Shepherd's Cross

by Mark White

  She opened the door, smiling at the two ladies and beckoning them inside before closing it again behind them. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, showing them the way through to the cosy kitchen behind the Post Office counter.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ replied Olivia. ‘It’s so kind of you to invite us over during your lunch hour.’ She sat down next to Charlotte and looked around the room. Small and humble, the kitchen was full of trinkets and handmade items, from patchwork cushion covers to wicker baskets. A far cry from the designer accessories that adorned the expensive, modern furniture of the houses along Rowan Lane. ‘I love your kitchen,’ Olivia said. ‘So very…traditional.’

  ‘Thank you dear,’ replied Emily, setting down a tray carrying a pot of tea, some cups and an assortment of biscuits. ‘It’s a little on the small side when you have guests around, but ideal for most of the other times when it’s just old Harvey and I.’ Charlotte and Olivia’s eyes followed Emily’s as she looked across to the far corner of the room and smiled at her Border Terrier lying curled up asleep in his basket. ‘Although I fear poor Harvey isn’t much longer for this world. He hardly ever leaves his basket these days, but I suppose he is almost sixteen years old.’

  The doorbell rang again and Emily got up to answer it. ‘That will be Bronwyn. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked her to join us. She’s a keen local historian; she’s only lived here a few years but she already knows this place better than I do!’ She returned moments later with her friend, the pair of them laughing together like the good friends they were. Charlotte and Olivia glared at each other, the jealousy evident on their faces; not because Bronwyn was joining them, but because she was without question the most attractive woman for miles around. Naturally beautiful, she had no need for the over-priced skin products that lined the bathroom cabinets of Charlotte and Olivia, or the increasingly frequent Botox injections that helped solidify their already hardened faces.

  Bronwyn Hess was the manager of Shepherd’s Cross Youth Hostel. Originally from New Zealand, she had travelled to England as a backpacker when she was only twenty. Being the daughter of a South Island sheep farmer, she’d managed to secure some seasonal work at one of the nearby farms. Staying at the Youth Hostel, she’d earned a few extra pounds by helping out with breakfasts and cleaning. Nancy Beckford, the manager at the time, had taken ill with breast cancer, so Bronwyn had covered her duties in her absence. When Nancy didn’t respond as well as hoped to the treatment and died six months later, Bronwyn reluctantly accepted the manager’s position on an interim basis until someone more permanent could be found. That was five years ago, and she’d held the post ever since. At only twenty-six years of age, she didn’t intend to stay forever, but something about The Cross pulled hard at her. She wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

  Once the formalities were over, Emily sat back in her chair and began to speak. ‘Before you moved to Shepherd’s Cross, did you conduct any research into its past, its history? Anything at all?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Olivia. ‘Well, that’s not quite true - we did look at schools, and whether or not Waitrose delivered this far out, which annoyingly it doesn’t. Little things like that. But history - why would we be bothered about that? Is there something we should be worried about?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for you to worry, not these days anyway. It’s The Cross’s past that I think you’ll find interesting. Even then, most of what I’m about to say is nothing more than folklore and fireside superstition.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are talking about,’ said Charlotte, her manner direct as ever.

  ‘I’m talking, my dear, about witchcraft. About black magic and evil. And about the Devil himself.’

  The room was smothered by silence, the only sound being the wooden tick-tock of the pendulum clock that hung above the fireplace. Charlotte and Olivia said nothing as Emily continued. ‘Have you ever noticed how the smell of wild garlic fills the air in the springtime? Or how a good number of houses around here have a rowan tree planted in their front garden? And if you look at some of the outhouses and barns, you will likely see a horseshoe nailed to the door. Even the church – centuries of harsh weather may have worn them down somewhat - but have you seen the human faces carved into the corbels that hold up the roof? And the iron door knocker in the shape of a fiendish ghoul’s face? Little things, I know, but all symbols of a world very different to the one we live in today.’

  ‘Symbols?’ asked Charlotte. ‘Of what, exactly?’

  ‘Like many neighbouring villages and hamlets in the North Pennines, Shepherd’s Cross is very old. I believe it may even date back to Saxon times, but there are certainly records stretching back to 1146. All Saints’ Church is believed to have been constructed around 1150 AD, although it probably looks very different now to its original form. Apart from a few scuffles with our Scottish neighbours, it’s likely that Shepherd’s Cross continued its quiet course for hundreds of years, right up until around the seventeenth century. Bronwyn, would you like to continue while I pour the tea?’

  Bronwyn rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘Alright, but you were doing such a good job…’ She turned to face Charlotte and Olivia. ‘Emily’s right; there is nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary happened around here until the early 1600s, when a great change occurred in the religious attitudes of society towards anything thought to be against the teachings of Christianity. Up until that point, there was an almost universal belief in the supernatural – the screams of ghosts would be heard on a windy night, witches would ride through the sheltered valleys on their broomsticks; and flesh eating ghouls would hide in caves and hollows, waiting for some unfortunate child to veer off the beaten track on their way home through the woods. Scary stuff, eh?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Olivia. ‘Who could be so simple to believe in all that? Everyone in their right mind knows that it’s all a load of hocus-pocus claptrap.’

  ‘Not back then, they didn’t,’ Bronwyn said. ‘The symbols that Emily mentioned – the purpose of every one of them was to ward off evil spirits, to prevent them from entering the village to bewitch the local people and steal their livestock. Satan was believed to be just as prevalent as God; using his trickery and magic to lure ordinary people into his fold. The Bible is full of such tales, so it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that people back then were susceptible to all manner of superstitions.’

  ‘And is it really so out of the ordinary to believe in magic?’ Emily added. ‘I dare say we all know of at least one person who swears blind to have seen a ghost or witnessed abnormal goings-on in their house. When we were children, didn’t we all creep to the bottom of the garden in the hope of catching a glimpse of fairies playing underneath the bluebells? And Charlotte, when you tuck little Henry in his bed at night, does he not insist on a nightlight or at least a story or two to see him off to sleep?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he does. And as a child, I do remember how I used to love fairies. But we tend to grow out of all that nonsense as we get older,’ replied Charlotte.

  ‘Do we really grow out of it? Even as adults, are we not all guilty of mistaking an unfamiliar sound in the middle of the night for something far worse than it actually is?’ said Bronwyn. ‘I’m certainly not embarrassed to admit to occasionally sleeping with the light on if I’ve watched a scary film, and following an evening at The Fallen Angel, I’m more likely than not to look over my shoulder a couple of times on the way back to the Youth Hostel - just in case. Our modern cynicism tells us that there must be a rational explanation for everything, but there is a little part in all of us that remains fearful of the bogeyman in the wardrobe.’

  ‘I see what you mean, when you put it like that,’ said Olivia. ‘I must admit, I hate it when John is away on a business trip. It can get very quiet here at night. But I wouldn’t go so far as to nail a horseshoe to my door and sleep with a string of garlic around my neck!’

  The four ladies laughed together, enjo
ying the conversation and each other’s company by the warmth of an open fire on a cold, January day. ‘More tea, anyone?’ asked Emily, getting up to refill the kettle and top up the milk jug.

  ‘There’s no denying that times have moved on,’ Bronwyn continued, ‘but three hundred years ago there was no outside world to tell us differently. People’s only source of expertise would come from the vicar or the occasional visiting soothsayer, their advice lapped up by locals who had no way of knowing any better. Sure enough, however, attitudes did gradually shift, when bigotry and religious zeal swept throughout the land and changed things forever.

  ‘Prior to around the seventeenth century, if somebody needed medical help they would usually consult a ‘wise woman’ from the village, in the hope of her being able to cure whatever ailment happened to be causing them discomfort. But by the early 1600s, there was a nationwide outcry against witchcraft that spread across Britain like an uncontrollable forest fire. Shepherd’s Cross was no exception, and it didn’t take long for the despicable forms of punishment famously handed out by the witchfinder generals of southern England to reach these parts. Mass hysteria, unflinchingly backed up by the confidence that it was God’s will, led to the horrific torture and execution of many an innocent woman. Many of the unfortunate victims were no more than demented old women; too ill and confused to understand the accusations being made against them. The ‘wise woman’ was relabelled a devil-worshipping witch, and following several excruciating and impossible ‘tests of faith,’ which were designed with nothing more in mind than to prove their guilt, they would be murdered right in front of the whole village. Indeed, many of the villagers took no greater pleasure than witnessing such acts being carried out. One might call it the ultimate sadistic form of theatrical entertainment.’

  ‘You mean to say that innocent women, well known to everyone in the village, were killed right before their eyes?’ asked Charlotte. ‘Why didn’t anyone try to stop them?’

  ‘And how were they killed?’ asked Olivia, more keen on the grisly details than the questionable morality of the subject.

  ‘Who would dare try to stop them?’ asked Bronwyn. ‘For one thing, there was a good chance that anyone who tried to defend the wretched victim would be branded as being in league with the Devil; most likely suffering the same fate as a consequence. And secondly; as difficult as this may be to understand, you need to appreciate that most people actually believed in the expertise and righteousness of the accusers, who went about their day-to-day business backed up by the unchallengeable authority of the Almighty. Who were they to know better and to argue otherwise?

  ‘As for the manner of their execution, Olivia, it tended to be either burning at the stake, or more commonly, death at the hangman’s noose. It all depended on who was in charge; there wasn’t any particular rationale for the method in which justice was handed out. However, on a good number of occasions, the accused would have been tortured to death before it reached that stage. Either by drowning or bleeding to death due to the insertion of thick needles aimed at drawing out a confession of guilt.’

  ‘Oh my God, how absolutely barbaric!’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ve seen some of those old horror films where things like that happened, but not for the life of me did I actually believe it happened in real life. Are you serious – people here were actually burned alive?’

  ‘Deadly serious,’ replied Bronwyn. ‘And if you look outside of Emily’s kitchen window, you can see the spot where most of the executions took place.’

  Charlotte and Olivia simultaneously jumped to their feet and rushed over to the window. The kitchen backed onto the village green; a small field marking the centre of Shepherd’s Cross. At the southwest corner of the green stood All Saints’ Church, surrounded by a long and unkempt graveyard; ancient headstones leaning at various angles and casting disorderly midday shadows over the graves of the souls whose names they tried in vain to immortalise. The Fallen Angel was situated at the opposite corner of the green to the church; an old, stone tavern that had played its part in inebriating locals and passing trade for almost three hundred years. While both the church and the pub occupied equally favourable positions in the centre of the village, over recent years it was fair to say that the pub had won the battle to become the social hub of the community: a fact that Reverend Jackson did not seem overly upset about; at least not publically. On the contrary, it was widely observed that even the Reverend recently seemed to be spending more time sitting at the bar these days than standing at the altar.

  The rest of the village green was surrounded by a scattering of individual houses on three sides and a small terraced row of eight houses on the fourth side; the houses all facing inwards, as if to protect the green space where livestock had once grazed and, as was becoming apparent to Charlotte and Olivia, where people had once died in the most grotesque ways imaginable. Emily’s post office was situated at one end of the terrace; her kitchen window looking directly out onto the green. The green on which children played; where people walked their dogs and passed the time of day with friends. The green across which, on many a dark and quiet evening, people would stumble as they drunkenly made their way back home from The Fallen Angel. For once, Charlotte and Olivia remained quiet for considerably longer than usual, their minds imagining how different life must have been back then.

  ‘So I hope you’ll agree,’ smiled Emily, ‘that there is more to Shepherd’s Cross than meets the eye. Mind you, burning a few witches was commonplace back then; indeed you’d be hard pressed in the seventeenth century to find a village in England that hadn’t encountered at least one inquisition. But this place does stand out above all the others for one reason.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Olivia, returning to her seat and finding her voice again.

  ‘Well, feel free to take this with a pinch of salt, but there are archived records from a trial held in Newcastle in 1647, which document that on a cold January night, a coven of five witches descended on Shepherd’s Cross from outside the area. Nobody knew who they were, but apparently they weren’t your typical group of doddery old women. And according to one source, they were responsible for several acts of evil far removed from the usual harmless curses and healing powers attributed to your average witch. Barns were torched, sheep were slaughtered, and a young girl by the name of Kathryn Wick went missing; never to be seen again. Perhaps most bizarrely, although there were few witnesses of sound mind who were prepared to testify to its verity, was the claim that this unknown quintet of occultists managed to call forth the Devil himself.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘OK, OK. Now you’re moving from the sublime to the downright ridiculous! Of all the exotic places in the world, why would Satan decide to choose Shepherd’s Cross as his holiday destination? I can think of far more appealing locations – this place is merely a tiny dot on the map!’

  ‘I know,’ replied Emily, ‘but it’s rather an interesting thought, don’t you think? Ladies, I must apologise - the shop opens in ten minutes and there are a few administrative duties that I need to attend to. Bronwyn, would you mind finishing the story?’

  ‘No problem, Emily,’ said Bronwyn. ‘You carry on.’ Emily thanked her and opened the kitchen door that led to the shop counter. Bronwyn turned to face the two guests, their faces clearly disappointed that Emily had handed the baton of authority over to her. The combination of her beauty and youth were more than adequate threats; they certainly didn’t require the addition of intelligence to the mix. Nevertheless, they remained seated and proceeded to listen to what she had to say.

  ‘In 1647, there lived in Shepherd’s Cross a young woman by the name of Elizabeth Henshaw, who kept herself gainfully employed as a seamstress, living in a small room at the back of the shop where she worked. Her father was a labourer who lived and worked at a farm not far from here; somewhere out near to where Fellside Hall stands now. The long, hard winter had managed to get the better of him, and he’d taken to his bed to recuperate from a fever. On hearing the news of
his poor health, Elizabeth was granted permission by her employer to visit her father at the farm for a couple of days to care for him; her mother having died several years earlier of pneumonia.

  ‘Anyway, she returned to The Cross two days later and resumed her duties in the shop, seemingly in good health and reasonable spirits. However, as the week went by, she began to behave in an increasingly strange manner. The locals noted that she began talking aloud to herself and making lewd, offensive gestures that were most out of character for an otherwise gentle-natured girl. When eventually she grew physically tired and weary on account of her erratic behaviour, she lay down and proceeded to mutter randomly of events concerning her visit to her father; of how she had witnessed a gathering of five faceless figures cloaked in black. She claimed to have seen them standing together in a circle around a fire, taking turns to drink from a huge ram’s horn as they chanted and burned effigies of Jesus Christ and various symbols of His Church. The tallest of the black figures left the circle, returning moments later carrying an object wrapped in a white blanket. Another of the figures helped unravel the blanket, and to the floor fell a naked young girl; with tangled hair and dark bruises all over her body. She lay still on the ground, the beatings so severe as to have rendered her unconscious. Elizabeth swore blind that the girl was Kathryn Wick, who only three days earlier had gone missing from her home in The Cross. Records show she was only six years old when she disappeared.’

  Charlotte and Olivia sat silently in their chairs, hanging on every word as Bronwyn continued. ‘I’m afraid what happened next may not be easy for you to take on board. Stop me if you’ve heard enough; I’m only recalling what was documented at the time, but it doesn’t make for easy listening. According to Elizabeth, the little girl was then lifted from the ground by the tallest figure and held directly above the fire by her ankles. One of the others reached into his cloak and pulled out a long knife with a curved blade like the head of a scythe. A brief, hysterical frenzy then broke out amongst the gathering, following which the blade came down and decapitated the girl, her severed head and body being plunged into the fire. Elizabeth then claimed that a grotesque, horned animal emerged from the flames; speaking in a foreign tongue, standing at least ten feet tall and with a face that could only be that of Satan himself. What happened next has been the subject of drunken speculation for the past three hundred and fifty years. Nobody will ever know for sure how the story ended.’