Tales from the Black Meadow Read online

  “Look!” he shouted. “Look! Can’t you see? The stone steps!”

  The villagers crowded around, peering with great interest at his paintings. Each picture showed the Standing Stone at different times of day, in different seasons. They commented on his excellent use of colour, on his shading, his masterful stroke and the realism of his pictures, but none of them understood his meaning.

  “The stone steps!” he said again. “The stone steps!”

  Early the next morning the gentleman went from door to door and returned the pictures to their owners with heartfelt apologies for his intrusions and rudeness. Nobody seemed to mind, putting the whole strange incident down to the eccentricities of an artist.

  He was back to himself the following day; smiling, happy and ebullient. He did not visit the stone, but instead spent the morning tidying away the papers that he had scattered and the afternoon eating and drinking with the villagers. The next day he left for London with a promise that he would return soon.

  The Artist’s visits increased over the next five years, arriving now at the change of every season. Every day he would go and paint, but, to the disappointment of the villagers, he kept all the works to himself. In the spring of the eleventh year since he first arrived at the public house, the Artist announced that he would be displaying his works in the village hall. There was a great clamour and excitement from the villagers, which doubled on the announcement that visitors from the capital would also be coming to see.

  The visitors were an eclectic troupe. There were a few artists, an art critic, some scholarly-looking gentlemen and a journalist or two. On the night of the exhibition the villagers chatted and laughed with excitement about their eccentric artist, wondering at what would be revealed.

  The first reaction to the exhibition was one of bewilderment. The villagers gawked at the pictures in disbelief. There were over two hundred paintings, in the same style, from the same perspective, all of the standing stone. Some laughed, some whispered, but many were silent; sad at the Artist’s folly. He was a popular man and they did not want to see him ridiculed.

  The visitors at first also seemed overwhelmed by the repetitive nature of the exhibition, but gradually, as they examined the pictures, the mood in the Village Hall changed. The villagers felt it too. They found themselves scrutinising the paintings more closely than before. They walked, peered at every detail and compared notes on what they had discovered. They ran, moving from picture to picture, to check, to make sure that, “No, it couldn’t be …” and “Surely not …” But yes, little by little, painting by painting there it was; the stone moving slowly across the landscape.

  “Impossible!” they cried. “A trick!”

  But they knew the artist was no liar. They remembered that night when he had seen the phenomenon himself for the first time. They remembered his realisation: “The Stone steps,” he had said. And now with so much effort, with so much patience, he had proved it to be true and at last they understood what he had meant.

  The Seventh Child

  Your first is a china cup and you do everything the elders tell you. Not too much, not too little, not too hot, not too cold, not too tight, not too soft. You remember every smile, every word, every step.

  Your second is perfect, for you have learnt from your errors. You know how much, how little, how hot, how cold, how tight, how soft. You remember nearly everything.

  The third is ignored. You do not mean to, but you know all now and so should the third.

  The fourth is brought up by the first and the second.

  The fifth is a surprise and you start to treat them as the first, swearing that you will do better this time. But then you grow weary and treat them as the third.

  The sixth is not like the others. The sixth makes trouble but the sixth is your favourite. The sixth needs nothing. The sixth takes everything.

  And the seventh?

  The seventh child?

  The seventh child wanders.

  The seventh child drifts.

  The seventh child shall break your heart.

  The old woman stood outside, behind the gate, looking at the house.

  The Meadow Hag

  The farmer had been meaning to repair the wall around the well for months. The hole sat in the centre of an overgrown field just outside the village. He had finished rounding up his sheep and was walking back to the lights of the farmhouse, in the deepening dusk, when he heard the cry.

  It made him stop. The cry was low and almost indistinct. He stood still, tilted his head and listened. The sheep were shuffling and bleating lightly as they settled for the night. A soft wind tickled the browning leaves into a series of whispering rustles. Under that sound, in the distance was the cry. The farmer did not hesitate; it was clearly coming from the well. He ran to its edge and peered down into the darkness.

  “Hello?” he called “Are you hurt?”

  A groan was the only reply.

  The farmer acted swiftly. He secured the well rope and removed the bucket before lowering himself down into the darkness. The twilight of the evening gave little detail inside the well, but he could just make out what looked like a large bundle of rags next to his feet as he reached the bottom. The farmer squatted down and patted the bundle which shifted under his hand and gave a little cough.

  He lifted the bundle to his shoulder and was surprised at its weight. It felt as though he was carrying a pair of downy pillows, albeit ones with sharp corners and bone-like protrusions. He made sure that his cargo would not fall and climbed back up without difficulty.

  Once in the open he lowered the body onto the grass and rolled it over. He was taken aback by the appearance of this old woman. She was clothed in what looked like old hessian sacks. Her hands were so long and the skin so tight on each crooked digit that they resembled the desiccated claws of a dead cockerel. But it was her face that provoked the most visceral reaction. He stared at her visage and could not control his shivering. Her face was so wrinkled and so full of lines that it looked as though it had been scribbled upon by an angry child.

  The old woman’s eyes flickered open. She smiled; her wrinkles cracking and shifting to meet the demands of the muscles in her face. The farmer helped her to her feet.

  “How does it fare with you, lady?”

  The old woman checked herself over.

  “I took a mighty tumble, dear sir, and I feared all was lost.”

  The farmer told her to walk carefully from now on and she assured him that she would. The farmer smiled and turned to go but the old woman put a hand on his arm. He stopped and she spoke.

  “I want to show my thanks.”

  The farmer could see that this was a woman of little means.

  He said, “You be sure to tread carefully so I don’t have to fish you out of any more holes. That will be thanks enough.”

  The old lady shook her head.

  “I give you my protection. As you saved me from harm so I save you.”

  “That is very kind,” smiled the farmer, laughing inwardly at the thought that this frail old creature could protect him from anything at all.

  He doffed his cap and gave a small bow. After the lady returned the gesture he walked back home.

  It was as he turned the corner to walk the final track to his house that he glanced behind him and saw, in the distance, the old woman standing and watching. He waved at her and continued on.

  As the farmer opened the gate into the yard he saw the old woman again, standing, watching him. He waved again, walked across the yard and stepped into his house.

  The farmer’s wife kissed him in welcome as he crossed the kitchen floor to embrace her. She asked him of his day, of his travails and whether he had eaten the bread and cheese that she had secreted inside his pouch. He smiled and stroked her head, thanking his wife for the small ale that she placed there that had warmed him when he had taken of his noon victuals.

  His wife was his light, his whole life. He gazed upon her as she placed a bowl of del
icious lamb stew in front of him. They ate silently together; he enjoying the sight of her, whilst she revelled in the sounds of his contentment as he wolfed down the stew.

  When he pushed his bowl away he told her of his adventure. She listened rapt and proud as he recounted how he had rescued the old lady.

  “Was she well?” his wife asked.

  “I left her standing and with no bone broken.”

  “She was lucky that you were passing.”

  “She was grateful,” smiled the farmer in recollection.

  “She offered me her protection to repay my kindness!”

  His wife laughed heartily at this. Her husband was so strong, so lithe, so full of health, so fast and so brave; he was not a man who needed help or any sort of protection at all. The husband stopped her laughing as she saw a grave look darken his face.

  “I would swear that she was following me home. She was a long way behind, but when I turned I could see her.”

  The wife laughed again, took up the dishes and walked to the sink. She looked out of the window and stopped. She gave a little gasp, waving her husband to her side.

  The old woman stood outside, behind the gate, looking at the house.

  “She followed me!” marvelled the farmer.

  “She will catch a chill, husband.”

  The farmer was a good man. He looked at his wife and nodded. Once outside he saw that the woman was still by the gate staring at him. She did not budge as he approached.

  “Will you come inside?”

  She shook her head.

  “My wife has made a stew.”

  She shook her head again, whispering, “I give you my protection.”

  “I insist, please come inside.”

  The old lady relented and followed the farmer into his house. The farmer’s wife poured out a generous portion of lamb stew from the pot into a bowl and put it on the table. The old woman who was still standing at the door looked at the stew.

  “Please eat,” said the farmer’s wife.

  The old lady looked at her.

  “Please sit down and eat,” the farmer said.

  The old woman sat down and brought the bowl to her lips. She opened her mouth, poured the stew inside and seemed to swallow it down in a single gulp. She stood and made to leave. The wife - astonished by the old woman’s appetite - was silent, but the farmer, having seen more than his fair share of strange sights, was still hospitable.

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  The old woman nodded.

  “I do sir, but you are under my protection.”

  “I assure you good lady that I do not need it.”

  “And yet you have it. It is not a gift, sir. It is not given freely, you have earned my protection by your works and my protection you have.”

  The farmer smiled at her determination.

  “Will you not relent? I assure you I need no protection.”

  “Bless you, sir,” said the old woman. “You rescued me from darkness and peril. You plucked me from the jaws of death. You see before you an old woman, wrinkled and ancient, a hag who surely has nothing to give you. But I give you my protection. You have it.”

  The farmer’s wife was starting to feel discomfited by this old crone’s passion and whispered,

  “The hour is late, Husband, and the animals will need their feed early in the morning. We must abed.”

  The farmer, who knew his wife well, understood her meaning, “Indeed my wife speaks wisely. Will you need accompanying home?”

  The old lady shook her head and walked to the door. She turned, looking the farmer in the eye.

  “Remember, I bless you, good sir. You are defended.”

  “Thank you, good lady. Get home safely.”

  They watched as she walked to the gate. They waved as she undid the latch and stepped from the yard into the darkness. Once the door was closed and they were sure that she was out of earshot, they both laughed long and hard, gripping their sides, holding each other, talking of the woman’s strange ways and her powers of protection. Tears streaming and gasping for breath they scrambled upstairs to bed.

  The farmer awoke in the night to make his toilet and glanced out of the window on the landing. He shrunk back: there was the woman looking up at him intently, her dull eyes blazing black from beneath her wrinkled brows.

  The farmer did not sleep and rolled out of bed before the crow of the cock. He went to give the animals their feed half an hour earlier than usual.

  And there, standing at the gate, was the old woman. She watched him steadily as he went about his business. He did not know how to react to her. He did not approach or smile or look directly at her. This was too strange to be acknowledged. He could sense her at all times. When he went into the cowshed to begin milking, he hoped that, on his exit, she would be gone. As he came out of the barn he breathed a sigh of relief as he could no longer see her at the gate.

  He felt a breath at his shoulder and turning, his heart stopped momentarily, as the old lady was now standing at the door.

  “What do you want, madam?”

  “To protect you,” she replied.

  “I need no protection.”

  “Nonetheless, you are protected.”

  The farmer turned from the old woman and walked to the farmhouse. In the kitchen his wife was preparing the breakfast. When her husband entered she was startled to see his troubled look.

  “The lady is still in the yard.”

  The farmer’s wife rushed to the window and peeked out. Sure enough, there she was, the old woman, behind the gate, staring at the house.

  “Why has she not left?”

  “I think she has been there all night.”

  The farmer shook his head.

  “I am beginning to wish that I hadn’t pulled her from the well.”

  “She is just a harmless old woman,” smiled the farmer’s wife. “What can she do?”

  The farmer went about his daily chores. He walked his sheep to new pastures and all the time the old woman watched, ready. He fed his chickens and picked one for slaughter. All the while the old woman watched. He went to speak to his labourers who were ploughing the cornfield and was embarrassed that all the way through their conversation the old woman watched. As he walked home she followed and watched. As he sat at his table eating his wife’s beautiful stew, with little appetite, he knew that she was outside, watching.

  This became a pattern over the next few weeks. He and his wife grew used to the old woman. She became something of a joke with the labourers; they called her “The Farmer’s Mistress” and laughed as she followed the farmer about. But she ignored them, never looked at them, and followed the farmer.

  The farmer and his wife found it harder to ignore her when he found himself with a cold in the head that developed into a fever. The farmer’s wife would not let him rise and went downstairs to make him a soothing posset. She found the old woman standing at the stove cooking up the same herself. The farmer’s wife asked the old woman to leave but got no response. She resolved to get the woman out once she had delivered her own posset to her ailing husband.

  The farmer’s wife worked swiftly boiling up the posset, but the old woman, who had begun first, was already pouring it from the pan into a bowl. The old woman turned from the stove and began to walk to the stairs. The farmer’s wife called for her to stop, but the old woman did not falter, so she ran from the stove and blocked her way.

  “Thank you for your concern, good lady, but it is a wife’s duty to care for her husband. Let me take that posset to him.”

  The old woman stopped, squinting at the young wife for a moment. She nodded, handing the bowl to her. The farmer’s wife thanked the old woman, who left the kitchen and walked to her usual position beyond the gate. Filled with resolve, the farmer’s wife walked to the sink and poured the posset down the drain. She rinsed the bowl and refilled it with her own steaming brew from the pan. She took this upstairs and her husband drank it down weakly, slow sip after slow si
p.

  But as day passed into night, her husband’s fever grew worse and his breathing became laboured, the fluid in his cough having sunk to his lungs. She made more posset and remedy but to no avail. As night deepened she lay next to her husband holding him close to stop his incessant shivering.