Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  She leant forward and whispered, as if she didn’t want the children to hear. ‘It started at Edward Cooper’s house, as I said. Everyone took fright, and several people left. The Reverend Mompesson urged his own wife to take away his children, but she wouldn’t go.’

  I frowned. ‘The Reverend is married?’

  I stepped left and she stepped right, carefully maintaining the distance between us. ‘Yes, he is married. Catherine is kindly. Since the plague, though, she has been sickly and weak. I think she mourns her children.’ She read our faces, quickly. ‘They are not dead. The Reverend sent them away before the quarantine.’

  ‘He sent away his children and ruled no one else could leave,’ I snorted.

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t rule it. He spoke to us in church one Sunday. He had already consulted with the Mayor of Colchester, who agreed to provide us with supplies if we pledged to remain within the village boundaries. He persuaded us it was our Christian duty, told us God would look kindly upon us.’ She bowed her head again in sadness.

  ‘Who then hath forsaken him?’ Dowling asked, bemused. ‘For doth he not smite ye all down?’

  ‘Not all of us,’ she snapped back, eyes wide and white. Her lip trembled and her body shook. Tears flowed like streams. ‘My family remains faithful to our Lord. We pray to him morn and night. We came here to Robert’s grave. We have been to the grave of every person who died in Shyam.’

  ‘Edward Cooper died more than a year ago,’ I said softly, willing her to be calm.

  As she nodded, I saw in her eyes the extent to which the last twelve months wore at her spirit. ‘It changed the day the Reverend closed the church,’ she spoke at last. ‘More than twenty died in October. Reverend Mompesson said we should no longer congregate in the church. He said we should come together once a week, out in the open air where we can maintain distance between us, where the wind blows through us. He said the graveyard was full and we should bury our own on our own land, and should mourn our own, on our own.’

  And so the community began to die.

  ‘The Reverend stayed in his house,’ she said. ‘No one knew what was going on in the village, for Thomas Elks told everyone to stay at home. I went to Town Head one day, when I heard a rumour John Smythe had died. Thomas Elks stopped me before Fiddler’s Bridge and made me turn around. Said he would put me in the cage if he saw me again so far from home.’

  An apple hit the ground, making me jump. The little boy forgot his fear and ran over to pick up the fruit. He bit into it before anyone could stop him. His face lit up and juice dripped from the side of his mouth. My soul cried out, though I knew not why. The boy gazed towards us, stood by himself apart from his mother.

  ‘Edward Thornley was afraid,’ she exclaimed. ‘It was his only sin. His wife and seven children all died and he buried them himself. All he had left was his daughter.’ She looked up at Dowling. ‘Didn’t he deserve compassion?’

  Dowling nodded, solemn.

  ‘Mompesson said he must go in the cage. The day they imprisoned him, six others tried to escape, the Thorpes and the Talbots. The sight of Edward, sat squashed inside those iron bars, like some dreadful criminal. That was when we knew the evil was entirely upon us, that God had indeed forsaken us.’

  ‘What reason did Mompesson give?’ I asked.

  ‘He said nothing,’ she said. ‘We see him only once a week when he delivers the service at the Delf. Catherine sits at the front and never takes her eyes off him. He speaks, but not to us.’

  ‘He speaks to God, then.’ Dowling nodded. ‘Afraid to ask what sin he committed, for fear of the Lord’s vengeance.’

  She reached for her son, who finished the apple. ‘You are right, sir. He fears God has forsaken him, so do we all. More than forty people have died this month already, twenty this week. At this rate we shall all be dead by the middle of October.’ She gripped her apron in her hands, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I have six children.’

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Mary Hancock,’ she replied. ‘My son, John. My daughter, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Where is your husband?’ Dowling asked.

  ‘At home,’ she replied, lifting her chin. ‘He is a gentle man, a good man. He is strong and will lead us through this.’

  Eight of them, I calculated, of a hundred who still lived.

  Tears filled her eyes and she fell to her knees, head in her hands. The two children knelt down next to her and stroked her arms. Dowling crouched on his haunches and tried to catch her attention.

  She looked up at him, eyes shining. ‘Katherine Talbot was my sister. I saw her in the cage this morning, dead.’

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The mists rolled down the slope. The sun shone yellow through the canopy. I saw a shadow next to a tree, twenty yards away, a man watching.

  ‘Someone else arrived here two weeks ago,’ I said quickly. ‘James Josselin?’

  She didn’t reply, just wept, shoulders heaving. The figure sidled forwards into the light.

  ‘Mary!’ a reedy voice shrilled. Not the voice of a man, nor the voice of a woman.

  As he drew closer we saw his body, crooked, twisted and bent. His eyes boggled, wild and darting, rimmed thick red. His mouth hung half open and his shoulders twitched. Black hair hung lank in the cold, moist air, shapeless and uneven. He approached Mary Hancock in a long arc, avoiding our presence.

  ‘Mary,’ he whispered, stepping forwards and backwards, dancing upon a small spot of ground. Her husband, I supposed. A gentle man indeed, but what strength he once possessed departed long ago.

  I looked away, discomfited by their awkward intimacy.

  Mary Hancock looked up from the ground, eyes bright. ‘Why do you ask of James Josselin?’

  ‘We heard he came here,’ I replied, noticing something protruding from the dirt.

  ‘James Josselin has not been here for ten years,’ she replied, accepting the dishevelled fellow’s assistance in climbing back to her feet. ‘You say he is returned?’ She seemed to grow afore us, body unwinding from the cramped strictures with which she bound herself.

  ‘So it is rumoured,’ I answered, afraid I might raise new expectation.

  ‘Then we are saved,’ she exclaimed, clutching at the man’s shirt. ‘James Josselin is a saint. He saved Colchester from Cromwell, and will save us from Thomas Elks.’

  ‘Shh!’ The man tugged at her sleeve, scanning the trees with frightened eyes.

  ‘Hush to you,’ she retorted, pulling herself free of his grasping hands. ‘Thomas Elks will frighten us no more. We must make ready to leave.’

  I thought to clarify that mine was a question, not a promise, but she bustled and twitched with a mad hope that would not be satisfied by cold reason. She dragged her family back towards the thick brume.

  ‘Where does Elks live?’ I called after her.

  ‘At his brother’s house, past the church, by Fiddler’s Bridge.’

  She turned and disappeared into the white wall, dragging her family with her. The last I saw of them were the two little children, legs pumping as they struggled to keep up.

  Dowling grunted, poking in the dirt of the grave with his finger. Then he exclaimed a short growl of quiet satisfaction. ‘This is what distracted you.’ He held forth the battered petals of a red rose, tied to a short wooden cross. ‘The cross is the crucifixion,’ he said. ‘The rose signifies the five wounds of Christ.’

  I trawled my memory. ‘A Roman thing.’

  ‘Rome come to Shyam,’ Dowling mused, prodding at the velvet petals with monstrous finger. ‘The evil unto Eden.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The figure of the Sun giveth warning both of external and internal plots.

  Within an hour the fog lifted, revealing the full splendour of the imposing forest surrounds. Buxton’s house nestled at the top of a small green field above an orchard below. Further down the hill ran another field before a bank of forest. It appeared Robert Buxton had owned just th
e one cow, for the field stood empty, save for a wide bare trough.

  Behind us the field narrowed towards a wooden gate, surrounded on both sides by thick blackberry bushes. Birds sang and the sun shone bright amidst a new, blue sky, an innocent backdrop to the malevolent drama in which we were embroiled. Behind the gate the high street, dry, dusty, and silent.

  I walked up the slope and peered over the gate. ‘Elks did say we might live freely.’

  Dowling squeezed past and stepped onto the road, facing west. ‘I say we talk to Elks.’

  ‘Did you not hear Mary Hancock?’ I protested. ‘He will lock us in the cage. I say we go everywhere except Elks’ house. Speak to others in the village and ask if they have seen Josselin.’

  ‘Harry.’ Dowling said my name like he spoke to a small child. ‘The village is plagued and you would wander the streets knocking on doors? There is no better method I can think of by which to find the Pest.’

  ‘We must avoid Elks at all costs,’ I replied, angered.

  ‘Yet he is the first we shall meet if we follow your plan.’ Dowling spoke so sweet I felt like punching him on the nose.

  ‘Then what is your idea?’ I answered, angry.

  Dowling sighed. ‘If Josselin is in Shyam, then likely Elks is the only one who knows it,’ he argued. ‘Josselin is a hero in these parts. If they thought he resided here, they would react same as Mary Hancock. Elks knows that. So if Josselin came to Shyam seeking sanctuary, and Elks saw him first, then …’ He shrugged.

  ‘If Elks killed Josselin he is unlikely to confess it to us,’ I retorted.

  ‘He may not confess it, but it would be interesting to see his response.’

  I scratched my head, uncertain what to do. ‘About as interesting as renewing acquaintance with Withypoll.’

  ‘We will go to Elks’ house, at least,’ Dowling insisted. ‘If he is there, we can turn back. If not, at least we might find some sign that Josselin’s been this way.’

  Had we not found Josselin’s book upon the road this puzzle would seem simpler. ‘We don’t know where to find Elks’ house.’

  ‘We will find it,’ Dowling declared, striding off down the middle of the street.

  I hurried after him, casting glances at the shadowy buildings looming out of the thinning mists. No one moved or made a sound. Were the occupants of all these houses dead?

  At my insistence we left the road once we neared the church, following the graveyard wall round and into the trees. The forest closed in upon us once more. Trees reached over gravestones, protecting them from the worst of the summer heat. Long tendrils of ivy crept silently up and over the wall, entangling whole stones in their stifling embrace. There appeared no clear path for us to follow. Dowling burrowed through the undergrowth, rattling trees and destroying bushes. If there was anyone even close to the church they could not help but notice our presence.

  At last we emerged upon the other side of the village, scratched and dishevelled, in a small clearing not ten paces from the road. Another path led off to the left.

  I recalled the words of the landlady who spat upon my shoes. ‘Past Elks’ house is a thicket. His house stands halfway between the church and William Braine’s house,’ I remembered. ‘Braine’s house cannot be far if Town Head is just over the bridge. So Elks’ house must be close, and we must be close to the thicket.’

  ‘I reckon we’re in the thicket,’ said Dowling. ‘So we take the path to the left and watch for cottages.’

  ‘It leads down to the Delf,’ I realised. ‘Out of the village. They will arrest us if we are caught.’

  ‘You prefer the road?’

  ‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I was just saying.’

  ‘Stop!’ Dowling held up a hand. He lifted his nose to the air and narrowed his eyes, listening to the wind in the trees.

  I heard nothing, nor smelt anything.

  ‘Someone is following us,’ he said at last. ‘He hangs back behind, watching.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I hear him shuffling.’

  I strained my own ears but could hear nothing specific. ‘A bird or an animal.’

  Dowling shook his head.

  ‘Who, then?’ I wondered, nervous. ‘It can’t be Elks; he would have arrested us as soon as we set foot on that path.’

  Dowling stared thoughtfully towards the road. ‘I doubt he will show himself.’

  To return the way we came would be pointless. To step out on the road so close to the church would attract the attention of all. ‘We carry on,’ I decided.

  Dowling headed left, sweeping aside loose branches clawing at his clothes. I followed, bracing myself against surprise attack.

  The path fell off steeply and I almost tripped as we clambered down a bank, tearing the skin of my face against a stray thorn, but then it flattened and broadened out onto the forest floor. The tangled bushes disappeared, replaced by a wide expanse of trees, the ground between them covered only with leaves and low scrub.

  ‘Come on,’ Dowling beckoned, pointing to a fallen trunk. ‘We’ll lie behind it and see who comes.’

  I hurried after him and lay against the grassy floor. I watched from between a cleft in the dead wood at one end of the log, Dowling watched from the other.

  ‘This must be where Josselin brought Elks’ dog,’ I whispered.

  ‘If that is indeed what happened,’ Dowling replied, gruff. ‘We have only the word of a foul-tempered landlady.’

  A large spider stepped onto my sleeve and crept carefully across my wrist.

  ‘There,’ Dowling whispered. ‘Someone has reached the edge of the bushes.’

  I saw nothing. Perhaps the bushes trembled a bit.

  ‘He’s not sure,’ Dowling said.

  His eyes were at least twenty years older than mine, so how could he see what I couldn’t? Maybe he was going mad. I eyed him sideways, saw him squinting intently.

  ‘It can’t be anyone local,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t dare descend into the Delf.’

  ‘It’s a man,’ Dowling murmured. ‘Dressed a bit like you.’

  Then I saw him, a lean fellow with cropped scalp, wearing a linen shirt and close-fitting breeches above brown, leather riding boots. A simple costume well cut. A sword hung from his belt, gleaming dull in the low light beneath the forest canopy. He stepped out onto the leafy floor like a mouse venturing from beneath a cupboard, then scanned the scene afore him before hurrying down the track.

  ‘Who the devil is it?’ Dowling muttered. ‘Some trick of Arlington’s?’

  ‘Most likely,’ I replied. ‘Send two spies in to do a job, then another spy to spy on the spies.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Dowling. ‘Yet he treads less fearfully than we do. Why does he not worry about Elks?’

  ‘Because he works for Elks.’

  ‘Then why does he not rally reinforcements to catch us before we make an escape through the Delf?’ He shook his head. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘We should follow him and find out,’ I suggested, heart pounding.

  ‘He will hear you coming a hundred yards away,’ said Dowling, which remark left me speechless, coming from such a great elephant.

  We lay there upon the forest floor for another hour or more, waiting to see if he would return, which he did not.

  By the time I stood, I was soaked to the skin with morning dew. Dowling staggered to his feet like an old man, and we crept down the same path where walked the stranger. The village lay off to our right, hidden behind a thick row of more linden trees. Another fifty yards on the path led downwards again, into the depths of the green dell.

  I turned back. ‘We have come too far. The house must be closer to the street than we hoped.’

  Dowling took a few steps off the track. ‘It cannot be too far, else Josselin would not have thought to bring the dog here. There must be a cottage just inside the row of trees with easy passage out into the forest. We just need to look closer.’ He led us up to the treeline and we backtracked towards the church.r />
  Not more than twenty strides back we found the passage, branches from either side grown into each other to form a tight tunnel. The entrance was overgrown and the pathway covered in long grass. The cottage sat tucked inside the trees, perched upon a shallow rise. All was quiet.

  I felt naked when we stepped out onto the grass and scampered to the rear of the building, away from the windows. Dowling followed, crouched over like a great bear.

  ‘I cannot think he would be at home,’ I said, hopefully.

  ‘He has to sleep some time,’ Dowling replied.

  I edged closer to the glass window and plucked up courage to peer through it. I had an unblocked view from the back of house through to the front. In front of a fireplace, to my right, stood a single, wooden chair with tall back and no discernible legs, like it had been hewn from a single stump of wood. To the left, two long, wooden shelves bearing various pots and plates. Further to the left a narrow, wooden staircase led upstairs. If Elks was here, he would be in bed. A long, wooden chest sat low under the window ahead of me, next to the front door.

  ‘The kitchen table is clear,’ I said. ‘If he has just gone to bed, I reckon he would have eaten something first and left it to later to clear up.’

  ‘Not everyone is like you, Harry,’ Dowling replied.

  He reminded me of Jane. It was she who cleared up after me, she who kept me fed and watered. I considered again her strange behaviour the night I left. I had never seen her cry before, not even in Cocksmouth. When I went to her room she insisted I lie next to her and let her rest her head on my arm.

  Dowling nudged me aside and peered through the window himself. ‘No one has been home for several days,’ he said, confident. ‘I wonder if we have the right house.’

  He headed round to the front of the building and I followed close behind. The main street hid from view behind high bushes, taller than a man. Such a peaceful little cottage, I reflected. Not how I would have imagined the house of Hugh Elks, nor his brother after him.

  The front door creaked upon its hinges as Dowling pushed it, unlocked.