Hung up my keyboard yesterday and disappeared
into Lancashire’s moorland wilderness for a spot of mental recharging. Took my camera,
folding chair, gas cooker, frying pan, three sausages, two eggs, bacon, bread,
flask of coffee and Jones the dog, and from beneath the flip-up rear door on my
van, watched the rain hammer down on purple hills.
Won’t start waxing lyrical, but autumn
suits our fells and becks. The grass leans away from the wind and the trees
grab hard as they can on the more-rock-than-soil hillsides and it howls over stone
walls, the wind I mean, and Jones’ ears flip out sideways when the wind catches
him poking his nose at the weather. I parked alongside the same road used by
the witch finders back in the seventeenth century; bunch of sad old ladies sent
to greet the hangman’s rope in Lancaster for the heinous crime of keeping a
black cat or giving the king’s tax collector the curse of the vertical finger.
Poor sods; how kind the human race; how convenient for those who did not like
them. Imagine the mayhem if the villagers back then all had mobile phones...
Speaking of ‘witch’, tagged on my
little story; a few minutes of ghoulish entertainment for those of you with nowt
better t’ do!
Legacy
‘As a sickly child,
Pendle’s high moor looked down, dank and pallid-faced from its darkling
Lancashire sky. For most it was a time of heartache and hardship; though for
some, it was a time of merciless opportunity...’
Pendle Hill,
1613
‘Take
your brat, your pigs and whatever you may carry. Be gone from these parts
before sunrise or I shall have you taken before the next summer assizes at
Lancaster.’
‘And
the Devil’s pox upon you, Robert Moresby, for more’n a hundred years my mother
and them before her roamed their pigs on Pendle Hill. Where would I go? Where
would old Jennet Device find food and shelter if it were not here?’
‘The
hangman’s rope’s still warm, Device, out there on Gallows Hill, but a short
cart ride from Lancaster’s Witches’ Tower. It waits for you, Device, just as
surely as the Devil waits for your mother’s soul to rot itself free of the
grave.’
‘Murderers!
You and that Roger Nowell and more’n a dozen others. My family lies in hell
because of your doings.’
‘Sunrise
tomorrow or by all that’s holy I will send you after them.’ Moresby glared down
from the saddle; the stallion, black as Satan’s eyes arched its neck, from
flared nostrils steamed the breath of a cavalry warhorse – pale plumes,
ghost-like in the mist. On stiff legs the horse trembled, agitated by Device’s
scent; unwashed flesh and peat smoke – the raw, cancerous smell of poverty.
‘Then
I will be waiting,’ said Device, ‘and rather that I die on Pendle’s fair slopes
than as food for crows that crowd the hangman’s gibbet at Lancaster.’
‘Sunrise,
then.’ Moresby turned the stallions head. ‘If you are still here, witch, I’ll
see that you get your wish.’
*
‘There’s
smoke in the chimney, squire. Device is watching for you – the hag’s done
little or nothing to heed your warning.’
Moresby
angled his hat to ward off the rain. As well as from the chimney, smoke seeped
out through gaps in the thatching. The walls, built of Pendle grit stood
awkwardly corner-on to a dawn wind. A sow with her piglets grunted for slops
near a woodpile, their skin chapped pink by the cold. A single, tortured
hawthorn bent its back before the wind.
Moresby
slid from the stallion’s back and thrust the reins at his game keeper’s lad.
‘Wait
outside for me, William. Whatever happens, stand firm, do not move unless I bid
you do so.’
‘I
shall stand my ground, squire, though my flesh is that of a plucked goose from
knowing the hag is there behind that wall.’
‘You
fear her?’ Moresby smiled at the boy’s uncertainty. ‘As frail a woman as Jennet
Device?’
The
boy leaned in close to Moresby’s stallion, its great size protection enough; in
his mind’s eye the air itself was filled with malice.
‘She
has been marked by the Devil, sir. I knows of those who’s seen it. You m’n
watch yourself, squire or Device’ll put the evil eye on yer.’
‘Then
let her try, William.’ He dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword. ‘The hell hag will take on more than she has
bargained for.’
Six
stone steps led up to the open doorway; from inside, the stench of pig fat and
piss rolled as a pungent wave to greet him.
‘Come
on out, Device or be judged where you lie.’
‘As
you are judged already, Moresby, can you not be feeling my mother’s breath
inside that fancy shirt o’yourn? You have the devil hi’self inside you, sir – I
see him standing there, his lips on yer pap, sucking on yer, Moresby. Do you
not feel him? Do you not feel him drawing the life from yer!’
‘I
say again, witch, come on out or on God’s word I’ll ferret thee out with the
point of my sword!’
‘Damn
you, Moresby. Leave me be, or as sure as you killed my sister and old Anne Chattox,
one at a time I’ll take yer family wi’ me.’
Scarf-like,
the drizzle wrapped about his neck; Moresby shivered, for the cold had come
upon him as a curse. The sounds that came from the dark were neither animal nor
human, but somewhere in between. It was then he felt the first, tiny insects of
dread scuttle beneath his shirt. He reached for the sword and with the heavy
blade unsheathed, forced himself to step inside the hovel.
‘Show
yourself, Device and keep your witches’ spells for the judge at Lancaster.’
‘There’ll
be no judge, squire Moresby and forewarned you are.’ Like glass on steel,
Device’s voice keened through the darkness. ‘What you do this day will not go
unrewarded. Look to the boy, Moresby, or have you left him there alone with
that horse o’yourn! See the beast, Moresby. Black as Satan’s eyes for is it not
so that you yourself ‘as named him Lucifer?’
With
a ventriloquist’s skill she flung her voice back and forth across the room;
behind and then in front – from the floor and up inside the soot-covered eaves
above his head; that of a girl then that of the harridan. From a deep,
bell-like bass to an effeminate, reedy tremble, winsome then fey her voice
wavered.
‘Look
to the boy, Moresby,’ now the voice of a man, but deep and hideous – that of Satan
himself it echoed about the room, ‘what mortal fool would stand alone in the
company of Abaddon and Barghest?’
‘Save
your tricks for the children, Device. Your witches’ voices hold no threat for
me.’
‘Not
so for the lad!’ now the voice of a girl, without substance, flimsy as the mist
and fine rain it flew about his ears.
The hag has been marked by the devil the boy had told him, and it was then
that Moresby felt the first, leaden hands of superstition drag at his legs;
when he heard the cry, he spun on his heels and ran outside.
The
lad’s eyes were wide open, those that had glimpsed beyond the edge of hell
itself. The stallion stood over him, its great neck arched – the veins along
its throat were black snakes beneath the skin, the beast’s eyes blacker than a
Pendle night. An inch behind his left ear, the boy’s skull had been stove in.
Moresby swung the sword underhand, less than an inch from the stallion’s
throat. The sound it made was that of a falcon’s wings at a full stoop.
Like
an addict freed of the opiate’s veil the stallion quietened and stepped away.
Now, with soft eyes it watched its master cover the terrible wound with the
boy’s own cape – the animal’s breathing steadied – the evil had left it.
Beyond
the cottage doorway, the smoke inside was thicker now, flames as yellowed
fingers reached up waist high from the open hearth. Moresby screwed his eyes
and shouted through the fog, for other than that created by fire he could see
no movement.
‘A
curse on you, witch, you have killed the boy and for that you will pay with
your life.’
‘And
the likes of you and Nowell have killed my kith and kin. The boy is but the
first of many, Moresby; you and others will follow.’
He
took a long slow breath, and then, with his sword drawn stepped inside the
hag’s reeking parlour.
‘By
the rights bestowed on me by the High Sheriff of Lancaster, I will make you
pay, Device! As sure as I live and breathe I will leave you dead within these
walls!’
From
the hearth he lifted a red-eyed ember and plunged it deep inside the roof
thatch. Within that same minute, flames blossomed, feeding on the dry grass –
quickly they found the apex.
Moresby
stepped back through the doorway; silhouetted against a rain sky he peered
through the smoke; from inside of it, wraithlike, Jennet Device seemed to float
above the floor.
Moresby
was struck dumb by the spectacle, his feet frozen to the stone step on which he
stood. Backed by fire, as a spirit trapped between the worlds of life and
death, Jennet Device came towards him, her voice that of a shrieking wind from
Pendle’s high collar.
‘Hell’s
torments seize thee, Robert Moresby! Though you have done me of my life I say
to you of two things! The first – that within this next hour you, yourself will
join me amongst the dead. Already your likeness burns away in this very place
you have destroyed. These hellish flames will take you, Moresby and nowt shall
stop them!
Inside,
the fire turned wild and as some devilish vortex roared ecstatically, yet
Jennet Device came on. From about her form the flames ate off her rags; as
carded wool her hair stood up on end then flew as a thousand sparks from the
roasted casket of her skull. Yet she showed no signs of pain and as some
charred immortal thing came on for the man who stood in her doorway.
‘The
second I pass to you as a foresight. When the time is right, Moresby, I shall
return to Pendle Hill. Upon your children’s children will befall the hellish
ghosts of Chattox, Device and others of Malkin Tower. Those of us you
persecuted; those you sent to Gallows Hill at Lancaster.’ The light had gone
from her eyes and yet living words still came out from her mouth. ‘They will
perish as we have done. I, Jennet Device speak for all my kin – thus I curse
your line, Moresby.’
Unable
to shake himself free of the horror, Moresby gathered his weight and drove his
sword through the harridan’s shrivelled chest. For an arm’s length the steel
leapt from between her shoulder blades – only when her breastbone crashed to
the sword’s steel hilt did she fall against him, her sudden exhalation foul as
the devil’s own breath upon his face, her lips drawn back by the heat in a
grinning rictus of death.
Still
his feet refused to carry him from harm’s way. Held in the witch’s thrall, he
watched the flesh fall from her face – his own clothes took fire, like cats’
claws the pain crawled over him, as though it were alive the inferno wrapped
about his legs and drew him down inside the flames.
*
Rough
Lee, Pendle Hill – October, 2014
Jack
Moresby stood with his back to an open fire, through the living room window he
watched a busy wind pick up leaves and whistle them down the driveway. The
cloud was high enough for him to glimpse the ominous, upper slopes of Pendle
Hill. But the dark was wheeling in; soon it would be black as a witch’s cat outside.
Anyone blessed with a modicum of common sense would be inside, as he was, in
front of the fire with the back of his legs burning. All Hallows’ Eve, another
hour and its magical aura would be well and truly cast over Pendle Hill;
mysterious to some, to others, exciting and spooky – perhaps intimidating –
frightening even. Defender headlights lit up the driveway. The front door
slammed shut against the wind and Jack’s sister blustered into the room.
‘The
car parks are already full of wannabe witch finders, they’re a bloody nuisance,
literally had to force my way between the cars.’ Karen dropped her waxed jacket
on the settee and made for the drinks cabinet. ‘I need a brandy – do you want
one?’
Jack
nodded his head. He accepted the pleasantry, though as Karen’s adopted brother
shared little common ground with her. Karen seldom let him forget that he was
still the Moresby cuckoo; her father’s past philanthropic leanings had already
proved a drain on her inheritance. Jack spoke to her without looking away from
the window.
‘Your
horse all rugged-up and bedded down?’
‘As
best I could with all this wind. I’ll give the weather an hour to settle before
I finish up.’
‘I
can lend a hand if you want?’
Karen
cocked an eye at him. ‘We’ll wind up fighting. Horsey women and their
non-horsey, adopted siblings just don’t get on.’ She handed him a brandy, ‘If
it’s all the same to you I’ll manage on my own. Twenty minutes and I’ll be back
for a fireside supper and a nightcap.’
Karen
flopped down on the settee, parked her drink then retrieved a book from the
coffee table.
‘Not
like you to do any voluntary reading, what brought this on?’
‘Buried
in my desk drawer. Some of your grandfather’s ramblings.’
Karen
recognized the plain, leather-bound cover; she had seen the book before. Though
as a self-confessed fiction addict, showed only mediocre interest in its
contents.
‘Not
my scene, documentary type books bore me silly. Dad raved about it, swore his
father’s literary prowess ran neck-and-neck with Alfred Wainwright’s.’
Randomly,
she thumbed back the pages and then stopped at a sketch of Pendle Hill. The
quality of the artwork caught her attention.
With
raw talent and the diaphanous influence of soft-leaded pencils, the old man had
captured the heart and soul of Lancashire’s ancient skyline, recreating that
which was real through his artist’s world of pencils and paper. Now, snared by
his genius, Karen’s imagination began to run free. In a portentous, pencilled
sky she watched rain squalls shrug themselves free of the clouds; finely veiled
in moonlight. Hurried along by the wind they followed the humps and swales of
tumbled walls and flooded sphagnum mosses. Through that innermost eye of the
gifted artist the book revealed the capricious intent of deep autumn, the
loneliness of the moor and though silent upon the page, that doleful voice of a
north wind. What Karen saw invoked in her a strange feeling of déjà vu; a
slight movement of cool air brushed the nape of her neck so that she shivered.
‘Grey
goose walked over my grave.’
‘Halloween
jitters.’ Jack rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘The witches are after you.’ He
fed the fire; flames licked up the chimney. ‘The old man seems to have had a
natural affinity with the macabre; all his sketches are borderline scary.’ He
sat down next to Karen and drew her attention to a particular point on the
page. ‘The cottage – look at the light coming from the doorway.’
Karen
leaned in closer and scrutinised the drawing. ‘Could be way off line, but I’d
say the cottage was on fire – and there’s someone stood in the doorway –
doesn’t make sense.’
‘And
over here,’ Jack went on, ‘what do you see?’
‘Good
God, Jack! That could be my own horse, Satan.’
Almost
buried by deep shadow, a stallion, wet and black as Lancashire coal reared
against the skyline; though drawn to a small a scale, Karen was quick to pick
up on the beast’s aggression – the madness a fire in its eyes; illuminated by
the cold, the stallion’s breath billowed as grey steam.
‘Read
the caption at the bottom.’
Karen
screwed her eyes at the text; the old man’s writing, from sixty years of
storage was barely legible. Forced to take her time, she read aloud;
They will perish as we have done. I,
Jennet Device speak for all my kin – thus I curse your line, Moresby.
She
dropped the book back on the table and reached for her glass.
‘Clap
trap. Why Moresby? Why use the family name?’ Superstition breathed inside her
collar. ‘How could the old man have possibly known what was said?’
‘Made
it up,’ Jack proffered, ‘a bit of provenance to go with his writing. Even more
disturbing – I found out that the house father left to us was built with stone
from Device’s ruined cottage.’
‘Jennet
Device – of the Lancashire witches?’
Jack
nodded his head. ‘She died in the fire. What you saw in your grandfather’s
drawing actually happened. I went online and checked your ancestry; the story
goes, John Moresby worked hand-in-glove with a chap called, Roger Nowell – one
of Lancashire’s more notorious witch hunters.’
Karen’s
eyes widened – her voice reflected her abhorrence of Jack’s revelation.
‘He
burned the house down. This house – the one we’re living in now?’
‘Along
with its tenant, Jennet Device – roasted her alive. Your forebear, the Moresby
guy, died with her. His body was found just inside the doorway.’
Karen
looked about the room. ‘I wish I had known what happened before I moved in
here. You would never have got me within a mile of this place.’
‘Perhaps
your grandfather’s stories are pure hearsay.’ His eyes glittered; green in the
firelight.
Karen
stood up and shrugged on her jacket. She drained her glass and turned for the
door.
‘I’m
going back down to the stables, maybe the wind will blow some sense into what
went on here.’
‘There’s
a storm coming, let me come with you.’
Karen
dismissed the idea, the tone of her voice resentful. ‘No need. I can manage.
I’ll be back when I’m good and ready.’ She scowled at him. ‘And get rid of that
book of yours or I’ll burn it.’
Jack
stood at the window until the Defender’s headlights disappeared, the night
outside still wildly unpredictable. Taller hedgerows bent and whipped like
shirt tails, wind hissed and howled as wolves hunting the dark slopes of Pendle
Hill. He crossed the room and felt inside the bottom drawer of an oak writing
bureau.
The
photograph had been shot in black and white; to a background of high moor, rows
of orphaned children stood statue-like for the camera. Ranked along both sides
were the austere images of their guardians. The children’s names were listed at
the bottom – from left to right and again, all were neatly aligned in
corresponding order. The grey patina of age dulled the text.
One
by one, Jack read off the names, remembering those that had stuck in his mind.
Some had faded completely, all of those wan and sickly children, like himself,
discarded by a malicious society. Most were already long dead.
Habitually,
he traced the print with his fingertip, settling it over his own likeness. The
fire licked and crackled excitedly; driven by the oncoming storm, the wind
howled inside the chimney pot.
On
the photograph’s sombre moorland, hidden from the casual onlooker by cloud
shadows, a woman had stopped to catch her breath; looking back through the rain
it seemed as if she resented the presence of the picture-taker. Her limbs were
crippled with age and a veil of poverty and terrible hardship hung about her.
Jack nodded his head, the smile on his face now thin with malice. He spoke with
slow deliberation, the voice coming out from his mouth not his own.
‘They
will perish as we have done. I, Jennet Device speak for all my kin – thus I
curse your line, Moresby.’
On
the fire, the photograph curled and blackened; the face of the old woman and
that of Jack Device disappeared. He waited another hour before driving down to
the stables.
Karen
lay on her side; Jack pressed his fingertips to her neck, but there was no
pulse, already the life had fled from her. The side of Karen’s head had been
stove in; the stallion stood alongside her, its eyes quiet – the madness had
left it.
Jack
reached for his phone.
‘Emergency
services. Which service do you require?’
‘Ambulance,
there’s been an accident.’
As
a malevolent silhouette, his likeness, thin and hawk-like stood to the far
wall, though his eyes were bright, green as sea glass – pin sharp – the eyes of
the necromancer. Beyond the stable door, portentous winds bickered amongst the
hawthorn.
Like
a warm breeze, Satan’s breath ruffled the fine hairs at the back of his neck.
Jack turned about and for long moments peered deep inside the stallion’s eye.
As would a quiescent yearling foal, so the stallion nuzzled his shoulder;
softly, Jack spoke to it, his choice of words thick with local accent and
defunct colloquialisms of old England.
‘Get
thee gone, Jennet Device. Trouble my house no more for your legacy is well
spent.’ He threw open the stable doors and a half moon managed a look through
the clouds. On Lancashire’s bleak moorland, not far from the castle at
Lancaster, dark shadows danced a jig on Gallows Hill – their voices stripped
away by the wind.
*
