Herald of the Hidden

by Valentine, Mark

  The contractors were very careful and tried to preserve the fabric of the environment. But as a bulldozer was making an entry once it veered off course slightly and scored a deep white gash in the gnarled bark of an old oak that stood on the verge of the site. Limbs and twigs might almost have clenched in pain. The damage was done, however, and the incident was put aside in the briskness of business.

  **

  I relate the matters which follow exactly as I have gathered them from people who were involved, in various ways. I have assembled the fragments and contrasting impressions into a narrative whole; but though the form of this story is therefore mine, the content is authentic, and belongs to those who dwell at Hedgerows and its neighbouring village. That each of them may have experienced this curious affair in a different way does not invalidate the intangible yet inevitable central impression. . . .

  **

  The tramp had quite evidently not had a wash for many days. His unkempt hair and beard hung in lank strands, the weather-beaten face was hideously wrinkled and pitted, the eyes were like those of an animal, and it seemed a leer played about his mouth. To the lady of number 4, Hawthorn Lane, this vagrant’s ragged garb was a source of even greater disdain. It seemed to consist of a grey, streaked overcoat, a thick but torn jerkin, and trousers so baggy and billowing they were ridiculous.

  Resisting the revulsed urge to slam the front door on this creature, she merely asked him to repeat what he had just said. After a pause, he replied, in a deep but croaky voice with a distinct local accent:

  ‘Lady, I’m collecting for the trees. We must dress them well, those that are left. For sure, they grieve for their felled fellows. They will not leaf in Spring unless we help them along.’

  The tramp was obviously simple. Such an antique way of talking. And it was almost as if he were reciting a chant.

  ‘Yes, it’s very worthwhile,’ she humoured him. ‘But my husband has set some shrubs in our back garden, so you see we do want the estate to look nice too. He will be coming home for lunch very soon,’ she added pointedly. ‘So I must be getting on.’

  The tramp did not seem to entirely appreciate her point. He was still waiting.

  ‘Bye,’ she offered breezily, ‘I expect we’ll see you again about the village.’

  Then she firmly but gently closed the polished door, jolting just slightly its brass knocker.

  Whether it was his disreputable appearance, or some aspect of his appeal, the man who was collecting for the trees fared very little better at any of his other calls. He was told he was a beggar; that he ought to find a job; that he was a fraud; that he ought to ask the parish council for permission, even if it was a local custom, which they very much doubted. One resident sweetly said that she would send a cheque, and where should it be addressed, and to whom payable?

  And that was the last seen of the stranger for a while. The matter was raised briefly at the next meeting of the residents’ committee, and all present deplored the spurious story that had been put to them, and called upon the local police to use their best efforts to safeguard the privacy and security of the neighbourhood.

  Vague reports of the vagrant prowling about in the remoter corners of the area were received by this committee, but no serious incident followed until at least two months had passed.

  Five children played at ‘Touch and Go’ in the rank, damp undergrowth of Radden Spinney. Strictly speaking, the woods were private property, and a lop-sided sign assured trespassers they would be prosecuted. But this was the nearest place for an adventure to the Hedgerows estate; dens could be made, and with the help of packed sandwiches, hours could be spent away from the presence of parents. The narrow, bracken-fringed paths, the mounds and hollows, the tangled thickets, were known better to these children than most living souls, certainly far better than the ‘owner’.

  Bursting out from a hideaway to a slight clearing, two of the children halted abruptly to see an alien in their midst. Seated on the fallen trunk of an old tree, there was a rather old man, and he was unlike any adult they had ever seen before—scruffy, smelly, with very funny clothes and uncombed hair. He grinned at them. The youngsters looked at each other, then back at the stranger, warily.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ he told them, in a strong, slurred voice.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ ventured one.

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘Live here? You can’t. We’ve never seen you. Where?’ The children’s curiosity was tempered with a native disbelief.

  ‘I come and go,’ he replied.

  They hesitated. The sound of pounding footfalls came nearer, together with the shouts of their companions.

  ‘Over here,’ they were directed. The exclamations of the new arrivals died on their lips as they encountered the strange old man. The youngest of the party, a very small girl, saw the main point quickly.

  ‘You’re dirty,’ she told the man.

  He laughed out loud.

  ‘That’s good honest earth, that is,’ he rejoined. ‘The wood is dirty ain’t it? The trees, the plants, don’t they have roots in the dirt? And I’m only as good as they,’ he added.

  ‘Is this your wood then?’ asked one.

  ‘In a way of speaking, yes it is that.’ And, with an air of generosity, ‘Shall I show you around?’

  He began to shamble off without waiting to see if they’d follow. After a few moments they chased after him. He was talking, almost to himself. Though they knew the woods so well, there were things they’d never seen before; or rather, that they hadn’t noticed. He told them the common names of flowers and plants, murmured what birds were responsible for each different song, and gave titles to the regions of the domain they explored. Each tree seemed to have its own unique characteristics, and the old man alleged that he knew them all as ‘friends’ which baffled the children not a little. It might have been an hour they wandered around after him, their game forgotten, until at length he guided them through tortuous green alleys guarded by tall nettles to a grotto assembled from logs, ferns, branches, roots, leaves. It was littered with the debris of coarse habitation but was to the children, unmistakeably a marvellous place. The stranger beamed with pride at their surprised excitement. The suspicion that they had harboured in their reactions till now seemed to dissolve quite suddenly, and they plied him with questions about his way of life. This seemed to please him even better, and if some of his responses were a little romantic in their evocation they appeared none the less well meant.

  ‘We will have to go now’, one said regretfully, looking at his watch; it was five o’clock, tea-time. ‘We might be able to come tomorrow.’

  The old man nodded and began to prod a bizarre clump of weeds into a makeshift couch, before silently leading them back to broader paths. They dawdled away, chattering excitedly.

  Of course some of the children told their parents about the nice old man they had met down in the woods, and of course this news was met with unmitigated horror. To consort with any stranger at that tender age was courting danger, for the world is full of sickness and the most despicable things can happen . . . but a tramp was worse than all. He might have nasty fleas. He might tell them lies. He could lead them to the darkest parts of the wood so they could not get out, then they might never be seen again. Thus, Radden Spinney was placed out of bounds.

  The consternation of the parents was fully supported by the other residents, who, however, felt constrained to leave the matter as it was, as in all fairness, the children should not have been allowed into the woods in the first place. The incident caused a tremor of distress across Hedgerows estate and animosity towards the ubiquitous vagrant intensified.

  The relationship between the estate and the nearest village was cordial. Both were respectable, and aside from a few quaint old cottages, that community consisted very much of detached, well-lawned retirement and commuter homes. It was an idyll to stroll about the tidy streets, and breathe in the perfume of manicured flower beds, hear the faint rustling
of ornate trees. Little touches such as bird tables, trellised archways, topiary bushes, even an archaic sundial, made it the more delightful.

  The leading lights of both Hedgerows and the adjacent village decided that it would be a good idea to hold a Spring Fayre, and so arrangements were made, and before long, discreet notices extolled the virtues of their ‘May Day Fete’ with side shows, stalls, ponies, homemade and home-grown produce, fancy dress, country dancing around a brand new but traditional-style Maypole, and a celebrity to open the proceedings. It promised to be a pleasant occasion. Pale sunshine blessed the day of the event, a slight breeze meant that it was a little less than warm, but the participants did not allow this to spoil their appreciation. The honoured guest made a wry, happy little speech sprinkled with humour and contentment, and was greeted with effusive applause. He mingled with his audience a while before being driven away to another engagement. Steadily things got underway. Modest crowds thronged the attractions, judging of the competitions was keenly followed, the refreshment tent buzzed with earnest conversation. Just as a lull in all the activities began to make itself discernable, the folk band wheezed into action, and a display of jiggling around the Maypole began. A picturesque affair it made, the costumed mummers prancing oddly whilst weaving the ribbons of the pole in and out, over and under. Polite appreciation was evident among the onlookers.

  Halfway through a certain traditional tune there shuffled from the edge of the field a newcomer in the most bizarre fancy dress yet seen. He was covered from head to foot in leaves and twigs, flowers and moss, which must have been patiently woven together into an all enveloping cloak. Even his head was covered in a heavy mask from which sprouted more camouflage. It was almost as if the vegetation grew from him. The rather wild figure shoved through the circle of spectators and commenced a whirling, spiralling, leaping ritual among the Morris men. His sudden entrance seemed to throw them into a little confusion but the band played on, and they skipped rather lamely to the end of the refrain. The initial gasp of acclaim at such a novelty and the brief burst of applause, lapsed into an awkward silence when the strange character did not halt his routine when the rest did, but pounded and pranced on with writhing intensity. When the performers drew aside in obvious consternation, a muttering and whispering swept the crowd. It was soon apparent that something was not quite what it ought to be, and very quickly this suspicion crystallised itself—this was very definitely not part of the act. People began to drift away uneasily. An organiser tried to intervene, by tapping the unwelcome intruder on the arm, but the impetus of the dance simply jogged him away, and courteous remonstrations seemed to fall on oblivious ears. This ridiculous exhibition was spoiling the carefully planned schedule. Without doubt, the unexpected performer was enthusiastic, quite devastatingly so, but he might give the others a chance, and in any case his cavortings were just a bit too frenzied for proper public consumption. His occasional moans or grunts did not help.

  Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, the intruder seemed to spin off his axis and with a weird rustling, insensible of his surroundings, charged across the arena, bustling by spectators, crashing against stands, tripping over tent guys, and making a very distasteful hubbub. He lurched into the produce marquee, and actually took some of the exhibits as if to eat them, not knowing or caring that they were only there to look at. A bottle of home-made wine was dashed off at a rare pace. Then he recommenced his spiralling dance, loping awkwardly away across a bridleway, half-heartedly chased by an ejection party which had been formed. No one wanted a ‘scene’, the damage was done, and they must make the best of it. So instead of pursuing the culprit any further (a doubtful proposition for his route was across a muddy field, and his direction uncertain), an official made a formal complaint by telephone to the police, and the proper order of things was hastily restored. The Maypole dancing was curtailed, however, seeming somehow inappropriate, and certain entrants were audibly aggrieved at the fate of their produce. But with no further unpleasantness, the day wound to a close.

  Opinion was quick to place the blame for this latest sordid escapade on the tramp. It was clearly an elaborate ruse to enable himself to steal some sustenance. He had been an irritating but minor aspect of the new estate for a while, and now, doubtless under the influence of drink, had maliciously made a nuisance of himself at their harmless festivity. It was too bad. To add to his reputation as a beggar and probably child-seducer, he had betrayed himself as a common thief. Strong representations were made to the authorities, but as with the previous occurrence, he had apparently vanished. It was supposed he had a number of haunts, each of which received similarly unwelcome attentions. Of course, the children told their parents he lived in the wood, but that was a nonsense meant to lure them, and the local police, making a cursory inspection, found nothing.

  And Summer passed uneventfully, warm, prosperous, pleasant. Not once did the tramp show his face, and many on the estate almost forgot about him. But his next appearance was at least as bizarre as the foregoing. It was the custom of many of the families residing at ‘Hedgerows’ to pack their children away to a Sunday school held at the nearby village chapel. This was scarcely because they earnestly felt their offspring ought to be given religious guidance, but more often for the expedient reason that it left the children in the care of another person for some precious hours of tranquillity, and at the very tolerable charge of a few shillings for the collection box.

  In September, the little yellow stone chapel held a Harvest Festival, and the children were asked to bring along offerings which would, no doubt, be distributed amongst local charities. A service with the general theme of ‘count our blessings’ was the order of the day. On the appointed Sunday, therefore, the junior congregation fidgeted and whispered in the gnarled old pews before a fine display of donations from willing parents. The tutor had just begun his homily on the meaning of the custom, when there was a bustle at the door, a babble of consternation, and a strange, radiant figure emerged. Unmistakably it was the tramp. But what a transformation . . . he had bedecked himself in a long, flowing golden smock, and the bucolic ruddiness of his face seemed to have given away to a healthier, brighter complexion. The tattered hair had all the appearance of meticulous attention, being just as long but distinctly sleek; and perched within it, like a laurel crown, was a circlet of wheat ears, freshly picked. There was, too, a whole new air about him; gone was the furtive demeanour, the crudeness of speech and style; he seemed charged with a sense of positive vitality and energy. It might have been a different person—but the eyewitnesses aver otherwise, and leave no room for doubt.

  A hush was followed by many excited murmurings, for certainly some of the children recognised their companion of months ago. The tutor at first was dumbfounded, but recovered his poise and protested rather shrilly: ‘I’m sorry, You can’t come in here . . .’ The newcomer marched to the Harvest offerings, his flaring cloak a blaze of colour in the sombre surroundings. He picked up a loaf of home-made wholemeal bread, lovingly baked by an enthusiastic parent.

  Then he glared around, clearly expecting some other item to be available. With a ceremonial flourish, he swivelled to face the congregation, holding the loaf aloft. He tore a portion off, crumbled it in his fingers, and threw it into the air with an arcing, all-encompassing gesture, so that specks drifted down everywhere.

  This was too much for the tutor. Beckoning to others, standing uncertainly at the entrance, he bellowed ‘Stop that!’ in an angry impatient tone. The usurper turned, a look of regal surprise on his brow. Sternly he approached the tutor, who backed away, gabbling a mixture of warnings, threats and reassurances. The erstwhile vagrant placed a lean hand on each of the tutor’s shoulders and seemed to beam, madly but benignly, as if his whole face was lighted; this grimace was of such concentration that it left the subject of it quite disarmed and confused.

  Suddenly the stranger burst into energy. Calling and gathering the children to him, he half skipped, half danced out of the chapel, pu
shing through stupefied onlookers. With his throng following him, like the Pied Piper, he led them along the High Street and out towards the estate. The shocked supervisors retrieved some of the stragglers, and the younger toddlers and infants, but the rest were clearly happy to desert their duty and join the sudden attraction. He leapt along at a fair pace that more moribund limbs could not sustain, and took to the fields at the first chance to avoid a vehicle pursuit.

  The exact route that he followed it is now impossible to tell. The testimonies of the children must at points be imaginative, but some consistent strands are discernable. They went to the brook that rises very nearby, and there the master of ceremonies produced a gleaming cup of some shining metal. He scooped out some water, scattered a little into the wind, and over their heads, poured some upon the ground, and drank a few sips. Then they proceeded to where two old bridleways meet, and he followed the same practice as before, with bread and water, but also picked up a handful of dust and allowed it to seep and drift gradually away, chanting a few words. Other halts were made, including at the wood and by a certain bush, but many, so far as can be ascertained, were ‘in the middle of nowhere’ or at no obvious landmark. The ending of this odd affair is equally thrown into confusion.

  The police had been called, of course, and parents summoned, but the co-ordination of a search party had hardly been arranged when the whole gang of children sauntered through the outer perimeter of the estate, crossing a fallow field in a much-used short cut from the village back to their homes. In answer to the keen questions about the whereabouts of the stranger, even the eldest and least impressionable would only say that the man had gone back to where he lived, in the wood. Wearily, as if aware of the futility of their actions, the party swarmed into the ‘private’ spinney. After a chaotic, ill-humoured exploration, the conclusion was reached that this was a romantic fiction to put them off, and the affair was shepherded into a ‘best forgotten’ corner. The police took the usual routine statements about this far from routine matter, instituted enquiries with local mental hospitals, circulated a description, and eventually left the relevant file in an obscure cabinet.