Shuckland
By Martin Charlton, with illustrations by Kyle Llewellyn Roberts

T

homas Upton dare not look behind for the hound was following! The one they called ‘Old Shuck’. A notorious beast, he had heard so much about since arriving in this a marshy landscape of inky pools — Grendels the locals called them. A place littered with lonely Saxon churches perched upon hillocks, isolated villages with strange names like Mittleham and Hernfleet, and ancient woods with tales of faeries, witches and goblins.

      Silence reigned here. Only occasionally broken by the harsh haunting cries of wading birds out on the flats, where the weather could change in an instant: one moment the sunlight shimmering upon pools and lakes; the next shrouded in fog or rain that’s rolled in off the sea; and from where, during the dark winter months, a biting northerly would come to sculpt solitary trees into the grotesque.

     To this place the sandy-haired, freckled-faced boy of twelve had been sent; sent, like so many, out of London to escape Hitler’s rain of death. Tom Upton missed his mum. He missed his dad too, who was ‘doing something secret for Mr Churchill’. Not that Tom told anyone, of course. ‘Careless talk costs lives,’ his father had stressed to him. ‘So mum’s the word, old boy,’ his father concluded, tapping the side of his broad nose.

      Tom also missed his friends, some of whom had been evacuated; others had stayed to face the Luftwaffe. He missed his little terrier dog, Patch, and the familiar surroundings of his Islington home. He wished he were away from this awful place, and those awful people he’d been made to live with. Beastly they were! Mean! Horrid! They made him work long hours on their stupid farm, and fed him little for his efforts. They took his comics mother had sent him and gave them, instead, to their pig-face son, William. They force him to eat cheese, even though he’d told them it made him sick, and for that they accused him of being an ‘ungrateful little wretch!’

      For three long months he had suffered their cruelty. Tom frequently thought how he’d rather face all of Hitler’s bombers than spend another day — another moment — here, and now the hound was following!

    ‘Mind Old Shuck don’t get you,’ William Allen giggled, as Tom was ordered to the neighbouring Honeysuckle Farm to ask old Mrs Woolf if she could spare some eggs and flour.

Farmer Allen with his pipe

      ‘Aye, he’s got a particular taste for city whelps!’ said Farmer Allen jovially, through the acrid haze emanating from his pipe. Tom rose lugubriously from his place at the kitchen table, but he was too slow for Mrs Allen, who barked at him to ‘stop dawdling!’ as he miserably shrugged on his duffle coat and stepped out onto the farmyard.

      Dusk was rapidly deepening into the chill of a winter’s evening; the sky, at first an intense blue, soon became coal-black, peppered by stars; and in the stillness Tom could hear the close panting of breath and clicking and scraping of claws upon asphalt. He felt as if this supernatural beast were toying with him. That at any moment it would strike, reducing him to mere ash, as it had done before many years ago. He recalled the miller’s tale, which William Allen had narrated to him upon his first night at Mothersole Farm; a tale that had been told with much relish at the discomfort it caused.

The foolish miller meets Black Suck.

      It went as thus: bound for market one autumnal day during the reign of George III, a miller found his way blocked by a huge jet-black hound, with eyes like burning embers that wept tears of fire, and a wearing a malicious grin. The miller shouted at the beast to move, but it just sat there defiantly staring back.

      ‘Go on!’ exclaimed the miller. ‘Away you foul beast! Away!’

      But still the creature would not move.

     The miller got down from his cart and approached the hound, gesticulating angrily with his arms and shouting further; and yet still the hound would not move! Infuriated by such flagrant defiance, and from a dumb beast at that, the foolish miller returned to his wagon and grabbed a wooden club he carried in case of highwaymen or footpads. He then struck out at the creature and was instantly turned to ash, along with his horse and cart. Now Tom expected a similar fate. That either tomorrow, or the next day, someone would find his blackened twisted corpse and instantly know that Old Shuck had been about.

      But there were even more horrific tales of death and mutilation suffered by those unfortunate enough to meet Black Shuck between the hours of dusk and dawn; tales that had brought Arthur Conan Doyle himself to this region, and later write The Hound of the Baskervilles. Tom wished he was as fearless as Sherlock Holmes, but truth be told he was terrified, and it took every ounce of willpower to keep moving and not look behind. Nowhere was truly safe from this devilish manifestation. Not even the village church, which still bore the scars of a previous visitation made by the hound one Sunday morning many centuries ago.

      It was 1577, and during a particularly fierce thunderstorm, and to the locals’ astonishment, the church began to quake. Then Old Shuck appeared in a blinding flash of fire and smoke by the altar. The terrified parishioners thought the Devil himself had materialized, and mass panic ensued. The hell hound then rushed down the aisle and through the panic-stricken crowd, killing a farmer and his young son; their bodies instantly twisted and charred upon impact. Others had to live with blacken hands and arms that had shrivelled up like a draw purse, as the fiend hound brushed pass; or had suffered no physical injuries but were broken in spirit for the rest of their days. Old Shuck, in all his terrifying majesty, then left his mark on church door, rising upon his hind legs; his immense front paws clawing into the oak panelling before disappearing in another blinding flash, which tainted the air with a foul sulphurous odour. Tom had seen those marks. Deep charred grooves burnt into the wood, as if someone had been at it with a hot branding iron. Proof of the hound’s existence? Not arf! Tom thought nervously.

      In a bid to lift his spirits he started singing “Pack up your troubles” quietly to himself. It was a song granddad Bill had taught him. But Tom’s rendition was underlined with tense anticipation. It wasn’t easy putting Old Shuck out of your mind, not when his icy malevolent presence was following you.

      The full moon had by now turned the landscape metallic grey, casting long foreboding shadows, which only raised further Tom’s already heightened anxiety. The haunting cry of a fox mutilated the silent night, causing the boy’s alert senses to jump, and not knowing what it was he let out a cry of alarm. What else was lurking out there? There it was again! Somewhere off to his right; over there, where the dark shapes of skeletal trees huddled together as if they too were afraid. A third cry! It could not be the hound for the unnatural oppressive coldness it emanated still clung to Tom’s back; the panting breath and clicking claws told him Old Shuck was still only a few paces behind.

The moonlit countryside of Shuckland

      Tears began to well as he considered the likelihood that he would never see his mother and father again. Never see any of his friends. Never see Patch, or the familiar sights, sound and smells of home. He didn’t want to be burnt to ash. Nor stay with the beastly Allens. He didn’t want to come here in the first place. He just wanted to go home.

      Through the sobbing he begged Old Shuck to leave him alone. Still he dare not face the creature, but kept walking onwards. ‘Go and haunt pig-face,’ he pleaded. ‘He deserves it! Not me! Go and haunt him! Go and haunt pig-face! Go and burn pig-face!’ He repeated these words over and over, with little thought of the consequence, but the hound only seemed to ignore him.

      By now Tom had lost all perception of time; had he been walking for a few minutes, half-an-hour, an hour? He had only once before walked the distance between Mothersole Farm and Honeysuckle Farm, and now he desperately tried to remember how long it had taken. The night made everything so alien. All signposts had been removed because of an imminent German invasion, making it difficult for him to get his bearings. Was he nearly there? He hoped so! Or had he still some way to go? Oh to God, he hoped not!

      He turned a corner and in the distance could make out the silhouette of a group of buildings. As he neared the farmhouse Tom noticed the oppressive coldness, which had plagued him since leaving the Allens farm, lift and he instinctively knew that the hound had gone. The frighten boy frantically rapped his knuckles against the front door, and eagerly waited for a response.

      ‘It’s young Thomas, isn’t it?’ asked Mrs Woolf from the doorstep.

      ‘Yes,’ he croaked.

      ‘You all right me dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she asked concerned, noticing his pale complexion in the warm glow emanating from within the house.

      Tom mentioned the strange cries out on the marshes, but said nothing of the hound. Mrs Woolf, placing a reassuring arm around the boy, guided him in and sat him by the living room fire.

      ‘Nowt to worry about, deary,’ she reassured, with an angelic smile. ‘It’ll be a fox, mostly likely. There’s all types of creatures skulking about at night around here, even at this time of year. I was just making some coco, would ya like some?’

      Tom nodded, saying that he would, and thanked the old lady for her kindness.

      Mrs Woolf, Tom estimated, was as old as granddad bill, with long smoky-grey hair; weather sculpted timeworn face and knotted fingers from years of hard graft. But despite her age her eyes still gleamed with energy, and she seemed pretty agile too; though during Tom’s last visit the old lady had commented how she was no longer a ‘spring chicken’.

      From the kitchen he could hear the sound of cups and saucers, and Tom couldn’t help wishing he’d been sent to stay here instead. Perhaps then he wouldn’t miss home as much as he did. But Mrs Woolf already had a couple of land girls lodging her, and, until recently, her son Jim; now somewhere in France serving with his regiment.

      As she returned into the living room, carrying a tray with three cups of steaming coco, the old lady repeated her earlier reassurance to the boy that he’d probably heard a fox or some other nocturnal creature.

      ‘Nowt to worry about deary,’ she repeated. ‘It’s not as if you heard Old Shuck. Now that’s something to fret about, I can tell ya!’

      Raising the cup to his lips, Tom asked what he sounded like.

      ‘It starts as a low howl,’ replied Mrs Woolf , ‘but then grows louder until you have to cover yer ears to stop ’em burstin. Those unfortunate to hear Old Shuck never forget the sound of him in a hurry, but they’re luckier than those who cross his path, mind you.’ She then enquired Tom what had brought him out at such at late hour? He mentioned the eggs and flour Mrs Allen requested (the old witch!). ‘Let me see what I can spare for ya, deary,’ she said, and then returned to the kitchen.

      Tom heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and a land girl he knew as Sally entered the room. She was about twenty, plain looking, with auburn hair. She spoke with a London ascent, which he loved to hear; a little piece of home in an otherwise frightful land.

      ‘Hiya, Kidda, what brings you out here?’ Sally asked, a little concerned.

      Tom repeated he was on an errand for Mrs Allen, but said nothing of the strange cry or Old Shuck. He didn’t want Sally to think he was a sissy, frightened of a silly fox; or even a mere ghost. He then asked where Grace, the other land girl, was tonight.

      ‘Out on a promise,’ Sally reply with a cheeky smile and a wink. ‘But don’t go blabbing, alright?’

      Tom acquiesced with a nod of his head.

      From then on they talked mainly about London, and how it was coping with the daily bombing raids. ‘It’ll take more than that for Gerry to break us, wont it kidda!’ Sally said defiantly. Tom nodded, wondering – hoping – his parents and Patch were alive and save. It had been a week since his last letter home and as yet he’d received no reply. The thought that something dreadful may have happened caused a nauseating feeling to stir in his stomach.

      Mrs Woolf returned with a small brown paper bag and handed it to him. He thanked her for the coco and was about to leave when Sally reminded him not to forget his flashlight. When he mentioned that he didn’t have one the two women gasped with mild horror. Tom explained he could find his way back in the moonlight, but neither Sally nor Mrs Woolf were having any of it, and he was given a large silver flashlight; the end of which was covered with tracing paper to dim its beam. Even out in the countryside it was against wartime regulations to have an unshielded flashlight, in case it aided enemy aircraft.

      ‘You can return it tomorrow,’ said Mrs Woolf with a smile.

       Tom thanked them and left for his return journey to Mothersole Farm and the moaning ungrateful Allens, who were probably wondering, ‘what was taking that bloody boy so long?’ As he stepped outside the clear night air had been replaced by a swirling veil of sea mist. He switched on the flashlight, waved goodbye and headed off, expecting the hound to be waiting.

      It was not.

      Throughout his journey back Tom cast the flashlight slowly around like a warship searchlight; its already feeble beam cutting virtually no distance before being swallowed by the vast grey shroud that enveloped him. On a clear night it would have illuminated a mere two or three foot ahead of him, but within the swirling shroud it was ineffectual!

      In the intense silence Tom’s footfalls seemed unnaturally loud upon the asphalt. His breathing became more rapid and shallow; his anxiety grew with each step as he expected Old Shuck’s return at any moment; perhaps around the next bench or lurking in a nearby grove of trees – but still he saw nothing.

      The further he went without seeing or hearing the hound the more confident he became. Again he lost all perception of time, and was beginning to think that the beast had either forgotten or got bored with him. Then through the swirling mists he spotted two saucer-shaped eyes glowing ahead, followed by a large black body. Fear instantly rose from the pit of Tom’s stomach, creeping throughout his body; pickling his skin and almost turning his legs to jelly. For moment the boy paused, not knowing what to do. He thought about crying out for help, but knew it would be useless. There was no one to save him. He was alone!

      What if he made a run for it? Perhaps try to get back to Mrs Woolf and Sally? No, too far! The hound would be upon him within moments. Well then, if he was going to die he would at least die fighting! Tom tightened his grip on the flashlight, his only weapon and cautiously approached. Within a few paces he noticed the beast sat directly in front of the gate leading to the Allens farm; either side a low dry stone wall disappeared off into the fog.

Old Shuck

      Old Shuck was every bit as immense and formidable as its reputation predicted: a rough jet-black coat, large wolf-like head, large round eyes that shone like lanterns, huge paws, and it grinned a set of dagger-like teeth.  The beast seemed to show intelligence; a self-awareness, and even enjoyment at the terror it was inflicting. Tom fully expected it to speak; to utter a menacing threat or prophesies his imminent death, but it said nothing. Panicked by his predicament, the boy thought about finding another way to the farmhouse. There was another gate that lead to the back of the farm, but he instinctively knew that the hound would be there waiting. What to do? For a moment he was too awe struck to do anything, as the miller’s story replayed in his mind. Then he became angry and started shouting obscenities and waving his arms at the beast. Old Shuck didn’t flinch, but stared defiantly back, almost mockingly. Tom picked up a large stone and hurled it at the creature. It missed, landing with a dull thud in the damp grassy verge, and still there was no reaction from the beast.

      Three months of bottled up hatred was verbally vented towards the hound, which remained motionless throughout. Only when it looked up did Tom, himself, notice a droning noise coming from behind, growing louder by the moment.

      There was something familiar about it, and yet something odd. It sounded mechanical. An engine! It coughed and spluttered as if it were running out of fuel. Tom now turned his attention towards the noise, all thoughts of the hound momentarily pushed to one side, hoping to see what type of plane it was, for clearly it could be nothing else. Through the swirling blanket of fog the aircraft’s immense blurred bulk soared twenty or so feet over his head, followed by a rush of air. Fire spewed out from its engines as the plane continued to lose height. There was a sickening crack; a shearing of metal, as it finally hit the ground, and slid straight into Mothersole farm. In those few seconds of tearing metal it sounded as if the plane itself were screaming its inevitable fate, as a falling man may scream as he plummets from a great height to the ground below.  The resulting explosion threw Tom to the ground. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around his head and brought his knees to his chest, as fragments of the plane and farm were scattered around him. There were other smaller explosions and the sound of panicking animals trapped in the now burning barns, before, finally, the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the flames.

      Tom, covered in dirt and grit, slowly got to his feet. Old Shuck was looking over its shoulder at the inferno. Then it slow turned its gaze back to terrified boy, and once more grinned as if to say, ‘look what I’ve done’. Then it began to grow, becoming larger and larger, until it was nothing more than a thick impenetrable cloud. Its glowing eyes faded like the stars before the dawn, until they had disappeared altogether. Finally the cloud slowly evaporated into the murky damp air, leaving Tom frightened and alone…

*

Sally was first on the scene. She found him lying curled up and sobbing on the ground. Soon other people arrived, all asking questions, but Tom couldn’t answer any of them. Everything seemed so surreal, as if he were caught in a terrible nightmare. Then he remembered what he had said to the hound on his journey to Honeysuckle Farm. ‘Go burn pig-face!’ Only then did the horror of his situation take on a deeper and more intense connotation. For many years Tom felt guilty about what happened to the Allens. True they were beastly to him, but did they really deserve to die so horridly?

      For the rest of that winter, after an initial brief stay at Mrs Woolf’s, he returned to London and faced up to the German bombers that came most days and nights to broadcast death and destruction of their own.  As to the cause of the crash it was to remain a mystery – even after the war. The authorities wouldn’t even disclose the type of plane or whose it was – theirs or ours. But for Thomas Upton the greatest mystery of all was why? Why had Old Shuck, a creature with such a fearsome reputation, saved his life? For what purpose had he been spared? This he pondered until his final breath – only then, as he stood many years later upon the scaffold, soon to be hanged for murder, did everything finally become clear.

  

 The End

An earlier version of Shuckland was originally published in the September/October 2010 issue of The New Writer; revised and expanded, February 2018.

© Copyright (text) Martin Charlton, 2010, 2018.

© Copyright (illustrations) Kyle Llewellyn Roberts, 2018.