Tales from the Black Meadow Page 5
“Go away and let me pull.”
The lady walked towards the yoked man. A golden palace materialised with one hundred servants all bowing and singing the yoked man’s name in glorious harmony. The yoked man spat on the floor, squinted at the Devil and shook his head. The Devil fumed. He clicked his fingers in delight at his new realisation,
“Ah! Do you fear for your soul? Maybe you have heard that Satan gives treasures only in return for this most precious of things? Well that is true, but in this case I shall make an exception. You can have all of these things if you will but stop. I vow to you on Hell and all its dominions. I vow to you on my own demonic blood, on my Unholy Mother and my Holy Father. I vow on The Fall and on the Invert Cross. I vow that I shall not take your beloved soul.”
But the yoked man shook his head, saying for the third time,
“Go away and let me pull. What I do, I do for the good of others, for the village, not for myself.”
The Devil found a rage growing within him, a rage akin to that he had harboured against his Heavenly Father before The Fall. His dark blood boiled, his eyes blazed fire and his voice shook.
“You will take nothing from me? I who own the night and dance the terrible dance? I who ride the thunder and eat the misty air? I who cover the sun and howl at the moon? I who drink fresh blood and feast on souls? You dare turn away a gift, not a bargain but a gift, from me? Something I have never offered another mortal in all of human history?”
The yoked man shrugged and said for the fourth time with his own venom in his voice,
“Go away and let me pull.”
The Devil was shocked into silence and walked away from the yoked man. The Devil looked out over the village. After a moment he snapped his fingers and turned to face him.
“You work for the good of the village?”
The yoked man nodded.
The Devil smiled.
“That is an honourable thing. For you will work hard then to keep them prosperous?”
The yoked man nodded.
The Devil continued:
“You will work hard to keep the people fed?”
The yoked man nodded.
The Devil said,
“You will work hard to keep the village safe? To keep it out of Hell?”
And as the yoked man nodded the Devil raised his hand. There was a rumble of grinding and tearing from beneath the earth. Cracks appeared in the ground all the way around the village. Smoke and fog erupted from these tiny fissures and the land glowed an angry red. Slowly the village began to sink into the earth.
The Devil waved his hand and the tiller flew from its chains. The chains stretched and grew, snaking their way from the yoke around the labourer’s neck towards the sinking village. As the ends of the chains reached the hole, they flew down, plunging into the earth by the church, deep into the rock underneath the village, deeper and deeper until they were stuck fast.
The yoked man found his feet slipping and sliding under him as the weight of the village pulled him down to Hell with it. But when all seemed lost and he was tottering near the edge of the abyss, one of his feet found purchase. He pulled at the yoke and the village stopped its descent.
The Devil laughed.
“How long can you hold on my friend? You may bring the village back up to the waking world but it will always drag you down again. Sometimes you may hold it for a few weeks or days or for one night, but then it shall be gone again and you with it. Can you do this? Can you do this for all eternity?”
The yoked man looked at the Devil, saying with a smile,
“Go away and let me pull.”
And the Devil went away and the yoked man pulled.
He was shocked to see that where the dwellings of workers once stood that young trees burst through the shattered rooftops.
The Long Walk to Scarry Wood
One day, hundreds of years ago, a man had to make a journey from the village of Badger Wood across the meadow to a place known as Scarry Wood. Most people would take the road around the Black Meadow to get there. This was not due to any superstition about the area, but because the path was treacherous; spotted as it was with dips, holes and swamp. The man had been tasked with getting to the Scarry Wood Log Mill within one day to deliver new timber orders for his Squire’s outhouses. He was considered the fastest of all the Squire’s men, so bid his wife and three children farewell and began the six-mile walk. He would be back by the end of the day. The Squire even gave him a groat so he could eat at the Black Meadow Inn on the way.
It was midway through a bitterly cold March. The flowers were cautiously peeking out of hedgerows and the cracks in the ground, whilst insects were just beginning to hum.
As he approached the edge of the Black Meadow, he happened upon an old gentleman slowly pulling at a rickety wooden cart, loaded with sacks of grain. The old gentleman was clearly struggling, so the traveller asked if he required assistance. The old gentleman was pleased, telling him that he was making for the farm just a furlong down the road.
As they saw the slate roofs of the farm buildings in the near distance, the rain began to come down. The traveller and the old man remarked to each other that they had never seen a downpour like it. Puddles formed swiftly. Little rivers ran down the path towards them, turning the ground beneath their feet to soft, sticky and deep mud. Finding their boots and the wheels of the cart becoming stuck, they fought to pull the cart along, but it was all to no good. The traveller decided to get some help to pull the cart and its heavy sacks of grain from the mud. The old gentleman’s feet were stuck fast. The mud was rapidly rising to his knees. The old gentleman waved the traveller away when he offered to pull him out, telling him that his time would be better spent getting help. The traveller squelched his way out of the mire and ran across the field to the farm.
As he crossed the field, the rain suddenly stopped. He found himself running in the blazing and surprisingly warm sunshine. On reaching the farm he was surprised to find it silent. In fact, on reflection, the field he ran through did seem uncared for and overgrown. He wondered whether the old gentleman had made a mistake. He ran from building to building, calling out for help but got no response. He noticed that shutters were broken, doors were hanging off their hinges, and tiles were missing from the roofs. The farm, from its buildings to the surrounding fields, seemed utterly neglected. Had the old gentleman meant to come here? He walked to the main house and opened the front door. Inside it was completely empty. There were no tables or chairs. It was a shell. He ran up the stairs. There were no beds in any of the chambers. Realising he would get no help here, he quickly ran to one of the barns and was pleased to find some rope which he took back to the old gentleman at speed.
He called out to the old gentleman as he approached but got no reply. When he got there he saw that the ground was dry and solid, with no indication that it had rained. There was no sign of the old gentleman or the cart. As he searched about, calling the old gentleman’s name, he saw in a ditch, by the side of the road, the remains of an old cart wheel. It was much like the old gentleman’s, but this one was rotten, with fungus and moss covering its broken spokes. It could not be the same wheel. After an hour of searching the path, ditch and surrounding trees, the traveller decided to continue his journey to Scarry Wood.
He had lost a lot of time helping the old gentleman, so he ran along the path. After a short while he reached the village in the centre of the Black Meadow. He had visited this village once before on another errand for his Squire, many years previously and had considered it just like any other, but today the people seemed strange. They wore clothes of a different style to his, where he wore a leather jerkin, breeches and a rough woollen shirt; the men were clad in white shirts and black coats. Their clothes seemed smart, rich and light. The ladies, in their long black skirts, wore white caps upon their heads, fixed by a tie under their chins. The traveller wondered whether they were having some sort of celebration or carnival which would cause them to wear such str
ange clothes, but it was clear that these people were going about their daily business as though nothing was out of the ordinary.
The carts in the village were of a much better design than those of Badger Wood. Feeling hungry and realising it must be long past noon, he walked to the building that he knew to be the tavern, but found it locked. Its unfamiliar neat glass windows with crisscross black lead piping, had boards nailed across them. He turned from the door and saw a few people looking at him and tut-tutting.
Seeing that he would find no succour there, the traveller continued on his way. It was early evening by the time he reached the Scarry Wood Log Mill. The path was overgrown and the Log Mill little more than a ruin. He had been there the previous year. It had been a thriving business, providing timber for houses and farms for miles around. The place was in utter disrepair. There were no frames in the windows, let alone glass. The mortar was crumbling, parts of some of the buildings had fallen down and the roof had collapsed in the main building. As he entered the shell, a deer cantered past him before jumping through the remains of a window in the ruins of what was once a busy and prosperous mill.
The traveller tried to fathom what had happened and what he should do about it. Who was he to give the contracts to? He wandered around the perimeter of Scarry Wood to make sure that he had come to the right place. He was shocked to see that where the dwellings of workers once stood, young trees now burst through the shattered rooftops. The houses stood in disrepair, roofs mossy and windows gone. He listened. There was no sound of any human activity at all, only birdsong. He wondered what his master would make of the situation. He had expected to stay the night in the workers’ quarters at Scarry Wood Log Mill, but, as that now stood in ruins, even the floors having long since rotted away and disappeared, he knew that he would have to find shelter elsewhere. So he made up his mind to throw himself at the mercy of the people of the village in the centre of the Black Meadow. Even if they didn’t have a tavern, surely someone would take pity on a footsore and weary traveller.
It was already dark by the time he got there but the village was alive with sound and music. As he walked through the village he noted that there seemed to be more houses than there were earlier that day. Not only that, but these houses were of a strange and distinct style. They were tall and joined together with no thatch upon the roof. To add to his confusion he heard the sound of laughter and music coming from the abandoned tavern. The place seemed to be the centre of the village. A roar of laughter echoed out as the door slammed open. A gentleman in a rich purple coat with a short white wig atop his head, staggered out with a powdered woman on his arm. The traveller gasped at the change, staring wide-eyed at the buildings, the clothes and the people. As he gaped at all the changes, a cold chill clutched at his heart. He felt an urge to get home as swiftly as he could. On his exit from the village, he glanced up at the brazier that marked the boundary, but it had been replaced by a smart metal pole, on top of which a glass case held a bright burning flame that seemed to have no wick or candle base.
He ran as fast as his legs would allow, passing the farm, which from the road he could hear the sounds of livestock and see lights in the windows. It was not the abandoned ruin he had seen in the morning.
What would have happened to his home?
He paused after passing the ditch where he had seen the Old Gentleman’s cartwheel. He noticed that the road was no longer a dirt track. Instead it had a smooth surface. As he bent down to examine it by the light of the rising sun, he heard a high-pitched scream coming out of the darkness. It seemed to be coming from the east. As he looked out, he saw a plume of smoke in the middle distance running along the ground at great speed. Following it were tiny squares of light, grouped together in rectangular box shapes. The traveller moaned, turning on his heel from the monster, and ran home.
He reached the entrance to his village and sprinted to his house, but could not find it, the streets had changed shape … The church hall had been replaced by a brick barn. Where his own home had been, was now a row of small red-brick cottages, all joined together, sporting large windows and doors of different colours. He heard a strange buzzing noise above his head. Looking up he saw an enormous bird with four wings, two on either side of its massive body. The wings were stiff and did not flap. He watched open mouthed as it flew out of sight.
It was at that point that a villager came out of one of the red-brick houses. He asked, in a strange and almost incomprehensible dialect, if the traveller needed help. The traveller, weeping, was acutely aware that this stranger was looking at his clothes in curiosity. He told the man that he was lost and wanted to go home although he could not find it. He described his house through his rising sobs but the stranger from the red-brick house looked at him blankly.
On seeing how distraught the traveller was, the stranger from the red-brick house asked his name and on learning that it was “Kirby” suddenly laughed. The traveller was puzzled by this response to the mention of his name and demanded an explanation. The villager begged apology for any offence, pointing at the sign at the start of the street which read “Kirby Lane”. The villager explained that it was named after a traveller who went missing 400 years previously, leaving his wife and family to ponder his fate.
The traveller put a hand to his mouth and, stifling a sob, ran from the village back into the arms of the Black Meadow. He was never seen again.
Though, if you wait long enough, maybe you will see him.
The Scarry Wood Lament
So long
I have walked so long
It seems like an hour
But it could be a day
All my life I’ve been waiting
To take a step upon the road
Walk away from the home that I love
And see the sun shining in a sky so far away
So long
I have walked so long
It seems like an hour
But it could be a year
All the faces along the path
Are changing as I pass
The children now are old and dear
And now my home is far from my grasp
So long
I have walked so long
It seems like an hour
But it could be forever
(Traditional)
His choice of subject remained the same: the standing stone in the centre of the meadow.
The Stone Steps
An artist came to Black Meadow in the spring and autumn of every year. Those who asked what brought him back were told that it was “the light, my dears, the light.”
He worked primarily in oils and, after a breakfast at the local tavern, would stick two blank canvases under his arm and venture out into the meadow.
He hailed from the south and was, on his first visit, unused to the changeable weather, but on his succeeding journeys he wore a thick coat and fine tough leather boots that kept out the wet. He was a man of considerable private means who held himself well and was assumed to be a proper London gentleman. His choice of subject remained the same: the standing stone in the centre of the meadow. A stark grey monolith peppered with ancient-looking spirals carved into its granite hide. Most houses in the village had one of his paintings adorning a wall, the tavern boasted several.
This peculiar tale begins when the gentleman made his tenth visit to the village. It was autumn and he came to the tavern eager to capture an image of the Standing Stone caught in the blaze of vernal sunrise. On his first morning - after he had eaten heartily - he packed up his easel, two canvases, and his box of paints. He gratefully took the cold lunch prepared by his landlady and walked into the twilight before the dawn.
On his return he seemed quiet and thoughtful, not upset, but preoccupied by a sudden thought. Something of magnitude was weighing upon his brow, but he would not share it with any of the villagers, with whom he was often most open and gregarious.
At the end of the second day his funk seemed more pronounced. He escaped to
his room without any supper, muttering about his sketches. When the landlady visited his room to offer him a hot drink, she found the room covered in scattered pictures and the artist poring over old drawings in a sketch pad.
On the third day he ran out without a breakfast morsel passing his lips. So eager was he that the landlady was still in her nightdress and was only just starting her own morning ablutions. It was on his return that his behaviour became more erratic. He slammed the tavern door wide open, walking straight over to the four paintings of the Standing Stone that hung above the bar. He peered at his creations furiously for some minutes. He stood on a bar-stool, took them from the wall and laid them side by side on the table. The artist stared at them for a long while, muttering to himself about dates and measurements. After what seemed an age, he lifted his head and ran from the inn.
His actions were the talk of the village the next day. He had visited every house in the village, hammered upon every door, barged in, pulled his paintings from their walls and left without a thank you. He brought over twenty-five paintings back to the tavern and began to lay them upon the largest table there. When it was clear that they did not fit, he pushed the table to the side, cleared stools and chairs, asking anybody drinking to move from his way. He laid the pictures side by side on the floor. He muttered and cursed as the landlady and her customers looked on in bemusement. He moved the pictures around, shaking his head. He adjusted the positions of each painting, until, after half an hour of shifting one to the left and three to the right, two here and four there; rotating, lifting, swapping and changing, he finally stopped and stood back, seemingly satisfied.