Half way along a wooded lane, in a nondescript village in the British countryside, in a green tin, scout-hut under an ancient oak, a door clicked shut.
“Sorry chaps, having a right faff with the car today. Alarms going off everywhere. Not a sausage why until I realised pulling up here I hadn’t even put the belt on…” his voice dropped as he turned into the room.
Barry was taken aback to see not only two other fellow members of the Kent and East Sussex Morris Dancing Society, but also the surprise appearance by someone looking suspiciously like Margaret.
Enthroned on her Toshiba B60 multi-terrain, all wheel drive, assistance scooter, Margaret slouched, ensconced in pleather, an excessively elongated vape dangling from her knurled hands.
“About fucking time Barry, this isn’t a standard gig you tool.”
“Sorry Marge, I was faffing with..”
“Not a fuck given” she cut across him, “Suit up precious”
Behind Margaret’s bronze mobility chair, the other two society members were struggling to get ready.
Bag perched on the pine benches that lined the scout hall, Pete bent double into his kit, searching among nearly identical strips of white cloth. Pete could always be relied upon to improvise and adapt the beat, but in recent years his eyesight was becoming a problem. Scarred by a single attempt to wear glasses at work, ‘Speccy Stevens’ never wore them again, and now in his late 50s, he wasn’t willing to start.
The stockier one was Martin – thirty four years in the group – he knew the difference between a good gig with cheering and back slaps, and the kind of gig that left you sprinting down a back alley before being sick in a bin. Foot up on the bench, he tightened his trainers over a fresh pair of moisture wicking socks. His niece said it might help the chaffing.
Throwing an Intersport gym bag on the bench next to Martin was the latecomer, Barry.
Middle 60s, gammy knees, and an intermittent stickiness in his knuckles that he was pretty sure was arthritis, but a cracker with the crowd. Even Margaret wouldn’t argue with that one.
“Right boys,” said Margaret, rotating her scooter on the spot like an a barn owl, ”let’s get down to business.”
“We don’t know much about this one, but Glenda called it in about an hour ago. She couldn’t narrow down the exact location but has it pinned pretty close.”
Margret expertly manoeuvred her scooter with a joystick on her arm rest. Rolling up alongside the whiteboard she pulled out a fat marker and wrote two words in a neat cursive that gave away her quarter century of teaching. “Wychwood forest.”
“Now this is new terrain for us, but I recced it last Easter with the grandkids on an egg hunt so I’m pretty familiar with the set-up. It hasn’t rained for weeks but it could be- Barry are you quite done?”
Kitted out in white trousers and shirt with brown leather baldricks crossing his chest – an eight pointed star at the intersection, Barry was almost done. What was eluding him however was his second stick. “Sorry Marge, I think I’ve left it in the back of the Prius”
Margret rolled her good eye and clenched her brow, “My Kenneth takes better care of his stuff, Baz, and he’s three. Fetch it on the way out, but for now, focus on me.”
“As I was saying, the going should be good to firm but we’ve got two wildcards tonight; unfamiliar surroundings and an unknown audience. So it’s going to be 5P’s lads. Proper Preparation Prevents… Martin?” Martin’s head snapped up from his gym bag clutching three strips of cloth in triumph, “Piss Poor Performance, Marge”
“Piss Poor indeed, Martin. Now finish up here, plan for a long one and we’ll regroup in the car park in ninety seconds.”
Marge drew thinly from her vape, the gadget rattling and glowing like a pocket dragon and exhaled a small wisp of cherry-scented vapour. From the cool box under the whiteboard she extracted two small duffel bags and clipped them to either side of her scooter. She pulled a nicotine patch out from some hidden pocket and rolled up her cardigan sleeve. “Better make it two” she mumbled to herself “Glenda is not often wrong”
—
The all-black Mercedes Van pulled silently into Wychwood Forest car park. With a pop, the side door slid open, and a ramp extended. Not all the community Covid loans went to waste.
Without a word, a gesture from Marge was sufficient to move the group out from the car park and along the dark footpath that led into the forest. With each footstep, the mutes did their job, pads of bells reduced to quietly clacking knuckle bones.
Beyond the the low fizz of Marge’s scooter as she glided across the footpath, nothing stirred. They pushed deeper into the dark. They passed the wooden gym equipment that nobody used, to the benches that clearly someone was familiar with, judging by the cans and strewn tissues.
“Lads, I’m getting a tingle. Time to go dark,” Marge tapped her left ear lobe, switching her hearing aid channel.
Hacked Specsavers and Boots audiology kicked in at once, and with a crack the team were silently joined through hidden jaw mics to their familiar ear pieces.
“Is this really necessary?” whined Barry “I mean, did Glenda actually give any detail?”
“Baz. Schtum,” retorted Pete “she calls it, we respond.”
“Righto, I guess.”
Marge was too engrossed in her phone to respond further, tapping sporadically at the screen with a wizened index finger, “Looks like five hundred metres further in, somewhere off the path to the south” she mumbled, “just like Glenda said.”
Raising her right hand, she gestured to the team to veer off the path into the undergrowth. Barry and Pete flanked Marge’s scooter, with Martin taking the rear. Despite their age, in the woods they moved almost silently, easing through the undergrowth with barely a whisper.
—
“Stop!” burst over the comms. The team froze. Pete immediately dropped to one knee, Barry would have loved to, but not since the replacement. He gave a hunch and folded at the waist, hoping it wasn’t too obvious. “Three o’clock, just by the gatepost.” said Margaret.
A dark shape by the bottom of the gate – about the size of a Volvo roof box thought Martin – pulsed almost imperceptibly. Breathing.
“Mutes off” Margaret commanded.
Pete, Baz and Martin covered their cuffs, removing clips from their ankles, knees and wrists, dropping rows of pellet bells into their bells and withdrawing short wooden clubs. Pete pulled around a small drum from a mount on his back and gripped the opposite sides. With a tug the drum expanded to a metre across.
”Pete ready.” came through the earpiece, “Baz ready.” quickly followed.
“Hang-. a minute. For Christ’s sake. Okay, er, Martin ready. Jesus.”
“Martin. This is not a drill. Are you ready or not? How many P’s do you need?” hissed Marge.
“Ready Marge. Sorry, I have these shoe laces that seem to untie at a moment’s notice and. um… Sorted. I’m ready.”
“Hold” snapped Margaret, holding a clenched fist in the air. The dark shape in the woods was stirring.
Unfolding from a curled up ball, the shape was considerably larger than it had first appeared. Thin legs extended and buckled underneath it, straining to raise the bulk. A large, spiny tree shuddered and rotated impossibly.
“Lord” gasped Barry as the ‘tree’ revealed itself to be antlers of an enormous black stag.
Still facing away from them the head shuddered and twitched before a guttural snort belched plumes of steam into the night air.
The fetid stag slowly turned to face them. A stench of rot filled the air.
In the middle of the stag’s chest Marge thought she could see a child’s doll pressed into the animal’s flesh. Wideeyed and gaping mouthed, the doll looked incredibly lifelike. “What a strange thing to sleep on,” she thought. A fraction of a second later, the horror dawned on her.
“Woeborn.” she whispered, “Glenda, you fool.”
—
A fwump of air – triggered from Marge’s scooter console – sent three rockets soaring silently into the air. Dark blue schmoolies burst and slowly fell towards the forest canopy, creating a dome of silence over the troop and the Woeborn.
“Fan out! Pete, hold centre.” she commanded. Pete strode purposefully into the clearing, his knees pads chiming with each stride and readied his drumsticks. Three years ago he’d faced another Woeborn, but it was nothing like this. The scale and rage of the beast stuck fear into the part of his brain that was begging him to run. Instead, he stood firm, throwing his arms wide before snapping back to hold his drumsticks horizontally directly under his nose.
The Woeborne’s huge weeping eyes followed Pete, steam rising from its twitching flanks while the blind newborn silently mouthed and writhed entombed in its chest. Small arms grasped at the air like gills, searching for sustenance. The stag-vessel’s mouth drooled dark saliva onto the trampled grass.
“Commence…” screeched Marge “arms!”
Pete’s drum boomed into life. He struck a slow, thumping rhythm that shook the forest floor within the dome, causing startled sleeping birds to scatter from the branches and a grouse to burst from the undergrowth. The beat stuck deep into everyone’s chest, Barry clenched his teeth and readied his response. The blue-black light of the dome silenced everything within. Barry and Martin rose from their concealment to either side of Pete, their wooden clubs crossed above their heads, they lock-stepped into position. The Woeborn shook with indignation.
The dancers beat their sticks together above their heads. A clacking discordance against the pulse of Pete’s bass drum. Their knees dipped in unison to a single beat. The pulse of baton, drum and bell formed a sonic wave that tore in front of them and hurtled towards the stag.
The beast braced itself for the onslaught. At the moment of impact, energy bristled from the ground and rippled up the animal’s legs, crackling across its antlers and dissipated into the darkness.
Marge rolled slowly around the inside edge of the dome, one hand on her controls, the other grasping a small figure of straw and leaves. Between her puckered lips, the vape growled in apprehension.
The Woeborn’s drool slicked into a puddle on the forest floor. The dark surface reflecting the energies rolling and flickering up the torso and over the baby’s shattered form.
—
When energies are released, most seek solace and balance with the Gaia system, but some may seek retribution. A bundle of powerful released energies – such as when an unwanted newborn child is abandoned – might flounder and fade out of existence, or might resist and seek a vessel for survival.
A young, dying stag craved salvation at the end of a violent, short existence at the exact time and place that a newborn child sought a form for protection and to prevail. A Woeborn was formed.
—
It screamed. Dualmouths screeching in rage and equal disbelief. Froth and spittle spumed in unison as the dancers held formation against an onslaught of miserable energy. Barry pivoted to his right, and Martin mirrored him, their batons crashed against each other. Dark sparks fell on to Pete’s drum skin forming a liquid that soaked into the instrument, imbibing it with further magicks.
The stag braced and then flew towards them. Its head lolling backwards, neck bones loose from whatever catastrophe had caused its initial death. Black spit streaked down its flank.
“Reel!” screamed Marge.
The dancers rolled outwards in unison. A fraction later, short sighted Pete curtseyed to his left. Dipping and pivoting, the Woeborn smashed through the space they had just unoccupied and crashed into the blue black wall of the dome. The beat never faltered.
Marge continued her patrol around the dome edge, watching as the Woeborn unsteadily regained its footing. It whipped around to face them again, a broken antler spun into the undergrowth, cartwheeling a bloody arc behind it.
Without any indication of injury, and impossibly quickly, the Woeborn raced back towards them again. Hooves thundering through the detritus of the forest floor, tendrils of hot black bile laced from its maw.
Pete missed a beat – his stick colliding dully with the rim of the drum as the beast glanced Barry’s shoulder, upturning him into the damp ferns. The dome shuddered at the loss of rhythmic power before flicking back into existence as Pete regained his composure.
“Ah Christ. Sorry Marge.” muttered Barry as he crawled out from the undergrowth, wet mud smearing the side of his white uniform. “This one’s a bit frisky, eh. A little help perhaps?”
“Frisky indeed Baz. Time for the big guns.”
—
The Woeborn pawed at the ground, snorting plumes of hot dead breath while the melded infant mewled and grasped at the damp night air.
“Hold them” commanded Marge.
Pete and Martin retook their positions either side of the drum and their arms outstretched. In each hand they pulsed the short white strips of cloth towards the beast. The fabric baffled the beat, distorting and churning the floating waves of energy. The baby gurgled. Turning its head to one side it tried to process the patterns and movement.
Marge seized the opportunity. She inhaled deeply on the vape. A low drone emanated from the device, the tip burning with an orange light. A brief pause and she exhaled an inhuman scale cloud of vapour that boiled and writhed around her scooter, obscuring her entirely. Within the orange cloud she tapped off her neck microphone, gripped the straw totem and invoked a summon.
“I call upon you now, as my right to call.” The totem pulsed in her hand “As our father’s father’s agreed. As a vassal, bound to our land. I call upon you in our time of need.”
The undergrowth between the troop and the Woeborn sagged. The land dipped and pulled. Barry reflexively stumbled, expecting the forest floor to be pulled out from under him. When he looked up, Marge’s vape cloud was pooling into the dip. Circling and bubbling like a stirred cloudbank, a figure coalesced within the orange gloom.
The Woeborn, bewitched by the sound and semaphore of the dancers barely registered the figures’ arrival. As the vapour drifted away along the forest floor, the person crumpled to its knees. He appeared, an emaciated old man. Long, thin, white hair, dressed in the rags of what once may have been regal armour. His single hand braced his forward fall, head down, his hair brushed the earth.
“Why?”
A single word echoed inside their heads, but this was not a trick or feature of the throat mics, this was a deeper magic. The dancers stuttered, their flags fell limp as the single word unfolded and reverberated inside their minds.
“Why?” It asked again, stronger this time. Raising his head, he rose unsteadily to one knee.
The Woeborn regained focus, bucking and spitting bile. It flew at the kneeling figure, head buckled along its flank, the infant screamed a piercing burst that rocked Pete and drove Margaret’s scooter a foot backwards, wheels locked. The figure swatted his hand dismissively and the stag’s footing was ripped from under it. Instantly on its side, the Woeborn spun across the dome and crashed once more into the blue black wall.
“Not my fight.” he said.
“Oh, I think it is your fight, sweet cheeks.” retorted Margaret. Her composure regained, she switched the handbrake off and rolled towards the kneeling figure. “You are bound to this kingdom, Tyr. You are sworn to our will if you hadn’t forgotten. And this little kerfuffle is what we will you to un-fuffle”
Tyr’s shoulders sagged before rising fully to both feet. His ruined stump, hung limply by his side, thin hair plastered across his gaunt face. God or not, he looked like the drained captive he was.
—
For just shy of 1000 years, Tyr has served – unwillingly – the whims of successive generations of masters. Fatally invoked by Hardrada in 1066, slain in battle then chained within a totem by Albion shaman laying in wait for him – denied his rightful place in Valhalla. Passed from warlock to witch, wisefolk to dervish, Tyr’s power had been tapped and slowly diminished – used to protect Britain from harm. The shaman currently in control of Æsir‘s finest warrior just happens to be the Kent and East Sussex Morris Dancing Society. And they have a job to finish.
—
Tyr grunted as he turned to face the battered Woeborn which was rising once again. The infant was covered in mud and bracken. Its mouth chomped at the vegetation, uncomprehending, unable to clean the obstruction from its face. The frustration felt by the child boiled within the stag form. The body couldn’t provide relief, but it could deliver destruction.
The Woeborn changed tactics, it ran the circumference of the dome, hunting for the source of the energies that powered the dome, hunting out Marge. Barry saw what the beast had in mind. Martin spotted it too. He lurched forwards and tripped face first into a gorse bush. Pete on the other hand couldn’t have spotted a fish in a chip shop, and continued to beat a rhythm regardless. Tyr looked on with a wry smile.
“Tyr!” Screamed Marge “Help me!”
She crammed the scooter in reverse and pirouetted as tightly as the turning circle would allow. The Woeborn sensed fear, sensed a fracture in the dancer’s line of defence, sensed confusion and chaos, smelled guilt and ran head long towards Marge. Her scooter beached on a molehill, wheels spinning, motor whirring, but going nowhere.
“Please!” Pleaded Marge. The stag within six feet now, instinctively bowing its ruined neck to charge the scooter as the infant squealed with delight.
Tyr snapped his gaze towards the Woeborn and contorted his fingers. The dome burst like a firecracker, outer walls snapping out of existence. The released light streamed into Tyr before ricocheting into the Woeborn. The beast, knocked off balance, clattered into Marge’s outstretched arm, flew upwards, and collided sickeningly with an oak trunk before slamming to the forest floor.
Tyr stared at Margaret, eyes wide with concern as his energies dissipated into the night around him and snaked back towards the totem.
The thump of Pete’s monotonous beat filled the silence, the troop’s bells chimed the upper register. The Woeborn’s feeble energies could not resist any further.
The infant could feel the miserable power ebbing from its vessel. It fought the loss of control, loss of retribution, the loss of what was rightfully his.
He screamed, wide mouthed, breathlessly, pitifully at his loss, and gently peeled away from the corpse of the battered stag.
—
“He sounded just like our Kenneth.” whimpered Marg. “He sounded just… like him.” She crumpled sideways in her chair as she lost consciousness, her shattered forearm lolling over the side of her armrest, fist gripping tightly to the straw totem with white arthritic knuckles.
Barry prodded the carcass with his foot to satisfy himself it was finally at peace before scooping up the infant and hobbling back to the troop.
Pete’s fingers clenched his sticks bloody raw, his drum hung limp from his belt loop. Hunching forwards he vomited into the grass, following his retch onto his knees in the filth.
“Time to go home.” whispered Barry “We need to get Margaret seen to and wait for the call.Just like we’ve always done. Like my dad did, and his da’, and his.”
Feeling the full weight of his 68 years, Barry staggered towards Margaret. The child’s lifeless body held tenderly in the fold of one arm. He placed a hand on Pete’s shoulder as he passed. Taking the control stick of Margaret’s scooter he turned her back towards the car park.