Two Sonnets & COUNTRY BURR - Short Story by Gary Bills

 

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 4^th, 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.