The Man in the Moss Read Online Free PDF

about it and awake
with a whimper, reaching for his warm missus. And then fall asleep and wake
again, his sweat all over both of them and his mind bulging with the moment he
bent down and found his hand was gripping its cold and twisted face, his thumb
between what might have been its teeth.

 
    Part Two
     
    black glow
     

 
    From Dawber's Book of Bridelow:
     
                            The first-time visitor to Bridelow is
strongly urged to approach it from the west, from which direction a most dramatic
view of the village is attained.
                            From a distance of a mile or two, Bridelow
appears almost as a craggy island when viewed from the narrow road which is
virtually a causeway across Bridelow Moss.
                            A number of legends are attached to the Moss,
some of which will be discussed later in this book.
     
     
    CHAPTER I
     
    In early summer, Bridelow
hopefully dolls herself up, puts on a bit of make-up and an obliging smile for
the sun. But the sun doesn't linger. On warm, cloudless evenings like this it
saves its final pyrotechnics for the moor.
                Sunset lures hues from the moor that you see at no other
time - sensual pinks and melodramatic mauves which turn its stiff and spiky
surface into velvet
     
    ... a delusion, thought
Joel Beard, soon to leave theological college. A red light tenderizing the face
of an old whore.
                He had his back to the sinking sun. To him, it seemed
agitated tonight, throwing out its farewell flames in a long, dying scream. As
well it might.
                Most of the lonely village was below the moor, and the
sun's flailing rays were missing it. The stone houses hanging from the hill
were in shadow and so was the body of the church on its summit. Only the spikes
of the church tower were dusted with red and gold.
                Joel dismounted from his motorbike.
            In the centre of the tower was
a palely shining disc. Like a rising full moon, it sent sneering signals to the
sun: as you fade, it promised gleefully, I'll grow ever brighter.
                Joel glared at the village across the sullen, scabby
surface of the Moss. He imagined Bridelow under moonlight, stark and white as
crow-picked bones.
            Its true self.
                The disc at the centre of the tower was actually an
illuminated clock face, from which the hands had long ago fallen.
            Often said to be a friendly
face which turned the church into a lighthouse at night, across the black ocean
of the Moss.
                ... you see, at one
time, Mr Beard, very few people dared to cross the Moss ... except those for
whom the Devil lit the way - have you heard that legend?
                It was no legend. On a dark night, all you would see of
the village would be this silver disc, Bridelow's own, permanent full moon.
                Was this how the Devil lit the path? Was this the Devil's
light, shining from the top of the stairs in God's house, a false beacon for
the weak, the uncertain and the disturbed?
                Joel's black leathers straightened him, like armour, and
the hard white collar lifted his eyes above the village to the luminous moor.
Its lurid colours too would soon grow dull under the night. Like a harlot's
cheap dress.
                From the village, across the barren Moss, he heard voices
raised, a shriek of laughter.
                The village would be alive tonight. A new landlord had
installed himself at the decrepit local inn. The Man I'th Moss, thus saving it
from closure, a side-effect of the widely condemned sale of the Bridelow
brewery.
                Joel waited, astride his motorbike, his charger, until
the moor no longer glowed and the illusion of beauty was gone.