The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  After several hours in the saddle my steps felt uncertain and I was grateful that the way was short. The inn’s potboy directed me to the tall building I had spied earlier, and despite all the pronouncements of ill-luck I had heard since I started my sojourn to the country, I fell in with the object of my quest before I even reached the door. I hailed him and introduced myself. “I apologise that I sent no telegram or letter,” I said. “Such things seem to take no little time in this part of the world and I thought it more efficient to simply call upon you and hope you will be able to receive my enquiries.”

  The constable straightened. I would even say he puffed himself up, unfortunately making it more obvious where his blue uniform was missing a button. He was a little shorter than I, and tending towards stoutness. His beard was neatly trimmed, however, and his manner at least spoke of some little pride in his profession. He did not smile. I took the impression he rarely did, but possibly that was an asset to him, in making his countrymen think him a shrewd fellow.

  He greeted me politely enough, introducing himself as Constable John Barraclough, and said that he would be happy to accommodate me whilst he took his luncheon, if I had no objection. Upon my stating that I had none, he led me not towards the quiet building but towards the inn, and I quickly recognised that I would be expected to stand him in refreshment. My first intimation of the man must perforce be adjusted; frequenting the local hostelry was not to be expected of any constable, even in such remote parts, where discipline was surely still a requisite of his occupation. It appeared that here, as in Halfoak, everything followed its own well-worn path, regardless of the world around it.

  He ordered fried ox tongue and udder with bread for us both, and cider, which I hoped at least might make the man more voluble. We were soon ensconced in a booth of old dark wood, which made us feel quite private; whether we were so, however, was another matter, and I found myself asking my questions in a lowered tone. He asked a few of his own, examining me upon what my interest in the case should be. I informed him that I was Elizabeth Higgs’ cousin, that I was dwelling in her cottage and that I had arranged her funeral.

  At last he was satisfied, and he frowned and stared down at the table before continuing in the manner of a schoolmaster, “You are correct, sir, in your surmise about the husband’s superstition; or at least, in what he says is his superstition, which may be one and the same but may not, if you catch my meaning. He believed the lady to be a changeling: a shadow left by the fairies. His strange supposition began, it is said, a little after Midsummer Eve—Saint John’s Eve, that is, June twenty-third. Many places give the night over to church and prayer; in Halfoak, they are said to cling to the old ways more than most, and largely spend it in singing and dancing, despite the disapprobation of the parson. They still light fires too, bone fires and wake fires, the biggest being up on Pudding Pye Hill; now, that is a place with a somewhat evil reputation, as you will have heard. Like many places with barrows and such upon them, it is said to be a fairy hill, and the folk make their dwelling within it, in a land where it is always summer; and summer is the time of an increase in their influence on our world.”

  I recalled the landlord’s words about the unlucky place, and affirmed that I was aware of such, though I had not before heard it spoken of in such clear detail.

  “Well, Midsummer Eve is one of the times when the fairies are said to be abroad,” said the fellow, breaking off as our plates were delivered and waiting until we were alone once more. “It is a night of revelry for them too, but also a night when they are inclined to steal away with newly married ladies. Mrs. Higgs did not satisfy on that count, of course, unless it was that she had remained childless; but she did fulfil upon another. They say that those who are most beautiful have more of an attraction to the fair folk. There’s a saying in these parts: ‘What’s bred in t’ blood will out in t’ bone.’ Thus they think the fair are close to the fairies, and are in particular danger from their attentions.” He took a large bite of bread and chewed ruminatively.

  “But to what purpose?” I exclaimed. “Even if such things should exist—which of course they do not—why on earth would they do such a thing? And how?”

  He sighed, as if making such an explanation were a tedious matter; as if he should have to explain to a child why the world is round. “The good folk, as they call them—mainly from fear, I think—the quiet ones, the hidden people—they’re fading, you see?” His voice dropped in volume, as though even now one of them might be listening at a chink in the wood. “Their race is weak. And so they take changelings—human children, or women who can bear them, to strengthen their lines. And in their place they leave one of their own, worn-out and old, bewitched to look like the one they’re meant to replace, though of course they do not thrive; they soon sicken and die. Or they leave a stock of wood, similarly enchanted, and with similar outcome. These changelings can be identified by their weaknesses, or some disfigurement, or by a sweet temper turning of a sudden into querulous and unnatural ways. They might refuse to speak or eat. A child might become a milksop or a squalling affliction. A good wife may be transformed into a shrew. There are many ways of telling.” He nodded, as if he really were a schoolmaster giving instruction in a perplexing and obscure new skill.

  “Such happened to Mrs. Higgs, or so her husband said it happened. And so he used fire to drive her away. He remains quite insistent that she will come back to him again; that she will return to the perilous hilltop from whence she was stolen. I was there when he was arrested, and I’ll tell you this.” He paused, though he scarcely needed to ensure he had my rapt attention. “The man was entirely beside himself when he was taken away, though curiously, it was not because we had him for her murder. He said the reason was that it deprived him of the opportunity to meet with her again on the hill, and to show to the world his wife was come home again, as whole and healthful as before.”

  “But she has not come back,” I whispered. I recollected another recent encounter upon the hill, and Mrs. Gomersal and her tumble of warnings. What was it she had said about the blade stuck into the earth? That it would “keep t’ door open.” Did she too believe that my cousin would one day walk through it?

  Constable Barraclough did not notice my distraction. “No,” he replied, “and she shall not come back. It is all a remnant of a bygone age, made of phantoms and moonlight; though he might make a go of it in his defence, all the same.”

  “Whatever do you mean? Why, he shall hang!”

  My expostulation gave way to silence between us and in the pause I heeded the soft tap of footsteps outside the booth, followed by their surcease.

  “Ah—well, maybe he shall, and maybe he shan’t,” the constable said, regardless. “He has been sent up for the Assizes, and it shall be for them to decide. But he has this in his favour: that he says they tried to cure her before the night she was burned—aye, and not just once either, but several times. He said he gave her physic and charms and such, all before he resorted to fire. We looked into the matter and there are others who speak for him. I should say no more about it, only to add: the lawmen will argue theirselves blue that his particular kind of madness was as real as daylight, at least to him. He’d borne a good character until then, and there’s some already thinks his hand was governed by a type of mania. It may yet carry with the judge.”

  “But it cannot!” I could not keep the vehemence from my voice. “It is merely further proof, is it not, that he tortured my cousin before he sent her to her grave?” I could not conceal the depths of my shock at the notion. I had considered Jem Higgs as already belonging to the past. That he might fight his judgment, or try in some deceitful way to use events in his favour had never occurred to me. If he had intended it, surely he would have claimed her skirts had merely been set afire while she tended the hearth, and it was far too late for that. But to prevaricate, to try to evade true justice—why, a gentleman could never do such a thing . . . but then, as I reminded myself, a gentleman he was not. />
  “I do not say it is right, sir. Only that it is.” The constable eyed me mildly as he took another large bite from his bread and spoke around it. “But why do you not see him yourself? You could visit him, ask him your questions.”

  That further wrapped me in silence. I experienced the same sense of strangeness as when Mrs. Gomersal had announced to me that I might see my cousin. The whole affair had so far taken on the nature of a tale in a storybook that the very idea came as a shock; Jem Higgs had been little more to me than one of the parson’s demons and devils, or some sly-faced pantomime villain cackling behind a mask. I could hardly think of him as flesh and blood, as someone I might actually stand in front of and look in the eye. And yet I had peered in at his window and seen the tools he had handled every day. I would perhaps, this very night, be sleeping in his bed. I passed a hand across my eyes.

  The constable cleared his throat. “It is something of a step, I’ll be bound. He is not in Kelthorpe, of course; we have no detention room here. It’s a quiet place, with quiet folk. There is a little vagrancy, or men falling asleep whilst driving a cart; and always a few tenants who think they can eat the rabbits off their fields; but I’ve never before seen the like of this. I cannot be sure I should wish to see the fellow, if I were in your place. But there is something I might ask. Since you are lodging at the cottage, could I require that you are vigilant as to the whereabouts of a journal?”

  “A journal?” I blinked.

  “Higgs was most insistent that his wife kept such a thing. He said he’d had his doubts, quite natural doubts, as to the correctness of his surmise about her nature, whether it be fairy or human; but that he one day happened upon her journal and read a portion of it. Within it he found certain proofs of her character and became quite decided on the matter of what must be done. Search was made, however, and no journal was to be found.”

  “Of course not. If he says it contains proofs that she was a fairy, it reveals such a thing to be impossible! He is merely attempting to make himself appear more lost in madness, which you say is his whole defence. I have seen no such article. I doubt there is any to be found.”

  “As you say.” He gave a slight bow, or perhaps only ducked his head to fall to his meat the more readily. He said few further words on the matter. As for myself, I ate little. The bread was dry in my mouth; it tasted of nothing at all.

  I sat and pondered on Constable Barraclough’s words for a time after he had departed. They whirled in my head, disjointed ideas that would not connect in any meaningful way. They’re fading, you see? And so they take changelings—human children, or women who can bear them. It all felt like a dream that would blow away with the morning. I was haunted by the wild images he had conjured, mainly of villagers dancing wantonly around their bone fires and wake fires, discarding items of dress and making terrible cries as they went. Yet in my mind’s eye there were other, quieter folk watching them from the shadows: people with red hair and dark twinkling eyes. I sighed, rousing myself—and something he had said came back to me like an echo: Physic and charms and such.

  I stood, made certain new enquiries for information, and walked out once more into the sunshine. I had been directed to a sturdy brick house that stood in a wide garden upon a street a little removed from the square. The door was answered promptly to my knock by a maid in a clean white cap who informed me that the master of the house was out at present. She directed me into a small morning room where I could wait.

  I surveyed the overstuffed chairs with their pattern of blowsy flowers; the mantel with its flat-backed china shepherdess; the polished occasional tables, each crowded with vases and ornaments and knicknackery, all set upon little needlework doilies. Everything spoke of domestic felicity, which came as a comfort in its way, and perhaps such was its intended effect upon those who found themselves its occupants. I was almost nodding in my seat when I heard a voice in the passage.

  Shortly afterward, the owner of the voice entered the room. He was a tall, gangling gentleman wearing a neat jacket a little worn about the cuffs and a well-starched shirt. His dark brown hair was blown awry and his cheeks were pink with exertion. He excused his appearance, having come, he said, from a nasty case of consumption, and he thrust out his hand to shake my own, introducing himself as Doctor Newberry.

  His smile faded as I informed him of my business in that place, to be replaced by a look of frank puzzlement when I asked what light he might be able to throw upon my cousin’s circumstances prior to her death.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, putting up a hand to rub his cheek, “but I am afraid I have no intelligence to give. I was called upon by an acquaintance of Mr. Higgs, but I said to him what I would say to anyone: that there was no treatment I could provide without seeing the husband at the very least, even if it was inconvenient to visit the lady, but the husband did not come.”

  “He did not?” I was as bewildered as he. Physic and charms and such. If Higgs had truly been concerned for his wife’s wellbeing, must he not have seen a doctor? And yet here was the doctor, the only one for miles, according to the innkeeper, and Higgs had never seen him. The defendant’s case was surely blown to pieces, and all for the sake of a single question!

  I had begun to think the constable a simpleton, when he added, “Of course, it is quite possible it would not be myself to whom they would refer. As nonsensical as it is, they cling to their old ways in that village, and in many others hereabout. The medical profession is not yet as well-regarded as it ought to be. Why, the most beleaguered labourer, about to take his last breath, would rather throw his fate before the quack than a trained professional. It is most trying. But as I mentioned, I would only treat the lady if I had seen the husband, and I venture to add that my decision was quite correct. I really cannot regret it.”

  It had already occurred to me that here was a man who might possibly have been of some assistance to my cousin and had done nothing. I wondered if I should be angry, but then I recalled my own family’s remove from all that had passed. We were her nearest connections and we had done nothing; why should it surprise me that no other man had?

  It was with a sense of renewed sadness that I took my leave of Doctor Newberry. I reflected that at least, upon my return, my hearth would not be empty or friendless. It would be lit by the soft glances of my wife, and I was glad of it as I took once more to horseback, this time impatient at the mare’s unhurried pace as I made my way back to Halfoak.

  Chapter Ten

  Strange to say, it was with a degree of relief that I left the greater bustle of Kelthorpe behind me and reached once more the quiet lane through the village. I could smell the cut hay and sweet flowers, and all about me was birdsong; swifts looped and dived through the air above my head. Still, despite my earlier haste, after I had returned the horse and crossed the little bridge that led to Pudding Pye Hill, I had begun to feel the easement of walking upon my fatigued limbs and I resolved to stroll a little longer. The warmth of the day was leavened by a cooling breeze as the sun lowered and so I strode on up the hill and turned to take in the panorama.

  Everything was thrown into a rosy hue, the sky smeared into the most fabulous tones of orange and apricot and the whole landscape hung with long shadows, though it was difficult to make out what cast them. It was a most apposite moment to clear my mind and contemplate the perfect wonder of God’s creation, and I found myself wandering further, without design, to the summit of what some thereabouts claimed was a fairy hill.

  I felt lighter as I went, as if I could cast away the weight of all that had passed and feel only the beauty of everything growing around me, being renewed and replaced as everything upon this earth was renewed and replaced. I found my steps wending not towards the old hoary barrow but around the top of the hill and towards the little grove of oak trees. I could just see their crowns, silvering and darkening as the breeze turned them this way and that, and I thought of the good folk, named out of some sense of fear or misplaced respect, carrying out their
revels beneath my feet in a land where it is always summer. I smiled, thinking of that. I could not imagine it being anything other than summer here, so perfectly mild and soft was the air; so scented the breeze with nectar and sap.

  After a time I found my mind wandering. I simply walked wherever my steps led, letting the dandelion seeds settle on my clothes, and I listened to the hum of bees, the tick of crickets and the sighing of the oaks. I walked through other flowers I could not name, and it put me in mind of when I was young, walking with my mother in some pleasure garden. In some distant time, before I was born, she had lived in the country, before removing to the City with so many others; and she had recited strange names to me, searching for lady’s mantle and sweet cicely, bellflower and yellow archangel, though we never had been able to find them. So little had flourished in the City; outside the parks even the trees struggled for existence, for little would thrive save for the plane trees, which resisted the effects of the greasy coating lent to each leaf by factory fumes and coal dust. Now I looked upon strange forms, petals of purple and pink and yellow, and wondered if they corresponded in any wise to the names she had once told me.

  I was distracted from my reverie by a motion in the grass; I peered down to see the tip of each blade tipped with gold, and there it was: little eyes, staring back at me. Then they blinked and in the next moment a butterfly lifted from the verdure and fluttered away. I turned to follow its flight and was blinded by the evening’s last flush of sunlight when a figure rose before me.

  It was like the last time, but this lady was golden: golden and slender and lovely. Her hair was touched by the sunlight as if she were aflame. I could not see her face but I had the impression of a wonderful luminosity about her skin, and her form was so fine the light seemed to shine through her. I stopped like a man spellbound and my breath caught in my throat. I think my mouth fell open. She was here after all, and I almost spoke her name—Linnet—and my hand went to my pocket, wherein had lain the lock of her hair; but I found it empty.