by Devon De'Ath
Martin watched. “Do you believe in ghosts, Reverend? Forgive me, this faith business is still new. I'm not aware of the church’s position on it all.”
Stephen sat back down. “The positions are many and varied. Asking a minister of religion about ghosts is like asking them their position on eschatology.”
Martin squinted and tilted his head.
The vicar batted his confused expression aside with a wave. “What I mean is: you’ll hear many people convinced their interpretation is correct and everybody else is wrong.”
“What do you believe?” the thatcher asked.
“I try to keep an open mind. Does anyone know the truth of what happened at Deeping Drove before? The people who lived here made restoration of this church their primary focus, ahead of anything else. For that I will always feel a certain fondness toward those mysterious souls. Why would they drop everything and abandon it all without warning? Who can say? I was going to ask Daniel about erecting a new grave marker for the child. Could it be his spirit is restless, because he feels abandoned and hasn’t moved on? Establishing a better memorial and blessing the grave may help him find peace. The rest of us, too.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Do you suppose the buried child was the boy we glimpsed in the water?”
Stephen indicated the plaque resting in the smith’s hands. "The gender matches. How old would you say the boy was?”
“Twelve or thirteen. Thereabouts.”
“Another match. The boy might have fallen in the river and drowned. It’s a logical explanation for how a child could meet their end around here.”
Dan ran a thumb over the plaque without studying it. “What about the girl we saw holding the lad under?”
“You said the mist was heavy. Might she have found his body floating in the river and been trying to save him?”
Martin placed both hands on his knees. “I suppose. Doesn’t explain his cries and flailing arms.”
“True. But if you’ve witnessed an echo of what took place nineteen years ago, who’s to say events aren’t falling over one another, rather than running in a logical order? We’re dealing with the mysteries of a world beyond the mortal veil.”
Martin stood up. “Hadn’t thought of it that way. I feel better having talked things out with you. Dan and I agreed we should avoid a retelling to anybody else. For now, anyway.”
Stephen rose to join him. “I’d call that prudent. The events of the day may prove isolated. Now we have a plan of sorts regarding the dead boy, why not wait and see what happens? Things may quieten down once his new grave marker is in situ with the spot blessed.”
Martin extended his hand to the minister. “Thank you, Reverend.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you both for the fish.”
Dan tilted the metal plaque upwards in the flickering candlelight and read it aloud. “Howard Spencer. 1988 - 2000.”
* * *
Martin Bradbury thrust a willow spar into a clump of fresh fenstraw thatch, on what would soon become the vicar’s hut. The weather in mid-October had turned wet, leaving him to gauge which would be the best days to get his roofing jobs finished.
Stephen Colefax emerged from inside the almost completed home. He reached up on tiptoe to study Martin’s work. “That looks a splendid job, Martin.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” He leaned across the roof on top of a short ladder and tamped down the face with a flat tool. “Once I get these last pieces fixed, dress the coat-work and give it all a brush with a stiff broom, you’ll be good to go. With wheat thatch you can dress a roof by trimming. Water reed is too stiff. I’ll bash it home with my leggett here, instead.”
“It seems neat already, to my untrained eye.”
Martin examined the roof. “If you keep things tidy from the outset, there’s less dressing to do at the end. An ounce of prevention, and all that.”
“Sage words.”
"Dan has been working on an ornate, wrought iron grave marker for that plaque you found. Beautiful scroll work. It should make a worthy memorial for the poor lad."
"I can't wait to see the finished article."
A woman’s cry ripped through the chilly morning air. Martin shielded his eyes from some rare, low sun.
The vicar called up to him. “What can you see?”
“It’s Maggie. She’s up on the western bank, shrieking at the river.” Martin descended his ladder in a flash. He hurried past the barn and other huts with the old minister hot on his heels. Naomi, Connie, Abigail and Bob dashed from assorted homes to follow behind and investigate the sound.
“Oh my God,” Martin crested the rise to join the farmer’s wife. “Sorry, Reverend.”
Stephen Colefax batted aside any hint of offence taken.
A dozen or more sodden lumps like giant bales of wool, hung semi-submerged in the water. Every few seconds, one lifeless animal body rotated to reveal thin, dark legs.
Connie put an arm around the farmer’s wife. “Is it all of them?”
Maggie sobbed and nodded. “The whole flock. They must have got loose somehow and wandered out of their depth in the river.”
Pete Leonard raced along the bank, followed by Joe Hargreaves and Dean Claridge.
Maggie threw herself into her husband’s embrace. “How could this have happened?”
The farmer stroked her head, eyes blinking back emerging grief at the tragic sight of the drowned sheep. He shot the builder a rapid glance. “Joe. You and your guys fixed that broken fence yesterday, didn’t you?”
Joe nodded. “Checked it myself before dark. Those animals were secure. Not going anywhere.”
Connie frowned. “Except they did. Could the gate have opened by accident?”
Pete kissed Maggie’s crown. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t have. What a waste. They won’t be cheap to replace, Connie. Martin, do you think you can get your boat over there and help us push them ashore? They can’t have been dead long. Heartless as it sounds, we'll salvage some resources at least.”
“Sure. Dean, can you come with me?”
The butcher nodded and followed their thatcher back down to the landing area.
10
Community Cohesion
Naomi Hargreaves stirred a cast-iron pot of stew, suspended above the fireplace in their comfortable - if basic and compact - single-storey thatched hovel. The damp of late October fenland mist seeped into her bones, causing the woman to pull a woollen shawl closer about her shoulders. Steam from a hearty meal of mutton, veg and potatoes bubbled as she inscribed a circle into the thickening sludge with a wooden spoon. She reached for a pot of salt stored in a tiny alcove of the inglenook, to keep it dry in the damp climate. The crystals glittered in light from the dancing flames as she dropped two good pinches into her cooking vessel. Joe clicked the door open, allowing a blast of chill air to follow him inside. He secured it fast and stomped over to a simple cabinet that doubled as a worktop.
“Is this warm?” he pointed at a tall pottery jug of water next to a matching clay bowl. The fruits of Connie’s labour and one of many traditional skills the community founder possessed.
“Should be. I used some not long ago.” Naomi pulled back a bunch of the layered mahogany hair from one of her over-sized ears, as she studied him with soulful blue eyes.
Joe poured water into the bowl to wash his face and hands. “Is dinner almost ready?”
“It’s been ready a while.”
The builder bristled. “I can’t help it if my work took longer than expected.”
Naomi fidgeted. “I didn’t mean it like that. You can’t overcook a stew unless it goes dry. This should be a good meal; warm and filling.”
Joe grunted.
Naomi went on. “It’s a sad way to have a surplus of mutton. Dean ensured we’ll all get an ample supply of cuts from suitable carcasses.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I fixed that fence, Naomi. Those animals were fine when I left them.”
His wife rose from the fireplace and edged
closer. “That wasn’t an accusation, Joe. You don’t have to be so defensive all the time.”
The builder remained pensive and sullen.
Naomi spooned out stew into two beautifully turned wooden bowls Dan Charter had produced on his pole lathe. More than a master smith, his skill with shaping, carving and turning wood on the foot operated device of ancient design, was a joy to behold. Naomi always appreciated her interactions with him. The craftsman was quiet, gentle - mysterious in some ways. He could listen to a request for an object, then create something way beyond your expectations.
She placed a bowl of stew in front of her husband, then sat down at their tiny trestle table opposite. Joe didn’t wait for her to settle before spooning some fragrant brown liquid into his hungry mouth. His strong forearms reached forward and ripped a hunk of bread from a homemade rustic cob Naomi had baked in the community’s communal clay oven. He slurped and chewed with no regard for manners or propriety. Naomi watched him as she sipped stew from a spoon balanced in one delicate hand. Thoughts of calling the man out on his slovenly table habits, vanished from her mind. Joe flew off the handle at the least provocation these days. When they’d first arrived, he'd thrown himself into the project to build suitable community housing. It proved a helpful distraction for his broken and frustrated heart. Now things were slowing up a little on the building front, demand for his skills had lessened into fixing things and various other odd jobs. Naomi couldn’t understand why his self-esteem suffered so. Bob Mason rolled up his sleeves and dived into whatever task needed doing, without obvious complaint. True, his encyclopaedic knowledge of historical, day-to-day living had been invaluable. It still was. Knowledge that saved them from learning many lessons the hard way. But the man remained an academic of considerable calibre, applying himself to a life of drudgery and manual labour. Why couldn’t Joe make the same adjustment with such good grace?
“Needs more salt.” A chunk of bread stuck out between Joe’s teeth as he barked the nonchalant comment.
Naomi set down her spoon and rose to retrieve the salt pot from the fireplace alcove. She added a pinch to his serving.
One of her husband’s beefy biceps flexed as he jabbed a finger towards his bowl. “Bit more.”
Naomi complied, returned the salt pot and got back to her meal. She was halfway through when Joe finished, left his bowl at table and fished out a bottle of pale liquid from a box near the front door.
“Wouldn’t you rather have some herbal tea, Joe?” the woman asked.
The builder pulled out a cork from the neck and swigged straight from the bottle.
Naomi swallowed and wiped her mouth with one finger. “You’ve been taking a lot of that parsnip wine since the flock drowned.”
Joe eyed the floor. “It does the job. Pete Leonard says we should have surplus grain next year, after we harvest the second field. We’ll be able to brew some ale.”
Naomi knew criticism wasn’t going to help. She tried another tack. “The nights are drawing in now.”
The man swallowed another mouthful of homemade wine. “Clocks should go back this weekend. Not that we live by them anymore.”
His wife rose and moved towards him, engaging her best oily snake hips. The movement seemed clumsy and unnatural. “Nothing much to do on these dark nights, except listen to the wind-up radio.” She stroked the fine hairs on his beefy forearms with suggestive fingers, her eyes a picture of unblinking longing and desire. “We could save some candles and rushlights, if we got into bed early.”
“Good idea.” Joe took another swig to shake loose his wife’s hand. “I’m tired.” He walked into their bedroom still clutching the bottle and shut the door behind him.
Naomi sat on a stool next to the crackling logs by her cooking pot. The report from a periodic eruption of sparks, blended with soft weeping from the anguished homemaker.
“Good morning, Dan. Reverend Colefax.” Naomi wandered into the forge, a bundle of rushes under one arm ready for soaking in fat. Rushlights were a simpler (and smellier) alternative to candles, used for generations across the land. Inexpensive and easy to make, they provided a ready source of artificial light that became imperative during the shorter days at this time of year.
“Good Morning, Naomi.” Reverend Colefax looked up from examining a decorative iron cross with flowing scroll work. “How are you today?”
Naomi thought about responding with a positive affirmation, but that would be a lie. Empty inside, like an abandoned house with only the memory of happier years for company, she ached for connection and affection. “Soldiering on.”
The vicar straightened. “That bad? Anything I can do to help?”
“No, I don’t think so. Thank you.”
“Did you want Daniel for something?”
“Just thought I’d say hello.” She fumbled with her bundle. “When you get busy round here, life can feel lonely if you don’t reach out sometimes.”
“I see.” Colefax fixed her with a sympathetic stare that made the builder’s wife feel naked; stripped of masks and guile. “Have you seen the new grave marker Daniel has fashioned?”
“Grave marker?” Naomi took a hesitant step nearer. “Has someone died?”
The vicar chuckled. “Bless my soul, no. Sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you. One of the children from the community that restored the church, met with an untimely end. I found his crumbling wooden cross and a nameplate in the churchyard. Dan has made a proper marker from iron, which he’ll attach the plaque to. Once he’s polished it up.”
“Oh, I see.”
Dan lifted the exquisite cross, then addressed the minister. “Shall I bring it with me on Sunday?”
“Please do. We’ll hold a short re-dedication at the graveside after service. That way I won’t need to pull people away from their chores during the week.”
Naomi shifted on the spot. “Can I go?”
Stephen Colefax’s eyebrows lifted. “Certainly. If you keep an eye out for us coming out of church-”
“No, I mean to the service as well? If that’s okay?”
The vicar reached out to touch her free arm. “My dear child, you’ll be most welcome to join us. Will your husband be coming too?”
Naomi flinched. “I doubt it. He’s not keen on religion.”
“I remember from our first meeting. Pity. But, the congregation will be glad to have you along, won’t they Dan?”
The smith nodded. “Sure.”
Naomi swivelled, casting one needy glance back at the craftsman in his forge. “I’ll see you on Sunday then.”
* * *
“I’m so fucking sick of this shit. Every week I have to wash my clothes in stale piss.” Marie Craven’s outburst started to draw a crowd. She stormed out of the laundry hut, spun on her heel and roared at Constance Creek emerging behind. “Why can’t we get some solar panels and a washing machine?”
Connie placed a jug of urine on the ground and crossed her arms. “We’re embracing a simple, sustainable lifestyle. You knew that when you came here. Why is this a problem now, Marie? You’ve been here long enough.”
“Yeah, and it’s getting right up my nose. So are you, you self-righteous, snooty bitch. Just like the fucking piss.” She pushed against Connie’s chest with two flat hands, picked up the jug and sloshed its contents all over her.
Connie’s eyes flared. She balled her fists and took a step towards her adversary. Darren Clements pushed through the crowd to grab hold of his girlfriend. Martin Bradbury stepped between the two women, his usual steady, unemotional expression bringing Connie off the boil. “It’ll only make things worse, Con.”
Marie shrieked. “Dinger, let go of me. I want a piece of that cow.”
“Cool it, Angel.” The hot-headed man held her firm.
Martin shot a glance at the pair. “Can’t you take her somewhere else to calm down?”
Darren set his jaw firm. “Yeah.”
Marie attempted to windmill her arms.
Her boyfriend dragged he
r off. “If you don’t chill, I’ll bloody well show you angry.”
Maggie Leonard fetched a jug of warm water and a rag from her hut. She damped the cloth and passed it to Connie.
“Thanks.” The urine-soaked woman wiped her face and arms.
Martin turned to the crowd. “Looks like Saturday afternoon entertainment is over, folks.” He righted the discarded jug as the crowd dispersed, then addressed his co-founder. “Once Darren’s cooled her off, we’d better have a chat with them. This can’t go on, Connie. She’s getting more out of hand by the week.”
Connie pulled at her soaked blouse. “I know. When they first came here, I had my doubts about her. But Darren’s done good work, despite his temper. Marie seemed to settle for a while: learning crafts from Abigail; cutting hair. I hoped she’d make the complete switch in time. I also had high hopes after the pair bonded with Jason. He’s got such a knack for keeping them on an even keel.”
Martin rubbed his chin. “So what do you want to do?”
Connie sighed. “Is Reverend Colefax up at the church?”
“Yeah. He's preparing for morning service tomorrow, I imagine.”
“Best not disturb him. I’ll have a word in the morning. We brought the vicar in to mediate, among other things.”
“You reckon Marie will listen to him?”
“No, I don’t. But Stephen might have an objective idea how to resolve the matter in a just way. My judgement is gonna be clouded after this. What do you think?”
“Sounds reasonable. If it were up to me, I’d insist she apologise and make a commitment not to act out between now and Christmas. If she agrees, no action necessary. Otherwise, we should consult the rest of the community about showing her the door.”