The Perils of Spriggans by Rebecca Penfold

The air is cool in contrast to the near burning heat of the mug between my palms. From the second floor, I can easily see through the leafless branches of the oak tree and beyond the old, stone wall bordering my back garden into the wide-open field that lies behind it. A low hill sits in the middle with a tall grey stone standing at its peak.

There are more stones scattered around it haphazardly, seeming to be without pattern, some having fallen long ago but others still standing tall. I can’t see the village from this side of the house, but I can faintly hear the boisterous laughter and shrill squeals of the local brats playing on the battered road out front. The whole place is old, but sturdy, and so small it is almost impossible not to know everyone.

This place has always been so beautiful. A small village with barely any houses, quiet and surrounded by fields. And it will stay that way.

This is the sixth attempt in the last five years at building on the stones. It never lasts long.

They have no idea what they are messing with. The locals warned the first crew, and the second, and the third but they didn’t listen, so what’s the point?

Kat trots across the grass to investigate and upon reaching one of the construction workers, she rubs her small black and white body against his calf, I assume meowing obnoxiously. He looks down at her, but he is facing away from me so I cannot see his face. He steps away, shooing her with his hand.

A large yellow digger rumbles and beeps loudly, drawing my attention, the bucket stooping down to take the first scoop of soil from beside a fallen stone.

Which one first?

The fingers of my left hand gently tap against the ceramic of my mug, glancing about the field between the workmen. My eyes focus on the only man wearing a suit. If it’s not him, I swear I’ll wear that horrible itchy jumper gran knitted for a week.

The trees begin to sway outside the window, a bare oak branch scraping gently across the glass. The chimney whistles quietly and I pull my hoodie tighter around my body, shivering slightly.

Glancing back toward Kat, my blood boils as a different man kicks out his foot and narrowly misses her head. He cries out as his foot keeps its course upward until he hangs upside down seemingly from nothing, but only for the briefest of moments before his body drops head first to the dirt.

“Thank you.” The words fall from my lips almost silently, but I know that I am heard. Best to be polite, for I wish no wrath upon myself. Grandad’s words echo in my mind.

The driver climbs out of the parked digger, swinging the door shut as the suited man walks beneath the large bucket to see what the commotion is. There is a long, loud metallic groan as the arm of the digger suddenly drops. The thud is so loud I can hear it from here, the bucket crushing the man and hitting the grass. I take a sudden step back, teeth sinking into my lip. I should be used to this by now.

The screams and shouts come through the thin glass easily.

Sighing heavily, I notice my tea has gone cold.

…

Standing groggily at the oven I stir the hot chocolate powder into the bubbling saucepan of milk, adding pinch of lavender to help with sleep. The wind howls violently outside, crashing against the side of my home like heavy waves against cliffs. The pelting raindrops on the roof echo through the cottage, the walls and windows rattle threateningly as if moments from caving in and crushing us.

Kat gracefully pounces up onto the counter next to me, meowing loudly.

“Get your dirty paws off the work top, that’s where food goes.” She sits in defiance… Cats.

The building has been on hold for the last few days pending investigation into the death of the man.

They are still angry. Even with the ground repaired and no one near their home for days. Briefly, I wonder if this storm will be as destructive as the last. I believe the only reason all the houses in the village are still standing is because they know the crimes against them were perpetrated by outsiders and that we took no part in it.

The sounds of the storm roar all around me, the pounding in my head increasing as if the noise was trapped in my brain. With a crack of thunder, the power goes out, the only light remaining being the soft flickering of the stove beneath the saucepan.

I take the torch from my pocket and twist the head, bulb reluctantly flickering on. Turning, I point it toward the ceiling and reach up on my toes to turn on the battery lamp hanging there.

Mug of warm chocolate in hand, my tired feet drag me up the beaten old stairs. Entering the bedroom my attention turns to the window, as the wind crashes against the glass even more violently. They must be furious. They’re making one hell of a racket.

Stepping toward the window, I take up a smooth oval stone in my hand and raising it to my face, I look through the water-made hole in the centre.

Through it I can see them. The Spriggans; large, thin figures, tall as trees, traipsing across the field beyond the wall. Although humanoid in shape, it is difficult to make out details through the impenetrable mist, but they are striking none the less. The tallest has towering branch-like antlers hanging from its head, and arms that are too long for its body. The next is smaller but not as thin, and it moves faster and more unpredictably than the others, taking long strides across the field. They look like shadows passing slowly through the murky fog. There is only one other I can see. This one is the smallest and thinnest, it stands unmoving on the garden wall, watching me as I watch it. I don’t like them this close.

Spriggans are the protectors of this land, but they are also dangerous, not the kind of thing you would want to notice you. They are the cause of this storm, they control the earth, air and water, and they do not like to have their homes disturbed.

Placing the stone down anxiously, I force myself to close the curtains. Best not to watch, best not to give them any reason to pick on you.

…

A loud piercing cry startles me from my sleep and I shoot up in bed, heart hammering against my rib cage. Kat falls from my chest in a lump of grumpy fur. Throwing the blankets aside they land on her disgruntled head as I swing my legs off the mattress, rushing to the window in search of the source of the scream.

The site was reopened yesterday upon the closing of the investigation; it was ruled an accident, ‘faulty machinery’ just like last time.

Placing my hand on the sill and peering through the glass, my stomach sinks. Knees weakening, ice cold blood sluggishly running through my veins at the sight. They’ve been picking off the workmen for years, but never have they done anything as sadistic as this…

Words by Rebecca Penfold

Edited by Emily Gough