The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  You’ll ’ear summat, but dun’t look out.

  I wondered if Helena could hear me, if she had guessed what I was doing, but I could detect no movement from her. I went around the cottage, moving like a man in a dream—and perhaps I was. Upon returning to the parlour, I eyed the chimney. I had no way to block it up, but the hidden people disliked flames, did they not?

  I retrieved a Lucifer and some spills from the store and set the fire. Something prevented me from burning Helena’s book, but I held the little flame to an old newspaper and watched it spread to the dried gorse I had heaped above it and from thence to the coals. Nothing remained to be done but pace the room, staring alternately into the fire and into the blank eyes of the preserved fox, and all the while, my thoughts were beyond any earthly power to contain: I thought of the flames caressing my cousin’s face; I thought of how it must have felt as the soft skin of her cheeks tightened and then cracked.

  She has come back for you.

  Helena had had no right to say such a thing; she had no right even to speak of her. I threw what remained of the book aside and sat in front of the fire without lighting the lamp as the food spoiled upon the table, the edges of the bread stiffening and curling in the heat.

  I could not recognise myself in my actions. I knew that Mother Draycross was mad; I knew that no one would come, but still I waited as the seconds flowed by around me. I checked my pocket watch. I had wound it and now it marked the minutes and hours correctly, but what time? I could not recall if I had set it to local time or Railway Time. Whichever it was, I watched the flow of it in the flames’ consumption of the coal, its greedy heart causing the black forms to gleam redly, lending all an unnatural hue. When my watch showed the hour to be hastening towards midnight, I piled more coal upon the fire, feeding its hunger, stoking the flames even higher—I could not block up the chimney so this must be enough. And all the time I worked, it was as if I stood outside myself as well as within. I could see all and understand nothing; it was as if my very thoughts were aflame.

  She is there now, see?

  I turned and looked into the mirror, but I saw nothing save a blank gleaming. I focused upon my pocket watch: a watch with only a single minute hand. Perhaps I had not, in the end, set it to any particular time. Halfoak had consumed me after all; here, surely iron hands could bind no one? The labour of men was governed by the rising and setting of the sun, by the turning of the seasons and the phases of the moon. They needed no instrument to order their lives, so why should the fair folk be any different?

  And then it turned to midnight.

  I listened intently, hearing not the creak of a floorboard nor the hoot of an owl nor the settling of the house—and then the fire gave a single sharp snap and I jumped as if I had awakened, and I smiled at my own foolish credulity.

  Then I did hear something. I was not certain what had caused it, though I thought at once of a gentle breeze soughing through new-grown leaves in springtime. It was not an external sound, however; it came from directly overhead. And then came the softer tread of a step upon the stair.

  Helena, I thought at once, and quailed at the thought of what she must think to see her precious pages stuffed into the cracks around the door, and yet I rushed to meet her, eager to be reconciled and at peace once more.

  But I found nothing there; the passage was empty. No one stood upon the stair. A soft tapping drew my attention to the entrance to the cottage and the paper twisted into the keyhole gave a quiver. It was as if something was pushing it loose from the other side. A sudden fear took me and I slammed my hand flat against it, keeping it in place, and even as I did so I told myself that it was the wind, though the day had been still save for the gentle warm draughts of summer. Now I thought I detected the sound of a stronger breeze turning about the cottage and the sudden rattle of shutters confirmed me in my surmise.

  I returned to the parlour where the fire, as if stirred by a sudden blast, leaped and writhed like a startled snake. I began to secure the shutters, but was distracted by a noise over my head, not the creaking of floorboards under my wife’s step but lighter, quicker taps, as if tiny feet were skipping across the floor above.

  I followed the sound with my eyes, as if my unblinking stare could penetrate the ceiling, and then a great rattling began outside and I fancied I could feel the force of it. I felt now as if I was one of the little folk myself, for it was like the approach of a giant’s booming footsteps, shuddering the floor and the walls alike. I put my hand to my chest, almost believing I could feel the resonance of the sound in my ribs, and the whole cottage suddenly shook. I crouched down to the floor as tiny fragments of plaster started raining from the ceiling; it was as if the giant had come and was shaking the little home in his monstrous fist, making the sashes and shutters and doors rattle.

  I rushed to the window to release the catches, to stop that awful uproar, when an urgent whisper sounded at my ear: You’ll ’ear summat, but dun’t look out.

  I snatched back my hand. Outside, the wind had grown yet higher; now it was tempestuous; it moaned; it howled. And then a new noise came from behind me and I slowly turned.

  The fire was dancing and writhing high in gleeful revelry. In the next instant it shrank, leaving only glowing coals like eyes, and then I heard a soft rushing as it almost blew out. There came a soft pattering; fragments of stone fell from the chimney, as if shaken loose by the brushing of a sweep or the wings of a trapped bird.

  I went to it, bending low to peer as far beneath the hood as I could without being singed if the fire were to suddenly leap up once more, but all was dark; I could see no cause. I am not certain I had truly expected to. There was nothing there, but for a little pot of salt set upon a ledge, no doubt to keep it always dry. My heart beat rapidly, like that of a man in a fever; my forehead was burning and running with sweat. Then a loud bang came from the bedroom and I took to my heels, my lips forming the shape of my wife’s name.

  I rushed up the stairs, but upon reaching the landing I knew that the clamour was coming not from the room she had chosen but from my own. The arrhythmic banging of wood upon wood made me think of a branch being blown against the window and yet I knew there was no tree so tall in my cousin’s garden. I threw open the door, only then recollecting that I had done nothing to seal the chinks upstairs. I had not thought of it; indeed, I do not think I had even been rational. And I discovered now that I had not sealed up this room at all, for the window was standing wide open.

  I glanced about the chamber to see what might have entered it—a bird, perhaps? Surely it must only be a bird . . . but there was nothing, only the curtains twitching at the window, drawn out into the moonlight by the soft night air.

  Another loud rap drew my gaze to the wall. I could see no cause for the sound, and then I did for it came again, and I realised that something had entered the room after all; the wind itself must have found its way behind the walls to lift a section of loose panelling before letting it fall back once more. For a moment it had looked as if something were trying to escape from behind the boards, but I cautioned myself, harshly and belatedly, for my foolishness as I crossed the room. First I closed the window, softly, though it was surely too late to preserve Helena’s rest—if she had managed to find any sleep—and then I went to examine the defective panel.

  If not for the commotion, I should never have noticed anything, but as I pulled the wooden piece aside, all of a sudden, a sense of inevitability seized me, as if I already knew what I would find. And indeed, I slipped my fingers into the gap and withdrew them holding Lizzie’s journal.

  I stared at it. The book had a scuffed black cover, greyed with dust. Nothing was printed thereupon, but I knew what it was all the same. I could sense it, the knowledge as clear to me as the touch of her little hand had once been upon my arm; as bright as the gaze of her nut-brown eyes, the shine of her golden hair. I almost fancied I heard her chiming laugh, and as it faded I realised that all other sound had quieted too.

  I
stared at it, but I could not open it, not then. I told myself that I could not countenance the disappointment if I discovered only some old ledger of household accounts; some ancient thing that may never have been hers at all.

  Except I knew it was her journal.

  Eventually I straightened and glanced at the door. There had been no sound from Helena’s room; nothing at all to disturb me. I slipped the journal under my pillow and then I went downstairs, treading softly, to be greeted by the sight of Helena’s shawl forced roughly into the crack beneath the door. It had the appearance of the work of a madman, and I retrieved it, endeavouring to pull out the creases. I took the papers from around the door and from the keyhole and straightened those too, until I had recovered all the pages of my wife’s book. My shame grew as I worked. How could I have behaved so? How could I have taken fright at some little tempest? The hillside surely offered no shelter from such; it was only to be expected.

  I found the parlour in equal disarray, though the fire at least had died to a glowing smoulder. I recalled my fright at the debris falling from the chimney, as if such a thing were not also a natural occurrence. How simple I was! And yet I was tired and the day had been long; perchance the recent strains upon my mind had overpowered me for a moment?

  I reordered the pages of the novel, placing them in their correct sequence and within the covers, though nothing fitted as it once had. Strange phrases snagged at my eyes as I did so, although this time I affected not to see them, and then I caught: I suppose that she wanted to get another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense. Well, it is—swarming with ghosts and goblins!

  I closed my eyes. Helena had been so angry, but she must forgive me—she must know I was trying to do what was right, for family and for decency. We must both do our best to remain creatures of sense, even whilst immersed in uncultivated ideas; even in the midst of such a strange place, with its stranger folk.

  Good folk. Quiet folk. Hidden folk . . .

  I sighed, wondering if I had done aright by taking my wife’s book from her. Now no choice remained to me; I could not return the novel to her in such a tattered condition.

  I went into my room, taking the book with me so that it should remain out of her sight, and I leaned back upon my bed, still holding the sadly mutilated thing. Wuthering. That was the name for turbulent, blustering winds, was it not? Perhaps I had conjured them by my disarrangement of its pages.

  I set it down on the bedsheet, annoyed at my own irrationality, aware that I was only deferring the moment when I should open another book; when I would run my fingertips across the pages of the journal.

  Without looking, I felt beneath my pillow for the other. For an awful moment I thought it gone; but no, there was the edge of the worn cover, and then the whole of it was in my hands. The leather felt as if it were accustomed to the touch of skin. The pages were frayed at their edges by much use. I wondered if Lizzie had always found it necessary to conceal it in such a fashion—she had only been married for a few years, after all; had they been such strangers to one another? And yet he had known of this book, somehow. I imagined him stealing upon her as she wrote, Lizzie lifting her bright eyes to him with surprise and dismay. Had it been so? Was her concealment the reflection of what a brute he was, the sign of her understanding of her mistake?

  How the constable would like to know of this! I found myself bending over it as if to conceal it still. It had been hers and now it was in my hand, as if put there by Providence. She evidently had not wished for it to be found and she certainly would not wish for her husband to use it in his defence; that notion brought only horror with it. What would happen then? Would the man return here, taking possession of the home she had kept, but without her in it? It was unthinkable.

  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 . . .

  What nonsense. What awful slander those words had been. But of course her husband would claim he had proofs; he would desire only to blacken her memory to ease his own dreadful fate. I remembered what Helena had said earlier that evening—so long ago, it felt—about what she had claimed to overhear at the Three Horseshoes. I had thought her merely carried along by a passion, almost to delirium; but perhaps she really had heard some wicked story. If she had, it was surely only deeper proof of what a scoundrel he was.

  I pushed all thought of him aside; he did not belong here, alongside this memorial of her, preserved by her own hand; and gently, with one finger, I opened the journal. It felt as if I were opening her heart.

  I began to read the page at which it opened, with only some little difficulty over the handwriting.

  Mary told me she heard the prince is dead, but I don’t know if it’s true. She didn’t seem right sure herself. Jem’s cousin reckons nowt of it, but then he says our prince’ll be feasting with the fairies and I think he’s just stirring it. I think it’s true he’s dead, and it’s right sad. I said to them all that Albert were right handsome, any one would say so, and Jem just gave me one of his looks.

  I don’t care. I never saw him, but every one says he were right tall and dashing. I went to London once too and I might have seen him then, if I had been more lucky.

  Then it minded me of someone else I met once, who put my arm in his, and I thought he might wish to make a wife of me, but he did not . . .

  I closed the book on my lap. All was now quiet. There was not the faintest breeze blowing, not a single tap of wood on wood, and yet I fancied I could hear the sounds of the previous evening, a distant song, made mournful—if not dismal—by the slowness of the air. I could barely make out the tune, or perhaps my memory was faulty, and in any event, I replaced it in my mind with another:

  All things bright and beautiful . . .

  I let out a long sigh, almost a moan, and I bowed my head. Oh, Lizzie, I thought. Oh, Lizzie.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I awoke the following morning to the bright sound of chirruping in the garden. I pushed the sheets back from my face, for they were too hot and heavy. I felt leaden enough from lack of slumber even without the addition of their weight. I thought to sleep some more, but still the sound went on, a cheerful refrain to my dark remembrances, and I finally forced myself out of bed and went to look out.

  The garden was thriving in the heat; in fact, to my eye it had run almost entirely wild. Spires of lupins vied for the sun with foxgloves, whilst a hardy vine of some sort had found a way through everything. I recognised roses, pinks and marigolds planted along the edges of the paths, a profusion of colour, but a creeping weed had taken root in their midst and its tendrils had wound their way amongst it all. Negotiating the profusion, clinging to strands surely too light and new to bear its weight, was a blackbird. Its beak flashed yellow as it pecked; its eye was a dark liquid shine that reminded me of something, though I could not think of what.

  Beyond the garden wall was the hillside, its brilliant verdure outshining the multitudinous colours about the cottage. It was fleeced with hundreds more of those dandelion clocks; there appeared to be no end of them. I remembered the children’s game, where we had used them to count the hours, and now here they were still, just as they had been when I was a boy at my mother’s knee. The memory made me feel quite melancholy; I knew not why.

  I finished my ablutions, dressed and went downstairs, glad that I had returned the cottage to at least a semblance of normality. It was a pity that I had been so caught up in the influence of night and ruined my wife’s novel; but it could not matter. Helena would be more herself this morning, just as I was; I felt certain of it.

  My wife was not yet downstairs and I wondered if she too had slept badly after our argument. Our untouched repast of yester-eve was still spread upon the table, the cheese dried, the bread curled. I cleared it away and cut a little fresh bread, nibbling on it as I waited for Helena to rise. As I did, I surveyed the vista: the little village of Ha
lfoak dozing in the sun. I could not but wonder what lay beneath its calm surface and bethought me that perhaps Lizzie’s journal would tell me. I had hidden it away once more in my room and I was anxious to open it again.

  I thought he might wish to make a wife of me, but he did not.

  I sighed. Poor Lizzie. But of course, I could never have married her. Helena had struck nearer the mark than she could possibly comprehend: no, I had not known my cousin; years of neglect and separation had seen to that. But I should have done something. I had not realised how she had looked up to me, how she had clung to the memory of our little meeting. The thought of her fruitless pining hardened my resolve.

  I went into the kitchen and set more bread and butter upon a plate, prepared a ewer of water and carried them upstairs. I tapped gently on my wife’s door with the ewer and called out to her, but there came no reply; she must still be in slumber. I would wake her with a kiss, and our bitterness would be behind us. I put down the plate while I opened the door, then picked it up once more before I walked in.

  My greeting failed on my lips. Helena stood with her back to me, facing the open window. Her posture was stiff and she did not turn as I placed the ewer on her washstand, noting the disarray of her brushes and accoutrements, which was not like my wife; she had always been so neat. Helena remained at the window, her head tilted back slightly. She must be staring up at the sky, or perhaps Pudding Pye Hill.

  “Helena, I have brought a little bread and butter. Are you feeling refreshed, my dear?”

  I waited for an answer, but there came none. I could not see her face, and for an awful moment I thought I heard the un-restrained, mocking laughter of Mother Draycross; I remembered all the wild talk of changelings and I found I did not want to see. I didn’t want to know.

  I shook such silly thoughts away and went to her side. Her cheek was pale, her demeanour solemn. “My dear, you don’t look well. You must eat something.”