The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  King David Hartley is the man’s name, said Jack Bentley. And if you don’t know it then you can’t run the woods like you say you do because everyone knows Bell Hole belongs to the Hartleys, and the moor above it and the sheep and cows that graze them moors and the Hartleys own the sky above it too, and the kestrel and the hawk that hunt there and the hares that box there, and the clouds and the moon and the sun and everything that passes overhead. You said it so yourself. If you don’t know King David Hartley then you don’t know nothing about anything and anything about nothing, and I should be on my way.

  A hand pressed at Jack Bentley’s chest.

  Wilcox.

  The fingers rested there. The dog growled.

  William Wilcox is my name.

  Jack Bentley looked in the older boy’s face. He looked at the downy hair on his lip and the streak of sweat that had cleared a way through the caked patch of mud on one of his cheeks. A cheek pitted with pox scars. He could smell his breath too. Sour milk. Onions. Wild garlic.

  Something shifted between them.

  William Wilcox turned away, his back broad in last year’s shirt.

  I’ll take you up there he said. I’ll take you up to Hartley’s.

  Miths like paths you see are made by the passing of tyme No true path is dug or layde it becums that way and no true man of mith is borne one day like a babba no way Miths are shayped like river stones or worn away like dorestepps they leave a trayle throo the ages like a stagheads run that pushes out through the wuddlands and into the gorzy purplin hethur.

  Men of mith they do spring lyke seeds in the mowth of a playce Grow from the soyle of a playce Burrow deep and tayke root Mennomith live on the lipps of ther chilluns granchillun.

  Think of the boggart or the wyvern or the wite werm or Tom Tit Tot or even the wite witch said to stork every bluddy copse or wudd from Berrick to Bristul These are all miths made by fireside gathrins and bedtime storees wich issent to say they arnt real becors I is one to tork Its just that time has made them big in the minds of those that have seen or heard tell of them.

  Miths are the crags and the bowlders They are the olde owke tree benden to the brees and the stream that carves its way throo the valley bottom Becors miths cannot be hewen or crakt or felled or dammd No miths is bigger than that Miths is bigger than any fucken fissykil thynge and the man of mith bigger still A true man Feggsample a man like me Kinge David Hartlee.

  They followed the length of a berm that crested and cambered around the rim of the great sunken woodland whose canopy sat in a vast half circle beneath the moor edge, where the land fell away.

  The trees sat below them now. To Jack Bentley they seemed far less significant than when wandering in the middle of them. He felt as if he could take great steps across their surface; the boy letting him pass had emboldened him and now it was as if he were a giant who could flick chimney stacks from roof tops and use tree trunks to gouge stuck food from between his gat teeth.

  Above and ahead a stout solitary house peeked over the brow. It slunk low in the soil, its stones blackened and rain-chipped, its architecture all shadows. Next to it was a barn, also squat and cowering, the weight of the sky pressing on its slates and bending to its bone angles.

  That’s Hartley’s, said William Wilcox, half raising a grubby finger towards the house and Jack Bentley said where do you live? and William Wilcox dipped his head and said further on and Jack Bentley said where? I don’t see any other houses, and William Wilcox said there’s houses alright you just need to know where to look but that there is Bell House.

  They walked on, coming at it from the rear, through sopping bogs of rainbow puddles and acrid methane fumes.

  When they got closer and the house grew in size the boy saw a patch of back land tilled and turned and planted with rows of all sorts, and a hut for hens to lay their eggs in and a great big log store with the logs all chopped neatly to size and stacked edgeways, seasoning.

  He saw that the man who lived up here had made this difficult soil work for him because in the vast tended patch there were the beginnings of rhubarb and the little leaves of new sprung raspberries and strawberries and goosegogs and logans, and he reckoned on there being spuds sprouting down there too, and perhaps onions and turnips and maybe even cabbages and lettuces to come up. Perhaps, thought the boy, this was how the king got his name: because he lived like one up here in his gloomy sky palace.

  Their feet were on rock now, the slippy grit stones of the fells sliced thin like pages of a book torn and placed softly on the soil. Then the two boys were at the door. The dog panted by their side.

  William Wilcox raised a hand and rapped with his knuckles and then rapped again. A voice came from inside. A woman.

  Who is it?

  It’s me Missus Hartley.

  Who?

  William Wilcox missus Hartley.

  There was silence for a long moment and then the door opened and there stood an attractive woman. She appeared to Jack Bentley as fine and healthy-looking as a foal, her face flushed and fresh.

  She looked first at William Wilcox and then to the boy and then she said: well, what is it you want William Wilcox and who is this you’ve dragged ragged to my door?

  William Wilcox looked coy.

  I found him in the woods. Skulking about, like.

  Was he now?

  I wasn’t skulking I was—

  Wilcox cut him down.

  He said he reckoned on being here to see Mr Hartley, so I thought I’d fetch him up for you.

  Bell Hole don’t need no guard dogs when we’ve got you about, isn’t that right William?

  She smiled. Jack Bentley saw that her teeth were strong, and again he thought of beautiful horses. The older boy blushed at the compliment, but did not meet her eye.

  What’s his name? she said and then to the boy she said what’s your name sunbeam?

  It’s Jack missus. Jack O’ Matts Bentley they call us.

  So your father’s Matthew Bentley?

  The boy looked back at her blankly.

  I think so missus, he said.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  You think so or you know so?

  Well, we call him Our Father but I have heard folk call him by that other name also.

  I don’t believe I know a Matthew Bentley, she said. Or at least there’s no Bentleys in Erringden or Turvin or Cragg Vale.

  That’s because I’ve come up from the far end.

  Far end of where, God’s elbow?

  He’s come over from—

  Grace Hartley interrupted William Wilcox.

  The boy’s proved he’s got a mouth of his own so let him use it, William.

  From the top end of the valley missus. From over the Sowerby side of Halifax.

  She studied him for a moment.

  Folk that come from over Fax don’t make that walk to smell the bracken and pick the berries – it’s because they want something, so what is it that you be wanting from me? What business do you have wandering Bell Hole?

  Jack Bentley cleared his throat.

  I’ve brought the king a bag of coins missus.

  He has as well, said William Wilcox. I did see them. There’s enough to tile a pantry floor, and then some.

  The king?

  Yes missus. King David Hartley of Bell House, leader of the Turvin Clippers who are also known around and about as the Cragg Vale Coiners.

  The boy lifted the pouch of coins and then passed them over. Grace Hartley took it. She untied the drawstring and looked inside.

  I don’t know about no king she said. You can come in but the hound can tarry.

  He’s a friendly dog, missus.

  That’s as maybe Jack O’ Matts Bentley but no hound has been in here yet. The moors is for the animals.

  She stepped aside.

  And you be
st run along William Wilcox. Tell John Wilcox there’s a fresh stopper to be popped from a jug of elderflower press next time he’s passing for raising a lad with the eyes of an eagle and the ears of a deer. You’re the best lookout there is.

  William Wilcox smiled and blushed again.

  And you be sure to knock on if you see anyone else skulking down in them trees.

  I will, said William Wilcox before adding: I will, Queen missus Hartley.

  A loom filled the room and a web of wool was strung across it as it were the lair of a giant spider.

  On a table to one side the boy saw that there were fustian shalloons folded and stacked ready for selling; three in all. He knew, as any valley boy did, that that pile of stiff cloth represented close on a month’s worth of daylight hours spent threading and pulling and folding and tugging. The light fading. Neck and wrists and shoulders aching. Pain. They gave it a name: the weavers’ curse. The curse was all those ailments that moved around the body, and took root in joints and muscles and sense alike. Often it was the eyes that went first. The strain on them was great. A weaver could get dizzy or half-mad from the eye ache. Feel the sickness take hold. The summer months weren’t so bad; some days a weaver could be up with the birdsong to open the doors and windows and let the hills and meadows come pouring in.

  But in the darker months it was strain and pain and fainting and sickness. And in time stiff fingers would curl never to be straightened again and eyes would go and the permanent mist would settle and what use is a purblind weaver who doesn’t have a steady hand?

  The boy was standing hunched in the corner and wiping the ladle of spring water from around his mouth with his cuff when the man entered. David Hartley. His wife followed.

  This him Gracie?

  That’s him. He claims he’s come from over the Sowerby side of the Fax and Jack O’Matts Bentley is his name. He’s got a new one for you too: called you the king, he did. King David Hartley.

  Hartley took in the small frame of the boy and nodded slowly. Mulled the title over. He was not a large man but the way his body hung upon itself made Jack Bentley take the back foot. David Hartley had dark hair, dark eyes and dark jaw. His shirt sleeves were rolled and Jack Bentley could see blood pumping through fat blue veins that looked like the streaked sinews that ran through the meat he butchered daily. David Hartley appeared of the earth, of the moors. A man of smoke and peat and heather and fire, his body built for the hills. Where one began the other ended.

  Is that right? he said.

  It’s what my master calls you, your highness.

  Hark at that, said Grace. Your highness it is now.

  In jest?

  No.

  Because if he speaks my name in jest he’ll only speak it again while spitting teeth.

  No sir.

  David Hartley considered it for a moment.

  Well, ‘King David’ I can live with.

  Ask him what he’s brung you, said Grace Hartley.

  I will, said her husband as he lowered himself onto a chair and considered the boy. But you best fetch the lad a nibble first.

  When his wife left the room he said: so then young sprat, who is your master?

  Samuel Duckett, sir.

  Came up here alone did you?

  No, said the boy.

  Hartley sat with his legs apart.

  No?

  No. My hound came up too.

  Outside is he, your dog?

  Yes King David.

  David Hartley looked at the boy and the boy felt his eyes pressing at the flesh of his chest.

  Now – tell me. What’s this king talk really about?

  That’s just what they reckon on calling you over Fax way.

  David Hartley scratched at his forearm.

  Good hound is he?

  What? said the boy, thrown for a moment, then catching himself he said: yes, the best. A great little ratter already. He bagged a dozen last week at Bunsen’s chicken sheds and, mind, they were big ones too. Egg-fed, they were, fat as hogs and slow, but still. My father docked his tail when he were born so the little buggers couldn’t get a nip.

  I fancy I might have him then.

  Oh, he’s not for sale Mr Hartley.

  That’s not for debating. And you’re sure there’s no-one else with you?

  No.

  Not followed up?

  Only by that boy that brung us.

  Which boy?

  The boy in the wood.

  Wilcox’s lad?

  I think so, sir.

  And what weapon do you carry?

  I’ve not got a weapon.

  No weapon? Then you’ve got some nick-nacks on you walking these woods alone.

  The boy sniffed and rubbed his wet nose with the back of a trembling hand and then held it behind his back out of sight. He gripped it steady, his thin fingers curling around his pale wrist where his heart played a quickening rhythm.

  So you’re Duckett’s best boy are you?

  No sir.

  No?

  I’m not his son.

  I didn’t say you were his son, said David Hartley. I said you’re his best boy. I meant you’re with him. You’re for him.

  I’ve been apprenticed with him for near enough half a year now.

  A meat man like Duckett – that’s what you want to be is it?

  Yes sir. Butchering is what I hope to do, sir. That and the slaughtering.

  Handy with the blade and cleaver I bet, said David Hartley. Which part of the butchering is it that you like best?

  I’ve not thought about it, said the boy.

  Well think about it now then because questions needs answers and only a fool doesn’t know what it is he likes and doesn’t like in this life.

  The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His wrist still in his hand held behind his britches.

  I think I like stretching the swine carcasses best. There’s this tool for prising the ribs apart, you see. Honestly – the noise they make.

  Hartley leaned back in his chair and spread his legs even further apart.

  So why is it you’re getting mixed up in this then?

  He gestured vaguely around the room.

  I don’t understand.

  You’ve no business being here.

  I have to do what it is that the old man Duckett asks of me. I’ve brung up his coins.

  Listen Jack O’ Matts Bentley – in this life you don’t have to do nothing that no-one asks of you unless it’s David Hartley or the devil himself that’s doing the telling, and being as he hasn’t showed his face up this hill yet I reckon it’s only David Hartley you need worry yourself about.

  The boy blinked back. He let his hands hang by his sides.

  David Hartley shifted in his chair.

  But seeing as you mention him, how is that corn-mouthed collop-bollocked jug-eared bastard?

  Sir?

  Old braeberry blue balls. Old bloody apron. Duckett, lad. Duckett.

  He is well Mr Hartley.

  Not so well he has to see children do his dirty business though.

  The boy said nothing for a moment and then said: I’m not a child.

  Hartley considered him for a moment.

  Well at least it sounds like you’ve got a bit of vinegar in your waters.

  The boy swallowed and drew up a question.

  Do you know of my master?

  I know of everyone, said David Hartley. I know what every sod is going to do before they’ve even thought it themselves. I know every breath and movement of all who live in this valley.

  The boy said nothing.

  Listen, lad. Man’s work demands man’s wages; I hope he’s paying you squarely.

  Still the boy said nothing.

  Duckett is crooked o
r why else would he be bothering me with this so then you’ll at least take an ale and some bait for the trouble, said David Hartley. You can slocken your thirst and fill your guts for it’s a good six Roman miles homewards over the back way.

  The boy nodded and without taking his eyes off him Hartley turned his head towards his shoulder an inch or two and called out Missus and when there was no reply he called out again – Missus – and a moment later Grace appeared.

  Bring up a jug with the boy’s bait will you.

  Hartley held out an open palm. To the boy his hand appeared impossibly big. It was more like a tool or a slate or an object brought in from the moors. Something unearthed. Dug up. A weapon or a milling stone. He saw callouses and blisters, a blackened nail ballooning with blood. It was a hand that had built things and broken things.

  Give us then.

  The boy lifted the drawstring pouch over his head and Hartley took it from and said: now listen. Your Samuel Duckett is a sackless man who is lower than the flies that scatter from a cow pat, and no amount of king-talk can change my mind about him. You can tell him that for me and fetch him up here if he’s minded to have a problem with that.

  I don’t understand, said the boy.

  There’s nothing to understand. Duckett is a sot. He’s nothing.

  Jack Bentley protested.

  But he’s sent me up here with those coins for you to clip. He speaks highly of you.

  Yes. And clip them I will.

  But if you hate him why do you take his coins?

  David Hartley stared back.

  Because metal is metal and hate is hate and the two are not related. Any man’s coins is as good as another’s if it’s going into my pockets. He’ll get his bit out of all this but it’s me and my lads that are doing the grind and graft. And now you are too. And if either of the pair of you meat men don’t like it I’ll tie your tongues with twine to a stag haunch and set it on with a slap.

  Hartley leaned forward and stared at the boy.