And Oakum scooped her up in his arms, big as she was, heavy as she was, and carried her like a sack of tatties all the way across the fields, back to the farm, his hard boots tramping on through the mud as sheets of rain came lashing down. Buried her quick, soon as he could, out in the burying ground. Thunderhead put on his tall hat, black and battered – and said the words he always said. And then Oakum Marlroot dropped her in the cold hard ground. Nobody else came. None of the wifen. None of them dared.
The wind blew hard and the wind blew black as Oakum Marlroot strode back to the farm, all by himself. Been all by himself ever since, saddened not to have no son, for there had always been Marlroots on this farm, ever since Brunt Boggart began. Now at night he walks to the tavern and there he slakes his thirst alongside Mottram Ironfield and Redgut and all the other men who work the farms. Don’t say nothing much then, neither. Not till he’s drank his fill of ale, and then no-one can shut him up. He rants and he curses all the night long and stomps round the village kicking on doors and smashing down fences. Then come noon-time next day he’ll be back in his fields again, grunting and glowering, alone with the rooks.
It was one of those very days when Oakum Marlroot went a-digging, all out by Black Meadow, with nobody with him but the sky. And he thrust his shovel deep in the ground and felt it strike something hard. Just another stone, Oakum reckoned and hacked all around to try and lift it out. And lift it out he did, all grimy and lumpen and as big as two fists. He was about to pitch it away when he rubbed off some of the mud with the end of his thumb and saw that the stone was glistening.
“What could it be?” Oakum Marlroot wondered. He put down his shovel and scrunnied the stone with his hard horny hands, sloughing off the mud to show that underneath was all the same – glittering and shining in the dull midday sun. Oakum turned it and twisted it. Hadn’t ever seen anything like it before. All lumpen and glinting, no shape at all.
Oakum looked up. “Maybe it fell from the sky.”
He stuck the stone in his pocket. It hung heavy in his coat as he trudged across the brackish mud to wash it under the water pump in the middle of his yard. It was shiny, sure enough. It glistened in his hard horny hands that worked in any weather, but now held something bright, something pretty. Oakum turned it this way and that. It sparkled, sure enough. Was pretty, sure enough. Pretty like his wife would have liked before she turned sad and sour. But she was gone now, gone to the thunder, gone to the cold dark ground. Oakum Marlroot shrugged. The stone was no good to him. Couldn’t plant it, couldn’t eat it – and he had no-one to give it to. So that night he took it with him, down to the tavern – and when the drink had started flowing, he took the stone from his pocket and showed it to Mottram Ironfield and all the other farmers sitting round.
“What you got there?” they asked.
“Not sure,” he replied. “Thought you might tell me. Ever seen anything like this before?”
Mottram Ironfield took the stone in his hands, held it up to the lantern light, squinnied hard at it this way and that, then rolled it around in his palms.
“Don’t know what you got here. It’s pretty right enough. But what good’s pretty to the likes of us?”
The other farmers laughed.
“Tain’t no good to plant seeds,” Mottram Ironfield went on. “Ain’t never going to grow. Tain’t no good to sharpen knives, it’s all knobbled and lumpen. Tain’t no good for nothing at all, Oakum Marlroot. I’d have pitched it in the pond. What good’s traipsing it down here?”
Oakum Marlroot shook his head and watched while the other farmers passed the stone around.
“Tain’t worth nothing to us,” they said. “Why not take it to the Pedlar Man – see if he can make some trinkets out of it? That’s all it’s good for.”
So Oakum Marlroot stuffed the stone back in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coppers to buy himself another drink. But next time he saw the Pedlar Man coming over the hills, Oakum put down his hoe and went hurrying over. The Pedlar Man looked up at the great burly farmer blocking his path.
“Now then?!” he exclaimed, gripping tight his sack in case this was another ruffian come to try and rob him.
“Now then,” Oakum grunted in reply and thrust his hand into his pocket. The Pedlar Man paused, fearing he would pull out a weapon. But Oakum Marlroot drew out the stone, wrapped up in a rag of cloth, and shoved it under the Pedlar Man’s nose.
“What be this?”
The stone sparkled in the midday sun, rainbow hues and other colours too, such as neither of them had ever seen.
“What be this?” Oakum Marlroot asked again. “Be it gold?”
The Pedlar Man shook his head.
“Ain’t gold,” he said, weighing it carefully in his palms. “Ain’t silver neither. Ain’t any sort of precious stone that I’ve ever seen.”
Oakum snatched it back.
“Will you buy it?” he asked.
The Pedlar Man shrugged.
“I’ve got no money,” he said hurriedly. “I can give you rings and ribbons.”
“What good’s rings and ribbons to me?” Oakum Marlroot demanded. “Got no wife. Got no girlen. Got no women wants to catch my eye – I leave that to the likes of you. Can’t you give me silver? Can’t you give me shillen?”
Oakum pushed his face up close to the Pedlar’s.
“Give me shillen, then I can buy more seed to plant the fields for next year.”
The Pedlar Man shook his head.
“I tell you plain,” he said. “I don’t know what this stone is. Never seen nothing like it before. If I had any shillen I wouldn’t know what to give you. If it be gold or precious stone – I can’t afford it. If it be worthless glittery thing, then there’s no point me giving you anything!”
Oakum Marlroot trudged back to his farm, across the dull stooped fields. Each bush that he passed, each ditch, each pond, the stone itched in his hand and he wanted to pitch it there. But something in his head told him – no, he should keep it. So when he got home he took the stone from his pocket and laid it in a drawer in the dresser in his room, under the crisp linen sheets which had never been moved since his wifen died.
Oakum Marlroot was weary, but that night he could not sleep. He found himself wondering, what if they were wrong – Mottram Ironfield, Redgut and the Pedlar Man. What if the stone really was worth something? Longskull or Crossdogs, they might try and steal it. Ravenhair or Silverwing might charm it away from him. The stone would not be safe lying there in the dresser while he was out at work in the fields. And so at first light he clattered down the stairs and took his longest shovel from the barn in the backyard and set out to Black Meadow where the dark water gathered and ran down through the claggy mud to the ditch, right at the edge of his farm.
There he struck his shovel into the earth and he dug and he dug, all the while glancing over his shoulder, this way and that, to be sure that nobody saw him. When he’d dug so deep that he nearly struck rock, he placed the stone right there at the bottom and climbed from the hole and shovelled back the mud. He trod it all down till it was firm and hard so that no-one would know that his stone was hidden there, right out under the towering sky.
Every morning and every night, Oakum Marlroot passed by Black Meadow, right where the stone was buried. He would check for footprints leading that way. He would check for signs of digging in the dull dark earth. But no-one came. Oakum’s stone was safe where he’d buried it, deep down under his field. And Oakum Marlroot toiled on, ploughing and sowing, hoeing and weeding, same as Mottram Ironfield and all the other farmers. But when summer came and his crops should be high, Oakum Marlroot looked at the dark barren ground.
Back in the tavern, Mottram Ironfield and the other farmers shook their heads and tugged their beards. “Dunno what it is to be sure. There’s wheat in our fields, springing high as ever. You must have got a bad batch of seed.”
But then in the midden, all his cows fell dead. One by one, one after next. Just keeled over and drop
ped. And Oakum hauled them down to the burying pit. The wind blew hard and the rain fell weary and Oakum Marlroot stopped going to the tavern at all so he couldn’t hear Mottram Ironfield and all the other farmers bragging and gloating how their barns were stuffed with corn.
He strode across his empty fields. Dusk was coming. Hedges were ragged, middens were clogged, the slurry pits overflowed, but Oakum had no mind to tend to any of them.
“Tis the stone,” he said. “Ain’t worth nothing to no-one and I’ve gone and kept it and now it’s blighted my land.”
He fetched his long shovel and went out to Black Meadow and he dug and he dug, that way and this, till at last his shovel struck something hard, something shining. He gripped at it with both his hands and scrunnied away the mud with his thumbs. Would it be changed? Would it be broken? But it glowed still as bright as ever before, all the colours of the rainbow, and other colours too, such as no-one had ever seen.
At first Oakum Marlroot clutched it, almost happy to see it again, though he blamed the stone for all of his troubles. He turned it slowly, back and forth, and watched the colours glint in the light of the dying sun. But then it felt as if the stone was burning him, searing his hands. He felt the blood beating hard in his head and threw the stone down. As it lay on the cold hard ground he raised his shovel high in the air and brought it down with a crack. He stepped back and wiped his palms. The stone was not broken, but when he looked at his shovel, the handle and the blade were split from end to end.
Oakum Marlroot picked up the stone and put it in his pocket, just as he had the day he first found it. He trekked across the flat dreck fields, his coat hanging heavy with the weight of the stone. He trudged on down Brunt Boggart’s main street as stray dogs rattled at his feet and kept right on until at the far end he came to the Blacksmith’s yard. A fire was roaring and sparks flew from the anvil as Oakum Marlroot stepped inside. The Blacksmith nodded and swung his hammer one last time, then stopped and mopped his brow.
“Now then, Oakum Marlroot. What brings you here? There’s still three silver shillen to reckon with me since last time I shoed your horse.”
Oakum Marlroot folded his arms. “Don’t have no cause for no horse now, not since wifen died. She only used it to take fruit to market. Don’t do no fruit now, neither. So I ain’t got no silver shillen.”
The Blacksmith hoisted his hammer. Oakum Marlroot raised his hand.
“Never mind about shillen. Time enough for that. I got something special to show you. Worth more than silver or gold.”
The Blacksmith stood back. Oakum thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out the glowing stone. The Blacksmith stared at it, then tapped it with the handle of his hammer.
“What be this then?”
“Don’t rightly know,” Oakum Marlroot replied. “Nobody does.”
He threw the stone on the anvil.
“There. Just one blow from your hammer and the stone will shatter. Who knows what might be inside. Could make you richer than three silver shillen.”
But as the Blacksmith gripped his hammer and glared through the swirling smoke, all he could see was the young lads Oakum Marlroot had taunted and maimed with driving them hard on the farm. One had been his own brother’s son. And then he saw Oakum’s wifen who’d died that night, out in the fields, in the thunder. Wasn’t right, they said. Wasn’t right at all. The Blacksmith hauled up his hammer and swung it into the air. The hammer seemed to hover as it arced towards Oakum Marlroot’s head.
But as it whistled down, the Blacksmith changed his aim. Just glancing away from Oakum Marlroot’s brow, he struck the stone instead. Oakum felt the force of the swirling hammer as it scythed right past his face. Now he watched as it hit the lumpen stone. He heard the crack as the metal struck, then watched as the hammer shattered into a thousand tiny pieces and the stone still lay on the anvil, exactly where he had placed it.
Oakum Marlroot seized the stone and held it high above his head. He ran back out of the Blacksmith’s yard, away from the village and towards the bridge where Scritch would sit every day, looking for glittering things in the stream. And when he reached the bridge, he hurled the stone in the water.
There was a mighty splash and then the river seemed to swirl around and suck the stone right down. Oakum Marlroot turned and strode away, never looking back. He kept on walking down Brunt Boggart’s high street, ignoring the dogs and the young’uns at play. He kept on walking until he reached his farm. He slammed the door and stamped inside. The stone had gone, the lumpen stone, the stone which brought him so much sorrow. He sat down at his table by the window and stared out at his black bare fields. Next day, Oakum Marlroot told himself, he would set out with his hoe and his plough and prepare the ground again, ready to plant new seed, ready to see it grow.
Next day, Scritch came down to the river, same as he did every morning and squatted alone by the sluggish stream. He sat and fixed his gaze on the water and then he rubbed his eyes. The river was filled with glittery things. He leapt to his feet, ready to grab them. But then when he looked again, he saw that they were fish. Scritch thought he had seen his supper for this night and the next night and many nights to come. He thought he had seen enough fish to sell to every wifen in the village. But the fish were floating slowly, belly-up in the water. Their wide eyes mirrored the rainy sky. All of the fish were dead.
Scritch stepped back and sniffed the air. A smell hung heavy as lead, burnt and sour and brackish. Scritch shook his head. He would not touch these fish. He was not sure if he should touch this water which brought him his livelihood, this stream which stank now, heavy and black. Scritch watched till the sun stood high in the sky and all the fish had floated by and the water ran clear again. Scritch studied the stones at the bottom, on the watch for anything that glittered, just as he did every day. And then he saw it – the lumpen stone, the stone which glowed all the colours of the rainbow and other colours too, such as Scritch had never seen.
Scritch paused. He squinnied long and hard. And then he grabbed it. He held it tight in his leathery hands, weighing it carefully, figuring how many trinkets he could make from this grumous mass if he took it to his hut at the edge of the riverbank halfway to nowhere. That night he thrust the stone in his fire to smelt it, then he waited and he watched to see it turn red and then white, same as all the other bits of metal that he collected always did. But the stone just glowed dark in the middle of the fire. Scritch seized his tongs and hauled it out again. He spat on the stone but it did not sizzle. He touched it with his calloused fingers, but it was not even warm.
“This ain’t no good to me,” muttered Scritch. “Can’t melt it, can’t smelt it. Can’t break it. No good to me and no good to no-one.”
Scritch took the stone out into the darkness, and he walked and he walked right past the village till he came to the edge of Oakum Marlroot’s fields. He came to Black Meadow, and there he threw it, hard as he could. Then Scritch turned and strode away, never looking back. He kept on walking all the way to his hut by the bridge by the bend in the river.
Next day after that day, Oakum Marlroot came out into the fields, with his shovel and his hoe, poking and prodding. When he got to the middle of Black Meadow, he stopped and stared down at the ground. There was the stone, the lumpen stone, the stone which glowed all the colours of the rainbow. Oakum Marlroot let out a cry. A cry which turned into a howl that nearly cracked the sky. What could he do with this stone which had blighted his crops and caused all his cattle to die, which his shovel couldn’t break and the Blacksmith couldn’t smash, which he’d thrown deep in the river – and still it came back here?
Oakum Marlroot seized the stone which had brought him so much sorrow and he walked and he walked till he reached the Burying Ground. And there he came to his wifen’s grave and he stood above it, legs astride, and then he spoke:
“You gave me nothing. No son, no daughter neither. You gave me nothing – only sorrow.” Oakum Marlroot cast the stone where his wifen lay. “Now here
is my sorrow for you.”
But before he had time to walk away, came the thunder again, just as it had the night that she died, rolling out of the darkening sky. Oakum Marlroot stood. He couldn’t move if even he had wanted to. And the lightning flashed. And the whole sky cracked. And the stone cracked too, the lumpen stone, the stone of sorrow. It cracked to a hundred thousand pieces, till it was no more than dust.
And as the stone was gone, Oakum Marlroot’s sorrow seemed gone as well. That autumn, all season he tended his fields till they were ready to plant in the spring. Mottram Ironfield and Redgut and all the other farmers were so glad to see Oakum happy again that they all lent him a share of their grain till he had enough to plant his fields. And the fields grew full high with wheat. But anyone who saw him, out in his fields alone, said Oakum Marlroot was talking, the way he never did before, unless the drink had got him late at night in the tavern. Oakum Marlroot was ranting, ranting and cursing. Oakum Marlroot was talking to no-one at all. Oakum Marlroot was talking to himself.
But what they never saw, these people that told this, was the shadow that was moving, walking at his side. And who was that shadow? I knew that you’d be asking. Why that was Oakum Marlroot’s wifen, who still walked there beside him, sharing the sunshine and the storm clouds, same as they had every day.
Old Mother Tidgewallop and the Well
Let me tell you… Let me tell you… Old Mother Tidgewallop lived in a cottage of low squinty windows and damp sodden thatch littered all through with thistles and weeds. All day she knitted and all night she sewed. She knitted a waistcoat all brindley and snap – yellow and orange with scarlet red patches and pockets for berries gathered up from the hedges. She knitted it for her wayward son Larkum who left the cottage one long year ago.
Brunt Boggart Page 15