The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  “Oh—well, aye, sir. We’re all friends here, sir. No one partic’lar.”

  My heart sank. Were the villagers all to be so taciturn upon the subject? “Has the constable already asked about such matters? I am not the constable, Mrs. Gomersal.”

  “No, sir. O’ course you in’t.” She gave me a worried look.

  “But this is a police matter, all the same. If anybody were found to be concealing anything, madam, I fear it should go very ill with them. This is a matter of the utmost seriousness. I wish merely to uncover the truth. I am not the law; I do not have to act as the law would. But I must know who helped Jem Higgs, and if someone hinders instead of helps me, why, then, I should bring the law down on their heads. Do you understand me?”

  A look passed across her face, so swiftly I was not certain it was fear, and I felt a pang of guilt; I did not know why I had addressed her so harshly. Perhaps it was the heat of the sun, not just the knowledge of the indignities my cousin had suffered. She was in her grave and could not speak for herself, though her blood could cry from the ground, as the Good Book put it. Her lovely voice was silenced now for ever, and yet I heard it still.

  Mrs. Gomersal stared down at her boots and I was surprised to see that tears had dampened her eyelashes. “I’m sorry forrit, sir,” she said, in a low voice that would not carry to her children where they sat upon the step. The girl had returned to her occupation; the boy was watching us, his eyes shadowed by his long, curling hair. “I’m right sorry for what ’appened to ’er. You do know it, don’t you? She were a neighbour to me.”

  I recalled Lizzie’s diary entry about the pig; about Mary’s generosity. “I do, Mrs. Gomersal.” I suddenly wished I could take back all that I had said, and the way that I had said it, but something stopped my apology in my throat.

  She took a breath and spoke with renewed determination. “Thomas Aikin, sir. And Yedder Dottrell. They’re Jem Higgs’ cousins—well, not rightly cousins, though they called each other such, but some sorter relatives, if you catch my drift. Thick as thieves, they was.”

  I frowned. “Yedder?”

  “It’s not a given name; that’s William. But ’e’s biddable as a yedder, an’ never a fixed idea of ’is own. I dun’t rightly think ’e’s ever called owt else.” She realised my confusion. “A yedder’s weaved through a stake to make a fence or bind an ’edge, you see. It bends this way an’ that, whichsoever way it’s turned.”

  It did not surprise me to hear this of the man who called Jem Higgs his friend. “And where should I find them?” I could not keep the eagerness from my voice.

  “They’ll be workin’ on Squire Calthorn’s land, sir. They’re ’is men. Or ’appen you’d catch ’em at t’ inn.” She looked relieved to be telling me the truth, then appeared of a sudden to recall something. Her hand shot to her mouth and her eyes became unfocused, as if her thoughts had taken her vision far away.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s nowt, sir. Nuthin’ at all.”

  “It’s clearly something.” I tried to see the object of her gaze, but there was only the sky, little scuds of cloud scurrying across the vast blue, the sun a bright white eye forcing me to lower my eyes.

  “It’s—I dun’t rightly know, sir.”

  “Mrs. Gomersal, please.” I was losing patience.

  “It’s just—it’s t’ full moon tonight, sir. I just recalled it. It’s—not a good time to be out atter dark, lookin’ for no one. You don’t know what you’ll find. Anyway, they’ll not be at t’ inn tonight. Best look for ’em tomorrer, sir. Aye, that’s for t’ best.”

  My patience was all but lost. I took a deep breath. “I’ll not be bound by superstitions, Mrs. Gomersal. All such things should have been forgotten years ago, and it is a great pity for my cousin that they were not. Why, such tales—it is barbarism of the worst kind!”

  She pursed her lips. “It is not indeed!” she said. “Them who lives ’ere—them who sees—they know better, an’ them as won’t listen, they’ll take their chances. Anyway, it in’t no use you lookin’ tonight, right or not, ’cos you won’t find ’em!”

  “Why? Shall they not be on this earth—shall they vanish into the moonlight?” I cried in indignation.

  “Aye—’appen they will! Who knows? They’ll be up there, see!” She jabbed a finger towards Pudding Pye Hill. “They’ll be up there watchin’, since they want to ’elp, not cause problems—because they want to see ’er again!”

  She gathered herself and continued in a quieter voice. “It’s tonight, you see. Tonight’s the night o’ the full moon—o’ the dance.” She finished triumphantly. “It’s tonight that Lizzie Higgs will be a-comin’ back!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I sat in the little parlour, taking in its still silence. The sun was fast sinking, but Helena had not deigned to come down for supper. I had eaten little myself, and cleared up as best I could. I had seen my wife after paying my visits, but she had closed her eyes against me; her cheek was wan from spending so long indoors. I asked her to eat a little, and she did, although she accepted only a few morsels, looking as if she would rather cast them upon the ground. She did take some milk, however, and then she had remained, devoid of expression or animation, like a child’s carven peg-doll.

  I gave up trying to coax her. She had not smiled at me, not once, but she was not accustomed to be thus and I hoped her anger would have dissipated by the morrow. Perhaps then, I could put the constable’s words from my mind. Querulous. Unnatural. Shrew. They were not good words, and yet I could not keep their echo from my ears.

  The time had almost come. I did not want to be seen by anyone, walking up the path to the summit of Pudding Pye Hill at night. I wished to approach quietly, to see what I could and hear what I may. I had not asked Mrs. Gomersal the hour of the cousins’ vigil, but I had realised I had no need for her to tell me. It would surely be midnight, the witching hour in all such bugbear tales of phantoms and goblins; I was confident it must be so. Perhaps I was increasing my understanding of the village folk.

  Good folk. Hidden folk.

  Well, all sensible folk would no doubt be abed at this hour. It was a little before eleven. I hoped the sky would not be cloudy. In the City, the streets were rarely empty; whether it was the cabs bowling young bucks and swells homeward from their sordid entertainments, the jakesmen going about their noisome toil or the knocker-ups calling men to their labour, there was always some business to be done, and gaslights burning to show them their way. Here there was no such thing, and no paved paths to walk upon. Little wonder, then, that the country folk attached such import to the movements of the moon. Without it, the night to them would be as a foreign country.

  But I needed reminding that I was not in London. I went to the window and was grateful that there would indeed be light to see by, though I was surprised at its extent. The world was limned in silver, every object casting its own deep shadow. I could not see the moon from my vantage, but I saw its effects. The sky was full of stars, brighter than I had ever seen them in the City, and I wished I could name their constellations. For a moment, I imagined myriad lines between them, weaving each point into the finest net.

  This was the night when the fairies would ride, their revels spilling out upon the sward, and if my cousin really was to return, if such a thing could possibly occur, how on earth could anybody make sure to steal her back? On a night such as this, it was almost possible to believe that magic was not far distant; that a strange world could indeed exist within the hill, where even time passed differently. I remembered the wise woman’s words about her ten years there which had passed as only as many minutes in the corporeal world. A picture rose to my mind of little Lizzie as she had been when I met her, younger then and more innocent, the vision so clear to me that I expected almost to see her again as she was then. I gave a wistful smile. Dreams and recollections; nothing more, and I must not dwell upon them. I must harden my resolve, since I would have sterner things to face before long: two r
ough yokels, unprepared and perhaps unwilling to tell the truth.

  The world felt suspended when I stepped out into the night. I saw the moon at once, perfectly full and riding high above the hill’s summit, lending its gleam to what appeared an abandoned land. I turned the key in the lock behind me and slipped it into my pocket. I had already concealed the key to the back door beneath the oilcloth mat. I thought it best not to inform Helena of my errand, in deference to her current condition, and I did not want her to mistakenly lock the door herself, thus preventing my return.

  The air was still, yet the scent of honeysuckle lingered. The flowers glowed whitely where they grew over the wall, though their indistinct forms were distorted, reminding me of some peculiar fungi. I turned to the pale path, flinching at the passing shadow of some night bird which swooped unseen above me.

  I wondered that Mrs. Gomersal had not been more afraid at the idea of the cousins being out of doors at such a late hour, particularly upon her dangerous hill. It was after all long since sunset, although possibly they went armoured by some protection against being stolen away by the little folk or catechised in some charm by Mother Crow. I laughed to myself: perhaps they merely carried an iron horseshoe or a poker. Then I frowned; I might have thought to bring such an object with me, but I carried nothing, not even a lamp to guide my way. I did not wish to turn back now; in any event, a lamp would serve only to draw all eyes to me. I could only hope that I would equally well have no need of a poker.

  As I went on, accustoming myself to seeing by moonlight, I realised that the hillside mirrored the heavens above: one powdered with stars, the other with dandelion clocks. There was not a breath of air to stir them now—time had ceased to flow—but there was sound, however, drifts of music which must be rising from the village. The notes were difficult to make out; the airs hung on the very edge of hearing. It felt so very nearly like magic that I could not wonder that the people of Halfoak thought it a realm of enchantment.

  The tripping notes lightened my steps. I heard nothing of the two men whose presence I expected to stumble upon at any moment. In the welcome coolness I made short work of the slope and soon reached the hoary old barrow that capped its summit. Its shape was made plain, cutting out the stars with its black form. I suddenly did not wish to go nearer. I knew at once there was no one here, and yet the ancient place had a presence that I could not name. I knew not why I felt so repulsed; only that it demanded something from me that I could not give. It was as if whatever had happened here through all the ages past, whatever worship had been offered or homage paid, lingered still. This was a land not of the living, but of the dead.

  And the cousins were not there. I think I had always known they would not be there.

  I turned and began to walk down and around the hill, realising only now that the path was widdershins, as no doubt the wise woman would have it, and no doubt she would have made it the greater part of some charm; something, perhaps, to entice the dead.

  This was indeed a night for charms. The moonlight touched every blade of grass, each flower, every weed and thorn. It touched the thicket of gorse and caressed the boughs of the oak trees.

  A rough voice cut into the night, breaking the spell. “A blockhead, am I? Well, so be it. I’m a-goin’ ter ’ave a little dance.”

  I ducked down behind a gorse bush, keeping just short of its sharp stems, though it startled me a little to find that although I was concealed, I could see them quite clearly; one sat upon the ground whilst the other, a graceless ruffian, skipped clumsily away from him. The oaks, in their stillness, were reminiscent of regal figures watching over it all. Behind them, I knew, was the doorway into the hill, marked by its jutting stones and the iron blade thrust into the ground, keeping it open, Mrs. Gomersal had said. I could not see it—it was lost in the dark—but I could quite plainly make out the fairy ring inscribed upon the ground.

  The oaf stumble-stepped towards it. There was no music now, but he appeared to require none. There was only the spurted laughter of the one seated as he slapped at his thigh and slurped at a stone flask he carried. I wondered how long they had been partaking; some time, I guessed, judging by the exaggerated steps of the other, a slender fellow who bent this way and that as he moved. Was this Yedder? I had no way of knowing, but his long stride was such that he might have been wearing seven-league boots. He began to sing some uncouth country song under his breath as he capered, the pauses emphasising the words at intervals as his feet touched the ground. “Her eyes . . . are like the little stars . . . that shine so bright . . . above . . . Her cheeks . . . are like the rose blush . . . with her I fell in . . . love . . . Her pretty teeth . . . and golden hair . . . a fairy she’d . . . surpass . . . The pride of all the count-ree . . . is me bonny . . . Yorkshire . . . lass!”

  His companion hooted uncontrollably, rocking onto his back so that I could barely see him at all. Was it their intention to make an entertainment of it? Did they think it a jest? Why, if Cousin Lizzie really could return, she would hardly do so for these ruffians. I almost stepped from my hiding place and accused them then and there, but some quiet inner voice bade me be still.

  “Tha dun’t want to step in that there circle, tha great daft ’apeth.” The seated fellow tossed something into the air—a stone?—and his friend snapped about with mock outrage. He whirled again, upsetting his balance and flapping his arms, resembling for a moment a windmill.

  “See, see, they’ll not get me,” he chanted, and went on in a quick rhythm, “I’m as quick as a hare, as nimble as a deer . . . I’m as cobby as a lop!”

  “I’ll gi’ thee ‘cobby,’ our Yedder,” said the first fellow, who must perforce be Thomas Aikin. “I’ll gi’ it thee round t’ lug-holes, if tha dun’t gi’ ower.” Despite his light words his tone portended alarm, and as the other teetered at the edge of the circle, he cried, “Gerroutofit, will yer!”

  The other gave up his capering at once. Somewhat abashed, he approached the furze—for a moment I felt sure he would see me, staring straight at him as I was—but he sank to the ground by his companion without once glancing in my direction. “There in’t no fairies’ll get me, Tommy.”

  “Aye, well, ’appen tha’s right—what’d they want thee for?” The other’s voice had turned gruff. “But watch thasel’. Tha knows what’s what. Don’t mock it, Yedder. You ’eard it all yersen—you ’eard about that nipper o’ Mary Gomersal’s, din’t yer? Wandered off one day an’ never t’ same since? They said ’e were up ’ere then.”

  The other snorted. “Aye, an’ they say she were up ’ere an’ all, seven year ago.”

  “Aye, well, that’s as mebbe. Just dun’t step in that circle, see. I’m askin’ yer, Yedder, not now; not at this hour. If tha does, tha dun’t know if tha’ll ever step out of it again.”

  They fell silent and there was only the clinking of a flask and noisy swallowing, until, after a while, Yedder said, “Ah well, mebbe tha’s got summat. It in’t right, is it?”

  “What in’t?”

  “T’ weather.”

  “Oh, aye, t’ weather.”

  “No. It in’t right. An’ it’s allus summer, under there—that’s all I’m sayin’.” He paused. “We should ’ave ’ad a bit o’ rain by now.”

  “Well, we should at that.”

  “Crop’s buggered if it dun’t come soon.”

  Thomas grunted. “There’s a reason they call ’em kill-crops, all right. It ’ad ter be done, no questionin’ that.”

  “Aye. No one’s sayin’ owt else, our Tommy.”

  They fell silent, and yet those words hung in the air, growing louder in my ears until I thought I would burst with anger.

  “’Appen we should close that ’ole.” It appeared Yedder could not long remain silent.

  “That’s not why we came, an’ you know it.”

  “No.” I heard Yedder’s sigh.

  “’E’d not want it closin’, neither. ’E wants ’er back an’ all, dun’t ’e? P’raps ’e’ll ’ave luc
k enough to make it ’appen. ’E’ll ’ave ter, else ’e’ll swing.”

  Yedder did not reply but leaned back on his elbows, patting out a rhythm upon the ground. It sounded dry and hollow. “I ’eard an ’ole ’ost on ’em’ll come out at midnight. They’ll be singin’ and dancin’, and t’ queen of ’em’ll be at their ’ead. An’ Lizzie ’Iggs will be wi’ ’em, ridin’ on a white ’oss—that’s when we’ve got ter grab ’old on ’er, then or not at all, else she’ll not come back again, not never.”

  “It’ll be all up wi’ ’im then.” Tommy spoke sombrely, almost in despair.

  “So we can’t shut that ’ole, then.”

  “I wish ter God thee’d shut thine, Yedder.”

  The youth did not take offence at his friend’s rebuff. “Aye, well. But I asked me mam what she thought on it and she said—beg pardon, Tommy—but she reckons this is nowt but a right bonny do-dance; she said it in’t worth a gnat’s fart.”

  There came back a warning grunt.

  “That’s just me mam, Tommy; dun’t think I don’t believe it mesel’, like.” His words rushed on. “There’s t’ door; that proves it. Though, some say that ’ole leads straight down to ’Ell—but wherever, it dun’t matter, does it, Tommy? Since we’ll be a-watchin’.”

  “Stop yer yammerin’, will tha, Yedder.”

  Tommy’s voice would brook no argument. There was something implacable in the man, and for a moment he reminded me of the priest, his intense eyes flashing with certainty and zeal. I had not expected it; I had surmised I would discover men who were acting under the instruction of their friend, if only to enforce the semblance of his mania. I had not expected anything in the way of real belief; I had not thought to find any genuine presentiment that Lizzie might be about to make her return.