‘All o’ a sudden th’ panicle popped ets yead aat o’ her maath an’ looked raand. Then et drew back ’gain, but th’ wise man hed sin et, an’ he picked up th’ poker as lay gain, an’ shoved et into th’ heart o’ th’ fire. But th’ brute wouldna coom aat again, so he moved th’ young woman till her knees welly touched th’ grate . . . Hoo were all covered wi’ blisters afterwards, th’ owd chap said, an’ hoo hed a bad baat o’ ’rysiplus. At last th’ wise man saw th’ panicle’s yead coom aat again, so he popped behind th’ chair an’ hid. An’ et crawled aat, bit by bit - a beast th’ picture o’ a fat effet, wi’ six claws like honds, an’ a swelled body abaat an arm’s-length long, an’ een blood-red. Et let etseP daan to her bresses, an’ afore ets tail were aat o’ her maath, ets fow yead were lyin’ i’ her lap. After a while et drew ets tail daan an’ coiled up i’ a knot. An’ then, wi’ one hond, th’ wise man nipped up th’ poker an’ clapped t’ other hond to th’ wench’s lips, an gan to bren th’ panicle to death!’
The lover’s legs were trembling; his arms slipped from the sides of the chair and hung nerveless.
‘O Lord! O Lord!’ he ejaculated.
Mrs Ollerenshaw shook her head resignedly. She had heartily wished him to pass unscathed through the faith-trial; but she was not a woman to be soured by disappointment.
‘When he touched it wi’ th’ poker, et writhed abaat like a bit o’ crozzlin’ worsted, then et stood up on ets hindmost claws an’ tried to get beck, but his hond - which it bit, cowsin’ him to use costick -were i’ th’ way, so et tumbled daan an’ lay on th’ harstone ... He set th’ poker ’cross et lengthwise . . . Et ’gan screetin’ like a child . . . But et soon were a lump o’ cinder.’
A long silence followed. Bateman broke it with a tremulous enquiry. ‘Did th’ young woman get better, mam?’
‘Th’ man as towd us married her, onyhaa, Bateman.’
‘I never heerd o’such a awesoom thing! I’d liefer hev died!’
Mrs Ollerenshaw rose. ‘So yo’b’lieve et, Bateman?’
‘That I do, mam! Et’s as ef I could see et naa.’
‘Well, I’ll say good-neet to yo’. Onyone as b’lieves such a thing esna fit to wed wi’ Emma.’
He crept, dumbfounded, from the room. She watched him pass through the garden, then, moved by some careful impulse, she followed to the door.
‘Bateman,’ she called, ‘coom beck a moment!’
He returned hastily, with a glad flush driving away his wanness. ‘Ay, mam?’
‘On’y this, Bateman; yo’ munna coom coortin’ Emma ony moor.’
A Witch in the Peak
It was the evening after old Johnny White’s funeral, and Elizabeth sat by the low fire in the house-place, wondering how she could manage to exist for the remainder of her days without him who had never spent a whole day apart from her since their wedding, fifty years ago. The bitterness of her spirit was increased by the knowledge that at the end of the week the little farm must be sold to pay the money which the dead man had owed for standing surety for a dishonest cousin.
The original sum had been thirty-five pounds; but the lender, Luke Flint, a shoemaker, who was known as ‘the Milton Spider’, from his knack of wrapping a web about such unwary folk as craved aid from him, had stipulated on an interest of fifty per cent until all was repaid. This interest had eaten up all the profits of the stony acres, and Johnny had died heartbroken because one year’s payment was in arrears.
Elizabeth had dismissed all her neighbours. She desired to be left in solitude for such short time as she remained in the house, so that she might recall scenes of bygone happiness. She was quite alone in the world, so that there was none save herself to suffer; but still the outlook was so depressing that the source of her tears was dried.
‘I can see yo’ again, Johnny lad,’ she murmured, ‘walkin’ wi’ me fro’ church on aar weddin’ morn, as coomly a man as were i’ th’ whoal Peak ... But yo’ looked just as coomly i’ yo’r shroud, wi’ all ets pratty gimpings, tho’ yo’r cheeks hed lost theer red, and yo’r gowd hair were gone as white as snow. Ay lad, ay lad, I do wish I might hev gone wi’ yo! When I think o’all our good life together, how yo’ thowt nowt were too han’some for me, an’ as whate’er I did were th’ reet thing, I’m like to go mad. An’ now I’m to be turned aat o’ th’ place wheer aar wedlock’s bin spent! Et’s hard, et’s very hard!’
As she lamented, the latch of the door was lifted and the creditor entered. He was a dark, squat man of middle-age, with a bulletshaped head and blue, close-shaven jowls. His arms and legs were unnaturally long, and his broad shoulders were so much bent as to suggest deformity.
He strode forward to the hearth, and without invitation plumped down in the armchair which Johnny had always used.
Elizabeth rose in excessive anger. Her thin face flushed crimson, her toothless lower jaw moved oddly from side to side.
‘I’ll thank yo’ to get aat a’ that!’ she cried. ‘Et’s always bin set in by a honest fellow, an’ I canna see ony other sort use et! Ef yo’ mun sit, sit on th’ sattle.’
He assumed an air of bravado; but her aspect was so threatening that he rose sullenly and took the comer to which she pointed.
‘Yo’ needna be so haughty, ’Lizbeth White,’ he said, with an unpleasant sneer. ‘This spot’ll be mine soon, for I’m agoin’ to buy et, an’ happen yo’ll coom a־beggin’ to th’ door.’
‘I’d liefer starve nor beg o’ yo’. What d’ yo’ want, a-coomin’ rattin’?’
‘I on’y want to mind yo’ as yo’ mun tek none o’ th’ things aat o’ th’ place. My papers ’low me to sell all, an’ if yo’ touch owt - off yo’ go to Derby.’
She cracked her fingers in his face. ‘I’ll be more nor thankful to get aat o’ yo’r debt,’ she said. ‘Et’s yo’r cheatin’ simple lads like my John as keeps yo’ alive. Yo’re none fit to be ’mongst decent livers. I do b’lieve as th’ law wouldna favour yo’.’
His sallow skin grew white and then purple.
‘Yo’ try th’ law, ’Lizbeth White, an’ yo’ll find as et canna touch me. Yo’r man signed th’ agreement to pay me my money, an’ ef he couldna pay et, I were to be at lib’ty to sell th’ lond. Th’ lond, say I? - et esna lond - nowt but three akkers o’ stone an’ moss, wi’aat a real blade o’ grass! Et w^unna fetch thretty pun’, an’ I’m certain sure as th’ furniture esna worth ten. Yo’ll still be soom pun’s i’ my debt. I reckon yo’ll hev to go to th’ Bastille, an’ I may mek’ up my mind to losin’ some o’ th’ good money!’
‘I’d go to th’ Bastille forty times ower, sooner nor be behowden to yo’ for owt. But as long as I’m stoppin’ i’ th’ haase, I wunna stond yo’r jaw! Aat yo’ go, yo’ brute yo’!’
She unfastened the door, and held it wide open. It was a dark night, and the air was heavy with the scent of withered leaves. The prattle of the spring as it leaped from the moor-edge to the trough in the paddock was distinctly audible.
‘Yo’ owd wretch!’ he muttered. ‘I’ll see as yo’ suffer for yo’r brazzenness. Yo’ beggar! When yo’r a־hoein’ taturs i’ th’ Bastille garden, I’ll set th’ others laughin’ at yo’.’
He moved leisurely across the floor; she sharpened his gait by picking up a besom-stale.
‘Whiles I’m mistress here, I’ll hev none o’ yo’. John’s paid yo’ time an’ time again. Be off, yo’ skin-a-louse! I beg an’ pray God to punish yo’ this very neet. Ef et hedna bin for yo’ theer’d hev been no buryin’ here for mony a year. I’m none one as es gi’en to cursin’, but yo’ deserve whatten yo’ll get.’
He slunk out into the darkness. She closed the door and bolted it carefully, and when the clatter of his footsteps had died away, she returned to the chair by the hearth, where a choir of crickets was now singing cheerfully, and delivered herself to the melancholy satisfaction of meditating on past joy and present sorrow.
Meanwhile the Spider walked down the lane in some trepidation, for her violence h
ad unnerved him strangely.
‘I do b’lieve hoo’s really a witch,’ he said. ‘Her eyes brenned that red! Ef hoo’d lived i’ my greet gran’feyther’s days hoo’d hev bin faggotted, sure enow!’
His mumbling was suddenly cut short by some terrible thing catching the hinder-part of his waistband and plucking him from the ground. When he recovered his senses in some measure he was on a level with the tree-tops. His voice rose in a harsh shriek.
‘Help! All o’ yo’ help! Jack-wi’-th’-Iron-Teeth’s gottn howd o’ me an’s draggin’ me to Hell!’
But as it was late, and the Milton folk were abed, none heard. He flew swiftly through the air, his long arms and legs sprawling frog-like. Once he caught hold of the thatch of a barn and clung for a moment, but the rotten wisps came away in his hands. He gave himself up for lost. The demon was dragging him over the moor in the direction of the river.
‘O Lord, forgi’e me, forgi’e me, an’ I’ll tek’ advantage o’ innocent fowk no more. I’ll do my best to set things reet as I’ve set wrong, ef only Thou’lt let me off this time!’
He fell with a heavy splash into the marsh of the Wet Withins. For a long time he lay, half-swooning, on a tussock of bent-grass. Then, when his strength returned, he crawled blindly over the heath to the road.
Instead of making for home, he went straight to Crosslow karm and knocked feebly at the door. Elizabeth was sleeping in her chair. She had been dreaming blithely of years of good crops. She rose, drowsily, and drew back the bolts. In the dim firelight she looked more like a witch than ever.
‘Yo’ve coom back again!’ she said, sharply. ‘Be off! I wunna hev et said as I let yo’ in at this time o’ neet!’
He was trembling like a paralytic. ‘Gie me a bit o’ paper, ’Lizbeth White,’ he stammered, ‘an’ I’ll write a quittance. Yo’re a wicked woman, an’ I’ll hev nowt more to do wi’ you’. Yo’re on’y fit to bren!’ ‘I reckon et’s conscience,’ she said, as she took paper and pen and ink from the corner cupboard. ‘Write whatever yo’ like an’ go to - ’ ‘Dunna say thatten, for Lord’s sake!’ he yelled.
He took the paper and wrote:
I, Luke Flint, do hereby forgive Elizabeth White her husband's debt as she owed me, and I trust as she will bear no fiirther malice.
Then he hastened from the place, as though it held a creature accursed.
Two days afterward he returned to Crosslow, in a cajoling, lachrymose humour.
‘Gi’e me that quittance back again,’ he said, with a painful giggle. ‘Yo’re an honest woman, I reckon. I thowt yo’ were a witch, but et were a b’loon hook as picked me up an’ carried me to th’ wayter-holes. Soom chaps droppin’ advertysements for gin an’ whisky’d gone astray an’ were tryin’ to fix on a spot. Summat hed gone wrong wi’ th’ machine. Gi’e me et back, wench, yo’re a reet-dealin’ woman’, an’ I’m sure yo’ wunna do but whatten’s just.’
She laid hold of the besom-stale again. ‘I’ll breek yo’r back ef yo’ dunna go,’ she cried. ‘Yo’ thowt I were a witch, but yo’ munna think I’m a fool!’
A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 23
