Alice blinked. “No.”
“Some sort of water-spirit?” said John. “Supposed to live in the Irwell?”
“Quite. A malign water-hag, a little like the Russian rusalka. There are different versions of her elsewhere in the country, and in many others. They haunt rivers, streams, pools, lakes – take your pick – and if anyone gets too close, especially unwary children, they’re dragged into the water and drowned. But Jenny Greenteeth was specifically identified with the Irwell. She was said to have long, green hair, looking very like the growths of water-weed you’d see in the river any day. She was a monster who also made a very good cautionary tale to keep children out of danger.”
“And Old Harry was something similar?”
“In part,” said Sixsmythe, “but only in part.” She was watching Alice closely. “You see, it’s a very old legend. Goes back centuries. Anglo-Saxon times, at the very least. Perhaps earlier, but there’s nothing about it in Roman accounts, although as I’m sure you know they settled the Manchester area. And they knew certain aspects of the local legends very well.”
Before Alice could ask what that meant, Sixsmythe had breezed on. “But yes, the Beast of Browton. Put simply, Miss Collier, it was an ogre.”
The room seem to grow still. “An ogre,” Alice said.
“Quite.” Sixsmythe plucked some papers from the box file, positioned her glasses further down the beak of her nose and read. “Let’s see... ‘About twenty foot in height, with a piebald hide covered in patches of fur... its general form is human, but for the greatest part it runs on all fours like some huge monkey or ape. A matted beard hangs about its dreadful maw. Its eyes, slit-pupilled as a cat’s are, jar with its low and bestial aspect, for they are very large and a most delicate shade of blue...’ Does any of that sound familiar, Miss Collier?”
Alice licked her lips. She took a gulp of coffee. “I think you know it does, Reverend.”
“Yes.” Sixsmythe put the papers back in the box-file, pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Old Harry, the Beast of Browton, as described in a pamphlet on ‘Folklore and Superstitions of Lancashire’, circa 1850.”
“Why ‘Old Harry’?” said John.
“Not sure. Perhaps a corruption of ‘Old Hairy’? Ah well, that’s a puzzle for another day. The pamphlet says ‘described variously as an ogre, hobgoblin or boggart,’ but the first seemed the aptest of the three. Anyway, he – and it’s most definitely a he, as a number of accounts of unfortunate women meeting a fate worse than death on Browton Vale testify, my dear, so you can think yourself lucky in one respect at least – he’s been around there for quite some time. Sightings of Old Harry persisted well into the nineteenth century. In fact, I do believe the last recorded one...” Sixsmythe leafed through the box-file “... was in... yes... 1911! A courting couple in the woods below Browton Vale had their illicit session of nookie disturbed by ‘a sound of twigs and undergrowth trampled underfoot’ and reported seeing ‘a huge black figure, covered in hair, with luminous blue eyes and pupils like a cat’s.’ Luckily for them, discretion proved the better part of valour and they lived to fornicate again. I don’t think anyone put much stock in their story at the time, but in the light of your experiences, Miss Collier, I think you’ll agree it’s not to be dismissed out of hand.”
“Yeah.” Alice nodded, although she knew that a fortnight ago she would have done just that. It couldn’t be true, she would have reasoned, and therefore belonged in this box or that – the ones marked lies, hallucinations, and madness. But now – Christ, what use were probability or reason as tools here, to determine what might or might not be true?
“Old Harry seems to have been most in evidence up to the seventeenth century, and the first half of the eighteenth. As the Industrial Revolution kicks into gear and the surrounding area becomes increasingly urbanised and so forth, his legend persists, but the old feller himself seems to become rather more bashful. Although, as you see, the last reported sighting was just over a century ago. But Old Harry’s really just a sprog compared to the Red Man.”
“Who is the Red Man? Please – I want to know what this is all about.” Alice heard the strain in her voice. She couldn’t stomach the thought of more of Sixsmythe’s dancing around.
But the Rector just smiled and nodded. “And you have every right to, my dear. Now eat your cake and I’ll tell you.”
Alice exchanged a glance with John, who shrugged. His slice was already gone, with golden crumbs speckling his sweater while he stole what she suspected was only the latest of a succession of glances at the remaining cake. She took a bite, expecting little, but the cake was both sweet and richly flavoured, and she found herself chewing long and slowly to savour it the better.
Sixsmythe chuckled. “I’ve told Dora her cakes should be available on the NHS,” she said. “So – the Red Man. He goes back a long way. A long, long way. He’s a rather more persistent figure than the Beast; he was last sighted in 1972. He’s also a rather more interesting character, too. More... ambiguous, anyway.”
“Ambiguous?”
“In some accounts he’s just a man in a red robe, like a rather unorthodox monk. But in others he’s a warrior, a soldier – even a knight. And some stories present him as demonic, while others are more, shall we say, complimentary. It tends to depend who he was fighting against and who wrote the account, of course. One theme, however, remains constant throughout – that he is some sort of guardian.”
“Guardian?” The last of her slice of coffee and walnut cake was already gone; Alice chased it with her remaining coffee and resisted the urge to look longingly at the rest of the cake. “Guardian of what?”
“Well, now – that’s the big question, isn’t it? The hill, Miss Collier, or at least, something on or in it. The Romans certainly appear to have had some sort of set-to with him.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Did you never wonder where the name ‘Collarmill’ comes from? It used to refer to the upper part of the hill – the part that was by and large uninhabited until the late nineteenth century, when Crawbeck expanded so noticeably. The summit was known as Collarmill Height.”
Alice shrugged. “I thought it just meant there’d been a mill there once.”
“Oh no.” Sixsmythe shook her head. “It’s from the Latin. Colle miles rubeus, they called it. How’s your Latin?”
“Very rusty, I’m afraid.” They’d studied it at school, and it had been once of Alice’s better subjects, but she’d forgotten most of what she’d learned long ago.
“Colle means hill, rubeus is red, and miles means soldier, warrior – even knight.”
“The hill of the red knight?”
“Precisely. In fact, if you look at records going back before the Industrial Revolution – that is, back when Crawbeck was just a tiny village at the foot of the mount – you’ll find it was simply known locally as Redman’s Hill.”
Alice realised she was still holding her empty cup and sideplate. After a moment, she propped them on the arm of her chair.
“So,” Sixsmythe went on, “after tangling with the Romans, our friend the Red Man went on to knock heads with the Saxons, the Danes, the Normans – basically every fresh round of invaders who’s thought to put their stamp on our green and pleasant land has had an encounter of one kind or another with him. Including the Church, when its fathers first attempted to build a place of worship there – back in the ninth century, as I recall.”
“As old as that?” John said.
“Oh yes. I mean, the church itself was rebuilt several times for one reason or another, but... well, I take it you’re aware that the Christian Church established itself in Britain less by destroying or banning pagan customs, festivals or holy sites but by – er – incorporating them, shall we say?”
John nodded. “Christmas replaced the pagan winter festivals like the Norse Yule and the Roman Saturnalia – that’s where the tradition of giving gifts and making merry came from. And the Roman New Year supplied the tradi
tions of lights, greenery and charity. Just like Easter w –”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Mr Revell.” Sixsmythe scowled. “I’m the one displaying the breadth of her learning here. It’s considered very ill-mannered, you know – for obvious anatomical reasons – to get into a pissing contest with a lady.”
John opened and closed his mouth and might even have blushed. Alice bit her lips to avoid helpless laughter. Sixsmythe nodded, then shot Alice a wink. “Anyway, you understand the basic concept. Some aspects of paganism were demonised, and others... Christianised. As Mr Revell would no doubt have gone on to tell us, an awful lot of saints’ days were pagan celebrations of one kind or another. I’m sure he hadn’t forgotten that tonight is in fact one of the best-known, and was only saving it till last for maximum effect.”
John harrumphed and looked down at the floor.
“I refer, of course, to Halloween. The greatest of all pagan festivals, and thus Christianised into All Saints – or All Souls – day. Or ‘All Hallows.’ As you were no doubt about to tell us, Mr Revell?”
John harrumphed again. Sixsmythe chuckled. “Quite. All Hallows Eve, or Even – Hallowe’en. Although the less said about the bloody trick-or-treaters, the better. By the same token,” she went on, “pagan places of worship became Christian places of worship; pagan holy sites, Christian ones. St Winifred’s Church, on Collarmill Height, was one such.”
“So there was a pagan holy site on top of the hill,” said Alice, “and the Red Man – guarded it?”
“Yes. Caused quite a lot of mischief to the early fathers, I believe, and there was much praying and exorcising and general gnashing of teeth. The official account has the Red Man’s hash apparently settled once and for all, but luckily its author was long-dead and safely beyond embarrassment when the fellow popped up again a couple of centuries later to – er – remonstrate with the Normans. In every case, save one, the Red Man succeeded in his apparent aim: that is, safeguarding the source of the Craw.”
“The Craw? You mean the stream?”
“Oh yes. The spring was in a cavern at the very summit of the hill, you see, and its waters collected in a small, circular pool outside the cave entrance. We’re not sure if the pool was a natural formation or if early worshippers excavated it. Anyway, from the pool a small stream, or beck, emerged to run down the hillside. Hence Crawbeck. More cake?”
“Please,” said John, trying not to sound too eager and failing.
“No – I mean, yes,” said Alice, trying to consider her waistline and failing just as miserably.
Sixsmythe chuckled again and cut three more slices.
“So what was the actual sacred site?” said Alice. “The spring?”
“Holy springs are quite common,” admitted Sixsmythe, “although it seems to have been as much the pool as anything else. There were various miraculous properties attributed to the spring waters, but only where they emerged fresh from the rock or collected in the pool outside the cavern entrance. The waters of the Craw itself were no more magical or blessed in nature than any others. Hence the belief in some quarters that the pool itself was man-made.”
“Perfect place to let the waters collect,” said John.
“Quite so.”
“What kind of miraculous properties?” Alice asked. “I mean, you know, supposedly?”
“Almost any you can think of, Miss Collier,” Sixsmythe said. “If you drank, or in some cases, bathed or were washed in the waters – well, it depended on what you were looking for. They were supposed to have healing properties, of course – there are a lot of claims of wounds healing magically, or even untreatable diseases such as leprosy being cured. But others talk of those who drank the waters seeing visions of the future, or of the past – where father buried the family treasure, that sort of thing – or of events occurring far away. What you got from the spring largely seems to have depended on what you needed. Some...” Sixsmythe paused, putting her cake down for a moment. “Some claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary, Jesus, even God Himself. The Virgin in particular, actually – there were quite a few sightings of her, or at least a female figure, all glowing and ethereal, that kind of thing. And not only be people who drank the water. Just added to the place’s reputation. The Virgin of the Height, it was called locally. Of course...” Sixsmythe sighed.
“Of course what?” asked Alice.
“Well, much as I’d love to point to this figure as a miraculous proof of mine being the true faith – although my Catholic colleagues would probably point out that it rather vindicates theirs more – the fact is that the stories of the Virgin go back to pre-Christian times. She’s been around for a while, this one. She was particularly associated with the groves of rowan trees that grew on the hill – it’s a tree with various magical properties ascribed to it in folklore. People used to make little talismans out of the rowan twigs – dolls, and later crosses – to invoke her aid.”
Alice swallowed.
“Another case of the Church incorporating a pagan symbol?” asked John, eyebrows raised.
Sixsmythe glared at him, and he looked away. “Cheeky, Mr Revell. But essentially, yes. The last sighting of her was in the mid-’nineties, if I recall. Interestingly, from the 1930s onward, she was also seen in the area called the Fall.”
“The landslide,” said John.
“Correct,” said Sixsmythe. “Back in ’29, a good-sized chunk of Collarmill Height ended up displaced into Browton Vale. And there are probably more rowan trees growing down there now than there are on the hill itself.”
The glowing figure in the hallway when she’d used the cross; the hazy shape when she’d hidden in the rowan trees on the Fall. Alice clasped her hands together, tight.
“Anyway,” said Sixsmythe, “all this is probably where the identification with the Grail came from, although some contend it was the Arthurian connection that came first...”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” John held up a hand. “The Grail? Arthur? As in King Arthur?”
“Yes, dear.” Sixsmythe frowned at the interruption. “A grail – or to use the Old English, graal, is, in the literal sense, more a bowl than a cup, and the pool was, according to contemporary accounts, a perfectly circular, bowl-shaped hollow in the ground – which was taken as more evidence for its being man-made. If you look back over the centuries, over the documents referring to the area, you’ll see the name change. Crawbeckbecomes Crawlbeck, then Grawl-beck, and, finally, Graal-beck.”
“In other words, Grail beck,” said Alice.
Sixsmythe smiled. “Quite so. The legends of the Holy Grail tend to ascribe miraculous properties – particularly of healing or longevity – to any water drunk from the cup. So the two were put together. There is a local legend that the Holy Grail was hidden for a time on Collarmill Height, guarded by a hermit or some such who used it to help deserving cases – and that afterwards, when the Grail was taken elsewhere, the miraculous spring first appeared. Another legend says that Sir Percival, while seeking the Grail, came to Collarmill and defended its heights against some horde of aggressors or other who wished to make evil use of the spring. It’s only a fragmentary, local story – no connection to the big myth cycles – but it is interesting that it should be Sir Percival, specifically, of all Arthur’s knights, who features in the story.”
Here went Sixsmythe again, playing her little games and dangling her knowledge in front of them. The older woman’s eyes were bright; she clearly couldn’t wait for someone to ask her. Alice sighed. Might as well play the game. “Why’s that?”
“There’s more than one warrior known as the Red Knight in Arthurian legend,” said Sixsmythe. “For example, there’s a knight called Esclados who guarded a mystical fountain in the forest of Brocéliande. Interesting, no? Both Gawain and Galahad were known as the Red Knight in different myth-cycles – Perlesvaus and the Lancelot-Grail cycles respectively, if I recall. And yes, there’s that Grail again. But Percival – out of all Arthur’s knights, that’s the one most strongly identified wi
th the title. In Chrétien de Troyes’ cycle, the original Red Knight is the Red Knight of Quinqeroi, who steals a cup from Arthur’s court. Percival – who, in the beginning, is a boy of humble birth – vows to bring the cup back to Camelot: in fact, it becomes his quest, on the fulfilment of which his knighthood depends. And when Percival finds and kills the Red Knight in battle, he takes his foe’s armour.”
“So the Red Knight changes from being an evil character –” John began.
“To a noble one,” finished Sixsmythe. “Quite so. And there’s even a quest for a drinking-cup.” She smiled. “And no, I’m not making any judgements as to the historical truth of the Arthurian legends here. What I do think is that the legend of the Red Man – and the Collarmill Spring – bore sufficient similarities that they were partly reworked into Arthurian myth.”
“So is that why Thorne wanted that piece of land?” Alice said. “Because of the legend?”
Sixsmythe, pushing the last of her cake into her mouth, shrugged. “Who can say?” she said when she’d finally swallowed. “The original site of the spring itself was there somewhere – although the cave was blocked off and the pool filled in by the Roundheads during the English Civil War, as they considered it idolatrous. They burned down St Winifred’s Church as well; it was rebuilt during the Restoration, but the spring itself was forgotten. Obviously the source can’t have been blocked entirely, as the Craw continues to flow. Perhaps Arodias Thorne hoped to find it and make some use of it. But it is hard to imagine what else Collarmill might have had to recommend it.”
The Feast of All Souls Page 23
