‘Come… I’ll take you to your bed, and I insist you stay there.’ He did not like the chaos she had wrought in him. As he led her away he warned, ‘If I find you down the cellar again… I’ll have to punish you. You understand that, don’t you, Hannah?’ When she nodded, he added in a quiet voice, ‘You also know that there are special places for people who lose their sanity?’ She nodded again. ‘You see! We do understand each other,’ he smiled.
‘The Lord above created a monster when He made that one!’ John and Scarlet had emerged from the house to see Silas standing with his back to the smithy wall, stripped naked to the waist and his face so white he might have been a corpse. Drawn by both curiosity and concern, they had made their way over to him, only to find that he was close to collapse. Scarlet had been the first to notice the deep weeping burn beneath his ribs; arched it was, like the top half of a horse’s shoe, and all around it the skin was split and bleeding. When she cried out, Silas found the strength to push her away, his eyes cutting at her so cruelly that she found delight in his pain. John, however, realised a new admiration for the young man who had never really belonged. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ he asked, taking Silas’s arm over his neck and gently walking with him to the barn. ‘He did this, didn’t he, eh?’
All the while John attended the wound, Silas made no sound, but vehemently denied John’s suspicions by shaking his head with conviction at John’s every accusing word.
‘You can deny it all you want, me boy,’ John told him, securing the bandage tightly, ‘but I’m no fool. If you’re thinking to spare Scarlet with your silence, or if you’re deluding yourself that Pengally might think all the better of you for keeping your mouth shut… then you’re wrong! There’s nothing to be gained by it.’ Here he chuckled, ‘But you’re no fool either, are you? I expect you’ll find a way to pay the bugger back. Oh, and when you do… happen I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, eh?’ He looked towards the house. ‘The swine has scarred you for life, I’m afeared. Still… if you’re feeling up to it, you’d best get back to your work. He’ll not take kindly to you being gone when he finds his way back to the smithy.’ He patted Silas affectionately on the shoulder. ‘You’ve a heavy cross to bear, an’ that’s a fact.’ Shaking his head in that slow characteristic way he had, he ambled out of the barn, unaware that Scarlet was hidden close by, having watched while he had so carefully tended Silas’s wound, and having heard every word.
On soft silent footsteps, she came forward to where Silas was seated on the upturned bucket, lost deep in thought, his eyes cast downwards and his face set like chiselled stone. From a short distance away, she called softly, ‘Did he do this to you?… Was it my father who burned your flesh, Silas?’ Like John, she knew in her heart that it was. ‘Won’t you speak to me… please?’ When he made no response, she edged closer. ‘Why won’t you love me, Silas?’ Her voice was laden with remorse. ‘I know he’s hurt you… and I’ve hurt you. Oh, but I don’t mean to, Silas. I don’t mean to.’ She was standing over him now, but still he made no move, not even when her fingers lovingly touched the top of his head, sending a sensation of pleasure through him. ‘Who are you?’ she murmured, ‘and why does he hate you so much?’ Silas stirred. ‘Why does he say such terrible things about you?’ She recalled how her father insisted that Silas was worthless. Even before she was old enough to fully understand, it was impressed on her how ‘the boy’s no good… so much rubbish. Use him as such. He’s here to fetch and carry, and to earn his keep. No more!’ There was always so much vehemence in her father’s voice when he spoke of Silas. She had been made curious by it, and a little afraid. After all, why would he say these things? And, most intimidating of all had been her father’s favourite way of keeping her from the boy. ‘He’s savage. He eats little innocents like you!’ When she was very small, these words had conjured up awesome images of Silas greedily tearing her apart. Over the years her fears had become fascination, and then a passion which had consumed her. ‘Why don’t you love me, Silas?’ she asked softly, ‘I love you.’ She folded to her knees and looked up into his face. ‘If he hurts you again… I’ll kill him.’
Slowly he moved his head and looked into her eyes, and the dark beauty there touched his tortured soul. He felt the simple truth of her words and his heart was torn. He reached out to stroke her face, gently wiping away the tears. A fierce and overwhelming surge of pride took hold of him, and such need of her swamped his reason. He wanted her, here and now! Nothing else mattered. Wrapping his arms about her slim form, he drew her close, touching his lips against her eyes, her temples, her open eager mouth. In a minute they were caught fast in a daring embrace, trembling with anticipation of each other; she, helpless in her love for him, and he a prisoner of his soaring emotions. Suddenly, in that delightful moment, Scarlet was not the arrogant and vindictive temptress who had so long tormented him; instead, he found in his arms a soft and gentle creature, as vulnerable as he himself was, and whose young heart was used just as cruelly.
In the dark shadows of the barn, it was as though nothing existed beyond. But there were those who could see into the darkness, those who watched, and who cared enough to save the young ones from themselves. Such a one was John. He had searched for Scarlet, and had guessed how she might have been drawn towards Silas. Now, seeing Vincent Pengally striding from the house, his one thought was to prevent a tragedy.
Silas saw John’s shadow fall across the doorway. It was enough. Tearing himself away from loving hands that would keep him there, he went swiftly from the barn and back to his place of work, his back bent to his labours when Vincent Pengally arrived to receive their first customer of the day, a passing rider whose mount had thrown a shoe. Only once did he glance at the bandage swathed about Silas’s chest; a curious glance which, to Silas’s astonishment, appeared to hold a sense of fear.
Resisting John’s attempts to persuade her from the barn, Scarlet begged him to leave her be. ‘You should be at your work!’ he chided, ‘not looking to rile your father into shutting you up in that there attic amongst the rats.’
‘Please, John,’ she pleaded with dark forlorn eyes, ‘I’ll be along shortly… when I’ve made sure Mammy’s alright.’ She was hunched on a bale of straw, the tear-smudged face raised towards him, tugging his heart-strings.
‘Lord above, young ’un… where will it all end, eh?’ He had never seen the girl so unhappy. ‘When you’re ready, then,’ he said, wagging his unkempt brown head from side to side. ‘When you’re ready.’ In a few strides he was gone, leaving Scarlet quietly sobbing in the gloom. John was right to wonder, she thought, right to ask ‘where will it all end?’
Hannah would not be comforted. ‘Did you see that gypsy here… at the door of Greystone House?’ Her blue eyes were strange as she stared at Scarlet and waited for her answer.
‘Gypsy?’ Scarlet cast her mind back. ‘A little shrivelled creature, was she, Mammy?… in a long grey shawl and carrying a wicker-basket overflowing with pretty lace and the like?’ She recalled such a woman approaching the house while she and John were tending the apple trees some days ago, but hawkers were always a nuisance and she had paid this one no mind.
‘A fortune-teller she was… a soothsayer, who told me things.’ Hannah’s face crumpled into an expression of secrecy.
‘Told you things?… What kind of things?’ Scarlet had been distressed to find her mammy confined to bed. Now, seeing the wild look on her face, she was deeply disturbed.
‘Things… about secrets… and long ago.’ She shivered and shrank into the bed. ‘But you mustn’t tell your father! Promise me, child!’
‘Of course, Mammy… I won’t tell anyone.’ Suddenly Scarlet was afraid. ‘But you shouldn’t take any notice of fortune-tellers,’ she said. ‘They can’t see into the future… or the past… any more than we can.’
‘Oh, but you’re wrong!… You’re wrong, child. She only told me things that have already played on my mind. And she knew, I could tell. She was a kindly soul, with a
gentle way and soft eyes that couldn’t lie. Oh, she knew all right. That’s why I had to go down in the cellar… to see for myself. I can’t trust him any more, you see… I dare not!’ Her voice dropped to a whisper as she cast a nervous glance towards the doorway. ‘I can never trust him again.’
‘Who can’t you trust?’ Scarlet feared for her mammy’s well-being.
‘Him, of course, child!… your father. He’s not to be trusted, don’t you see?’
‘Tell me exactly what the gypsy told you, Mammy,’ Scarlet urged.
‘Oh no!… No, I mustn’t do that, or I’ll be cursed. I know what she told me. I know, and that’s enough!’ Beyond that, Hannah would not be drawn, and Scarlet thought it best to let her sleep. She looked so very tired.
‘Your mother’s a fool.’
‘But she’s ill.’ Scarlet collected the dishes from the table, never once meeting her father’s stony glare as he followed her every move. Throughout the evening meal he had fixed his unnerving grey eyes on her, destroying both her appetite for the meat pie prepared by her mother the previous day, and her dignity. When John had come for the tray which would be left outside the barn for Silas, Scarlet had dished up an extra large slice of her mother’s succulent pie. In a rage, her father had ripped it apart with his bare hands, throwing one half into the slop-bucket. Later, when she made up a tray for her mother, he refused to take it, saying, ‘If she can’t come down to the table… let her bloody well starve!’ When Scarlet climbed the stairs to take her mother’s meal, she found her sleeping soundly, and thought better of disturbing her. She would keep the tray for later.
‘She’s a fool, I tell you!’ Vincent Pengally thrust back his chair, sprang to his feet, and thumped his fist on the table. ‘Feigning sickness, when we need every pair of hands we’ve got for the running of this place. If she will insist on it… then see that you make her a bed in another room. I’ve no stomach for lying alongside a weakling!’ Soon after, he descended into a mood of hostile silence, when he continued to keep his eyes fixed on Scarlet as she went about the business of wiping down the big old table, then washing the dishes and afterwards stacking them into the tall pine dresser. She took great pleasure in arranging everything exactly as her mammy would have left it.
Scarlet was thankful when, after an awkward span of silence, she heard the kitchen door slammed. Emerging from the pantry-cupboard where she had been replacing the condiments, she saw that her father had indeed gone from the room. The reason for his departure, or his destination, mattered not to her; all that mattered was the welcome fact that he was gone, and that the room was a brighter place because of it. Pleasant thoughts filled her mind, thoughts of solitude and freedom, thoughts of Silas and of the glory he created in her. For a brief moment, she was tempted to go to him, but then she thought of her father skulking out there in the darkness; she thought of that special time today when she had felt the strength of Silas’s love, when their two hearts had touched, only to be split asunder yet again, by the fear of one who was more devil than man.
Inevitably, Scarlet’s thoughts were led to what her mammy had said earlier. ‘I can’t trust him, you see… I dare not!’ And, not for the first time, she wondered at the love which her mammy had kept for her man all these years, and which only now was beginning to waver. Sighing, she made a jug of steaming hot milk, and placed it on the wooden tray beside a piece of cold pie and the brown earthenware cup that was her mammy’s. Taking the tray in her hands, she went towards the door, turning there to satisfy herself that all was well.
Scarlet found Hannah wide awake and listening for every sound outside her room. On seeing that it was Scarlet who entered, she visibly relaxed, the smile on her pretty face being almost as Scarlet remembered it. Almost, but not quite!
‘Come in quickly, child. Close the door.’ Her anxious gaze reached beyond Scarlet. ‘Where is… he?’ she whispered.
Scarlet knew well enough whom her mammy meant. ‘It’s all right. There’s only me in the house… and you,’ she told her gently, placing the tray on the chest of drawers. ‘I’ve brought you a piece of your own tasty meat pie, and some hot milk.’
‘Oh, I can’t eat, child!’ Hannah protested, making a dismissive gesture towards the tray. ‘There’s more important things on my mind than food.’ She was greatly agitated.
‘You must eat… or you’ll never feel well again.’
‘Come here, child.’ Hannah held out her thin strong arms. When Scarlet was held tight to her breast, she said softly, ‘Don’t be afraid… I won’t let him hurt you. Not like all those years ago. I didn’t know… never sure. But how can I have imagined it?’ Her voice tailed off and she began crying. ‘It’s so hard to remember… like it’s all a nightmare,’ she sobbed.
Concerned, Scarlet tried to pull away, but she was held fast. ‘That boy!’ Hannah’s voice became excited. ‘The one he calls Silas. There’s something about him. Where does he belong, child?… not here! I know he doesn’t belong here! Don’t trust him. Don’t trust either of them!’ She fell back into the pillow, drained of energy, her blue eyes glazed and unseeing.
Scarlet had never seen her mammy like this before, and it greatly worried her, ‘Ssh, Mammy… you mustn’t upset yourself.’ She poured out a small measure of the warm milk and touched it to Hannah’s lips. ‘If you won’t eat… at least sip this for me.’ Coaxing her mammy to drink was a slow and painful process, leaving them both exhausted. Scarlet dreaded her next task, but it had to be done. ‘Come on,’ she slid her arm around Hannah’s tiny waist, easing her from the bed. ‘You’re to go to the spare room, but… you’ll sleep better there.’ She had expected a degree of resistance, but was both relieved and surprised when Hannah got eagerly from the bed. ‘I’m done with the devil!’ she remarked with a laugh. ‘The gypsy was right, I’m certain of it.’
‘Now you’re sure the bedding doesn’t strike cold?’ Scarlet had filled the stone bottle with hot water and was moving it about in the bed. ‘Are your feet warm enough?’ She was anxious that her mammy shouldn’t get a chill on top of everything else.
‘Stop fussing, child.’ For a minute, Hannah seemed like her old self, and Scarlet laughed. ‘Oh, it’s me that’s fussing now, is it?’ She bent to kiss the familiar face, saying fondly, ‘Sleep well, Mammy.’ She was convinced that when the morning came, Hannah would be well.
‘Yes, I am tired.’ Hannah slid beneath the eiderdown, smiling serenely and closing her eyes. ‘You sleep well too, child,’ she murmured drowsily.
As Scarlet went softly from the small darkened room, Hannah’s eyes sprang open, furtively watching until the halo of candlelight was gone, and the door closed. At once she quickened into life. With deft movements she got from the bed and drew back the curtains; the moon was high, sending out a brilliance that crept into the little room and lit up its dark corners with an eerie glow. Going to the upright chair over which Scarlet had laid Hannah’s day clothes, the little woman quickly dressed. Afterwards, fancying she heard a noise, she scurried back into the rickety brass bed, momentarily alarmed when it gave out a creaking noise. They mustn’t stop her now, she thought, not now, when she was so close to putting things right.
As the silence thickened and even the house itself seemed to slumber, Hannah ventured from her room, softly closing the door behind her and going on tiptoe down the stairway. With every step her heart was in her mouth, but she was not deterred. Spurred on by the gypsy’s warning, and fearful of the thing already growing inside her, she left the house and went into the heart of the moors; she had a vague idea where the herb-gatherer’s cottage was situated.
If Hannah’s dormant fears were dangerously aroused by the gypsy’s words, then the terror she felt now was tenfold. Even in daylight, when the sun played on the treetops and emphasised the splendid colours of the many heathers, when every nook and cranny was illuminated, her fear of the moors never diminished. Now, in the darkest hour, when shadows leaped across her path and the night creatures ventured out to stare wi
th glittering beady eyes, Hannah trembled with terror. Yet still she went on, fleet of foot and half-afraid that she might get lost; she followed the brook and was strangely calmed by its tinkling song as it bubbled and frothed on its endless journey.
In her mind’s eye she planned the route she had been preparing ever since the gypsy’s visit, and perhaps even before. It had been difficult ferreting out information regarding the herb-gatherer. She was a strange woman. Though not entirely a recluse, because she had a husband, over the years they had become estranged, each living in isolation from the other, going their separate ways and sharing only the roof over their heads. The old herb-gatherer was a solitary figure who shunned all social contact. It had been John Blackwood who had innocently revealed where her cottage was reputed to be, and Hannah had gleaned snippets of details from various other folk. Nobody knew exactly where the herb-gatherer’s cottage was, but Hannah had deduced enough for her to venture along a particular path: a path which would take her to where the brook veered away to the right; afterwards she would follow north until she came to the spinney, then she would skirt the spinney until she came to a clearing. Beyond that, some way down the valley, she should find a remote cottage, flanked on one side by a great towering oak tree, and on the other by a long low outhouse. Hannah prayed she would not be lost and swallowed up by the moors.
Whether by instinct or desperation, or both, Hannah came to the spinney, formed by a small group of majestic poplars that rose up from the open flatland, silhouetted by the light of the moon, and their formidable ranks seeming impregnable to the human eye. Hannah gave thanks that she was not obliged to enter their dark interior. Staying faithfully to the edge of the spinney she went on more urgent footsteps to find the clearing which she thought must be only a short way ahead.
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