by Alan Jansen
He fired an additional condition – more a warning shot – before he left. … ‘See to it that nobody is present at the church when we arrive, priest. I don’t want a whole bunch of you humans gaping at us as though we are freaks of a sort.’
Johns agreed to the food and drink as well, acquiescing to his nemesis’s demands without so much as a whimper of protest. Aislinn then left the church in a flash, becoming invisible before our very eyes, the loud noise of the church door closing behind him echoing and re-echoing.
The deal struck with the great Aislinn, I left the church lost in thoughts, leaving Johns to tidy up the empty church as best as he could.
So ended the business of the church haunting. Johns remained true to his word; his dang-blasted bells did not sound the hour the next day (and hopefully never again, except for an occasional wedding and, of course, at Christmas and Easter). A great spread consisting of choice cuts of meats, roasted potatoes, and mashed green peas, together with rich sauces and even quality wine, adorned the large table that was laid out temporarily inside the church. And there were apples galore, provided by me with Julia’s consent – all from her favourite apple orchard, as you will see as you read on …
That night after dinner I disclosed the full story to Julia, Jim, Turtle, and Ben. They found my story amazing – hard to believe – but they all knew that I never lied and accepted my story as the absolute truth. Julia was the first to interrupt …
‘I always knew and believed in fairies and elves, Cheroot.’ said Julia after listening to my account of the happenings at the church. ‘Even as a young girl, I often thought I saw small lights flickering in the apple orchard and the next day our farmhands would comment resignedly to my parents, but never in a complaining manner, about the missing fruit, laying its pilferage fairly and squarely on alleged ‘wee people’. A lot of folks in the Cotswolds believe in these creatures, and I for one have always believed they exist. I will provide the apples, Cheroot, but I want a note attached to the huge basket that I will provide – a communication to Aislinn. I’m going to write to him and say he and his kin are welcome to continue taking away as much fruit as they want from the orchard at any time they like in future. Those poor children of his must sorely miss fresh fruit – what with their living in whatever underground palace or dwelling that they live in.’
‘All right, Julia dear. I suppose he couldn’t get offended over a little letter. Probably your mother before you made such an offer to the elves as well. You put your letter in the basket like you want. It’s completely safe.’
‘Harrumph!’ grunted Jim under his breath at Julia’s statement. Jim was an absolute pragmatist and never believed in folklore or anything similar that had to do with fairies, elves, goblins, and the like. He was quite sceptical of the whole matter, but I found staunch allies in Julia, Turtle, and Ben, who firmly believed all I had said. They were absolutely thrilled to hear of Aislinn and the existence of elves in the village. They were a tad disappointed that they couldn’t be there to see the elf and his assistants take away the gold and silver and the food, but I comforted them by saying that I was afraid their presence would upset or annoy Aislinn, especially since he had explicitly asked that no one be at the church when he arrived to take away his legitimate spoils.
‘I must keep you all away, my dears,’ I said firmly. ‘Johns is just to provide the food and drink and then leave the church. Aislinn did not want any additional humans to see what he and his kinsfolk look like. I suspect they will not feast in the church itself but will carry the food away to their underground dwelling to consume it leisurely there. I cannot risk the deal falling through. There is too much at stake! I gave old Johns strict orders that nobody was to be present in the church after the food was left for the elves.’
Turtle pouted over my decision ordering her to stay put and not be at the church the next day, but at the end the gravity of the matter soaked into her rebellious head. She reluctantly accepted my advice to not be present at the church …
Uncle’s diary entry ended there, but he resumed a few days later. As usual he had inserted the start date of this entry, as he had done all others, but again, and as usual, there was no end date. The entry read:
Johns could not lie to the bishop about the missing chalices and silver – his religion and the confessional preventing him from doing so. He told the story as it was, with the great man his boss finding it all utterly incomprehensible. However, I made matters right by replacing the three gold chalices and the candlesticks through my own means and methods, which I don’t want to go into here. I had a private audience with the bishop, and without divulging what went on in our conversation, I will just say that the bishop decided to put a lid on the whole matter. Johns was delighted, of course, and utterly worshiped me, fawning over me considerably. I had a final question from young Turtle, though.
‘Uncle, do you think the elf would ever visit the village again? Surely he must have some need to visit us humans now and then?’
‘Nah, I don’t know, Turtle. He took a great risk in revealing himself to me and Johns. Elves and other mysterious beings have their own code of conduct. I am sure Aislinn must have broken one of them by revealing himself. The world is not ready as yet for disclosures of these other beings living side by side with us. Aislinn knows that as well as I do. But someday, Turtle. Someday …’
Of course, the sharp and very nosy Turtle didn’t really believe me, but I left it like that. She looked upon me disapprovingly, for she knew instinctively that I had a far deeper knowledge of Aislinn and his kind than I was letting on. She also evidently knew that I hadn’t wanted to take her into my confidence.’
Turtle’s Closing Comments:
Things settled down into a normal routine after Aislinn abandoned the church. Verity Hayward’s short skirt, though, was never recovered or seen again. I suspect Aislinn took it along as a trophy, or to give it as a gift to one of his many wives. Remarkably, Mom’s letter to Aislinn seemed to have had a positive effect. Every summer thereafter when the orchard was in full fruit, a good many apples, cherries, and pears were plucked by mysterious ‘guests’ in the night. The night raiders took as much as they wanted, but there was still a great deal of fruit left over. There was a pleasant touch to the fruit-plundering, though; the night raiders ‘cleaned’ the orchards after their activities, weeding unwanted shrubs and wild grass, besides raking the whole orchard area free of dried leaves and twigs that had fallen. Pop (who in later years fully believed in elves) was immensely pleased over the ‘cleaning’ process. Neither Pop nor Mom nor Ben missed the fruit. There was so much of it! Besides, Pop could never sell the monumental quantity of fruit the orchards produced. Excess fruit was given to the pigs, but most was thrown away.
I must say a few words about Mom here, perhaps not relevant to the affair, but still … She had started to concentrate more on her painting career and had abandoned all her jam-making efforts. We still had our weekly stall at the village market, but Pop only sold fresh fruit, cured pork, eggs, and other farm produce including fresh vegetables, but never again jams and jellies. As for the elf, Uncle never saw Aislinn again, or so he claimed in his diary.
Of course I was puzzled a great deal at that time when I first found and read Uncle’s diary after the news had reached us of his demise in that plane crash. His worries about failing to do something to Mom through his ‘Druid rituals’ really confused and bothered me. What was he doing to Mom, and why was he so concerned about a few grey hairs on her head? And why did he threaten to visit a last time and abandon Mom for good afterwards? Once again, he mentioned Akawander, only this time saying the latter was a vampire. Had Uncle really hobnobbed with vampires? Were vampires real?
Chapter 6
Uncle Cheroot’s Last Visit
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
William Shakespeare
<
br /> The events that took place during the three earlier visits that I had experienced with Uncle Cheroot as related by me in the previous chapters of this book, although fantastic in their own unique ways, couldn’t quite match his last visit, when I was made aware and saw with my very eyes that beings other than we humans exist side by side with us. Yes, yes, dear reader, I know you would ask, ‘What about the elf in the church-haunting mystery?’ But, you see, I had never actually seen Aislinn in the flesh (not as yet, but I would see him later on). Only Uncle and Vicar Johns had actually seen Aislinn. Again I will remind my readers that I haven’t put to pen all the events that took place during Uncle’s previous visits as he meticulously had entered them in his diary. I just included the major events to avoid a lengthy book, which I didn’t want. … The affair of the church ghost, the remarkable incidents of Verity’s raffle, the matter of Lady Janet’s intruding fence, and the Darlingtons’ barn treasure were only some of the major events Uncle was involved in. There were other ‘adventures’ and ‘incidents’ too involving Uncle. If I were to relate them all, then this book would double in size. For instance, Uncle had succeeded in making our village tramp Pottersworth a ‘human being’ again directly after the incident of the church ghost, and was successful in reintroducing him to society, albeit on a small scale. Verity Hayward had insisted that Pottersworth be evicted from the church porch he had made his home for some years, because the man did give off a real awful smell (for once she didn’t exaggerate or tell an untruth, for the old tramp did indeed stink), resulting in the entrance of the church also taking on his special ‘aroma’ – a natural deterrent for churchgoers. Uncle had somehow convinced the old tramp to clean up his act – literally. The villagers, largely thanks to Verity’s malicious propaganda – considered Pottersworth a revolting old soak, but Uncle saw matters differently after having spoken to the man on several occasions.
‘The man’s terribly vilified, Julia,’ I heard Uncle say on one occasion when our after-dinner conversation somehow veered on to the old tramp. ‘He isn’t addicted to drink. I know that. He likes a drink, sure he does! But then who doesn’t, eh? Nah! He isn’t a slave to alcohol. Don’t ask me how I know. I simply do know!’
‘A guzzler, pure and simple. That’s what the rascal is,’ butted in Pop, who as always was quick and ready to repeat village gossip.
‘How many times have you seen him drunk, or actually seen him drinking in public, Jim?’ asked Uncle scathingly.
‘Bah! Everyone knows he drinks!’ answered Pop, unable to give Uncle a correct figure. ‘Why, the man reeks of all kinds of smells! The church porch itself has taken on the man’s disgusting odour.’
Uncle gave Pop a scathing look of warning but said nothing. The look was meant for Pop to shut up, and Pop took his cue. Pop wasn’t frightened of Uncle in any way, absolutely not, but he knew it was futile to defend any of his theories or beliefs against Uncle’s unshakeable logic, to which he had no answer. Pop shrugged his shoulders and backed off – not for the first time …
I still remember Uncle arriving at the farm in Mr Large’s taxi with Pottersworth. Mr Large, who had succeeded Eoin Tolley some years back as the village’s solitary taxi owner when the latter had become too old to drive, agreed to take on Pottersworth as a passenger, but only after Uncle had offered to pay him five times the normal taxi fare. I distinctly recollect Mr Large pinching his nose tightly as Pottersworth left the back seat of his cab, understandably so, as the latter smelled to high heaven. Uncle took Pottersworth to a side of the farmhouse where an outside tap was connected to a hose, which Pop usually used to water the garden lawn and flower plots. Here in the confines of the garden, Uncle, clad in one of Pop’s old raincoats, hosed down Pottersworth, clothes and all – afterwards throwing flaky washing powder on him and scrubbing him vigorously with a long-handled stiff-bristled broom. After further hosing Pottersworth down with lukewarm water, Uncle ordered the tramp to strip, whereupon he scrubbed the tramp’s body and face thoroughly with a fresh towel soaked in more flaky soap using a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves. Uncle even insisted the tramp shampoo his tangled hair several times over, tossing him a bottle of shampoo with which to do the honours. Finally, Uncle threw a brand-new towel at Pottersworth so he could dry off. Old Pottersworth looked extremely white in his nakedness, the whole process taking years of black grime off his face, arms, and torso. Suddenly, an almost black man had become white again. I was a witness to Uncle’s ministrations. What surprised me most was to see Pottersworth’s hair. In his former condition, it was an uncombed mass of grimy filth, but now it had been transformed into strands of brownish-gold hair with a good deal of grey splashed here and there on the sides. It was almost a miracle! Pop, who had arrived on the scene during the end of the shampooing session, was at a loss for words. After initially gawking, uttering a very surprised ‘Blimey!’ and then saying, ‘Well, I never,’ he looked on wonderingly, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Uncle gave the stark-naked tramp some clean underwear, a trouser and shirt from his own wardrobe, socks, and even a pair of solid ankle boots he used to wear in rainy weather. The tramp’s old clothes Uncle burnt in a heap, and his shoes he buried outside the farm by the ditch that ran past.
Uncle made some sort of arrangement with the vicar after that, and Pottersworth was since that year allowed to live in a small garden shed on the church grounds a good distance away from the church portico, which he had made his home the past several years. Uncle also somehow got the vicar to let Pottersworth do a few odd jobs in the church kitchen and the small church graveyard, for which he was given two meals a day and some welcome pocket money. The local Salvation Army people also contributed, donating several pairs of trousers, a few shirts, underwear, a solid looking all-the-year-wear coat, and shoes – all taken from their accumulated stock intended to be sent to their headquarters at Rothwell. Mean old Verity Hayward frowned on all these acts of altruism, but there was nothing much she could do about it all. At least she had the satisfaction of keeping old Pottersworth from occupying the church portico, which was subsequently given a good cleaning and sanitized. The awful smell in the portico didn’t go away at once, but after a week or so it disappeared completely. The vicar placed a few evergreen palms in large clay pots in strategic places inside the portico to make the bare space more habitable and fresh, but also to discourage any other would-be squatter from striking camp.
I was nearly eighteen when Uncle Cheroot honoured us with this last visit close on 1960. We did not know it then, but it was the last visit we would enjoy from my supremely strange relative who at times was utterly lovable and who at times sent immense vibes of fear through me. Ben and Pop had no fear of Uncle like I did, although they were unmistakably in awe of him. Mom, of course, saw Uncle through rose-tinted spectacles and never had any other emotion for him other than complete and utter love. A few months after Uncle left us after that memorable and hitherto strangest of his visits, we got the devastating news of his death in that plane crash, which left us sick with grieving and sorrow – Mom proving near on inconsolable …
Uncle came to us shortly after the solstice feast that year. Mom was very much in ecstasy as usual, and so were Ben, Inky, Gobble, and I, although Pop didn’t show much enthusiasm, as was his wont. Pop’s lack of enthusiasm wasn’t because he disliked Uncle in any way – far from it. The real truth of the matter was that Pop disliked any visitor! The only visitors he liked and warmed up to were the vet Mr Darcy and later Cecilia Rathbone, who succeeded the former. He also liked visits from his fellow farming cronies, who were all as rustic as he was, loving talking all manner of farming jargon with them. In closer introspect though, and after all these years, I feel now that Pop was genuinely happy with Uncle’s visits but that he didn’t like them in long and hefty doses. Pop wasn’t a cuckold in any way, but he was happy to see Uncle Cheroot, knowing fully well what his visits did to make Mom happy. I know now in my ‘old age’ that Pop only had Mom’s h
appiness in his heart. Oh! Darling, unselfish, man! How I do miss you and Mom so …
I had passed my national advanced levels in style, and was waiting to hear from a university after having passed relevant pre-exams in history, math, business studies, and English, which were a requirement at that time. Uncle’s visit this time was unheralded – a complete surprise. Once again, he hadn’t told Mom or Pop in advance that he would be arriving, and we were all massively gobsmacked to see him walking into our living room cool as a cucumber while we were watching the news on the tele. We were startled at first to hear old Gobble screaming his head off in the garden, Pop rushing over to his gun cabinet to take out a rifle, fully intending on shooting a fox that he assumed had set off Gobble’s screams. Inky had already run out upon hearing the turkey’s shouts. As I heard Inky’s loud barking – barks of welcome – I instantly knew who our approaching visitor was, even before he walked into our living room. Uncle hadn’t changed an iota. His features had remained unaltered as they were during his last visit – nay, from his first visit when I was twelve, I should say. Although he looked the same, I could sense he was carrying some sort of secret burden. Mom rushed into his arms in sheer joy, while Pop looked away discreetly, hiding his surprise at seeing Uncle as only he could.
Uncle’s visit on this occasion was marked by his strange reluctance and at times downright unwillingness to travel down to the ‘village’ or to nearby Rothwell. In fact, he very rarely even ventured after sunset into the garden or the orchard, where Mom, now an established still-life and country scene painter, usually set up her easel and other painting paraphernalia, spending long hours painting the trees now in fruit in the orchard, the nearby Cotswold Hills providing a resplendent setting. Uncle explained his self-imposed house arrest, saying he had a whole heap of official documents and stuff to scrutinize and sort out – business matters, as he described them suavely. In truth, he did have some very old and strange-looking papers and files which he pored over on a daily basis inside his room, sometimes even bringing a few documents into the living room, where he sat engrossed with them while sipping ice-cold champagne, which he had ordered special delivery from Rothwell’s superstore the very day he arrived. Mom was ambivalent about Uncle’s ‘staying at home’ tactics. On the one hand, she was over the moon because she had him well and truly all to herself and could be assured he wasn’t rampaging through the neighbourhood getting involved with miscellaneous women, but on the other hand she was put off because she loved making excursions to the ‘village’ shops and farther away to Rothwell, where she could visit the town’s theatres, museums, shops, and other places of culture and interest with Uncle beside her, and sometimes with Ben and me. Pop, a cultural Philistine, hated these types of visits and never, ever tagged along, always excusing himself by saying there was enough work to be done on the farm without gallivanting about on fancy ‘artsy’ expeditions, as he sarcastically put it.