by Tony Walker
‘Yes, but of course over the centuries as no one worshipped them, these old gods lost their power and dwindled into being little local spirits. They maybe even adapted with the times, like the druids became saints. Old Belatucadros probably became a little local sprite before fading away completely...’
‘Sprite? Like a leprechaun?’
He nodded. ‘That’s probably the origin of the Irish leprechaun, worn down versions of local spirits and gods.’
I remembered pictures of leprechauns from a kid’s book I once had. I said, ‘Why do leprechauns wear silver-buckled shoes?’
‘Some wear brass buckled ones.’
‘Don’t split hairs.’
‘Well, it’s the dress of the 17th Century. Maybe they just liked the fashion of those times. Who knows?’
I muttered, ‘What help would he want?’
He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What help would he want from the living?’
He stared at me strangely. ‘Dear boy, I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Mam was in a lot of pain that night, but I tried to get her as comfortable as she could be and made sure she had her painkillers and a glass of water by the bed. Lying in my narrow bed, I saw all the hours in, hearing the chime of the clock outside ringing in one and two and three and four o’clock.
Mam got up in the night to make herself a cup of tea and I lay there tensely waiting for the sound of her to fall. We would need to move house. She simply couldn’t manage the stairs anymore. But she wouldn’t have it. Whenever, I raised the subject she snapped at me, ‘I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. I am an independent woman!’
The second was true anyway. The first had been once.
That must have been about four o’clock in the morning and the city outside dark and still, just the sound of mam tinkling around in the kitchen with the teacup and the spoon. She would only drink out of bone-china and she had a set of silver spoons with the heads of the kings of England on them.
And then he appeared. The little man with his broad-brimmed hat and silver buckles that glinted appeared in my room. I could see him in the light that fell in my room through a chink in the dirty red curtains.
My heart hammered. I sweated. I tensed my fists as I lay under my blanket and sheets. I closed my eyes tight hoping he would go away, but when I opened them again, he was still there.
Clearing my throat, I said, ‘Are you Bela...’ I struggled to remember the odd name, ‘Belatucadros?’
For the first time he smiled.
‘What do you want?’ I said, through half-closed eyes.
But he didn’t speak. And when I summoned the courage to look at him directly, he was gone.
Nothing happened for days. Mam struggled. I served beer and listened to heavy metal and smoked dope. I smoked more than I had for months. Sam calmed down. It seemed he hadn’t seen my little Bela again.
Mr Jones came in, drank his Guinness and talked about Tudors. No more Celtic gods, just Tudors and a little about the Corn Laws. I didn’t ask him about my little man either.
Then, it was late. We’d been busy and Sam had left the keys to the pub with me to lock up. I’d seen the last of the customers out and wiped the tables. I’d collected and washed all the glasses and made sure all the doors were locked. I had the keys in my pocket, and I was tense as hell, all alone in there. I had to go down to check the cellar to make sure all was well, see how we were doing on the barrels and make sure the gas was okay.
I didn’t want to.
But I had to.
I lifted the sneck of the wooden door at the top of the cellar stairs and peered down. I flicked on the bakelite switch that dated from the 1920s and peered down the steep flight of bare boards that made up the staircase.
I shook my head, gathered my courage and stepped down. The floor board creaked, as did the next one. For some reason, the creaking, which I never usually even noticed, made me tenser.
I reminded myself that the little man had never really harmed me. Even if he had once been a god, what kind of power did a midget in silver-buckled shoes have now?
The switch at the top of the stairs also turned on the bare bulb that hung on a fraying wire in the beer cellar. I halted about halfway on the stairs down before I could see into the cellar, because if I could see into the cellar, I would see him; I knew it.
My breathing and heart were going nuts. I was really sweaty, like a pig, and I wanted to turn back. I stood on the stairs for five minutes. I had to check the cellar.
Or did I?
I could tell Sam I’d done but really, I’d do it tomorrow, when he or Florence or some of the other bar staff were in. I didn’t enjoy being on my own in the pub with the little man in the cellar.
My heart still hammered. No, I would do it. I’m not a wuss. I’m a rocker. I thought of Motorhead’s song: Bomber, and that gave me courage. Okay, here goes.
I ran down the stairs. And there he was at the bottom.
He stood there by the chipboard panel. There was only one shiny beer barrel blocking it. I regretted moving all the others now. The Little Man stood there in his broad-brimmed hat, with his silver-buckled shoes shining in the electric light.
I was trembling. I didn’t know what to do. Then he pointed at the brick floor and the dirt overlaying it. Someone had scraped a message with a stick. It said: Help Me.
This was truly nuts. ‘Help you?’ I said.
He nodded and smiled.
‘How?’
He pointed at the chipboard panel.
‘You want into the tunnel?’
He nodded and grinned.
‘But you can’t remove the panel?’ He didn’t say anything, and I wondered whether this once mighty god was ashamed he had so little physical power now. But then I remembered what Sam had said about him wanting my soul.
Truth be told, I’m not sure I even have a soul. I’ve never seen it and I’ve actually never felt the need for one, but I might have.
Feeling surreal, I found a metal bar in the cellar and used it to prize off the chipboard. The chipboard was damp and the nails holding it into the brick walls were rusty and came out easily with little showers of damp plaster and dirt.
I gasped, falling back as a tide of stinky ancient air poured out from the tunnel. It was dark and damp and I couldn’t see into it, but the Little Man stood expectantly.
‘You want me to go in first?’ I said.
He said nothing. I guessed he did.
I took a step into the darkness and then remembered the torch that Sam kept in the cellar in case of power cuts. I grabbed the tin-metal torch which was reassuringly heavy in my hand like I could clobber anyone or anything I might meet down the tunnel.
I switched the torch on. The light was dim; the batteries were probably old, but even in the yellowy light I could see that the tunnel was long and dark and damp. At first, bricks walled the tunnel. Maybe Victorian, probably older. I took a few steps and glanced back. The Little Man followed me. I don’t know if that was good or bad
Then I turned and said, ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this for you, but if you are a god, I want you to promise to do something good for me.’
I didn’t know what I wanted, but I felt otherwise he was just taking advantage. The Little Man looked benignly at me. He said nothing; he didn’t smile, just kept on looking back at me. I snorted. Worthless trying to bargain with someone like him. He was probably imaginary anyway.
But the tunnel wasn’t. I kept on walking. After the bricks ran out, the tunnel was walled with stones, old looking stones. They could have been Roman, who knows? or Druidic, if that’s a word.
We went on until we came to a cross junction. There was the way back, a way ahead and tunnels going left and right. I looked back at the Little Man for guidance. He pointed left, so left we went. We kept on walking for about a hundred yards. The tunnel was featureless and silent. It was like being in a grave. No sound, not even rats. Rats would have been s
cary, but comforting because they were real.
Then we came to another junction. A way ran off to the right, while the main way ran on in front of me. He pointed right. The tunnel here was narrower and looked like it had been dug out at a different time. The slabs of stone in the walls and ceiling weren’t regular like the Roman stones. They were just old bits of sandstone, heaped up. It was a wonder they hadn’t collapsed. Then after about twenty yards, I came to the first collapse. Heaps of sandstone had fallen onto the ground. I could pick my way over it, but it reminded me how dangerous these tunnels were. I looked back for reassurance, but the little man just pointed ahead.
So ahead we went. The torch light was getting dimmer. I got scared, but I was committed now. He walked on behind me. He seemed to know where he was going. And then after another five minutes, the tunnel changed. It got wider, and the ceiling lifted. It was as if we had intruded on another building. The stonework in this part of the tunnel was better. I pivoted round, but he’d stopped.
‘What?’ I asked. ‘Where to now?’ There was only one way, well two. I guess we could have gone back, but what was the point in that? It felt like we’d arrived somewhere.
Instead of answering, the Little Man pointed then he jerked his chin as if I was to walk on. I did, but he didn’t follow. I stopped again. ‘Aren’t you coming?’
He shook his head.
This was odd. He wanted me to go on, but wouldn’t come himself. I grew suspicious. ‘How come I have to go?’
He didn’t reply in words; he just jerked his chin again. That was that way I was to go.
I glanced around. I was in some kind of underground space. It wasn’t a cavern. It looked manmade, and it had been made with some skill, but a long time ago, looking at the sandstone slabs neatly laid to make up the floor, but worn as if by centuries.
‘Really?’ I said.
He nodded again. I shrugged, then sighed and walked on. I played the torch beam around, weak as it was, to see where I was. I was in a room now. Big. Suddenly it occurred to me that this looked like the cathedral, but it was a part I’d never visited. I was underground and I wondered if it was the crypt. I wandered on. There were no coffins or sepulchres here, but as I turned a corner, I saw past the wall on my left that there was a heap of stuff in the middle of the room. I looked back, but the Little Man was way behind. It occurred to me that as he was pagan, maybe he couldn’t enter a consecrated space.
I hesitantly approached the heap. There were bits of sculpture and carvings. They looked to be of various ages. I recognised a Roman altar. I’d seen ones like it in Tullie House museum. The inscription read: Diis Manibus… which I recalled meant “to the Gods of the Dead”. I do remember some things despite what they said at school.
I had a good peer at the stuff in the heap.
Then there was a stone with a carving of a bound Devil. It had Viking runes on it. There was a carved woman on a horse. And then, I found a little effigy. I reached down and picked it up. It was of local sandstone, and about the size of a big brick. It was carved in the shape of a man with horns protruding from his head. He held a round shield in one hand and a worn inscription on the bottom was hard to read. I ran my thumb along the rough stone to help my eyes read the inscription. It seemed to read: Deo Belatucadro.
It stuck me that this was what the little man wanted. The rest of the stuff was so heavy and so mixed, I wouldn’t easily be able to move it, even if I wanted to. I figured this was a secret place in the Cathedral that where the priests had heaped up and locked away all the pagan stuff from here. Probably very hush-hush but it seemed to be effective because Little Belatucadros, couldn’t enter.
Holding his statue, I walked back to where the Little Man waited for me. His eyes lit up when he saw what I carried, and he licked his lips. It seemed he would come forward, but he didn’t. As I approached him, he reached up for the statue and I gave it to the liittle fella. The Little Man with the brown felt broad-brimmed hat and the silver-buckled shoes, hugged the effigy to him, like it was a long-lost puppy.
And then he changed.
He sort of melted into smoke and grew, so he was no longer the little man. Even his shoes changed and instead of their silver-buckled neatness, I thought I saw the feet of an animal, maybe a stag, maybe a ram, before the smoke dwindled and turned into a mist, then a vapour. I got one last look at him. He had the head of a ram, or a goat with long curly horns and slitted amber eyes. And as he vanished, he bleated. And maybe that was thank you. But maybe it wasn’t.
Whatever it was, I had to make my way back along the tunnels with the failing flashlight. There were not too many turns, and luck was on my side because I saw the light of the beer cellar ahead of me just as the torch batteries died.
I followed the light at the end of the tunnel, and I have never been happier to step into that shabby, dirty beer cellar with its stink of old ale and bare electric bulb.
I locked up the pub and went home, my head full of what I had seen.
I was surprised to find all the lights blazing at home. I put my key in the door and went in. My mother was in the front room. She was dancing to an old 78 of Glenn Miller on the gramophone.
I frowned. ‘What on earth has happened, mother?’
She beamed at me. ‘Malcolm, Malcolm, I’m pain free! My arthritis pain has gone. Look!’
And she shimmied and shook in front of me in time to the big band swing sound. She was as lish as a twenty-year-old girl. ‘Well, well, well,’ I said.
She grinned. ‘Yes, I was in town today and I went to that hippy shop down that alley off Devonshire Street.’
‘I know it, yes.’
She was eager to continue with her story. ‘So, I was asking if they had anything for arthritis and the girl said they’d just got a new product that morning. She said she couldn’t speak for it, as it was so new, but I said I’d give anything a go so I said I’d take it, and she said fine that’ll be £1.50. So I gave her the money, and she wrapped the tea and I took it and came home, after I’d had a look in Bulloughs, and saw Marjory, which was nice. Her Stan hasn’t been so good, you know. It’s his brain, they think, but they don’t really know. That’s doctors for you, a bunch of idiots. And then, when I got back, I made some tea, and just about half an hour ago I felt all the pain suddenly lift. It’s amazing! It’s a miracle!’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Show me the packet.’
So she danced her way to the kitchen, the strains of Glenn Miller still filling the house and she picked up an opened packet. I read the front. It said:
“Dr Bela’s Miracle Arthritis Cure.”
‘You got this today?’ I said.
‘Yes, Malcolm, and I’m glad I did.’
I opened the packet and looked at the contents. To be honest, it looked like shredded brown felt. The sort that might be used to make a broad-brimmed hat. I said as much.
Mam said, ‘I don’t care if it is felt, Malcolm. You just soak it, and it works!’
Now it is possible that this is a coincidence, and it’s possible that it isn’t. I never saw the Little Man again, in Carlisle or anywhere else, but I like to think he helped my old mam with her pain. So, wherever he may be, on this earth or fuller’s, good luck to him, I say: Good luck.
5
The Hitcher
The snow came down like somebody emptying buckets full of frozen goose-down way up high. A glance to my left showed the sun had disappeared from the west behind the mountains and what light remained drained by the second from grey to blue to black. I’d been a fool to come this way, I knew, but it was the quickest route to get back to Keswick on Christmas Eve and I wanted to see the kids’ faces before they went to bed. The quickest route normally, though now I regretted not taking the longer route by the motorway which they’d at least keep clear.
Working on a Christmas Eve is the curse of being self-employed. I’d worked previous years but this Christmas Eve was snowier than any I remembered.
The windscreen wipers flicked back an
d forward, struggling to clear inches of snow as I peered into the gloom. I was just coming through Grasmere. Christmas trees sparkled in the windows of the houses I passed and people had hung snowdrop style lights along their house eaves. I got glimpses of warmth and family gatherings as the atmosphere of Christmas deepened.
It deepened for them, but all that deepened for me was the snow. I knew I had to climb up to Dunmail Pass and there was a chance I would slip and slide on the ascent, or skid on the way down. I needed to be careful not to come off the road because hardly any traffic was passing now. No one was as foolish as me.
I was heading up the straight before the hill now, leaving the lights of Grasmere behind me. The twin tubes of light from my headlamps illuminated cotton wool blizzards. The strain of concentrating on the road was giving me a stiff neck and a sore head. If someone ran in front of me now, I wouldn’t see them, and if I hit the brakes, I’d slide.
Then I saw a figure to the side of the road thumbing a lift. I did a double take. Was someone really out there in this? Where the heck were they going? I thought of driving past, but maybe they’d miscalculated the time and the weather just like me and wanted to get home for Christmas. Luckily I was going so slow that when I pumped the brakes, I slowed at a steady rate rather than skewing off to the left or right.
The car stopped. The indicator lights winking harshly, the engine idling. Where were they? I twisted my head and peered right. I hit the button to wind the window down and with an electric whirr the cold and the wet came in. Feathers of snow invaded the car interior - winter ghosts that vanished as soon as they arrived. Still no one.
‘Hello?’ I craned my head and shouted again. ‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’
I was just thinking I’d mistaken a snow-shrouded gate post for a person and about to set off when there came a rap at the driver’s side, not the passenger side with its open window. I felt an inexplicable jolt of panic. The snow billowed in from the left as I wound down the right window, causing a cross draft of frigid air. Someone stood outside the car. I shivered, whether from the cold or from some primitive fear of strangers on dark winter nights, I don’t know.
