Free Herald of the Hidden by Mark Valentine

Unicorn.’
    He referred to the obscure inn which was our not infrequent haunt. I expressed satisfaction at this idea.
    ‘I can call this afternoon if you like,’ I added.
    ‘Uh? No—no, I shall be in the library I think. . . .’ replied Ralph. I left, and Ralph went on his way still much preoccupied.

    **

    When I called at number 14, Bellchamber Tower, at about 8 pm, I was struck by the similarity of its interior to the ethereal scene which Frederick Bentley had described earlier. The pungent reek assured me, however, that the cause was no lilting, luminescent plant moisture, but the cigarettes favoured by my friend, a continental brand of some repute. Ralph Tyler obligingly hauled open his sash window. A bright full moon hung in the clear sky, and there was a chill edge to the night air. Ralph had prepared, on his battered table, one of the board-games with which we often occupied an hour or so of an evening before strolling to the Unicorn. This variant of an ancient game known to the Norse and Celts required a peculiar steadfastness of mind on the part of one player, and much invention and cunning from the other (their tasks being mutually irreconcilable). At intervals during the play it was evident that my friend’s thoughts were wandering elsewhere. Finally, he flung down a piece, leapt up, and bundled on his jacket. My mild enquiries concerning what was ‘up’ elicited the cryptic response: ‘The moon is up, that’s what.’ And the further hurried phrases as we scurried down the steps of the tower block, ‘Madberry Hill—bloody quick—come on.’
    Our progress to the foot of the Hill was a halting combination of brisk walking and occasional urgent spurts of running. Given that Ralph Tyler rarely indulged in activities of any energetic kind, and that my work also tended to foster a sedentary approach, the speed with which we covered the mile and a half from Ralph’s flat to the footpath out of Hillview Avenue was pretty remarkable. I felt my pulses pounding, and my breathing was in heavy draughts. Ralph, too, doubtless labouring under the influence of the cigarettes on his respiration, seemed quite done in. I croaked out a string of questions concerning this abrupt outburst but Ralph merely beckoned the way up the Hill.
    The gaunt spinney was considerably transformed from its mild appearance of earlier in the day. The serried trees on either side of the winding path seemed more dense and brooding. Shadows gathered all about us, with that starkness which the moon carves when it is high and bright. There were scents and sounds in the air, subdued and intangible, which seemed to belong only to the night. We trod cautiously, dodging supple branches whose purpose seemed to be to claw at our eyes and hair, stumbling over raised roots, evading clumps of thorn that loomed in our way. It was difficult to gauge how far we had gone into the wood—I peered ahead, hoping to spot an opening, but there lay only the twisting corridor of intertwining ash and linden, beech and birch, rowan and young oak, matched by flickering grey replicas cast by the gleam of the moon.
    We tramped on wordlessly, Ralph gazing around earnestly. As I listened intently to the quiet rustles and stirrings on each side of us, I became aware of a more sustained hissing from a height just above our heads. I paused, and saw that Ralph had heard it too. It was a sibilant whirring that in its insistence seemed to grow closer to us. The cause became rapidly apparent. Out of the sombre tunnel of trees there streamed a swirling cloud, full of tiny, intricate movement, and billowing out to occupy the whole of the narrow way ahead. Instinctively, we sank to the ground. Then the susurrus seemed to fill the air, and we were enveloped by a flock of pale moths, their soft wings beating against our face and neck, their bodies becoming entrapped in our hair. I flailed my arms and shook myself vigorously, but for each that seemed to succumb, a horde of others