Free The Story of Cirrus Flux by Matthew Skelton Page A

broken and discarded on the ground. He raked through them with his foot, but could find no evidence of the creature that had once dwelled inside. Not a feather, not a shell. Even the pellets he had seen the last time had disappeared. Had he been mistaken? Had all of his suspicions been wrong?
    A sound caught his ears.
    Tap-tap-tap
.
    It sounded like someone hammering in a smithy and seemed to be coming from the edge of the neighboring field. Black Mary’s Hole.
    A cold sensation trickled down his spine and he wished again that Bottle Top was with him, to lend him courage and support. He glanced at the mass of ash-gray buildings to thesouth and wondered how his friend was coping on his own. Then, girding himself, he moved toward the sound.
    A trail snaked through the grass on the opposite side of the road and he followed it, knowing that it led to Black Mary’s Hole. For a moment all of Jonas’s late-night stories came flooding back and his heart started to tremble in his chest. Even more terrifying than the tales of Billy Shrike was the legend of the witch who had once drowned her baby in the dried-up well—the spring that gave the hamlet its name. The long blades of grass had been flattened underfoot, and it looked as if something large and heavy had been dragged along the ground. Nettles, half hidden in the undergrowth, stung him with their fangs.
    He came to a river. It was little more than a trickle here, a narrow brook spanned by a rotting bridge, and the water reeked of decay. Rushes grew in clumps along the bank and clouds of midges swarmed the air.
    The sound came again, louder this time, from the other side.
    Tap-tap-tap
.
    He stopped. A row of huts stood on the opposite bank, sprouting like mushrooms from the soil. A cold, scared feeling lodged at the back of his throat and he swallowed it down. Then, taking a deep breath, he slowly advanced across the bridge. The boards rocked and juddered underfoot.
    The noise came again, from further up ahead.
    A path led past the huts to a small clearing in thedistance. Peering nervously from side to side, he followed it, alert for any movement. The huts had long since been abandoned and their windows were nothing more than gaping holes. A black odor filled the air and he inhaled its tarlike scent.
    Just before the clearing was a lone cattle shed, a semicircular stone building with mossy walls and a collapsed roof. The sound of hammering was coming from the other side. He stepped closer and then came to a sudden stop.
    The beams of the shed were thronged with crows. Twenty or thirty of them, hunched inside, hooded like executioners. He dared not move, dared not breathe, but stood in one spot, rooted to the ground. He half expected them to rush at him in a volley of wings and noise, but they remained perfectly still, watching him with their baleful eyes. Then, slowly, they turned their heads to look at whatever was hidden from view.
    Cirrus willed himself closer, taking tiny, timid steps.
    The smell of tar was even stronger now, and he thought he could detect a fiery glimmer in the air. Crouching low, he made his way along the wall until he came to a small window on the western side of the shed. Cautiously, he raised his eyes and peered inside, aware of the birds’ awful presence overhead.
    The gentleman he had seen on previous occasions was inside, stooped over a large wicker basket. A tall T-shaped metal pole protruded from the interior of the basket, and an enormous net of fabric hung above him from the rafters. A variety of instruments dangled from the joists: pots and pans,a compass and even a small anchor. Elsewhere in the shed lay discarded remnants of cloth—just like the sheets Mrs. Kickshaw said had been stolen from the laundry. They had been cut into sections and dipped in a solution that gave them a fine golden gloss.
    A fire flickered just out of sight and threw restless shadows along the walls. Every now and then it erupted into a bigger blaze and the man