I passed a hand across my eyes. My head did not ache; my limbs felt like my own once more. I felt as if I had had the deepest and most refreshing sleep, and I lay there for a time, enjoying the sensation and listening to a bird singing. I already knew that this day, like all the other days in Halfoak, would be sweet and warm and beautiful.
And then I remembered how I had awakened earlier; my sight of the red moon. Had I really roused myself in the night? Had I imagined music on the air? Had I—?
I frowned, remembering the little jug, the black residue inside it; the teapot. Had I really done that? Had I prepared such unknown stuff for my wife—something the old crone had concocted in her filthy shack? I pushed myself to my feet, remembering her words as if she spoke at my ear. The seven cures. It’s not easy to swaller.
No, I imagined it was not. I stood, only now noticing that I was still wearing my begrimed clothing from the day before, but that was of no matter. I hurried to the door, seeing that Helena’s remained closed: good. I hurried downstairs, not heeding the drumming of my steps, opened the door to the parlour and rushed inside—to see my wife, her countenance quite calm, and a young woman I did not know.
I stumbled to a halt as both of them looked up, startled. Helena’s expression turned to astonishment. “Albie—why—?”
The young woman—no, a girl—stared at me, her eyes wide. She had a head of curls escaping from under her cap, and a somewhat narrow face, the features fine, if dreadfully freckled. She was outfitted as a maid.
“Perhaps a change of dress, Albie?”
I bestirred myself, turning towards my wife as she raised a cup to her lips. “Why, Husband, whatever is the matter? You have gone quite white.” She frowned and this time took a deep draught of the liquid. I wanted to rush across the room and dash the cup from her hand, but how could I?
“Why do you stare so, Albie?” She forced into her voice a veneer of cordiality. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, I—do please excuse me.” I turned on my heel and closed the door behind me, expecting trills of laughter to follow me up the stair, but there were none; there was no sound at all, only that of my own steps.
Before I tended to my appearance I sat on the bed, quite motionless, while my thoughts raced, quicker than I could piece them together. What on earth could a few herbs matter? It was probably a little rosemary and thyme, seasoned with chanting and nonsense. I tried to remember if I had recognised any of its contents from the odour, or from the way it had felt under the spoon, but nothing came to me. The only thing that did was the wise woman’s voice:
It ’ad ter be after t’ church chimed eleven and afore it struck midnight, an’ then ’e’d ter put ’er to bed. After that, she’d be forced to flee up t’ chimney afore sunrise, and all ’e need do then were watch for ’er, comin’ out o’ that gap in the ’ill—the ’ollow ’ill, unnerstand?
I had not even administered it correctly. There had been words to say too, hadn’t there? Some kind of charm. Now I had wasted it. That was what actually rose to the surface of my mind, as if the beldam’s mad words could even matter, but beneath it was a deeper worry, something swimming darkly at the bottom of a deep pool.
My gaze went to the wainscoting where I knew the journal was hidden. I wondered if it would hold the answer, and yet I could not bring myself to look at it, not now. It had become a guilty secret: I had told a deliberate untruth about its very existence, and in bitter circumstances I did not care to think on. The constable, I was sure, would view my actions most gravely. And that was not all: I did not wish to remove the journal from its hiding place and read because I was afraid of who might see. The notion would not leave me that some incorporeal creature would be standing at my back, peering over my shoulder, watching everything.
I shook all such phantasms from my mind and prepared to dress. It was clear to me now that I must have been suffering from some heat apoplexy, for why else would I have fallen prey to such odd ideas? A little time spent indoors would soon cure me.
And yet, the parson believed in them too, didn’t he? And I had heard the fiddler playing in the darkest hours of the night . . .
So perhaps the tea would have its effect: I would return to the parlour in time to see her fly shrieking up the chimney. And then my own sweet wife would return, full of smiles and approval, her dear hand resting lightly once more upon my arm . . .
Sighing, I carried out my ablutions, changed my clothes and went downstairs to see the strange girl flicking dust from the glass case wherein stood the all-seeing fox. She spoke without turning. “The mistress is indisposed, sir. Said she was goin’ back to bed.”
I caught my breath. “Did she? But that’s—she is not ill? I must go to her at once.” My heart was thudding so hard against my ribs that the girl must surely have been able to hear it.
She turned at last, and an odd feeling came to me that I recognised her from somewhere. “She said she din’t want to be disturbed, if you please, sir.” She dropped an ill-formed curtsy. “She said she’d be all right, sir. She wan’t ill, she said so. She said her sleep were disturbed, an’ she just wanted to rest a while.”
I stared at her until I realised I was making her uncomfortable, then I nodded. I went into the kitchen, saw the teapot and opened the lid, then, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the girl had not followed, I poured away its contents. The liquid looked muddy, but it smelled of nothing but tea.
When I returned to the parlour, she was still there. “May I enquire where you came from?” I asked.
The girl—she was only thirteen or fourteen—dropped into that awkward curtsy again. “Mrs. Calthorn asked me to come, sir. She said I should ’elp wi’ t’ washin’ an’ owt else yer needed me for. I came yesterday, an’ all.”
So that was why the washing was done; this wiry girl had accomplished it all. It was so simple an answer. “And your name?”
“Ivy Gomersal, sir.”
“Gomersal?” I could not hide my surprise. I had seen her before: she had been gathering watercress at the stream whilst her younger sister, Flora, chased the birds.
Peggy Greenteeth’ll steal you away!
All was clear. They even resembled one another, despite the freckles, and yet they were not at all like the youngest child who sat so quietly by his mother’s knee, teasing his little grimalkin.
“So, you are in service at Throstle Grange?”
“Aye, sir. Just since this last month or two. They—they needed a new girl, an’ me mam said I’d be all right. I’ve some strength in me bones, an’—well, she said nowt ’ud ’appen to one on ’er girls, an’ me wi’ a sensible ’ead on me shoulders an’ all.”
I frowned. “Meaning if you did not, you would not be all right there?”
A rather sly smirk crossed her features; she quickly wiped it from her face. “’Appen.”
I remembered the squire’s son, his muscular stature, his loose, almost animal posture, his insolent look, and I thought I had no need to ask her meaning.
The girl’s eyes went to her duster, but I needed to quiz her on another matter; much could be learned from an unguarded tongue. I gave a smile and said, “You would have known the occupants of this cottage, then—Lizzie Higgs?”
She looked almost startled. “A little, sir. I din’t come up ’ere much. It’s not a lucky—”
“Yes, yes, I know all that. What did you think of her?”
There came that sly look once more, there and gone in a moment. “Oh—well, she were too good for t’ likes o’ me, sir, even if she did ’ave nowt to call ’er own, an’ no fambly to speak of.”
I blinked at that, but nothing would be gained by betraying my feelings on the matter. “Did she not?”
“No, sir. I dun’t think Mr. Higgs knew ’er fambly right well ’is sen, afore they wed. I ’eard tell there were some she could call ’er own somewhere, but they’d long left these parts. She could ’ave been owt. Or a nowt, if you take me meaning.”
“I think I do.” I tried not to speak too stiffly.
“Aye, sir. ’E did ’er a favour, that’s what I say. An’ still she were goin’ on at ’im all t’ time, by all accounts, wantin’ a fine ’ouse like this ’un, an’ all ’er pretty frocks an’ ribbons an’ slippers.” Her expression became wistful, as if she had often coveted Lizzie’s frocks and ribbons and slippers for herself.
I did not heed the pertness of her speech. “Perhaps she would have given you some of her clothes. She was a sweet girl, was she not?”
“Ha!” The exclamation broke from her before she could stop herself, and her hand shot to her mouth. She saw my astonishment and straightened her features. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, like I said, she thought she were above the likes of me, poor or not. She were right proud, sir, an’ she allus ’eld ’er ’ed very ’igh. They’ll not say it, not now she’s under, but it’s true. An’ she wun’t listen. Folks tried to tell ’er—I mean—”
She dipped her head in confusion. “About ’ow things are, sir, up ’ere. ’Ow there’s things you shun’t ’ear, an’ things you shun’t listen to even if tha does. An’ shun’t tell nowt about, if yer do.” She glanced around as if anybody could be eavesdropping on her now, and she pressed her lips tightly closed.
I would get no more from her; she was obviously no more than a jealous child. She did not have the breeding, the connections, the grace of a lady like my cousin, and she could not forget it. I glanced upward, wondering how my wife was sleeping. If she was not, she might have heard our discussion through the shrunken old floorboards. There was no sound from above, however, none at all, and then Ivy’s duster began to whisk, whisk, and I thought I would eat a little, and then step outside; I found, after all, I wished to take the air.
I resolved to walk up to the summit of Pudding Pye Hill. I was of a mind to see the country around me, all of it laid bare, without myself being seen. I fetched Helena’s book from my room and secreted it within my pocket before I set out, thinking that a shady spot under the oak trees would be a capital place to refresh myself with a little reading after the walk.
The heat of the sun had already found its way beneath my hat and into my clothing before I reached the gate. It sapped the energy; there could be little surprise that Helena was fatigued. Without the herbs I had given her, she might be worse yet. Rest was what she needed.
I turned up the hill and strode out despite the almost liquid sunshine. The dandelion clocks lifted from the ground and floated around and before me, sweeping me onward and lifting my spirits. The vista was just as lovely as always, and I found myself thinking again that it was difficult to believe that Lizzie had gone. Up here, above everything, it was impossible to think that any sad event could occur to mar such a lovely place. Even the air cooled a little as I rose higher, providing the marvellous comfort of a breeze, and it was not long before I heard the soft rustle of the oaks whispering to each other across the grove. The place was enchanted, though in no unnatural or sinister way. The air was soft on my cheek and smelled of summer, and as I went the sweet, piercing song of a lark rose into the sky.
Soon another sound began to impinge upon my senses. At first I had no conception of what it might be; I stopped still and listened to the sharp little clicks that sounded like nothing so much as the snapping of tiny fingers: contemptuous, dismissive snapping—and then something leaped at the edge of my vision.
I turned, but saw only the brake of furze. There was nothing else; no one hiding amongst the bushes. Then something else snapped and jumped, and I understood: the gorse was in seed; the withered brown pods had ripened beneath the flowers. They looked as if they had been scorched upon a fire, and in a way perhaps they had, for as the sun beat down upon them another burst open and shot its seeds into the air.
I went on, my steps accompanied by the clicking and spitting, lost in a reverie until I stood beneath the trees, the green circle where fairies were said to dance already behind me. I could not remember if I had walked straight through it or gone around.
I sat beneath a tree on a flat grey stone. Halfoak was hidden by the lip of the grove, but farther in the distance were green pastures flecked with trees and sheep and cows and glittering water. Clouds clung to the horizon, casting their shadows over distant villages and towns, but there were none here; only those of the oaks, shifting at my feet like rapidly passing tides.
I took out Helena’s book and resumed where I had left off. Here it felt entirely apposite—it was after all nothing but a story, its intimations of goblins and fairies, of charms and magical songs, feeling like something from a fairy tale.
As I began to read, a new sensation stole over me. The novel was nothing but a wild tale of wild folk. I had wondered if all its talk of foundlings and changelings was in some sense metaphorical, but it felt closer and more real now than ever. Perhaps there was nothing of the fairy tale about it: Heathcliff was untamed, an elemental being who belonged in the land and was of the land, and he should never have walked among ordinary men. He brought with him only jealousy and misery and corruption. Surely the author had never intended him as a human character: the word “changeling” was no mere insult, it was real, for surely, a changeling he truly was! Even the old nurse, Ellen Dean, had wished to put him out on the landing as a child, in the hope that he would disappear into the air by the morrow. It accounted for all the strangeness of the novel, and, indeed, its power.
I shook my head. The writer surely could not have meant it to be so. Heathcliff was but a man, albeit a strange one, shaped by his questionable parenthood and unstable upbringing. I pictured him leaning against a door, his posture louche and his look impertinent. He was not a good man, but he was just a man all the same, and then I reminded myself that I should not waste my time wondering if he was this or if he was that because he was, after all, no more than ink; ink on a page, and I ceased reading and stared out at the world going on beneath me while I remained suspended above it all.
A sound roused me from my stupor—not the sound of snapping fingers coming from the gorse; I had long since ceased noticing that. I shook away my drowsiness, closing the book and slipping it back into my pocket. A voice was murmuring words I could not make out. I stood hastily and slipped beneath the trees, away from the sounds. I did not know how many in Halfoak had seen me in my dishevelment, or indeed heard of it, but I did not wish for anyone to see me now. I had no mind to converse or even bid them good day. I wanted only to be alone.
I had just slipped from the edge of the clearing when the voice rang out, bright and cheerful, and a figure appeared from below me on the hillside. It was Mrs. Gomersal, and a moment later her son came into view also, skipping along and striking at the grass with a switch. I stepped farther out of sight.
She turned to him and held out her hand as if hurrying him along. His eyes were bright with life, and a babble of words spilled from him as he answered her. He sounded quite unlike the boy I had seen heretofore, nothing but an ordinary child, enjoying a walk with his mother on a fine day. I did not know how I had ever thought there was something strange about him.
Then he pulled away from her and went rushing ahead on his stubby legs, shouting “Papa, Papa!” as he stumbled into the fairy ring.
I hid myself behind a tree, an instinct akin to that which had seized me only yesterday at the Grange, though there was no reason why I should hide in such a fashion. I could only hope she had not seen, for it would serve to heap foolishness upon impropriety. I was glad that Helena was not there to witness it.
I straightened, brushing leaf mould from my clothing, meaning to call out to them as I walked back towards the edge of the grove—
And there I stopped, because my view of it was clear, and yet there was no one to be seen.
I frowned, listening. There was only the lark, soaring so high I could not see it as it sang its beautiful song. There were no voices, no footsteps; nothing at all. The fairy ring was empty. I felt as if something should have changed, a tree split asunder by lightning, perhaps, to mark their disappearance. I removed my hat and rubbed my head. The sun, I thought. It was only that.
I retreated under the trees, wanting to clear my mind, but the shadows did not help; they shifted and whispered all around me. Ahead was the little outcrop of rocks, revealing their faces from inside the hill, and the deeper shadows behind them. I did not want to go further, but I forced myself to do so. Was there really a doorway behind them? I shivered despite the heat of the day and found I could not go another step, so I turned instead, my thoughts whirling, and hurried away from it all. The moment I crossed the fairy ring, turning my back upon it, I felt eyes opening all around and behind me, but I did not heed them.
I did not stop until I reached the path once more and saw the cottage nestled into the hillside below and all was solid and real about me. It was only then that I looked back. Perhaps I should have hailed Mrs. Gomersal and her child.
Putting up a hand to shade my eyes, I searched the hillside for their forms. A few moments afterwards, as if in answer, two dark shapes appeared around the side of the hill and turned, but not towards me. They began the ascent towards the barrow.
My relief was followed at once by puzzlement—where had they been? Where were they going? I could still hear the way Mrs. Gomersal had entreated me not to spend time upon the hillside as clearly as if it were yesterday. I could still see the fear, barely masked, as she said the words, and yet there she walked with her small son, not only fearless but happy. How so? And what could it be that brought her there?
Papa, I thought. Did the child really think his father a fairy? Did he think he would find him inside Pudding Pye Hill? If his mother truly harboured such notions she was more lost to idiocy than I had imagined. But why was she there? It was a mystery. For the first time it struck me that her circumstances were altogether mysterious. I could not perceive what means she had of earning her bread. I had seen her weaving, to be sure, but that occupation had borne the impression more of a means of filling her hours rather than keeping her and hers from the poorhouse. It was something to do whilst she sat on the step of her cottage, taking in the sunshine—her well-built, decent cottage. One daughter only lately in service—how could such work furnish them with so pleasant a home? And the boy, sent to school outside the summer months? However should she pay the fees?
I had no way to satisfy my conjectures, so I decided it was none of my concern. I knew how the villagers would explain it; no doubt they would have her in league with the fairies, and them supplying her with fairy gold. But if they had . . . whatever had she done to earn it?
I sighed. I was obviously not yet recovered from my malady. I should return indoors, drink some water, refresh myself. I would lie down, as Helena, my cool, sensible wife, was doing. I had no need to do battle with such thoughts. Once my head was clear and the effects of the sun removed, they would disappear like vapour into the air.
I looked out across the fields before I continued. Men buzzed over them like bees, all untiring busyness and industry amidst the somnolence. It went on as far as I could see; it seemed that everyone in Halfoak was engaged about the harvest save me, and those two.