The Moor - Laurie R. King [29]
"Cheerful name," I commented. "Lych" was the Old English word for corpse—hence the roofed-over lych gate outside most churches, for the temporary resting of the bier (and its bearers) on the way into the graveyard. I trusted that Holmes, a longtime student of linguistic oddities, would know this.
"Not by coincidence," Holmes replied. "The Lych Way was the traditional track by which corpses were carried to Lydford for burial."
"Good heavens. Do you mean to say there are no churchyards on the entire moor?"
"Not until the year 1260, I believe it was, when the bishop granted the moor dwellers the option of taking their dead to Widdecombe instead."
"Generous of him."
"Interestingly enough, archaeologists find few burial remains other than burnt scraps of bone. I suppose that either the peat soil is so acidic that it dissolves even the heavy bones with time, or else when the turf alternately dries in the summers and becomes saturated in winter, its contraction and expansion eventually pushes the bones up to the surface, where the wildlife finds them and hastens their dissolution. The two hypotheses would make for some interesting experiments," he mused.
"Wouldn't they just? I tremble to think what the 'cut' in Cut Lane refers to."
"A passage dug into the hillside to make the transport of peat easier; nothing more sinister than that. This particular track wends its way along several peat diggings, although it is now in disuse because what peat is still taken off the moor goes by way of the train line just west of here. The track as it is would be quite sufficient to take a well-balanced carriage pulled by one or two horses—though not, perhaps, at any great speed."
The thought of that ride made my teeth ache—or perhaps it was only that they were clenched hard against the cold. This local colour was all very interesting, but I thought it time to bring up one of the more essential matters at hand.
"Holmes, had you planned on taking a meal in the near future? How far is the nearest inn?"
"Oh, miles away," he said absently. "But there is sure to be a farmwife willing to sell us a bowl of soup. However, Russell, I must say I like not the looks of the weather."
At first glance, the sky appeared just as it had since we first trudged up the hill out of Lydford, glowering and grey. Taking a more attentive look, however, it occurred to me that what I had taken as the commonplace annoyance of moisture condensing on my spectacles was in truth much more widespread and foreboding: wisps of mist were rising up out of the land and coalescing around us.
Muttering dire maledictions at himself, Holmes set off rapidly downhill at an angle away from the worst of it, and I hastened to keep up with him. The strategy worked for perhaps twenty minutes, after which the moor laid its soft grey hands around us and we stood blind.
"Holmes?" I called, determined not to panic.
"Damnation," he said succinctly.
"I can't see, Holmes."
"Of course you can't see, Russell," he said peevishly. "We're in a fog." I was relieved, however, to hear his voice begin to come closer. I began to talk, as a sort of audial beacon to bring him in.
"I don't suppose you can do your blindman's trick of finding your way across the moor as you can across London?"
"Hardly," he said, nice and near now. There was even a dim, dark shape from which the voice seemed to emanate. "Do you have your compass?"
"And a map," I said, shrugging off my knapsack to get out the latter. "Perhaps if I brought it up to touch my nose, I might even read it. You know, Holmes, I wouldn't want you to think that I don't appreciate these connubial efforts of yours; you must work very hard to invent little projects we can share. However, must you always take things to such an extreme?"
I stood upright with the map in my hand and the knapsack securely on my foot, and it seemed to me that where the reassuring dark shape had been, there was only unrelieved grey. "Holmes?" I asked nervously. There was only silence.
"Holmes!" I said sharply.
"Quiet,