The Hidden People

by Allison Littlewood

  I started. “You say your own child is a changeling?” I was astonished. But she knew the wise woman, did she not? She knew the “cure.” Why would she keep such a one under her roof?

  She sniffed, then she shook her head. “That’s not what I said, sir.”

  “But—”

  “I did not. But ’e’s one on ’em, all t’ same. I—I fell asleep on the ’ill, sir. Just where I said you should not. That’s ’ow I knew, in’t it? I fell asleep an’ I got took. I slept an’ I danced in that sleep, an’ that dance—oh, such a dance! Well, when I woke up, I ’ad ’im in my belly, din’t I? ’E were in me, an’ I’d no choice about it then. I just ’ad to wonder and wonder ’ow much of ’im was me, an’ ’ow much was one o’ them.”

  She turned her head and met my gaze. “Do you know ’ow it is, sir, to watch your own, an’ love ’em, an’ not even know if they are who you think they are, or summat else altogether? I pray you never do, sir. At least—at least it were all right for them. They could do what they ’ad to, to get rid on it. There were none o’ that for me. I ’ad to keep mine, an’ look where that got me. You reckon you ’ave a good place in life, an’ you see it all slipping from you, all on it.”

  I felt a mist coming down across my thoughts; it was as if I were falling into the half-dream of which Jem Higgs had once spoken. “You consorted with them, is that what you are saying—that your child is only half a human child?”

  Papa, he had said, there in the magical grove on the fairy hill.

  She only looked away.

  “And why were you there? Why were you walking upon the fairy hill that day?”

  She remained mute.

  “You warned me that it was dangerous.”

  “Aye, sir. I could only tell you what I learned by me own mistake.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I am well punished for it, am I not?”

  I glanced at the boy. He was still playing with the leaves, laying them out in a ring, all the stalks converging to a central point. He did not look at us and he did not listen. He was in his own mind, in his own world; intent upon his own simple game and nothing else. I suddenly felt exhausted, beyond my capacity to bear. Perspiration trickled down the back of my neck. I wished that I had never come to Halfoak. Oh, to be in London once again, with all its grey smoke and fog! I wished I were already being swept away from here by a ferocious and unstoppable engine, leaving only burning ricks behind. But there was still something else I must ask.

  “So where, pray, is Essie Aikin’s baby?”

  She started. She evidently had not expected me to know anything of it.

  “What happened to it? What did you do?”

  She pursed her lips. “Nowt but what we ’ad to. An’ that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

  “You will tell me where it is.”

  “I’ll tell you nowt.” She screwed up her face in anger. “An I’ll thank ye to leave my door. I’ve entertained thee enough. I’ve done nowt but what I ’ad to do for me and mine, and it in’t none o’ yourn. What are we to thee? What’s any on it to thee? Tha’d best be goin’. Aye, you should gerroff, before the folk get an’ ’old on thee that you can’t prise loose. There’s nowt for thee ’ere. None’ll speak to thee; none’ll ’elp thee. We look after us sens around ’ere, cos that’s what we ’ave ter do, and none else will.”

  I met anger with anger. “Do you think so? Why, I have spoken to the mother already, and she would have told me all if I had pressed her; it was only pity that gave me pause. I shall speak to her again.”

  “Will thee now? Tha will if tha can find ’er.”

  My eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean?”

  She laughed in my face. “Owd Tommy said she’d been upset.” Her smile grew broader. “It were you, were it! As if she an’t ’ad enough. I said if she couldn’t let it rest, ’e should take ’er off for a bit. Aye—she’s gone! Off to relatives in t’ north, where none can get at ’er. Where none’ll upset ’er and frit ’er wi’ no questions.”

  I could only stare. Relatives in the north? Somewhere farther and wilder than this? And yet I could see by the triumph written upon her face that it was true.

  Slowly she turned her back on me, spitting sidelong onto her own path before she grasped the boy’s ear and dragged him with her. He curled his little hands into fists and beat at her side, but she was implacable. It was not until he was out of sight that I realised the unnatural child had not made a sound of protest at his rough treatment; nor had a single word fallen from his lips.

  Nothing remained but to walk away from her cottage and towards Pudding Pye Hill, by turns shaking my head and burning with rage over the woman’s brazenness. At least I had gained something of the truth of it. And I should not do as she had so charmingly suggested and leave this place, not now. The eagerness with which she bade me to quit Halfoak had made me the more steadfast in my resolution.

  I looked up, the sun blinding me momentarily, and made out the smooth outline of the hill. I froze. It was not quite smooth after all; it was not entirely isolated. As if Mrs. Gomersal’s talk had summoned the hidden people to the surface, a dark form was clearly outlined against its edge. I blinked. At first I did not know what it was, and then I realised: it was nothing but a man on horseback, his posture loose and easy. I knew at once who it was.

  I shielded my eyes, but could see little better. His form was made indistinct by the light and I could not tell what his business may be. Perhaps he was riding for its own sake; possibly he was surveying all that he would one day inherit. After all, the hill offered a fine view of all his father’s lands. So he was not afraid of all the evil rumours and stories that had been put about. I wished suddenly that I had spoken to him when I had seen him that day with Helena, and yet something had prevented me; something besides my own dishevelled appearance.

  It still struck me as odd that Mrs. Gomersal had not been afraid of the hill either, at least until her escapade. She had given no satisfactory account of why she liked to wander there in spite of its evil reputation. It was a place to be shunned, was it not? It was not a place of work nor yet of leisure. Even if a man were unafraid, it was odd that anyone would go there by choice. It was a secret place, a midnight place. It occurred to me then how useful would be the tales of its hidden residents to anyone who wished to hide their actions from the everyday tide of humanity. To such a person, its stories would be treasure indeed. To frighten other men away, to keep dark matters safe, away from prying eyes . . . I recollected the words of the antic cousins who had awaited Lizzie’s return at the grove:

  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.

  Aye, an’ they say she were up ’ere an’ all, seven year ago.

  So they had known of Mrs. Gomersal’s adventures. I wondered if she was like the wise woman, claiming herself wiser by the uncertain virtue of her contact with the fairies. Her tale wrapped her in the finery of their silken mysteries; it lent authority to her bearing and weight to her words.

  I watched the squire’s son a little longer as he rode about. A pity it was that he was not better employed. His father’s illness and his mother’s distraction had left an emptiness into which all manner of weeds had been allowed to flourish. Halfoak might not be so backward were it not for such abnegation of duties; but then I remembered the parson’s sermonising, his talk of the blasted oak tree, the sign of God’s wrath, and I sighed.

  It was true that the squire’s son appeared to have sprung from the hill itself like a warrior of ancient times—of the same tribe, perhaps, who had buried its people under the barrow. And then he put me in mind of something else, and I wondered that I had not seen it before. With his surly ways and dark locks, he resembled none other than Heathcliff, the subject of my wife’s book. And he too was a fairy-like creature, was he not? Appearing at least half elemental, striding about the country, the victim of wild passions and impulses that
any civilised being should have long since mastered.

  Poor Essie Aikin. What had she been thinking? She surely could not have imagined that Edmund Calthorn would marry her. It was a pity that she had not thought to invent some fairy father; none had shunned Mary Gomersal as they had the silly Aikin girl. No: her tale had saved her. And the boy also; like Heathcliff, he was at least half wild. I had even thought of him as an elf. Did she really imagine he had been born half of some fairy creature? Or was this mysterious being, as Heathcliff had proved to be, merely the creation of a woman?

  I stood there I knew not how long, pondering it. Edmund Calthorn passed out of sight; the very air was motionless. Slowly I felt all the presence of summer wrapping itself about me as if to soothe all troubled thoughts away; to make me part of this place. I shook myself like a dog emerging from a dream. Then I turned my steps and pulled myself across a stone stile and entered a field that was full of grass and clover.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  For a time there was nothing but the susurration of my steps through the long grass. I remembered the names Mary Gomersal had told me: meadow cat’s-tail, fox-tail, dog’s-tail. I felt as a man moving through a world of his imagining, letting the fronds brush past my hands. The seeds clung to my clothes, but no use in brushing them away when there were so many. Across the meadow, sheep raised their heads and regarded me before falling to the clover once more. The sun beat down, as it always did in Halfoak, the summer a timeless season that might remain for ever. All was the picture of bucolic peace, and yet that peace could not touch my heart. I felt like a dreamer; I felt like a fool.

  I heard the clatter of pots before I made out the rough outline of the wise woman’s shack amongst the twisted growth which surrounded it. Even from here, the woodland looked dank. At its edge, the sunshine reached everything; berries hung fat on the hedgerow; birds called to one another and flitted from branch to branch. All spoke of life, quite unlike her den. I could smell it: the rot in the timbers, the mustiness of unwashed clothing, the uncleanliness of it all.

  Another rattle told of her movements: she was brewing some potion, or making up a magic bottle, something to ward off the evil eye or find a lost trinket or make the corn grow straight, but I cared not. I pushed my way through the clumps of ivy and brambles to the crooked door and knocked.

  All sound ceased, as if someone had frozen in surprise. She had not foreseen my coming, then, with all her hedge-magics. There came a blundering and scraping before the door swung wide.

  She was wearing her apron, still dreadfully stained, and her hands were again clotted with sticky dough. I peered past her and saw that she was making oatcakes upon the piece of wood which passed for a table. Her single chair was piled with dirty clothing.

  There had been no endeavour to tame her hair, which still hung loose and unbrushed. Her cheeks were paler than I had last seen them; I wondered if she had previously reddened them with beetroot juice, as a harlot might.

  She stepped back and indicated that I should enter, though she had not spoken, and I remembered her voice; deeper than I had expected and laced with honey.

  “I am come to ask you a question,” I said.

  “Step in,” she replied, and her voice was higher than it had been; perhaps she had not yet donned her wise woman’s tone as well as her accoutrements.

  I went inside, removing my hat as I ducked beneath the papers and bundles of herbs, no longer finding in them some mystery, only the pitiful and dangerous remnants of a belief which should be long dead. She rubbed dough from her hands, picking it from between her fingers with one of the items of dress piled upon the chair. I would have expected no more from such a slattern; but that was by no means the worst of her attributes. I remembered the way I had allowed her to set her foot upon my own; I felt once more the creeping of her fingers through my hair.

  “A moment, sir,” she said, remembering this time to affect the dramatic lowering of her voice. “I’ll ready me crystal. I’m sure the sperrits’ll be ready anon.” She hurried over to her wooden box and darted a look at me. “You’ve not forgot the fee, sir? Of gold, if you please.”

  I drew myself taller, feeling a cobweb or one of her papers brush the top of my head. I paid it no heed. “I shall not pay you a penny,” I said. “I am not come for your hocus-pocus or enchantments or any such foolery. I am not one of your peasants who can be blinded by your nonsense. I merely wish to know what enchantment did Mary Gomersal purchase from you in order that she should bewitch Edmund Calthorn?”

  Her eyes opened wider. Then she opened her mouth and let out a laugh that was more like the barking of a fox. “Ha! Oh, sir—that’s good!” A new light blazed in her eyes—an awakened kind of look, and wary, and yet there was mirth in it too.

  “What was it?” I pressed. “A spell? A potion? A bottle? A paper—your herbs?” I batted at one of her hanging bundles and powder floated from it. The scent was of pepper and dust and the passage of time.

  “I’ll not charge thee,” she said, leaning forwards, as if in the companionable sharing of confidences.

  I waved her words away. “Tell me at once!”

  “Why, sir, it’s like this. A woman’s ’chantments need no potion, sir. They dun’t need no charm. If a lady cannit accomplish that by ’ersel’, why, she’s no lady!” She laughed raucously at the absurdity of calling Mary Gomersal a lady; I did not join in.

  “You say she managed such a thing herself?” My tone was indignant. I thought of Mrs. Gomersal, and I thought of the squire’s son, with all his insolence and wildness. He was little more than my own age, and all the repugnance of it returned to me. However would she have possessed the audacity without bolstering her brazenness with some charm?

  “She wasn’t always such!” the beldam said, as if reading my mind. “Seven year an’ three childer’ll do that to a lass. She were a pitcher, once. Aye, an’ besides, ’e’s not one to turn it down, whatever wrappin’ it comes in. Not where it’s freely gi’en!”

  I can kiss but I can’t wed you all,

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

  She laughed again at my expression. “Oh, aye—it’s just like a young ’un to think mutton never were grown from a lamb.” Her tone was unmoderated by my glare. “But ’e’s not one to turn from his meat, is ’e, bein’ allus hungerin’, an’ anyway, ’e ’as to find amusement where he may, dun’t ’e? An’ there’s plenty on it about! ’Sides, there’s nowt like one a bit older an’ married afore to show ’im t’ way!”

  Her riotous cackling filled the little shack, ringing from its rafters, rattling her supplies of herbs and noxious liquids and old, old knowledge, and I pushed my way through her hangings and ducked through the doorway, the harsh sound of it following me still, incongruous in the peaceful meadow.

  There was no use questioning her further, and no need, for I was beginning to see it all. I retraced my steps through the long grass, looking behind me once to see her standing at the door, watching me go. She had grasped her skirts in both hands and was curtsying to left and right, as if to make a show of her harlotry, and I walked more quickly, straightening my back, trying to conduct myself as a gentleman; and all the while accompanied by the dreadful rough music of her merriment.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I hastened towards my cousin’s cottage, feeling I could not reach it quickly enough. The day’s light was deepening, the sky turning fiery. The shadows of each blade of grass and stone and flower stretched towards me.

  I had been a fool. All the time I had held the secrets of Halfoak in my hand, and what had I done? I had passed over them. My cousin’s journal had been telling me everything, just as no doubt she would have wished it to do—willed it to do—and yet I had not seen it. I had skipped over the pages, thinking her life nothing, glossing over the most important part of all.

  At last the little bridge was ahead of me. The brook’s babble did not sound so cheerful as before—perhaps a reflection of what I felt—and I leaned out ov
er it. The water had yielded to the summer at last; its level had sunk and it was fairly choked with weed. If rain did not come it might dry up altogether. The watercress would turn brown and wither, like the crops in the field: all the pretty gold turning drear, crumbling to chaff, so that the harvesters were forced to breathe in the dead stuff that was the ruin of the village.

  I did not care for Halfoak now, or what became of its folk. I wanted only to hold my cousin’s journal and see, written in her own hand, in ink upon paper, what I already suspected to be true.

  Her husband had been right to want so badly for it to be found. He simply had not known the right reason.

  I hurried up the path, ignoring the perspiration that gathered beneath my hat and soaked my clothes. And then I saw the place, really saw it, and I stopped.

  A pall of smoke rose from the chimney. There was nothing strange in that; we had been forced to use the range for water and meat—but what smoke it was! It gathered thickly over the roof, too much of it to readily dissipate into the sluggish air, swathing the tiles with grey, softening the very outline of the building.

  I did not stop to wonder; I ran towards the door.

  I burst inside to find the parlour an inferno, the fire banked high and blazing, flames licking and darting from it where the chimney would not draw; it hissed and spat like a cat in a corner. Lurid light flickered over the hearthstones and every surface, catching the eyes of the preserved fox, which glared and gleamed, its fur shining more redly than ever. And it glittered from the eyes of my wife. She was in a parlous state of undress. Her gown hung open, revealing her linens, shining whitely in the shifting glare. Her hair was coming undone, some caught up at the nape of her neck, some dangling in her eyes, some flying about her head and limned by the blaze into fiery points. Images flashed before me: the squire’s son, riding out upon the hillside; the beldam’s awful parody of coquettishness; costermongers spilling from a penny gaff, a flash of mottled skin, their grinning lips, harsh laughter . . .