Herald of the Hidden

by Valentine, Mark

  The talk about the tramp turned to a new angle after this incident. That he was potentially dangerous, a criminal, an unsavoury character, probably a lunatic, was common ground. But others hinted at more macabre or wildly unlikely possibilities. Certain aspects of this rogue’s activities were intriguing . . .

  The darkness drew in, the occupants of ‘Hedgerows’ found themselves more and more shuttered into their homes of an evening, cocooned against the bitter chill outside. Frost glinting on the paths and roads was a frequent sight each morning, and the days were either sullen, dreary and cold or laced with wind and rain. Before Winter could seize a remorseless hold, however, there was one further commemoration of great appeal to the young of the estate; Guy Fawkes’ Night, ‘gunpowder, treason and plot’, and fireworks.

  It was decided to arrange a special public display under proper supervision, rather than encourage a variety of private but unpredictable pyrotechnics. A piece of wasteland was selected, and organisers appointed. The children, via the village school, were encouraged to devise an uncommonly giant Guy, and set about this task with gusto. A levy was charged by polite collection upon all those who wished to participate, and a bumper display of fireworks purchased.

  The building of the bonfire was a communal effort. First, a heap of combustible waste was accumulated, and dumped on the site. Next, the children were helped by their parents to collect minor tinder: twigs, sticks, bundles of fallen wood. There were clearly the makings of a really good pyre. But it was evident that a solid heart, some core that would smoulder well but not disappear in a few crackles was sorely needed. A horde, no matter how high, of insubstantial stuff would not sustain the flames for long enough. And then there emerged the idea of taking down the derelict oak that stood on the edge of the estate, so badly damaged by a contractors’ bulldozer that it was quite probably a hazard in imminent danger of toppling at the first fierce storm. The planning authority were duly approached, sent out a man for a brief inspection, and gave their convoluted approval in terms expounding that whilst the oak was, or had been, a likely candidate for official preservation, in view of its age and significance in the local landscape, its present vulnerable condition made such an eventuality inopportune, and that, therefore, in this instance and with regard to all the circumstances, the residents’ application was confirmed, with the proviso that municipal employees should undertake the felling.

  Three overalled workmen did arrive long afterwards, and watched by a desultory crowd, plied a mechanical saw upon the broad, battered trunk. With a shudder the grey denizen swayed, seemed almost to tense itself steadily, then crashed with an almighty thud and a bustling of leaves to the ground. It was harnessed with strong chains to the council truck, and dragged the few yards to the bonfire site. After further work on lopping the branches, and reducing the trunk to manageable proportions, the men departed. A bill was later sent to the residents’ association, and met from the November 5th’s Committee funds.

  Came the night, a Friday, and excitement was abroad in the bleak white air. There was a clear sky, a slight breeze; overcoats, gloves and scarves were standard wear, and around 7 pm the families gathered on the neck of waste ground. There, in the dim arena was their huge bonfire, the impressive tribute to such a united effort. Carefully constructed, it towered loftily, a pyramid of wood, boxes, paper and sundry other items massed around the heavy centre of the old oak’s body. And wedged securely on the peak reposed the Guy, a great ragged figure over eight feet tall and broadened by thick stuffing; its painted head wore a weird mask and a jaunty hat, and in the faint light this bizarre idol was grim and awe-inspiring indeed. At a pre-arranged time, and with the judicious aid of some sprinkled fuel, four tapers were set to the base of the pile and it burst into life. Almost immediately, too, soaring, whining fireworks took to the skies, and the stars had rivals: bright flashes of green, red, blue, yellow, illuminated all, there were bangs and screeches, swirling, spiralling flares in the black crystal sky, and fizzling sparklers handed round. A rare display it was. But these diversions could not always detract from the centrepiece, and the amber tongues of flame grew stronger and higher, the heat became palpable even at the safe distance of the spectators, and the fire spat, roared and crackled ferociously.

  Soon, food and drink were brought from the surrounding houses, by prior arrangement. There were hot potatoes, mugs of soup, sausages and onions in rolls, the flat, round, oven-warm biscuits called ‘soul cakes’, and for the adults beakers of wine. The profusion of fireworks eventually began to dwindle as the night closed in, the smaller children were put to bed, and the huge bonfire was encircled by an appreciative remnant, chatting to each other, stamping feet or pounding arms to combat numbness, while their faces were basked by the bright glow. It had been a good evening; a success. Attention was suddenly drawn to a symbolic stage in the progress of the bonfire; from all sides, the dancing flames converged on the sturdy figure of the Guy. Then the effigy seemed to lunge into the furnace with a conscious effort, as the body was caught and shrouded in fire.

  Each of the thirty or so onlookers will have a different perception of what next transpired: but the essence is the same. I have said that the Guy seemed to slump by an active will into the encroaching tongues of fire. Such was clearly a trick of the light: perhaps part of its supporting beams gave way, burnt through, and the figure slipped through the gap.

  But that cannot account for what it is said followed next. As the Guy was engulfed, and it seemed the flames had attained their apex, a gust of wind traversed the scene, making the spectators half-turn against the renewed breath of heat, flying ashes and sparks. Then the effigy burst up from out of its pyre, arms outstretched say some, bursts of gold and crimson flaring from it, mask and hat gone, and a strange, gnarled, deformed, wooden visage in their place, streaming a bundle of barren, broken twigs like unkempt hair; not, obviously not, what the children had built, almost unrecognisable . . .

  As the crowd watched in dismay, disbelief, the effigy seemed to cavort blunderingly, stiffly on top of its pyramid of flame. It was grotesque, deeply disturbing. Comparing what they saw with more common objects, the witnesses have described the creature as like a scarecrow, a carved wooden statue, an animated totem pole or (for obvious reasons) a tree come alive. Was it the wine which helped them to see what they did? Or the ceremonial atmosphere, the darkness, companionship and blazing bonfire? Yet we speak of some thirty people, sane, cautious, conformist; no one explanation will suffice.

  The hideous figure jumped and shuddered above the flames for only a few moments; little more than two minutes perhaps. Then it succumbed once more, and finally, to the fire . . .

  **

  Such incidents pass quickly into popular myth, for against each onlooker who refuses to confirm or deny the experience there is one who will relate the whole affair with relish, and no doubt, embellishments. The connection with the old tramp, who has not been seen since, is taken as understood; did he not always turn up at specific occasions? Had not the effigy a distorted likeness to him? And surely, there are two ways of interpreting the tale that he lived in the wood; we may think of a particular wood, like Radden Spinney, or we may think of all wood; and he may have lived in either or both.

  The residents’ association of ‘Hedgerows’ has planted a young oak sapling where the old one grew, and each February the local primary school encourages children to follow a quaint old custom which nearly died out: decking the trees in ribbon and bright rags, to encourage them, as it is said, to emerge renewed in the Spring. The young oak sapling is among them.

  Twilight at Little Brydon Cricket Club

  The process of becoming settled, then accepted, in the village of Little Brydon, was a steady one. As my presence became more familiar to the inhabitants, passing greetings in the street moved slowly into idle chat, and from that to longer conversations. And during one such talk, with a local worthy and parish councillor, when I mentioned my affection for cricket, I was moved by the fervour with
which my participation in the village team was sought: though really I have never been more than an enthusiastic spectator. It was partly, indeed, this indulgence that had inclined me to set up home in Little Brydon, for it possessed one of those idyllic grounds—a lush meadow, lying a little in the shadow of the ancient church—which are now so uncommon. There was, too, a brook for one boundary (whose influence upon the ball when it chanced—if chance it was—to drop into the shallow sparkling waters, was often a cause of debate, chiefly on the part of visiting teams) and a pleasant timber pavilion.

  But the quality of the pitch was, alas! not presently reflected in its patron team, who had been in decline for some years and now lay perilously close to ejection from the county league. To be sure, such a drastic move was only taken reluctantly by fellow clubs, but now Little Brydon C.C. had finished last, sometimes dismally so, for four successive seasons, and it was unlikely such forbearance would permit a further reprieve.

  When I was inveigled into supplying my humble contribution, therefore, I knew that such an honour was not mine by dint of considered selection, but simply because there were scarcely any others to whom the beleaguered committee could turn. I played my part in a few games, the most satisfactory of which was a narrow defeat—and as the procession of days entered its Autumnal stage, it was only a heady burst of May victories (now wistful memories) that sustained the club a step above the gloomily-anticipated base position. Because our rivals in adversity had a match in hand over us, it was imperative we took both of our own remaining games: and even then there was no guarantee of evading the ignominious fate of recent seasons.

  The penultimate match, and the final one on home territory, saw our shabby-genteel side at its nadir. Some of the more elderly participants had dropped out as the season wore on, stricken by the toll on protesting limbs and fading faculties: others, from further afield, had ceased to find their journeys worthwhile in the implacable face of the looming extinction of the club from organised competition; a few had been poached by more successful outfits. At all events, when it came to the day, the disgrace of having an incomplete team seemed an ironic foretaste of coming obscurity—we were down to only ten men, and that only held together by the most desperate canvassing. Seldom before had the club begun a game with less than eleven to its name, but we hoped one of the team might turn up later. Our collective emotion was one of bleak resignation, and we were glad, in a way, that few people had gathered to watch play commence—merely a sprinkling, and very possibly the majority brought along by the visitors.

  It was, of course, a single innings match (in the days when our league was still resisting the pervasive lure of limited-over arrangements) and our bowlers’ struggle against the opponents, whom we had put in to bat, was dour. The trio who made up what we liked to call our ‘bowling strength’ were the victims of a pithy proverb in currency as much amongst our own team as rivals: that they were short-sighted, short-winded, and sure to be slogged all over the field. The first of these categories applied to Lawrence Exton, a slight, bespectacled youth still at school, and of a studious nature; the second to George Warrinder, our captain, a retired police sergeant; the third to Jeff Cooper, whose erratic bowling sometimes bewildered the batsman into losing his wicket, but more frequently dropped the ball in such a way as to positively invite a boundary.

  But on this day these three, and the others who tried their hand, controlled their more colourful deliveries with great restraint and conducted a grim war of attrition which, by a process akin to the erosion caused by dripping water on rock, finally saw off the opposing team for 249 runs.

  If we had then batted with a similar plodding persistence, there was every likelihood of approaching this score. Unfortunately, our openers succumbed almost at once, and the middle order appeared inclined to follow their example. Sent in at number six, I could conceive of no other course but to follow faithfully the ritual of sustained forward-defensive which might keep Ranscott’s, our opponents, at bay whilst the deity responsible for sports and pastimes arranged a minor miracle on our behalf. This celestial functionary, however, showed no desire to intercede, and though I continued my guarded prods diligently, I rapidly found myself in the company of the tenth man, Lawrence Exton, with our total at 133 for 8.

  When we met at mid-wicket for a consultation, I had intended to murmur some fatalistic phrases about holding on in the hope of bad light (for evening was approaching) and maybe snatching the odd single as opportunity arose. These pious remarks were interrupted, though, by a solitary shout of exhortation from a spectator at the Church End, who was leaning just inside the railings, and appeared to be sporting whites himself: ‘Fight ’em, Brydon!’ was his call, and it rang like an old battle-cry in my ears. Though I had no real roots in this village, and had played for the club for less than half a season, I felt a surge of pride and abandoned, as if never considered, thoughts of an aimless, half-hearted, blocking approach. Instead, I glanced at Exton and understood at once that he too was affected by this surprising display of confidence in our capacities for struggle.

  ‘Well?’ I enquired.

  ‘We’ll give it a go,’ was his response. ‘It’s only 117 after all . . .’ —this with a bitter smile.

  The next few overs passed us in a whirl. Ranscott’s skipper, who believed himself able at any given moment to exact a swift execution, gave the ball to a couple of novice bowlers so that they might keep their hand in: the resulting flurry of fours, and scurried twos, was perhaps not such a jolt either to us or to him. He evidently did not feel disposed to continue the experiment, though, for as soon as we felt a fluency and deftness enter our play, he brought back on their leading wicket-taker, to polish us off.

  We took advantage of the changing field placings for another quick chat. I began to feel a little despondent again, presuming our reprieve was a fluke caused by the opposing captain’s self-indulgence.

  ‘Well, at least we had a fling,’ I murmured to my companion.

  But he was not listening. He was peering through his round, flimsy spectacles, past me, to our optimistic supporter at the Church End. Then he nodded thoughtfully, pounded the ground grimly with the tip of his bat, and ambled back to the crease.

  Now, it may be that their crack bowler was infected by the same excess of confidence which had seized his captain; whatever the reason, his deliveries appeared to offer no difficulty to Lawrence Exton, who guided them with great craft through gaps in the field selected with almost geometrical precision. No sooner was one breach filled than he exploited another, with an insight that was next to uncanny. Neither did a change in the attack deter him—each pace and style was treated to the same chilling response. I was sorely tempted to enquire, during a pause in the proceedings, when Ranscott’s were holding a frowning team consultation, what had got into him: but I thought better of it, for fear of disturbing his concentration. Besides, though we exchanged a few mid-wicket phrases, I could tell his attention was really elsewhere, and he cast long glances towards the youth leaning eagerly and intently over the church railings. I, too, gazed towards this spectator, and, noting that he was dressed for the game, albeit in a rather affected manner, wondered idly whether he could be recruited to the team for the future.

  My own part in the steady, remorseless advance towards the originally distant total we required, was played with more care than flair. I knew I must simply stay there, and leave the rest to the inspiration which had taken hold of my partner, so I relied for the most part on what I liked to regard as a diligent display of classical defensive play—others would later describe it more evocatively as desperate deadbatmanship. When we were within twenty runs, I felt that dangerous sense of early elation which can so easily lead to uncharacteristic folly. Something inside me surged at the idea of a few swift swipes, or an extra scrambling run where none existed.

  It is possible that my stance betrayed something of this intention, or else my expression may have assumed a manic aspect. Somehow, the spectator in the curious
cricket kit sensed the change in mood, and shouted in a terse, simple way—‘Steady now! Steady!’ I looked up sharply, causing the umpire to halt the bowler’s run-up. Then, newly fortified, I waved apologies and resumed my accustomed guard.

  So long had been the struggle towards the improbable score, that its attainment was distinctly an anti-climax. Our team-mates had been startled at the outset of the partnership, but as it wore on, they came to regard victory as in the nature of an inevitability; the smattering of applause which greeted our jubilant progress to the pavilion therefore had an element of the dutiful in it.

  But the congratulations in the changing-room were heartfelt enough, the more so since salvation had come from so unlikely a source. I had never been regarded as much other than a makeweight, while Lawrence Exton was more of a ‘prospect’ than anything else. Indeed, he seemed to be in a bewildered daze at what he had achieved, as if it was something beyond his own comprehension. Searching for an explanation to account for his sudden assumption of batting prowess, he remarked:

  ‘It was nice to have some encouragement for a change. That chap watching from down by the church. . . .’

  ‘Yes, I noticed him too,’ I interjected, ‘Why wasn’t he playing? He wasn’t with Ranscott’s, surely?’

  But the others could offer no information. None of them had heard his exhortations, or even, for that matter, observed his presence. Of course, they could have been entranced by the course of the game, but it seemed odd that the words which had so stirred us out at the wicket, had not also been discerned on the pavilion boundary. We tackled our team captain on the matter.