CHAPTER 2

The Gates of Hell

Dangerous things lurked in the shadows. Wolves, bears and other beasts of strange design. There was no telling what was out there, butsomething had come down out of the woods and attacked his Mary.

“Are you alright, Willard?”

Willard blinked. He tore his eyes from the still dark and sinister tree line. Greg Downing was looking at him from the back of his cart, concern on his whiskered face. The carter had arrived with a load of grain before the morning sun and was busy unloading it.

“Sorry, Greg. I was lost in thought.”

“Hate to hurry you along,” Greg patted a sack of grain resting against his legs, “but I have another delivery before the sun makes the shoulder of the mountain. I can’t be dawdling.”

Willard nodded, grabbed the sack of grain and heaved it across his shoulders. He carried it inside, where Mary sat knitting at the kitchen table, head down and silent. She hadn’t spoken a word since the night Elsie Gallagher had disappeared. Tom and Willard had returned to the millhouse to find her frantic, inconsolable. She was babbling and making no sense. The following morning, she had woken, and nothing more could be got from her. Willard sighed and carried the sack to the storeroom upstairs, his heart heavier than any bag of grain. He returned to the kitchen and touched his wife’s cheek before rejoining the carter outside.

“Willard, are you expecting anyone else this morning?” Greg Downing was pointing down the road at two stocky horses, both duns, identical in size and colouring: sandy coats, black manes and tails. The riders, however, could not have been more disparate in appearance. As the horses ambled closer, the contrast between the two became even more apparent: a woman dressed in a black mantle, white tunic and coif, signifying her as a nun. She was overweight, her cheeks puffy. The other figure was a man in black leather breeches and vest—a big, lean fellow with a sober expression. Willard heaved another sack of grain over his shoulders and went inside. He did not welcome any more disruptions and hoped that the two riders would pass by. When he returned, he found his hopes drowned. The big man was tying off the horses as the fat nun flapped her way across the stone bridge. She was waving and smiling, engaging Greg Downing in conversation, but Willard could not hear what they were saying over the perpetual roar of the river. He approached the ruddy-faced nun and the bemused carter. The nun turned her attention to Willard and spoke with enough enthusiasm to make herself heard over any noise.

“Ah, hello, sir. It’s a beautiful day. I was just saying to this fellow,” she gestured to the carter with a pudgy hand, “that the millhouse is a brilliant example of rustic grandeur, man and machine working together seamlessly, technology and nature wonderfully counterposed. I would love to return with my easel and watercolours at a later date.” She cleared her throat. “For now, I have business with Willard Brown, the m