Pigeons And The Paranormal BY Bilco

[Bilco]

LES PIGEONS DE LA ROCHE . . .

 

With the air of a man long practised in his art, the travel guide rose from his seat at the front of the coach and took up his microphone. The 40 passengers turned their heads to him as one, ears cocked for the anticipated description of the Chateau they were fast approaching.

 

The castellated towers, rising sheer above the great walls, already told a tale not unfamiliar to their inexperienced eyes, of days long past when Lords of the Manor fastened themselves and their serfs in for the night, secure from the bands of robbers, rogues and vagabonds that roamed the countryside, intent on raiding and pillaging whatever they could.

 

If walls could speak, many an old castle would have tales of desperate battles, more often against these malcontents than against enemies of the State or country, Chateau de la Roche was no exception, and as the guide droned on his tale unfolded on not unwilling ears - for the man was an expert in his trade - having led many hundreds of coaches laden with tourists all over the sights of Europe.

 

From the western coasts of France to the Iron Curtain, from Calais down to the very foothills of the Alps that marked the boundaries of Switzerland, the Guide had roamed the land, year after year, absorbing his knowledge from textbooks and the places themselves until he was literally an encyclopedia on the history of places famous and renowned throughout the world. He also knew much of castles whose names never reached beyond the nearest towns,and the Chateau de la Roche was such a place.

 

As a regular bringer of trade, in the shape of his tourist cargo, the Guide was - in turn - recognised and welcomed by the patrons of those places he visited, and from them he learned yet more, of family histories, of languages, expressions, country lore that was denied to all but those whose lives were spent in these ancient, quiet places.

 

The coach drew slowly along the last few hundred yards of the tree lined drive, and its passengers gathered to themselves their impedimenta, ranging from cameras and binoculars - for the "Proof I've been there" brigade, to the scarves and sticks of the older, more experienced ones, to whom comfort meant more than a photographic memento of a place that had stood far longer than their own life spans. The driver handled his great charge like the veteran he was, and parked his vehicle in a cool shaded spot where he could be sure of a decent nap, undisturbed for a least a couple of hours.

 

Moments later, the eager band of tourists flooded forth on to the shaded drive and, a little like a flock of sheep at first, began to make their way hesitantly towards the great iron-studded doors of the Old Chateau, George Massey, the Guide, took up the lead with the casual air of a man long accustomed to entering those massive portals, his flock surrounding him eagerly, just a little subdued by the grim towering walls whose slitted windows gazed down like the eyes of a sightless man.

 

As the band approached those great studded doors they opened inwards, silently tended by an ancient who regarded tourists as a necessary evil, for from them he gained the pourboires that made life just that little bit bearable, when he was able to submerge his aches and pains in a bottle of decent wine, and thus forget the cares and worries of life almost over.

 

A silence dominated the interior of that great Chateau, a silence so complete that even the boldest of the tourists could not but cast an occasional glance over his shoulder, fearful that whatever caused such an absence of noise must necessarily be harmful to them, though such was not the case, for those mighty walls were built to keep out more than mere noises.

 

Through great halls into equally great dining rooms, down twisting spiral staircases to dungeons - whose chains had held many a helpless prisoner - then upwards to the great turrets, from where an unsurpassed view could be had of miles of the sleeping countryside, the band of tourists trekked in impressed manner.

 

Awed whispers came ever and anon at sight of stained and broken lances, at pitted shields and mailed fists of standing suits of armour, long emptied of the valiant knights and warriors that had occupied them in battles, and round eyed silence accompanied the introduction to those items and relics of war in the middle ages when their Guide showed them iron balls, liberally studded with spikes, the whole suspended on chains attached to a still strong wooden handle, once wielded by men worthy of the name men, to whom the thunder of cannon would have been a strange and wonderful sound.

 

From oaken beams so stout that it must have taken hundreds of men, and horses perhaps, to lift them into place across the ceilings, hung the shreds of once proud Standards that had flown into battles hundreds of years before even the oldest of those present had been born.

 

Antlers of stags, mighty beyond compare in modern times, spread from the whitened skulls that had once borne them so proudly, and tusks of boars that had rooted in the forests round the Chateau, still jutted forth like ivory sabres from the blackened oak plaques on which they had been mounted many years before. These were relics of an age when their owners had been hunted by a man, armed only with a lance, mounted atop a horse whose life was forfeit if he so much as put one foot wrong in pursuance of an enemy who could quickly despatch himself and his master, given half a chance.

 

The Chateau was a large one and filled with the treasures of a long dead history, so it was with considerable relief that the assembled tourists finally found themselves led out on the great roof of the Western Hall, but - unlike the roofs of the rest of the Chateau - this one was flat, surrounded by a wall of granite blocks, a mere meter in height. At irregular intervals along the southern side there were large black patches etched into the granite exactly like burn marks, but faded with the passage of time.

 

As the tourists set foot on the large roof, they found to their delight that the owner of the Chateau - though they had not met him, nor were they likely to do so - had borne them in mind (along with his own pocket of course) in that he had installed a small Cafe bar in the north western corner, where a Steward now prepared to serve coffee, tea or other drinks.

 

A dozen small round tables, each with four chairs set around them, almost filled that corner of the roof, and it was with grateful sighs that the tourists sank on the chairs and quenched their thirsts. One tourist however, did not sit down. He strolled the length of the roof, quite some fifty yards or more, and stood looking out across the valley that stretched away into the distance to the south.

 

He was a tall man, and stood erect in the manner of a soldier who had served many years. his hair was close cropped, and grey, and the steel rimmed glasses he wore served to emphasise rather than diminish his military outlook, despite his age which was obviously somewhere in the middle sixties.

 

At length the man returned to the group, now relaxing at their ease, and ordered a cup of coffee. As he spoke, the steward behind the small bar came erect with a start. He looked sharply at the man before him, and snapped "Ja Herr Oberst" in immediate response to the order of coffee. The tall man stiffened "You are mistaken" he said, in impeccable French, "I am not German, nor was I ever a Colonel".

 

The steward did not relax his manner but instead busied himself pouring the cup of coffee. His hands shook so violently that he slopped the liquid all over the saucer when he attempted to hand the drink over to his customer. The tall man paid for the coffee ignoring the spillage, though his brows drew together in obvious disapproval. He turned away and seated himself at the table, furthest away from the bar, with his back towards the barman who still regarded him with what can only be described as bristling with a mixture of fear and a very obvious dislike.

 

Another man, sitting near the bar, had noticed this byplay. He was a nondiscript little person, obviously not wealthy, nor well enough versed in the French language to have understood the exchanges between the barman and his tall customer, and he wondered idly what the tall man could have done to have merited such an attitude from the steward.

 

Just then his attention was diverted from the little tableau, as a tremendous bunch of pigeons swooped into view from somewhere below the lip of the wall surrounding the roof. There must have been more than 300 pigeons there, and they turned and circled in accord, like a team of birds all from one loft would do.

 

The little man started from his chair, his eyes fixed on the birds as they sped back and forth, and he walked towards the south side of the roof where they circled. He was a pigeon fancier, and as the birds raced back and forth, he admired the almost uniform blue colouring of the team, their speed and dexterity on the wing, and for quite some minutes he was lost to the world as he watched them. Suddenly the birds slowed, turning and swinging in towards the roof with wings cocked and tails fanned, then without a sound they settled on the flat floor of the roof close to the south wall. The little man walked slowly towards them, a smile of pleasure and interest on his face, and as he walked he pinched small pieces of bread from the sandwich he still carried in his left hand, flicking the pieces towards the birds which pecked around on the stone flags.

 

A voice at his elbow made him turn, and there, smiling at him with twinkling eyes set under dark brows, in a face tanned almost as dark as chesnut by sun and wind, was an elderly man, lean of countenance like one who worked hard.

 

"You cannot feed the birds Monsieur", stated the newcomer. which caused a start and raised brows from the little fancier. "Try it, Monsieur", challenged his new companion, and, chuckling the little fancier's face creased in a smile, and he tossed several scraps of bread in amongst the birds, but he might as well have tossed them to the winds for all the attention the birds gave him. The tanned man chuckled again, "Catch one Monsieur", he said, and with a pleased expression on his face the Fancier stooped, reaching out a practised hand towards the nearest bird. His hand went right through it!

 

For an instant the man was startled, then, "Bit too quick for me" he blurted, "I'll have to have another go" - and again he tried to catch one of those beautiful blue pigeons, pecking about at his feet, overbalancing as he did so. His face was a picture of complete disbelief as he regained his feet, and his voice was obviously startled as he exclaimed, "What the hell's going on" in raised tones.

 

His companion chuckled again, "No one can catch them Monsieur" he stated, "They don't exist". The little fancier turned to look at the pigeons again. They were there, he told himself, he could see them, as clearly as he could see his own pigeons back home, yet he had undeniably failed to touch so much as a single feather though the birds had - apparently - walked right through the palm of his hand. "Can't anyone catch them?" he asked. The tanned little Frenchman beside him smiled, then to the Englishman's utter consternation and incredulity he stooped and caught up a fine looking blue cock in one hand, and a splendid blue hen in the other.

 

"Monsieur", said the Frenchman, "You are a man with a great love for pigeons, or you would not see them. No-one else here can see them! For nearly 30 years now, we - the pigeons and I that is - have been here at this time of year waiting for a man to return here". He turned and pointed to the tall, military looking man, still seated at his table some 40 yards away. "That is the man Monsieur, he has returned as we knew he some day would". He then released the two birds he held, and they fluttered down to the stone flags again to rejoin their team-mates. Watching them, the little English fancier shook his head in disbelief.

 

The Frenchman continued, almost as if he were discussing the weather, or some other mundane subject, "The war was nearly over Monsieur, the Allies were advancing fast on all sides. The Commandant of the German Garrison lived here, in this Chateau, it was his headquarters". He pointed at the seated figure, who was engrossed in studying his cup of coffee.

 

"I was in charge of the seven lofts of pigeons the Germans used, they stood there" he said, pointing towards the seven large black marks that still disfigured the old granite walls. "The commandant ordered them to be destroyed, and he personally supervised soaking every loft with petrol. He tossed the match that started the pyre..."

 

His voice had quietened a little, so that the fancier had to strain his ears to catch the words now. "I tried to stop that butchery Monsieur, and there" - he pointed, close to where they stood - "There was where the bullets struck, those that missed me".

He folded his arms now, and turned on his heels, staring towards the object of his story, the tall man with the steel rimmed glasses, who was now looking out idly across the valley.

 

As the Frenchman finished speaking, the tall man stood up from his table, and began to stroll towards them, one arm folded across his chest, the other scratching his chin. "We have waited a long time Monsieur", ended the Frenchman, "But everything comes to those who wait". He bowed, with a slight nod of his head to the little Englishman. "Please be so kind, Monsieur," he ended, and his gesture seemed to indicate that he now wished to speak alone to the man approaching them. The fancier nodded in dazed fashion, and stumbled back towards his own table, turning his head as he walked away, to watch what he instinctively knew was going to happen.

 

The military looking man strolled the length of the rooftop, quite slowly, studying his surroundings with almost bemused disinterest it seemed. He stopped when he came abreast of the burn marks on the southern wall, and observed them and the pitmarks, with the air of a man studying a row of pictures in some museum.

 

He had reached the last of them, when the dozen or so tourists who had been looking in his direction saw him suddenly throw up his arms and stagger back. They saw nothing else, but one or two of them rose from their seats in alarm as the man stumbled dangerously close to the edge of the sheer drop behind that southern wall. A second or so later, arms flailing the seemingly empty air, the man slammed backwards against the low parapet where he seemed to struggle for an eternity, then with a scream that rang out across the warm summer air like some soul in torment, he fell backwards over the yard high wall and disappeared from sight.

 

The drop to the rocky ground on that edge was over 200 feet and there was no hope for him. The little fancier sat at his table, whitened knuckles gripping the edge of his chair, and he shook as if with a fever, for he - and he alone it seemed - had seen the little tanned Frenchman with his hands locked about the tall man's throat, and the great cloud of pigeons that hurled themselves at their quarry like gulls raiding a shoal of sprats.

 

As the tall man disappeared from view, so too did the little Frenchman and the birds, and the rush of tourists to the spot saw only the limp body, far below. The Fancier shook as he turned to the Steward and asked him for a strong drink, and that worthy, who had not moved by so much as an inch during the whole incident, now polished a glass with a quiet smile on his face. "Whisky, Monsieur?" he enquired. "Certainly" as he handed the glass to the little English fancier he continued - with a smile - "From my Father who was a fancier, to another in the sport", and he nodded his head as a toast.

 

A rushing sound came to the fancier's ears as he downed the glass, and a great cloud of pigeons swept past, their wings cleaving the air in precise strokes. "They fly well. Monsieur, do they not"? said the Steward. "Les pigeons de la Roche were once famed throughout France, perhaps soon they will be yet again!"

[buster151]

another good read

[THE FIFER]

worth reading from , Bilco thanks m8.

[THE FIFER]

a good oldie to read

[andy Burgess]

a good oldie to read

must have read it a dozen times or more over the years , brilliant . Bilco was on the other day , shame he didn't come up with another "gem" like that

[THE FIFER]

must have read it a dozen times or more over the years , brilliant . Bilco was on the other day , shame he didn't come up with another "gem" like that

 

will have to see what he can do

[andy Burgess]

will have to see what he can do

yes good idea , a chance for you to "catch up" too

[Kyleakin Lofts]

Great stories. Thanks for bringing them back up. I had read the first one back in 2011, but had not seen the others.

[THE FIFER]

a photo I took of Bilco away back click to enlarge

[Kyleakin Lofts]

I remember reading a story along a similar vein some 40 years ago in the old gazette. All I remember was a loft of jet black pigeons, a tall formidable fancier and I think a moor location. It may even have been a series.

Be good if Bilco could recover that one.

[greenlands]

I remember reading a story along a similar vein some 40 years ago in the old gazette. All I remember was a loft of jet black pigeons, a tall formidable fancier and I think a moor location. It may even have been a series.

Be good if Bilco could recover that one.

This what you are looking for mate.

 

Thanks Bill for your time and great stories

 

 

THE BLACK COCKS OF FOULMIRE

 

THE VERY name of Foulmire suggests corruption, death, evil. Stagnant peat bogs, atop granite crested fellsides where only the wiry hill sheep and a few rabbits foraged for a sparse and frugal living, hardly wrested from the thin, tough, grass that existed - though Lord knows how - in the crevices between the grey and the rocks.

Kielder Forest stretches away to the south and east of Foulmire Heights, and despite the exposed nature of those grey hillsides there was a sullen silence amid those countless wild acres, that local rumor said was not due to the shelter the rocky heights gave.

 

High in the skies above those grim crags there floated an occasional buzzard, held aloft on pinions that seemed to be carved from steel, so rigid and still they appeared to be. Once in a while there sounded the thin wailing call of a curlew, or a whaup, mournful as the utterance of some lost soul, answered only by the gutteral bleat of one or another of the many sheep that dotted the fellsides, grey as the boulders that jutted from the brown peat soil.

 

Two miles from the northern edge of the great forest, far removed from any other human habitation, there was a low, grey stone cottage wherein lived one Saul Garrick, a tall, gaunt, silent, black bearded man, evil tempered and of sullen mien. His cruel dark eyes smouldered from under the craggy depths of great black brows, and he seldom spoke. Truth to tell there were none with whom he would have conversed even had he wanted to. His sole companions were a large, grey, gaunt-ribbed hound, known by those few men who ever met it as a savage creature, prone to attack without sound or warning, slashing with wicked yellowing fangs that chopped with the speed of a striking snake. The other creature was a hardy fell pony, whose dirty, mud-clarted sides concealed muscles as hard as the very oaken trees which surrounded the house and stable in which they lived.

 

Garrick was a wood-cutter, or as modern terminology prefers to define his, a forester. He had been shepherd, farmer, peat cutter - and otherwise employed - for 30 of his 40 years, but due solely to his evil nature men shunned him, preferring to live with better company than his, so that he had drifted from one trade or calling to another, each time receding further from the company and habitation of his fellow men. His only contact now with mankind was on the trips he made once every month or so, to the edge of the forest some seven miles to the southward, where a travelling Grocers van called, bringing with it most of the odds and ends that were necessary to the existence of the few lonely folks who lived on those bare grey hill sides. The driver of this van brought out newspapers and mail on his visits, and acted as messenger, errand boy, adviser, gossip and even employer, since he also brought with him instructions to those shepherds and foresters who lived far from the reach of the offices wherein reposed the men who made policy and planning their metier, rather than the back breaking toil that was the lot of the hill men.

 

It was on a visit such as this, bringing food and letters, that the grocer delivered into the hands of Saul Garrick a slim manilla envelope that contained the news that had stunned the Fancy, countrywide, a few days before. It said that he, Garrick, had won 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in the Grand National, as his first attempt at over 800 miles.

The brief telegraph said that a representative of the NFC would call in the near future to verify the winning birds, and requested that he should be afforded every assistance in the interests of both Garrick and the NFC.

 

There was no date shown for the arrival of this representative, and the news that he was to arrive brought a sneer of resentment to the woodmans swarthy countenance. Opening one of the three pay envelopes that the grocer had delivered to him, Garrick paid for the groceries, tobacco and matches that he had purchased, and thrusting the telegram form at the driver of the van, he roughly told the man to Send im if ye see im - and turning his pony away, he disappeared back into the depths of the forest, the sack of provisions across the ponys withers before the saddle, and the lank, dark shape of his hound loping at the ponys heels.

 

So it transpired, some five days later, that a small car stopped beside the edge of

Kielder Forest where the road turned away eastwards. This was the nearest point that any powered vehicle, short of a tractor, could drive to Saul Garricks home, and there was still over seven miles that the driver of this car had to traverse before he could achieve his purpose, that of verifying the three Black Cock pigeons that had achieved such a remarkable record, of flying over 800 miles to sweep the board of the Nations greatest prestige race in the calender. The occupant of the car, a tall, wiry man, some 50 years of age, was a fancier of many years standing, himself successful beyond average and a member of many Committees and Offices connected with the sport.

 

He locked the doors of the car and set out into the depths of the great forest with a swing. Not unused to the open moors and hills himself, he well knew the folly of haste, so his stride was a deceptively easy-looking pace that swallowed up the miles as surely as the march of a soldier. Armed only with a walking stick, map, compass, camera and small notebook, he made short work of the distance he had to travel, and it was only a mere 90 minutes later that he found himself nearing his destination, the miserable hovel wherein resided Saul Garrick.

 

Geoff Hughes, for such was the visitors name, was a leveled headed man. None could call him fanciful, superstitious, or even imaginative to any particular degree, so it was perhaps unusual for him that he should slow his pace and repeatedly look over his shoulder as he approached the old cottage. Twice he shrugged his shoulders and wrapped his coat closer round his thin frame, though the day was not cold by any means. Finally, he stopped his progress altogether some 100 yards from the little building, and stared hard into the dark green depths of the thickets that fringed the path closely on all sides. He cleared his throat and called out, demanding to know if there was anyone there, accompanying him so silently through the greenery, but there came no answer. At length he continued his way, bringing up against the dirty, battered old door of the house.

 

Knocking lustily against this ancient old portal, he darted repeated glances about him, as if still fearful that someone, or something, watched him from the cover of the woods. A moment later the door opened and Saul Garrick towered forth from the gloom of the squalid kitchen that was revealed behind him. For half a minute the swarthy giant loomed over his caller, his black eyes gleaming under beetling brows, then - coarsely - Come about the pigeons, he stated, not a question so much as an accusation. Hughes nodded, words refused to come for a moment, then blurted out something to the effect that he had indeed come about the birds, and his manner seemed to suggest that hed far sooner be elsewhere.

 

Garrick jerked his head in a come on gesture and turned away, indicating with a sweep of his muscular arm that Hughes should follow him. In silence the ill-assorted pair progressed round the side of the old cottage and towards a mean, tumbledown little shed that could have done service as a hen house, or even a stable, as much as anything like a pigeon loft. Only a trap the size of a single drophole gave any indication that there were pigeons within.

 

Garrick gave the latch a wrench and kicked the bottom of the door in a manner that suggested that this was his usual method of opening it, and thrust the sagging portal wide open. Hughes blinked in the gloom for a moment or two, then, as movement caught his eye, glanced upwards to a single rafter that served as a perch for three pigeons, each as black as night, barely visible in the stygian darkness. There was no window or dowelled wall to admit light. For a moment or two Hughes looked at the three birds, then cast about to see what others there were. To his surprise he could see no other pigeons, and he turned towards the owner with a query on his tongue, but was checked by the gutteral Aint no others that issued from the bearded lips. No others? queried Hughes, almost shock in his voice, the pitch rising in sheer disbelief. You mean you only have these three birds? he asked, again, No hens, no youngsters? Saul Garrick shook his head, and reaching upwards grasped the nearest of the pigeons - none of which had moved by so much as an inch, apart from merely turning their heads.

 

Here he grated, thrusting the bird into Hughes hands, and without further ado he reached upwards and brought down the other two cocks, then turning towards the light streaming in through the door, walked out into the ragged garden and waited for his visitor to join him.

 

Hughes was beside him in a trice, busily examining the pigeon he held, checking first the ring, then wingstamp. He repeated this process with each of the three cocks in turn, then cast the bird he held into the air, Garrick doing likewise with two cocks he held so casually, their heads swinging downwards from his massive hands as he tossed them aloft. For about two minutes the pigeons swept about the afternoon sky, then the silence was broken by a shout. In roared Garrick, and without a seconds delay the birds dropped on the top of the shed like a trio of ravens. For a second or so they stood there, blood-red eyes glinting like fire in the gleam of the summer sunshine, then they trooped towards the trap, almost in echelon, like clock work soldiers, and in this instant Hughes swung his camera from his shoulder, raised it to his eye and pressed the trigger. A mere moment later the birds were inside the building and silence fell again as the patter of their feet was checked by their departure.

 

Satisfied? queried the owner of these three pigeons, and on receiving an eager nod from Hughes, the giant turned away, muttering Shant keep ye then as he strode towards the house. A moment later the kitchen door was slammed to, and Hughes realised with a shock that this interview was over!

 

The sound of the slamming door reverberated on the summer air, and Hughes stared at it as if he could not believe his senses. During all his many years in the office in pigeon clubs, he had not met such a surly character, nor one who seemed so disinclined to talk, about pigeons or anything else. Though he had the bare details his duty bate him to collect, his native curiosity made him stay awhile. After all, he reasoned, it was not every day that a man won the first 3 positions in the greatest of all races, and there was much more he wanted to hear of the birds preparation, their training and above all how they had been persuaded to race home over 800 miles without even a mate to come home to!

 

Thought being father to the deed, he covered the few paces to the cottage door and pounded on it in no uncertain manner. There was silence from within, not even a bark from the dog which Hughes had not seen, but of which he had heard. Again and again he knocked, but for all the reaction he produced he might as well have barked his knuckles against one of the mighty oaks that surrounded the clearing.

 

Annoyed, he walked round the small building to see if he could find a window and on being rewarded with a small, grimy, dirt encrusted frame which contained four small panes, he strove to peer within, craning his neck first one way, then another, in an effort to make out some detail from the gloomy depths he could vaguely see through the years of filth.

 

A movement caught his eye, and - knocking on panes and waving his hands about - the NFC representative tried to beckon the shadowy shapes attention towards himself. Suddenly he started back, a gasp clutching at his throat, his heart hammering in sheer panic, for the face that pressed against the pane and stared out at him was not a human one, nor did it resemble anything like mortal man.

 

Hughes had time to see the shape, roughly akin to that of a face, with slanting eyes that glowed amber, the pupils a narrow lateral slit, as of eyes of a goat. The face was coated overall with a rough, short hair, yellowish in colour, and from the domed forehead there curved upwards and away what could be horns, their short tips gleaming blackly in the sunlight that filtered through the dirty glass. The mouth was that of a man, save for the savage looking canines that showed yellow at the corners, their sharpened points projecting over the lower lip. The chin was pointed and weak by human standards, but of all that Hughes saw in those few brief seconds of time, it was the ears that filled him with dread for they were very large, hairy and pointed at the tips, like those portrayed in childrens fairy tales of goblins. Even the nose. accquiline at the bridge and flared at the nostrils as wide as any native of the jungle of veldt, did not instill in him such fear, for it at least could have been of human origin despite its sprouting of yellow-black hair.

 

Hughes ran, blindly, panic stricken, headlong away from the cottage, and blundered through the trailing wands that hung down in long sweeps from the trees of the forest. He was still running an hour later, his breath coming in ragged, strangled gasps, when he broke from the gloom of the forest onto the clean fresh wastes of the moorland, where he had left his little car. It was not until he again was behind the wheel, driving across the barren heights towards civilisation of Carlisle at a crazy pace, that he dared relax a muscle of his fear-gripped being.

 

His breath still rasping at the terrific efforts he had put forth, and his eyes still darting towards the rear mirror which showed only the fast receding moorland behind him. Hughes determined that he would never again set foot in Kielder Forest where its evil occupant held sway, but he was not to know that he would return, to an even more fearful experience than the frightening glimpse of evil that he had seen that day.

 

Later, in the warmth and comfort of his own home, reflecting again and again on the terror and evil he had left when looking through the dirty panes of the Garricks window, he began to wonder if he had indeed seen what he thought he had seen, and reason began to worry away at his fancies, teasing him with the thought that perhaps he had only seen a goat, or even Garrick, wearing some horrific mask in an effort to scare him off, and despite the shudders that still clawed at the nape of his neck, he was forced to laugh at himself for the fear and desperate flight he had shown.

 

Finally, after taking his large Airedale dog for its evening constitutional, and posting off the spool of film that he had taken from his camera for developing and printing, he settled to pipe and slippers and watched a TV comedy with his wife, laughing away the last of his fears before repairing to bed.

 

His dreams that night were haunted however, and twice his buxom wife had to drag him from the clutches of his sleep, to shake him awake when she chided him for eating too much cheese for his supper, for he was moaning and crying aloud in dread of the demons that pursued him in the depths of his slumbers.

 

In the days that followed these events, Hughes forgot the fears that had haunted him from the moorland heights, until, at the weekend a small package arrived for him in the Post.

 

Puzzled as he opened it, for he had forgotten the film, it was not until he spotted the familiar yellow and red of the Kodak envelope that he remembered the picture, among the many others on the spool, that he had taken of the three black cocks of Saul Garrick as they had trooped towards the single hole trap, and it was with eager fingers that he rifled through the coloured photos in search of the mean shed wherein were housed the three greatest birds of the year.

 

His hand froze as the picture came to light, for there it was, just as he remembered it, the tattered shreds of linoleum patching the worn and holed roofing felt, the deep green of the oak trees slightly out of focus in the background, the chipped and worn shingle edging to the roof, and the little dark opening that served as a trap to the loft, but of the three black cocks that he had caught and held in his lens as surely as the very day itself, there was no sign at all!

 

The roof was bare of life. The picture was a picture of nothing more than an old decrepit shed!

 

Geoff Hughes stared hard and long at at the picture in his hands, and simply couldnt believe his eyes. He was sure, he knew that those three birds had all been on the loft top, all clearly in the viewfinder when he had snapped his picture, yet the evidence of the photo was irrefutable, there was nothing to be seen but the roof and its background.

 

Next he inspected the negative, lest some mishap had occurred during the printing of the picture, but again he was faced with the same conclusion - that he stowed the useless picture away in his wallet, and returned to the Saturday newspapers, to while away an hour or two acquainting himself with the local news, most of which he knew better than the reporters whose task it had been to collate it.

 

He had almost finished the local weekly paper when a small paragraph in the sports column caught his eye. Foulmire Woodman wins Pigeon National the heading ran, and the following paragraph gave a brief resume of Saul Garricks success, mentioning the total prize money he had won, a record of any National ever held, since Garrick had pooled all three birds to the absolute limit.

 

It was the concluding line that caught Hughes attention, for it was an apology for the absence of a photo, of either the winning owner or of his birds, and ended with the words we regret our inability to provide a picture, owing to a camera fault.

 

Hughes stared at this last line, reading it again and again. Camera fault? Two of them? His own - and the Reporters too? No! This was too much of a coincidence, and with this thought firmly in his mind, he made short work of finding and donning his shoes, sports jacket and hat, and within minutes was on his way to the Newspaper Office, accompanied by his huge ginger Airedale hound, grinning half a foot of tongue at him as the animal loped at his side.

 

It took only a few minutes for him to state his request to the Editor of the paper, and moments later Hughes was scanning the three pictures taken by a Reporter who had interviewed Saul Garrick on the day following Hughes own visit.

 

Each of the photos had been expertly taken, the focus exemplary, the tones of the pictures telling wonders of light and shade that denoted an artist behind the lens, but there was nothing in any of the pictures that hinted - even remotely - at pigeons! There were two snaps of the loft, taken from front and side, and one of the woodlands, but no sign of man or bird in any of them. Geoff then asked the editor if he could interview the camerman, and - on receiving directions - was soon on his way to the home of that worthy.

 

Less than 15 minutes later, he was ringing the doorbell of the Photographers cottage home, and within minutes was deeply engrossed in conversation with the man. During the course of the discussion, the camerman stated firmly that he was positive he had seen all three birds in his viewfinder on each occasion he had pressed the shutter release. The photo of the woodlands was to have been one of the birds flying in to land on the loft top. It seemed that somehow he had been too slow!

 

Hughes wended his way home slowly, turning over in his mind the information he had received. The pieces didnt seem to fit anyhow. There seemed to be something odd, no - more than just odd - something almost sinister about the Black Cocks of Foulmire, birds that raced 800 miles to an empty loft, birds that seemed incapable of being photographed, birds owned by a man who sought no company other than an evil natured hound, and a dale pony on which to travel. So odd in fact, that Geoff Hughes determined to try to find his way to the bottom of the matter, and - having come to that decision - he made plans to visit Saul Garrick again, unannounced, in the very near future.

 

The opportunity to do so came sooner than he expected, as such was the interest generated by Garricks win, that newspapers outside the area had contacted the Editor of the local weekly, requesting further news, and pictures.

 

The camerman, Jimmy Carson, dropped in at Hughes place one evening and disclosed these facts, and stated that he was taking another trip up over the moors to see Garrick, and would he, Hughes, like to come along?

 

So it was that the following Wednesday the pair set off in Geoff Hughes little car, accompanied by the huge Airedale, taken perhaps as much for a healthy exercise he would be sure to endure, as for the sterling company his presence assured.

It took the little car almost an hour to accomplish its trip up over the craggy dales, and the last quarter of the journey ran alongside the great green wall of Kielder Forest, up to the point where the boundary of the trees crossed the road, and the silence of the great wood descended on them.

 

The Airedale had lain asleep for most of the trip, but as soon as the car plunged into the depths of the woodland, it sat erect on the rear seat of the little car, its hackles stiffly erect and an uneasy rumbling growl issued forth from its cavernous jaws. The great red tongue licked forth nervously from time to time, rasping back and forth across the dogs behaviour and felt uneasy himself, for he had never known the animal show fear in the face of anything. Carson turned his head to look at the animal too, and his own slight disquiet deepened, for he well knew the qualities of an Airedale hound, and he had never known anything cause such a dog to back down, far less show fear, without apparent reason.

 

Both men thought that the dog had sensed their own fears, and accordingly made light of the animals rumblings, but they were not so sure when Hughes pulled the car into the lay-by, from where the forest path to Garricks home started its meanderings through the great wood.

 

Carson dismounted first, then Hughes, and lastly, pulled unwillingly from the seat, the Airedale. Hughes locked the door, and with a nod to Carson, grasping his stout walking stick in his hand, started to lead the way. In seconds he was sent sprawling as the Airedale stepped across his path, haulking his progress with its strongly muscled body. Annoyed, Hughes roughly bade the dog to heel, and made to continue his journey, but again the dog stepped in front of him, and snarled softly and deeply at him, almost threatening its master, though Hughes knew this to be impossible. Stooping, the man spoke reassuringly to the dog, patting it and making a fuss of it, yet when he made to start again on his journey to Garricks cottage, the strong white teeth of the Airedale fastened themselves into the trailing behaviour continued for almost a mile long the pathway, until finally Hughes could stand it no longer and furiously ordered the dog to remain where it was, throwing down his raincoat to make the point clear, stabbing a finger at it while brusquely enforcing his command. The dog crept to the coat, whining and wagging its tail the while, licking its bewhiskered chops, literally beggin its master forgiveness.

 

Hughes scratched his head in bewilderment, shrugging his shoulders at his companion, and again set the pace along the forest path. The great tall trees, their tops almost seeming to brush the sky, loomed silently over all. The gloom in the undergrowth becoming even deeper the further the pair went into the wood. After a few minutes the two men stopped dead in their tracks, the hair on their necks bristling erect with a crawling fear as the silence of the forest soul in its pitiful wailing and sobbing, finally dying away again to be lost once more in the intense, dead silence of Foulmire Heights.

 

Damn that dog swore Hughes, and with a shake of his rugged shoulders he led on yet again, towards something unknown, something that had given birth in the stoutest hearted of hounds to a craven fear, fear perhaps of something known by some remote ancestor - in the primeval mists of time...

 

The howling of the Airedale could still be plainly heard for more than five minutes as Hughes and Carson strode on down the forest THE BLACK COCKS OF FOULMIRE

 

THE VERY name of Foulmire suggests corruption, death, evil. Stagnant peat bogs, atop granite crested fellsides where only the wiry hill sheep and a few rabbits foraged for a sparse and frugal living, hardly wrested from the thin, tough, grass that existed - though Lord knows how - in the crevices between the grey and the rocks.

Kielder Forest stretches away to the south and east of Foulmire Heights, and despite the exposed nature of those grey hillsides there was a sullen silence amid those countless wild acres, that local rumor said was not due to the shelter the rocky heights gave.

 

High in the skies above those grim crags there floated an occasional buzzard, held aloft on pinions that seemed to be carved from steel, so rigid and still they appeared to be. Once in a while there sounded the thin wailing call of a curlew, or a whaup, mournful as the utterance of some lost soul, answered only by the gutteral bleat of one or another of the many sheep that dotted the fellsides, grey as the boulders that jutted from the brown peat soil.

 

Two miles from the northern edge of the great forest, far removed from any other human habitation, there was a low, grey stone cottage wherein lived one Saul Garrick, a tall, gaunt, silent, black bearded man, evil tempered and of sullen mien. His cruel dark eyes smouldered from under the craggy depths of great black brows, and he seldom spoke. Truth to tell there were none with whom he would have conversed even had he wanted to. His sole companions were a large, grey, gaunt-ribbed hound, known by those few men who ever met it as a savage creature, prone to attack without sound or warning, slashing with wicked yellowing fangs that chopped with the speed of a striking snake. The other creature was a hardy fell pony, whose dirty, mud-clarted sides concealed muscles as hard as the very oaken trees which surrounded the house and stable in which they lived.

 

Garrick was a wood-cutter, or as modern terminology prefers to define his, a forester. He had been shepherd, farmer, peat cutter - and otherwise employed - for 30 of his 40 years, but due solely to his evil nature men shunned him, preferring to live with better company than his, so that he had drifted from one trade or calling to another, each time receding further from the company and habitation of his fellow men. His only contact now with mankind was on the trips he made once every month or so, to the edge of the forest some seven miles to the southward, where a travelling Grocers van called, bringing with it most of the odds and ends that were necessary to the existence of the few lonely folks who lived on those bare grey hill sides. The driver of this van brought out newspapers and mail on his visits, and acted as messenger, errand boy, adviser, gossip and even employer, since he also brought with him instructions to those shepherds and foresters who lived far from the reach of the offices wherein reposed the men who made policy and planning their metier, rather than the back breaking toil that was the lot of the hill men.

 

It was on a visit such as this, bringing food and letters, that the grocer delivered into the hands of Saul Garrick a slim manilla envelope that contained the news that had stunned the Fancy, countrywide, a few days before. It said that he, Garrick, had won 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in the Grand National, as his first attempt at over 800 miles.

The brief telegraph said that a representative of the NFC would call in the near future to verify the winning birds, and requested that he should be afforded every assistance in the interests of both Garrick and the NFC.

 

There was no date shown for the arrival of this representative, and the news that he was to arrive brought a sneer of resentment to the woodmans swarthy countenance. Opening one of the three pay envelopes that the grocer had delivered to him, Garrick paid for the groceries, tobacco and matches that he had purchased, and thrusting the telegram form at the driver of the van, he roughly told the man to Send im if ye see im - and turning his pony away, he disappeared back into the depths of the forest, the sack of provisions across the ponys withers before the saddle, and the lank, dark shape of his hound loping at the ponys heels.

 

So it transpired, some five days later, that a small car stopped beside the edge of

Kielder Forest where the road turned away eastwards. This was the nearest point that any powered vehicle, short of a tractor, could drive to Saul Garricks home, and there was still over seven miles that the driver of this car had to traverse before he could achieve his purpose, that of verifying the three Black Cock pigeons that had achieved such a remarkable record, of flying over 800 miles to sweep the board of the Nations greatest prestige race in the calender. The occupant of the car, a tall, wiry man, some 50 years of age, was a fancier of many years standing, himself successful beyond average and a member of many Committees and Offices connected with the sport.

 

He locked the doors of the car and set out into the depths of the great forest with a swing. Not unused to the open moors and hills himself, he well knew the folly of haste, so his stride was a deceptively easy-looking pace that swallowed up the miles as surely as the march of a soldier. Armed only with a walking stick, map, compass, camera and small notebook, he made short work of the distance he had to travel, and it was only a mere 90 minutes later that he found himself nearing his destination, the miserable hovel wherein resided Saul Garrick.

 

Geoff Hughes, for such was the visitors name, was a leveled headed man. None could call him fanciful, superstitious, or even imaginative to any particular degree, so it was perhaps unusual for him that he should slow his pace and repeatedly look over his shoulder as he approached the old cottage. Twice he shrugged his shoulders and wrapped his coat closer round his thin frame, though the day was not cold by any means. Finally, he stopped his progress altogether some 100 yards from the little building, and stared hard into the dark green depths of the thickets that fringed the path closely on all sides. He cleared his throat and called out, demanding to know if there was anyone there, accompanying him so silently through the greenery, but there came no answer. At length he continued his way, bringing up against the dirty, battered old door of the house.

 

Knocking lustily against this ancient old portal, he darted repeated glances about him, as if still fearful that someone, or something, watched him from the cover of the woods. A moment later the door opened and Saul Garrick towered forth from the gloom of the squalid kitchen that was revealed behind him. For half a minute the swarthy giant loomed over his caller, his black eyes gleaming under beetling brows, then - coarsely - Come about the pigeons, he stated, not a question so much as an accusation. Hughes nodded, words refused to come for a moment, then blurted out something to the effect that he had indeed come about the birds, and his manner seemed to suggest that hed far sooner be elsewhere.

 

Garrick jerked his head in a come on gesture and turned away, indicating with a sweep of his muscular arm that Hughes should follow him. In silence the ill-assorted pair progressed round the side of the old cottage and towards a mean, tumbledown little shed that could have done service as a hen house, or even a stable, as much as anything like a pigeon loft. Only a trap the size of a single drophole gave any indication that there were pigeons within.

 

Garrick gave the latch a wrench and kicked the bottom of the door in a manner that suggested that this was his usual method of opening it, and thrust the sagging portal wide open. Hughes blinked in the gloom for a moment or two, then, as movement caught his eye, glanced upwards to a single rafter that served as a perch for three pigeons, each as black as night, barely visible in the stygian darkness. There was no window or dowelled wall to admit light. For a moment or two Hughes looked at the three birds, then cast about to see what others there were. To his surprise he could see no other pigeons, and he turned towards the owner with a query on his tongue, but was checked by the gutteral Aint no others that issued from the bearded lips. No others? queried Hughes, almost shock in his voice, the pitch rising in sheer disbelief. You mean you only have these three birds? he asked, again, No hens, no youngsters? Saul Garrick shook his head, and reaching upwards grasped the nearest of the pigeons - none of which had moved by so much as an inch, apart from merely turning their heads.

 

Here he grated, thrusting the bird into Hughes hands, and without further ado he reached upwards and brought down the other two cocks, then turning towards the light streaming in through the door, walked out into the ragged garden and waited for his visitor to join him.

 

Hughes was beside him in a trice, busily examining the pigeon he held, checking first the ring, then wingstamp. He repeated this process with each of the three cocks in turn, then cast the bird he held into the air, Garrick doing likewise with two cocks he held so casually, their heads swinging downwards from his massive hands as he tossed them aloft. For about two minutes the pigeons swept about the afternoon sky, then the silence was broken by a shout. In roared Garrick, and without a seconds delay the birds dropped on the top of the shed like a trio of ravens. For a second or so they stood there, blood-red eyes glinting like fire in the gleam of the summer sunshine, then they trooped towards the trap, almost in echelon, like clock work soldiers, and in this instant Hughes swung his camera from his shoulder, raised it to his eye and pressed the trigger. A mere moment later the birds were inside the building and silence fell again as the patter of their feet was checked by their departure.

 

Satisfied? queried the owner of these three pigeons, and on receiving an eager nod from Hughes, the giant turned away, muttering Shant keep ye then as he strode towards the house. A moment later the kitchen door was slammed to, and Hughes realised with a shock that this interview was over!

 

The sound of the slamming door reverberated on the summer air, and Hughes stared at it as if he could not believe his senses. During all his many years in the office in pigeon clubs, he had not met such a surly character, nor one who seemed so disinclined to talk, about pigeons or anything else. Though he had the bare details his duty bate him to collect, his native curiosity made him stay awhile. After all, he reasoned, it was not every day that a man won the first 3 positions in the greatest of all races, and there was much more he wanted to hear of the birds preparation, their training and above all how they had been persuaded to race home over 800 miles without even a mate to come home to!

 

Thought being father to the deed, he covered the few paces to the cottage door and pounded on it in no uncertain manner. There was silence from within, not even a bark from the dog which Hughes had not seen, but of which he had heard. Again and again he knocked, but for all the reaction he produced he might as well have barked his knuckles against one of the mighty oaks that surrounded the clearing.

 

Annoyed, he walked round the small building to see if he could find a window and on being rewarded with a small, grimy, dirt encrusted frame which contained four small panes, he strove to peer within, craning his neck first one way, then another, in an effort to make out some detail from the gloomy depths he could vaguely see through the years of filth.

 

A movement caught his eye, and - knocking on panes and waving his hands about - the NFC representative tried to beckon the shadowy shapes attention towards himself. Suddenly he started back, a gasp clutching at his throat, his heart hammering in sheer panic, for the face that pressed against the pane and stared out at him was not a human one, nor did it resemble anything like mortal man.

 

Hughes had time to see the shape, roughly akin to that of a face, with slanting eyes that glowed amber, the pupils a narrow lateral slit, as of eyes of a goat. The face was coated overall with a rough, short hair, yellowish in colour, and from the domed forehead there curved upwards and away what could be horns, their short tips gleaming blackly in the sunlight that filtered through the dirty glass. The mouth was that of a man, save for the savage looking canines that showed yellow at the corners, their sharpened points projecting over the lower lip. The chin was pointed and weak by human standards, but of all that Hughes saw in those few brief seconds of time, it was the ears that filled him with dread for they were very large, hairy and pointed at the tips, like those portrayed in childrens fairy tales of goblins. Even the nose. accquiline at the bridge and flared at the nostrils as wide as any native of the jungle of veldt, did not instill in him such fear, for it at least could have been of human origin despite its sprouting of yellow-black hair.

 

Hughes ran, blindly, panic stricken, headlong away from the cottage, and blundered through the trailing wands that hung down in long sweeps from the trees of the forest. He was still running an hour later, his breath coming in ragged, strangled gasps, when he broke from the gloom of the forest onto the clean fresh wastes of the moorland, where he had left his little car. It was not until he again was behind the wheel, driving across the barren heights towards civilisation of Carlisle at a crazy pace, that he dared relax a muscle of his fear-gripped being.

 

His breath still rasping at the terrific efforts he had put forth, and his eyes still darting towards the rear mirror which showed only the fast receding moorland behind him. Hughes determined that he would never again set foot in Kielder Forest where its evil occupant held sway, but he was not to know that he would return, to an even more fearful experience than the frightening glimpse of evil that he had seen that day.

 

Later, in the warmth and comfort of his own home, reflecting again and again on the terror and evil he had left when looking through the dirty panes of the Garricks window, he began to wonder if he had indeed seen what he thought he had seen, and reason began to worry away at his fancies, teasing him with the thought that perhaps he had only seen a goat, or even Garrick, wearing some horrific mask in an effort to scare him off, and despite the shudders that still clawed at the nape of his neck, he was forced to laugh at himself for the fear and desperate flight he had shown.

 

Finally, after taking his large Airedale dog for its evening constitutional, and posting off the spool of film that he had taken from his camera for developing and printing, he settled to pipe and slippers and watched a TV comedy with his wife, laughing away the last of his fears before repairing to bed.

 

His dreams that night were haunted however, and twice his buxom wife had to drag him from the clutches of his sleep, to shake him awake when she chided him for eating too much cheese for his supper, for he was moaning and crying aloud in dread of the demons that pursued him in the depths of his slumbers.

 

In the days that followed these events, Hughes forgot the fears that had haunted him from the moorland heights, until, at the weekend a small package arrived for him in the Post.

 

Puzzled as he opened it, for he had forgotten the film, it was not until he spotted the familiar yellow and red of the Kodak envelope that he remembered the picture, among the many others on the spool, that he had taken of the three black cocks of Saul Garrick as they had trooped towards the single hole trap, and it was with eager fingers that he rifled through the coloured photos in search of the mean shed wherein were housed the three greatest birds of the year.

 

His hand froze as the picture came to light, for there it was, just as he remembered it, the tattered shreds of linoleum patching the worn and holed roofing felt, the deep green of the oak trees slightly out of focus in the background, the chipped and worn shingle edging to the roof, and the little dark opening that served as a trap to the loft, but of the three black cocks that he had caught and held in his lens as surely as the very day itself, there was no sign at all!

 

The roof was bare of life. The picture was a picture of nothing more than an old decrepit shed!

 

Geoff Hughes stared hard and long at at the picture in his hands, and simply couldnt believe his eyes. He was sure, he knew that those three birds had all been on the loft top, all clearly in the viewfinder when he had snapped his picture, yet the evidence of the photo was irrefutable, there was nothing to be seen but the roof and its background.

 

Next he inspected the negative, lest some mishap had occurred during the printing of the picture, but again he was faced with the same conclusion - that he stowed the useless picture away in his wallet, and returned to the Saturday newspapers, to while away an hour or two acquainting himself with the local news, most of which he knew better than the reporters whose task it had been to collate it.

 

He had almost finished the local weekly paper when a small paragraph in the sports column caught his eye. Foulmire Woodman wins Pigeon National the heading ran, and the following paragraph gave a brief resume of Saul Garricks success, mentioning the total prize money he had won, a record of any National ever held, since Garrick had pooled all three birds to the absolute limit.

 

It was the concluding line that caught Hughes attention, for it was an apology for the absence of a photo, of either the winning owner or of his birds, and ended with the words we regret our inability to provide a picture, owing to a camera fault.

 

Hughes stared at this last line, reading it again and again. Camera fault? Two of them? His own - and the Reporters too? No! This was too much of a coincidence, and with this thought firmly in his mind, he made short work of finding and donning his shoes, sports jacket and hat, and within minutes was on his way to the Newspaper Office, accompanied by his huge ginger Airedale hound, grinning half a foot of tongue at him as the animal loped at his side.

 

It took only a few minutes for him to state his request to the Editor of the paper, and moments later Hughes was scanning the three pictures taken by a Reporter who had interviewed Saul Garrick on the day following Hughes own visit.

 

Each of the photos had been expertly taken, the focus exemplary, the tones of the pictures telling wonders of light and shade that denoted an artist behind the lens, but there was nothing in any of the pictures that hinted - even remotely - at pigeons! There were two snaps of the loft, taken from front and side, and one of the woodlands, but no sign of man or bird in any of them. Geoff then asked the editor if he could interview the cameraman, and - on receiving directions - was soon on his way to the home of that worthy.

 

Less than 15 minutes later, he was ringing the doorbell of the Photographers cottage home, and within minutes was deeply engrossed in conversation with the man. During the course of the discussion, the camerman stated firmly that he was positive he had seen all three birds in his viewfinder on each occasion he had pressed the shutter release. The photo of the woodlands was to have been one of the birds flying in to land on the loft top. It seemed that somehow he had been too slow!

 

Hughes wended his way home slowly, turning over in his mind the information he had received. The pieces didn't seem to fit anyhow. There seemed to be something odd, no - more than just odd - something almost sinister about the Black Cocks of Foulmire, birds that raced 800 miles to an empty loft, birds that seemed incapable of being photographed, birds owned by a man who sought no company other than an evil natured hound, and a dale pony on which to travel. So odd in fact, that Geoff Hughes determined to try to find his way to the bottom of the matter, and - having come to that decision - he made plans to visit Saul Garrick again, unannounced, in the very near future.

 

The opportunity to do so came sooner than he expected, as such was the interest generated by Garricks win, that newspapers outside the area had contacted the Editor of the local weekly, requesting further news, and pictures.

 

The cameraman, Jimmy Carson, dropped in at Hughes place one evening and disclosed these facts, and stated that he was taking another trip up over the moors to see Garrick, and would he, Hughes, like to come along?

 

So it was that the following Wednesday the pair set off in Geoff Hughes little car, accompanied by the huge Airedale, taken perhaps as much for a healthy exercise he would be sure to endure, as for the sterling company his presence assured.

It took the little car almost an hour to accomplish its trip up over the craggy dales, and the last quarter of the journey ran alongside the great green wall of Kielder Forest, up to the point where the boundary of the trees crossed the road, and the silence of the great wood descended on them.

 

The Airedale had lain asleep for most of the trip, but as soon as the car plunged into the depths of the woodland, it sat erect on the rear seat of the little car, its hackles stiffly erect and an uneasy rumbling growl issued forth from its cavernous jaws. The great red tongue licked forth nervously from time to time, rasping back and forth across the dogs behaviour and felt uneasy himself, for he had never known the animal show fear in the face of anything. Carson turned his head to look at the animal too, and his own slight disquiet deepened, for he well knew the qualities of an Airedale hound, and he had never known anything cause such a dog to back down, far less show fear, without apparent reason.

 

Both men thought that the dog had sensed their own fears, and accordingly made light of the animals rumblings, but they were not so sure when Hughes pulled the car into the lay-by, from where the forest path to Garricks home started its meanderings through the great wood.

 

Carson dismounted first, then Hughes, and lastly, pulled unwillingly from the seat, the Airedale. Hughes locked the door, and with a nod to Carson, grasping his stout walking stick in his hand, started to lead the way. In seconds he was sent sprawling as the Airedale stepped across his path, haulking his progress with its strongly muscled body. Annoyed, Hughes roughly bade the dog to heel, and made to continue his journey, but again the dog stepped in front of him, and snarled softly and deeply at him, almost threatening its master, though Hughes knew this to be impossible. Stooping, the man spoke reassuringly to the dog, patting it and making a fuss of it, yet when he made to start again on his journey to Garricks cottage, the strong white teeth of the Airedale fastened themselves into the trailing behaviour continued for almost a mile long the pathway, until finally Hughes could stand it no longer and furiously ordered the dog to remain where it was, throwing down his raincoat to make the point clear, stabbing a finger at it while brusquely enforcing his command. The dog crept to the coat, whining and wagging its tail the while, licking its bewhiskered chops, literally beggin its master forgiveness.

 

Hughes scratched his head in bewilderment, shrugging his shoulders at his companion, and again set the pace along the forest path. The great tall trees, their tops almost seeming to brush the sky, loomed silently over all. The gloom in the undergrowth becoming even deeper the further the pair went into the wood. After a few minutes the two men stopped dead in their tracks, the hair on their necks bristling erect with a crawling fear as the silence of the forest soul in its pitiful wailing and sobbing, finally dying away again to be lost once more in the intense, dead silence of Foulmire Heights.

 

Damn that dog swore Hughes, and with a shake of his rugged shoulders he led on yet again, towards something unknown, something that had given birth in the stoutest hearted of hounds to a craven fear, fear perhaps of something known by some remote ancestor - in the primeval mists of time...

 

The howling of the Airedale could still be plainly heard for more than five minutes as Hughes and Carson strode on down the forest ecount of the episode however, and before long he had lifted his telephone and was calling his local Vicar of the Parish Church, earnestly entreating that worthy soul to come to his home, as both he and Hughes feared a peril worse than any to which mortal man was usually exposed. He had hardly replaced the receiver though, when there came a tenseness in the atmosphere, a growing feeing of impending peril and panic, and a harsh taint in the air that caught at the throats of the two men, an evil miasma that stank of something foetid, rank and corrupt.

 

Carsons five years old black tom cat, a mean battle scarred veteran of many fights, spat, arched its back and backed into a corner, its eyes blazing with hatred and fear as it turned its head this way and that, seeking an invisible but well sensed enemy. An instant later the animal raced for the window,barely open to the late summer evening air, and in a second was gone, spitting and swearing as it raced away into the safety of the darkness outside. There came a sudden crack of thunder, a lancing flame of lightning only a fraction of a second in advance as warning, and the house shook to its very foundations. The air, still without, was brittle in its silence, and dry, void of any relieving rain, and into that stillness there suddenly came a vibration, unheard yet felt by both men, who sat - their glasses gripped tightly in clenched hands - staring into the blackness that seemed to deepen even within the room, as the flickering flames of the fire began to die away, smaller and smaller, into a nothingness but a warmth of pungent smoke.

 

The vibration pulsed through the atmosphere, the building itself, and even manifested itself in the physical senses of both Carson and Hughes as they stood, watching in fascinated horror, while the light from the oil lamp dimmed and died away. The flickering flames of the log fire also grew smaller and smaller, and finally expired in a wraith of acrid smelling smoke. Carson swore and struck a match, dropping the flaring vesta from his shaking hand, but it was extinguished even before it landed on the old rag carpet that served as the floor covering of his old cottage. Hughes delved hurriedly into his overcoat pocket, that garment still where he had slung it over a chairback, and brought forth an electric torch which he switched on with shaking fingers. The beam lanced forth, illuminating the frightened feature of Carson, who was still desperately trying to take another match from the box and succeeding in dropping half the contents in his haste.

 

With the light, Carson seemed to recover some of his wits, and stepping to Hughes side he gestured towards towards the window that faced towards the pathway outside. There came a crunch in the gravel, and a dark figure loomed against the flickering gas lamps that stood, a mere twenty five yards away on either side of the reporters cottage. By that fitful glare both men clearly recognised the grim dark features of Garrick, and saw his great strong arms trying to unfasten the latch that secured the gate. They heard a vile oath and saw the giant take his hat from his head, and fling it at the gate as the latch defeated his unpractised fingers, and both men saw the stoutly built gate burst and fly asunder as if struck by a battering ram!

 

Carson snatched at the window latch and swiftly secured that flimsy portal, while Hughes darted to the oaken door and slammed home the bolts at the top and bottom. Though neither of the pair dared voice the thought, they both shared the knowledge that there were no locks or bolts made by mortal man that could resist the force that seemed to be harnessed by Garrick.

 

Carson had hardly taken his hand from the window latch when there came a crash as something struck against those leaded panes, and as Hughes swung his torch beam to see the cause of the noise, there glinted - like a blood red ruby - an eye, as a black feathered bird strove to squeeze through the splintered pane. Though Hughes knew full well that no pigeon born would have flown in that stygian darkness, he still put forth his hand as if to pick the bird up as it struggled to enter the room. Carson knocked his hand aside and struck at the black thing, and in retaliation the ebony beak gaped and struck at his hand, more as would an eagle of prey, than any pigeon. A moment later a second pane splintered as another of those evil black birds launched itself against the glass, and only the diamond shaped lead linings prevented the entry of those determined beaks and claws.

 

Carson ran across the room and snatched open a cupboard door, drawing forth one of those large, double-lensed lanterns that motorists find so helpful, and switching on its powerful beam he stopped to pick up the great wrought iron poker that had graced his hearth for so many years. Hughes stopped him from swinging the iron however, for as he quickly pointed out, one broken lead would allow these evil birds to enter the room. Instead, he directed his torch, quickly followed by that of Carsons lamp towards the door from where came sounds that suggested that Garrick was even trying to force his way into the cottage.

 

Suddenly Carson gave a loud shout, and as Hughes turned in alarm he was startled to see the newspaper man fumbling at his waistcoat pocket. Thinking that one of those birds had managed to invade the room in the instant that he had turned his back, he struck at Carsons fumbling fingers, only to pushed rudely aside for his pains. Damn fool, swore Carson, get of man, I can beat this devil, and with a gesture of triumph he tore his old pocket watch from its concealment and held it aloft where, glittering and sparkling like a golden star as it dangled from the gold chain, there swung a small Crucifix.

 

Instantly the room sprang into light, the oil lamp flared as if the wick had been turned up to full height, and a dull thump was heard as the still smoking log fire in the hearth once more burst into ruddy flames! At the window there was a mad scrabbling and battering of wings as the birds strove to the withdraw themselves from the splinters of glass, and from without the cottage door there came a crash of gravel and stones, as Garrick retreated hastily, his great booted feet kicking up the surface of the path. A vicious snarl betrayed the fact that Garricks evil natured hound had accompanied the man and his birds, and that this animal too felt the power of the light against darkness so suddenly arrayed against them. Still holding the tiny emblem of Christ aloft, Carson reached into a recess beside the mantlepiece and grasped a leather bound Bible that lay there. Holding it aloft in his right hand, and with a roar of victorious laughter on his lips, he bade Hughes open the cottage door.

 

A moment later he ran from the cottage, both arms held before him and waving thhem about him challenged Garrick to do battle with an ally as powerful as his. From the darkness came a vile stream of oaths and curses, and a shower of stones that rattled against the roof of the cottage and the fence that surrounded the building.

 

Carson would have pursued the evil trio further, but Hughes held his arm and cautioned him lest he become too foolhardy against a foe that held darkness as his friend. He had not spoken a moment too sooner either, as was shown when a mighty gust of wind sprang from nowhere, driving the dust swirling into the blinding, choking clouds that sent the two men reeling back in their tracks. A moment later a car came skidding round the corner towards them, its tyres squealing a protest on the harsh flint surface. Then the vehicle ground to a halt beside the pair and a black coated figure stepped forth, hatless and grasping a leather bag in one hand and a large silver Crucifix in the other. Hughes, his eyes streaming tears from the dust and dirt that had blown into them, just made out the white collar of the man and reached out a hand of welcome, just as Carson raised his arm to strike a blow, his eyes also blinded so badly that he thought the black clad figure was Garrick returning to the fray.

 

The three men repaired to Carsons cottage where, in a few moments, Carson and Hughes apprised the Clergyman of the events prior to his arrival on the scene in answer to the urgent summons he had received from Carsons phone call earlier.

 

The cleric wasted no time on hearing the brief details of Garricks attack on them, aided by the animals over which he seemed to exert such complete control. It was not long before he had explained to both men in just what dire peril their live lay, pointing out that the forces of evil were very real and very, very powerful when wielded by those skilled in the black arts. He set out little silver chalices around the room, having blessed the water that they contained, and chalked on the floor - after removing the carpet - words and texts in Latin chosen from the section of the Bible that dealt with the removal and exorcism of evil spirits. More preparations followed these, including washing the mens faces, hands and feet, blessing them administering the Sacrament of Holy Communion to them.

 

Hughes a bluff man who life had been spent among spheres far removed from evil, took part in these preparations a little self consciously, half afraid that it was all mumbo-jumbo and almost prepared to believe that he was making a complete fool of himself, until Carson pointed out that the extinction of the lamp and fire was very real manifestions of the powers of darkness, and that for a bird like a pigeon to fly in complete darkness and then launch an attack which involved endangering its own life, by crashing through a glass window, was far removed from trickery and mumbo-jumbo!

 

Both the reporter and the fancier felt a comfort and relaxation in the presence of the Clergyman, and were quite ready to believe that no further ill could reach them while the man of the cloth stayed in the house with them. Their quiescent fears were not allowed to rest for long when it became apparent to the Churchman that they were under the impression that the battle was over, for he knew only to well that it had just begun.

 

They had - he pointed out - only tangled with Garrick and his limited powers, but now that the man knew his evil secret was out - that he was in league with the Prince of Darkness himself - he would lose no time in manifesting the pentacle and instruments with which to summon his evil Master, and that he would brush aside their flimsy defences in an instant when he joined forces against them again.

Hughes noticed the silence first. It was not long past midnight, and though noise at that hour was never great, there was always some sound to soften and relieve the darkness of the summer night, but now there was nothing.

 

The blackness of the night surrounding the little cottage seemed to be complete, and of the cattle in the fields nearby, of the dogs owned by neighbours, or even of the very birds of the night, there came no sound at all. Nothing stirred without, or within, until there came a deep violet hued flash of light all round the cottage, and once again the men within that tiny building felt and heard that pulsing vibration that so closely resembled the beating felt and heard that pulsing vibration that so closely resembled the beating of some great heart. Softly at first, then strengthening and lengthening , it began to be felt ever louder, and with it came a noise - a stirring of the air - that became as keening as the wind rose ever higher and higher, stronger every second, then veritable screaming and howling of hurricane force that rattled and tore at every shred that promised to give entry, until the terrible violence of the elements without forced the three men contained in that downstairs room into a huddle of fear, on their knees, with the voice of the Clergyman praying to a power without whom they could never hope to survive.

 

Suddenly all was still outside, an uncanny silence that almost hurt with its intensity then, coming nearer and nearer every second, the sound of hoover of some animal beating a tattoo on the flint surface road. With it too came rushing in the air, the sound of beating wings, the air whistling through pions as if a thousand birds circled overhead, and for the second time that evening the flaring light of the oil lamp began to dim and die away, as did the leaping flames from the great banks of logs that were heaped in the hearth.

 

The three men clasped hands together, the Cleric in the centre, and as sound of those beating hooves neared the ruined gate without, a thunder of began all round them and the first taint of stagnance and corruption filled the air they breathed.

As the proximity of Garrick and his evil allies manifested itself, the three men - Hughes, Carson and Vicar of the Parish, clasped hands and prayed for deliverance. Perhaps only the Cleric knew the full danger they faced, but the other two men could not but feel the tension in the air and they shook with fear.

 

The sound of galloping hooves thundered on the air, and there was a million splinters of sound as a shower of gravel was thrown against the fence surrounding the cottage. There came a savage baying from the grey-black hound that almost always accompanied the Woodsman, and the whistle of the Raven - hued pinions of those three black cocks could be plainly heard as they circled the house. Hughes stuffed some cushions against the broken panes in an effort to keep the birds out, though scant protection they would afford if Garrick were to try to effect entry this way. The solid oak door of the little building suddenly resounded with a thunderous buffetting and the men inside knew that Garrick had returned, this time to wreck his evil power to the full.

 

The electric torches were switched on, their thin lances of light illuminating the room, when the first crash came against the door, and Carson grasped his large lantern and swung the beam towards the ancient portal.

 

Hughes watched the window in the rays of light from the other lamp and started with a gasp as the first of the three black cocks launched itself against the glass, smashing and splintering a pane into shards. The lozenge-shaped lead linings still defied the bird though, and with a clawing, flapping flurry of efforts to force a way in. A shower of soot in the hearth drew Hughes attention and before the men could as much as turn their efforts at defence there, a black feathered devil was among them slashing with feet taloned like an eagle and stabbing at their eyes with a razor sharp beak. Carson swung his arms wildly, beating futilely at the air in an effort to drive the bird, or demon off, only succeeding in smashing his torch against the Vicars undefended head, almost stunning the man who fell forward onto the floor.

 

From without came a great roar of triumph, almost as if Garrick had seen what had occurred inside the building, and again and again his great booted feet crashed against the door - which now shook and trembled in its frame - the very bolts and screws that held it closed being forced, slowly but surely, from their sockets. The baying of the hound increased into a paroxysm of fury, a sudden thunder filled the air and a flame hit the entire sky with a band of red and purple light.

 

A moment later the second bird dropped onto the hearth, and within seconds had joined its evil mate attacking the fancier and reporter where they flayed and thrashed about, still striving to catch or kill the first bird. The vicar moaned as he lay on the floor, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, and he tried to raise himself to a sitting position. A black flurry of feathers landed square in his face as he swayed upright, and a scream was wrenched from the mans lips as those claws and ebony beak slashed the flesh round his still screwed up eyes.

 

Hughes suddenly reached forward and grasped the bird, his strong hands crushing the body and twisting the neck in a grip that would have torn the life from a lion, let alone the bird. He had hardly dropped the carcase when it soared into the air and launched itself against him again, just as full of life as before. Hughes flinched as if an icicle had touched him, when that beak slashed his face from eyebrow to lip, and the warm surge of blood spilled down his face in a scarlet niagara. The Vicar reached forward to one of the Silver Chalices and splashed a cupful of Holy water into Hughes face, chanting at the same time words that sounded meaningless to the man, yet which had the effect of both staying the flow of blood and of causing the black birds to retreat so fast that they smashed into the rough hewn walls. A second later the Cleric sprayed another handful of water across the room to where the birds fluttered against the inside of the windows, and both Carson and Hughes were amazed to see the birds fall, lifeless, to the floor the moment the water spattered their coal black plumage.

 

At this precise instant Garrick roared from outside, almost a scream of pain, and staggered away from the cottage door. Carson would have ran to the entrance and opened it, but he was stayed for a second or so by the restraining hand of the Vicar. Then, as that worthy clasped the hands of both men in his own, they understood what he meant - that the three were more powerful than one - and they allowed themselves to be led, a Chalice of water in their hands, to the now sagging oaken buttress that had defied Garrick for so long.

 

The roar that Garrick gave suddenly turned into a scream, a raucous cursing and gasping, as if he were drowning. The black bearded Woodsman stumbled, and staggered into the tall fence. As they opened the door the three men were startled and amazed to see Garrick clutching at his ears, his great hands clenched as if he were suffering terribly, then - to their utter surprise - it dawned on their bemused consciousness that there was music in the air, a thumping, pounding, to where - amid a glitter of reflected light and sparkle - the Towns Salvation Army Band were marching towards them, cymbals clashing, tamborines flickering as their players waved them in the air, and the drummers pounding their hearts out as they hammered away for all they were worth at the sliver and light oak instruments!

 

With the brass players blasting away at their trombones and horns, blowing with eyes popping, like demented souls, their very hearts so caught up in their music, none of them even noticed the staggering man that reeled away from them.

 

The three men ran into the light of the street lamps, shining so bravely in the surrounding blackness and waved welcoming arms towards that blue attired band, so intent on their joyous paens of praise to God.

 

There was a flicker of movement as a black shadow ran across the road, and Garricks evil natured hound - its jaws flecked with foam and scarlet specks of blood - evidently where it had slashed in vain at the woodwork of the door, ran blindly away from them, cannoning into the front legs of Garricks equally black pony, which stood, streaked with sweat, in the shattered ruins of the gateway.

 

The animals blundered away from each other, the dog running into the shadows where it vanished, and the pony reared and plunged, its feet clattering wildly on the flint surfaced road, then it too thundered away into the darkness. A moment later there sounded a terrible scream in agony, a crash a tattoo of hooves, followed by a resounding crash as the pony was evidently floored violently, having collided with its evil master.

 

The band stopped its play as it dawned on those stalwart men and women that something was amiss, and the entire body, along with Carson, Hughes and the Vicar, ran to where Garrick sprawled in an untidy heap at the side of the rough surfaced road. Blood trickled from a corner of the giants mouth, and ran in a little rivulet from a great gash on the side of his head. Another patch of scarlet showed as it seeped through his rough homespun garments at the mans side.

 

The Vicar explained in a few words as possible what had transpired to the assembly, and as one they formed themselves into a circle around the fallen man whose breath was now coming in great heaving gasps.

 

Overhead the clouds gathered in a thick black mass, lowering darkly with that appearance as of thunder and heavy rain. The Vicar knelt beside Garrick and pillowed his head in his hands, tracing the sign of the Cross on his grimed and sweat streaked brow. As he did this there came a terrific streak of lightening across the sky, followed instantly by a thunderous crack that threatened to split the very sky in two.

 

Ignoring these demonstrations that Garricks black master still hovered about them, and despite the lateness of the hour, the Vicar led the band gathered there in prayer, accompanied by the now muted music of that excellent brass orchestra.

Though Garrick never opened his eyes again, he groaned and gasped, rocking back and forth as if some terrible struggle took place within him during this procedure, finally becoming calm and still as the gathering overcame the power of a darkness with their simple faith and belief in a God more strong than Satans worst.

 

Garrick died there in that roadway, still and quite at the end, the rough and evil appearance that he had always worn seeming to vanish as death soothed his craggy features into calm repose. He was buried a day or so later in silence and dignity in the local churchyard, at a service conducted by the local Vicar and attended only by Carson and Hughes.

 

 

The fancier and newspaper reporter visited the dead Woodmans cottage again a fortnight later. It was bathed in glorious sunlight and birds sang in the trees as they had never sang in living memory before. Of the three black cocks there was no sign, either of the presence or previous existence, except for one small thing.

In the dust and grime that covered everything in that poky little cottage amid the cheap and battered relics that adorned those bare shelves, they found a string of metal pigeon rings and a receipt, from the National Homing Union. Carson read it out - One dozen rings - 3/- he said. With compliments he added.

 

He grimaced and tossed the rings to Hughes, and watched as the Fancier audibly counted them out. He only counted nine, the first three numbers shown on the list were missing. They were never seen or heard of again!

 

 

END. Many thanks Bilco.

[Kyleakin Lofts]

That's the one Lindsay. I'll have to look out my Pigeon Gas again!

[greenlands]

That's the one Lindsay. I'll have to look out my Pigeon Gas again!

Should be in your pm's ?

[Kyleakin Lofts]

Should be in your pm's ?

 

Yes Lindsay, I received your PM, that's how I know it is in Pigeon Gas. Need to read it again.

[andy Burgess]

a few stories from old "Bilco" , some of the newer members may not have read ? always worth another look at if youve been on site a while

[eastcoaster]

a few stories from old "Bilco" , some of the newer members may not have read ? always worth another look at if youve been on site a while

He was the most amazing man to have a conversation on the phone with helped me when I had bother with neighbors , ailments with the birds . A TRUE GIANT in our sport who will be sadly missed.

[greenlands]

Some more of his writings.

http://forum.pigeonbasics.com/topic/65230-one-of-bilcos-bulletins/

[THE FIFER]