Rich words coming from the man yet to refer to Ms Coogan by her given name. But Captain Pedantic had let slip that archaeology was her field. This didn’t bode well for Ben’s notions of being headhunted by human resources. On the plus side, his odds had shortened to two-to-one. He just wished he knew what shiny prize awaited him at the finish line.

*

Chloe’s pace had eased, if only for Ben’s sake. Up ahead, great lumps of stone rose through the weeds like distant dolphins. Trees were few, cold and naked; miserable husks so skinny it was as though the cruel earth had denied them even a bead of moisture. They stood around awkwardly in every direction, like party guests that didn’t belong, offering some sense of the miles journeyed and of those yet to come.

‘So,’ Chloe said, glancing over to him, ‘do you think you’ll find anything interesting? Stories, I mean. Our boy, Sparling, seemed a little too excited by it all.’

‘I hope so,’ he replied, breathing easier now. ‘We’ll have to see when we get there. People like to put their own spin on things and if this place is as backward as he thinks, then there’s no knowing what they still believe in or what superstitions survive.’

‘When did he say the church was deconsecrated?’ she asked, stomping on some deadwood with her oxblood Doc Martens.

‘Around the end of the nineteenth century, I think.’

‘Well,’ Chloe said with a smirk, ‘whatever they believe in, they sure as shit don’t believe in God.’

The best storytellers worked the shadows when they spoke. And the night was never so dark than when they let that silence linger, inviting all ears to lean in that bit closer. Theirs was a craft honed through generations and Ben took it as a privilege to have experienced it first-hand. Some spoke only by the light of a single candle or by a carefully chosen window where the trees outside rustled like a nervous audience.

The older ones genuinely believed what they were telling him. He respected their lives, their memories, the vivid colours they retained. But in a way, he felt sorry for them. Myths and folk tales were make-believe; stories to be told but not taken to heart. And yet for these people they were real. They had spent their lives believing in fairies and monsters. Such beliefs didn’t bring happiness. They were passed like a flaming torch with too short a handle, scalding impressionable fingers, imprinting old scars on youthful minds.

The younger generations didn’t get it. That’s why Ben insisted on interviewing the oldest: the grandparents, the great-grandparents, even some distant uncles who didn’t quite fit in at the family table. They trusted him to keep their stories safe. That had been the whole point of his thesis – to preserve what would otherwise have been lost.