pulled his hand back in dismay, a small rivulet of blood running from his thumb which had caught the edge of the cross and ripped in his haste.

“Ah well, good to know if I unearth some nasty beasty I’ve got you louts with your swords to wade in and save me”.

Kelgar raised the shovel high bringing it down hard on the brittle coffin lid. It cracked apart, the sodden wood breaking easily under the force.

The scratching was close now, so close, as though the very ground beneath Harndall’s feet was stirring, twitching as it awoke.

“It’s empty”, Kelgar’s surprised voice came up from the ditch.

The scratching abruptly ceased.

“No… wait”, Kelgar disappeared again below the rim.

“I found something”, his head popped up again, “it’s a ring”.

He peered at the dirt-encrusted object, “With some sort of strange carving on it. I think it’s a bird of some sort”.

“A bird?” Lochan asked, “come up here and let us have a look. You’re sure there’s nothing else down there?”

But Kelgar was gazing fixedly at Harndall with that look of unwavering trust he faced with a quaking heart so many times a day, “Does this make any sense to you Father? What did you think would be down here?”

He felt dizzy, teetering on the edge of the gash in the hillside they had ripped open. Perhaps if he fell it would swallow him, sucking him down into the belly of the mountain.

“I don’t know Kelgar”, he murmured staring at the ragged cliffs that rose sharply all around them, ascending into the midst of the roiling black storm clouds.

“I don’t know”, he sighed.

Murchadh, Shildfrith, The Church