The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  “I lived forra time with t’ fairies,” she said. “Aye, I went into their ’ill. ’Tis allus summer there, an’ there’s feastin’ and music fit to burn yer ankles, if only you dun’t join in t’ dance. Years, it felt like I were there, though I were wise an’ I ate nowt in all t’ time that passed. An’ I learned from ’em; ’bout flowers and trees and ’erbs, all that grows or flies. I was there ten year if it were a day, an’ never ate a thing. An’ yet when I come back again, only ten minutes’d gone by, so that no one ever knew me gone!”

  I hardly knew what to say to this—I longed to comment that it had all come out wonderfully convenient for her and that I must give her credit for such an expedient; but I could see from the corner of my sight Mrs. Gomersal watching me with sharp eyes, so I bit my lip. I wished that my guide would depart; I felt almost embarrassed by her seeing me in this place. It was not proper. And had she not informed us that she must see to her dinner? And yet she stayed. Mother Draycross too kept on staring almost to the point of pertness, though all the time she was shifting from foot to foot, as if quite unable to forget her time in the fairy reel.

  “All t’ time I were able to see them wi’ my own good eye,” she said, pointing to the patch she wore. “I never needed no spells for that. An’ then one day they rode out, all followin’ their queen, an’ I smelled the fire and woods and ’ills an’ I knew I ’ad to go ’ome again. That was on account of I never ate owt, see. If I ’ad, I’d a been lost for good. An’ I stopped dancin,” and then they knew summat were up.

  “So one of ’em, an old ’un, ’air like a fox and twice as cunnin’, ’e smiled at me. Smiled!” She nodded, as if soliciting my agreement that this was quite a terrible thing, and I returned her nod in sheer confusion. “An’ then he reached out wi’ ’is thumb an’ finger an’ ’e plucked it out: me good eye gone, an’ me ’alf blinded, an’ ’e just laughed in me face. ‘All water is wine,’ ’e said, ‘An’ thine eye is mine!’”

  I had a sudden image of a little fellow with a ginger beard sitting in a hedgerow, biting into a juicy plum, and I think I blanched. It was a good tale and she told it well.

  “I never saw ’em more,” she said, “not like I used to. But there’s still ways.” She stretched out her right hand and uncurled her fingers. There, lying on her palm, was a piece of crystal: a smooth oval of milky translucence, solid as a hen’s egg.

  I did not know what I was expected to do or say—this was not a situation I had ever envisaged being in, nor was I ever likely to find myself in such again. I wondered if my wife were listening outside, and what expression might be on her calm, sweet face. I thought of her condition and shifted with discomfort; I must state my business at once and leave as soon as I could.

  “Madam, I am here to ask about my cousin, Elizabeth Higgs. Her husband came to you, thinking his wife to be ill, and I wondered how it was that he proceeded with her treatment.”

  She threw back her head, tossing about her unkempt curls, and fairly cackled. “Ill,” she said, “ill, you calls it!” She smiled then, and held out her hand, her left this time, and each line upon her palm was clearly delineated by the dirt ingrained into the skin.

  Mrs. Gomersal leaned forward and whispered, as loudly as before, “You mun cross her ’and.”

  It took a moment for me to realise what she meant. “Ah,” I said, and pulled a thruppence from my pocket and laid it upon the woman’s avaricious palm.

  “No, sir, for this a golden fee.”

  I sighed. I felt I should argue, but could not rouse the energy to do so. I took out instead a half sovereign and set it next to the thruppence, which I went to recover, but was stopped short when the harridan snapped closed her fingers and let out a snake-like hiss.

  She slipped both coins into the pocket of her apron, her one eye gleaming with satisfaction at the chink they made.

  “Now she’ll tell everythin’,” Mrs. Gomersal pronounced.

  “Aye, I saw ’er ’usband,” Mother Draycross said, “an’ it were plain that she’d been taken. An ’ouse like that ’un? How could she not! It were foolery from t’ start.” She went to the shelf as she spoke, idly touching certain objects as if they were her talismans: a tiny bottle with a tinier stopper; a bundle of herbs which gave off a sharp and dusty scent; a little wooden box with something that shifted inside it.

  “I made a preparation,” she said, “nowt more’n that. The seven cures—a few ’erbs an’ such. It’s not easy to swaller, nor yet on yer belly, but I said she ’ad ter drink it fer all that. An’ I give out certain words to say when she did. It ’ad to be after t’ church chimed eleven and afore it struck midnight, an’ then ’e’d ter put ’er to bed. After that, she’d be forced to flee up t’ chimney afore sunrise, and all ’e need do then were watch for ’er, comin’ out o’ that gap in the ’ill—the ’ollow ’ill, unnerstand?”

  I nodded, biting back my retort that the finest scholar in the land would be hard-pressed to follow the loss of her aitches, but I thought of poor Lizzie and I fell silent.

  “An’ I made some other stuff,” she said, “so that when she come back, great age would not come upon ’er of a sudden—dependin’ ’ow much of our time ’ad passed while she’d been dancin’ an’ carryin’ on under that ’ill.”

  It occurred to me to wonder whether the constable had thought to speak to this woman, for it was now beyond doubt that the crone had had a strong hand in whatever had happened to Cousin Elizabeth; and yet she was clearly not in possession of her senses.

  “An ’e reckoned it din’t work. I said it must ’ave; that it were ’is own wife sittin’ at ’is ’earth, but ’e ’ad none on it. I said to make sure at least, so I made ’im some stronger stuff an’ a stronger charm. This time ’e’d to ask in t’ name o’ God who she was, an’ she’d be forced to tell ’im. An’ ’e still reckoned it weren’t ’er.”

  “And then what?”

  She focused upon my face, suddenly wary. The gravity of my tone had perhaps reminded her that a woman was dead, and that woman was my cousin.

  “I din’t tell ’im to roast ’er,” she said. “I only said: iron an’ fire, them’s t’ only way, if the ’erbs dun’t do owt. I told ’im, put summat iron ower t’ door an’ it stops ’em passin’ through—”

  “—that’s ’ow the Three ’Orseshoes got its name,” Mrs. Gomersal interjected in a soft voice, and I started; I had almost forgotten she still lingered. “Three doors they ’ave, an’ each one wi’ an’ ’orseshoe ower t’ top on it, to stop witches an’ flay-boggles an’ fairies an’ such.”

  I frowned. Had I ever noticed such an article upon entering the inn? I did not think I had. Even if I had simply overlooked it, such may have been the way of things long ago; only an old, isolated spinster, loose in her mind and no doubt her morals, could possibly lend them any credence now. And yet my cousin’s husband had visited her, and he had listened, too.

  Mother Draycross continued, “An’ fire—if tha can scare ’er wi’ it—t’ fairy’ll flee away, quick as lightning. They can’t abide fire, see, since it’s a secret o’ Heaven. Then they ’ave to give t’ real wife back. Or in ’er case, ’appen it forced ’er to show ’erself for what she was—nobbut a stock o’ wood—an’ we all know what to do wi’ one o’ them.”

  “Are you saying you instructed him to burn my cousin?” I could no longer hold in my anger.

  “I did no such thing—I teld yer that!” She pursed up her lips so tightly her whole visage turned to a mass of wrinkles. “I’ll show yer,” she said, sounding almost indignant. “I’ll show yer t’ truth—you’ll see ’em for yoursen, an’ then you’ll know.” She reached out and pinched the edge of my sleeve between her finger and thumb and I had to keep myself from pulling away. She stepped backwards, still tugging on my clothing so that I was compelled to follow her to the window.

  She held something up—the crystal egg she had shown to me earlier—and peered at it with her good eye, or her bad one, as she had named it. The rather
lovely object caught the light, becoming for a moment a ball of brilliance in her hand.

  “I’ll warn yer,” she said, “they say the folk are beautiful, an’ beautiful they are, as far as it goes. But once you unnerstand—once you truly see ’em for what they are—why, they’re ugly as sin!”

  She leaned forward and peered through the crystal as if to demonstrate, then she turned her back to the window and drew me towards her by the shoulders, though I could barely conceal my disgust. Despite the fragrant herbs hanging all about us, I could smell her, the foulness of a person long unwashed, all her emanations and exhalations, and I longed suddenly for the sweet, clean air of Halfoak. But she had piqued my curiosity; what man could resist the promise of such proofs? And Mrs. Gomersal was watching with such intensity that I could almost feel the expectation spreading from her side of the room to mine. I suddenly wanted to look, if only to see what trickery Mother Draycross would attempt.

  “If you’re to borrow t’ second sight,” she said, “you mun stand thus.” She tugged at my clothing once more. “Your left foot goes unner my right one, so—that’s it.” She stepped quite deliberately onto my boot, covering the highly polished leather with her own dirty rag-wrapped foot.

  “Then my ’and goes on your ’ead.”

  That was too far. I opened my mouth to object, but it was too late; she had already reached out as she said the words and her bony fingers were delving through my hair, her digits surprisingly strong, until I felt them probing my scalp. It was horribly intimate. She leered into my face with her one piercing eye and I looked away.

  “That’s it,” she said in triumph. “Now, look ower my right shoulder an’ you’ll see!”

  With her free hand, she pressed the crystal into mine. The egg was perfectly smooth and cool and without conscious thought I found myself wrapping my fingers around the pleasing weight—but I suddenly did not wish to peer through it. It was not so much that I feared what I might see; rather I felt the resemblance to a ritual, something pagan and wicked—and upon a Sabbath day, and moreover, one on which I had neglected my duty of attending church. The parson’s words suddenly returned to me: As for those who seek them out—those who go looking to find evil—why, they shall find it, sir, and only harm shall come to them!

  Now here I was, in a mean and filthy hut, pressed up close to this malodorous hag, and I scarcely knew how I had progressed from thence to this.

  I raised my hand and held the crystal before my eye. Gnarled and twisted trees masked the view of the golden cultivated fields beyond the deep wood; here, all was wildness. Fungi of brilliant yellow spilled from fallen branches half drowned in ivy. Shadows lay deep upon it all, and yet I could see flowers too, gleams of pink and white. As I watched, the sun speared down through a gap in the canopy, lighting a drift of pollen and setting everything a-glimmer; I saw dandelion seeds floating in their hundreds all about. The sight was calming and lovely and I took a deep breath as if to taste the air.

  “See—you see!” Mother Draycross cackled. “There, atwixt that dead tree and t’ fairy butter!”

  “Of course I do not,” I replied, lowering the crystal. “It is all nonsense. I see the trees and the flowers and the sunshine—there is nothing more.”

  She scowled, at last stepping off my foot, and snatched the crystal away. “Blind!” she exclaimed.

  I caught my breath, thinking at first she meant it as some curse, but then she said: “I’ve only one eye left but I see more’n you ever will.” And she laughed, an awful dry sound. “You’ll not see for lookin’—you was born under t’ wrong planet, after all!”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Gomersal interjected, “that’s bad. It’ll not work then, not for nothin’.”

  I threw up my hands in derision. “Well, that is most convenient, is it not?”

  “It’s bad luck is what it is,” Mrs. Gomersal pressed on.

  Bad luck had followed me here, too? I bit back the urge to laugh in her face. An unlucky house; an unlucky hill? Truly, everything hereabouts was said to be so—and meanwhile no one had anything of sense to say about what had occurred, apart from “the fairies did it,” whatever that meant.

  Mother Draycross seized my arm again, hard, and it came to me that her fingers were like the claws of a bird.

  “Tha’ll not see, but tha can ’ear,” she said. “Block up all t’ chinks in that ’ouse, all of ’em—windows, doors, key’oles, all. Wait up until midnight an’ then you’ll ’ear summat, but dun’t look out. Aye, you’ll ’ear ’em!”

  She peered into my face, all earnestness. I pulled away from her and she stepped back as if affronted before turning towards the window once more. Almost idly, she raised the crystal to her eye, ignoring my presence entirely.

  Then she let out an odd sound: a spurt of surprised laughter. She leaned nearer the glass, squinting into the crystal, and she fairly hooted. She slapped her thigh as her laughter gained impetus until she was all but rocking with it.

  I protested her lack of decorum, but she affected not to even hear me. I could see every cracked, yellowed and blackened tooth in her mouth as she laughed and laughed, tears spilling onto her cheeks until I realised they were pouring from beneath her eye shade as well as from her “bad” green eye.

  Then I saw what it was had so amused the crone.

  There, through the window, standing in the wood, was my own sweet wife. She had meandered beneath the trees, making her way among the fallen branches, picking the flowers which grew there. As I watched she drew her wrapper a little more closely about her shoulders as if she felt a chill. She bent to examine the yellow fungi—the “fairy butter,” I assumed—before straightening and smoothing one hand against her stomach.

  “How dare you!” I cried, though my fury was such that I could barely form the words. There was nothing in Helena’s carriage or deportment to invite this woman’s mirth, nothing amiss in her attire or her actions: she was as perfectly composed, as calm and serene as she always was.

  At last I could stand it no longer. I turned on my heel and stalked from the dwelling.

  It came as a blessed relief to be once more in the open. I breathed deeply of the woody air as the twittering of birdsong washed over me. I heard Mrs. Gomersal following behind me, though I did not turn to acknowledge her. I only watched Helena as she came around the corner of the shack, her oval face quite cool and collected, her lips twisted into an expression of scorn and her eyes like two chips of ice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Helena remained taciturn, her demeanour clouded, as we made our way across the leys to the village. There Mrs. Gomersal left us and it was not until afterwards that it occurred to me that unlike her witch-friend, she had never demanded payment for her assistance.

  Once we were alone, I opened my mouth to enquire of Helena if she had overheard the dreadful “wise” woman’s cackling, but I caught myself, deciding that I should not chance bringing it to her attention if she had not already been sensible of it. And so we walked in silence towards the little cottage that had for a spell become our home.

  I could not think what I should do about Mother Draycross. She had ill-advised Jem Higgs, that was certain, but it was after all he who had chosen to listen. Surely any man of sense would abhor any “wisdom” a deranged old woman such as she could provide? The largest part of the blame must thus remain with whoever was foolish enough to do so. And yet with the advantage of the growing distance between us, I could almost bring myself to pity her. The shack was so poor that she must all but freeze in even the mildest of winters. She appeared to have no means of earning her bread, save for her proficiency in spinning wild tales of the efficacy of her charms and her ability to discover lost things. Some would say she deserved kindness rather than punishment, this uncomely woman who was quite probably simple as well as impecunious. I doubted she could read her pharmacopoeia; it was most likely placed there to impress visitors. Without her little pretence of magic, she could have no recourse to other means of living save to throw h
erself upon the parish.

  Then I recalled the touch of her fingers in my hair, the smell of her, and I grimaced. I recollected her mocking laughter when she peered out of the window at my wife and I pushed away all thought of pity. In that moment, I wanted only to drag her before the magistrate and have her thrown into the most miserable of cells.

  I turned to see Helena’s sweet face. Her profile was as lovely as ever, her cheek a gentle pale curve. She did not meet my look. She was staring up at the cottage and I followed her gaze. From this distance walls and windows were almost hidden behind a profusion of flowers and it struck me afresh what an idyll it could make, what a setting for domestic felicity, with its occupants bound by mutual love and respect.

  Perhaps such would be the lot of Helena and I upon our return to London, for I was determined that we would now remove from my father’s house and create our own haven. Our residence must of necessity be more modest than she had been used to—we would have only a maid of all work rather than my father’s several servants—but surely it would suit us. Helena’s elegance and refinement, her skill at fancywork, would ensure that it was all fitted up beautifully. I was just anticipating her pleasure at choosing or making all the little items we should need—indeed, my imagination had her stitching a little white bonnet for our child—when she drew a heavy sigh.

  “My dear, are you quite well?”

  She cast a cold glance towards me, removed her hand from my arm and grasped her skirts as if to demonstrate how dreadfully heavy and cumbersome they were, how unsuitable for the heat of the day, and then she turned and marched ahead up the slope. When she reached the gate she slammed it back as if its very construction was hateful to her and batted at her dress as if by doing so she could save it from the greenery along the overgrown path.

  I caught up with her in time to hand her over the threshold. We were met by the trapped aroma of the previous evening’s fire, and I pushed away the sudden image that rose before me: a pale grin shining in a blackened visage.