Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631)

by Wolf, Jack

  Simmins hung his Head. “’Sdeath, Isaac,” I said, with a Sigh. “You are still a Puppy. Come here, I shall pat you on your Head.”

  Simmins left his Chair and came towards me, Head bowed, and knelt at my Feet. I smiled, remembering, for the nonce without any sinister Implication, the pretty Picture he had presented to me two Nights before, and I put mine Hand atop his shaggy Crown, ruffling his Hair. “Sweet as a sugar Plum,” I said. “’Tis to be hoped the Rebels spare you.”

  I had said this joking, tho’ cruelly; but as the Words left my Lips they seemed to fill the Aire like a Curse. My Terrour rushed back. Would the Scots spare Simmins? Would they spare me? Would the Intruder stand beside my Bed, and put his smothering Palm over my Mouth? I kept mine Hand on Simmins’ Head, and turned mine Attention quickly back to the shrouded Dark beyond the window Pane. The Enemy was close; I could feel his encroaching Circle like a Noose about my Neck, drawing ever tighter. The Tutor had been a military Man, I thought. Surely, he must know the Foe was present? Surely, he did not underestimate the Danger?

  A faint Sound echoed across the Distance: a low Drumming.

  Drumming, Drumming.

  Suddenly, I felt Simmins spring away; the school room Door opened, and Simmins’ Father, mine erstwhile Tutor, stumbled into the Room, followed close at Hand by the Stench of Port Wine. At Sight of me, standing seemingly unoccupied beside the undraped Window, my Translation of Suetonius abandoned and mine open ink Pot drying out, he let out an infuriated Roar that put me in Mind of the Rector, and lurched forwards. “Get to your Work, Boy!”

  I dodged out of the Way of his flailing Arm, and sate down in my Place as quick as Light, protesting that I had only been about the shortest of Pauses. The Tutor, glowering and sweating profusely underneath his heavy serge frock Coat, strode across the school Room to where I was sitting. Placing his meaty Hands full-square upon my Translation, he leaned forwards across the Desk and pushed his Face so close to mine own that I could see the tiny red Capillaries throbbing in his Eyeballs.

  “You, Mr Hart, are a Disgrace,” he spat. “A lazy, shiftless Wastrel of a Boy! How long have you been about this Suetonius? Young Isaac here—a mere Child of Eleven—he hath finished it! I doubt you have even read as far as Caligula! There will be no Supper for you tonight! You will stay seated, and you will work!”

  The Drumming became suddenly much louder. I started, and upon an Instinct turned once more toward the approaching Danger, as doth a Coney when it heareth Hounds.

  “What?” cried my Tutor. “Do you shrug, Sir?”

  Seizing my Shoulders, he forced me roughly about, so that I was forced to face him.

  “No,” I protested. “’Tis—”

  The Drumming became deafening; I marvelled that Colonel Simmins did not appear to hear it. Then the Notion struck me that perhaps he could; perhaps that was why he was shouting, why little Flecks of Spittle were collecting on his Chin, and why his Adam’s Apple was straining against his thick white linen Stock. He was struggling to make himself heard above the Drumming.

  “They are here!” I shouted.

  “What, Sir?” Could not he hear me?

  “The Scots!”

  The Tutor appeared, for a Moment, quite confounded. Then a peculiar Expression, in mine Estimation sly, crosst his Face. Narrowing his Eyes, he said: “There are no Rebels here, Mr Hart.”

  This Assertion, which as far as I could tell was outright Lie, and the contemptuous Manner in which it was spoke, frightened me in my very Bowels. I suddenly perceived a very good Reason why Colonel Robert Simmins, Scotsman that he was, might not appear to care about, nay, even to hear the Drumming, which was now so forceful that the Walls about me vibrated upon every Beat. What Proof had I—indeed, what Proof had any of us that he was, verily, loyal to our King George? My Father, as far as I was aware, had taken him on after only the most cursory Inquiry into his History. He must be, I thought, an Enemy; a Spy in the Employ of Charles Stuart; or something much, much worse, and I dreaded what that could be.

  Why had he been gone from the Room? Had he unlocked the Gate?

  The Tutor returned to his Desk, and as I watched, terrified and appalled, he took out a birchen Cane. His Lip twitched. He took two Steps toward me. “Stand up, Mr Hart.”

  I did not move.

  “Stand up!”

  And then, all on a Sudden, to mine utter and undivided Astonishment, as Colonel Simmins took one farther Step in my Direction, he shrank to a miniature Size, like a Man seen thro’ the wrong End of a Telescope. His Voice sounded like the Squealing of a Rat. I remembered Nathaniel Ravenscroft summoning barn Owls at Sunneset, on the Backs of his Hands. The Ice in my Bowels turned to Water.

  Before I knew it I was on my Feet, leaping across the Room, and I caught the white Switch in mine open Hand, wresting it easily from his Grip. “No!” I cried.

  The Drumming beat about mine Ears, more furious than ever.

  I gave the Birch an exploratory Swish thro’ the Aire. I smiled. An Owl’s Wingbeat. Somehow, by my sudden Leap, I had rid me of all Traces of the Terrour that hitherto had frozen me in my Place. The Cane whistled once more, in a Figure of Eight; Infinity before mine Eyes. The Tutor was a ridiculous Homunculus; a Gnome.

  Witchcraft! I thought. ’Tis Scottish Witchcraft! I hissed at the Idea, like a Countryman banishing Evil.

  To mine Amazement, at my Making of this Sound, the Gnome began to edge away, backing slowly across the Floor, as if it were afraid. “What, little Spy!” I cried. “So, art frightened of me, now! I will give you a fine Message to take to your Pretender!” I advanced upon it, the Cane high in mine Hand.

  All at once, little Simmins leapt up from his Chair and interposed himself between My Self and the small, jabbering Creature, which seemed, in mine Estimation, to be heading for the Doorway.

  “Mr H-art, calm d-own,” he said, putting his small Hands softly upon my Cheeks and turning mine Head, so that I was induced to look at him. “Please calm d-own, S-ir. They will send me away from you.”

  “Pretty Simmins,” I said. “I will not let him hurt you.”

  Mine Attention had been diverted from the Gnome for no longer than a Second, yet when I looked back I saw to my Surprize that it had grown again to man-Size. This pleased me, for there had been a small Part of me that had thought it unfair to have whippt so meagre and defenseless a Sprite, no Matter what Crime it had committed. I had now no Qualm; I steppt past little Simmins, and thrusting the Tutor face-first into the heavy Door, brought down the Switch upon his Back. A Grunt broke from his Lips; his clumsy Fingers struggled with the Latch.

  I whippt him hard again, and then a third Time; but then something, perhaps Pity, stayed mine Hand. I steppt back, lowering mine Arm. The Tutor scrabbled at the Door a Minute longer, but it appeared to be stuck. I did not move. Finally, he turned slowly about, and eyed me with an affrighted Craftiness, like a threatened Rat.

  “The Birch,” he finally demanded. His Eyes danced over my Shoulder, searching for Escape. I stared at him.

  “No,” I said. And I shrugged.

  “You,” the Tutor squeaked, “are in Trouble, Boy; give me the Birch.”

  I leapt forward half a Pace, brandishing mine Hand as if to take him at his Word, really only to see what he might do; at once the Tutor gave a Yelp, and cowered, his Arms covering his Head and his Expression terrified. Pity had stayed mine Hand; Contempt now enraged it. “Faugh!” I spat. “You deserve none of my Compassion, Rat! Gnome! Spy!”

  Dropping the Cane, I leapt forward and seized him by the Throat, forcing him rough against the plastered Wall of the school Room. “Brute,” I said. “Shalt profit from thine own Teaching.”

  I drew back my Fist and punched him in the Mouth, once, twice, I know not how many Times. Sweet Calm descended on me. I did not stop. I did not want to stop. The Drums, in mine Ears, rolled on and on.

  * * *

  Many Weeks after this, long after Charles Stuart—who never, in Reality, came any farther South than Der
by—had retreated, it was explained to me, slowly and carefully, that this violent Episode had been the Result of my being on a Sudden taken ill. With what Disease, I was My Self uncertain; although my Father’s Physician, who was possesst of a mediaeval Mind, had diagnosed that I was suffering from a Surfeit of the Choleric and Melancholic Humours. He prescribed a Treatment of compleat Rest, frequent Bleeding, and a very careful Diet, by which means the Balance of the Fluxes was to be restored. I was required moreover to shun anything that would stimulate the production of the yellow Bile and the black, and also to ensure that the Phlegm did not become too pre-eminent.

  When Mrs H. and the under-Footman had pulled me off, the Tutor’s Eyes had been purple and his Nose bleeding badly. He had subsequently departed, with a golden Reference and considerably more than his full Wage; and my Father having now lost both Patience with and Confidence in the Notion that I could successfully be tutored, he was not replaced. The Freedom that I had thus now regained suited me perfectly and, I am sure, kept the Ratio of mine Humours in appropriate Order. For a little while I missed young Isaac Simmins, who had been more of a Comfort to me than I had admitted to My Self, but this soon passed. The Drumming, which, it seemed, had been some Manner of Hallucination within mine own Head, quickly faded. By New Yeare, which fell, then, at the Latter End of March, I was quite well; by May I was back in Church and, by July, to my immense Surprize, a welcome Visitor at the Rectory; so perhaps it was inevitable that by that August of seventeen forty-six I was, once again, roaming the Countryside with Nathaniel Ravenscroft.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nathaniel, who had contacted me for the first Time in many Months on the first Daye of June, was still blessed with the Sanguinity I lacked. Still silver haired, green eyed, still wiry as a Birch, he seemed to me almost unchanged. I was now some Inches taller than he, however, which pleased me immensely.

  For several Weeks after this reinstitution of our Friendship we were not allowed to wander abroad without the Chaperonage of one of the Hall or Rectory Servants, in case I grew unwell. Before long, however, this Requirement was deemed unnecessary, and it being generally assumed that we would not now disgrace ourselves by committing any of the Felonies to which we had been inclined as Boys—altho’ as I have previously explained, Nathaniel had never taken any of the Blame for our Misdeeds, up to and including our Raid upon the Orchard, and all had fallen upon mine Head—by the first Saturdaye of August he and I were free to return to our original Habit. Our first unaccompanied Sortie took us vaguely in the Direction of Collerton. We walked on Foot along stony, rutted Lanes between tall Hedges purple with Elderberries, thro’ Coppices latticed with ripening Hazelnuts. Late Swallows wheeled and Swifts shrieked in the Blue above us. We were heading nowhere, changing our Direction as the cloud-Shaddowes directed. Nathaniel delighted in such Mutability.

  Now that we were alone, I revealed to Nathaniel the Details of my Collapse, as they appeared to me to have been. Nathaniel had known, naturally, that I had been ill, as had all the Neighbourhood; but my Father, acting under the Advice of mine Aunt, had let it be known that I was suffering from mere Exhaustion, and had hushed up all Mention of mine Assault upon the Tutor.

  “You perceived him as what?” Nathaniel said.

  “A Gnome,” I answered.

  “A Gnome. How did he appear, this Gnome?”

  “Like the Tutor, but tiny. Highly entertaining.”

  “Verily, you were mistaken,” Nathaniel said, idly ripping a Spray of Elderberries from the Hedge. “Because a Gnome is not at all amusing. Nor doth he resemble a shrunken Tutor. No, no, dear Tristan, the ordinary, every-daye, commonplace English Gnome is a tiny brown Creature with a Visage like a pickled Walnut, who, like all Faeries, hath very sharp Teeth. And an exceeding foul Temper.”

  “You have described the Tutor,” I said, laughing.

  “I have no love for Gnomes,” Nathaniel said. “I have had to waste far too many valuable Houres of a ridiculously short Life in finding things that they have mischievously moved. Whenever I catch a Gnome I dispatch it straight—whoosh!—up the Chimney.”

  “Wherefore?”

  “It takes the little Buggers Houres to find their Way out. Fire is a barrier to them, you see. They are Beings of Earth.”

  “Cannot they climb to the Top?”

  “There was a Man,” Nathaniel said, “some fifty Yeares ago, in a Village not too many Miles from here, who sustained a Kick in the Head from a Bullock. What was so surprizing was not that he survived—though that was admirable enough, ’twas an hefty Kick—it was the Fact that afterward he could not turn Left. Left, for him, had ceased to exist. When he reached for his Ale, it was with his Right Hand. He would only chew with the Teeth on the right Side of his Head. Left was an Impossibility, a nothing. Neither had he any Memory that he ever had possesst a Left, or any Conceit of Leftness.”

  “Truly,” I said. “That is astonishing.”

  “Quite. And so ’tis with the Gnomes. They cannot perceive up. Therefore, they cannot climb it.”

  “Mrs H. is still terrified of Faeries,” I remarked.

  “Even so? Doth she still deposit little Saucers of sour Milk around the Kitchen?”

  “That and worse,” I said. “One Daye, one of the kitchen Cats brought in a dead Bat, and she flew into a Panick, saying that the Cat had murdered a Goblin Babe, and she would not rest until the Cat had been drowned for it. Now she always wears her Apron back to front, and traces little Lines of Salt upon all the Doorsteps.”

  Nathaniel Ravenscroft began to strip the Berries from their Stems with his Tongue. He smiled, and his Teeth drippt crimson from the Juice. “It doth not do to anger them,” he said.

  “Housekeepers?”

  Nathaniel laughed. “Faeries, you Booby.”

  I punched Nathaniel playfully on the Arm. “I do not think,” I said, “that you have said one Word you have truly meant for the past five Minutes. Otherwise I shall have to conclude that you share with Mrs H. a Belief in Mummery.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “In Truth,” he said, “I do not know quite what I believe, often from one Moment to the next. I seem to hold only three Creeds with any Stability, and two of them are Uncertainties. I believe that the Earth travels around the Sunne, that the Stars are very far away, and that most People in the World are born into Misery and die unfulfilled less than a Mile away from where they were conceived. People are mere Clocks, marking tedious Time. But I sincerely doubt that I share any one of these Beliefs with Mrs Henderson.”

  Nathaniel vaulted over a low Stile between two Oaks into a wheat Field. I followed him. A few more Dayes of Sunneshine would see this Wheat cut down, but todaye it reached almost to the top of mine Head. I stood still for a Moment, amazed. I had forgotten how it felt to be thus surrounded. Nathaniel began to sing a rousing Verse of some country Ditty that set the Crows a-rattling in the Branches above.

  Nathaniel’s Voice was clear and sinuous. I was not certain, being no Musician myself, but I suspected that it might be Pitch perfect. I could easy imagine that Voice filling St Paul’s, or the Abbey of Westminster. People might come to hear it over that of any of our celebrated Castrati. The Song, on the other Hand, was fit only for a Covent Garden Brothel.

  Nathaniel waved at me to accompany him, so I joined in the Chorus, tentatively at first, but when I realised that he and I had no Audience except each other and the Birds I became more confident, and soon I was belting out the Words as loudly as he:

  “O Polly why so faint and pale? Why dost thou moan and cry?

  Why do thine Eyes turn in thy Head, thy fair Breast heave and sigh?

  With a Whack! Fol al a-diddle, al a-diddle o!”

  It was at this Point that I distinguished, unmistakable above Nathaniel’s Voice and the Whistle of the Blackbird, the unrestrained Laughter of several young country Females drifting on the light Breeze from the nearby Road.

  “Hush!” I cried out in a Panick. “There are Women near!” Then I doubled up on the Spot as sudden
Laughter caught me in the Stomach like a Blow, mine Head at last dipping beneath those of the dancing Wheat.

  Nathaniel stoppt singing and grinned at me, his green Eyes glittering in the filtered Sunnelight. “You,” he said, when finally I had regained Control of My Self, “have been leading an uncommon sheltered Life if you think that Song is cockish. We need to get you with a Wench. There are many delectable Beauties in the Village, and ’tis but a Mile away. What say you?”

  I was startled. When we had raided his Father’s Orchard, Nathaniel Ravenscroft and I had seemed the same Age, near enough. Now, it suddenly seemed that he was Yeares ahead of me in Growth and in Experience. I was not sure that I was ready to follow him. I knew that there were several handsome Lasses in the Village; I had spent Houres in Church, only last Sundaye, during the Rector’s interminable Sermon, contemplating them; but I did not want to visit with any of them todaye, and certainly not, I realised with a Shock, in Nathaniel’s Company.

  Perhaps Nathaniel understood. Perhaps merely he changed his Mind. Whichever Way, he linked his Arm thro’ mine and we resumed our Wanderings, leaving the Village and its exciting Possibilities behind us. A Red Kite whistled above us as we walked, his Tail a perfect Arrowhead.

  We walked on quietly together for perhaps a Quarter of a Mile, without noticing overmuch where we trod, until it occurred to me that we were gone in a Loop, and were now walking in the Direction of the Rectory. I pulled up short at this Realisation, and released mine Arm from Nathaniel’s.

  Altho’ I was now a regular Visitor to Nathaniel’s home, I did not enjoy the Place, as it was crammed with noisy Children. On my last Visit, three Dayes since, I had counted seventeen of the pestering Brats; the Rector’s twelve and an additional five female Cousins, all under the Age of ten, who, Nathaniel told me, were spending some Weeks over the Summer while their Mother recovered from the Shock of being recently widdowed.

  “Did you confront your Sister about those damned Flowers?” I asked.

  “I did. She denies all Knowledge.”