The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story'

by Katherine Clements

  Blood turns in my veins, icy as a winter brook.

  Sam starts to cry, face flushed and sweating, while Bracken sets up a vicious barking, snarling at the screen as if it were a demon sent from Hell. And I swear, beneath the racket, I hear it, the noise that has tormented me for months: the dull thunk upon the floorboards, the horrid slow scrape.

  Something inside me snaps, like a broken dam when the storms come. I press my hands over my ears. I cannot help myself. ‘Stop! For God’s sake, just stop!’

  The door slams open and Dority appears, a look of utter dismay on her face. She runs to the bed and pins Sam’s arms to his side. ‘Sam. Look at me. It’s all right. I’m here. Look at me.’

  She brings me back to myself.

  I stumble across the room and hoist the fire screen onto one shoulder. With my free hand I grab hold of Bracken’s collar and drag her away. As I leave, Dority shoots me a look that says: See? I knew I could not trust you.

  Outside, the night is clear, lit by a bright waxing moon. I toss the fire screen by the woodpile and pull Bracken, still frenzied, still barking loud enough to disturb any sleeping creature within a mile, towards the stables. As we reach the door she plants her feet, pulling against me, growling low, and this time directed at me. She rarely disobeys me and I curse at her, all my frustration and fear now embodied by this creature that will not bend to my will. She wriggles and twists, like a wild thing, turns her head to snap at my hand – something she’s never done before – but I manage to drag her into a stall and tether her there with a length of rope.

  ‘You’ll stay there till morning,’ I tell her, slamming and bolting the stable door as I leave, too enraged to care about the pitiful whining she begins, or the stamping and snorting of agitated horses.

  I fetch the brazier and set it up on a patch of ground near the burned-out barn, out of sight of the stables, but still within earshot. I can hear Bracken, scrabbling against the door of the stall, complaining at her punishment. I fetch kindling and flame from the kitchen hearth and set a blaze. Then I take up an axe and chop the fire screen into pieces. Into each blow I pour all of my fury, railing against God as the blade splinters the wood. When the thing is split into a hundred shards, I feed them all into the flames.

  I stay there some time, wanting to make sure the fire takes the thing whole, listening as Bracken eventually falls silent, until there are no more cries of anguish from Sam’s chamber, until the flames have blackened and devoured every last fragment of that foul painted figure.

  My mind is wild with questions, yet I find no answers. I run a list of all the unexplained things that have happened: the coins, still missing from the pouch beneath my bedchamber floor, the macabre death of the lambs, the noises by night, the footsteps when no one is there, the handprints in my father’s room, the glimpses of that pale figure, just out of sight. I think back to the February day I first saw the figure in the fog and the threat that has haunted me ever since. I think of Father’s speedy decline and the unfathomable guilt that has consumed him. Am I to suffer the same fate, driven mad by something I cannot understand? It’s clear now: something wants us gone.

  A wiser woman would flee. She would snatch hold of the plan to sell and wring any chance of a new life from it. But the thought is abhorrent to me. What others might see as escape would be the opposite. My very soul is entwined with this place – I feel I would perish elsewhere. The blood in my veins is the spring that silvers the fell, my breath the moor-top wind, my heartbeat the very pulse of the earth. I am bound to it and it to me.

  Tears of anger and frustration begin to spill. I cannot go on like this and yet I cannot leave.

  I do not hear Ellis coming but he’s suddenly beside me, still dressed in his outdoor coat and hat, crook in hand, returning from his night-time vigil on the fell. He stands, face lit by flames, waiting for me to explain. But how can I?

  I swallow tears – I do not want him to think he is the cause. I long to throw myself upon his mercy, to share my agony, to ask for help. But stubborn pride stops me.

  He waits in silence then warms his hands over the blaze and says. ‘Likely there’ll be first frost tonight.’

  I do not speak, for fear that a desperate plea will spill out of me. I leave him there and go back inside, trusting the flames to turn the remnants of the fire screen to ashes.

  I cannot bear Dority’s blameful looks, so I snatch what rest I can in the chair before the kitchen hearth, Bracken’s blanket for my coverlet. Agnes wakes me at dawn. ‘Come,’ she says, beckoning me up the stairs and into the bedchamber where I find Dority, a new smile lighting her face, and Sam, milk-white and weak but sitting, the scarlet flush gone.

  I think I must still be dreaming but Dority reaches out a hand and says, ‘Our prayers have been answered, Mercy. The fever has broken. He’s going to be well.’

  The turmoil of the night before seems now a distant dream. A nightmare. A weird half-laugh, half-cry bursts forth, the feeling awkward and unfamiliar. I look around the room, at the thin winter dawn streaming through open shutters, the fire aglow, the small pale child propped against the pillows, and it feels unreal. Can this be the same room in which I witnessed such horror? How much did I conjure myself? I take Sam’s small, chilly hand in my own. He looks up at me and whispers, ‘Thank you.’

  The sun rises bright and clear. I leave the house early and pause to watch the last of the curled brown leaves floating from the willows. The hens are scratching for worms in the leaf fall, squabbling and chuckling. The air is crisp, the sky pale blue as a starling’s egg. Ellis was right – the hills are crowned with a dusting of frost, as if the world were made anew.

  I pass by the brazier, burned out now, nothing left but ashes. Could it be so simple? Was it the fire screen that contained the curse? Sam’s sudden recovery seems too strange a coincidence.

  I make for the stables, my heart lighter than it’s been for weeks. I will walk the fells with Ellis today. We’ll go to the cottage and tell Ambrose the good news. We’ll make a new plan for the winter. We’ll discuss how to pasture the sheep and replant the kitchen beds with a winter crop. Perhaps I’ll take Sailor, Father’s old mount, down to the village and see if I can get a few coins for him, or barter him for grain. Though his working years are done, someone in a kinder clime may find use for him yet.

  I unbolt the stable door, expecting the usual enthusiastic greeting from Bracken. I’ve forgiven her, of course – after all, a dog will mirror her master and I cannot blame her for my own fears and tempers. But she’s silent. There’s no friendly yapping, no wriggling warm body, no wet nose pushed into my hand, no tail sweeping against my calf. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust after the brightness of the day.

  Her poor limp body is strung up from the post to which I tethered her, the rope looped about her neck. Her eyes are closed, tongue bulging, fleshy and sluglike, from her foam-flecked jaw. The post is covered with scratches and her claws are bloodied.

  My legs give out and I sink to the floor, knees in a pile of Bracken’s muck.

  For every life, something else must die.

  After a time, I pull myself up and gently, tenderly, bring Bracken’s body down. The rope is twisted about her neck and twice around the post. There is no chance she could have done it to herself. This was no accident.

  I remember that she fell silent as I burned the fire screen. The sounds of a struggle would have been drowned by the crackle of flame and by my own whirling thoughts. Everyone but Ellis was indoors. The image of him, appearing out of the darkness, comes back to me, but I cannot believe he would do this. There is no sense in it. Bracken trusted him and the bond between them was second only to my own. But, still, a seed of doubt is planted, takes root and begins to grow.

  I tell no one what I’ve seen. I wrap Bracken’s body in an old grain sack and carry her to the willow copse. There, I slowly dig a grave in the hard winter ground. It�
�s customary to burn the bodies of livestock but I cannot bring myself to set her aflame. She’ll not leave this life burned in the brazier in the ashes of that cursed figure. I want her to become part of the land that made her. So, I lay her out and cover her with earth, pausing only a moment to say my own silent prayers.

  Then, I fetch a bucket of water and return to the stable to scrub away the traces of her end – the stinking muck on the floor, the traces of blood upon the post. I can do nothing about the scratches – they will have to stay, a reminder, till I can find a way to hide them.

  I know that others would not do as I have done. Others might cry out their grief, hurl accusations and bring horror down upon the house, but this house already has its share of horrors. One more might tip the balance. I will shoulder this alone. I’ll wait till I’m alone with Ellis and only then confront him. I will tell them all that Bracken died in peace.

  It’s not hard to tell the lie: instead of breaking, my heart turns to stone, as I lock it back inside its cage.

  ‘Are you sure, Mercy? Are you sure he’ll be safe?’ Dority’s gaze wanders once more to the casement of the bedchamber, where Sam still rests. We’re standing by the gatepost. She’s shivering in a thick winter cloak. Though Sam has made good progress, his mother has not. It seems that, as Sam gains strength, Dority grows weaker. She’s giving her very lifeblood to him.

  ‘Perhaps I should stay,’ she says, searching my face for the permission she craves.

  ‘We’ve been through this. Sam will be well looked after here, and you can come every day, but Ambrose and Grace need you now, more than he.’

  She looks away, lips white and thin. ‘Ambrose doesn’t understand.’

  ‘You mustn’t let this come between the two of you,’ I say. ‘God has been merciful this time. Be thankful.’

  ‘I know you’re right,’ she says, looking up to the window once more. ‘It’s just so hard to be parted from him.’

  ‘He’s still too weak to travel. He’s better here.’

  ‘But I want him close.’

  I take her hands in mine. ‘I’ll look after him, I promise.’

  She manages a rare smile. Since Sam began his slow recovery, she’s forgiven me for much. Our old friendship is returning. ‘There’s no one else I’d trust. You know that, don’t you?’

  I nod.

  Ambrose, standing a distance away with baby Grace, is growing impatient. He strides towards us, studying the sky. ‘Snow’s coming,’ he says. ‘We must go now.’

  He’s right – the clouds are low and flat, tinged with yellow. The air has the strange stillness that comes before snowfall.

  Dority squeezes my hand. ‘Look after my boy,’ she whispers.

  As she goes, she keeps turning back, eyes fixing on the bedchamber window. I cannot help but look up myself, and as I do, I catch a movement behind the glass, a pale figure, with a hand pressed to the panes: Sam, standing there, watching his mother walk away.

  I go up to the room to make sure he’s not upset but find him in bed, sleeping and peaceful. There is no one else in the room.

  I go to the window and look out, press my own fingers to the glass. The air smells of burning, of tallow fat and bonfires. Ambrose and Dority make their way down the coffin path. I see Ambrose put his arm around his wife and draw her close.

  As I watch, the first flakes fall, soft and white, drifting from Heaven like blossom on the wind. The snow does not stop for three days.

  Chapter 38

  They set out early. The snow is still falling in fat, lazy flakes but they cannot wait any longer. If sheep are buried in the drifts, they can last a day or two, huddled together beneath the snow, protected by the grease in their fleeces, but any longer and they will start to freeze or starve.

  Mercy woke him at first light, already wrapped in thick worsted breeches and a long leather coat. By the time he reached the kitchen there was a pan of oats steaming on the hearthstone, next to a heavy iron shovel, and she had already cleared a path to the gate.

  Outside, the air tastes like winter. The trees in the copse are snow-laden, low branches sweeping the ground. He pulls his hat down against the icy pinpricks on his cheeks and draws his woollen neckerchief up over his nose. The fell-side above the house is an ocean of white. Nothing moves except the wind, gusting snowflakes in flurries and whorls. All life is silent and still.

  Ellis follows her as she struggles past the ruins of the barn. The snow comes up to his knees, much deeper where it has drifted against walls and banks. With the scorched ground hidden, the barn looks like an ancient ruin, something from a long-abandoned past, but he has not forgotten the urgent fear of that night, the stench of singed fleece and burning beams that finds its way into his dreams. Neither has he forgotten Henry Ravens’s triumphant smile that day outside the church. He would like the chance to confront him, to accuse him, though he knows that no one will believe, now, that the fire was begun by mortal hand. He is not even sure he believes that himself. Still, he is glad that Ravens is gone, any ties between he and Mercy irrevocably severed; he has won that battle at least.

  As they make their way onto the fell he catches up with her. ‘We need a dog,’ he says. It could sniff out sheep beneath feet of snow. ‘Can we not fetch Garrick’s?’

  ‘It’s too far. We’d spend most of the day getting there. Besides, Flint will only work for him. She’s not like Bracken.’

  It is the first time she has said the dog’s name since she told him about its death, and he hears the catch in her throat. Must’ve died in her sleep, she had said, in front of the others, fixing him with a piercing stare. I’ve already buried her.

  She has been withdrawn and sullen since. He’s sure she’s lying, keeping something back, and he’s been waiting for this chance alone with her. ‘What truly happened?’ he asks.

  She gives him a slantwise glance but says nothing. She knows what he means.

  ‘I know it was not as simple as you say.’

  ‘Do you know something about it?’

  ‘I know you’ve not told the truth.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘It’s clear to anyone who cares to see.’

  ‘You were the only one abroad that night.’ She says it quietly, but he does not miss the accusation in her tone.

  ‘You think I’m to blame?’

  Again she looks at him, staring hard this time, searching for evidence.

  ‘How can you think that?’ he says.

  She does not reply. She’s silent as they struggle over a ridge and across a frozen beck. It’s impossible to keep to a path so they strike up towards the walls of a fold, where it’s likely the sheep might have sought shelter.

  He cannot let the subject drop. He may be to blame for other things, but not this. ‘You admit what you told the others was a lie?’

  She stops, breathing hard, and looks back the way they’ve come. Scarcross Hall is lost in the swirl of snowfall. They are totally alone. ‘I spared the details.’

  ‘You’re wrong about me. But I’d hear the truth. I won’t repeat it, if that’s what you want.’

  She pulls the neckerchief down, takes a fistful of snow and rubs it on her face, puts another handful in her mouth. Then she pauses, breath steaming. ‘Someone strung her up by the neck and left her there to die,’ she says, without emotion. ‘I thought perhaps it was you.’ She waits while he takes this in. ‘Won’t you defend yourself?’

  ‘Nothing I say will make you change your mind. But tell me this: what reason would I have?’

  She sighs, exasperated. ‘If I knew that, you’d be long gone.’

  ‘You should know me better than that by now,’ he says.

  She raises one sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘You still don’t trust me,’ he says.

  He knows what she’s thinking – can see it writ clear – becau
se he thinks the same: I trust no one but myself.

  Lately, though, he’s been doubting even that. Perhaps that’s why he so craves her faith in him – to restore his own. It’s pointless, he thinks, when he will betray her in the end, but he cannot help himself: he is powerless against this desire.

  She’s still staring at him as if trying to read his thoughts. If this is some sort of test, he’s afraid he’s failed it. Then she turns away and sets off up the slope. ‘We’ve no dog. We do this alone.’

  They find nothing at the first fold. Mercy sinks her crook almost to the bow, but there are no animals buried beneath the snow banked up against the walls. So they go on to the next, further up the fell.

  The day continues like this. They find patches where sheep have nosed their way through to the heather, a gorse bush that has been stripped clean – signs of life amid the desolate whitewashed landscape. They find ragged little groups of sheep here and there, in threes and fours, sheltering in gullies, or on the leeward side of boulders and outcrops, some carrying a blanket of snow. They are docile, bleating for hay, made keen by the cold. There is nothing they can do for them except check them over and leave them to God’s mercy.

  They stick to the lower slopes, reasoning that the sheep will have migrated down to seek out shelter, and some time in the mid-afternoon they come to the abandoned cottage. As they draw close, Ellis is sure they’ll find sheep buried here. This is exactly the kind of place they would wander, and its position catches the whip of the wind from the moor top, as it whistles down into the valley, so the drifts are deep.

  They pause on the hillside, overlooking the crumbling walls of house and fold. He stands beside her, lungs burning, legs aching, feet and fingers turned blue and numb. She looks away, gaze sweeping the fell above, squinting into the wind, looking for something. Then she bends over, leans her weight on her crook and makes a rasping cough. He knows she will not admit that she’s exhausted.