In Fallen Woods

by R N Merle

‘No. I have another use for it. We will use it to stock up on our blood. I will show you how it is done. Fetch me some rope and a bowl. Tie it by its back legs, on the hook above the fire.’

  Darklin did as she was bid, holding the creature at arm’s length as it began to struggle wildly and scream again. How she hated the screaming, how it set her teeth on edge. She wished she could just throw the thing out the door and be done with it.

  When she had tied the rabbit up, after a few moments it became still again. Gressyl appeared with a gleaming silver knife, and she placed the bowl under the rabbit.

  ‘Now, slit the throat.’ she said, handing the knife to Darklin. Darklin grimaced, remembering how the rabbit had scratched her viciously, and how she had wanted to put an end to its unbearable screaming. She stepped forward. She did not know why her hand trembled, why she hesitated, why she could not thrust the blade across the rabbit’s gasping throat. Gressyl took hold of her wrist and guided the knife into its neck. Darklin shuddered. Its eyes clouded; it was dead. She watched in disgust as warm blood ran in rivers over its soft pristine fur, a loud gush splashing into the bowl, then just drips, fast then slow.

  ‘When the blood stops, skin it. You can prepare it for your supper.’

  For a moment, as she waited for the blood to drain, Darklin was struck with an urge to start sobbing. Too much had happened, her mind could not rest, nor yet begin to process the events she had been through in such a short time. She closed her eyes and shook her head, silencing the voice inside her that screamed ‘What have you done?’ She was too afraid to think about it or anything else. She was not sure if she would ever be ready to consider the consequences of the path she had chosen, which she knew to be grave but could not clearly foresee.

  In the nights following, Darklin experimented with her magic. She looked up simple spells in the book, and practiced performing them, all the while watched over by Gressyl’s steely gaze. Darklin enjoyed how making potions could fill her hours, the novelty of having something different to do, and the thrill of her successes and her power. For a while the magic distracted her, and she forgot her worries and fears, and the fact that soon she would need to find human subjects for her curses.

  But soon after, one night as Darklin sat at the table, Gressyl presented her with a dark red book, similar to, though not as thick as the spell book. Darklin opened it, curious to read what was inside, but found all of its pages were blank. Darklin guessed that Gressyl had stolen it from Fallenoak, just as she stole other items they required, such as candles and clothing.

  ‘Is this for writing down my own spells?’ Darklin asked timidly.

  ‘No, it will be years before you have the skill to devise your own spells. You will take up your pen, and write down what I know of the people of Fallenoak. This information will be invaluable to you when you begin to use your curses. It has taken much work on my part to learn, and I do not want it lost between us. But if ever there is an attack upon the house, this book goes in the fire, straight away. First thing, without hesitation. This information guarantees the hangman’s noose. Do you understand?’

  Darklin nodded, and shivered. She dipped her pen into the ink, apprehensive of making the first stroke in the blank book.

  Gressyl began. ‘The first house in the street, after the wooden sign belongs to the blacksmith…’

  Night after night, Darklin filled the book with details of the residents of Fallenoak, all the knowledge Gressyl had gleaned from the years of spying on the village. Darklin wrote lists of who lived in each house, and how they were related. Under each name she wrote down the offences they had been punished for, and the curses used on them. Details were added, such as who Gressyl especially did not like, and the reactions and consequences of her curses.

  When Gressyl added to her list the occupants of the dungeon, Darklin was baffled. She could not imagine any way that life could be made more miserable in the unspeakable dungeon. It seemed like a waste of effort. She accidentally spoke her thoughts aloud.

  ‘But if they are already wholly miserable, why do we need to punish them further?’

  Darklin felt a wicked pain ripping over her knuckles.

  ‘We must punish all, the wretched, as well as the foolish and greedy. You must have no pity! Pity is a trap! It will make you weak.’ Gressyl exhaled loudly. ‘You’ll be caught and strung up within a month, girl.’

  As Gressyl told her more about Fallenoak, memories of the night she had gone there troubled Darklin more and more, and she was just as sure as after that first night, that she could never go back there again. The face of the girl on the gallows tree haunted her, so much so that one night, spurred on by the relentless visions, Darklin asked Gressyl who she was.

  ‘Her name was Annie Sparrow. Daughter of Mary Sparrow.’

  ‘Why did they think she was a witch?’

  ‘Probably for no reason. What they call justice is a very flimsy thing.’

  ‘Was she a witch?’

  ‘Her!’ Gressyl snorted, full of scorn. ‘She was a fanciful child who thought she could make remedies.’

  ‘She did not try to do harm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Did you ever curse her?’ Darklin didn’t know why, but she desperately wanted Gressyl to say no, that she had never gone near the girl.

  ‘Last spring, I cursed her mother and father. They were a couple of meddlers, always preaching about giving to the needy. I wanted them to know how it would feel to be on the other end of charity. I saw to it that all the coins that passed into Tom Sparrow’s hand, turned into pebbles overnight. Of course they soon became paupers, and when the family went hungry, not one of their neighbours came to their aid. He ended up in a debtors prison where he caught a fever and died.’

  Darklin did not ask any more questions. She took up her pen and waited for Gressyl to continue.

  After she had finished giving Darklin the information on the people of Fallenoak, Gressyl made Darklin memorise the meandering route that she used to get there, explaining how to find the way in the dark, how she had cut rings around the bark of certain trees, to give her guidance. She told her the places where she could hide in the village, and how to go about the streets without being seen.

  Darklin became worried that it meant Gressyl would soon want to go back there, and that soon, she would have to tell Gressyl that she couldn’t. There had been moments when she had opened her mouth to explain, but her voice always seem to fail her. She assumed that one night, Gressyl would announce that they were going, and then she would have to say something.

  But night after night, Gressyl made her learn the secrets of the red book, and a visit was never mentioned. Gressyl still made her own trips to the village, and though the nights were growing shorter, it seemed to Darklin that Gressyl spent more and more time there each occasion she went, returning only minutes before the sun rose.

  February passed, and the wood began to thaw. Signs of spring appeared; messy, muddy, stuttering growth of green shoots and snowdrops. With every day that passed, Darklin became more worried. If she told Gressyl she could not go to Fallenoak, and was able to make her understand, there was still the problem of how she had sworn to be a servant of Vardyn. How could she do her duty by Her, if she was too afraid to go near the people she would curse? The thought of the torments she would face if she went back on her promise, made her sick with fear. She began to toss and turn in her sleep. Occasionally, despite the sleeping potion, she would stir to find Gressyl had not yet knocked, and after some minutes of worrying about what lay in store, she would fall back into a troubled sleep.

  Sometimes when she woke, the tail end of an image would slip from the grasp of her consciousness. But she was not yet fully aware of the dreams that had started to flit through her sleeping mind, rattling the locks of memories lost and buried that were waiting, almost ready to surface.

  4

  The Stranger

  Days aft
er the body of Annie Sparrow had been taken down from the gallows tree, the shadow of a stranger fell by the crossroads in Fallenoak. He was broad and tall, with coiled iron grey hair grown to his shoulders, matching the exact colour of his eyes.

  As he walked a small way down the thoroughfare, he quickly noticed the people he encountered eyed him with suspicion and fear. Instead of feeling dismayed, he was intensely interested. It was a reaction he had been searching for. He looked up and down the street for somewhere he could get breakfast, and at the same time learn what made the people of Fallenoak so uneasy. He considered the ‘The Seven Swans Inn’ to be the best place for both.

  He pushed the heavy door open wide. Inside, a short, rotund man with wavy brown hair and flushed cheeks, was opening the shutters, casting squares of light on the stone floor, and onto the walls of the wood panelled room.

  ‘Good morning, I would like some breakfast.’ the stranger announced.

  The innkeeper looked up. The stranger commanded his attention, not only by his demeanour, but also by his appearance. The stranger’s face was battle-worn, decorated with a pair of blatant scars; one jagged strike across his forehead, the other, a clean horizontal line underscoring his left eye from his cheekbone to his nose. His skin was tanned from sun and wind, and creased into a hard expression. It was a face that betrayed little emotion, but told all about the life he had led. He had the eyes of a man grown used to killing.

  Fred White, the innkeeper smiled briefly, unsure of how friendly he should appear. ‘I have not seen you before, sir. What is your business in Fallenoak?’ he stuttered.

  ‘At the moment, none, other than to eat a hearty breakfast.’ replied the stranger.

  ‘Do you intend to stay here?’ Fred asked, nervously.

  ‘It is possible. If you will permit me.’

  ‘May I ask where you have come from?’

  ‘I have been travelling a long distance, and I would like some sustenance. Will you serve me breakfast or not?’

  ‘Aye, you can have breakfast.’ said Fred, not daring to argue with such a man, nor reject what little custom he had. He showed the stranger to a table, and minutes later a serving maid brought a generous plate of bacon, eggs and bread, and a tankard of ale. She smiled uncomfortably as she put the meal before him. He devoured the food eagerly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and addressed the inn keeper again.

  ‘Tell me, what makes the people here so suspicious? I have not had a friendly word nor look since I arrived. It is not so in other parts.’

  Fred sighed tiredly. ‘Other places do not have our baleful misfortune. Have you never heard tell of the goings on in Fallenoak? Have you not heard we are a village cursed by ill-fortune?’

  ‘Indeed not, but this is a subject that interests me greatly. Please inform me as to the nature of your troubles.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fred, scratching his neck. ‘I will oblige you, if you want to hear it, but I must warn you it is a very sad tale indeed.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the stranger, keenly interested. Fred sat down in the chair opposite.

  ‘There was a time when Fallenoak was just a simple village, nothing out of the ordinary happened. People went about their business and were tolerable happy. And then all of a sudden, a few years back, things started to go badly wrong. It was not just the normal trials that all folk go through. No, it was as if people’s worst fears came to life out of nowhere. Year after year, the crops failed. There were plagues of sickness. Money vanished overnight and fortunes were ruined.’ The innkeeper leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘There were happenings most strange and unnatural. Young women waking to find their hair turned white as snow as they slept. Sheep turned to stone in the field while they grazed. The shoemaker’s young son grew the teeth of a dog. My own dear wife, who was the friendliest soul to ever walk the earth, always chatting and laughing. Struck dumb.’ Fred shook his head solemnly, and looked behind him warily. ‘For some folk, the happenings were relentless. We’ve lost five poor souls to the river. There are those that say they drowned by accident, but if you ask me, twas deliberate.’ he whispered, then spoke again at normal pitch.

  ‘It wasn’t long before people started saying there was a curse on the village, and that someone was dealing in witchcraft. Pretty soon, the whole village was raving with accusations. Neighbours who have known each other all their lives, began suspecting one another. I tell you, sir, one and all were frantic. Mothers were afraid to let their children out to play, everyone was terrified of doing something that could bring a curse upon them. People were watching each other like hawks, blame flying back and forth, such whisperings and rantings and tall stories, I’d never heard anything like. All the while the curses kept happening, and no one had any idea who it was. Then a few months ago, a young maid, Annie Sparrow, got labelled as the likely suspect. I thought it was all evil rumours. She was a sweet girl, you see, wouldn’t hurt a fly. They hung her for a witch only days ago. Most people you asked would have told you it was not her. Only some had it in for her, and things got out of hand.’

  ‘Why was she suspected?’

  ‘She had a knack for making remedies, and was seen out at night on her own, by some vicious old gossip who swore she was cavorting under the moon. Dancing for the devil, so she said. She had a cat that followed her everywhere she went, and people said it was her familiar, an imp or some such nonsense. And so she was arrested and put in the Squire’s dungeon. The whole village was split in two, those who believed she was innocent and those who said she was guilty. Her friends and family did everything they could to try and get her released, but the Squire had made up his mind and saw to it she was hanged. One night, out of the blue, without any warning, or anyone there to see it. Him and that murderous gamekeeper of his, Mr Hawkes, they’re the ones what did it. Terrible business. Broke the heart of her mother. She’s near gone mad. There was rioting up at the castle the night after. Smashed the Squire’s windows, so they did. And then, what do you think? The curses went on, so we know it wasn’t her. A terrible business.’

  ‘Was there no trial?’

  ‘No such thing in these parts. We deal with our own in our own way.’

  ‘There should have been a trial, and I said so.’ a voice joined in from across the room. The stranger turned to see a tall young man crossing the floor to join them. His blue eyes blazed with righteousness, as he swiped at a black curl that dangled over his brow. ‘It was an evil thing they did to that poor girl, she never even stood a chance. The Squire and that crooked Parson made sure of it.’

  ‘And what is your name?’ the stranger asked, taking in by the way the young man moved that he was a wrestler, and judging by his interest in justice, not without a brain in his head. He was a man who could lead people, the stranger surmised in one sharp look.

  ‘My name is Ben Westwill. And what, may I ask is yours?’

  ‘Colonel Bowen. I am interested to know your thoughts on the matter. I wonder if you might oblige me.’

  ‘I am not afraid to speak my mind. I’ll tell you, they as good as murdered Annie Sparrow. That damnable Squire, thinks because he is the Justice of the Peace and we are a village so remote from the law of the land, that he has the right to do as he pleases. He has no authority to put men and women to their deaths. She should have been taken to the assizes. And the case would have been thrown out, for there was no evidence that she did anything wrong.’

  As Ben spoke, a group of men who had come in from the street to find out about the mysterious stranger, gathered round the Colonel’s table. Some nodded along, agreeing with Ben’s words, others waited eagerly to have their chance to contradict him.

  ‘I’ll tell you, sir,’ said one of the bystanders, ‘If she were innocent, she would never have been wandering about on her own in the dark. She never denied that she wasn’t. That girl was up to something, she had a devilish look about her.’

  Murmurings of support rose from the crowd. Another man added, ‘We had to put a stop to it, we di
dn’t have no choice. This witch trouble has ruined this village. I believe it is the most miserable place in England. Our neighbours are afraid to do trade with us, and everyone is walking around scared out of their wits, terrified of looking the wrong way at some passer-by in the street. That girl was practising black magic, she was in league with the devil, no two ways about it. She deserved to hang.’

  ‘Even if she was guilty, and most of us know that she wasn’t, there should still have been a trial.’ Ben countered.

  ‘Master Westwill is right, it is not the duty of the Squire to decide who should live and who should die. She should have been sent to the assizes.’ a voice from the back of the crowd spoke up.

  ‘We don’t need strangers sticking their noses into our affairs. I say it is our village and we should get to say who is hanged and who isn’t,’ another replied.

  ‘We’ll see if you still say that when the Squire wants to hang one of your kin for poaching.’ said Ben, smiling.

  ‘Don’t you get high and mighty with me, young Westwill. We all know your brother was promised to the Sparrow girl. That’s why you kept on about a trial.’

  ‘It makes no difference if he was. It’s about time we had some justice, according to the law of the land.’

  Some of the men cheered.

  ‘The Squire’s is too high and mighty. It’d never have happened in his father’s day.’ the innkeeper added.

  ‘Aye,’ nearly all of the voices agreed.

  ‘I say it was not a witch. It all started because someone brought bad luck to the village.’ said one old man, eyeing the Colonel with suspicion.

  ‘‘Tis not bad luck, ‘tis a witch!’ said another. ‘Just not the one they hanged.’

  The Colonel’s head lifted. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked, looking the man dead in the eye.

  ‘I seen her, I seen her creeping through the village, peering into windows, dressed all in black, with red eyes like the devil. Made my blood run cold, so she did.’

  ‘Aye, she comes in darkness out of Fallen Woods. A creature by day and a woman by night.’