Him walks up the stairs. One of hims legs walks straight and the other drags a little. I hear hims footsteps step and slide across the floor above me and climb the next set of stairs, one foot louder than the other.
I walk past the flickering candles and the shelves stacked with planks of shipwreck wood and open the middle door.
The deadtaker’s chair is covered with shining brown leather. A desk stands in the middle of this small room. A circle of light from a flickering lamp lights up the desk. A pen and ink bottle, blank paper and a glass jar of deep red liquid and a wine glass are lined up neat on top of the desk. I drop my bag on the floor.
Inside the drawer in the desk there’s a thick leather book. I lift it out, thud it on the desk and open the cover. The deadtaker has written in neat black ink:
List of the Dead.
I run my finger down the page and find:
Beatrice M. Jared pages 30–34.
I open it on page 30:
Beatrice M. Jared (embroiderer)
(married to Mr Ned Jared, mother to: Mary and Barney Jared)
Report on the Unfortunate Circumstances
I was summoned to inspect and remove the corpse of Beatrice M. Jared on the southern cliffs that look out across the ocean towards the geographic anomaly which is known locally as ‘the Pegs’. I was hailed there by a local man, name of Mr Martyn Spender, in the evening. He reported to me in a most breathless fashion that he: ‘went after my Annie’ (Wife of Mr M. Spender. Anne-Marie Spender, common name Annie, occupation: knitter) ‘as I dun think she really knew what she wanted. I went to the cliffs by the Pegs to find her in a right frazzle (assume: in great distress) as she and that pair, (Mrs Valmarie Slarius: occupation: herbalist, and Mrs Kelmar A. Barter: occupation: midwife, spinner and seamstress) ‘had found Beatrice unconscious, and were trying to stop the deadedness coming over her complete.’ (Assume: remaining with her in her final mortal moments.)
Upon my arrival, I noted that the three witnesses were chanting and were physically located around the deceased. I requested that they desist immediately, in order to enable room for the procedures required in order to check for the usual signs of life. I proclaimed that the three witnesses should avert their gazes, and wait some distance away. They persisted in their observation of me, although I repeatedly requested that they avert their gaze, considering their observations and comments at that time to be particularly distracting as they persisted in asking me what I was doing and requesting the reasons for each slight movement of my person whilst concluding my investigation. Despite this annoyance, I did rapidly ascertain that Mrs B. Jared was, in fact, deceased. The two unusual aspects of the three witnesses, aside from the chanting, was the fact that one carried a rope, and all three women were wearing gloves. This was mildly unusual in relation to my observations of local dress customs. I choose to deem it insignificant as it was a particularly cold day. However, it may be worth noting that the corpse was not wearing gloves.
The deceased presented the usual pallor of death, but I observed a blue tinge to the lips and the lower extremities. The corpse had two puncture marks upon her right ankle, which were raised and appeared to be the site of the poison entering the body.
I understood from the information I gleaned from the three witnesses and Mr M. Spender that they believed the snake responsible for the bite to be a variety of snake they referred to as the Diamond back Addersnake, which they informed me was venomous. However, when I requested one to be procured, to provide venom samples for comparative purposes, none of the local people were able to provide such a snake.
Summing up:
From conversing with all three witnesses, and from further inspection of the corpse post-mortem, I confirm that the only reasonable cause of death to be ascertained under the circumstances is that Mrs Beatrice M. Jared’s unfortunate demise was caused by the bite of a venomous snake, which was not located in the moments, nor days, after the death.
In fact, for several weeks, I personally sought out any variety of local snake by conducting a thorough search of the island, and despite my most persistent efforts, I was unable to locate a single snake.
In consulting my reference material on snakes, I have drawn the conclusion that the Diamondback is in fact a fictitious name, derived from some local folk tale.
The reason for the women being present was clear, though the content of their proposed discourse remained withheld; some kind of argument which required one of the women to bring a rope to the scene seems to be indicated. I can only deduce that it was a disagreement over some aspect of craft-making, which these women believed necessitated the element of mystery, when faced with persons, such as myself, perceived to be outsiders.
The fact that they were chanting when I arrived was certainly suspicious but when I asked the women about this they all stated that they were singing and went on to imply that I was a buffoon of some description if I was not capable of determining the difference between a chant and a song.
The evidence post-mortem was clear enough to ascertain that the cause of death was by venom entering the body via two puncture marks directly into the ankle, which would imply death by some variety of snake bite, but not, as the witnesses claimed, by a ‘Diamond back Addersnake’.
Them had a rope with them and there’s no such thing as a diamondback addersnake. I get up and lock the door. I rummage in my bag for the Thrashing House key. Someone will have thought of Mam’s death while them held this key. One of the women will know.
It’s not here. No. I rummage deeper. Must be. It’s not … no. Morgan wouldn’t have took it. I spill everything out on the floor and put it back in.
No key.
Morgan were so innocent … but she were in and out of my bag when we were stitching up my dress, and now I’ve lost all the women’s stories.
I flick the pages of the deadtaker’s book backwards and forwards. Dropping it on the desk, it falls open at the list of the dead. The last name on the list is scratched out. I lean over it. Him has written a name in and scored over it, like the person were dead and isn’t dead no more. I flick through to the last pages him has written on:
For all of this time I have lived here in this remote place, I have not yet encountered anything so strange. I was walking to the tall building on the hill, known locally as the Thrashing House, in order to confirm any suspicions in my mind regarding some rumours I had overheard. One such example that easily and rapidly springs to mind is a female voice on the other side of my garden fence, in conversation with others. This voice had clearly stated: ‘The men are thrashed good an’ hard. We’ll not be seeing them again.’
There was no doubt in my mind when I made the decision to investigate this statement that I would be thwarted yet again in my attempts to learn more of the Thrashing House, which holds these people in thrall, but yet remains locked, day and night.
I approached the building after dark, in order to investigate, but I was distracted by an owl in the graveyard, hooting on a grave. Recalling my eldest daughter’s youthful love of the description of owls as a parliament, and feeling a little nostalgic for our shared past, I took a detour into the graveyard to see the owl. What I experienced at that graveside distracted me completely from the task of investigating the building.
At first glance, the owl was of the appearance of a variety of barn owl, its feathers light in colour. However, as I approached the grave, it flew away immediately, and I did not see it return. And yet there was no one at that grave, but the soil of the grave was recently turned.
It was the grave of Beatrice Jared. And I could hear a female voice, muttering.
As soon as I heard the voice I drew close, hid myself, took out my notepad and set to recording the words I heard. I was convinced in that moment that if I did not fully document what the voice said, the sense of disbelief which was frustratingly present in my person would eradicate any information that I could temporarily understand with a later confusion and dream-like sensibility that I felt
certain I would experience as soon as the voice was quiet. The following is transcribed as I heard it, copied faithfully from my notes as they were recorded, alas, with a slightly tremulous hand:
‘… torn.
Dig soil from mine grave.
Obey two women that dig and call and form me.
Mothers now.
Give life. Not death. Not same before.
Scatter earth from grave, free mine instincts. Then release … fly flap fall first face smash bruises. Then. Up up up, fly, swoop.
Instincts drawn out.
Yes, punish.
Men with lines of thoughts, guilty. Scratch, tear thoughts.
What were names …
Only name, myself. Once Beatrice …’
Summing up:
As I recorded these mutterings, and in the moments afterwards, the voice seemed further away, so though this is not a death as such, the voice spoke the name of the woman who lies in that grave. As yet, I have drawn no conclusions.
Mam is the ghost Valmarie and Kelmar raised up to make into the owl woman. Using earth from her grave. My hands over my mouth smell of soil. She were my Mam, no matter what the trade she made with Langward were. I tap on the desk. Faster and faster. Read it again. Them put Mam’s ghost into a barn owl and set her on the men what took the boys.
Mam sent Da mad. Scratching at hims thoughts.
When she’d done what Valmarie and Kelmar wanted, Mam’s ghost were homeless, so she must’ve flitted off. And come home.
I read her words again:
Give life. Not death. Not same before.
Them gave her death and then brought her back. Which means Mam were murdered by Valmarie or Kelmar, or both of them. Not Annie. Annie loved her. She’s always been afraid of that pair, so she must’ve been too scared to ever say what them’d done.
I’ve read more than the four pages I traded with the deadtaker, so I open the documentation book at the front page and write in the names on the list of the dead:
Mrs Valmarie Slarius
Mrs Kelmar A. Barter
I flick forwards to the next blank page and write:
Report on the Unfortunate Circumstances I were summoned to inspect and remove the stinking corpses of Mrs Valmarie Slarius and Mrs Kelmar A. Barter on the cliffs what lookout across the sea towards the place which is known sensibly as ‘the Pegs’ because that is what them are.
I were hailed there by a local young woman, name of Miss Mary Jared, who hollered up at my windows from outside my garden fence till I finally hatcheted my way out. She reported to me in a most breathless fashion that: ‘I dun know what can possibly have happened. Them never saw who it were what hacked them to death.’
I found the two women deceased, and realised that them had been viciously and brutally mortally wounded, and deaded good and hard, by a person or persons unknown. Them were tied up in a rope of which there are many on this island, and no one ever talks about thems teeth.
Summing up:
I now believe them to be responsible for the death of Beatrice Jared. Them got what were coming to them, for sure. All vicious cuts from some kind of blade, and the rope must have been placed there to remind me of the guilt them felt about the death of Beatrice Jared. I conclude that that pair were murderous and venomous, which took me long enough to figure out, as I’m right simple for all my fancy talk.
I feel a bit better. Not better enough.
I put the book back in the drawer and lock it. My head is getting unravelled. I can think of Mam as murdered and feel angry at Valmarie and Kelmar, but I can’t get angered at Mam, even if …
Something lands in my hair.
I look up …
White owl feathers fall in this room.
I shout, ‘Stop it!’
The feathers fall thicker. Cover the desk. All over the floor. I stand up, can’t see where the feathers are falling from, like a blizzard from the Glimmeras what fills the room. Feathers blow and twist all around me. Settle in clumps, curl into each other. The desk, chair and floor are covered, thick. I blow one off my mouth and more get stuck on my lips.
The feathers are all over my bag, I pick it up and put it on the desk. I rummage inside and pull out the moppet.
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper. ‘What do the feathers mean?’
Shadow Mary’s voice hisses, ‘Leave. Us. Alone.’
‘Barney, are you here in this house, did the deadtaker lie? Are you here, in a coffin box?’ My heart, thud thud thud.
Barney’s voice says, ‘Mary, get this Mary away. Tell her go.’
Shadow Mary hisses, ‘Quiet, sniveller.’
I say, ‘Dun talk to him like that!’
Barney’s voice says, ‘She angry you.’
I say, ‘Barney, dun listen to her, you talk – tell me—’
Him says, ‘Shh, dun make angry this Mary …’
The sound of the sea washes through the shell.
‘Barney?’
The moppet droops forwards, silent.
The feathers fly around me, land all over my hair, cover the moppet in my hand, but now I’m looking at the feathers twisting and spiralling through the room, making everything white, this dun feel like anything bad.
It’s quiet and still and the door is locked.
Warm snow. It’s comfort.
Think.
The moppet’s got Shadow Mary’s voice as well as Barney’s.
Think.
Shadow Mary has peeled off me.
If shadows are made when bad things happen, or feelings what are too big just tear themselves off a person, a shadow of Barney could have peeled off him. Him could have left a shadow in the net him were tangled up in. The shadow must have crept away and hid itself in the shell lying on the beach.
If Shadow Mary has peeled off me, and I’m still alive … Someone must’ve found Barney, washed up on the shore. Him must’ve been hurt bad for hims shadow to peel off, but them’ve kept him alive.
So I’ve got to get out of this house and find out who.
I fall back in the feathers, send them floating up into the room. Grab handfuls and throw them twisting over me. I blow them off my smile.
Morgan
I’m at the Thrashing House door. I pull the key from my pocket and Annie’s letter comes out twisted around it. I can smell the salt in the fog that drifts through the air around me. I slide the key into the lock.
The key won’t turn, it won’t fit into the right parts of the mechanism. I put Annie’s letter on the doorstep and use both hands to push the key in further. It fits into place – the maze on the key has found the puzzle in the lock and it clicks. I turn the handle, the door creaks open. It’s dark inside.
The fog thickens in swirls around my feet. I take the key from the lock. A feeling of someone behind me in the fog, someone reaching out a hand. A woman’s voice shouts, ‘Stop, dun, give me the key—’
I lock myself in. The door’s slam echoes above me in the dark. A creak, the sound of wood breaking. A crack. A groan.
Mary’s brother’s name … I know his name … a name to call …
A crack, a creak, a snap.
‘Hello?’ I shout.
I step forwards. My eyes can’t see in the dark. Something touches my hair. I spin round, step back, feel along the wall, the texture rough like bark. The key is still in the lock. I should be able to feel the door …
A low thud.
My eyes adjust. Archways high above me, faint light coming through small windows high in the ceiling.
A sigh.
‘Who’s there?’
Another sigh.
I step forwards. A footstep, right behind me. I spin round.
A stooped woman stands, half in shadow, between me and the door. A man joins her and smiles. He has no teeth. A teenage girl appears out of the shadows, puts her hand on the woman’s shoulder and says, ‘She can see us.’
The girl steps forwards. Her curly hair covers half her face.
‘Them dun usuall
y see us,’ the man groans. He shields his eyes from me with a weathered hand. The woman turns and knocks on the door but her hand makes no sound. Their faded simple clothes are from another time.
I say, ‘You’re all dead.’
The woman freezes.
She spins round. ‘Can you hear us?’
I nod.
‘You can talk …’ She reaches out her hand.
I step back. ‘Yes.’
Her voice is shrill, ‘Tell Ailsa I’m sorry I stole it. I never meant to upset her. I knew it were her Nan’s – it’s just it were such a lovely green, all shiny, and I just wanted it till I couldn’t think of nothing else. She made such the biggest fuss, near on got everyone there is to get all angered, and I’m angered for what she did, but if she’d just have took it back, I could …’
The man limps closer to me, talks over her voice, ‘No, tell Margaret I never meant to take Billy away. I just missed him and she dun let me see him. I weren’t for keeping him, I never meant for her to think …’
The girl yells, ‘I did mean it, but tell her it were her or me, and it weren’t going to be me, an’ she’d do well to understand that. I’m sure she’s managed well enough without it, I mean I dun axe her right hand off an’ she is right-handed—’
‘Stop it!’ I shout.
‘No, listen,’ says the woman. ‘You’re the only one who’s heard us. The others never saw us. We’ve got things to say to folks. You got to take our messages … tell the folks we needed to tell—’
‘I don’t know anyone. I’m here to find a small boy. His sister’s looking for him, but she’s hurt. Have you seen him? He’s three years old.’
‘It were her or me, you tell her that!’ shrieks the girl.
‘I can’t.’
The man leans on the wall, tilts his head to the side and says, ‘You’re not scared to be in here. The others were scared.’
The woman says, ‘Apart from the tall man … Now him saw the face of some woman, in a broken mirror.’
Snake Ropes Page 21
