Beware The Peckish Dead!

by William Stafford

  “Be that as it may,” I jutted my chin, refusing to appear intimidated by the cantankerous old coot, “We have bigger fish to fillet. Your grandson-”

  Again, he cut me off.

  “My grandson is no concern of yours,” he snapped.

  “What is my concern is not your concern to tell me.”

  Cassie yipped as though confirming my assertion - or perhaps she was just responding to the tone of my voice; let us not anthropomorphise a dumb animal. The old man flinched from the collie’s interjection; I sensed these two had history.

  “We must work together,” I took advantage of his moment of weakness, “to bring your grandson back.”

  He blinked and demanded to know what I thought I was blithering about. I saw then it was hopeless to attempt a truce with the disagreeable old sod. How could I explain to him about the Hole, the disappearance of Cuthbert and Auld Jock Hitchin, and the emergence of Cassie and the Bickerses’ beetle? Quite a list when you think about it. It would be a waste of time and breath.

  I became aware he was eyeing me intently and with disfavour. “That bag. It is mine. Its contents too. Those books and maps also belong to me.”

  He signalled to his driver, who leapt down from the dashboard and towered over me. Cassie barked but the looming fellow ignored her, as a tree would a midge. I handed over the bag and it felt I was losing the last of Cuthbert - a stupid notion for I still possessed all my memories of him.

  The driver placed the bag in the trap. Laird Baird barely glanced at it. They drove away, leaving the dog and I to our fate.

  With the old man gone, Cassie perked up. She barked and ran rings around me before darting toward the cottage door.

  Oh, dear.

  “He’s not home,” I informed her, although she would deduce her master’s absence for herself.

  Dash it all.

  I could not leave the mutt in an empty house. Nor could I stay; I had no illusion that the Laird would set the law on me. Rather he would enlist that hulking great driver and a few assorted heavies to send me on my way.

  I could not leave the dog. I could not stay with it.

  What to do?

  I could not drown it in a well - Why would you think such a thing?

  No; I had no other recourse but to take it with me.

  As soon as I worked out where I was going.

  Chapter Nine

  Bessie was at the inn and so thither I must wend my weary way in order to be reunited with her. Cassie scampered along and already I began to worry about the upholstery. I would have to make judicious use of a newspaper or blanket.

  Despite everything and the ache of missing Cuthbert, our journey to the inn was far from unpleasant. The dog proved amiable company and we developed a game, which involved me tossing a stick as far ahead as I could, Cassie would run to retrieve it and come bounding back, eagerly panting for another go. She seemed utterly tireless, unlike me; my throwing arm was sore, my shoulder complaining like billy-o.

  “You will enjoy London, old girl,” I shed all inhibitions about addressing a dumb animal as though it were a favourite niece. “The flat isn’t up to much - not for a dog, at any rate, but it is in Knightsbridge and therefore handy for Hyde Park. Cuthbert and I shall walk you twice daily-”

  I broke off. First things first. I had to figure out how to get Cuthbert through the Hole - Talk about variation on a theme!

  Cassie came loping back with the stick. I prised it from her slavering jaws, having grown accustomed to the slobber. She yipped an impatient reminder of my role in the game.

  “There is no need to nag,” I laughed. I pulled back my arm, ignoring my shoulder’s protest and, taking a run-up of three or four strides, I hurled that stick as far as I could. It arced through the air, over the treetops, soaring hopelessly off course. I did not see it land but I heard a cry of “O! Bloody hell!” when it did.

  Cassie looked at me warily, unsure whether to proceed.

  A man appeared, approaching us at a fair lick. One hand held Cassie’s stick; the other was over his eye.

  “Who the bloody hell’s chucking sticks on the open road?” the fellow demanded. He was a squat, barrel-chested fellow in a greasy apron and his shirt sleeves rolled up in a vulgar fashion.

  The innkeeper.

  “We did not see a thing, did we, Cassie?” I glanced around in case any thoughtless stick-chuckers were in evidence.

  “Mr Mortlake,” the innkeeper sneered as though my name were poison in his mouth. “Ye’ll have come to settle your bill, perhaps.”

  “Bill?” I said. “What bill, sirrah? I have yet to spend an hour under your roof.”

  “That’s true, aye,” the innkeeper took his hand from his eye. It was certainly redder and puffier than its neighbour. “But ye did store your luggage there.”

  “Which was sent on to Baird Hall after a matter of hours.”

  “And then there’s the matter of your unholy conveyance.”

  “My what? Oh, if you mean my horseless carriage, I doubt Bessie has run up much of a tariff in the way of hay and shovelling.”

  “That’s true too,” the innkeeper reflected. “But it is taking up valuable space in my stables and it’s making the horses skittish.”

  “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous! ‘Skittish’!” I then let out a startled cry, as the sky cracked with lightning. Raindrops like sovereigns began to fall. The pleasant sunshine from only a moment ago was gone, replaced by lowering clouds and distant thunder.

  “I think, my good man,” I turned up the collar of my jacket, “I shall take that room after all.”

  “No, ye won’t,” the innkeeper slapped the stick into my hand. “I’ve let it out. But ye can kip in the stables with your contraption, if ye’ve a mind tae. For the same price. Or ye can take your chances up a tree, for all I care. I’m sure His Lordship will be pleased to hear it.”

  Cassie barked as though in objection to this chicanery.

  What with the rain and everything, I could see no alternative but to yield to the scoundrel’s extortion. We (that is to say, the dog and I) followed the innkeeper around a bend in the road to where a turning led to the inn, its yard and its outbuildings. The rain was lashing down at this point and cast a grim pall over the scene.

  “Ye’ll come in for a bite to eat?” Mein host made a grand gesture at the doorstep.

  “On the house?” I queried.

  “Och, on a plate,” he grinned. I suspect he has used that retort many times.

  I have to own the inn was the least uninviting prospect. A chance to dry out in front of a fire and get something hot inside me seemed infinitely preferable to surrendering to the leaks and draughts of the stables. Cassie had already decided to accept his somewhat mercenary hospitality and was marching inside. She went directly to the hearth, shook her wet fur, turned two or three circles on the spot and lay down. The innkeeper gave me a patronising smirk as if to query who was dog and who was master. I could almost hear him mentally appending ‘Care of one dog’ to the bill.

  “Tea,” I commanded, as if to remind him who pays the piper and calling tunes and all the rest of it. I removed my jacket and hung it from the back of an overstuffed armchair, into which I sank, never more glad of something to sit on in all my born days.

  The bar was sparsely populated. A few grizzled old sots nursed drams of whisky or the odd pint of porter - but even so, my arrival caused quite a stir. I heard the muttered words “Sassenach” and “Jessie” but I chose to ignore them, focussing instead on the crackling of the logs and the hypnotic choreography of the flames.

  Several minutes later, I became aware of a figure at my elbow. It was the innkeeper bearing my tea, a cup on a mismatched saucer. He had made the effort, I supposed. He placed the beverage on a side table and offered a tot of whisky to warm my bones. I declin
ed, giving rise to a fresh wave of consternation through the room. No man says no to whisky, apparently. In the end, I relented and allowed him to leave the shot glass alongside the cup and saucer, to be enjoyed separately. I am not so barbaric as to taint the taste of either by adding one to the other.

  A grunt signalled the innkeeper was satisfied with this compromise and he withdrew to attend to his regulars. I sampled the tea and could not suppress the shudder that coursed through me. I would have to ask for instructions to replicate the concoction - in case I ever needed to strip the varnish from my furniture.

  A second figure hovered at my side, giving me quite a start. Tea sloshed into the saucer where, no doubt, it began to eat through the glaze. The man was the spitting image of Auld Jock Hitchin and I was both confounded and delighted to see him - because if he can come back, so can my Cuthbert! The innkeeper tried to steer the old fellow back to his stool - from which I learned the man’s name was Auld Hamish.

  Well, what else would it be?

  Auld Hamish shrugged off any attempt to dislodge him. The innkeeper gave up and the old man lowered himself onto a wooden chair to face me. As he sat, his kilt rode up and I was suddenly reminded of Auld Jock’s black pudding. His eyes, two dark spots amid the wrinkled landscape of his face, like the corpses of flies in a spider’s web, bore into me, rooting me to my seat.

  “Ye’ll no be staying here,” his toothless gums worked behind his puckered mouth.

  I squirmed in the armchair but did not flinch from his scrutiny.

  “Not when ye hear what I have to say,” he continued ominously.

  I sensed a story coming on; I have developed something of a sixth sense about these things.

  Thunder raged and lightning threw the room into sharp relief. Old Hamish sat back, flames dancing in his dark eyes, and began his tale.

  ***

  Old Hamish’s Tale

  It was a dark and stormy nicht that nicht, and I were nothing but a wee boy who didnae come up to my father’s sporran, when my grandfather brought me to this very inn for the first time. We had been out on the loch a-fishing for our supper, had been out there all day with never so much as a nibble, and I was growing a wee bit bored with it all, when all of a sudden, I felt a tug on my line.

  “Grampa!” I cried, holding onto my rod for dear life. It was almost bent double by the strength of what was on my hook. “Is it Nessie, Grampa?”

  “Och, away,” Grampa nudged me aside. “Ye’ll nae find Nessie in this loch.”

  He took my rod in his hands and I could tell even he was surprised by the force he had to exert so as not to be yanked from the boat. He braced his feet against the gunwales, sat back on the thwart and called to me to hold on. So I threw my puny arms around him and held on while he attempted to reel in our catch.

  I was sure the line was going to snap and there would be an end to it, but my grandfather was a most determined man. Grunting and groaning, he wound in the reel. “Get the net, Hamish,” he spat through the side of his mouth. “The big one.”

  I did as I was told, reluctant though I was to let go. My hands were shaking fit to shame me.

  “Ye’ll have to do it,” Grampa said. “I’ve kind of got my hands full at the moment. Careful, now.!

  I edged my way to the prow, fearful of falling over, of capsizing us both. I peered over the side, afraid my sweaty hand would lose its grip on the pole.

  “D’ye see it, boy?” Grampa asked my quivering back.

  “No...” I looked again.

  There was a flash - something white - beneath the surface.

  “It’s big!” I gasped.

  “Too big for the net?”

  “Too big to be a fish!”

  Grampa continued to reel it in. The white shape rose and rose. I let out a cry.

  It was a boy, a human boy!

  Drowned!

  His face broke through to daylight and his eyes opened, blank and staring right through me. I screamed and dropped the net. I scrambled to the stern, not caring as I clambered over Grampa, kicking his chest, his shoulder, his head. He swore at me and declared me a coward and a fool as I trembled behind him.

  He changed his tune when he saw the dead boy’s pale hand clutch the side of the boat.

  Grampa kicked at it but those ghostly fingers held on. Grampa grabbed an oar and whaled on that hand until it let go.

  He thrust the second oar at me. “Row, boy! Row as though your mortal soul depended on it!”

  I had never seen a man so terrified - but then the evening was still young.

  Our little boat bounced across the water like a skimming stone. When we reached the shore, Grampa plucked me from the boat by the scruff of my neck and hurled me as far inland as he could manage. We abandoned the boat, our tackle, all, and ran pell-mell to find people, warm, living, breathing people, to give us shelter. We ran so fast my boots came off; they were hand-me-downs, still with plenty of growing room.

  “He won’t come after us, will he, Grampa?” I panted. My ribs ached and my heart knocked against them in alarm.

  “Och, no; not him,” my grandfather admitted. “But it’s those who come after him-”

  His voice caught in his throat. “Those that come after Drownded Ned are the ones to fear. Beware, my son, my poor wee bairn, beware the Peckish Dead!”

  ***

  We reached the inn, The Startled Stoat, and the door, propped open as it was to signify the establishment was open for business, we slammed and barred and bolted. The innkeeper of the day flew into a fury but two words from my grandfather snapped him out of it.

  Drownded Ned.

  The whole assembly was thrown into confusion. Cries went up: bar the windows! Stop up the chimney! Make mine a large one!

  Within minutes, it was done. We all huddled together in the centre of the room, sipping whisky. Our eyes darted to the corners and the deepest shadows.

  They came up via the cellar, bursting through the trapdoor like birds startled from a bush. Ape-like, they sprang upon the huddled men, gnashing and chomping at any extremity their teeth could find.

  There is a fish, I have since learned, frae South America - the piranha - that can strip its victims to the bone in seconds flat. Whenever I hear tell of yon fishie, I remember the terrible chaos of that night. The screams of the men, the smashing of dropped glass, the cries over spilled whisky. And, above all - I shall never get that sound out of my head - the awful, bloodcurdling, relentless murmuring of the Peckish Dead about their feeding.

  Omnomnomnomnom!

  ***

  I recoiled, repelled by his hideous impersonation. Auld Hamish had a twinkle in his eye; clearly, he was enjoying my discomfort. I looked him up and down.

  “You seem intact,” I observed. “At least physically.”

  Auld Hamish grinned. He lifted his feet from the floor, shucking off a pair of boots that were too large - the reason this time was not a question of growing room.

  The man had no toes at all.

  He waved his mutilated feet in my face. Pink scars twisted over the stump ends.

  “Oh, dear!” I exclaimed. I sensed that more was expected of me so I attempted to wax philosophical. “Oh, well, think of all the time you’ve saved not having to trouble to clip your toenails.”

  Auld Hamish grunted, conceding the point, then he seized me by the shirt front. “I’ll thank ye not to make light o’ the Peckish Dead,” he all but spat in my face. Sour whisky breath made my eyes water.

  “Aye,” said the innkeeper, coming to my rescue. “I reckon it’s time for ye to say goodnight. To the stables wi’ ye.”

  He stood firm. I removed Hamish’s hand from my person and got to my feet.

  “Goodnight to all,” I nodded curtly.

  As I made my way across the room to the back d
oor, the other patrons held up their hands to display their own mutilations and lack of digits. One fellow pointed to where an ear no longer was. Another unwound a scarf to reveal he was no longer in possession of a chin. Another still rolled up a sleeve to reveal the absence of an elbow.

  I tried not to allow my revulsion to quicken my departure. Out in the evening air, the rain still falling rather insistently. I pulled my jacket up over my head and paddled across the puddled yard.

  “Bessie, old girl!” I had never been more pleased to see her. “Have I a tale to tell you!”

  Speaking to one’s motor car is the new thing and not at all peculiar, like, say, talking to dogs.

  I climbed aboard - having made sure to secure the stable door; I didn’t want drunkards lumbering in to display their deformities - and wrapped myself in the chequered blanket I keep on the back seat, for picnics and other al fresco activities with Cuthbert.

  I listened to the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the roof. It was rather soothing, as a matter of fact. Snuggled in my blanket, I began to nod off, surrendering to the exhaustion that lay claim to my aching limbs and my heart sorely charged.

  I was jerked out of my murky contemplations by a sudden and insistent scratching at the stable door. The blood in my veins turned to ice-water.

  It was Drownded Ned; I was sure of it!

  The scratching persisted. I pulled the blanket over my head, my mind racing with the idea that if I didn’t actually clap eyes on the apparition, then the sequel would not transpire and my extremities would not end up as snacks for his gruesome companions.

  It just might work.

  Still, the scratching continued, accompanied by some high-pitched whimpering and whining. As far as I knew, Drownded Ned neither whimpered nor whined. I ventured to peer from beneath the blanket. Perhaps a glimpse with one eye would spare at least half my digits.

  There was no sign of the wet boy in white. No sign of anyone, in fact. Still the scratching came from the other side of the door. Well, I’d be damned if I was going to let the fellow in!