John Saturnall's Feast

by Lawrence Norfolk

  ‘Looks like a flock of crows flew in,’ the man remarked loudly as the Lessoners emerged.

  ‘Zoyland crows,’ added Dando Candling's father.

  ‘Coming around the bounds with us, are you?’ Meg Riverett invited the dark-suited group. ‘Or the Ale?’

  Marpot looked straight ahead as if he could not hear but, alongside him, Mercy Starling turned her pinched face to Meg.

  ‘Ale? Is that how you call it? Hear its true name, Meg. It's a Witch's Feast.’

  The Lessoners stopped. The Riveretts and Candlings gathered about Jasper. Mercy rounded on Meg.

  ‘You wait till she comes,’ Cassie's mother went on. ‘I seen it, remember? I seen it with our Mary. First the fever grips you. Then you heave up your guts. You puke till you bring up your soul.’

  The villagers gathered about the two women.

  ‘Puking?’ John saw Meg roll her eyes. ‘Sounds like our Jasper last night.’

  The village men laughed. But from the Lessoners, Lee Fisheroake pointed a finger.

  ‘A witch ain't one of your jokes, Meg Riverett,’ the man said. ‘You mock God and He'll mock you back!’

  ‘Mock us for what?’ Rose Cullender challenged Lee. ‘We ain't done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Feeding a witch not wrong?’ Lee retorted. ‘Sounds like her imps been crawling in bed with you, Rose.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Rose shouted.

  ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ Aaron Clough declared. ‘Moses said that.’

  ‘Live, Brother Aaron?’ Jasper Riverett countered. ‘I don't know about Moses, begging your pardon, but our old witch ain't lived here in a while.’

  Some among the parishioners chuckled. Mercy pushed her way forward again.

  ‘Nor's our Mary!’ she spat. ‘You all served the witch a feast. You all mocked God. Just like Adam when he took the apple from Eve. You brought her down here. And she took my Mary.’

  At Mercy's accusation, a low grumble started up among the villagers.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Eliza Fenton said. ‘The Ale's for Saint Clod. And that's that.’

  Then John heard a low voice behind him.

  ‘That child was sick.’ He turned to see old Connie Cullender. ‘Mercy should have took her to your ma. She had them lot praying for her instead.’ The woman nodded towards the Lessoners.

  They were being jostled now. As John watched, Lee Fisheroake tried to shove Jasper Riverett. Jasper only laughed and Lee's face went even redder. Ephraim Clough scowled but kept close to his father. John searched for Cassie among the faces and found Abel instead. The boy looked unhappily between Jake and Mercy. As one of Clough's men barged into them both, it seemed that blows might be exchanged. Then Tom Hob ambled forward as though he had stumbled upon the gathering by accident.

  ‘Buccla warn't no witch,’ the big man said. ‘She grew every green thing, my gramps used to say. All up and down the Vale.’ The orchardman looked about affably. ‘That's why it's called Buckland. Buccla's Land, see? And Saint Clod was Coldcloak. Shelter o’ the Forest, that's a way of saying. He knew all the old stories, my gramps did. She didn't witch him neither. Our Saint Clod fell in love with her. That's why he cried them tears over there. There's other stories too . . .’

  But before Tom could tell more, Marpot pushed his way to the front.

  ‘That's enough of your nonsense! The only true story's in this book!’ The man stood with his Bible raised. ‘God's mockery is harsh,’ he declared, his blue eyes challenging any to speak against him. ‘Just like Brother Lee said. God sent witches into the world to tempt men with their wickedness. He sent one here.’

  ‘That was an age ago . . . ‘began Jasper.

  ‘A witch knows no age. She's as old as Eve.’ Marpot brought his arm down as if his Bible were an axe and he was dealing a blow. ‘That's how to deal with her. Like the good Saint did. With an axe and a torch.’

  The Lessoners nodded behind him. The villagers stared back. Through the crowd, John glimpsed Cassie. She was gazing up at Marpot, her face rapt. At the same moment he felt his nose twitch. Wet hay, he thought. Or the mist that hung above the meadow in the morning. He felt a nudge. Abel stood beside him.

  ‘Look.’

  The boy gazed up and John followed suit. Faces upturned, they felt the villagers around them look up too, then all of them, abruptly united by the dark clouds sliding overhead.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ Leo Huxtable declared. ‘Rain.’

  As he spoke, the first fat drops fell.

  The rain fell for three days. Water flowed in sheets over the baked earth, encircled the church and jostled the skulls in the bone-hole behind it. A flood washed out the path below the Starlings’ cottage and sped down the back lane in a shallow river. The old well filled with muddy water to the brim. The next day the new one suddenly did the same.

  The hut smelt of damp wool, damp earth and smoke. John dodged the drips which fell through the thatch. He scurried out to gather logs from the pile at the back and stacked them by the fire to dry. John's mother coughed over her cauldron, her stirring arm revolving in a slow smooth action. When his chores were done, John hunched in the corner with the book.

  Cold raindrops spattered his back. John squinted until the dim light filtering through the window-cloth faded, imagining trunks rising and green shoots springing up, hearing wings beat the air and feet rustle the grass. When he could read no more, he lay on the damp palliasse and stared up at the dripping thatch. Across the damp floor he heard his mother stir and cough.

  She would teach him, she had promised. The plantations of the book would tell him why he belonged here . . . So she said. He had all but learned his letters and yet his ignorance remained as great as ever. It had even grown greater, swelling like the fruits on the strange trees. Who had once cultivated the slopes? There was no Buccla, his mother said. There was no witch. What, in all the book's mottled pages, gave John Sandall title to any more than the damp floor beneath him and the hut's narrow walls? He felt his impatience rise again, wondering anew at Ephraim's words. You don't belong here. You shouldn't never have come back . . . Outside, the rain drummed down.

  The downpour stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sun came out and the village steamed. Father Hole took his usual text after rain.

  ‘And Noah removed the covering of the Ark,’ announced the white-haired priest, upending his hourglass before a half-empty church. ‘And behold the ground was dry.’

  ‘About time too,’ exclaimed a red-faced Tom Hob. Beside him, Jasper Riverett laughed. John looked among the congregation for Abel or Cassie but the boy and girl were absent. Their parents too. After the service, he waited by the well as usual. At last Dando and the others trotted over.

  ‘Abel's sick,’ the boy told John.

  ‘Sick how?’

  ‘Sick's all I heard,’ Dando replied. ‘He'll be better tomorrow, God willing.’

  But the next morning Abel had a fever. The day after that he began to retch.

  The stream swelled to a river whose meanders nudged the path then darted away through water-meadows and fields. To the west, Zoyland Tor rose out of the mists of the Levels then sank as the road descended. A cluster of ruins loomed before them.

  ‘That's Old Toue,’ said Josh. ‘What's left of it.’

  The broken walls were soon left behind. The river reappeared at Ruseley then came Middle Ock with its tumbledown chapel. Fainwick followed then the short climb to Rinton. After Lower Halling, Josh nodded back to the mule and the boy. ‘Ain't you supposed to be getting him talking?’

  Reluctantly, Ben Martin dropped back. The mule was limping on its left leg today, he noticed. The leg changed, Josh had told him, depending on the creature's inclination. ‘We was talking about schooling,’ the man resumed. ‘You ever learned to tally, John Sandall? That was my first misfortune. That or the road that took me out of Soughton . . .’

  The boy raked dirt-filled nails through his matted hair. His face betrayed neither interest nor surprise. His shirt a
nd breeches were hardly better than rags, Ben thought. The blue coat might once have been smart, he supposed, before rain had leached out the colour and mud taken its place.

  ‘You've heard of Soughton, ain't you?’ Ben continued doggedly. ‘See that place up ahead? Think of three of ‘em nailed together.’

  They were approaching Carrboro. The boy glanced up then dropped his head again. Soon the horses trudged between tall timbered buildings, their upper storeys overhanging the road. They crossed through the marketplace and passed the dark bulk of the cathedral. In the precinct behind it, a line of grey-faced youths dressed in faded smocks stood in a yard. A beadle waved a stick and bellowed orders. Like an ox stuck up an ash tree, thought Ben. Josh and Ben exchanged glances.

  ‘That's the Poorhouse,’ Josh threw over his shoulder. ‘Don't want to end up in there, eh, Ben?’

  ‘Certainly don't,’ Ben replied. ‘Wouldn't you say, John Sandall?’

  The boy's gaze slid blankly over the ragged children.

  The houses shrank to cottages then to huts. On the edge of town Ben Martin pointed out an inn but Josh shook his head. The horses ambled after their driver, loads swaying and leather straps creaking. At midday, Josh pulled off the road.

  ‘Sir William holds all this,’ the driver said, handing Ben a hunk of bread and throwing one back to the boy. ‘He could walk from the Manor all the way to Soughton and never step off his own land. His man told me that.’

  ‘Your friend Pouncey, was it?’

  ‘He ain't exactly a friend.’

  Ben looked back. The Spines were a smudge in the distance. The boy tore at his hunk of bread, hunched over it like an animal.

  ‘He said anything yet?’ asked Josh.

  Ben shook his head. ‘What if they don't take him?’

  Josh shrugged. ‘Then he'll be for the Poorhouse.’

  They set off again, Josh loping at the head of his animals, the guide-rein of the piebald loose in his hand. Once more Ben took up position beside the mule.

  ‘I was a bit older than you,’ he resumed. ‘Got myself apprenticed to a man called Fessler. Edging, fretting. Bit of bonelace. That was his tackle. He had me keeping the books for the piecework. But there was a fellow wanted my place. Nahum Broadwick he was called. A right black-hearted villain. Not that I realised . . .’

  The road descended. The piebald picked up her pace, looking forward to the shade of Charlcombe Wood. Josh's heavy stick was wedged among the cases on the bay. The driver pulled it out and swung it over his head a few times.

  ‘Now Fessler could tally better'n a Jew on Lammas,’ Ben continued. ‘But he couldn't have told Judas from Saint Peter. And that's all Nahum Broadwick was. A Judas, I mean. Not Saint Peter . . .’

  The chestnut trees closed over their heads. Ben talked on. The boy wasn't going to speak. But that was no problem of his. And his silence made telling the story of Nahum Broadwick's treachery and his own dismissal easier.

  ‘So Nahum lied his head off. But what could I say? Fessler'd no more believe me over him than King Charles'd marry the King of Spain's daughter. I was out the door with four shillings and ninepence. So I took myself down the Dog for a jug and that was when that fellow came in. Had a face that looked more like yours than mine. Touch of the Signor Hispaniolas, if you take my meaning. Anyhow, this Almery fellow had something he wanted taking to Buckland Manor, to a man called Scovell . . .’

  The boy's silence was as stony as the road. This Pouncey fellow would run them off the Manor, Ben thought. He would throw John Sandall into the Poorhouse. And that would be that.

  ‘Whoa!’ Josh yelled. A rabbit had broken cover under the feet of the horse. The driver hurled his heavy stick and Ben heard a thud. He watched Josh pick up the carcass then noticed the boy.

  John Sandall was gazing up into the trees. The thick trunks of the chestnuts spiralled out of the earth, their bark scored with deep lines and grooves. The highest branches quivered in the faint breeze. The boy's eyes followed their movements, darting from side to side.

  ‘What you looking for up there?’ Ben asked quietly. But the boy only gazed around the wood, following the chestnuts’ branches and boughs as they touched and intertwined. At last he dropped his gaze.

  ‘He's an odd one,’ Ben told Josh.

  ‘Still nothing?’ the driver asked.

  Ben shook his head and Josh sighed heavily. Then he dropped his voice and spoke in an undertone. Ben listened carefully as he outlined his course of action.

  ‘Tonight,’ whispered Josh. ‘We'll never be rid of him otherwise.’

  Both men glanced back at the boy.

  ‘All right,’ agreed Ben.

  He dropped back and took up his tale with new energy, describing how he had tramped around the edge of the Levels and along the foot of the Spines.

  ‘That's a dull bit of country, that is, John. Even that Zoyland Tor. They say Christ paid a visit with Joseph of Arimathea. All I'll say is, they didn't hurry back . . .’

  The boy looked at him blankly. The packhorses snorted and shook their heads. As the sun dipped, Josh turned off down a path. Twigs crunched under the animals’ hooves. Through the trees Ben glimpsed crumbling walls. Josh came up beside him.

  ‘We can do it in there.’

  Ben gazed at an ivy-covered pillar which lay in sections on the ground. Blocks of fallen masonry were scattered around the walls. Ben could hear water gurgling somewhere behind. Josh pointed past a broad flat stone in the centre to a deep fireplace, as high as himself and black with ancient soot.

  ‘You light a fire,’ Josh said. ‘Then we'll see to him.’

  The boy had dismounted the mule and now stood in the clearing. The animals were unloaded and hobbled. Josh led John into the courtyard. The boy sat on the stone without protest and let himself be positioned. Josh moved behind him and picked up his knife. He tested the edge then angled the boy's head. Then he brought the blade down.

  When the task was done, Josh stepped back and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Never thought something like that'd be so hard,’ the driver declared.

  ‘You did well,’ Ben said solemnly.

  ‘Better now, ain't it?’ said Josh.

  ‘Much better,’ agreed Ben.

  Hanks of matted black hair lay on the ground around the boy. Odd tufts still stuck out from his scalp.

  ‘That's the lice,’ Josh said with satisfaction. ‘Let's hope he ain't got anything worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ Ben looked puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Whatever took off all them children.’

  Flickering rushlights turned the church walls yellow. Oily smoke curled up into the roof. The last candles had been burnt on Holy Rood Day, Father Hole remembered, two weeks after Abel Starling fell sick. Now that seemed a lifetime ago. Bare and bonneted heads filled the pews of Saint Clodock's. At the front, on the floor, the penitents knelt.

  More than a dozen were lined up tonight, men and women costumed alike in their thin white sheets. They held long wands of hazel and knelt bare-kneed on the hard flagstones. Father Hole watched them grimace and shift, clutching their sheets to their breasts. And in case they stirred from their places, Jim Clough's brother Aaron stood behind them with his stick.

  After the first deaths, Father Hole had preached from Romans.

  We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience.

  A hard text. But the last grains in the glass had hardly fallen before Mercy Starling had risen from her pew.

  ‘Patience, Father? It ain't want of patience making our children retch.’ The woman had cast her eye about the church. ‘Is it, Meg? You ain't laughing at me now, are you? Or you, Rose. Or you . . .’

  Her finger had stabbed in accusation and the Lessoners had risen around her. Then a terrible clamour had filled the church, of accusing voices and fearful oaths. He should have descended, Father Hole knew. He should have stridden among them as he had on the night of the Ale, cuffing heads and scolding ears. But the noise had befuddled him, echoing b
ack and forth in the nave until at last a voice had bellowed over the din.

  ‘How dare we defile God's house with curses!’

  Timothy Marpot had marched down the aisle.

  ‘God tested Adam with Eve. His own wife. Now he tests us.’

  ‘And how's he do that, Brother Tim?’ a sullen voice had challenged from among the villagers. One or two chuckled. But Marpot raised his Bible.

  ‘My name is Timothy,’ he declared, his blue eyes raking their faces. ‘Timothy means Fear-God. And I fear only God. He tests us as He did once before. With a witch.’

  The church fell silent. In the pulpit, Father Hole looked on.

  ‘We will let our faith guide us,’ the warden had declared. ‘If the witch walks among us, we will find her. We will examine consciences.’ Then he had raised his eyes to the pulpit. ‘That is, if Father Hole permits.’

  So the hearings had begun.

  ‘Keep silent there!’ Aaron barked now as Connie Cullender shifted her weight and grunted. Marpot's instructions were precise, Father Hole knew. No idle speech. No raising of the eyes to heaven. For the defiant, the stocks beside the animal-pound. Tom Hob occupied them now. Or worse, thought Father Hole. At the end of the line of penitents, Jake Starling fixed his gaze on the floor, his lips moving in silent prayer. A livid bruise closed one eye.