The earth felt colder than usual. The year was coming to an end; it had been a pleasantly warmer winter than usual. This had ensured that Jenkins could continue with the dig much later in the year than he had originally anticipated – the start of Michaelmas Term had been his original end date, but it had come and gone. He felt, as he said to Professor Maltruthers of St John College, that there was more to be found here.
He sat down neatly on the edge of the ridge. The henges, great earthworks that they were, rose around him. On a day like today, with the mist from the direction of Ripon coming inwards, the trees enveloping the horizon and the henges themselves closing around his very form he felt in urgent need of a drink. It was easy, in this distant and remote place to feel awfully spiritual. Christmas was perhaps a perfect time to have such feelings. Jenkins considered them undignified. Long gone were the days that fellows had to be churchmen and he resented the humbuggery that was fostered upon him because he didn’t care for any of it. Our ancestors, Jenkins was often minded to say, may have held all forms of religion close to them but an archaeologist never should.
He reached into his jacket pocket. The pipe was chilly when exposed to the air but once lit, it brought light and warmth to his world. Now this was true magic.
“We’ll be heading off now sir.” Murgatroyd, one of the local farm hands shouted over to him. Jenkins loathed to use local men but necessity and all that. He smiled, his pipe raising upwards.
“You off down the pub then?”
“Ay sir, I reckon you’ll want to as well. They say it’ll be a nippy night, what with the Christmas a coming.” Murgatroyd smiled and walked towards the road, some of the others who had been working on the furthers south henge walking towards him, their lanterns already gleaming in the half drooping evening.
Jenkins grinned, his grin somewhat forced. It was after all perfectly responsible to invite him to such an occasion – he’d partaken of the delights of the local hostelry often enough. However, tonight he felt less than inclined to venture into the tavern. It wasn’t just that over the long, long months since he was meant to conclude his dig, he had become somewhat bored of the jibes about being this or that or that the beer lacked a taste that felt as fulfilling as the beer he was used to. Rather, he had just concluded that his conviction was wrong. His conviction that there was something more here was not right – he’d been wrong to press for the extension to his dig, wrong to think he could find something of significance at these blasted henges.
The henges themselves, merging with the night, seemed to laugh at him. All the grass and gravel had formed into an odd shape, the moving mist making it difficult to tell where the edge of them lay and the land around them started. Jenkins considered, as his pipe fluttered in the breeze and the other men became distant pinpricks on the edge of his vision, that it was perhaps best to find somewhere else to meditate on his predicament.
He stood up. He could leave some of the heavier items till morning. Packing away his bag, he looked for his favourite trowel. It had been one of Flinders Petrie’s, given to Jenkins by the great man after a rather balmy dig in Egypt some years before. He could hardly leave it lying around in the side of a mossy henge in North Yorkshire.
“Damn and blast, where are you?” Jenkins’ furrowed brow looked around the imperceptible blackness of the edge of the henge. It was clear that there was no way in which he could locate his trowel just with his own eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Flicking at the lighter with his fingers, the gloom of his environment became momentarily less thick. He looked towards the ground, hoping against hope that he would see it glittering there, or at least he’d see the handle reaching towards himself, ready for him to grasp it.
“Ha!” The thought elicited a short snort, cutting through the encroaching evening. All very Macbeth this. Good thing there weren’t any Scottish Kings buried in this neck of the woods. As he chuckled, his gaze fell upon the west edge of the northern part of the henge.. It was one he had looked at earlier in the day but thought there was no real reason for further exploration; they already had five trenches dotted at different parts of the site and the opening of a further one so late into the dig’s life seemed like a waste of resources and money. There, stuck into the side of the henge was his trowel, the dirty but still slightly sparkling handle jutted upwards towards the sky. At last, he could finally get off this blasted heath.
Trudging towards it, the winds slightly whipping up his heels. It was time he was getting away from this place. Not only was it cold and uninviting but its remoteness felt, at times, to make it seem cut off not just from the rest of the world but from time itself. The wind continued to whip up, hitting his face. Where had this sudden gust come from?
Reaching down towards the ground he grasped at the trowel. It felt as if it had hit something. Odd, Jenkins thought – if he’d felt anything beneath the trowel sooner he’d have noticed. Bending down, he began to gently uncover more of the earth. Slowly, eagerly, with a renewed swiftness borne of excitement, Jenkins began to peel away the dirt to uncover… something. His eyes peered into the dirt, into the seeming never ending darkness of the soil. He could feel it in his hand, an object, not quite a sphere, not square either. Grasping around the edges he hauled it upwards, aware now of the moon emerging from behind a cloud, glittering down, illuminating what he held in his hands. It was a face, a monstrous green face.
“So, this thing you found – what is it?” The warmth of the pub was still penetrating his mind as he sat at a corner table with Richards glugging down a pint in between taking vociferous bites from a large steak pie.
Jenkins looked around him.
“I’m… I’m really not sure I want to show it to you here. There are far too many people and I feel as if it might cause a bit of a scene. You know what these people are like.” Jenkins tapped at the side of his bag, his agitation getting the better of him. He needed to get Richard’s opinions on it but he was afraid of… he wasn’t sure what. Fear had crept upon him since finding the face only hours before. The way it looked both by the light of the moon and by the light of his lighter had disturbed him. It had seemed truly unnatural – a thing that shouldn’t have been seen by anyone.
“Look, come on, it’s nearly Christmas now. We can’t go wallowing in gloom and the like. I’m sure it’ll all look different once the hols are over. And if it is as good of a find as you say it is, well it’ll be a bumper New Year’s treat for the college won’t it!” Richards downed the last residual traces of his drink and swept the crumbs of the pie that lay in front of him.
“Let’s turn to more festive matters! What are you planning on doing for the season of goodwill? I hope not just shut up in your room looking at bits of pottery.” Richards eyed the rest of the room. The wind had whipped up at the side of the pub’s windows. Jenkins followed his gaze. Certainly, as the evening had drawn on, the number of occupants had thinned out. Presumably they would be returning to their homes, ready to prepare for the festive season itself. Christmas Eve was surely only hours away.
“I… well I’m not sure honestly.” Jenkins still felt uneasy somehow. His collar felt tight despite it being exactly the same as when he had fastened it that morning. The side of his head seemed to pulsate as if something was gnawing at his scalp. What on earth was the matter with him? He’d discovered what could be the most significant find of the whole dig and yet… and yet there was something about it that he could neither place nor appreciate. Something disturbing about it all.
“Well, you will at least join me for one last drink eh?” Richards seemed to have decided that the best course of action, at least in the short term, was to let the wind subside and occupy himself with another pint.
“Yes of course. I would be delighted to.” Jenkins tried to relax. He was, after all, being unreasonable. For goodness sake, he had made a great discovery and he should be enjoying both it and the beginning of the Christmas festivities. As Richards went towards the bar to order the drink, Jenkins began to relax. The fire, flickering in the corner, felt inviting. Surely what he was thinking was merely stuff and nonsense? It was not a case of finding some rationale for the obscure or bizarre but rather getting a grip of himself. He felt he needed to simply be firm. Firmness of mind would see him through this emotional blip.
Richard returned with the drink.
“Sup up old man, this will put the colour back into your face.” Jenkins nodded and took the drink. Knocking it back, he turned towards the window. The sky was black now and there was barely a light to be seen in the gloom. And yet… Jenkins was sure he could see something. He peered at the window. The pitch blackness seemed to be parting for a shape, coming out of the night like a light breaking across the sky.
At first, he could see only a blue body, oddly stark against the blackness of the night. He turned to look at Richards. He seemed totally oblivious to the man, for he could tell it now was a man, walking with intent towards the window. None of the few remaining patrons seemed to notice him either. He staggered forwards, his arms outstretched, beginning to edge towards the glass. The hands almost touched it.
“Richards…” Jenkins felt hardly able to breath and yet he knew he must warn everyone. How could they not see this creature?
“Yes?” Richards had been sitting contemplating his slowly decreasing pint.
“Can you not see that? That…” Jenkins’ eyes felt glued to the window. The closer that the creature had got to it, the more he was able to ascertain that the place where his face should be hollow. What should have been a face was more a lack of face, a gap where the eyes and mouth must, should, had to be.
“I’m afraid I can only see the dratted night. Not even a fleck of snow yet though, old Charlie Maltruthers would be disappointed, what!” Richards chuckled to himself. Jenkins got to his feet with a start causing the table to topple. The other patrons, mainly farmers who disliked their precious leisure time being disturbed all stared at him.
“Steady on, old boy what’s the matter?” Finally, Richards seemed concerned but Jenkins knew that it wasn’t for the right reasons.
“I must… I must go.” Jenkins grabbed his bag and headed for the door, aware that the man who had been standing there, reaching towards the window, had gone.
He sat at his desk, the mask before him. He was certain it was a mask. The mask of a face but in its proper surroundings quite clearly nothing but a decorative piece. It had, he presumed, been made for some kind of ritual that had occurred at the henges many thousands of years before. The green metal had been shaped into a mask of a face screaming – the mouth wide and open, the eyes raised upwards. He turned it over on its back. There were clear signs of where the face would have had some rope or some knot of some sort attached to it, in order that it could go around the back of the head. It had clearly worn away over time but the holes on the side of the mask clearly showed where they could have gone.
“Nothing, nothing simpler to it,” Jenkins said to himself. He felt as if saying it out aloud would make it easier to comprehend. He had simply been overtired. The excitement of the find had gotten to him and caused him to see… well unnatural occurrences. That was the only way he could describe it – an unnatural occurrence.
He laid it down on his desk and turned back towards his bed. It had been a long day and he felt he perfectly deserved a rest. The bed looked more comforting than at any other point during his stay – Mrs Longfellow was an amiable enough woman but her tendency towards harsh living was not confined to the frugal meals she provided.
Easing out of the chair, Jenkins moved towards the bed.
He heard a creak. It was distinctly a creak on the stairs for where else could it come from?
“Hello? Is that you Richards?” Silence. If it had been Richards he might have expected some kind of announcement of his arrival anyway…
“Mrs Longfellow? I’m turning in for the night, I don’t need anything else.” Silence. Jenkins was beginning to feel that same sensation of unease again. What was causing this noise?
A creak again. Louder this time, more defined. Not the creaks of an old home. The creaks of movement. A pause. Jenkins stood still, the candle in his hand continuing to burn the light dancing across his face.
Another creak. And another… whatever it was, it was moving. Not away. Towards him.
Jenkins moved towards the door, bolting it.
“I’m going to lock the door now.” Maybe announcing this fact would put whatever it was off. Signal that he would hold no truck with it.
Silence again. Then another creak.
“Listen, if you continue this… this foolishness I will have no choice but to call a constable and no one wants to spend Christmas in a cell, do they?” His voice attempted to project calm, but it could not. There was, he felt it as he spoke, a sliver of panic. A feeling of unease. The same unease he had felt in the pub. Surely… it couldn’t have followed him?
Jenkins began to back away from the door. The only other exit he could see was the window and that would hardly prove ideal as a means of escape. He looked around him. The few pits of kit he kept in his room would be no real means of defence against whatever it was. The creaking grew closer and closer. Jenkins’ chest tightened. He felt ready to let out a scream, but he was sure none could come.
The door began to open, the bolt sliding back as if by some invisible force. The door flung open and there stood the man, the thing. His blue body shone brightly, almost illuminating the room. It lurched towards him, its hands outstretched once more and the gap that was where its face should have been uttered one single word.
“Face.”
Jenkins stared down at his desk. The bright green metal face, contorted into a scream, lay there. In an instant he picked it up and threw it towards the figure. It hit his chest and fell to the floor. The creature seemed to look in his direction, almost quizzically if such a thing could be quizzical. Its hands bent down towards the mask. It gripped it in its blue hand, turned and began to walk away.
Jenkins fell to the floor, his eyes ablaze with nothing but true fear, as the blue figure seemed to melt through the door and the creaking noise began again, moving downwards.
“So you’ve decided to pack up then?” Richards seemed somewhat less than enthusiastic about shifting from his seat.
“Yes. I think you were right in what you said last night.” Jenkins looked down at the wooden table, his eyes staring into the ringers that seemed to intersect in the middle of it.
“What was it I said? I’ll be perfectly honest, I can’t remember much.” Richards’ eyes seemed foggy at the memory of the past few days.
“That we should pack up. There’s nothing more to be found here. That’s what I’ll say in my final findings, both for the University and the Association’s sake.” Jenkins stood up and looked down at Richards.
“If you say so, old man. I had a mind to go to the north of Sudan this year anyway if I can get the funding so I’m happy to leave here as soon as possible.” Richards, somewhat shakily, got to his feet.
Casting his eyes across at the henges, Jenkins sighed. It had been a great find. Just not his to make. He turned and walked back towards the road. As he walked further and further away, he couldn’t help but hear a strange noise, almost like a voice, whipping across the fields and towards him.
“Face,” it seemed to say.
Jenkins turned, aghast. There was nothing he could see now but a strange figure standing on one of the henges, the blue of its body cutting through the dullness of the day. He was sure that, if he peered hard enough, it could see that now instead of the gap where once had been a face, a green, sightless one was fixed, fixed it seemed, in an everlasting scream.
