The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  I pushed myself up and started after her. What else could I do?

  I stumbled at last over the threshold, grateful to be enveloped by cool shadows. A loud clatter rang out from the parlour and I entered to see Helena throwing open the windows. She glanced at me and wafted a hand under her nose as if there were some awful smell. “Pah!” she said. “In’t it nasty, that—that people-smell!”

  I sank wordlessly into a chair while she bustled about me. After a while she pushed a glass of water into my hand. I sniffed at it—it smelled of iron, of hedgerows, of plums, and I did not like it but regardless, I sipped it. Other than that, I could smell nothing at all. The parlour had borne no trace of a scent, though the heavy sweetness of honeysuckle was now drifting inside, and there was something else. The sap, I thought, it’s rising, and I did not know why I thought that. Was that not a matter for spring? My temples throbbed and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  When I opened them, I was in my room, lying upon my own bed, and the rest of the house was silent. I had no memory of how I had come to be there, unless it were the hazy recollection of a little hand under my arm, leading me upward.

  I let my head fall to the side so that I could see the wainscoting. It looked just as it had before. I wished to examine it more minutely, but I could not move. It was not simply the heaviness of my exhaustion; it was as if some spell had weighted my limbs. I could not even consider moving. I tried to speak, but my lips were still and no sound emerged, not even a whisper.

  I let my eyes fall closed, telling myself that it was merely fatigue. I needed to sleep. I need not worry about Helena. I knew that she was somewhere below because I could hear her moving around, putting all in its right place. As sleep came, the thought stole upon me like a certainty: there was no possibility that I could go home now, not with Helena in her condition; not with me in mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I was not certain what hour it was when I awoke, for the room lay in half-light, though the curtains were partly drawn over the shutters. It was the light of a dream, and I did indeed feel as if I were still dreaming. At least the dreadful heaviness had passed; in fact, my whole body felt light, as if at any moment I might float into the air.

  I could recall only fragmented images from my sleep: an opening—no, a doorway—in a rock, a lady standing within it, her form miniature and perfect and beautiful. She wore a crown and flowing green robes, and she smiled upon me. There was a scent—I do not think I had ever dreamed such before—but so it was, the aromatic sweetness of ripe and lovely fruit, and I was steeped in it; the juice was dripping from my chin, running from my fingers, and I felt its life seeping into me, reaching my very soul. I realised too that there was music; it came to me gradually, as if that were the only way of safely taking in such an intense sensation without being overwhelmed. And such music it was! Such things as dreams are made on, as the Bard had it. And it roused in me such longing, such a wild and terrible yearning, that it took a moment for me to realise that some dim echo of it had followed me into wakefulness.

  I slipped from my bed and went to the window, my limbs still too light. The odd glow was coming from the moon. It must now be waning, but its crimson face shone out, adorned by ragged tendrils of cloud. The music grew louder—someone was playing a fiddle. An awful restlessness stole upon me; it was as if I truly had eaten fairy fruit and was now compelled to join the dance. I felt the call of it—nay, the command—in every muscle and sinew and fibre.

  I started as something silvery flashed past in the outer gloom, thinking of a stately procession emerging from a dark door; then it was gone. An owl? I blinked, making out the rough outlines of the garden, its black and rotting mounds of tangled abandonment, and I saw another pale shape, surely larger than the first. It shifted as I watched, like some voluminous, billowing gown. And then I realised what it was and I leaned upon the sill. It was the washing; only that. It still hung there, unclaimed. I still did not know how Helena had contrived to do it; her hand had never been turned to such in her life; she surely could not have lifted a single copper of water.

  Fairy struck. Fairly struck.

  I closed my eyes. Perhaps this was the half-dream Jem Higgs had spoken of. Perhaps he had felt it too, leaning out of this very window. If he had done so on a night like this one, there was little wonder he had succumbed. The moon had the look of wickedness, the garden of decay; no good could come of such a night. It was fit only for necromancy and nefarious deeds. Why, if I were a simpler man, one prone to action without consideration, perhaps I would do as Higgs had commanded me: I would take a spade from the outhouse and travel by the shadows of that witch-light to the graveyard, and I would dig ’er up!

  I shook my head. I barely knew where my thoughts were coming from. Now I was tapping out some rapid rhythm upon the windowsill with my thumbnail, Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-TAT!, and the music had taken up residence in my feet, my hands, my skull; for I was shifting and nodding and tapping where I stood as if crazed by its calling.

  The bed was in disarray, the covers crumpled and sweat-dampened. I did not wish to lie down again, so instead I crept quietly down the stairs, expecting at any moment some dreadful creak to tell of my passing and conjure my wife’s presence.

  The treads did not creak. Her door did not open. I imagined her in her room, sweetly sleeping—or what if the thing she had become, that awful, mocking, disdainful thing, did not sleep? What if she were merely lying there now, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling until such a time as she must rise again—until daylight woke her? But they were underground creatures, were they not? They hated fire, so surely they should hate the sun too.

  I closed my eyes and waited until the wave of dizziness passed, feeling the world turning about me just as it always had. I went into the parlour, again with the image of Helena rising vividly before my eyes. I half expected to see her sitting in her accustomed chair, her back perfectly straight, staring at me.

  There was no one. The room was dark, the shutters tightly closed against the night, and as I felt my way across it with my hands held out before my face the thought came to me that I might touch something unexpected at any moment, something warm and pliant, fingers that would grasp my own, and it came as a relief to find only the rough wood of the kitchen door.

  The window was smaller in there, and partly shaded by the elderberry tree, but it had no shutters, so the room was brighter than the parlour. The moon’s ghostly light spilled across the brick floor, bringing out its ancient roughness in gleams and shadows. I went into the pantry and ran my hands across the topmost shelf, too high for my wife to reach; almost too high for me. At first I thought it empty, but then my fingertip touched the little china jug. I brought it down, and at once I could smell it, pungent and sweet and sharp, and I could see it too, even in the dim light. The darkness of its herbal contents stood out plainly against the pale china, appearing almost black where it coated the bottom.

  Returning to the kitchen, I added a few drops of water from a ewer, then took a spoon, careful not to clatter it against the sides, and gently teased the stuff loose. It was thoroughly dried and at first didn’t want to come, then pieces began to break away. I crushed and smeared them anew until the substance softened, taking on the consistency of a tincture.

  I poured it all into the teapot, took some tea leaves and sprinkled them on top, then gave the whole another stir.

  Tomorrow I would make her tea. She would drink it and then we would see what would happen.

  I rinsed the china jug and replaced it upon its shelf. I eyed the teapot once more as I left the room. Like every other thing it had been rendered clean and shining, freshly polished. All was gleaming and silent, and I realised that the music which had so caught hold of my senses had fallen silent too.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I passed a hand across my eyes. My head did not ache; my limbs felt like my own once more. I felt as if I had had the deepest and most refreshing sleep, and I lay there for a time, enjoying the s
ensation and listening to a bird singing. I already knew that this day, like all the other days in Halfoak, would be sweet and warm and beautiful.

  And then I remembered how I had awakened earlier; my sight of the red moon. Had I really roused myself in the night? Had I imagined music on the air? Had I—?

  I frowned, remembering the little jug, the black residue inside it; the teapot. Had I really done that? Had I prepared such unknown stuff for my wife—something the old crone had concocted in her filthy shack? I pushed myself to my feet, remembering her words as if she spoke at my ear. The seven cures. It’s not easy to swaller.

  No, I imagined it was not. I stood, only now noticing that I was still wearing my begrimed clothing from the day before, but that was of no matter. I hurried to the door, seeing that Helena’s remained closed: good. I hurried downstairs, not heeding the drumming of my steps, opened the door to the parlour and rushed inside—to see my wife, her countenance quite calm, and a young woman I did not know.

  I stumbled to a halt as both of them looked up, startled. Helena’s expression turned to astonishment. “Albie—why—?”

  The young woman—no, a girl—stared at me, her eyes wide. She had a head of curls escaping from under her cap, and a somewhat narrow face, the features fine, if dreadfully freckled. She was outfitted as a maid.

  “Perhaps a change of dress, Albie?”

  I bestirred myself, turning towards my wife as she raised a cup to her lips. “Why, Husband, whatever is the matter? You have gone quite white.” She frowned and this time took a deep draught of the liquid. I wanted to rush across the room and dash the cup from her hand, but how could I?

  “Why do you stare so, Albie?” She forced into her voice a veneer of cordiality. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, I—do please excuse me.” I turned on my heel and closed the door behind me, expecting trills of laughter to follow me up the stair, but there were none; there was no sound at all, only that of my own steps.

  Before I tended to my appearance I sat on the bed, quite motionless, while my thoughts raced, quicker than I could piece them together. What on earth could a few herbs matter? It was probably a little rosemary and thyme, seasoned with chanting and nonsense. I tried to remember if I had recognised any of its contents from the odour, or from the way it had felt under the spoon, but nothing came to me. The only thing that did was the wise woman’s voice:

  It ’ad ter 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 had not even administered it correctly. There had been words to say too, hadn’t there? Some kind of charm. Now I had wasted it. That was what actually rose to the surface of my mind, as if the beldam’s mad words could even matter, but beneath it was a deeper worry, something swimming darkly at the bottom of a deep pool.

  My gaze went to the wainscoting where I knew the journal was hidden. I wondered if it would hold the answer, and yet I could not bring myself to look at it, not now. It had become a guilty secret: I had told a deliberate untruth about its very existence, and in bitter circumstances I did not care to think on. The constable, I was sure, would view my actions most gravely. And that was not all: I did not wish to remove the journal from its hiding place and read because I was afraid of who might see. The notion would not leave me that some incorporeal creature would be standing at my back, peering over my shoulder, watching everything.

  I shook all such phantasms from my mind and prepared to dress. It was clear to me now that I must have been suffering from some heat apoplexy, for why else would I have fallen prey to such odd ideas? A little time spent indoors would soon cure me.

  And yet, the parson believed in them too, didn’t he? And I had heard the fiddler playing in the darkest hours of the night . . .

  So perhaps the tea would have its effect: I would return to the parlour in time to see her fly shrieking up the chimney. And then my own sweet wife would return, full of smiles and approval, her dear hand resting lightly once more upon my arm . . .

  Sighing, I carried out my ablutions, changed my clothes and went downstairs to see the strange girl flicking dust from the glass case wherein stood the all-seeing fox. She spoke without turning. “The mistress is indisposed, sir. Said she was goin’ back to bed.”

  I caught my breath. “Did she? But that’s—she is not ill? I must go to her at once.” My heart was thudding so hard against my ribs that the girl must surely have been able to hear it.

  She turned at last, and an odd feeling came to me that I recognised her from somewhere. “She said she din’t want to be disturbed, if you please, sir.” She dropped an ill-formed curtsy. “She said she’d be all right, sir. She wan’t ill, she said so. She said her sleep were disturbed, an’ she just wanted to rest a while.”

  I stared at her until I realised I was making her uncomfortable, then I nodded. I went into the kitchen, saw the teapot and opened the lid, then, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the girl had not followed, I poured away its contents. The liquid looked muddy, but it smelled of nothing but tea.

  When I returned to the parlour, she was still there. “May I enquire where you came from?” I asked.

  The girl—she was only thirteen or fourteen—dropped into that awkward curtsy again. “Mrs. Calthorn asked me to come, sir. She said I should ’elp wi’ t’ washin’ an’ owt else yer needed me for. I came yesterday, an’ all.”

  So that was why the washing was done; this wiry girl had accomplished it all. It was so simple an answer. “And your name?”

  “Ivy Gomersal, sir.”

  “Gomersal?” I could not hide my surprise. I had seen her before: she had been gathering watercress at the stream whilst her younger sister, Flora, chased the birds.

  Peggy Greenteeth’ll steal you away!

  All was clear. They even resembled one another, despite the freckles, and yet they were not at all like the youngest child who sat so quietly by his mother’s knee, teasing his little grimalkin.

  “So, you are in service at Throstle Grange?”

  “Aye, sir. Just since this last month or two. They—they needed a new girl, an’ me mam said I’d be all right. I’ve some strength in me bones, an’—well, she said nowt ’ud ’appen to one on ’er girls, an’ me wi’ a sensible ’ead on me shoulders an’ all.”

  I frowned. “Meaning if you did not, you would not be all right there?”

  A rather sly smirk crossed her features; she quickly wiped it from her face. “’Appen.”

  I remembered the squire’s son, his muscular stature, his loose, almost animal posture, his insolent look, and I thought I had no need to ask her meaning.

  I can kiss but I can’t wed you all,

  But I would if I could, great and small . . .

  The girl’s eyes went to her duster, but I needed to quiz her on another matter; much could be learned from an unguarded tongue. I gave a smile and said, “You would have known the occupants of this cottage, then—Lizzie Higgs?”

  She looked almost startled. “A little, sir. I din’t come up ’ere much. It’s not a lucky—”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that. What did you think of her?”

  There came that sly look once more, there and gone in a moment. “Oh—well, she were too good for t’ likes o’ me, sir, even if she did ’ave nowt to call ’er own, an’ no fambly to speak of.”

  I blinked at that, but nothing would be gained by betraying my feelings on the matter. “Did she not?”

  “No, sir. I dun’t think Mr. Higgs knew ’er fambly right well ’is sen, afore they wed. I ’eard tell there were some she could call ’er own somewhere, but they’d long left these parts. She could ’ave been owt. Or a nowt, if you take me meaning.”

  “I think I do.” I tried not to speak too stiffly.

  “Aye, sir. ’E did ’er a favou
r, that’s what I say. An’ still she were goin’ on at ’im all t’ time, by all accounts, wantin’ a fine ’ouse like this ’un, an’ all ’er pretty frocks an’ ribbons an’ slippers.” Her expression became wistful, as if she had often coveted Lizzie’s frocks and ribbons and slippers for herself.

  I did not heed the pertness of her speech. “Perhaps she would have given you some of her clothes. She was a sweet girl, was she not?”

  “Ha!” The exclamation broke from her before she could stop herself, and her hand shot to her mouth. She saw my astonishment and straightened her features. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, like I said, she thought she were above the likes of me, poor or not. She were right proud, sir, an’ she allus ’eld ’er ’ed very ’igh. They’ll not say it, not now she’s under, but it’s true. An’ she wun’t listen. Folks tried to tell ’er—I mean—”

  “Tried to tell her?”

  She dipped her head in confusion. “About ’ow things are, sir, up ’ere. ’Ow there’s things you shun’t ’ear, an’ things you shun’t listen to even if tha does. An’ shun’t tell nowt about, if yer do.” She glanced around as if anybody could be eavesdropping on her now, and she pressed her lips tightly closed.

  I would get no more from her; she was obviously no more than a jealous child. She did not have the breeding, the connections, the grace of a lady like my cousin, and she could not forget it. I glanced upward, wondering how my wife was sleeping. If she was not, she might have heard our discussion through the shrunken old floorboards. There was no sound from above, however, none at all, and then Ivy’s duster began to whisk, whisk, and I thought I would eat a little, and then step outside; I found, after all, I wished to take the air.

  I resolved to walk up to the summit of Pudding Pye Hill. I was of a mind to see the country around me, all of it laid bare, without myself being seen. I fetched Helena’s book from my room and secreted it within my pocket before I set out, thinking that a shady spot under the oak trees would be a capital place to refresh myself with a little reading after the walk.