Creeping Jenny

by Jeff Noon

  She handed the paper over to Nyquist. He read the words:

  Together, we have summoned the spirit of Creeping Jenny. Once known as Guinevere of the Tangled Woods, wife and true companion of Adam Clud. Our Lady with the Knotted Hair, whose hands spin and weave the threads of green that connect all things together. I have committed a crime against nature in so doing, and will be punished for it. I wish to take back all I have done. Alas, I cannot.

  She gave Nyquist a second sheet of paper. “Now this.” It read:

  I wanted only to rescue Hilda’s voice from silence. For that purpose, I made a bargain. All to no avail. And now my story is coming to an end.

  Nyquist thought of Bainbridge’s reaction to the tendril in the teacup, on that first night. He surely believed that he was looking at part of the body of Creeping Jenny, and the sight of it must have tipped him out of balance. He had overstepped the mark, and fully expected to pay for it with his soul.

  “You saw him die?”

  Agnes nodded. “I did. I watched as he made a sign of blessing with his hands. Then he took the berries one by one into his mouth. I sat there, and did nothing at all until his body stilled, until only his eyes held any semblance of life, and then they too were empty.”

  She was speaking now in a flat, dispassionate manner, reporting an incident.

  “I let the budgerigar go, and left Mr Peck behind in the bird cage as a warning to the other three, that they might know that a similar fate awaited them.”

  Nyquist didn’t say anything. He looked on as Agnes rubbed a careful, tentative finger in the ash that covered the ring of firestones. She smeared this onto her face, darkening her skin in daubs and stipples. She explained, “They say the ash of the burned mask is the best cure for the thorn bites.”

  “Who says that?”

  “The old gods of this land, and the martyrs long dead. It can be studied in the ancient books kept in the museum. Professor Bryars says it as well. And Mrs Sutton, the head mistress. The saints grant her rest. There are tales aplenty.”

  Her face suitably marked with ash, she continued: “Ian Bainbridge had given me an appropriate means of revenge. I went out in the myre wood and gathered berries and branches for myself. I had to laugh when Mad Sylvia called me Twig Stealer. For I had other, far more serious crimes in mind.”

  “You would kill Jane Sutton?”

  “No, not yet. My first victim would be Nigel Coombes. I worked with each saint, as it was chosen, improvising within the rules. And so that day I wore the mask of Alice Grey, as did all the women of the village. I was everybody, and nobody, and such disguise allowed me to sup ale with the clientele of the pub. Afterwards, I hid in the cellar and waited until all the doors were locked. For many hours I sat there, nursing my hatred. And I waited still longer after the lights went out, to be sure. I crept up the stairs. I stood over Coombes, listening to his wheezing and snoring. His sleeping face sickened me, red with drink as it was. I had with me two myre twigs, their berries still unplucked. They are at their most potent when first taken from the tree. I would pop the moonsilver into the landlord’s mouth, that was my plan, a whole handful of them, and clamp his lips shut and hold myself there as best I could as he struggled and the juice did its work on him, slowing his breath and the strength, until he gave in to me.”

  Agnes’s facial muscles were tight with rage as she brought that night back to life.

  “But I could not commit the act. I thought of his good wife, some few months dead, and his daughter, Mavis, and their grief. I remembered the family portraits Thomas had taken of them, just a few years before, all smiling in their Sunday best. And I knew that, like Mr Bainbridge, Nigel Coombes had good reason to summon an old spirit. He had a story that sorely needed mending, as only the good hands of Creeping Jenny might. So I walked out of his bedroom and I paused at your door, John, for I was curious, most curious. I had heard tell of you, of your arrival in the village, so I opened the door and stood over you with the two branches of the myre tree crossed over my face, like this, and I gazed at you through the tangled twigs and the berries ripe and moon-dusted. I felt at that moment that I actually might be the Tolly Woman, fully embodied. And I saw in your face the face that Thomas had become. The story he had told me was a true one: you were the son of George Nyquist.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  She thought for a moment and then answered, “I knew that Thomas was gone from me, probably forever.”

  Nyquist was tired. But he had to gain all the knowledge he could.

  “What about Jane Sutton?”

  “That was an easy task, for really that woman had no excuse. She desired power only, for herself and that measly, puffed up husband of hers. And do you really think a demon – ancient, real, dead, alive, or otherwise – would have any part for such things? No. Not at all.” Agnes smiled. “The saints blessed me again that day, allowing me to wear the fret as a disguise. I crept about the village at my ease, entering the school without trouble. Mrs Sutton had been teaching a class all about Creeping Jenny. I had to laugh, seeing that. Her story unfolded, and all I had to do was show her the berries, and she practically begged me to feed her. There was a little struggle, granted, but I treated her as I wanted, twisting her body into a hideous position as she succumbed to the poison. I wanted the village to see her in pain, this woman of so-called breeding. Lastly, I pressed the thorns of the myre tree against her face, in payment for Thomas’s wounds.” Agnes grimaced. “The guilt in these people runs close to the surface, as does the fear. All four of them knew by now: they had conjured a demon beyond their control.” She looked at Nyquist. “Your presence here indicates such.”

  Nyquist stood up. He took the half crown coin from his pocket. The tendril uncurled, reaching out into the air, searching for his flesh. Agnes was intrigued by the sight. She said, “I never realized the elders had gotten so far in their task.”

  “You think this coin is connected to Creeping Jenny?”

  “I have sung the songs at school and read the poems and played the skipping games. As a woman, I have prayed to her on several occasions, that she might bring a good conclusion to my story. But I’ve never seen a portion of her before. May I?”

  She took the coin from his hand and turned it this way and that.

  “I trust you know the rhyme? Mr Brown likes half a crown, but the devil takes a penny. Well you are playing Mr Brown in this drama, who represents I think the commoner.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  Agnes watched with intrigue as the tendril tried its very best to reach out towards its owner. “It wants to get back to you, look! Oh. You are a part of this ritual, Mr Nyquist, a vital part. No doubt the elders were surprised at this. They would have expected the demon to reach out for one or all of them, not a stranger to the village. Your father did well, drawing you here.”

  “How does the ritual end?”

  “I don’t know.” She handed back the half crown.

  “I have to leave you now,” he said. “I need to get back to the village.”

  Agnes gave him a gentle smile. “I believe there’s another person involved, beyond the four who gathered at the hill pool with Thomas. But I don’t know who it is.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Good. And if you find my husband, will you bring him back to me?”

  “If I can.”

  “I would like to show him the juice of the berry on my hands, the same color as blood. The blood I poisoned.”

  Nyquist set off, taking a clockwise route around Clud Tower, until after passing only five walls he came to the locked door. He walked down the pathway back into Morden Wood. He passed through the forest of naming labels, which spun and fluttered and shone in patterns of moonlight among the trees. And here his fret returned to him, a little weaker than before, but welcome. He was warmed by it, and felt safe within its comfort and glow. They would only have a short time together, man and mist, before the day ended. He made his way quickly to
Hoxley-on-the-Hale. Midnight chimed softly on the church clock as he entered the village and his fret faded once more, seeping into his body, treating each and every pore as a doorway. It had served him well. Back in his room at the public house, he turned on the gas fire and poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle at his bedside. He remembered for the first time in hours the wound he had taken. The bandage was still clean but he could feel the dull ache of his injury. He thought about tomorrow and what it might bring, that he might at last find his father, or the man who had taken on his image at the least. His other self moved in the mirror. Half known, half unknown. But no eye contact was made. Instead, Nyquist stood at the sink and washed a pair of socks and the neck and armpits of his favorite shirt, the one with the embroidered collar and cuffs. He’d worn it on his first day here. How long ago that seemed! And now here he was, his hands warm from the soap and water, scrubbing away. Life in exile. He hung the shirt and socks in front of the fire and sat up a while longer, smoking a cigarette and sipping at the Scotch. The alcohol calmed him. His left hand played with the half crown, allowing the green tendril to tickle and cling at his fingers. Two steps forward, one step back, widdershins, widdershins, turn and clap. The tendril dug into his flesh. He sang with a low voice, in a whisper: Call for Jimmy and call for Jack, Creeping Jenny is at my back. The story was pulling him closer. He turned off the fire and switched off the light and crawled into bed. His eyes had barely closed before he was taken away by a deep fathomless sleep.

  A SONG IN THE NIGHT SKULL

  It was two hours before dawn on the next day, Tuesday. Not a single light was seen in any of the houses. The only movement on the high street was a cat slinking along, the world her own to enjoy. Inside the silent church two people, a brother and sister, were conducting a simple ceremony. A third person, their great-grandmother, lay prone on a stone table. Her name was Ethel Clegg. She was very old, ages old, with not one portion of her skin left unwrinkled. Her eyes were rheumy, stained black beneath, and her breath wheezed in her lungs. She was thin to the point of being sunken into herself so that very little was left of her body. Her clothes were rags and her fingernails were two inches long, with enamel the exact same color as her hair: piss yellow. Her great-grandchildren stood near, waiting for her to speak. At last she did so. The man bent down closely to hear the whisper of her voice. Ethel’s breath was not unpleasant, holding the scent of juniper and earth and cat fur.

  A saint’s name was spoken.

  A few minutes later the two people exited the church and walked the pathway between the gravestones, the beams of their torches guiding them, until they split at the bridge, the woman taking the road to Lower Hoxley, the man continuing onto the high street. Gordon Clegg wore a long gray overcoat and a bowler hat, and he carried in his shoulder bag a number of envelopes, all identical, one for each household in Hoxley-on-the-Hale. His sister Maureen was performing a similar task for the village further down the valley. And so between them, the siblings made sure that every letterbox received its due delivery.

  At half past six in the morning an alarm clock went off in the master bedroom of The Swan With Two Necks, waking Nigel Coombes. Yawning, he pulled on his dressing gown and went downstairs to the hall, where he stooped, groaning a little, to pick up the envelope from the doormat. He read the name of the saint written on the card inside, and wondered how the choice would affect his day, and his plans. The ritual would be delayed. He thought of his late wife, the lovely Gladys, as he made his way down to the cellar where he kept his collection of homemade icons, an identical pair for each of the 360 saints. Coombes arranged them by the date of their martyrdom, an order he knew as well as the price of a pint of beer. He picked up the two icons for Saint Yorick. One of these he gave pride of place on a shelf above the main bar, and the other he placed in the guest room. The icon was lying prone, his finely modelled hands folded over his chest in a gesture of repose. Likewise, John Nyquist was still asleep. Coombes looked down at him for a few seconds, considering the bountiful pleasure it would give to strangle the intruder, just because of all the questions the detective had been asking, and the trouble caused, and Ian and Jane dead by their own hands. Damn it. Everything was going wrong, and yet he’d been promised so much, so very much! But it seemed that Mr Nyquist was important to their plans, so the landlord turned away from the bed. His eye passed over the bedside cabinet where a half crown lay. Coombes took note of the coiled green tendril that covered the profile of the king, and he sighed deeply. Another bloody job to do! With careful fingers he lifted up the coin and carried it downstairs. The tendril waved about, angry at being taken away. It made the landlord shudder, even to think that Creeping Jenny might touch his skin. Ruddy hell, but he’d be glad when this was over! In the back garden of the pub he used a trowel to dig into a flower bed, unearthing the metal box he had buried there yesterday. Usually he kept the night’s takings in the box, but at the moment it held a more precious commodity. He placed the half crown alongside the other three objects – the book of birds, the teacup, and the Enfield revolver – and he locked the box once more and reburied it, hearing all the time the noise of the four tendrils as they clawed at the dark interior, struggling to reach their only goal: John Nyquist. It was not to be. Not yet, at least. Coombes made his way back to his own bedroom. He climbed back into bed, and was quickly asleep. He had a lot of dreaming to do.

  Over the next hour, more and more Hoxleyites woke up and found the envelope on their doormats. They too placed the icon of Yorick on window ledges, sideboards or on special display stands. Many people went straight back to bed after doing this, while others stayed up for as long as they could. Some villagers had been asleep the whole morning, being retired or alone, with no early commitments: they would fall under the saint’s authority without knowing it, blissfully ignorant of what was about to happen.

  The milkman delivered the milk, the postman delivered the mail. Some of the letters and bills were read; others lay on the doormats untouched. People had their breakfasts and chatted idly as though this were an entirely ordinary day. Nobody got ready for work.

  In Yew Tree Cottage, Hilda Bainbridge sat at her kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea and eating a slice of toast. A photograph of her husband Ian was propped up in front of her. Tomorrow she would bury him. Gerald Sutton took a different approach to grief: he had been up and about since a quarter past six that morning, planning a full day’s work, hoping to lose himself in labor. So the opening of the envelope had saddened him at first, but after a minute or so he welcomed the news. A different kind of escape awaited him.

  In her surgery on the high street, Doctor Higgs was making telephone calls, canceling all her appointments. Her patients would have to wait; and anyway, no one ever grew ill on Saint Yorick’s Day. In the Fairclough household on Hawkshead Lane, young Becca and Teddy slept on in their respective bedrooms. Teddy was out of work, and school had been canceled for the day, after the death of the headmistress, and so neither brother nor sister had any reason to get up early. In contrast, Professor Bryars had been awake since seven o’clock. She knew precisely what the day entailed, and was happily turning the pages of an old ledger, studying the names of the villagers of yesteryear and imagining their lives, the good and bad days they must’ve suffered as one saint after another took charge of them. How blessed we are, she thought, to live in such a place, and to never be satisfied with the everyday. To never know what tomorrow might bring. It makes each waking a new adventure! The corner shop had opened at eight in the morning as normal, but Mrs Featherstonehaugh was now locking the door and putting the CLOSED sign in the window. The shop had been open for just fifty-five minutes. It was almost nine o’clock. She made her way back up to her little bedroom and started to get undressed. In the cold of the church, the vicar lit the votive candle that stood in front of the Saint Yorick’s icon.

  In his room above The Swan With Two Necks, John Nyquist slept on.

  As the top of the hour approached, a h
ush fell over the streets and lanes of Hoxley-on-the-Hale. Here and there a straggler was seen, an unfortunate person who had been caught out by events, or who did not for some reason know of Yorick’s reign over the day. Maybe they saw an icon in a window and hurried to get home, panicking. By now nearly everybody was either in bed, or sitting in an easy chair, awaiting the first chime of the clock. Most were asleep, but some were still awake, enjoying these last few seconds of conscious thought. Doctor Higgs was one such. She had dismissed her maid for the day and was now settling into her favorite armchair in the living room. She arranged her limbs comfortably, her hands in her lap. Her face expressed an amount of worry. She thought of the argument she’d had with John Nyquist, and wondered for not the first time whether she had made a mistake with this undertaking. But no matter now, events were on their course. Her eyelids were growing heavy.

  The church clock called out the hour.

  On the ninth chime the doctor fell asleep.

  Simultaneously, all the other villagers fell into sleep.

  In Puzzle Lane an old man didn’t quite make it to his front door and he collapsed to the roadside and remained there, curled up in a ball. The same thing happened to a young woman in Lower Hoxley, her body folding to the ground in the comparative safety of her garden. All the cats and dogs of both villages were also in slumber, wherever nine o’clock happened to find them, inside or out. In bowls and aquaria goldfish were hanging in midwater, unmoving. In his birdcage in Yew Tree Cottage, Bertie slept peacefully, clinging to his perch, his head tucked into the feathers of a wing.