The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  “Come,” she said, “you do know. You know all—you have seen it!” Her eyes shone brightly. “You are to be a father, my dear!”

  I stared at her and she looked back at me. I do not know how long we stood there, but I feel quite sure that as we did the light outside the cottage increased, for her skin began to pale, taking on an almost unnatural shine as if it were not soft and yielding but as alabaster, and her eyes turned hard and cold as ice.

  She turned on her heel and went out of the door. I heard her step once more upon the stair. She did not stamp; she did not hurry. The door to her room opened and closed again behind her. I felt as if I had dreamed her words. I could not order my thoughts, which crowded and tumbled upon each other.

  At length I came to myself, called out her name and hurried after her. I stood at her door, and I remember speaking, a torrent of words, though I do not know what I said. I did not go in but knocked softly at her door, as if I were some acquaintance come to pay a call.

  She did not open it; no sound at all emerged from the chamber. The birds were singing once more, though the awful din of earlier had relented into something sweet and pleasant that spoke of the dawning of another beautiful summer’s day; of harmony, of everything made into sweet concord; so that I hardly knew whether I had dreamed all that had passed before, or why it had troubled me so.

  Chapter Twelve

  When our little household rose properly later in the morning, I went and kissed my wife and held her hand and led her to a chair. I told her how happy I truly was. We would need to set up our own establishment, of course, and remove from my father’s house, and I told her how I had anticipated, even longed for such an occasion.

  And yet here we were, in our own little cottage—for now, at least—and she remained pale and silent. I bade her to stay where she was and in my own clumsy way I took her part and cut bread for our breakfast, spreading it with butter, noting that the kitchen was falling yet further into disarray; but she proclaimed herself bilious and refused to eat. I partook of it myself and although it was good bread made of good flour, it was quite dry in my mouth.

  Presently Helena proclaimed herself too ill to attend church, which news gave me a little start for the days had rather flowed into one and I confess I had not thought of it being the Sabbath. At that moment the distant bells began to chime, calling one and all to service. I pictured the villagers, most of them strangers to me, all taking their accustomed places. I remembered the way they had not troubled to attend my cousin’s funeral and I decided it could not matter if I missed a sermon in circumstances such as these.

  We sat and reached for some occupation. Helena took out a book she had brought with her and I offered to read aloud from the Bible that I had discovered on the shelf, but my wife was unforthcoming. As she turned the pages, I peered at her little bound volume. It was nothing more than a novel, but I could not bring myself to protest. I felt most keenly my odd reaction to the news of her condition, and endeavoured now to be solicitous, filling the range with coal and setting the kettle to boil for tea. I could feel its heat even through the closed door and I reflected it was an evil of the little cottage that it should be positioned so near the parlour; though I supposed that it had been placed as far as possible from the larder, and indeed, that winter would put another aspect upon it entirely. What an inconvenience it must have been to Lizzie that her husband had taken such a fine room for his workshop! I positioned myself upon the farthest cushion of the sofa whilst Helena protested that she preferred her chair, and she perched ladylike upon its edge, intent upon her book.

  A little afterward, I announced that I would go out. Something had been occupying my thoughts and I wished to enquire into it, even if it were a Sunday. At that, Helena rose to her feet. “I am not an invalid,” she announced, as if I had done her some terrible wrong. “A little air would freshen me wonderfully.”

  Thus we walked arm in arm down the little path towards the village. When we reached the bridge over its babbling stream Helena hesitated, gripping my arm more tightly, so that I almost felt I was pulling her across. When I asked if she felt faint, however, her lips pursed into a thin white line, and I made no further enquiry.

  I had hoped that the service would have ended and I saw that my surmise was correct when we started along the lane and I saw that we were not alone. Ahead of us, wearing a neat print dress and beribboned bonnet, was Mrs. Gomersal. Her impish child, running about at her heels, turned to stare at us. He had been plucking flowers by the stream and he clutched a straggling bunch of yellow kingcups to his chest.

  Helena walked on ahead, smiling at the boy. “What a lovely child,” she exclaimed, and he stared blankly back, a line of spittle running down his chin. “And who are you, little master?”

  “’E’s all right,” said the mother, which led to a bemused nod from Helena. She did not realise the woman had thought her London “who” a Yorkshire “how.” And then Mrs. Gomersal said, “Good day,” and bobbed an almost imperceptible curtsy.

  My wife continued in her feminine chatter, ascertaining that the boy was seven years old and a little slow, his mother answering most of the questions on his behalf. She proclaimed him “a good lad for all that,” and said that he was not alone but had two elder sisters who were “getting t’ dinner on.”

  “And do you go to school?” my wife enquired.

  “’E does most times, ma’am,” his mother said. “There was a time t’ squire’s wife got up a Sunday school an’ taught a bit o’ readin’, but that’s fallen by-the-by. An’ there’s a dame school, but there’s none such now, not at ’arvest, an’ everyone all so busy in t’ fields.”

  The waif nodded, suddenly eager, and he began to shred the flowers he held, letting flakes of gold fall to the ground. “Cleanliness, godliness and spellin’,” he chanted, as if by the result of much drilling, though his words were ill-formed. I realised it was the first time I had heard him speak and I opened my mouth to ask in which subject he excelled, before I bit the words back. Perhaps it was better so, for his mother gazed down at him as fondly and proudly as if she had raised a prodigy.

  Mrs. Gomersal turned to Helena. “Did you see to t’ bis’lings?” she asked, nodding as if in anticipation of the answer.

  “Oh—very helpful, thank you,” was the response, and Mrs. Gomersal appeared quite content with that, until the child suddenly piped:

  “She drank it.” And he pointed, directly and impertinently, at my wife’s stomach.

  Helena’s smile faded and she drew her wrapper around herself as if she could hide her figure from his staring. Mrs. Gomersal grasped the child’s arm and shook him. She met my wife’s eye and made as if to speak, but it was her turn to reconsider her words and she merely nodded after all.

  I made some comment upon the fineness of the day, such ever being a means of smoothing over any difficulty, and she said, “Well, I’ll not keep yer from it.” And she turned, only staying when I motioned for her to stop.

  “Mrs. Gomersal, I was hoping you could help me with a little information,” I said. I had meant to walk on to the inn and ask Mr. Widdop my question, but it struck me that this meeting could be fortuitous; she knew of midwifery and such matters, did she not? Perhaps she would be the better subject. “It transpires that my cousin was ill for some time before her—before what happened, and I was hoping to discover something about it, though I am not sure who was her medical man. Would you possibly know anything of it?”

  At that she gave me a frank, unblinking stare, almost as if she thought she were being played for a fool, but after a moment she answered softly, “Aye, sir. I knows, as any round ’ere’ll tell you.”

  “Then perhaps you could direct me to the gentleman?”

  She stood for a while, thoughts flitting across her features, then she composed herself and said, “I’ll do better’n that, sir. I’ll take you to ’em. It’s a bit on a walk, an’ I’ll ’ave ter get straight back fo’ t’ dinner, but they’ll ne’er see thee ot
herwise. I’ll get ’em ter talk to thee, but I’ll tell yer this, sir: it in’t no gennleman.”

  I longed to question her further on the matter, but her face closed up tight and I decided I should not, at least while my wife was present. I turned to Helena and pressed her quietly to return to the house, and was astonished when she threw my hands off her own. “I shall do no such thing,” she said, loudly enough for Mrs. Gomersal to hear. I gave her a questioning look, but I had no wish to make a scene and so the four of us set out together.

  Almost at once we turned aside from the lane and our guide stepped neatly across a little stone stile set into the wall that I had never before noticed. I turned once more to Helena to press on her the need to go home, if only to preserve her skirts, but in the next moment she was following. Grateful she had left her crinoline in London, I handed her over the stile, then looked about. We stood in a wide field that appeared to have been left fallow for some time: the ground was a little uneven, and grown up like a meadow. A narrow, trodden-down path led along one side of it.

  “The leys,” Mrs. Gomersal informed us, and pointed towards a little knot of sheep at the far side of the field nibbling at the clover. She led the way alongside the hedgerow of thick and tangled blackthorn, a profusion of white mouse-ear and pink campion, according to our guide, spilling from under it. She pointed out these and various other grasses and wildflowers as we went, so that her voice became like a litany: shepherd’s purse, corncockle, meadow cat’s-tail, self-heal, crested dog’s-tail, toadflax, enchanter’s nightshade, yellow rattle, lady’s bedstraw, fox-tail.

  We made our way in this fashion towards the farthest end of the field, which culminated in a little tangled stand of trees. I somehow felt misgivings at the sight of it and began to wish we had never set out, but it was now too late. Mrs. Gomersal’s child lagged behind us, snatching at the colourful petals, not heeding his mother’s commands to “step short.” My wife’s hems rustled and snagged, but I could see by her expression that she would not go back without seeing this to its end. Possibly she wished to know, because of her condition, whatever medical man might be found in the vicinity. She complained neither of the distance nor the heat, only striding along in a most determined fashion.

  Finally we stood beneath a mixed stand of trees—alder, hawthorn and elm trees, I was informed, that was both deeper and more shadowy than it had at first appeared, and I realised that what I had taken for a tangle of undergrowth was in reality a rough shack darkened with age and tumbled about with ivy and moss. It possessed a forlorn, abandoned air, and my wife echoed my own thoughts when she said simply, “Here?”

  I spluttered. “What is this—the home of some hedge-doctor? A quack?”

  Mrs. Gomersal hesitated. “Well, they call ’em a cow-doctor, but I think that’s just for form, sir, if tha takes me meaning. So as not t’ upset t’ squire or t’ parson nor owt. It’s—”

  She spoke no further for at that moment a rickety wooden door flew open, crashing back so hard that the whole structure shook, and in the next instant the most extraordinary being was striding towards us. It was not a gentleman, as our guide had warned us; it was not even a man. It was a tall, broad female wearing a tucked-up dress under an apron stained with blood. Her sleeves were rolled up and as she came she wiped something—flour or dust—from arms that were as brawny and tanned as a sailor’s. Her visage was rather square, with a high blocky forehead, a determined chin and an angular nose, her countenance made yet more singular by the cloth patch which entirely concealed her left eye. Her right was the most brilliant of greens, and it shone vividly as she turned it upon one of us and then the next; or rather, upon me and my wife, for she glanced at Mrs. Gomersal only once, and at the child not at all.

  “It’s Mother Draycross, t’ wise woman,” Mrs. Gomersal said in a voice little more than a whisper, “though some calls ’er Mother Crow. She’s one o’ the cunning folk.” Then she said, more loudly, “’E’s ’ere to consult.”

  I did not think to correct her in her pronouncement for we were already being beckoned inside. At this, however, Helena demurred at last, not refraining from wrinkling her nose in distaste. Softly, and most determinedly, she stated that she would remain where she was. Duly, it was with Mrs. Gomersal alone that I steeled myself and entered the shack, removing my hat and ducking beneath the low door.

  The mean abode had been dingy outside and it was cramped within; indeed, there was only a single room. A thin straw pallet lay pushed against one crumbling wall whilst on the other was a tiny grate with a blackened pot hanging over it. A piece of wood balanced on two stones served as a table upon which stood a clay bowl, a pestle and mortar, an almanac and what appeared to be a pharmacopoeia, with next to it a single rough wooden chair. The ceiling was more occupied than the floor, for it was hung thickly with bundles of herbs and dried flowers and mysteriously folded papers.

  A peculiar grating sound drew my attention towards the corner and I realised that was not all: there was a large cage of woven hazel twigs and within it was a rather fine black bird. My first thought was that this must be the reason for her being named “crow,” but although the creature’s feathers were of the deepest sable, it had rather unusual eyes; they were not black, but entirely yellow. The “wise” woman saw the way my gaze tended and she hastened towards it and threw over the cage a dirty and much-faded cloth.

  Mrs. Gomersal spoke in a whisper that surely must have carried to Mother Draycross as well as to me. “She’ll not ’ave anyone lookin’, not till she knows what tha comes for. It’s got powers, see, that bird. It’ll draw out t’ jaundice just by glarin’ at yer wi’ its yellow eyes. She’ll not ’ave yer cured for nowt.”

  I sighed at the nonsense she spoke. I had expected the quack-doctor to be something suited to a poor man’s purse, but I could not bring myself to believe that anyone would subject themselves to whatever ministrations this woman could provide. She was slovenly and unclean—surely her cures would only make a sick man sicker. And yet if I wished to know what had happened to little Lizzie, I knew I must refrain from showing my disgust. As I looked away from the cage, I noticed something else that was curious.

  A rough shelf lined the back wall above the woman’s pallet. Arrayed along it was a peculiar and arcane collection of bottles: some containing herbs or seeds; others with ancient flowers floating in murky fluid; some with less wholesome contents resembling human hair and fingernails. There was also a much discoloured and stained clay pipe.

  Mrs. Gomersal had begun once again her litany: “Violets,” she whispered. “Mistletoe—that’s for whooping cough. Groundsel. Henbane—that’s for madness. Celandine—that’ll clear t’ worms from an ’oss. Agrimony leaves, rose-hips, lobelia, pudding grass.”

  The old woman made an irritated sound that shushed the recital, but I was unconcerned. The thing that was of more interest to me stood upon the end of the shelf and I needed no explanation of what lay within it. A plain glass bottle, larger than the rest and somewhat dirty, contained the curled, wet bodies of leeches, awaiting any patient who might have need of them. I grimaced. At least here was something of the medical practitioner’s art, but Mrs. Gomersal, seeing the direction of my gaze and not quelled by the lady of the house, poured in at my ear, “They tells ’er t’ weather. ’Tis set fine, is it not?” And she spluttered with heedless laughter.

  I did not listen for the sloven’s response, but inwardly I was aghast. Did the cunning woman already know what science had so recently discovered? It surely could not be. I composed my expression and turned towards her, but she was not looking; she had crouched over a rough wooden box placed upon the floor and her hands were hidden inside it. From its unknown innards came a loud rattling as of pebbles or other objects striking together.

  “She’s failproof,” said Mrs. Gomersal, as if I had asked. “Aye, sir, that she is! A seventh child of a seventh child. There’s power in that, an’ no mistake.”

  I could not bring myself to appear impressed. Th
e hag in the filthy apron had straightened, having retrieved something from the box and concealed it within her right hand. It was impressed upon me once more how ugly was her visage, and I could not help but wonder, somewhat cruelly, why it was that if her talents were so “failproof,” she had been unable to cure her own blindness.

  Mother Draycross drew in a sharp breath, sounding akin to indignation, or perhaps amusement, and she smiled, revealing cracked, browned teeth. Then she spoke in a portentous tone, her voice oddly deep, much more so than I had expected. It was rich also, almost like honey, although she had her share in the same uncouth accent as the villagers. “I’ll tell thee where me eye went,” she said, and she glared at me so intently with the other that I suppressed a shiver.

  I reminded myself that she could not have read my mind; it was an obvious thought to occur to anyone upon seeing her for the first time so it had taken very little skill to happen upon it.

  But she began her tale. “Some use iron goggles to spy on t’ fair folk. Not me. I’m t’ seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and I’ve seen ’em from me cradle. An’ I’m a chime-child; I were borned as t’ church bells rang, an’ thanks to that, I can see sperrits an’ all. I can see off t’ evil eye; I can cast charms; I can tell t’ future, or some on it. An’ I can find lost things,” she said leaning towards me as if this was why I had come.

  “Failproof,” interjected Mrs. Gomersal, but no one paid her any attention.

  “If I’d only ’ad red ’air,” the crone went on, “I’d ’ave been complete. As it is, we see through a glass darkly.”

  I started a little at this, uncomfortably reminded that I had missed divine service and it was as if she had turned it to mockery. I frowned, but she gave me no opportunity to protest, and I confess that I was beginning to find her fascinating. Yet my interest was tinged with sadness, for surely here was the culmination of that superstition which had proved fatal for poor Lizzie.