The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  She turned her head and at once her skin coarsened, becoming opaque once more, her eyes resolved into their own earthy brown and I saw that it was my wife who stood there, and once again I had not recognised her.

  She met my fixed gaze and at the sight of it her own expression, which had been full of wonder, hardened. Her face was now quite as it had always been, and yet her eye was cold: a shiver shook me at the sight.

  She flung out her hand. I could not make out what she intended by it, lest it be an expression of repudiation, and then I became conscious of a great silence between us, and I realised that I had been humming all along the hymn that had become so fond to my memory.

  “My dear,” I said, recovering myself, “I am so glad to see you. How came you to be in this place?”

  “And you, my love,” she replied after a pause. “Why, I have been trapped indoors all day. I saw the sunset from the window and longed to view it without interruption.” She turned and looked about her, pointing through the brake of gorse towards the oaks and the circle in the grass beneath them. “This is a singular place.”

  “It is.” I found myself wanting to tell her of all the warnings I had heard: to avoid the hill at sunset and stay away from where the fairies dwelt, but I swallowed them back, knowing not why I should even think of saying them aloud. They were all nonsense, tales told to frighten children. There was no reason why she should not walk in this place, to take the air and enjoy the vistas it provided.

  She took a few steps nearer the oak trees and the odd cleft behind them. Then she exclaimed and she walked a little faster through the clearing. I put out a hand as if to stop her, then let it fall as she cried, “Look! There is a knife of some kind, set into the ground.”

  She bent, ready to pull it free, and in a moment I was at her side. I reached out and touched her shoulder; it was hard and unyielding. “Pray, do not do that.”

  She stiffened further. “Why on earth should I not?”

  I forced a casual smile. “My cousin’s husband set it there. He thought—he thought it would enable her to return to this place, that it would hold open some kind of door into the land of the fairies.”

  She looked into my eyes for what felt like a long time. Her expression gave no intimation of her feelings, but when she spoke again her voice was laden with contempt. “Superstition?”

  I frowned, pulling myself taller. “No,” I said, “evidence.” And it struck me almost at once that it was evidence, though not in my cousin’s favour; it might be another element to strengthen her husband’s defence. And yet I could not help but feel some measure of relief, as we made our way from the hillside to the enclosing walls of the little cottage, that the knife he had put there so carefully was still firmly in its place.

  Chapter Eleven

  That evening we ate slices of ham and cheese with bread that Helena told me had been sent from the village. She did not say who had come, though I assumed that my erstwhile landlord had been as good as his word. He was proving an odd mixture of usefulness and almost wilful confusion, though it did not prevent me from devouring the meal; I had been able to eat little at the inn.

  As we ate I told Helena something of what I had discovered earlier in the day, though I soon gave it up. She had said she felt chill upon our return, though I scarcely knew how that could be possible on so clement an evening; still, I laid a fire for her in the parlour and now we baked before it. Her face gleamed as she stared steadily into the flames. She did not speak and the light flickered across her features, making it difficult to read her expression; it gave it the appearance of changing moment to moment and I found I did not like to watch. I fell to staring into the fire as well, listening to its hiss and spit. Its dancing merely conjured more fearful images still, and yet I could not look away from them.

  I banished the thought of what had happened upon this very hearth, but I failed to settle on anything more cheerful. I could not help but wonder if this was how things would be between us: bound not in mutual chatter but in brooding silence and oppression of spirits.

  After a time, I found that it was not entirely silent after all. In spite of the closed shutters and drawn curtains I began to hear snatches of music from the village below; the fiddler must have resumed his playing at the inn. It was odd that it could be heard at such a distance, but such must be the strange acoustics of the valley.

  And then I noticed a china jug on the floor just by the hearth, and I started, thinking of the one I had seen there before, but this one was different. I rose to see what it held, remembering Widdop’s words about thanking the fairies with an offering of water. There was no water in it, however; the jug contained nothing but the slight residue of a greenish fluid. Upon peering into it I discerned a smell, a little like milk but rather stronger, so that I almost did not like it.

  Helena’s voice came from over my shoulder. “Oh—that! It was brought by your Mrs. Gomersal. ‘Beastlings’, she called it, which it seems is the first milk taken from a cow after it has calved. Quite charming, I am sure. She said it was to be poured onto the ground on the hill, for your little folk—” Here my wife laughed. “It is some kind of offering, I think. But I found I rather liked the taste.”

  I stared at her. “You drank it?”

  She gave a smile, made strange by the irregularity of the light. “I did.”

  I peered once more into the jug. The scent was already fainter, yet there was something about it that was invigorating; with the sound of the fiddle drifting from the village I felt energy course through me. I did not wish to return to my seat and remain idle, so I took the jug into the kitchen and put it aside for washing. Our plates had been left there too; the neatness of my cousin’s kitchen was already in disarray. I reminded myself that Helena was unused to keeping her own establishment; it would hardly be reasonable to expect all to be in order.

  When I returned to the parlour, my wife was standing by the window with her back to the room. She had drawn back the curtains and partly opened the shutters. I went to see what it was she looked upon, and she shrank away from me. I did not remark on it, but gazed out. The light of the waxing moon had made the night gleam. I made out the little cluster of houses at the start of the village, along with the tower of the church with its strange double clock. Around it, fields stretched away in every direction and the white road wound through it all. It was so beautiful I could not speak. I realised that, indeed, all sound had stilled, even that of the oddly drifting music.

  I twisted my head and saw the curve of Helena’s beautiful cheek. I could not help it; I bent and kissed her neck. She turned to me. Her eyes were dark and soft, and slowly, her lips stretched into a smile. I could see the form of it quite clearly, and yet somehow I could not read what it meant.

  “Goodnight, my love,” she said, turning away. “I find I do not like the fire after all. You have the room to the right hand of the landing.”

  “We are not to share a room?”

  “It is a warm night, my dear, and I am restless. I fear I should keep you awake.” She turned to the fire and, taking up her shawl and wrapping the end of it around her fist, she grasped the iron poker, prodding the coals into pieces that quickly flared and would as quickly die. She stabbed at it vigorously, as if she would extinguish it all at once.

  I did not comment upon her change of heart about the temperature. I simply bade her to sleep well and soon enough after I followed her up the stairs.

  The risers creaked underfoot, despite my endeavours to step quietly. I entered the bedroom, staring around at the unfamiliar furniture; there was no table or chair, no chiffonier, and I noticed the ware was mismatched—what I had first taken for a ewer was just a cracked earthenware jug. I examined the bed, thankfully finding all in order, though the sheet was rather worn and had been sewn side to middle to make it serviceable once again. I set out my shaving brush and razor, noticing that the mirror on its stand had been clothed in little lace curtains and tied with a bow, and I thought of Lizzie slaving o
ver the fancywork.

  Despite the heat of the day the coverings were cool and I lay there, waiting for my body to warm them, dwelling upon the point that this was our first night in a home that we shared with no one else. The doors between us felt as if they were miles distant; I disliked the sense of being alone, though my wife’s words had been quite reasonable. Still, even with nothing to disturb me, sleep was impossibly remote.

  I pushed the bedclothes aside and set my feet upon the floorboards. I thought I could distinguish some sound lacing the evening air once again, and something in me wanted to hear it more clearly. I crossed to the window and gently eased the shutters open before putting my face close to the glass, so that my breath misted against it.

  This window overlooked the back of the cottage and I could just see the wall that encircled the garden. Beyond that, the hillside rose away towards the barrow. The bounties of the garden, at this hour, were turned to a blank darkness and I could make out little of it. From somewhere amongst the shadows came the soft hooting of an owl. I shuddered; the bird was ever said to be of ill-omen, showing its ominous nature in shunning the light of day for night, but surely such a notion was as outmoded as the idea of little folk dancing on the hillside. And then all thought was forgotten because I could hear that music again, and in another moment I had pushed open the window.

  Sweet, cool air rushed in, rich with the scent of leaf and flower and musk, so heady that it made me long to rush outside and walk among it. And the fiddle rose, its melody twisting and crying and yearning, so rapid and light it sounded like another instrument altogether from the one I had previously heard. It was so beautiful, so full of life that my blood was invigorated and I found myself tapping my foot against the floor. I was unfamiliar with the air it played, but it was like quicksilver, like lightning dancing across the sky; it made even a steady man such as I wish to cast aside all thought of decorum and dance.

  I realised I was smiling, until it occurred to me to wonder what I must look like, should anyone be able to see me leaning out of the window and grinning like a madman, and I straightened my demeanour. I shook my head as if I could free myself of the infectious rhythm of the instrument, and yet all that I could think of was: the Reeling Road—ah, it is aptly named after all!

  I pulled the window to, and just as if I had rejected the call of the music utterly, it was suddenly cut off. I felt bereft and tried widening the gap, but no; it had quite abandoned me. Feeling newly despondent, I slipped into bed, but I soon cast off the bedsheets once more. After such a moment of lightness, they were too hot and heavy to be borne. I turned and turned again. It was as if I had taken some intoxicating potation; my limbs were light, my head spinning, though all about me remained solid and earthbound and drear.

  I no longer wondered that Helena had chosen to sleep alone. It was fortunate that she had. The change in our locality and circumstance, the heat of the sun, the long journeys we had both undertaken—there was little wonder that the result was an infuriating restlessness. Helena must have felt it too; it was no doubt the cause of her feeling chill earlier in the evening. I wondered if she was sleeping now, or if she too was leaning out of the window, listening to night noises and being carried away by silly fancies. But of course she was not. Hers was a sensible and soothing nature and I was grateful for it, in that instant, more than ever. I wished for her to be with me, breathing coolly and quietly at my side. I turned and looked at the pillow next to mine. No indentation marred its white surface and I found myself unaccountably angry; I seized it and hurled it from the bed.

  I tried to sleep, but could not. All the events of recent days kept rushing through my mind, and little wonder. Wild tales were no inducement to peace or rest or the unreachable release of sleep.

  I sat up. I lay down. I shifted my attitude on the bed. I got up. I exchanged my pillow for the one I had cast aside, but all was to no effect. My limbs were heavy as lead one moment, light and restive the next, wanting only to move, to rid themselves of this awful energy that coursed through my veins. I stared up at the bed hangings and scowled at everything around me. And then a memory came: a light step, the slight pressure of fingers taking my arm, a quiet voice in my ear, and I remembered the words, though they were not the ones she had spoken. Instead, they were my father’s words: Look! Let us see whether we shall have a storm.

  I sat bolt upright, rubbing at my hair. I did not know what hour of the night it was and I did not wish to look; it could make no difference. It was not as if I were in London, bound by the hands of time to be seated at a desk until they declared I could go home again.

  I covered my eyes as all emotions crowded in upon me at once. They did not even feel quite like my own, or not all of them did, such was the disorder of my mind. And then, exhausted at last, I lay down and I must have slept for a time, for I had the strangest of dreams: of dancing, not wildly but in stately fashion and full of grace; a beautiful woman, appearing from the sunlight on a hillside; then darker visions of doors that remained open, when in truth, they would have been much better closed.

  I opened my eyes. My forehead, nay, my whole body was running with sweat, so that I thought at once of fever, yet I felt quite calm, almost myself again. I did not return once more to slumber, but stood, and still in my nightshirt, I made my way downstairs.

  The quality of the light had led me to think it morning, but the corners were still laden with shadows and I could see but little. I entered the parlour, where only a thin grey light penetrated the room, outlining its barely familiar shapes. The fire had long since died; no heat remained in its coals. I crossed the room anyway, stepping tentatively across the stone floor, and put out my hands and found the chair in which I had sat the preceding evening. I was occupied in sinking into it when I froze utterly.

  Two eyes stared at me from across the room.

  My own eyes widened. I did not blink; I dared not close them for a moment. The eyes were bright little glints in the dimness and they glared at me quite steadily, without flinching or looking away. They stood but a few inches above the floor, and they were undeniably real, and present, and watching me. The beastlings, I thought. They have come for the beastlings, but they are all drunk! I turned towards the door as if even now Helena might be coming downstairs, all unsuspecting that the hidden people had come for their revenge.

  I stirred myself, rushing to the window, reaching out and dragging the curtain wider. I forced myself to stifle my own startled laugh.

  It was the fox—the red fox in its glass case, its black eyes dead and fixed and staring.

  My heart raced in my chest even whilst I smiled at my own foolishness. I was assuring myself that it was merely the lateness of the hour and sleeplessness and odd dreams that had so infected my thoughts when a noise started outside the window.

  I jumped; a chill crept across my skin. Then I realised what it was, and yet somehow, though natural, it felt stranger by far than it had before. The birdsong, the gentle birdsong that had been the music of my days here had begun again, but suddenly and without warning and with not the faintest trace of music in it. What had once been harmonious was now discordant, an intrusion on the sane human world. It was as if all the various species were singing at once, their notes tumbling over one another, vying to make the most jarring cries. There were sharp, high snips that made me think of shining scissors; shrill wails which surely must have been of panic; wild, uncontrolled whistles; a harsh guttural croak that sounded to my ear like mad laughter, and all was overlaid by the long, shivering call of the owl, the bird of ill-omen. And the idea seized my night-bound and stirred imagination that they were singing for me, nay, that they were mocking me as I stood, still and silent, trying not to disturb the air any further by drawing a single breath.

  The cacophony went on; I know not how long it lasted, as the fox watched and I stood staring at nothing, and when I thought it impossible for it to become louder still, they met the challenge, raising each other to bolder cries and lewd calls. I clos
ed my eyes. I had a memory. I was ten or eleven, travelling back with my father from some late visit. We were traversing some of the less respectable streets of the West End just at the spilling-out of costermongers and other lowly characters from the cheap and disreputable entertainments of the penny gaffs. One young fellow tossed his hat into the air. Another glanced up as we passed and when he saw me watching he opened his lips in a lascivious grin and turned to the girl next to him, whose cheeks were rouged like a Frenchwoman’s, and he grasped her thin skirts in his fist. In the next instant he pulled them upward, petticoats and all, and I glimpsed her mottled white thigh; heard a shriek that spoke at once of indignation and delight—and then my father had reached out and pulled down the blind of the brougham and the sounds had been dampened as if it had been a door of iron.

  I opened my eyes. For a moment the jumble of sounds continued, and then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

  I realised without surprise, as if it was what I had expected to see, that Helena was standing on the other side of the room. A shawl was loose about her neck, her dark hair twisted upon it in a dark stream. She pulled her nightgown more tightly about her, as if she were cold.

  “My dear,” she said, “I somehow knew you would be awake.”

  I made to reply, but knew not what to say.

  “Then I will tell you something. I thought there would be a better time, but I cannot wait longer.” She smiled, though it did not speak of pleasure. “But you know, do you not—can you not guess? You know already why it is that I came.”

  I did not answer. I did not even move. It was as if there were a stranger standing there, speaking some foreign tongue.