Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  He was so weary, he was so cold, he was so unhappy. Everything had gone. All that awaited was death. Why delay it? He could simply lay down. Give in to it. It would come. It would be a blessing.

  What was left for him in life?

  His hands were scratched by brambles. He hardly knew, hardly cared. Blood would go its own way. The path was thinning. Easy for a fox to get through but tight for a person. The brambles were like claws clutching at his clothing, a branch streaked his face. He bunched his hands within the ends of his sleeves to push away what he could.

  Part of him wanted to just give up. And part to fight to the very end.

  And if to fight, to live – then he needed people. And surely he wanted wide paths. Not this snaggled, overgrown thing but a path that people walked down with their animals. If he disappeared into the thick of the forest then he would die in the thick of the forest. It was an icy night, he was sore and exhausted. Hungry and despairing.

  Live or die?

  He was hardly sure it was a real fox. The tired mind plays tricks. A fox was not a dog. His own mind was trapping him. He turned about. He must find people. He ran a little way. How long did he have? Stumbling back the way he had come, he felt the fox between his legs. He stopped, he could hardly make out its shape. It was rubbing against him like a cat.

  He turned once more. He would trust the fox. It had come back for him. It was taking him somewhere. Please, fox, he pleaded… He followed in hope down the dense path. And in a few minutes, scratched and weary, was minded to turn back again. Stopped, considered. What was the point? What was behind? What was in front? He was completely lost in the forest on a freezing night.

  He stumbled against an obstruction, tried to get round it but it went along on both sides. Feeling with his fingers; it was woody and woven. A fence. He peered ahead. There was something there. A full black shape. And a faint smell of wood smoke. Could this be a cottage?

  His hands feverishly worked their way along the fence. One over the other, tumble fashion, until he came to the gate. The fox was waiting there. It brushed against his leg, then led him in.

  The path was short. He was soon at the cottage door. The wood of the walls was rough on his fingers. He might have stood for an age, pondering, daring himself but the fox was scratching at the door.

  Inside he could hear shuffling. He wanted to run. He was an outlaw now. But would be a dead one if he continued roaming. And he couldn’t anyway. Exhaustion and cold had run him to earth. Toby held himself to the spot. And the door opened.

  An old lady stood there with a lamp held high. Grey hair was spilling out of a red spotted headscarf.

  ‘Why have you been so long?’ she said.

  Chapter 14

  She led him into the one-roomed cottage.

  ‘Sit down, young man,’ she said, indicating one of a pair of chairs either side of the fire.

  He flopped into it and, as the warmth played over him, began to weep. He could not stop himself. He shook with sobs for the misery of the last day and this simple comfort.

  ‘I’ll get you some soup,’ said the woman.

  Her voice bathed him. It didn’t order or scorn him. It offered.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, madam,’ he managed to mumble through blue lips.

  The woman chuckled. ‘Don’t madam me. I won’t know whom you are talking to. I am Maeg.’

  ‘Thank you, Maeg,’ he whispered.

  The fire was in a stone fireplace, the only stone in the house. A black pot was on raised stones, licked by the flames. The woman ladled the soup from the pot into a wooden bowl, which she passed to Toby.

  He clutched the bowl in both hands. His face was wet, though his weeping had ceased. This fire and soup were real. How beautiful was the heat. He felt like a new leaf stretching to the sun. He gazed into the wonder of the flickering flame. Red and yellow joy flowed into his bones.

  She gave him a spoon. He sipped the hot soup. A piece of carrot sang to his tongue. He swallowed the melody and came back for more notes. And it sang from his stomach and sent its chorus into his arms and legs, to his fingers and his tingling toes. It was heavenly soup. Thick with a peppery pea flavour – and within it, soft and hot, pieces of onion, carrot, cabbage and parsnip.

  It was soon gone.

  She refilled the bowl. And this time gave him a plate of bread, thickly buttered.

  There were two chairs at the fireplace. She took the other one, stretched out her thick legs, her hands in her aproned lap – and smiled at his joy.

  When he had finished, he put the bowl and plate on the floor.

  ‘Thank you, Maeg,’ he sighed. ‘You will be rewarded.’ And then felt foolish, speaking the words of a prince from the mouth of a vagabond.

  ‘Never mind rewards,’ she said, sitting up in the chair. Her face was round and red, pimpled here and there. Hairs came from her thick nose. She had perhaps six teeth.

  ‘There’s lots to do,’ she went on. ‘If they catch you here, your life is not worth a stick, Prince Toby.’

  He stared at her, startled. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know things,’ she said. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  Toby was now alarmed. It seemed he was being offered alms but now threatened…

  ‘I have no others…’ he began.

  ‘Take them off,’ she said. ‘They are princely clothes. How far will you get in those? You think by turning a coat inside out I can’t tell how well made it is? Your only hope is to disappear into the people. Take them off.’

  Toby hesitated. In fear and shame.

  ‘I’ve had four sons in this little cottage,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry for your modesty.’

  He began to undress. First his coat, then his leggings.

  ‘And the underthings,’ she said. ‘Who wears such finery here?’ And when he hesitated further, she added, ‘Your life is at stake.’

  Toby took them off and stood naked before the fire.

  ‘You poor boy,’ said the woman. ‘Those bruises. They certainly roughed you up.’

  She rose from her chair and went to a shelf. She returned to him with a blanket and a large pair of scissors.

  ‘Wrap yourself in that.’

  Toby did so and sat again in the chair. He watched in horror as she threw his vest on the fire.

  ‘We must burn every scrap,’ she said. ‘You were never here.’

  ‘What shall I wear?’ he said, watching her cut his leggings into pieces.

  ‘I have old clothes here from my sons,’ she grinned toothily at him. ‘Much more suitable.’

  Toby hesitated before he spoke again. ‘Are you… a witch?’

  She shrugged, throwing a piece of legging on to the fire. ‘Some call me that. It’s not my word. I have some magic. Less than I used to.’ She tapped her forehead with a plump finger. ‘It’s the memory. It goes. There are things I could do…’ She sighed heavily, ‘but now…’ She stopped and put down the material she was cutting. ‘Give me your soup bowl.’

  Toby handed it to her.

  She kneeled on the floor before the fire and circled her large hands round the bowl. The firelight flickered in her eyes. ‘I used to be able to do it.’ She looked into the bowl. ‘It’s finding a starting point…’ Her hands were round the bowl in her lap, the thumbs and fingertips touching. Her head was immobile, gazing into the bowl as if it were a deep well.

  ‘Ah here it is.’ She swung the bowl side to side to catch some light. ‘There are grave times ahead. I see fear.’ She tipped the bowl. ‘Love. Hate.’

  Toby didn’t respond but felt disappointment. This was fortune-teller’s hokum.

  ‘This is more like it,’ said the woman eagerly. ‘It comes back.’ She was silent for a few moments and then intoned: ‘You will rescue someone who lies with the dead. You will walk with the dead. You will destroy the secret of life.’

  She looked up at him.

  ‘You have been chosen, Toby. And I have but a little part to play.’ She put down the bowl. ‘S
leep now, because in the morning you must move on.’

  Chapter 15

  She made him up a bed by the fire. She put a blanket over the mat, with two more on top. He was certainly warm enough and ten times grateful for that. But could not sleep, rolling from bruise to bruise. There seemed nowhere he could lay comfortably. His legs ached with weariness. He was drained, and yet he could not sleep…

  And then he could.

  And was gone. Too deep to feel pain. Too deep to dream. Like a fire covered in coal dust, his life was there, burning low, too low to hurt. But low enough to heal. The old lady came once or twice to replace the blanket he’d thrown off. But although he rolled and shuffled he did not wake until well into the morning.

  It was light when he opened his eyes. The old lady was working at the wooden table in the centre of the room. She had already re-made her narrow bed under the window. On the table was a wooden bucket and the woman was chopping herbs and throwing them in. She had several corked bottles by her and poured a little in from each from time to time.

  ‘Sleep well?’ she asked.

  Toby smiled drowsily. ‘I must have.’

  She went to the pot on the fire and ladled porridge into a bowl. She handed it to him with a spoon. Toby took it gratefully and still in his blanket by the fire began to eat.

  ‘I’ve sorted some clothes out for you,’ she said, indicating the heap on the chair. ‘Don’t put them on yet.’

  Toby wasn’t thinking of doing so, too busy with his porridge. And when it was finished, he looked to her for more, like a cat that had just licked out its bowl.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said, adding a pinch of powder to her bucket. She had a dog-eared book in her hand and sucked her lips noisily as she read.

  Toby kneeled before the fire. As he picked up the ladle the blanket fell off him. He was naked, all his clothes had been burnt last night. With a bowl in one hand and a ladle in the other he couldn’t cope and panicked for an instant. But then he didn’t care, because she didn’t care. And he ladled himself a bowl of porridge, his body red in the firelight. The old lady did take half a glance between her reading and mixing. Half joy she felt in his appetite, and half a pleasurable envy of the smooth body of youth.

  His bowl filled to the brim, Toby sat naked by the fire and spooned his porridge. It was creamy with milk but had no sugar, instead a little salt. Two days ago he would have rejected this peasant fare – but his hunger spared him such fussiness. It was wholesome, it was hot and creamy. It was delicious. He could have eaten the pot.

  When he had finished the third bowl, she brought the bucket to him.

  ‘You must wash yourself all over with this. It will ease your bruises. And take away your smell.’

  Toby blushed. Did he smell so bad?

  ‘Every smell I mean,’ she said putting the bucket down. ‘There’s magic here. For a full day after you wash yourself with this, you will have no smell. The dogs will lose your trail.’ She took the bowl from him. ‘Forget food if you can. You are a fugitive. They are out to kill you. You must be away very soon.’

  ‘I have nowhere to go.’

  She shook her head. ‘Go you must, Toby. Now wash.’ She handled him a flannel and tentatively he dipped it in the frothing liquid in the bucket. ‘Be vigorous,’ she said. ‘Wipe it over every inch of your body, from your scalp to the soles of your feet. No smell must escape you.’ She went back to her table and picked up a second bucket from the floor. ‘I’m going up the path where you came from, to lose your smell near the cottage. Now get on with it yourself. Hurry up. There’s men with swords looking for you. There’s a reward on your head.’

  Toby jumped up. Of course there would be. He soaked the flannel in the bucket and wiped it round his face.

  ‘Don’t miss anything,’ exclaimed the old woman. She was at the door with the bucket. ‘Make haste,’ she said as she left, closing the door behind her.

  Her preparation smelt of pine needles, of leaf mould, and there was something vinegary in it too. Immediately it touched his skin it dried, leaving the skin feeling hot and stretched as if it were sunburned. Whether it was taking away his own smell he could not tell, but it was certainly taking away his pain. His bruising washed away as the liquid passed over it. As if leached out like mud in fabric. His body was coming back to him. He worked his way from top to bottom, glowing with renewal. No longer creaky-boned with bruised flesh, he felt he could run up a mountain. When he had done the soles of his feet, he started again from the top. His life depended on it.

  When he was completely washed, there was no need to dry himself. The liquid had dried over him like a varnish. He stretched and filled his lungs. He would go far today.

  Toby sorted through the clothes on the chair. And began with the vest. It was rougher than he was used to and itched his chest. But he knew the old lady was right. He’d done with silk and velvet. He put on the leggings and the brown coarse tunic. She’d left him a cloth belt which he tied round the waist. For shoes, he had clogs. He’d prefer something lighter but he must wear what everyone wore.

  He was barely finished when the old lady returned, her bucket empty.

  ‘I’ve been up the path about a mile or so. Where it meets with the main path. The dogs will lose it there.’ She looked at him approvingly. ‘Almost the peasant. Better rub some mud in those hands on your way. That hair is a bit fussy. Sit down. Let me cut it on the rough.’

  He sat in the chair and she hacked off curls. More than he would have liked.

  ‘You won’t be a pretty prince any more,’ she said.

  She swept up the hair and burnt it in the fire.

  ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Where am I to go?’

  She shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you. You will go where you go. And if you don’t know you can’t betray anyone. But I promise it will be safe. Now…’ She lifted a finger severely. ‘Who are you?’

  He began, ‘I am…’ then stopped. Who was he?

  ‘I am a knight with a sword at your throat,’ said the old woman. ‘If you don’t know who you are, then I will cut your head off.’

  ‘Who am I?’ said Toby.

  ‘You are my grandson, Ned,’ she said. ‘I am Maeg the healer. My son and his wife died of the plague.’

  ‘Could you not heal them?’

  ‘Not when they were across the sea.’ She handed him a paper. ‘Read this, learn this. It is the names of your brothers and uncles – and what I know of them. Eat it when you know it.’

  ‘Won’t it put you at risk?’

  ‘Perhaps. Besides, I am old enough. You can say I am dead if you wish. That’s why you are on the road. Your old granny died.’

  She went to the table and took up a flour sack. ‘Here’s bread and cheese, water and a knife for your journey.’ She picked up a blanket from the floor. ‘And here’s a poor man’s cloak.’

  ‘Why are you doing all this for me?’

  She put a hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. ‘I knew your mother. I was her wet-nurse. And was with her until she married.’ She turned away and wiped an eye. ‘You remind me of her. But please, ask me no more. You must be off. There is a hue and cry already, and you have a long way to go.’

  The old woman led him out of the cottage, along the small path to the gate. The blanket was rolled on his shoulders, the flour sack of food slung down his back. The fox was waiting, its bushy tail raised.

  ‘Sly will take you,’ she said. ‘Follow her. You have much to do.’

  Chapter 16

  As he strode, his breath fumed in front of him. He was still in forest, mostly winter-bare with a few leaves still clinging. The day was bright in a clear sky, the frost melting on the grass and branches. Toby felt strong. He’d eaten, he’d slept, his bruising was gone. No longer in the sorry state he was last night. Then he had been at the end of his tether.

  He didn’t know where he was going. Getting away was his main motive. Creating space between himself and the castle. As the waves washed
out from there, they would become smaller, weaker. And he would be harder to find. He must make distance. The old woman had said he had things to do – but he didn’t see how he could do anything. Anything other than stay alive. And distance would keep him alive.

  He followed Sly, pleased to have her company. She didn’t always take the paths, but sometimes cut across country, into the thickets. These slowed Toby, but he found his way through and caught up.

  At one point he was aware of himself whistling. Sly stopped, turned and stared at him, her ears twitching.

  ‘Sorry, Sly.’

  Did she nod? Anyway, she turned and continued.

  He felt happy. Walking so easily, free of bruises, and the morning so fine and clear. Alone in the forest, he was free.

  But a little later he was overcome by misery. How dare he feel happy! His father had been murdered. He had lost everything. His reputation was in tatters. How could anyone but a fool feel happiness after all that?

  They must be coming for him. Over that hill, behind that copse, he could walk into a camp of riders and dogs. How long would his new identity last then? Happiness was madness. His life hung by a thread, and if he forgot for an instant – then the next might be his last.

  But in spite of himself, every so often, he forgot to be miserable. And had to pinch himself. Had to see the riders and the dogs behind every tree waiting for him.

  Happiness was for fools.

  But sometimes he was a fool.

  After a couple of hours walking, he rested on a log to eat. The old woman had given him half a loaf, which he broke with his hands, saving some till later. He cut a lump off the cheese with the knife. He offered some to Sly but she scorned it.

  ‘I hope you know where we are going,’ he said.

  While eating, he read the paper the old woman had given him. He repeated the names on it. And when they began walking once more, he continued repeating them. Telling himself who he was. Ned, the grandson of Maeg the Healer.