THE WATCHERS FROM THE FLOOD
Between the green exuberance of fresh days,
The deep, contrasting inks of summer’s
shade,
The residue where troubling darkness sways,
Assertive in each wave - yet
part afraid;
The deep contrasting inks of summer’s shade
Conceal the eyes that watch but are not
seen,
All hidden by each wave, yet half afraid,
They flood with death and what each death
must mean;
Concealed in eyes that watch but are not
seen,
The older days, when all was
bright and true,
Before the flood that proved what death
must mean;
And who now plucks the rose that Isis knew?
Impressions, loves and joys are
left unsaid,
In all
those drowning gardens of the dead.
GRAVEN FLOWERS
She sighed – she said, “The flowers of this world
Belong to me, I’m done
with people now;
But give me snowdrops, when huddled
sleep is stirred,
Shade-brooding with a silence on
each brow,
A ghost on every brow for what has
been;
Then daffodils – which bloom to
comfort Christ
In dark Gethsemane – while others
only dream
On stony earth, in blankets stiff
with ice;
And He, alone, to see the promise
made.
Then Summer’s span, when foxgloves
blow with chimes;
Wisteria, in her amethyst
cascade,
Before the Autumn’s crocus – waning
times
When evening glides to Winter, bowed
and lost;
Deep Winter and the graven flowers of frost.”
COUNTRY BURR
Short Story
by Gary Bills
Penshaw Vicarage,
Herefordshire,
November 4th, 1876.
My Dear Old Friend, -
In the Love and Service of Christ.
You ask me how I could contemplate
leaving our Church and embracing, instead, the Sacraments of Rome. Why do you
express surprise in your letter? You and I have ever been High Church, since
our days together at Oxford, and for me it is a natural progression, as my time
in this world draws to a likely close...
Ah, I shudder at my words and
hesitate; and indeed, I am truly sorry, if I put you to the torture like
this! But upon this reflection,
concerning my dwindling prospects, I believe it is only wise to look to
the Holy See for solace and salvation. Indeed, there must be powers on this
earth, and by this, I mean benign forces, raising the banners of Grace;
and these must stand firm against the onslaughts of the Devil. You must
comprehend, I have encountered the agents of malice and shadow. They are real
and they have cursed me, with the relentless affliction of consumption.
Our own Church offers no
consolation. Our Bishop does not believe in curses, and so he refuses to lift a
potent curse, even if he might. You asked about my meeting with the Right Reverend.
Well, as he had troubled himself to visit an ailing colleague, I decided to
play the courteous host, as best I could. I poured him a glass of port and
watched him observe its fire-flickered ruby depths. But while the logs in the
hearth spat and crackled, I reflected upon the damn odd business we are in,
dear friend. After all, we are priests of an increasingly practical church, and
one which does not believe in the supernatural, in these modern days, and
perhaps has never believed.
“Dark Age superstition!” That is
what the Bishop told me. “Dark Age superstition...”
And to an extent, I do agree with
him. Allow the rustics outside the
vicarage door to cherish their witch bottles, or the dripping hearts of calves
impaled with thorns; for the general world has moved on, and the Devil must
make do with a knee-patched congregation, should he wish to hold an infernal
Mass on Sabins Hill, as of yore. The folks in our pews are still ignorant; they
are childish souls, my dear old friend, and they blink in the light of a
progress which they can never comprehend. The great machines are coming to
their fields, and then, - and then, what shall be the purpose of the
peasant? Can we blame them, truly, if they cling to arcane rituals? Can you
condemn them, or I, or the Bishop – yes, even the Right Reverend, with his
superior sneer and his measuring little eyes, like two black marbles.... I ask you, can we blame the rural poor for
seeking power, when they have none?
The rich man in his castle, the
poor man at his gate, and so on, ad infinitum. But why must the
wretched endure their wretchedness? If they are slighted or humiliated
by their superiors, what recourse shall they have? The Bishop is confident of
forelocks being tugged as he rides by, in his shiny black carriage. God, it
seems, may occasionally listen to prayers from those with Oxford accents, such
as ourselves. (This, indeed, is the basis of our profession.) But the Devil –
ah, old bargaining Beelzebub! I say the Devil is a good listener, especially
when he hears a country burr, making its supplications.
For myself, I have no doubt that
Eleanor Grove had the cocked ear of Satan. Her desire was the elimination of a
love rival, for young girls often feel the keen pangs of jealousy. All it took
was a request, written on a scrap of lead six inches square, - that is all
it took for another young servant, called Becky Northrop, to wither in sickness
and die, from consumption. Then Eleanor might have been free to marry
the groom, a personable young man called Elias Mortlake; and Eleanor’s malice
might well have remained undiscovered. However, the lady of the house, old Mrs
Altringham of Wither’s Court – she was soon in possession of Eleanor’s leaden
curse, after a chimney sweep discovered it, on a ledge in the main parlour
chimney. Note, the main parlour! Only the finest room for Lucifer! But I digress. Mrs Altringham recognised
Eleanor’s scratchy handwriting, and she was dismissed; and this is where my
misfortunes began. You see, Mrs Altringham asked me to call, because she felt
as if a baleful shadow had been laid upon her home. In particular, she was
especially aggrieved that Eleanor’s curse had been found in the parlour and not
the servants’ quarters. That would have been more acceptable, for servants and
the Devil should know their place!
It was then, at Wither’s Court,
that I was first examined Eleanor’s leaden curse, and the outcome left me
perplexed.
Even considering the pressure of
hand it must take to engrave any clear message in lead, young Eleanor’s hand was
scratchy, childish and difficult to discern. But there was more than spite and
ignorance there. Somehow, Eleanor had set down the names of actual demons!
There was poor Becky’s name, and this was surrounded by the spiteful Princes of
Hell, or at least a fair old gaggle of that diabolical crew! Yes, those names
were familiar to me, as one who had studied such matters; but they are
to be found only in arcane chronicles, many of those on parchment, and
centuries old. Those names are not to be found in The Book of Common
Prayer! I shall not give them here, for
why encourage the damned and the damnable? But yes, Eleanor Grove was
acquainted with the titles and tasks of demons. From whence came that
knowledge, in a girl who could barely scribble her own name?
No more fruitless speculation. I
did my duty at Wither’s Court. I blessed each and every room, - except for the
closets, (where, at that old pile, one may encounter regrettable stinks.
I did not enter there!) But I was more than generous with my flask of Holy
Water. I determined to be brisk in my boots, however, as a man in his prime;
and soon enough the business was over and it was time to leave.
“Is it all done then? “asked Mrs
Altringham, somewhat curtly, as if I were her window cleaner, and not the vicar.
But her thanks were profound enough; and it is gratifying work, it is not, to
be praised and respected for sprinkling and muttering, with a practised, solemn
expression on one’s face? And pleasant, it was, to be seated again on my tidy
grey pony, and to experience the reassuring jog-jog-jog of a journey to one’s
own front door. It was still midsummer, and the golden light of evening was
lying, side by side, with lengthening shadows on the fields, and the flower
meadows were yielding their subtle, bitter-sweet scents, as I passed by.
I realised how night would shortly
be upon me; but as I had reached Martha’s Cross, with only a mile to complete,
I was not unduly troubled by the lateness of the hour. What did disturb
me was the apparition of Eleanor Grove; and I say apparition, for she
seemed more spirit than flesh, being dressed in a yellowing tatter of a smock,
with her white skin peeping through, - a little here, and a little more
there...
I had heard disturbing tales of her
fall, since her dismissal, such as how she had sold herself to farming folk on
market day, at Hetringham, and how she had been caught stealing eggs at
Beckett’s Farm. Her paleness, her condition, her squalor barely surprised me,
therefore; but she gave me a jolt by grabbing my bridle, with a quickness I
could barely countenance, and thereby bringing me to a halt. All this
transpired while my thoughts were in turmoil. How had she appeared, so
suddenly and so near? A moment ago, the lane was empty, as it wound its way
between the hawthorn hedgerows, and the foamy verges of cow parsley. Yes, she
had materialised from nowhere, in the manner of a phantom; but her hand upon my
knee, and her imploring whine, made me certain that she was merely
ailing flesh and blood, and that she was famished and afraid. Well, ghosts -
being damned - may do well to be afraid, as outcasts from the Lord. But tell
me, what ghost can feel the pangs of hunger? No, Eleanor Grove was still among
the living, - I was convinced of it; and as I studied her red-rimmed
eyes, her matted black hair and the encrusted sores upon her brow, I almost
felt deep pity for the girl. I almost relented when she asked me to turn
back to Wither’s Court, where I might beg for her to be forgiven, and where I
might ask Mrs Altringham to reinstate her, perhaps.
“I don’t need no pay from her,” she
told me. “Only my bed and my vittles..”
As I say, pity is a curious
enchantment. One moment, it is potent, and the next, quite broken. When Eleanor
Grove then suggested how I might lie with her for a sixpence, out of Christian
charity, I responded with a single blow from my riding crop, which left her
with a welt across her nose, and her right cheek. I am most sorry for that; but
not sorry that I rode on with a flick of my reins. She was weeping and howling
on the verge, among the cow parsley. But I still continued on my way, for she
had tempted me, and I had triumphed.
That night, it seems, my conscience
was suffering, for my dream was of Eleanor, with her damaged face. Once more I
gazed into her red-rimmed eyes, and I was about to apologise, as a Christian
man should; but she turned her back and walked down the lane, away from me. It
was a curious, floating motion she displayed, as if she were subject to the
impudence of every breeze, and her yellowing smock was adrift about the
contours of her comely, slender form. It was evening, in my dream, and she
walked towards a sunset, which was bathing the verges and the hedgerows with a
steady amber light, until they had no colours of their own. Then Eleanor was
gone, as if she had simply stepped into the sun, which was sinking low on the
horizon, beneath a band of fiery, orange cloud.
No more of fanciful dreams! Let me
bring you, old friend, to the next day, when I was alerted by a single heavy
knock, upon my front door. This was curious – unexpected, for I was
anticipating no significant visitor. I was up from my study and in the hallway
before a servant might respond, for I confess to a baleful weight in my breast,
as if I had a foreboding of ill tidings. The knock was for my attention and
mine alone. I felt it in my bones! And
what did I discover, when I opened the door? Well, - no familiar face was there
to greet me, but on the wrought iron doormat was another leaden curse, and this
one bore my name, and around my name were names of malice – formidable demons,
armed with their weapons of disease and misfortune.
Although still troubled by my encounter
with Eleanor, and my subsequent dream of the girl, I was struck initially by
the impudence of such a spiritual assault; after all, are we not ordained
ministers of Christendom? Surely, it would take more than a square of lead and
malice to bring me down? I had no doubt, of course, that Eleanor Grove had paid
me a visit. Perhaps she was out still there, in my garden, hiding in a laurel
bush to see my reaction? I determined to show no alarm, and so I laughed out
loud. I forced my mirth; I laughed and laughed like a Bedlam fool, until
a felt a dull thump in my chest, as if an invisible spirit had attacked me with
its fist. It was then I tasted blood, -
the sudden liquid warmth and tang of salt, and so began my episode of coughing,
and nightly sweats, and gnawing aches. So it was, the curse took its affect,
and my days in this world were foreshortened.
I am still coughing blood. My
handkerchiefs are sodden and crimson, and Doctor Miles has advised me that I
must consider the advice which was once given to poor John Keats, namely, to
seek the warmer climes of Italy, because I will not survive another bitter
English winter. However, you know how Keats fared in Rome, dear friend? You
understand the ghastly, inevitable outcome? I must confess, the idea of
being in the Holy City at last is enough to give me joyous palpitations. I
would go, gladly – but not like this. Not like this.
No, I must remain. I must be
stoical and trust to God’s plan, for I know I may be cured, if I have faith.
But how shall I have faith, when our own Bishop does not believe in
miracles, as I have inferred? Meanwhile, I am troubled by nightmares.
Two nights after I received the
leaden curse, I fancied in my sleep that the Devil himself paid me a visit. He
sat beside my bed and mopped my fevered brow, and there was tenderness in his
ministrations. I should have been sorely afraid; but he was handsome of form, with
a thin, elegant moustache and sleek black hair. However, his eyes were most
memorable, for they were grey and swimming with pain and compassion. He never
tried to deceive me, even when he raised his cup of filth and lies and offered
to make me whole again. He told me what it meant, to sip from the ebony grail,
and I was sorely tempted, for I do so want to live, dear friend – ten
years more, five years, three... even at the expense of my soul. But the
angels must have intervened, for I awoke, as the Devil was raising me from my
pillow; even as he urged me to drink and drink deeply.
My chamber was grey with morning,
and a wardrobe leaned towards me as if to overhear my mumbled confusions. The
walls, too, would not keep still. Oaken panels rushed towards me and then
retreated so far – so far, I felt as if I were lying in a vast, echoing
sepulchre, where only my whimpers could be heard.
I determined to shut my eyes and
reflect upon my encounter with Lucifer, and once again I considered how we
wrong the poor and ignorant in our charge; for we condemn them from the pulpit
for making a barley poppet, or for dancing to drums and midnight fiddles, to
save the blighted orchards. Their lives, dear friend, are merely precarious,
for a bad harvest can mean starvation, while they must endure every insult,
every cruelty and each privation, just to labour for their Masters and earn
their bread and board. I ask again, where is God in all this, - I mean, where
is God for them? No, I shall not
condemn them for turning, on occasions, to another power; for making use of witchcraft.
After all, what other power will harken to the wretched? I, myself, am numbered among the wretched.
These were my disturbing
considerations as I roused myself at last and prepared for the Bishop’s visit,
for that was the very day when he would arrive. However, you know already the
outcome of that particular episode; and by then I was more than half-set on
other courses, and they would not require his blessing and compliance.
That evening, after the Bishop’s
carriage had trundled away, over the crackling gravels of my drive, I summoned
fat Mrs Rickerby to my parlour. She is my cook, of course; but I had the
intention of also making her my informant.
You must comprehend, she is the finest gossip in Penshaw and her husband
is the greatest soak. He is seldom out of the Beauchamp Arms. Between them,
they will know if a rabbit breaks wind on Downside Meadows! Rabbits, however,
were not my prime concern. It was news of Eleanor Grove I desired. But in this
I was both shocked and disappointed. In truth, what she told me set me coughing
again, and I caught the revulsion in her sly, squinty eyes, as my handkerchief
was mightily stained with gore.
She told me that Eleanor Grove “had
been found a-hanging", above the stream at Binley, at least one full week
ago. She had been buried in unconsecrated ground, at the expense of Binley
Parish. But how could this be? How the devil could this be? I had met
with Eleanor, apparently – talked with her – and I had struck her too. But that
was several days after her apparent act of self-destruction! (Might
there have been a mistake? Were the folks at Binley certain it was
Eleanor? For now, however, I must assume the worst...)
Still with my handkerchief to my
lips, I gestured to Mrs Rickerby to waddle from my parlour and to leave me
alone, if not in peace. My plans – my hopes, my salvation... all in tatters,
for how does one apologise to a ghost? I had planned, as a good Christian
fellow, to seek Eleanor’s forgiveness and also her assistance. Surely, a leaden
curse, though given, can also be taken back? But now, I ask you... where were
my prospects?
And so, - and so, I await a letter.
Father John Newman was my father’s friend, at the University, and I hear he is
well-regarded by the Mother Church, in Rome. I have written to him,
appertaining to these matters of body and soul, and I seek his instruction.
They say he is a holy man, and possibly a saint; and I see you frown at this,
for you will think I am corresponding for a miracle. No, dear friend, I merely
await his reply; and therefore, you must imagine me, a singular figure in the
parlour window, looking for the post that never comes.
I notice how the leaves have fallen
early this autumn, and those which remain are a dull bronze, without the
customary splendour of this season. You smile at my indolence? But what else
should I do, but watch the world grow old? Aside from this, I cough, dear
friend.
I cough, and I cough.
Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is currently the fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake, and he has recently gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction.
He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his post-modernist epic poem, Bredbeddle's Well, which was published in Lothlorien in 2022.
Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ and Acumen, and he has had three full collections published, – “The Echo and the Breath” (Peterloo Poets, 2001); “The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart” (bluechrome, 2003); and “Laws for Honey” (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited “The Review of Contemporary Poetry”, for bluechrome.
His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. A US-based indie publisher, The Little French, published his first novel, “A Letter for Alice” in 2019, and a collection of stories, “Bizarre Fables”, in 2021. These were illustrated by his wife, Heather E. Geddes. His second novel, "Sleep not my Wanton", came out in January 2022.
"Sleep Not..." is due out again shortly as an audio book, as possibly as a hardback.
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