The Cave Read Free

the ground. The sharp needles of the fir trees bowed low over it.
    The right-hand path was much steeper, but
more direct. It plunged straight down the mountainside rather than running in a zigzag.
    Freddie looked down at his leather shoes. The tips were stained dark and water was seeping in through the soles. He thought of his sturdy hiking boots left in his little car, then sighed. There was nothing to be done.
    He took the right hand path. It had a lonely feel to it. There were no fresh wheel tracks. There was no sign that the leaves on the ground had been disturbed, no sense that anyone had recently passed this way. Even the air seemed colder. The going got rougher. Stones, uneven earth and fallen branches tumbled from the overgrown bushes on either side.
    Freddie felt as if the mountain was closing in upon him. Shock had set in and his relief had faded. Now, the woods seemed strangely silent. No birds sang, no rabbits or foxes or mice moved in the undergrowth.
    ‘A place of ghosts,’ he muttered.
    An April mist was now setting in, creeping up without warning. Freddie sped up. He started to imagine shapes, outlines, behind every tree. Once or twice he even turned round, sure that someone or something was watching him from the dark forest around him.

    There was nothing there. No one.
    Finally, the land levelled out. Freddie found himself standing on a patch of flat ground that looked down over a picture-postcard village. His eye was caught by a twist of grey smoke. He narrowed his gaze and looked more closely. Houses, dwellings, fires burning. Freddie gave a sigh of relief. He had made it.
    Now he could pick out a cluster of red-tiled roofs, half shrouded in the mist. Freddie was cold and hungry and his legs felt as if they might give way under him at any moment. But now he was almost there, he felt a burst of energy and picked up his pace. In his mind he could already hear the comforting clatter of the cafés and bars, the rattling of plates in the kitchens, the sound of human voices.
    Freddie walked fast across the wet ground towards a small stone bridge in the far corner of the field. As he crossed over, Freddie glanced down to the stream below. The water was racing, lapping against the underside of the bridge and splashing up over the banks.
    Then, in the distance, Freddie heard the thin tolling of a church bell. The mournful single note was carried on the wind to where he stood listening. He counted the chimes.
    He raised his eyebrows. Four o’clock. The last
he remembered, the clock on the dashboard of the car was at two. Freddie listened until the last echo of the bell had died away then carried on across a second field covered with tiny blue and pink mountain flowers, like confetti scattered in a churchyard after a wedding. Around the edge of the field, poppies grew tall and bright red, like splashes of blood.
    At last, Freddie reached the outskirts of the village. A white mist hung like a veil over everything, skimming the tops of the houses and buildings. The grass under his feet gave way to a track wide enough for a cart to pass along. The surface was muddy after the rain, the colour of gingerbread.
    He came to a small wooden sign set at the side of the road.
    He read the name of the village out loud. ‘Larzat.’

Chapter Five
    Freddie walked slowly into the village. He passed a few low buildings that looked like stores or animal pens. Then, as he got closer to the centre, the houses began.
    Even allowing for the storm, the village seemed oddly empty. Nothing seemed to be open. Once he thought he heard footsteps in the distance, muffled by the mist. Once he thought he heard the bleating of sheep. But when he listened again, all was quiet.
    The state of the road got better, the buildings more grand, the further he went. The larger houses had laurel trees in wide wooden planters outside their doors. But, still, he saw no one. No signs of day-to-day life. All the shops were boarded up and the wooden shutters