West Coast 
Devonshire,
Exeter Central Station
3 November 1898, 5:54 pm

The tiny carriage was just big enough to seat four people. But that was already plenty of room. The benches were anything but comfortable, the upholstery sagged, and the musty smell of many years lingered in the carriage like some perfume. On the solid, rectangular roof above the side windows of the doors, the surly coachman had merely secured the luggage between two iron retaining bars with ropes, causing Kyle more than a bit of concern. Not only because he didn't like his baggage being carelessly thrown and lashed down like a stubborn mule, but also because his fancy suitcase contained some fragile things whose integrity was essential to him, to top it all off, Kyle had to realize that, moreover, they would not be making the journey in just the two of them. With washy, looped turns of words that met with hard-rolled R's that seeped under the tones, the coachman told them in a typical Jenna accent that they would have to wait for another passenger.

Since there were obviously three passengers, there was some possibility of positioning their legs so that they did not bump their knees during the entire journey, but there would definitely have been no space for his luggage. But that didn't change the fact that he had never had to sit in such a tiny, uncomfortable means of transport. The only thing that lifted his spirits was the view from the dirty windows.

He had to admit that the view on this journey offered some variety. From Exeter, they had set off in a south-westerly direction. The landscape had quickly taken them over and enveloped them in autumnal colors. It was fascinating how the death of nature could look so beautiful as the trees dressed in colorful robes and strewn a carpet of brightly painted foliage across the meadows. After less than half an hour, the interesting field system of the countryside finally caught his attention. He had already read that these endless streams, like a patchwork quilt of fields separated by scrub and another overgrowth, had been laid out in the Bronze Age and so preserved. Among other things, there were also correspondingly old dwellings from this period on Dartmoor.

Traveling to an area that had inspired numerous writers with its dark and mysterious scenery was exciting. But all that still interested him far less than the stone circles that could be found everywhere in the area. Unfortunately, their first assignment did not take them to one of those ancient sites to research or investigate related events. Of course, he knew not to expect too much. Many cases were nothing but humbug and, in the end, attributable to the superstition of the people who were too quick to recognize a ghost in the shadows of a sheet in the wind.

Deep forests, endless like labyrinths. Anyone lost could be lost forever, for nature was not merciful. Craggy, rocky slopes, dangerous heights, and pitch-black nights with only the stars twinkling down. Far from any major towns, the sleepy villages found themselves embraced and enclosed in equal measure. In deceptive safety and, at the same time, damning loneliness. They grew up hearing tales of dire wolves, ghostly figures in old walls, or the undead rising from graves. In the darkness, everything was more sinister. The otherwise familiar took on new forms, and sounds that were otherwise lost in the din of daily sounds suddenly stood out so much more succinctly in the stillness of the night. Then the wood groaned, the stove's metal creaked, a curtain blew in a little breeze, or a tree branch knocked unexpectedly on the upper floor windows.

If one shared one's fear with others and these sparks caught fire in other spirits, people could draw each other into a vortex of fear. Stories like this abounded, especially in small villages. Old instincts awoke when the sun disappeared and tightened their nerves. Kyle would lie if he said he didn't understand or felt differently.

Quite, there were enough reasons out there to be genuinely afraid. He knew that all too well, much to his chagrin. Still, most of it was not a supernatural event but a mixture of superstition, fantasy, ignorance, and fear.

From now on, it was his task to find out what was truth and what was only the result of a fearful spirit. Above all, however, to ensure that if the veil of reality did become tattered and anything came through, remedy this problem immediately and ensure that it remained nothing but imagination for the people. So it was better if the Order's dispatched seekers found nothing. He, however, naturally hoped for something. Not only because he had an unhealthy amount of ambition but also because his progress in the Order depended on it. But also for personal reasons. However, the descriptions of the deaths so far led him to believe that it was merely a chain of unfortunate coincidences.

Some time ago, they had left behind the patchwork of shades of green in the fields and farmland. The view out the window soon revealed the hilly landscape, broken by grey rock and minor peaks of rock. The watery ponds and lakes increased, eventually turning the area into the marshland for which Dartmoor was known. Gloomy clouds increasingly engulfed the scenery in the dim twilight, swallowing the sun's rays and laying a veil of grey over the land and her mood.

The rocking and swaying of every pothole on the little-used road made the journey immensely exhausting. The monotonous rattling of the body and the clatter of horses' hooves on the gravel drew its nerve-wracking mantle around the passengers. It made the silence that prevailed there weigh even heavier.

Since they had boarded, he had been writing most intently in his notebook, reading the London Times and occasionally glancing out of the window. Dr. Archer also seemed entirely relieved that he took the liberty of handing him the newspaper after he had finished. He then devoted himself at length to a book entitled 'The Lorsch Pharmacopoeia and Early Medieval Medicine.' It sounded so dry that Kyle would have preferred to take a sip of water after reading the title and so staid that it suited Dr. Archer. No one seemed interested in engaging the others in conversation at first. And he was pretty fine with it.

"Where do you need to get off?" came a soft-edged voice from the seat opposite. Kyle slowly lifted his eyes from his small black notebook, from which numerous individual pieces of paper stood out like shifted pages. Secretly, he hoped he was mistaken and had just imagined the question. But the fact that next to him, Dr. Archer was leaning his book on his knees quickly shattered that hope.

"We want to go to St. George," replied Dr. Archer. As always, sober and direct. Some might have perceived his manner as dismissive or cool. Something about his tone gave the feeling he wasn't interested in conversation in the first place. And perhaps that was indeed the case. But her counterpart did not seem to be deterred by this.

"Then we have the same destination," the man said happily, folding his hands in his lap over the black book labeled 'The Bible.' So what brings them to this little community?"

Inwardly, Kyle groaned. He straightened up a little more in his seat and hoped fervently that Dr. Archer would take care of this matter. But his gaze was rather expectantly on the person sitting next to him. Perhaps he wondered why his usually so talkative, curious partner had not already turned into a wildfire of questions or similar chatter. Typically, Kyle was not averse to chit-chat or a pleasant conversation. He thrived among people and - who would have thought it - loved the spotlight. However, this did not apply to two or three groups of people he preferred to avoid, like the proverbial devil avoids holy water: lawyers, prostitutes, and priests.

The man opposite them, with the round glasses on his nose, the broad smile, and the short-cropped hair, was recognizable as the latter not only because of the black cassock and the white ribbon but also because of the holy scripture on his lap. The rosary on his cingulum was also emblazoned on him like a badge.

Kyle didn't like priests. And that was not only because they blindly believed in a power that didn't care much for them. But also because they always preached to others about a God who performed miracles and promised salvation and healing. And when it failed, it was sold succinctly as 'The ways of the Lord are unsearchable' because they couldn't think of a better excuse. No God had ever helped him in any way. Ultimately, he had always stood alone, and no prayer had ever given him a miracle. Kyle had had to learn bitterly that you could only rely on yourself.

"I'm a writer. I'm seeking a quiet, inspiring area to write my next novel. And my boyfriend is accompanying me." He lied without blushing or even blushing. And Kyle didn't feel bad for a second about lying to a man of God. What did concern him, however, was...

"Are you the parish preacher, Father?" asked Dr. Archer beside him, and Kyle knew what he was getting at.

The report said that the priest of St George had fallen to his death. He was found with broken limbs in the wild roses that grew at the foot of the church tower. By the time the Constable recovered him, wild birds, ravens, and a few wild animals had tried to feast on the gift of a mark. It was not a pretty sight: pecked and torn flesh, torn clothing, empty eye sockets.

"Yes. I am the new preacher of the village and the Chapel of St George."

"You're quite young for a village priest." remarked the social ice-block with a doctorate next to him.

"Benjamin! Please!" Kyle nudged his elbow to the side as unobtrusively as possible.

Painfully, he realized Dr. Archer was more solidly built than he had assumed. He rubbed his elbow with a reproachful look in the doctor's direction, swearing softly. Was he mistaken, or had the bastard just smirked?

The priest laughed flatly at the scene and then waved it off good-naturedly.

"It's all right," he said indulgently, without taking his other hand off his Bible for a second. It was probably his most precious possession. "My ordination was not long ago. This is the first church I've been privileged to serve in the name of the Lord," he explained, placing his hand on his chest. Kyle refrained from rolling his eyes. "It's a small community. But the village has a very long history." he continued. "Not many would venture into the woods of Dartmoor, after all. And certainly not settle there. I was the only one, you must know, who agreed to move to St George to bring the word of God to the poor people again." At this point, the priest tapped his Bible, and Kyle would have liked to bite his notebook. "They say there are still many dangers in the wild woods today. Even the hunters supposedly don't know all the angles."

"Oh, don't tell me." Dr. Archer gave in such a sarcastic tone that Kyle wondered how the priest didn't immediately pick out the apparent disinterest.

"Yes, really!" he jumped in instead, obviously believing he had gained an attentive listener. "The people there live a very... secluded. It took a long time for the pagan beliefs to disappear. Even today, you can find old cults and sacrificial sites in the woods," he continued, feeling without a complete stop.

Kyle wondered if he should nod and then just go back to sleep. If he had been able to sleep on a rattling and hissing train, the monotonous ramblings of a boring priest certainly wouldn't stop him.

"Will the gentlemen be coming to Sunday Mass at St George's, then?"

"Heavens, no!" it escaped him. Just at that moment, he realized for himself that his remark was not only highly inappropriate but that it was anything but wise to antagonize the new priest directly. Hastily, he drew his hand clenched in front of his mouth and cleared his throat, "I mean, Father, I'm afraid that by next Sunday, we will surely have departed."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the scene.

"Oh."

It was that moment when Kyle purposefully took his gaze out the window, preferring to leave the 'nice chit-chat' to the Doctor. He certainly wouldn't do himself a vespers with this Father. The way he was rambling, they would sit in the chapel from Sunday until the following Easter Mass!

The priest could, if Kyle had his way, quietly consider him an infidel heathen, exclude him from his evening prayers, and turn up his nose at him. He didn't give a damn. However, Dr. Archer still seemed to have the courtesy - at least in his way - to converse politely with the priest.

"... the knight Sir Godric of Aldwyn is said to have fought a dragon not far from the hill. After a battle against the beast that lasted twelve days, he finally slew it..."

To say Kyle was only listening with half an ear would have been an exaggeration. Instead, he watched the bright patch of sun sink behind the grey clouds. The fading daylight groped its way across the numerous pinnacles of the fir trees and crept towards the nocturnal calm beyond the horizon. As they passed the tree line and plunged into the forest's embrace, the gloom settled more palpably around the scenery. The rough path caused the carriage to wobble uneasily with increasing frequency, bumping him against Dr. Archer or vice versa, and Kyle struggled in vain to push himself as far as he could into the other corner. Dr. Archer did not seem to feel this discomfort. He at least continued to pretend to listen to the priest's rambling tales. Most of the time, his features remained as stony as they had always been.

"... Today, the torn-off hand is still a precious relic in St. George..."

Dr. Archer gave a "Really? Is that so?" Sarcasm in its purest form.

Kyle wondered why he was fuelling the endless torture as well.

Row after row, the blurred colors of the trees passed by. The dark, which in the last rays of the sun looked more and more like blurred shadows, devoured the last drops of daylight. Even during the day, one could only see a few feet deep into the forest, but now, with the coming of night, the view into the distance became increasingly shorter with each passing minute. No sooner was the sun gone than a cool breeze came up, settled on skin and clothes, and made one shiver. So, after a few minutes, Kyle pulled the coat he had previously tucked into the barely appreciable distance between himself and the doctor out of its position and took it onto his lap and over his arms. He would never have admitted that he was shivering, for the sideways glance of his partner alone made him anticipate the thoughts like a wimp already.

"... It was actually my dream to become a teacher.... but my father was a preacher. So, even as a child, it was clear where my path would lead me. Besides... unfortunately, I don't get along very well with children."

"Really? Hard to believe."

Kyle wondered if he might pass out if he banged his head against the carriage wall several times. Fortunately - and this reassured him immensely - he could tell from the drumming fingers of the man sitting next to him that his patience was teetering near the precipice, too. And Benjamin had bloody well been to war! How long had they been stuck in this prison with this walking blabbermouth? An hour? Jesus. Kyle wanted to scream in frustration at the thought of enduring this chatter for another half hour.

Instead, he stiffly and stubbornly directed his gaze out the window. The mist drifted from the moors between the narrow rows and crept towards the narrow road like an approaching animal on the prowl. The wisps of mist rolled over each other, swept over stones like a tide, and completely engulfed the ground in a short time. It rose, thickened, and not half an hour later, Kyle could barely see further than a few meters into the forest. Thickets, mist, and darkness closed the curtains, though the fabrics in the carriage remained open. With a soft hiss, Dr. Archer lit the two small lanterns that hung inside and, from then on, swung back and forth, clattering softly.

Chapter artwork: The carriage by TheKomor_San.

All collected artwork & further sketches etc. can be found in the chapter *ARTWORKS*.