text: TW: murder Midsummer, and the sun was dipping behind the broad-leafed beeches, staining their crowns with crimson. Up on the downs, shadow was mantling the recumbent fields and shrouding the hedgerows and thickets in night’s cool embrace. From somewhere in a hawthorn tree, a blackbird shaped smooth, rich notes into twilight melodies. From his bedroom window, Peter watched the sunset in silent anticipation. One of the longest days of the year was drawing to its close and his wait was almost over. He glanced over at the torch on his desk. Picking it up, he pressed the button on its casing and a pale glow emanated from the bulb. Good. Working fine. Peter looked back out towards the downs, which stood now in silent silhouette against the night sky, rising in the distance above the tile roofs of the houses opposite. The sun had vanished into the dark earth like a tomb and the stars were winking into their places on the violet horizon. “Peter?” “What is it Mum?” “Come down and help with the washing up.” Peter jumped off his chair and headed to the kitchen, submerging his hands in the warm soapy suds as he scrubbed furiously at the dinner plates. Again and again, he stole glances at the clock on the wall. The big hand hardly seemed to move. Peter sighed in annoyance. “OK Peter?” His mother asked as she entered the kitchen, putting the kettle on the boil. “Sure, Mum.” “You ought to take yourself off to bed soon. It’s getting late for a school day. I’ll finish the rest.” Peter nodded and said goodnight, climbing the stairs back to his bedroom. Pulling the door to, he sat back down at his desk and reached for a magazine to leaf through as he waited. Again, he found his glance repeatedly drawn away from its pages to his bedroom clock. Ten o’ clock. Quarter past ten. Half past. Quarter to eleven. Outside his door, he heard his mother’s footsteps creaking on the landing. The twang of the bathroom light pull cord and the rhythmic brushing of teeth. Another twang as the bathroom light was turned off. More footsteps across the landing, to his mother’s bedroom. The door closed shut. Then - silence. Minutes passed. Clutching the torch in one hand, Peter tip-toed to his own bedroom door and slowly cracked it open, peering out into the shadowy landing. Carefully, stealthily, he crept through the darkness and down the stairs, towards the front door. His heart in his throat, his chest thudding, he lifted the latch and eased the door open. Peter paused, peering over the threshold. From beyond, the night stared back at him. With one last look back into the gloom of the house, Peter stepped out onto the street and quietly closed the door behind him. Under the dull orange glow of the street lamps, Peter stole down the road, casting careful glances about himself as he did so. His steps sounded heavy and oppressive in the night stillness. The lean shape of a fox trotted briskly across Peter’s path, stopping to look back at him before disappearing into a dark mass of garden hedge. “Psst - Pete!” Turning, Peter saw the figure of a teenage boy lounging beside a lamppost. “Chris!” “Nice one, Pete,” Chris said, ambling over to join his friend. “Gave your mum the slip then?” “Yeah, just about. We’d better get up the Ring, then - how long we got?” “About an hour until midnight.” Chris checked his watch. “Yeah - let’s get going.” The two boys walked at a quick pace, down another road and then up a path leading between trees which leaned in close upon them. As they walked uphill, the trees grew thicker around them until they were in woods. “You know my dad always said there used to be a tunnel which led right from our street all the way up to the hill fort on the Ring,” Chris said. “Yeah?” “Yeah. It was all one big estate in the old times. He said the entrance to the tunnel was hidden in the manor house that used to be there, and that there was buried treasure right at the end of it. Apparently when they came to demolish the house, the workmen found the tunnel and tried to explore - but they were scared away by the huge snakes guarding it. House was knocked down and the tunnel was never found again.” “I’d not heard that one before.” “No? Dad used to tell me all the stories. He said that magic was still alive on the Downs. You know that this was one of the last pagan places in all England? The magic was something left over from the old times, Dad used to say. Ghostly highwaymen and strange lights in the night sky, that kind of thing. It was Dad that told me about the Midsummer Tree.” Peter looked over at Chris as they continued to walk. It was hard to make out his expression in the shadow. “Oh yeah?” “That’s right. I think he liked to scare me and Sarah with it when we were little. He always liked the creepier stories, Dad. And Midsummer - Dad said that this is the day of the year when the walls between the worlds were at their thinnest. When the spirits walk more freely on the earth.” “Reckon we’ll see them tonight, then?” Chris asked, off-hand. Even as he spoke the words, he was aware of the hairs starting up on the back of his neck. “Who, the dead? That’s why we’re going, isn’t it?” The boys continued walking in silence for a few minutes. Left to his thoughts, Peter began to realise he didn’t feel quite so enthusiastic as he had earlier while waiting to head out, in the safety and comfort of his bedroom. The boys’ torch beams arced through the darkness as they pushed forwards and upwards, but pressing in upon them on all sides was deep, suffocating gloom. Familiar paths now seemed strange and uncanny under the shadow of night, tinged with an almost supernatural unreality. “Dad used to say the Green Man walked in these woods,” Chris said, breaking the silence. “The Green Man?” “Yeah - he’s a god, or a spirit - face covered in oak leaves. Dad said you could feel his presence sometimes, watching you.” “Sure that wasn’t just the hobo? The one Edders said he saw in his den that time.” Chris laughed. “Nah, hobo wasn’t around back then. Dad never mentioned him anyway. He would have known.” Another minute of silence as the boys continued to walk. Twigs and fallen leaves crunched under foot. This time it was Peter who spoke up. “Are you all...are you all doing OK? You and your mum. Sarah.” “Miss him every day, Pete. It’s just...I’d do anything to see him again.” “He’d probably be pleased you were so into all this though, right...all the folklore and stuff.” “Yeah, guess you’re right.” The boys trudged on in silence again. Peter tried to steal another glance at Chris’ face in the darkness, but it was impossible to read. He wondered if he’d been right in asking his question, or whether he should have let it lie. He knew how close Chris and his father had been. How one summer night two years ago Chris’ father had left home and never returned. How Chris had waited, waited, waited. How, at only twelve years old, Chris had sat in black at his father’s funeral, staring through eyes blurry with tears at the empty coffin. Denied a chance to even properly mourn. Denied a final goodbye. Ahead of the boys, the trees began to open up once more, and a dark, broad shape rose ahead of them like a great black whale surfaced from the deep, its top flattened except for a few sparse trees that stood like sentinels on its rim, stark against the starlight. The Ring. Long, long ago it had been a hill fort, a great circular enclosure in which the ancient dwellers of the Downs had huddled together for protection against their enemies and the elements. Within the stockade which no longer stood, they had lit bonfires to banish the cold and dark; yet beyond its mighty ramparts unseen terrors had lurked and prowled in the shadow. Now, two small figures climbed the steep steps cut into its slope, casting thin threads of light from their torches as they picked out their paths. An eerie scream pierced the night air and Peter froze, his blood running suddenly cold. Then, he realised to his relief that he recognised the cry. A vixen. Just another fox. “There’s all sorts of stories about this place,” Chris said, his breath now short from the effort of the ascent. “The fort was here before England even existed - before the Romans even. Dad said they used to bury pagan kings here, in big mounds. Look! That’s probably one there.” Clambering over the rim of the hill, the boys had stopped, panting, under the stars. Peter followed Chris’ glance and saw a grey, swelling shape lying some way off, silent and still in the gloom. As Peter looked, the shape seemed to resolve itself into the figure of a man reposing corpse-like under the sky. A slight breath of wind gently stirred the grass at Peter’s feet and he shivered involuntarily. “Come on,” Chris said. “The Midsummer Tree’s nearer the centre.” As the boys trekked across the Ring, Peter felt as if an invisible, brooding presence was watching them - whether from the thick copse of trees over to their right, or hanging unseen in the very air, he couldn’t say. The night breeze seemed to murmur around them as if whispering in an ancient, long-dead tongue. “There!” Chris cried in sudden excitement, quickening his pace and pointing. “That’s it! The Midsummer Tree.” There it stood, a gnarled, twisted carcass of a tree, its trunk split open to reveal a gaping black void within. A tangled mass of roots crept tentacle-like across the ground towards the boys; more roots reached out like pale fingers from the soil. A thick canopy of oak leaves bent out from the top of the trunk, a sign that, despite its decrepit appearance, the tree still lived. It had stood there for centuries. Peter stood looking up at it, its warped boughs yellow in the glow of his torch. This is what they had come to see. He recalled what Chris had told him about the tree, when he’d first tried to convince him to sneak out on Midsummer night and climb the Ring. Peter wasn’t sure now whether he wanted to believe the story or not. “How long now?” Peter asked, uneasily. “It’s two minutes to midnight,” Chris replied, staring hard at his watch. “Come on, quick - we should get under cover.” The boys picked their way over to a nearby clump of bracken and crouched carefully in the fronds. “Lights off,” said Chris, in a whisper now. The torches clicked off and the beams died. As Peter stared into the gloom, his eyes gradually began to become accustomed to the dark. There, not far from where they crouched, stood the Midsummer Tree, appearing now like some unearthly giant bent-double towards them under the waxing moon. The soft hooting of an owl sounded from nearby. “You don’t really believe it...do you Chris?” “What?” “This. All of this. Skeletons rising from the ground at the stroke of midnight on Midsummer night...dancing round the tree...” “Dad said there’s ancient magic in this place,” Chris replied, his gaze fixed on the Midsummer Tree. “In the Ring...at the tree...and not just the skeletons...” Peter shifted uncomfortably, the bracken crackling beneath his feet. The fronds seemed to snatch at his ankles. “Yeah but...it’s just a story, isn’t it?” For a moment, a deathly silence. Then: “Midnight. It’s midnight,” Chris whispered, tapping his watch. Peter forced himself to look back towards where the monstrous black shape of the Midsummer Tree loomed up from the ground. All was still in the darkness. Moments passed. “Well I don’t see them,” Peter said. His voice sounded more unsteady than he’d have liked. “I guess we’d better go then?” “Shh - wait.” Peter turned to look at his friend. Chris was staring intently at the tree, his brows furrowed. “Nothing’s happening, Chris,” Peter said, more insistently this time. “Come on, let’s go.” “Shut up!” Chis hissed, grabbing Peter’s arm. “Look - there!” Turning back to look at the tree, Peter saw - nothing. But then, as he continued to peer into the darkness, the shadows around the trunk seemed to melt and shift in the spectral gloom, now leaping up to the lower branches, now tripping round the roots. Ghostly grins seemed to appear and vanish under leaves which rustled and whispered in the breeze. Peter felt the hairs pricking up on his bare arms and a chill seizing him. His heart began to beat fast against his chest. Beside him, Chris’ breathing sounded rapidly. “I can see them,” Chris whispered. “It’s true. The dance of the dead - round and round they’ll go, all night...then at cock-crow they’ll sink back silently into the earth, as if they’d never been...It’s just as Dad said. It’s all true.” “It’s shadows, Chris. Just a trick of the light.” The grip on Peter’s arm tightened. That’s when Peter saw it. Glinting wickedly in the moonlight, held in Chris’ free hand. A knife. “What the hell?” “I can bring him back, Pete,” Chris breathed, his eyes wide. “I can bring Dad home.” “The hell?” Peter wrenched himself out of Chris’ grasp and stumbled backwards onto his feet, keeping his eye fixed on the blade. “Why’ve you got a knife for God’s sake?” Chris was on his feet like a coiled spring. Holding the knife out towards Peter, he began to advance slowly towards him, his face set with a frightening, steely determination. “It needs a blood sacrifice,” he said. “To feed the roots of the tree. To join them .” “You’re out of your mind,” cried Peter in disbelief. “Get the hell away from me!” He turned, hurtling himself forward and away from his friend. Towards the Midsummer Tree. As he stumbled forward, something gripped his ankle and he tripped sideways, staggering against the trunk. Within moments, Chris was upon him, slashing at him with the knife. Peter screamed in pain, instinctively clutching his arm and falling forward upon his knees onto the tangled mass of roots. From between his fingers, blood oozed out, dripping to the ground and blotting the soil. His head thudding, he looked up and saw Chris standing above him, still gripping the blade. A second passed, then Chris seemed to reel back, the knife clattering to the earth inches from Peter’s knee. As Peter tried to clamber up, his arm still searing with pain, he saw that the figure of a man had hold of Chris by both shoulders. His eyes burned fierce in a face half hidden beneath a great mass of beard and he was repeating something over and over as Chris tried to break free from his grasp. Another moment, and Chris thudded into the trunk of the tree as the man slipped backwards. There was a sickening crunch as his head hit the ground. Then - silence, save for the sound of the boys’ heavy panting. Peter reached out and grabbed the knife, easing himself slowly up onto his feet. His arm throbbed with pain where it had been slashed. Nearby, the man lay sprawled on the ground, his feet stretched towards Peter. He fumbled in his pocket for his torch and shone it onto the face. In the pale glow, he saw crimson skeins trickling out from under the man’s hair. Eyes set deep in the face stared back lifelessly. “He’s dead, Chris,” Peter said, his voice quavering. “You’ve killed him.” There was no response. Peter swung the torch beam to his side. Chris sat sunken against the trunk of the Midsummer Tree, arms gripped around his knees. His eyes were wide and fixed on the corpse. “Chris - you’ve killed him,” Peter repeated. “For God’s sake, Chris.” “It’s him,” Chris whispered, barely audible. “It’s Dad.” “What?” “I didn’t see...I didn’t know...it’s Dad.” Peter glanced again at the body, at the matted mass of hair and beard, at the tattered jacket and the shabby trousers. “It’s the hobo, Chris. It’s not your dad.” Chris shook his head slowly, still not taking his eyes off the cadaver. “He kept...he kept saying my name. He said - ‘Chris’.” “You don’t know what you heard - you’re half out of your mind! You tried to kill me for God’s sake!” Chris was still shaking his head, as if transfixed. Then, again, a cracked whisper: “It’s my Dad.” Peter stared in horror at the ghastly sight before him: at his friend crouched in shock against the tree, at the figure lying stretched out lifelessly across its ancient roots. It couldn’t possibly be Chris’ dad...could it? The body was never found . But no. Everyone had known that he was dead - even Chris had never questioned that. Peter felt a sudden uncanny chill as the other, more eerie possibility floated unbidden into his mind. He felt his wound throbbing, the blood still oozing out and splashing onto the roots of the tree at his feet. From the darkened boughs of the Midsummer Tree above him, a white owl glided out ghost-like into the night. And round and round its ancient trunk, the spectral shadows danced.