GRANDAD AND WILLIAM walked up the lane to the church. The dog followed.
“You’ve not a great lot to say for yourself.”
“I’m feart,” said William. “I might cack me.”
“Feart of what?” said Grandad.
“All them words; if I can’t remember.”
“Eh, youth! You’ve heard them every mortal Shick-Shack Day since you were that high! You’ll not forget.”
“But standing up in front, and the vicar and that.”
“Oh, give over.”
“And no one ever sees churching. What must I do?”
“I’ll be with you. You’ll be right. But if you’re not one for it, you must say. Else, it’ll be too late.”
“For what?”
“What you didn’t ought.”
“But what happens?”
“You’ll be asked three times. And if you can’t answer, that’s it.”
“Have you been Shick-Shack?”
“My stars and garters and little apples!” said Grandad. “Yon blob-tongue won’t be told, will he?”
Edward Stanley was sitting by his tethered horse at the church gate. He stood as they approached. Grandad blocked the gate with his body.
“I’ve come for the churching,” said Edward.
“It’s not for you, nor the likes of you,” said Grandad. “Leave churching to us.”
“God’s House is for all men,” said Edward.
“Not today, it isn’t. Now you bugger off out.”
“You shall not deny me,” said Edward.
“Shall I not?”
The dog growled, and paced towards Edward, stiff-legged, its ears flat, and front lip raised, pushing back its nose.
Edward lifted his riding crop.
“I don’t recommend as you try that,” said Grandad. “He’s not one for being hit.”
The dog paced each step slowly, but without hesitating. Edward moved back.
“I recollect he has a flavour for red meat,” said Grandad.
Edward untethered the horse and mounted awkwardly. It was restless, and turned from the dog.
“Go be cock on your own midden,” said Grandad.
The horse moved sideways into the road. Edward held a short rein as its hooves scraped.
“‘Home to thi daddy, my little laddy,’” said Grandad. The horse carried Edward away. “Beggaring allsorts. Buggering whopstraws. They’d own body and soul, if you let ’em, and still they’d know nowt.”
Grandad and William went through the gateway and up the mound to the church. The church was a frame of timber, with a belfry and chancel; the south porch an arch of curved trunks carved. Grandad stopped at the arch and set William before him. Only then did William see that the wardens were standing on either side of the door, their dark dress blending with the dark oak, the brass of their staffs glinting in the depth of the porch.
“Gripe, griffin, hold fast,” said Squarker Kennerley. And Grandad took hold of William by his upper arms.
“Jack Miller asketh help to turn his mill aright,” said Tiddy Turnock. “He hath grounden small, small.”
“The King’s Son of Heaven,” said Squarker, “He shall pay for all.”
“With right and with might,” they both shouted, “with skill and with will; let might help right, and skill go before will, and right before might, so goeth our mill.”
“Gripe, griffin, hold fast,” said Grandad.
“Falseness and guile,” said Tiddy, “have reigned too long.”
“And truth,” said Squarker, “hath been set under a lock.”
“And falseness and guile,” said Tiddy, “reigneth in every stock.”
“True love is away,” said Squarker, “that was so good.”
“And clerks for wealth,” said Tiddy, “work them woe.”
“God do bote!” they shouted. “For now is time!”
The wardens opened the church door.
“Shick-Shack,” said Squarker, “enter in.”
“And when you enter on a thing,” said Tiddy, “think you, too, on its ending.”
“Gripe, griffin, hold fast,” said Grandad, and pushed William forward into the church, firming his arms tight.
The wardens closed the door, and led the way into the hall and forest of the church sunrising around the font and back to a window by the door. The church was quiet, except for a bee that had woken late in the warmth and was flying between the pillars, the buzz of its wings fading and returning. There was a scent in the still air, sweet, biting. Though the air was still, the scent moved with the bee, strong when it was loud, faint in the bee’s faintness.
The wardens stopped at the window, and said:
“Shick-Shack, oak tree,
What dost thou see?”
The windows of the north and south aisles were marked with flowers and leaf and seed, one in every diamond pane, two patterns to every window, and a border around. William looked.
“Hollin – Cuckoo Bread –” There were so many he did not know. “Galligaskins –” He twisted in Grandad’s hold, and tried to tell. “Jackanapes – Devilberry – Vervey –”
The wardens shook their heads.
“Popple – Robin-run-in-th’Hedge –”
“Shick-Shack, oak tree,
What dost thou see?”
“At side!” whispered Grandad.
William looked at the border of the window in front of him.
It was a gold Crown of Glory, against a brown field, with cross-hatching above and below and two small roundels of clear glass in the brown. William started to tremble. He stammered.
“‘The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.’”
“Gripe, griffin, hold fast!” Grandad whispered.
“But it’s what I wrote!”
About the rim of the crown there ran a wavy line, and in each bend was a single black dot, just as William had drawn under his hand practice.
“Shick-Shack, oak tree,
What dost thou see?”
“Gripe, griffin, hold fast!” whispered Grandad again. “They’ll ask thee nobbut thrice!”
“Crown – me practice –”
Squarker and Tiddy looked at each other. Tiddy nodded, and they chanted together:
“Cockle-bread and green wood;
Man of leaf and golden hood.”
William sobbed with the fear and the strain and the not understanding.
“Gripe, griffin, hold fast!”
They willed him. And he saw.
The pattern turned before him, so that what was in was out. The brown was a head formed from leaves of oak, the roundels closed eyes, and nose and mouth and ears the spikes of the crown.
“It’s a man! Painted yellow! In a net!”
“Man of leaf and golden hood.
We mun wake him, if we could.”
Grandad squeezed William’s arm in pleasure and moved him away from the window. The wardens crossed the church to a window of the north wall and pointed to the border.
“Shick-Shack, oak tree,
What dost thou see?”
A gold Crown of Glory against a brown field, with cross-hatching above and below and two small roundels of clear glass, but with dark centres, and a line of the same circles on the rim, just as William had drawn.
“It’s him!”
Again, the pattern turned, and what was in was out, but now the eyes were open, staring.
“What’s he looking at?”
“Thee? Mebbe?” said Squarker.
“Each morning,” said Tiddy, “sun peeps that all’s well; and, fetching night, closes to hushabie in his eyes.”
“Who is he?” said William.
The buzzing was in his head, and, for a moment, as he looked into those eyes, he was of the bee and the bee was of him, and the scent stifled with its bitter fragrance.
Squarker, Tiddy and Grandad took him back to the south door. Squarker and Tiddy stood by either post.
“With right and with might,” they shouted. “With skill and with will. Let might help right. And skill go before will. And right before might. So goeth our mill.”
“Jack Miller prayeth that thou makest a good end of that thou hast begun,” said Tiddy Turnock.
“And dost better and aye better,” said Squarker Kennerley. “For, at the even, men heareth the day.”
Grandad urged William into the porch, and the door was shut behind them. When they were past the arch of curved trunks, Grandad loosed his grip.
“Well, youth, you said yon nominy champion. Ay. Champion. Grand as owt.”