“Well that was humbling.”
Back in Kent HQ, Margaret gazed into the middle distance as she absent-mindedly stirred her Earl Grey. The overhead fluorescent tube smugly hummed despite its unsatisfactory light. Barry and Pete leant against the whiteboard, comparing notes on the previous night.
“A bit of warning would have been nice,” grumbled Barry.
“Wier light and that wail should have been a giveaway really,” chipped in Pete. “I was reading up last night online and— ”
“Sorry for the delay, again,” interrupted Glenda, as she burst through the scout hut door. “I’m sure it’s very interesting what you learned from Wikipedia Peter, but let’s get down to business.”
The data collected by Margaret’s chair last night was very, very enlightening,” she emphasised the second ‘very’ by thumping her briefcase on the desk and spinning it round to face Marge. “Lights please, Martin.”
“Gather round comrades,” growled Margaret. Her funk momentarily lifted by Glenda’s arrival. Pete, Barry and Martin drew up boy scout size plastic chairs to create a semicircle around Glenda’s open briefcase. A blue-green hologram sprung to life from within, casting a flickering schematic that cycled through a dizzying array of graphs.
“A bit Star Trek don’t you think?” whispered Barry, nudging Pete’s leg.
“Shh! This is way better than Wikipedia”.
“Thanks to Margaret’s capacitors,” continued Glenda, extracting a mechanical pencil from her lab coat top pocket, “I believe I’ve identified the issue. These spikes here, and here…” she gestured towards the graph peaks, her pencil disappearing through the hologram, “…indicate a huge accumulation of – what I’ll call for the sake of this audience – ‘ley energy’.”
“This energy is part of the web of magick that maintains the natural equilibrium and, of course, empowers your equipment. The energy flows around the globe ensuring the processes are balanced, and that no deity draws too much and that every soul heads in the direction it should. But, in this case it seems to be… ‘leaking’ without us – or anyone else – acting as the physical conduit. I’ll take questions at the end, thank you, Martin.
“As I was saying, without the intervention of a conduit, it appears the ley energy is leaking out at locations of emotional significance.
“Any large-scale emotional episode along a ley line is creating a fracture in the Ley sheath which, in turn, results in an emission of uncontrolled ley energy— at the end Martin, at the end!
“The Woeborn you encountered in the forest, and last night’s banshee are both manifestations of this energy. It’s really quite fascinating!
Now, I scoured our library last night and noticed this…”
The hologram flickered to show a map of the United Kingdom, with a line carving the land in two vertical halves – from the Kent coast in the south, to the Hebridean islands in the far north.
“This line you see here is the main Ley through Great Britain. I’ve left off the minor lines for clarity of course, but consider this the trunk line or main artery of ley energy.
“If you look at our two incidents, they occur exactly on this line. Why the council allows people to build, or even live near these magickal rivers is beyond me, but that’s by-the-by.
“To conclude, there will continue to be ruptures until the source is identified and sealed. These manifestations are bound to impact civilians sooner or later, so we need to get involved. I’m confident I can design a sealant – a paranormal poly filler perhaps – but we must identify the source before we patch over the symptom.
“My suggestion, Margaret, is that the team take a road trip – of sorts – following the ley line until you identify the originating emotional event that is causing all this.”
Margaret drew deeply on her vape, but remained motionless in thought. Glenda turned to address Martin.
“And now, Martin, I’ll take questions.”
—
Two days later, on a cold, grey spring day, the majority of the Kent and East Sussex Morris Dancing Society reconvened in the club car park. The only member missing was Barry.
A thick woollen blanket piled on a wheelchair, swaddled the slight form of Margaret. Only the telltale wisp of vapour emanating from the top gave any indication of an inhabitant.
“Where is that idiot?” came an irritated growl from the blanket.
“You know Barry. There’ll be a story,” sighed Pete as he stamped his feet on the ground in an attempt to keep warm.
“I knew he should never have been in charge of the van,” grumbled Margaret. She believed in a modern style of team leadership, but the advice: ‘provide the weaker members of your team opportunities to shine – and they’ll repay you with growth’, was one of the worst suggestions she had ever received from a podcast.
Thirty – bitterly cold – minutes later, the Mercedes van pulled into the car park. As Pete and Martin clambered into the back, and the wheelchair lift descended from the rear doors, Barry sheepishly appeared. “I’m really so, sor—“
“Button it, before I say something you’ll regret,” spat Marge as she rolled up the ramp, her expression as grey and motionless as a craggy rock face.
“Yes, ma’am,” murmured Barry towards his feet, only then noticing that he was wearing mismatched socks.
—
The journey up the A1 was uneventful, punctuated by frequent service station stops, everyone’s bladders not being what they used to be; and as the Merc’ orbited Leeds, Margaret began the briefing.
“The next anomaly Glenda wants us to investigate is just a little north of here. Her network informed her about a particularly unlikely sighting near a monument called the ‘Ana Cross’.”
Margaret knew Glenda’s informant network was actually a WhatsApp group called ‘the Coven’. The group membership was a small collection of mystics and wise folk across the British isles and a couple who’d retired to the Algarve but still kept a metaphorical (and physical) ear to ground for any untoward activity that might require the local Morris. It was ‘invite only’ and encrypted so Glenda assumed it was about as secure as the traditional secret meetings in the woods, and certainly a damn sight more convenient.
“The local MoSoc is based out of Whitby, but they’re down to their last member and that member is on holiday… so it’s down to us to be the boots on the ground.”
As Barry swung off the A1 at Thirsk and negotiated the B roads, the shadows lengthened and dusk began to fall across the moors. Barry Jones had worked his entire life on the roads, from a sweet van in Bognor when he left school to a series of bigger lorries, buses and trucks over the decades. He liked to say he ‘had a career careering about the country’ but life on the road had given him a steady routine and purpose that he sorely missed since retiring to Kent.
His life felt more chaotic now than ever – with birding on a Wednesday, the Civic Society every second Tuesday, and of course the constant threat of call from Marge to leap into action to defend the nation.
The Morris was in his blood. Both his father and grandfather had served there in their local mob, and most of his kit was hand-me-downs. One of his earliest memories was hearing the sound of his grandad’s kneebells while he was lying in a pram and those same bells were in his kit bag right now. Or he hoped they were…he had left in a bit of rush this morning. Where does the time go?
After closing out the briefing, Marge had continued to brood over her iPad. Everything Glenda had shared was indicating that the ley lines were fracturing. It had never crossed her mind that the energy streams of the isles could run dry.
The lines had been a source of predictability and stability for her whole life. If they were lost, her connection to Tyr could be severed, and that didn’t bear thinking about. To lose him again would be worse than death. She gripped the small doll in her left hand and smoothed its hair with her thumb, the doll’s texture imprinted into the papery skin of her palm.
In the middle seats, strewn with Morris kit, Pete rummaged through his bag.
“To be honest Martin, I wasn’t paying that much attention. What was Marge on about? Ley lines don’t just stop working. Do they?”
“I know, it went a bit over my head,” sighed Martin, “but it seems they might.”
Pete looked up from his bag. “Does that mean we’ll be powerless?”
“Sounds like it, mate. Sounds like it.”
Martin gazed out of the window, elbow resting on the sill, his chin perched upon a clenched fist.
—
The fizz of asphalt gave way to the rumble of gravel and suddenly Martin’s fist punched his own face, rudely shaking him from his daydream.
“Easy, Barry.” Martin muttered before the bus drew to a halt and the inside lights warmed up to a light blue.
“Okay, lads” Marge’s voice cut through the silence. Her tone was ‘Professional-Marge’, and the spines of all three elderly gentlemen straightened.
“This is a recce. Glenda doesn’t have much, but we know the situation. If the ley lines are doing what we think they’re doing, we could be the front line of something much more important than a busted up bingo hall.
“Pete, spark up the outside would you?”
Powerful LED’s on the van beamed out across the surroundings. Pyramids of light scorched the parking area to monochrome, terminating at dry stone walls and flooding through an open gate to terrify a hare and illuminate an undulating wilderness beyond.
“This, lads, isn’t the terrain for my chair. I’ll be beached before we know it. So I’ll take rear guard on this one. Mic up”
—
Suited and muted – Pete, Baz and Martin trudged out into the moors. Their night gear added a wide brimmed hat to their uniform, with a high powered headtorch.
“Straight on,” muttered Pete.
“What?” countered Baz, spinning round to face Pete and nearly blinding him in the process.
“Christ, Barry. Head down man, head down.”
“Oh, sorry, Peter. I thought you said something. Straight on, was it?”
“Yes,” hissed Pete, sliding his glasses down and pinching the bridge of his nose, waiting for the circles burnt into his retinas to subside.
Looking out of the van window, he could see Marge’s scowling face was slowly obscured by vape mist.
As they neared the edge of radio range, Marge crackled into their ears.
“Keep on lads… -can track you… -from iPad. Find my Friends has its beady eye… You should … -ley area in about another kilometre… Out.”
“Kilometres?” huffed Martin as he trudged on “What’s that in old money?”
Uneventful minutes passed until Barry broke the silence.
“Shhh,” he hissed, holding his fist in the air.
They hunched awkwardly (as arthritis would allow) and squinted into the darkness beyond their torch lights.
“There. You hear that?”
“I have nothing,” whispered Martin. “What was it?”
“Not sure. But it sounded like we were being followed. It sounded like it came from our 3 o’clock.” replied Barry.
Pete risked a glance at his wrist before looking off to their right.
The three head torches converged on a patch of gorse off to their right side. A plastic bag caught in the branches rustled gently in the wind.
“Let’s keep on,” Barry was looking much less confident than he sounded. “Marge said we were close and I can do without giving myself the willies in the middle of nowhere,” any pretence of confidence was collapsing around him. “So I’ve convinced myself it was just a rabbit. Or a fox or something. Let’s get this over with.”
The temperature was dropping as the wind picked up. They trudged on in silence, torches aimed only metres in front to keep an eye out for unstable ground. A lapse in concentration could result in tumble, followed swiftly by a nasty twisted ankle or a cracked hip. None of them were willing to endure a month watching daytime TV and eating NHS meals in recovery.
Gorse bushes grabbed at their trouser cuffs. Barry was still a little spooked.
“I’m going to scan for any activity.” Barry said.
Pulling out a small tablet Marge had equipped him with, he swiped it to life, his face and upper body flooded with the screen’s light.
“Anything?” enquired Martin.
“We must be close to a kilometre now surely,” added Pete.
“I’ve got nothing,” said Barry. ”Zero. Not even a flicker.” He shut off the device and returned it to his belt holster.
Martin raised his voice to be heard over the wind. “I think we should call it. Or at least kip in the van and look around again in daylight-”
An unmistakable wolf-like howl cut Martin short.
“And that seals it. I’m not walking around in the dark to make a late night snack for a pack of wolves.”
“Don’t exaggerate!” said Barry, “One wolf doesn’t make a pack.”
On cue, five or more howls sprang out from all around them. Their shrill call held unnaturally long in the air and sounded unnervingly close.
“I stand corrected. Follow me,” squeaked Barry, before turning on his heel and marching briskly back the way they had come.
“First, red kites… then beavers… now wolves,” muttered Pete between heavy breaths. “When will these… eco warriors… bring bears back, eh?”
“Let’s just get back to the van,” panted Barry.
The return leg was covered in half the time, and with no further sound (or sight) of any wolves.
The wind gained in strength, gusting so hard they had to lean into it to keep any forward momentum. The light rain was transformed by the gale into needle-like droplets, stinging any exposed skin. Pete’s glasses were soaked on the outside, and fogged on the inside from his heavy breathing.
Barry squinted into the dark, hands creating a makeshift funnel to protect his vision for any sign of the van.
“Marge, if you can hear us,” he shouted into his neck mic, “we’re close by. Put the lights on will you? We’re blind as bats out here.”
“Marge?” added Martin, but the radio stayed silent. “Maybe the signal is down. Christ, I’m freezing. It must be close by.”
Looking for a black van in the pitch dark with ice cold rain raking their flesh was less than ideal.
“There!” shouted Barry as his head torch reflected off the vans indicator. “Thank the gods.”
Stumbling up to the side door, Pete pressed the button and the door slid open. Pete, Barry and Martin bundled through the entrance and collapsed into the leather seats – the door automatically closing behind them.
“Sweet Jesus,” sighed Pete as he took off his glasses and polished them on a soggy cloth from his pocket. “I really was starting to worry there.”
“Did you not hear us Marge?” asked Barry, shaking the water from his grey hair. “Marge?” He turned in his seat to look down the length of the van.
But the van was empty, Margaret had gone.