Yodhallow

The letter had been seared onto the flank of the farmer’s golden sow; a long stroke and a dot above, encrusted by blood and half-formed scabs. Bound by fury, he had tramped across the meagre valley that surrounded Yodhallow and onto the shepherd’s land to demand answers from the sheep herder. They were the only two people who possessed any sort of cattle brand. Dumbfounded, the shepherd let loose the sheep he was about to shear and led the pork farmer to the pen, where the sheep brand hung from a metal hook. The end of the rod formed a curly ‘M’ shape at odds to the one on the sow.

Weary and confused, the pork farmer attended Sunday mass so that he could address the assembly. When everyone was gathered, he stood on the pew and demanded that the scoundrel come forward lest they face the wrath of God. Some of the townspeople gasped and looked between each other. Others shouted up at the farmer to get down from the pew, but he accused every one of them. Soon the nave was full of chaos; the farmer was wrestled onto the floor, the Father bellowed for peace, and everyone else hollered and squawked as they accused each other of the scandal.

The uproar came to a halt when the Father banged on the altar. He commanded everyone to return to the pews, and announced to the farmer that he should leave the matter to the clergy’s hands. The vow seemed to quell the farmer, whose head was now bowed earnestly. There were uneasy mutters among the rest of the flock, and the Father’s judgemental gaze fell upon them to urge for peace.

As he looked out from the sanctuary, the Father came upon a small pool of water that had gathered between the pews. The stone floor was cracked. He wondered at how he had never detected the sag of the walkway before. The black puddle formed a long slash, a small, rounder puddle at the top by the archway that marked the entrance. Yodhallow was at the heart of an arduous summer; they hadn’t seen a storm, or so much as a shower from the heavens for weeks.

He knew that same letter that had marked the sow had somehow entered the holy chapel. Rather than alarm everybody, the Father swallowed hard, then resumed the sermon. At the end, he urged the townsfolk to pray hard that eve, and that they should come upon the accursed rune to report back urgently.

The tanner’s daughter found the letter next.

The sky was the colour of bone as she crossed the meadow, the sun cloaked by sallow clouds. Her bucket of water from the stream sloshed about her dress as she fought for balance on the sew-soaked grass. A ghostly carpet of fog masked the muddy ground, so that she could barely make out the hamlet's border as she neared. Uneven stones formed a crude grey wall that was carpeted by layers of moss and fowl dung. As she drew closer, she saw strange marks had been carved onto the rock's surface, then on the next, and the one after. Her eyes moved across the length of the wall; each stone bore the same symbol carved on the outer face - a tall stroke and a dot above. She dropped the bucket and ran as fast as she could back to the gate to warn the Father.

He followed her solemnly as she led the way to the omen. The Father was consumed by dread, mouth pressed closed to suppress a howl of terror. They both passed under the gate, where a sharp breeze snaked beneath the Father’s robe and the tanner's daughter turned her face away from the cold. The Father stared wordlessly at the hundreds of slashes and dots as she grabbed her bucket, steely grasp around the wooden handle ready to defend herself from any demons that suddenly emerged from the vapour.

Fervently, the Father knocked on every townsman’s door. He commanded the men to take up arms and guard the wall that eve, as the marks were clearly a threat and someone planned to attack soon. The women were to bar the doors and pull every drape and screen closed.

The men took up torches, rakes and axes, then scattered themselves along the wall. The Father fled to the bell tower, where from the top of the he watched out over the town square. He tensed for the telltale sounds of looters; the snap of wood, the thump of feet on grass, the clash of metal, but an uneasy hush had fallen of the town. Then the Father found he also hearkened for the sounds of demons: moans and cackles and screams. He jumped at every creak of the ropes above and the cold breeze that flowed up the tower steps. When the sun crested over the rooftops of the cottages, he felt half mad.

The Father heard a door creak open from the one of the homes below, so he dashed down the steps of the tower to ask the men whether they had seen the accursed letter appear. He stumbled out onto the cobblestone path, the sullen dawn full of wren song. They lulled as the Father raced across the square, bleary-eyed.

The cottages fell away to reveal the crooked wall and the meadow beyond, and the Father saw that the men had not moved from the wall. Such bravery! The Father thought. He walked faster now, ready to commend them for the loyalty they had shown. As he got closer, he saw that the men all stood perfectly erect; not one of them slouched or so much as cocked a leg out. They were flagpoles. The Father’s eyes moved up the contour of one man’s body; the tanner, who’s satchel hung about the man’s shoulder. There was a gap next to the strap, and he saw the deep green of the valley where the neck should have been. The head floated above the collar of the tanner’s cloak, hung by unseen thread.

The Father’s eyes darted to the next man, the butcher, who stood a few metres along the wall from the tanner. He too was frozen and beheaded. A door slammed open somewhere, and a moment later a bloody scream tore through the hamlet, followed by the pelt of leather soles on the cobblestones. The Father tore through the gate onto the dark, soft grass of the valley as sounds of chaos rose from the streets of Yodhallow.