“The origins of the custom I focus on in this particular story are shrouded in mystery. It certainly predates Victorian times. In fact, there are references to it from the sixteenth century.
“The medieval explanation, which I extrapolate in the story, sounds fanciful and almost certainly owes to folklore rather than any similar event in history. But it adds colour to the occasion, which I’m glad to say is celebrated as much now as it ever was. Anyone who travels down to Cornwall to experience it is guaranteed a good time. I’ve visited Padstow twice on these occasions, and found a near-Bacchanalian atmosphere – a real throwback to the sort of feast that you could genuinely believe would have a pre-Christian basis.
“As for the dark undertones, I think that’s purely a personal thing. As my wife is fond of saying – usually quite wearily – anything can have a dark undertone where I’m concerned.”
SCOTT WALKED INTO THE PUB, checked the two fivers in the pants pocket of his new shell-suit, then marched up to the bar and ordered a pint of lager.
The landlord was someone he thought of as a typical Cornishman: huge and well-built; red-haired and apple-cheeked; grinning from ear to ear. His rolled-back shirt sleeves revealed immense, beefy forearms complete with naval tattoos. His smart tie bore a crest and a coat of arms. He gazed jovially down at the newcomer.
“And how old are you, son?” he asked.
Scott, who was sixteen, but small and skinny for his age, immediately realized the game was up, even on a day of celebration like this. He dropped his false smile, became surly. Rotten teeth showed between his curled lips. “It’s probably piss-water anyway.”
The landlord chuckled. “You won’t be finding out, that’s for sure.”
There were amused sniggers from his bar-stooled regulars.
“I’ll send some firm round here!” Scott warned him.
Still grinning, the landlord pointed at the hostelry door. “So long as they’re over eighteen, that’s fine with me. Now go out and watch Obby Oss.”
Furious, but sensing a different breed from the weary, apathetic Mancunians he was more used to dealing with, Scott backtracked towards the door. He’d only been in Cornwall two days and already he hated it.
“We call them hobby-horses where I come from,” he retorted. “And you know what, they’re like . . . fucking kids’ stuff!”
“Out you go, son.”
“Wanker!” Scott spat, to gales of scornful laughter from the men in the pub.
Outside, he was irritated to be confronted by the Kidwells. How the hell had they found him so quickly in this whirling mass of revelry?
“Where’ve you been, Scott?” Russ Kidwell demanded, taking his pipe out, but looking more concerned than angry. Mary, Russ’ wife, seemed equally anxious. Scott wanted to hoot with laughter. He’d been missing, what – five minutes, and they were already worried about him. About him. Not about what he might get up to while he was out of their supervision. Typical air-head probation officers.
“I was looking for you,” he said, pulling his usual stunt, which was to pass the onus of blame back onto the person who was accusing him.
“Oh.” Russ puffed on his pipe again, and gazed at his charge thoughtfully.
Russ was a tall, lean man – in good condition for someone of his age, which was probably fifty or so – but he had a genial disposition and seemed incapable of thinking the worst of anyone. His shock of white hair, and taste for canvas pants, deck shoes and roll-neck jumpers, gave him a sort of “eccentric uncle” look. His wife, Mary, who was twenty years younger at least, but more rounded, in fact dumpy, which contrasted oddly with her bobbed fair hair and very pretty face, was even more of a pushover.
“We thought you’d done a bunk,” she said, in a tone that was more apologetic than reproachful.
Scott merely shrugged. “Where to in this shit-hole?”
He turned and began walking, elbowing his way through the cheering, dancing crowd. Russ glanced at his wife, rolled his eyes, and set off after him.
There was no way Padstow could truthfully be described as a “shit-hole”.
Granted, it was more a town than a village these days, but it still had to be regarded as one of the quintessential Cornish holiday resorts.
First built as a fishing hamlet on the western corner of scenic Padstow Bay – a vast and winding estuary of the beautiful River Camel – it had steadily expanded throughout the twentieth century, but had never quite lost its nautical character. Its quaint cottages, which seemed to tumble over each other down the narrow, zig-zagging streets to the waterside, were exclusively built from local granite, but were also whitewashed and permanently bedecked with flowers, even in winter-time, because the climate was so benign. Many gardens were filled with sub-tropical vegetation, while rumour held that some of the ancient oaks in the nearby deer-park were evergreens.
The harbours themselves, of which there were several, each contained their individual quota of fishing-boats (the local oyster-beds, in particular, were still very busy, as were the pilchard grounds), but greater by far were the numbers of yachts, dinghies, and other leisure craft. The quaysides were gaggles of shops, restaurants and atmospheric pubs but, though endlessly thronging with visitors and tourists, the mood down there was unfailingly friendly.
It was no real surprise, perhaps, that such a charming and picturesque little backwater should still play host to the weird and wonderful tradition of “Obby Oss”, as the locals referred to it.
When the Kidwells and their reluctant responsibility arrived at the next set of crossroads, the creature in question was again close at hand, now spinning madly around its “teaser”, a guy dressed as Punch, armed with a balloon on a stick. The procession of May Day celebrants still dashed and jumped on all sides of it, hurling blossoms and confetti, singing and shouting at the tops of their voices.
The Oss itself bore no actual resemblance to a horse, being essentially a long and heavy-looking oval of black-painted wood, with a hole cut in the centre so that it could be worn on the shoulders. Whoever had the job of wearing it was clearly robust, judging by the speed with which he was cavorting.
He’d stuck his head up through the hole, though his own features were hidden from view by the preponderance of red and black streamers flowing down from his conical hat (to render him even more indistinct, his face had also been painted, one half black, the other red).
His body was concealed too, in this case by heavy skirts attached around the rim of the oval and hanging to the floor. The tail was a chunky length of rope, but the creature’s most alarming feature was its head, which was fixed at the front but jutted up and outwards at a predatory angle. It was handsomely carved and polished, but was again painted red and black, and had a fearsome countenance. It was almost demonic, more dragon-like than equine. Its lower jaw, inlaid with a full set of gleaming white teeth, was articulated and would clack up and down loudly, no doubt operated by some internal device.
Every part of the bizarre effigy was adorned with bells and ribbons, the purpose presumably being that no one, however uninterested in the ancient customs, could ignore the thing when it came prancing along their street, looking for donations.
Despite Scott’s natural antipathy to anything he didn’t understand, he was momentarily fascinated enough by the weird sight to wonder what it was actually supposed to represent. “What the hell’s all this about, anyway?”
“I suspect an old fertility rite,” Russ replied, still puffing on his pipe. “You know . . . a hangover from the Celtic days.”
And indeed, Scott did now notice that it was mainly girls – all dressed to the nines in colourful rural regalia – who, while seeming reluctant to make physical contact with the Oss, would dart forwards to pluck at its ribbons, then scurry away again, squealing and giggling as it chased them.
“’Scuse me sir,” someone said, “but that’s not strictly right.”
It was one of the musicians who’d been accompanying the Oss. He was a Morris-dance
r type, with bells adorning his knees and elbows, and bunches of leaves fastened to his bowler hat. Again, he struck Scott as a typical Cornishman, being large and red-haired, with a bushy red beard. He had a heavy accordion slung down over his corpulent stomach; he’d broken off playing in order to sink a pint of chilled cider. A second passed as he finished the drink, wiped his mouth, then handed the glass back to a girl, who’d just come out of a pub with a tray.
He looked at Scott and Russ again. “There is a fertility reference in the old story, that’s true. But the Padstow Oss has a much more aggressive role than that. That’s why Peace Oss was brought in to moderate it.”
“Peace Oss?” Russ said.
The accordion man continued. “Obby Oss has a combined role these days. As well as being a fertility symbol, he’s used by Padstow folk to repel thieves and raiders. Story is he was granted diabolic powers for this very purpose. So what do you think of that, young fella?” And he prodded Scott’s shoulder.
Scott was bewildered by the gesture, but also frightened, and because he was frightened, angry. “I dunno, why you asking me?”
“Because,” said the man, who prodded Scott again, “you look like someone who needs to know.”
Scott usually tried to avoid violence. His long list of criminal offences mainly comprised house burglaries, carried out during the day when the householders were absent. This wasn’t because he didn’t like confrontation, but because if he indulged in it, he was usually the one who came off worse. But, like any trapped rat, he could fight if he had to.
As now.
He’d already spat on the accordion man’s sissy costume and was about to kick the bastard in the shins, when Russ and Mary dragged him away.
“You pair of tossers . . . you said no one would know,” he snarled as they hustled him through the crowds.
“No one does know,” Russ tried to reassure him.
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!”
“It’d be more than our job’s worth to tell someone.”
“You said . . .”
“For God’s sake, Scott, give it a rest!” Mary hissed. “You’re drawing even more attention to yourself.”
And it was true. Even in the midst of such noise and gaiety, Scott saw that several people were directing curious stares at him. More than a couple of their smiles had faded.
Half an hour later, the three of them were seated around a table on an outdoor terrace, waiting for their lunch to be served.
Mary pushed an open packet of crisps across the tabletop to Scott. He took a few out but didn’t bother to thank her. The terrace was attached to a pub-restaurant called The Old God’s Rest, and gave startling views over the estuary. It was early May, but the sun was now high and very warm. Seagulls dipped and looped over the rippling blue inlet. The windowboxes to either side of the pub’s rear door were a riot of colourful late-spring blooms. A decorative cartwheel, painted a vivid green, was fixed on the pub wall, just under the triangular apex of the roof.
“According to this,” Russ said, reading from a guidebook, “‘the Obby Oss celebration, while not unique to Padstow, has some unique Padstow modifications.’” He glanced over at Scott. “It’s true what that bloke said, it does have something to do with raids on the town.”
Scott said nothing. He was barely listening.
“Check this out.” Russ read a selected passage. “In 1346, during the Hundred Years War, England’s king, Edward III, commenced a lengthy siege of the port of Calais. The French fleet was unable to break it, and thus launched a series of tit-for-tat raids on English coastal towns. One such was Padstow in north Cornwall, which was assaulted in the April of 1347. The town, denuded of defenders as the bulk of its male population was involved at Calais, could only offer resistance by carrying the town’s traditional spring-time symbol, the Hobby-Horse – or Obby Oss – down to the harbour, and threatening to invoke demonic forces with it.
“‘The French scoffed at this, but legend holds that, when they landed, the Obby Oss did indeed come to life and attack them. Several Frenchmen were borne away into the sea by it, before their comrades fled.’”
Scott still wasn’t listening. He was too preoccupied with the incident earlier, and what, if anything, it might signify.
As far as he understood, the “Safari Programme”, as the popular press scornfully termed it, was designed to provide short holidays for young offenders as an aid to their rehabilitation. It was supposed to be good for everyone: ease up pressure on the prison system, and show the offender that a different and more rewarding lifestyle was possible.
But surely the people who actually lived in the place the offender was being taken to weren’t supposed to know about it? Surely the whole thing would be carried out as secretly as possible? This had worried Scott from the outset. Thoughts of mob vengeance were never far from a young criminal’s mind. Back in Manchester, he knew of one lad who’d been tied to a lamp-post and had paint poured over him. Another had been locked in a shed with a savage dog, and had almost died from his injuries.
Russ read on. “‘Owing to the infernal forces that allegedly worked through it on that long-ago spring day, the Padstow Oss has developed a reputation for defending the town aggressively, even cruelly. This is not entirely out of keeping with other hobby-horse legends. Scholars have suggested that the name itself, ‘hobby-horse’, derives from the old English word ‘Hobb’, which means ‘Devil’, though in the case of Padstow events have clearly gone a little farther than most. Even now, in modern times, the Padstow Oss has a disquieting appearance, and in a grim reversal of the role commonly played by fertility gods, is said to draw its power from violence rather than love.’”
“Didn’t know this place was so interesting,” Mary said, taking a sip of lemonade.
Russ looked again at Scott, who hadn’t touched his own drink. “Just shows though, doesn’t it, Scott. You thought that bloke was having a go at you, but all he was doing was telling you about the history of the place.”
Scott grunted. He wasn’t convinced. Or satisfied. Even if it was true that the strange conversation had been a coincidence, he wasn’t having some carrot-crunching yokel pushing him round, making fun of him. He came from the inner city, from a concrete jungle where he’d had to fight and scratch for everything he got, while these fat, lazy slobs down here sat in the sun all day and danced around painted animals. He’d show them. He’d break their cosy little world in half.
Russ quoted the guidebook again. “‘In fact, Obby Oss’ reputation grew so fearsome over the years that Peace Oss was introduced to counteract it.’”
“That Morris-man mentioned something about a ‘Peace Oss’, didn’t he?” Mary put in, concerned by Scott’s sullen indifference and trying to generate some interest in him. “What’s that then, Russ? Tell us about it.”
Russ shrugged, flipped a couple of pages. “We haven’t seen it yet because apparently it dances its way in from the other side of the town.” He read more. “‘Peace Oss, which was introduced after the bloodshed of the First World War, is the spiritual opposite of Obby Oss. It is blue and white instead of red and black, and is noticeably of a less mischievous and frolicsome disposition. It was brought into the festivities not to arrest Obby Oss’ behaviour as such, but to moderate it, to reduce it to an acceptable level.
“‘However, as the two sides of Nature, the negative and the positive, are deemed indivisible from one another, Padstow’s two horses must inevitably meet. The May Day celebrations in the town thus culminate when the two creatures, having paraded through different neighbourhoods, drawing ever larger crowds behind them, finally unite and perform a ritual dance, their numerous supporters capering around them. This in itself is a raucous occasion and may touch off a rowdy, drunken party that could well go on all night.’”
Russ laid the book down and grinned. “All’s well that ends well, then.”
Scott stood up.
The Kidwells watched him.
“Need a leak,”
he said. “Fancy coming giving me a hand, Mary?”
“Don’t be long,” she replied in a patient tone. “Your pie and chips is coming.”
He sidled away into the pub, and as soon as he was out of sight nipped through the front door and out into the street. It was still a chaotic scene in the town, every road and avenue thronging with merry-makers. He wondered what they’d all do if it suddenly started pouring with rain, but, though it would give him a certain malicious pleasure to see their celebrations dampened, he decided he preferred it this way, warm and sunny, with everyone out of doors – and their houses undefended.
First off, of course, he’d have to put as much distance as he could between himself and The Old God’s Rest.
On realizing that he’d eluded them again, the Kidwells would initially search by themselves. Because of the embarrassment it would cause, they wouldn’t want to alert the coppers until they were absolutely sure he was up to no good. But by then he’d have had plenty time to wreak havoc.
As he slipped down a side street, and found the crowds dwindling, Scott felt a tremor of excitement. He was on the job again, and there was no better feeling. He’d had it with playing stupid games: watching fancy-dress parades; sitting in beer-gardens, drinking lemonade for Christ’s sake! What next, sandcastles on the beach? Fuck all that.
He walked for several minutes, doing his best to look nonchalant but already casing properties for possible weak points. He didn’t have any tools with him, of course, but then he’d never got into the habit of using tools, owing to the way the police up in Manchester were quick to nab you for “going equipped”. Nevertheless, things looked good. He was now descending towards the waterfront, but was still in a residential district, and the potential for break-ins seemed promising.
The houses round here, though small and often terraced, were quality. They were uniformly whitewashed – probably a local by-law or something – and were all in good nick. Again, profusions of flowers poured from their windowboxes, front doorsteps were scrubbed, woodwork was brightly painted. At the rear, they nearly all had gardens, tiny but well kept.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 20 Page 21
