Feathers in the Fire

by Catherine Cookson

  There was a ground mist over the land and his head just came above it; as he bobbed along on his crutches, he appeared to be swimming in it. He was careful when going along the Tor path for there was a drop on the off side, not over steep, but enough to keep you rolling until you reached the valley bottom should you step off the road at certain points.

  He left the ground mist behind when he took the Tor path, and when he reached the top the sky had a warm glow to it, although as yet he couldn’t see the sun.

  It wasn’t the first time he had been on the Tor at dawn; since his first visit the Tor had held a fascination for him. But when up here he liked to be alone, even Jane’s company irked him. He seldom dreamt when in bed but he always dreamt up here. The Tor soothed him, brought him peace, and gave him a sense of power. He knew it had a power all its own. And this seemed proved to him one day when, the rain pouring down on the hills around, the sun still shone on to the top of the Tor and it remained dry. And there were days when it matched his black moods, when the rest of the surrounding country was bathed in light, but dark clouds remained stationary shadowing the Tor rocks, tinting their hue to the despair in his mind.

  He knew the history of the hills: the mud-rocks, beaten by time into slate; these would take grass and wear it like a cloak, whereas the slates born of volcanic lava were as cold and hard to the buttocks as steel. But his Tor, like a human being, was a mixture. The north side above the path was made up in part of loose scree; yellow or grey or black according to the light; put a wrong foot on it and away you went tumbling down into the road. But on the top, like a soft mantle studded here and there with rock gems, were great stretches of turf, moss and lichen, which sloped down south-west to a wooded area.

  But he wasn’t interested this morning in the softer aspects of the Tor. What took his attention was a cluster of boulders, eight in all, situated about twelve feet from where the land dropped at its steepest to the road below. As a child he had played in and out of these boulders, chasing Jane and being chased by her. There was one he could rock back and forward. When he was seven years he stood as high as it; now he could support himself by leaning his arm on it, and he often did while rocking it gently.

  There had, in the past three years, been two rockfalls from the Tor, both occurring after prolonged periods of rain. The last fall had blocked the road to a height of ten feet and some of the fall had spilled down into the valley below. A good job, everyone said, it had happened during the night, for someone might have been coming round the bend, and then it would have been a bad lookout for them.

  He walked on his crutches to within two feet of the edge of the rock and above the point at which the road below began its curve around the base of the Tor. The rock, shale here, was slack in parts. There was a deep split, a two-inch crevasse, not more than a foot from the edge. A few boulders placed on the outer part could bring it down . . . but perhaps at the wrong time. They would have to be placed just this side of the crevasse. But how to get them this far.

  He went back to the boulders and rocked his favourite stone, but try as he might he couldn’t budge it. Yet when he tried the same manoeuvre on the one to the side he was greatly surprised when he found he could move it with comparative ease.

  Within a short space of time he had moved four boulders to within four feet of the edge of the rock, and then he sat back and surveyed his handiwork. If the combined weight of them didn’t cause a slide, one of them alone, toppled at the right moment, could send a pony and trap, or a horse and rider, skiting down into the valley below.

  Now on all fours, he scrambled to the very edge and peered over, and as he stared down he had a vivid picture of his father looking up at him that split second before the boulder hit him, and he anticipated the feeling the picture would give him when it took on reality.

  The feeling that he had for his father, which was bred of hate, would at times take on a raging feeling of lust for revenge. Apparently small things could awaken this feeling, such as the sight of Winnie carrying in the cover dishes to the dining room, or his father throwing a leg over a horse.

  He had known before he left Jane last night what he intended to do; the only question now was when – it was all a matter of time. There was only one snag that he could see. His father didn’t always take the Tor road; but if he was going to the Reeds he’d surely come this way for it was the nearest road to the village, and the Reeds lived beyond the village.

  He shambled back, picked up his crutches and stood looking at the boulders. If Jane should come up here before he could carry out his intentions, then he would suggest that it was the work of some of the village lads, they had been up to their pranks. It was well known that they came poaching. But he wasn’t worried about Jane, he could always convince Jane of anything he wished.

  It was Thursday night, his father had been out twice and had not used the Tor road, neither going nor coming. He had waited through the long twilight last night, even until it was dark. Jane had questioned him as to where he had been, and he had snapped at her, ‘Let go my halter,’ and had felt little contrition when he saw the tears coming into her eyes.

  His father had returned at nine o’clock this evening from wherever he had been, and was now in the sitting room drinking; and he would be there until midnight. Or perhaps not. He recollected that over the past few nights he had come upstairs to bed a little earlier; perhaps, he thought, he didn’t need so much drink now he had comfort in anticipating the pleasures of a young wife. What a pity he didn’t get drunk enough to fall downstairs and break his neck . . .

  The thought brought his body slowly upright where he sat in the leather chair before the low toilet table that held a standing mirror. In the candlelight he looked at his reflection. His eyes were slowly widening, his lower jaw drooping. He leaned forward and stared at his face. It was a habit with him. He had spent a great deal of time over the years looking at his face. He knew it was an extraordinary face, very uncommon, beautiful in a way. His mouth was full-lipped and looked tender, his nose was straight, his cheekbones flat, and his eyes, his eyes were really extraordinary. He knew he resembled neither of his parents, nor yet any of his forebears. Jane had introduced him to the two albums of forebears when he was very young. ‘That is your grandmother McBain; and that is your grandfather McBain. That is your great-grandfather McBain and that is your great-grandmother McBain. And that is your grandmother Lawson and that is your grandfather Lawson.’ On and on. She had always stressed his claim to his forebears to make up to him for the lack of his parents, who had been as dead to him from the day he was born.

  He had, over the years, worked out for himself the comforting thought that perhaps he was a changeling, a being from some other existence, another world where no-one had legs, just short appendages thrusting out from the hips. The feeling of difference from those around him was emphasised when he was visited by strange and weird ideas, ideas more fearsome than those in the stories of Mr Edgar Allan Poe, ideas that would have horrified Parson Hedley had he voiced them, for Mr Poe had never thought up ideas so macabre as the ones his mind prescribed for his father.

  And now his thinking had offered him a solution, not a very original one he admitted, but it could, like the landslide from the Tor, be set down as an accident. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it in the first place.

  He slid down from the chair and, going to the door, opened it slightly and listened. He did not expect to hear any sounds. Jane had gone to bed early with toothache; Winnie had given her some herb tea and a dose of laudanum, she would be fast asleep by now.

  He turned and peered through the candlelight at the clock on the mantelpiece. It said ten to eleven. Swiftly now he sat down and pulled off his soft leather shapeless boots. He was about to take off his coat when he changed his mind, thinking, no, he might have to lie there for some time and it would act as a pad against the wood.

  As s
ilently as a cat, and not unlike some huge animal, he went along the passage and down the stairs, across the landing and down the other four steps on to the main landing. When he reached Jane’s door he stood for a moment and listened; then he went on to the top of the stairhead.

  There was a table to the left-hand side on which stood a lamp. Its wick, only half turned up, gave a dim glow to the head of the stairs. He turned it down lower still. At the right-hand side against the open balustrade, that gave to part of the landing the effect of a miniature gallery, stood a heavy wooden monk’s chair. Gently, he eased it a foot further until the stout back was within a few inches from the square upright post that ran from the ground floor up past the head of the stairs to the ceiling above and acted as a support for the lintel beam placed about two feet from the ceiling.

  Pulling himself on to the chair, he stood peering up at the lintel. It was a replica, or more correctly the mother and father of the one in Winnie’s cottage. Since the sailor had first introduced him to it, it had become a practice that whenever he was in the cottage one or the other of them would lift him up and he would swing from the beam. Often, as he had on that first day, refusing to come down, he would lie, his head hanging over the side, laughing at them. But he had stopped swinging from the beam when he was nine or ten because he had become too heavy for them to lift.

  This beam was more than twice the width of the one in Winnie’s cottage and he had no doubt that once up he would rest comfortably on it. But it was the getting up; he had only his arms to rely on.

  The back of the monk’s chair was about six inches higher than the top of the balustrade. It was made of black bog oak and the top horizontal rail was flat, but he knew that even if this supported him there would be more than four feet to go before he could reach the beam. He himself stood exactly four feet from the end of his stumps to the top of his head. His arms extended, measuring from the top of his head to his wrist, would give him another foot or so. But the point was he wouldn’t be able to extend his arms, his arms would have to act as legs and grip the post while supporting his weight, and his body would then be concertinaed. He could grip tight with his stumps if he could get the object between them, but this post was too wide for that. Once he left the support of the chair he’d have a perilous foot to traverse, he could hang and swing from a bough like a monkey and slide down a tree, but he had never attempted to climb up one, fearing that the feat would end in defeat, and he couldn’t countenance defeat.

  He heard a movement somewhere in the distance below him, and it acted like a starting pistol. He flung his arms upwards and to the side, and as he gripped the post his body swung into mid-air. When he felt himself beginning to slide he spread his stumps as wide as it was possible for them to go, and when each one pressed tight against a corner of the wood the pressure was like a hot iron searing his flesh, but it checked his descent. Drawing in a deep gulp of air, he moved his arms upwards once, twice; and then he thrust out a hand and clutched the top of the lintel. He had made it, he was safe. Letting go the other hand, he encircled the beam with his arms, then slowly drew himself up on to the top of it, and there he lay breathing heavily, one cheek pressed tight against the wood.

  After a moment he moved cautiously, easing his body into a more comfortable position for the wait, however long it be . . .

  It was longer than he anticipated, long enough to make him realise that he wouldn’t be able to swing forward from this beam, for it was too wide for him to grip with a single hand; he’d have to join his hands over the top of it if he wanted to put force into his body. He also realised that his movements must be swift; he must not expose himself until his father reached at least the fourth step from the top. Then he would swing sideways and catch him on the third or the second step.

  By the time the clock in the hall struck half-past eleven his body was becoming cramped, and he knew that he could not lie like this much longer. Nor could he ease his position on the beam, for his previous movements had brought him in contact with nails. The lintel, he discovered, was a fake as to its width. Below it appeared like one massive piece of wood but he had found it was made up of two beams nailed and bolted together in parts. Moreover it was thick with dust; twice he had to pinch his nose to stop himself from sneezing.

  As the clock struck a quarter to twelve he heard a door open, then close, and footsteps coming across the hall. He did not see his father until he was actually mounting the stairs, for McBain had stopped to turn out the lamp in the hall. His body stiffened; he raised it slightly upwards and watched the oncoming figure.

  McBain had his head down, looking at each stair as if deep in thought. His step was steady, for his drinking had been moderate. He left the sixth step and it was on the fifth that something caused him to raise his head and look up, and the cry escaped him when he lifted his foot and put it on the fourth stair. But it was throttled in his throat as the stumps of his son’s legs caught him under the chin and lifted him into the air and sent him tumbling to the foot of the stairs.

  Jane was awakened by a scream and someone shouting. Or had she been dreaming? She’d had a nightmare. The pain from her toothache was gone but her head was very fuzzy. What was it? She lifted her legs slowly out of the bed and sat on the side of it. She was sure she’d heard someone call out. Had something happened to Amos? But what could happen to Amos?

  She stumbled across the room, not bothering to put on her dressing gown, and opened the door and looked out on to the landing. The light was still burning but it was dim and she couldn’t see very far. She glanced towards the stairs that led from the landing to the next floor; then she turned her head slowly and looked towards the head of the main staircase. Could it have been her father calling?

  At the top of the stairhead she stood peering down. Then she was crying aloud as she raced down the stairs. ‘Oh Father! Father!’ She had her joined hands tight against her mouth as she stared down at the contorted figure at the foot.

  McBain was lying half on his side, half on his back. One leg was twisted underneath him, the other was across the bottom stair. His arms looked at strange angles; his face was deadly white, his eyes were closed. There was no sign of blood on him. She cupped his head in her hands as she moaned, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ She looked wildly about her into the dark hall. Then laying his head back, she raced up the stairs again, across the landing, calling all the while, ‘Amos! Amos!’ She burst open his door, ‘Amos! Amos!’

  There was no light. She groped her way to the bed and shook him. ‘Amos, wake up! Amos!’

  He grunted, saying, ‘Wh-at is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Father . . . Father, he’s fallen downstairs. Get up, get up and go for Winnie. Go for the boys. Quick! quick!’

  ‘How . . . how did he . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, only get up.’

  ‘Is . . . is he dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, I think so. Amos! Amos! please, don’t ask questions, just get up and go for Winnie and get the boys, he’ll have to be moved. Hurry, he’s all twisted up . . . Come on.’

  She went out of the room and he allowed a short time to elapse, time enough for her to imagine he was getting into his clothes, before he went out and down the stairs. Without an upward glance he passed under the beam, and when he reached the foot of the stairs he rested on his crutches and looked at the figure lying there and felt not the smallest spark of contrition.

  Before he stepped over his father he asked again of her, ‘Is he dead?’ and she answered, ‘His heart is still beating, but faintly. Amos, please, will you hurry!’

  He hobbled away on his crutches, and as he was going out of the door she shouted at him, ‘Please, Amos.’

  He did not hurry as he crossed the yard, nor as he went up the road to the cottage. He decided to go to Winnie’s first and was surprised when he passed the window to see a light through the shutter,
and as he knocked on the door his surprise mounted at the sound of voices and laughter coming from within.

  The door was opened by old Sep, who gaped at him, asking, ‘What’s it, Master Amos, what’s it?’

  ‘Father, he’s hurt, he fell down the stairs. Jane says to call the boys.’ He looked beyond Sep and into the room. In the reflection of the lamplight and bright firelight he saw Winnie standing by the chair in which the sailor was seated.

  He would have recognised the sailor by his clothes if not by his face. It was more than ten years since he had seen him, but the memory of him had always remained fresh in his mind; twice the sailor had given him life, and through water; first saving him from Molly and the pool, and then rescuing him from the burn. He lifted his crutches over the threshold and stared towards the man who was staring at him, and he said, ‘You’ve come home again then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come home again.’ The voice was deep, thick, and rich, and it was as if he had heard it only yesterday.

  Winnie interrupted now, saying, ‘The master’s hurt, badly?’ She did not wait for an answer but grabbed up her shawl, adding, ‘Oh my God! this is awful. Come on, come on.’

  ‘I’ll come along with you.’

  Winnie turned on her father crying, ‘You’ll do no such thing, you’ll stay put.’

  ‘Jane said to call the boys,’ Amos said again. His voice was flat and unemotional and she answered, ‘Aye, yes, that’s who we must get, the boys. Come on then.’ She put her hand on his back and went to turn him around, but he shrugged away from her and, looking towards the sailor again, said, ‘How long are you going to stay?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, a week, perhaps two.’