Category: folklore

A Ghost Story for a Dark Winter’s Night

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It’s winter, it’s dark, it’s cold and the perfect time of year for sharing ghost stories, when the thresholds between worlds feels very thin…

The Second Commandment

by Sue Belfrage

I met Kirkby only the once, while we were waiting for a ferry crossing. Rough weather had delayed our boat’s departure and we stood watching waves pound the harbour walls.

‘Sky’s clearing,’ I said, and I pointed to a patch of blue overhead.

Kirkby nodded. He was a tall man, greying, his shoulders somewhat stooped and his expression pensive, as though he bore the world heavily.

‘With any luck, we’ll be on our way soon, if the wind drops,’ he said.

It was biting cold. ‘Fancy a pint while we wait?’ I asked.

Kirkby followed me across the quay to the squat pub overlooking the harbour. We found a seat in the snug and introduced ourselves over our drinks – a pint of beer for me and a glass of ginger ale for him. Kirkby, I learned, was on a pilgrimage of sorts. In measured tones, he explained how he had not long left the priesthood, disillusioned with church politics and exhausted by the demands of his parish. Since then, he had been travelling around Britain, visiting holy sites in a bid to resurrect his faith, which, he said, had been put under enormous strain during the last few years. As he talked, his voice began to falter and tears filled his eyes. I excused myself and went to the bar to buy another round. When I returned, Kirkby had composed himself; for the first time I saw him smile.

‘Anyway, my sorry tale is soon to have a happy ending. A couple of months ago, I returned to an area where I spent part of my youth – a trip down memory lane, if you will. And while I was there, I came across the perfect place to live. A ramshackle, part-furnished little cottage in a hamlet near the town. There’s a pub and a post box, and that’s about it. Nobody knows how old the house is, although by the front door there’s a block of ancient stonework, believed to have been salvaged from a manor belonging to the Knights Templar. But what’s more interesting – for my purposes anyway – are the remains of what appears to be a private chapel attached to the cottage. I think I shall be very happy there.’

Kirkby’s eyes sparked, and I wished him well. He pulled a fountain pen from his jacket pocket and a scrap of paper from his wallet, and wrote down his address, pressing it on me.  Out of politeness I gave him mine in return. However, I did not expect to hear from him once we’d completed our journey and gone our separate ways. I was certainly unprepared for the letter that landed on my doormat a little over five weeks later.

It is an untidy and long document, written in black ink and full of crossings out, smudges and annotations. Its contents occasionally resemble those of a diary, listing everyday trivia. And yet, at other moments, it seems closer to the ramblings of a mad man. You must judge the events it describes for yourself.

***

According to his letter, Kirkby took possession of the keys to his new home on 13 October, not long after our meeting. But the move didn’t get off to an auspicious start: the rental agent was late handing over the keys; the weather was vile and gusty; the front door swollen and jammed; and he was forced to shoulder his way into the hall, where he skidded and landed hard on flagstones wet with rain water that had seeped over the doorsill.

Nevertheless, Kirkby told himself to count his blessings. The air in the cottage was thick with damp, but he managed to get a fire burning in the grate, mopped up the wet floor and shored up the doorsill with a twisted towel. He warmed some soup and sat in the single, badly-sprung armchair to eat his supper, the fire toasting his feet. He prised off his brogues. He would unpack the boxes tomorrow.

Kirkby’s eyelids sank and his head dipped under the weight of his exhaustion. He gave himself permission to doze – when something stirred at his senses. He woke with a start. There was a strong smell of burning and he roused himself from the chair. No sparks had escaped from the fire. He lumbered into the tiny square kitchen; the cooker rings were all switched off. Kirkby sniffed the air again. And again. The acrid tang had gone. He shrugged and went to retrieve his bowl and spoon. As he carried the items to the sink, he paused. The nape of his neck prickled and he turned slowly. He had the distinct impression he was being watched.

He told himself he was simply in need of a good night’s sleep. Upstairs, he made up his bed and, after kneeling down to pray, still struggling to give himself completely to the words, he crawled under the sheets. He slept soundly, waking only briefly, fretting he had forgotten something, that there was something he was meant to find. But then he reminded himself his old life was over. There was no cause for anxiety. He sank into dreamless slumber.

In the grey light of morning, Kirkby opened his eyes and glimpsed a shadow by the foot of the bed. He sat up, blinked and realised he had merely been startled by the fluttering silhouette of a tree outside. In his tiredness, he had forgotten to draw the curtains. He heaved himself out of bed and set about his chores.

Later, having unpacked boxes and stacked firewood beside the hearth, Kirkby rewarded himself with a tea break, and took the opportunity to survey his new surroundings. There was a strip of garden at the back, beyond which lay a tangle of laurels. A short stretch of path led to the building he had instinctively recognised as a chapel, attached to the flank of the cottage. The chapel’s rendering had come away in patches, while green blooms of mould spread up towards two narrow yet ornate windows set high beside the arch-shaped door. Kirkby took a last gulp of tea, set down his mug and went to investigate.

The chapel door was locked, but a large rusty key lay in a recess near the entrance. It seemed strange to leave the key where it could so easily be found – more appropriate to shutting something in than keeping intruders out. After two or three attempts to turn the key, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

Inside, dankness hit Kirkby like a blow to the chest. As he stopped coughing, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The chapel had clearly not been used for a long time; it was very cold, like a larder in which the shelves had been stripped bare. An image flashed through his mind of a long joint of meat hanging from a beam, but he pushed the thought aside. There was no furniture, no pews or font or altar; the uneven floor was littered with the leavings of rodents, and the remains of a tumbled nest.  When he stepped out of the rectangle of light cast by the doorway, he trod on the brittle skeleton of a bird. The abandoned chapel was a disappointment, a mess.

Kirkby braced himself. Perhaps part of his challenge lay in restoring order to this desecrated site? The chapel should be cleaned up and dedicated once more to the glory of God. That would be the most appropriate course of action.

However, as he stood there, he felt affronted by the overwhelming hostility of the narrow space. He turned to leave, when his eye was caught by a bulky bundle in a corner. The bundle was shrouded in layers of hessian sacking and secured with baler twine. He managed to lift the thing and, as soon as he did so, sensed a change in the atmosphere, as if this was what he had been meant to find.

With nothing sharp to hand, he lugged the object back into the cottage and set it on the stone floor. As he sat there, hacking at the binding with a kitchen knife, Kirkby became strangely gleeful. It was like being a boy again and stumbling upon a hidden present, but here, nobody could forbid him from taking a peek. When he had flicked away the cut twine and eased the sacking down the sides of the concealed object, he inhaled sharply. He had indeed discovered treasure.

It was some sort of ornate cabinet, with two panels opening outwards to reveal, like a glimpse of heaven between parted clouds, a triptych of intricately painted scenes. The paintwork was absolutely filthy, darkened with centuries of dust, the lacquer thick, crosshatched and yellow; but even so, when he peered closely, Kirkby could make out a row of angelic faces. Here was the marriage feast of Cana, the transformation of water into wine. There, the healing of the blind and the curing of lepers. And the raising of Lazarus. The figures were cloaked in dirt yet there could be little doubt they depicted biblical scenes. Kirkby had discovered a portable altar.

The style in which the triptych was painted suggested the altar was very old, possibly medieval. In the top right-hand corner of the centre panel was a minute patch of dazzling blue; if the whole piece were cleaned, it would undoubtedly be a spectacular work. Kirkby knew he ought to inform somebody of his discovery, but the more he looked at the piece, the more it struck him that this was his find – and he was not ready to share his treasure with anybody else. Not yet.

A sudden pressure gripped his shoulder, as if clamped by a hand, and Kirkby sprang to his feet. He took a deep breath. His nerves were taut as wire after his visit to the chapel and his imagination running amok; he would calm himself through prayer. He picked up the altar carefully and placed it on a table under the window, wedging a strip of torn cardboard under the table’s feet to keep it from wobbling. There – he had created a passable shrine.

He went to kneel when it occurred to him that he might as well pray seated. Nobody was watching, at least not a congregation, and his knees were very stiff. He pulled up the armchair and clasped his hands together in devotion. He sat contemplating the triptych for at least an hour, maybe much longer, letting the images enter his heart and wash over his soul. As Kirkby considered the lepers, his skin prickled and he prayed he might never know their suffering. He lingered on a slight female figure in the foreground, perhaps Eve, her naked arms raised in supplication, and sensed an unaccustomed stirring. The scene of merrymakers at the wedding brought a tightness to his throat, the memory of an old, familiar thirst. He reflected on the transformation of water into wine – surely this biblical sanction meant wine was not necessarily a bad thing? Perhaps he could afford a short lapse? It would be a test of character. The row of cherubs grinned in approval.

Rising from the chair, Kirkby was drawn once more to the dash of blue in the middle panel. The triptych’s colours would sing like the angels themselves if the grime were wiped from them. He made a note on another piece of paper of the tasks ahead, and the materials he would need; it had long been his habit to jot things down so he could remember them easily.

The light was beginning to fail by the time he reached town, but he managed to catch the general store before it shut for the night. He selected a bottle of white spirit, some acetone, a roll of cotton gauze; and, as an afterthought, a bottle of whiskey. The woman at the till seemed friendly enough. However, as Kirkby pulled out his wallet to pay, her terrier sprang from its basket behind the counter and snapped at his ankles. The woman caught the dog by its collar and dragged it to a back room, where it continued to yap behind a closed door. Although he was rattled, Kirkby attempted to laugh off the incident. The woman couldn’t apologize enough. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what on earth’s got into him.’

In the cottage, Kirkby poured himself two generous fingers of whiskey. He gulped them down. The burn made him grimace, but the aftereffect was comforting. A glow filled him.

In a cupboard, he found a pair of candle sticks and a box of candles. He lit two and flicked off the overhead bulb. Cautiously, he set the candles on either side of the altar. The small flames cast unsettling shadows across the triptych, distorting the figures and illuminating strange swells of colour under the patina of dirt. Somewhere in the distance he could have sworn he heard laughter. Then he felt a thin, wet lick of cold at his neck.

Kirkby snapped the overhead light back on and extinguished the candle flames. He put a hand to his brow and realised he was sweating. Perhaps he was coming down with a fever. After lighting a fire in the hearth, he rummaged in one of the remaining boxes and retrieved a torch, then poured himself another measure, smaller this time. Next, he laid the altar on its back and held the torch above it. The angels did not look quite so benign now.

In the kitchen, Kirkby mixed a solution of white spirit and acetone in a cup. He dipped the gauze in the solution and returned to the altar with it. Carefully, very carefully, he cleaned the surface of the central panel, wiping across a face in the gallery of angels. The cloth came away blackened with dirt; and the angel had flown, leaving behind it a grotesque creature. A diminutive, snarling demon. Kirkby dabbed at another face; to his horror, this too revealed not an angel but a beast.

He dismissed the growing chill at his back to concentrate on the triptych, dabbing at scenes, liberating them from stained varnish. Each movement of his hand drew back the veil on his own deception. Where he had seen the marriage of Cana was a grotesque orgy of cannibalism and slaughter; the blind and lepers were not being healed but cruelly tortured; Eve was the sorceress Lilith, and the raising of Lazarus a tormented sufferer on a spit. When he had prayed earlier that day so fervently before the altar, Kirkby had not been contemplating biblical scenes and heavenly wonders, but filling his heart and his soul with the abominations of hell itself.

He felt nauseous. The disgusting object had to be destroyed. And, all the time, he was aware of the growing presence surrounding him in the cottage. The malice he had experienced in the chapel was here with him now, in this house. It was close by, watching, feeding on fear. Overhead, the light bulb flickered twice. Kirkby began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. He relit the candles, moving them from the table to the mantelpiece. He stoked the fire and added more wood. He knew what he had to do, but first he needed to secure a witness for himself and the act he intended to undertake.

***

And that is as much as I can tell you, drawing on the letter I received, which, as I have said, consists of mismatched scraps of paper and sheets of scrawl. The rest is conjecture, based on my visit to the hamlet where Kirkby once lived.

I imagine that once he had gathered his notes, stuffed them in an envelope and addressed that envelope to me, Kirkby set out into the dark night to post his letter. The post box in the hamlet is some 300 yards down the lane, set into a wall next to the pub. He would have hurried along the road, guided by the light of his torch, flinching at every rustle in the hedgerows, wondering if his was the only breathing he could hear. Perhaps Kirkby paused to peer through the pub window at the warmth and laughter within, and – his mouth still dry from whisky – slowly turned his back, determined to complete his task. As he approached the cottage on his return, it must have looked quite cosy, windows aglow; only Kirkby knew what was waiting for him inside.

They did not find a body. Merely charred remains, tinder and ash. The landlord told me it is popularly believed that a piece of kindling caught Kirkby’s clothing as he heaped yet more wood on the fire. I like to think he died quickly. The hearth and the walls surrounding it were completely blackened, but the altar, I understand, suffered only slight scorching along one side. Aside from this, it remains intact. Indeed, the last I heard, it had gone to auction. A specialist market perhaps; for there are always buyers to be found for such articles, such ancient objects of devotion.

Wild in the Woods

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The Forest of Dean is one of the few surviving ancient woodlands in England, a place of winding mossy paths and dreaming ponds. Since the turn of the millennium, it has also been home to a thriving population of wild boar after a number of the animals escaped from a nearby farm.

When my husband and I were walking in the forest, we could see signs of wild boar all around us – uprooted plants and areas of soil ploughed with strong snouts. Our little dog knew they were there too, sniffing the ground with his tail in the air, keen to run up steep banks and off into the trees. We kept him close. Boar have been known to kill dogs if they feel threatened.

It was disconcerting yet somehow thrilling to know that boar were there, so close and perhaps even watching us – yet we couldn’t see them. There was something magical about too; folk magic always has an element of wonder and fear. At night, as we lay in bed in our rented cabin on the edge of the woods, we wondered if we would hear them, tiptoeing under the windows, snuffling, bringing with them the wild from the heart of the woods.

Later, at home in Somerset, I wrote the following poem.

 

Wild Boar

We heard wild boar had been sighted again

Deep in the heart of the forest,

Where mists drift over lily-specked ponds

And the ground is moist and black.

Of course, we showered them with curses:

Martha’s pigheadedness and glutton Thomas

And precisely why Morgan’s curtains are drawn…

Then we forgot all about them,

Left them to rootle, tusking up moss,

Cleaving the soil with their dainty toes,

Hoof prints sharp and pointed,

Approaching on the soft-turned mud.

Till we glimpsed the sun rise on the ridge of their backs;

Their moon-cradled bellies and skipping tails

Dancing too close;

Furrowing the turf by the back door,

Sending the dogs wild with rage –

You know that scent – ancient as roots.

At night, we hear wild boar outside,

Below the bedroom windows,

Trampling down marigolds, ripping up daisies,

Waking the dead in the churchyard;

Snuffling and squealing, carrying with them

A legion of sorrows, the sweet sins of the Earth.

Flight from February

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I seem to have spent most of the past few weeks either stuck in front of my computer, working, or taking the dog out for a trudge in the mud, wind and rain.  I’ve taken my imagination for a walk too (although in nicer weather). Here is a short story, a flight from February:

 

Bodhi Farm

It’s difficult to know when it began. Perhaps with the dreams that came in the heart of winter, when it was hard to rise in the morning and the water in the pigs’ troughs was frozen solid. Or with the sense of knowing, the unease that would wake me in the middle of the night; I’d put it down to the change or the usual worries. Had I shut away the hens? And, if the snow returned, would I manage to find all my sheep if they huddled under the walls and got covered by drifts? There is always something doing on a farm, anyone can tell you.

By the time the sky cracks red, I’ve usually been up for hours. The lighter mornings come as a blessing with the thaw. Even so, days are no easier. Over the years, I’ve got used to shouldering most of the work alone. When the lambing starts in earnest, I hire Graham, a lad from the village, to come help. But he wasn’t due to start for some time yet. So when I saw his Land Rover on the track leading up here, I was surprised.

The vehicle rattled over the cattle grid then stopped. When it drove on, it pulled away to reveal four slight figures picking their way. Three of them were wearing what looked like long orange and red dresses under anoraks, while the fourth was dressed head to toe in black.

Graham parked in his usual spot in the yard. When I opened the door, he was shaking his head.

‘You’ll never believe this,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Bunch of weirdos to see you.’

‘Well then send them away.’

‘No doing.’ He pulled a face. ‘Said you wouldn’t want it, but they won’t listen. Come a long way – that’s what they say.’

‘Where’s a long way?’

‘Somewhere foreign. Only one of them as speaks any English. And then you can’t tell half of what he’s saying.’

‘Look at them, what are they doing?’

The three foreigners in robes formed a little procession. The one at the front was swinging a round, glinting object, while the one at the rear banged on a flat drum. The three of them walked slowly, despite the wind tugging at their skirts. The figure in black lingered a little ways behind, as if embarrassed. Weirdly, though, the sight of them stirred something deep in my belly.

‘Better get a brew on,’ I said.

Graham gave a snort. ‘A woman’s answer to everything.’

I gave him one of my looks and he grinned. Cheeky so-and-so.

The water was squeaking up to a boil when there was a knock at the door. I got Graham to fill the mugs while I answered it.

The man dressed in black stood in the doorway and gave a stiff little bow. He looked at me nervously, almost expectantly, then glanced over my shoulder as if hoping to find somebody else. His skin was the colour of polished wood and his features were Eastern. Unlike his fellow travellers, whose heads were shaven, he had a crown of thick black hair and seemed much younger than them. The other men reminded me of monks, the sort you see on postcards and calendars, though what they would be doing turning up at a hill farm was anybody’s guess. The younger man cleared his throat.

‘We are here for the baby,’ he said.

I laughed. ‘There’s no baby here. Not even if it’s a lamb or piglet you’re after. Not this time of year.’

He turned and spoke quickly to the others, huddled behind him. They shared some words, sounds like singing, but it seemed like they were disagreeing with him; the man in black shrugged and turned to me.

‘The child. It is important.’

‘Look, you’d better come on in. You’ll catch your death out there.’ I gestured and they filed past me, into the kitchen where they stood around looking confused. ‘Take a seat, go on.’

Once they were all sat down around the table, Graham handed out mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits, which the foreigners fell upon like birds at the grain. ‘I’ve seen it all now,’ he muttered.

I have to say they looked a bit better for having a hot drink inside them and something to eat. I folded my arms and glanced round. ‘So now, what’s this here business you’ve come about?’

The translator gave a little nod. ‘My companions have been searching for long time. They come many thousands of miles. Following signs.’

‘What’re they in search of? What signs?’ Graham wanted to know. I frowned at him so he huffed and leant back against the dresser.

‘It is difficult to explain. We are looking for a child. My brothers believe the child is born in this place.’ At this, one of the other men leant across the table, said a few words and tapped the translator’s forearm.

The translator continued, ‘Has a child been born here?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and all the men turned to me, expressions bright as if somebody had lit a candle. ‘Yes, the last child to be born here was me. Fifty-odd year ago.’

The translator relayed this fact and there was more conversation, some of it heated, and they batted away Graham’s offer of biscuits from the packet. After a few moments, they settled back down. One of the monks folded his arms, while another heaved a large bag onto the table. It was colourfully embroidered and decorated with little yellow and pink pompoms and tassels.

He carefully retrieved a number of items, reached across the table and placed them in front of me, very deliberately, as though he was performing a ceremony. The bracelet on his wrist winked in the light, and without thinking I went to touch it. His arm turned still as rock and he looked hard at me, dark eyes narrowing under beetle brows. I pulled back my hand slowly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking.’

He sat back and nodded. Then, without saying a word, he removed the bracelet and placed it alongside the other objects. There was a loop of brown beads, the flat drum I had seen earlier, a little pair of patterned bronze cymbals, a flute that looked like it was made of bone, an incense burner on a long chain, a scroll of some sort, a large golden amulet and a simple wooden bowl. Those are the things I remember, there might have been more. The monk with the beetle brows spread his palms, as if inviting me to consider the display.

‘What does he want me to do?’ I asked the translator.

‘Choose.’

‘All right!’ exclaimed Graham. ‘Go on, I know what I’d pick–’ One of the monks jumped up and turned to face him, surprisingly agile for an older man. Graham puffed his cheeks. ‘Just saying.’

The monk with the beetle brows spoke. ‘Choose.’  All four of the visitors were watching me, and it felt as though I was being invited to play a game where I only half remembered the rules. Only the game was as serious as anything I had ever done.

I took a breath and found myself picking up the bracelet, then the drum and finally the bowl. I placed them close to me. There was a sense of release among the monks, as if I had passed a test. But I wasn’t finished.

‘This belongs to you.’ I gave the scroll to one of the monks, who bowed his head and accepted it. ‘This is yours.’ I handed the cymbals to the second monk. ‘And, little brother, this belongs to you.’ I reached over to the monk with the beetle brows, and poured the rosary beads into his cupped hands. His eyes were brimming with tears. He nodded.

‘These were mine,’ I gestured to the objects I had chosen, ‘and this is a trick.’  I pushed the amulet across the table. ‘The other things don’t matter. None of it truly matters.’ I realised with surprise that my own face was wet, that I was crying even though I didn’t feel sad. Not at all. I caught a glimpse my reflection in the window and laughed. It was ridiculous: a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a kitchen crammed with exotic visitors, like a pigeon perched among goldfinches. When I laughed, the men started laughing too, thumping laughter, as though we had all finally understood the punchline of a joke at the same time.

 

***

Of course I went with them when they asked. I was away for seven years in all, and now I am back on the farm, I find I miss how the mountains create stepping stones above the valley mist; the fierce blue skies and glare of sun on snow; the echo of the tonqin horns among the peaks. But these things will always stay with me. They are part of me and all that I take with me and give.

Graham has made up a bed for me in the box room. He and his partner have my old room and their two children have the others. He offered to move out but I told him no, there is no need for any of that. This farm is his now, in good hands. And I won’t be here long.

My time in the monastery has helped me remember all I need to know, and I am ready. I have changed out of my old farm clothes into my robes and I have a torch to help me pick my way through the lower pastures, up the rocky slopes, over the stone walls (in good repair, I’m pleased to see). Sheep scatter, taking one or two paces, eyes red in the torch light, before they realise that I pose no threat and stand to watch me pass. Higher up I go, up to where the wind whips and boulders balance precariously, visited only by ravens.

Behind a mound of stones, I find the pit. It has taken me three days to dig, hard labour and cracked hands, and I ease myself down carefully, sliding over the lip and in, then turn and settle, flat against the bumpy soil. The earth holds me tight, squeezing my shoulders, and the stars overhead blink white against black, constellations slowly turning through space and time.

It begins first with my fingertips and toes, the sensation that the skin is opening, that my capillaries are sprouting red to white, seeds unfurling. I am on my way, spreading into filaments, fine and hairlike, pushing into the soil, past stones and roots and waterways, along the slopes in all directions, under the farm, down roads, into villages, towns and cities; a network of knowledge, all that my lives and the lives of my others have gleaned, returning hope and wisdom and belief to this precious Earth, to nourish and nurture, to resurrect her with our love.

 

(c) Sue Belfrage, 2020

 

 

The Air Sweet with Violets

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This morning, I was walking along a wooded ridge when I spotted my first violets of the year, pale in the thin sun. As with the first sight of snowdrops, the discovery made me smile; spring flowers feel like a kept promise.

When I got home, I looked up the violet in The Language of Flowers; or, Flora Symbolica, by John Ingram, which lists the traditional meanings associated with plants.  I came across my copy, published in 1887, in a second-hand bookshop, and discovered that an earlier owner had pressed scores of dried flowers and leaves within its pages like fragile, antique bookmarks.

While there isn’t a pressed flower to mark it, the entry for the violet is much longer than for many of the others – somewhat ironic given that the violet is often associated with modesty, as well as faithfulness. Poets from Homer to Keats have celebrated it, and myths have been woven around it. According to The Language of Flowers, the Greek goddess Artemis transformed Ia, daughter of Midas, into a violet to conceal her from the amorous intentions of Apollo; while Jupiter caused the first sweet violets to appear as sustenance for poor, hapless Io, when she fled in the form of a white heifer from the wrath of Juno. So in this way the violet is linked to concealment, of beauty creeping beneath notice.

Yet with the arrival of spring, violets sometimes cluster in abundance on hedge banks and around the roots of trees in woodland; where one might be invisible, together they attract attention. They bloom all around the garden here – in paving cracks and flower pots, roots taking hold tenaciously; then, when the flowers are faded, their brittle pods scatter seeds far and wide. Small yet rich in colour and fragrance, they appear where it suits them; an unasked for gift.

 

Violet images (c) Sue Belfrage

Growing from What’s Buried

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The autumn rain has awoken a lingering ghost in the garden. A tuft of honey fungus has sprouted where an apple tree once stood ten years ago. The common name given to three closely related species – A. mellea, A. bulbosa and A. ostoyae, honey fungus is feared by gardeners for its ability to kill a wide range of trees and shrubs. Yet, while it doesn’t taste of honey, the young caps with their white gills are edible when well cooked.

At this time of year, fungi spring up as if by magic, here one moment and collapsed in puddles of decay the next. While walking in the woods today, I came across peeling caps of fly agaric, the poisonous, red-and-white toadstool of fairy tales. Their appearance was another reminder of what lies hidden, ready to surface when conditions are right.

Neither animal nor plant, mushrooms and toadstools are the fruiting parts of mycelium, the fibrous white bodies of fungi buried in moist soil and rotting wood. Forest ecologist Suzanne Simard has discovered how trees use underground networks of fungi to communicate with each other and send each other nutrients, likening the systems to our own neural and social networks.

The reappearance of fungi at this time of year also fits with the traditional celebrations of Samhain or Halloween, when the veil between worlds of the dead and the living is believed to become less opaque, and the past returns to haunt us. In my own dreams in recent weeks, buried memories have been resurfacing and I have found myself waking in anger at perceived wrongs.

So, what to do about returning ghosts? Folklore advises us to treat them respectfully – and then, perhaps, they might just help us, rather than harm us. Now is the season to honour the past.

Into the Gloaming

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Nightfall turned me into a ghost. It had been so hot, I’d dressed in white and hadn’t thought to change into more suitable clothing for a late evening walk. Now my husband was a little unnerved as I appeared to be floating across the field towards him.

With the twilight came the dusk chorus, dark’s answer to the dawn; in the woods, owls hooted and screeched. There was rustling close by, perhaps deer or a badger stirring, as the night woke up.

I’d hoped the day’s heat would be enough to light up the hedgerows, and I wasn’t disappointed. As we started down the track, we spotted the first tiny flicker: a glow worm suspended from a blade of grass. Further along, we found another and another deep within the hedge, fragile greenish-white dots of light.

It’s no wonder folktales abound about faeries. Midsummer Eve, a painting by the English artist Edward Robert Hughes (1851-1914), captures and transforms the charm of these dabs of hedgerow brightness, which cast their own faint shadows.

Of course, in traditional tales, fairy folk or, as they are also known, the Sidhe (‘The Good People’), are much more ambiguous beings than the merry crowd depicted in Hughes’s picture, and best not crossed…

Although neither fairy folk nor indeed worms, glow worms are similarly best left undisturbed in their natural habitats. Their bioluminescence is mainly generated by the female beetle (Lampyris noctiluca) with the aim of attracting a mate. In England, the best time to see them is between June and August – and  those up the lane certainly seem to be more active on balmy nights.

All the same, while they might be firmly of this world, glow worms nevertheless seem to suggest that, on warm summer nights at least, a little magic might just be possible…

Of Nightingales and Sparrowhawks

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Yesterday, at sunset, I heard a nightingale sing. Its voice trilled, dipped and soared from the shadowy boughs of a sycamore tree. My companions and I stood enthralled, hardly daring to breathe lest the spell be broken. It seemed impossible that a small brown bird, hidden from view, could weave such sounds.

Nearby, another nightingale answered, and in the distance another, while all around blackbirds chattered goodnights and blackcaps joined in the melody. With the fading of the light, the birdsong ebbed away till at last even the nightingale fell silent, perhaps to strike up its song once we had gone.

In folklore and myth, the nightingale has long been linked to love and loss. Yet listening to the birds at dusk was soothing as balm –  a contrast to an avian encounter two weeks earlier.

Then I had been sat outside reading in the sun, when a starling and her fledglings started to screech alarm calls from the garden next door. A blackbird joined in, as did other birds, and suddenly a squadron of starlings swooped in overhead.

I peered over the wall and still could see nothing. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked; I didn’t expect a reply.

As if summoned, a sparrowhawk hopped out from a tangle of plants onto the lawn, wings dropped like a magician’s cape. If it had been mantling prey, it had abandoned this and now looked at me, head cocked, eye yellow, assessing; for all the world as outraged as a pantomime villain. In a blink, it took off and scimitared across the grass, then disappeared over a far wall.

While the garden birds settled back into their comings and goings, the surprise of the episode momentarily shook me. No wonder the ancients believed in augury – in divining the future from the behaviour of birds.

And no wonder, when we hear them sing, we’re touched by untamed magic.

 

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Just to confirm that the publication date for the paperback edition of Down the River and Up to the Trees is nearly here: 14 June!

 

Spring Fever

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‘The city mouse lives in a house;

The garden mouse lives in a bower’

Christina Rossetti, ‘The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse’

 

A dash of brown caught my eye, up and over the garden wall. I watched and waited: a rodent of some description was on the move, building a nest among the masonry and scurrying back and forth to collect bedding. It was too far away to be sure and I’m no expert, but based on previous sightings, I’m guessing it was a vole.

During the winter, I found the entrances to one or two burrows in the lawn after snowmelt. (In fact, a neighbour became so fascinated by these holes that she suggested installing a camera to capture the occupants.) Now the weather’s warm enough for mowing and the grass is short again, perhaps the tunnels have been abandoned – after all, who wants to live rattled by lawnmowers – and the voles have opted for high-rise living instead?

Mouse or vole, I was impressed by the little creature’s industry as it dragged rose leaves the length of its body back to its hidey-hole. I was also secretly impressed by its lack of respect for boundaries: although it had made its home on my side of the stone wall, it kept nipping over into another neighbour’s garden to collect building materials. This particular neighbour has a very beautiful and ordered garden – and a notable aversion to rodents.

Try as we might, perhaps it’s impossible to prevent a little chaos creeping in; and maybe that’s no bad thing? The end of April and beginning of May are traditionally a time of celebration, of dancing and rebellion, fertility and Beltane fires, of waking energies and creativity on the loose…

When I inspected the wall where the beastie had built its nest, I found hazelnut shells crammed into the crevices, fragments of brown amidst grey. Evidence of life hidden in the heart of rock.

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The paperback edition of Down to the River and Up to the Trees will be available this summer. Watch this space!

Red Sun

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Yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, tapping away at computer, when the world appeared to end. The sky turned a singed orangey-yellow colour, and, when I peered outside, the sun was blood red. It was 10.20 in the morning, and birds took to the sky as though getting ready to roost for the night. In the distance, dogs began to bark.

After two or three hours, the last remnants of Hurricane Ophelia whirled past like the skirts of a dancer. The sun lost some of its crimson glow. Yet the shadows it cast remained tinged with orange. The atmosphere was eerie and a friend driving across the country said she thought a meteor was about to strike.

Of course, every day somebody’s world somewhere ends in one sense or another – perhaps through loss, happenstance, accident or simple chance. At some of those times it can seem impossible to make sense of it all.

Yesterday’s spectacular red sun was quickly explained by the media: Saharan sand kicked up by Ophelia’s heels apparently, along with debris from forest fires in Portugal and Spain.

Nevertheless, despite knowing the facts, that sense of initial disquiet stayed with me for a while. I imagined how strange the rust-coloured sky would have appeared to somebody a couple of hundred years ago: perhaps a worrying omen or a divine sign. Yesterday’s red sun shone light on a deep-rooted human instinct – on our comfort in the familiar, and on the uncertainty and anxiety we feel in the face of change.

Harvest

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It’s a dull day but I’m biting into a pear that tastes of summer. Keeping cool outside are freshly picked apples, firm and red against a grey stone slab, while indoors the freezer is crammed with bags of blackcurrants. It’s time to enjoy this year’s fruit and prepare for winter.

Soon the time for gathering fruit and nuts will be over: according to folklore, the devil was thrown out of heaven on 29 September, Michaelmas Day, and landed on a prickly blackberry bush. He promptly peed on the berries in revenge, which is why it’s thought best to pick them before October (unless you’re partial to devil wee).

As well as being free to forage and gather from hedgerows, I’m lucky to have friends and neighbours who are more than happy to share their harvests at this time of year. Sometimes this is in a sort of exchange – like the other day, when a friend gave me a jar of homemade jam as thanks for a lift to the garage – but mostly it’s a simple act of kindness, with bundles of vegetables and fruit turning up unannounced on the doorstep.

Today, I discovered that even one of the local squirrels has been unexpectedly generous, dropping off a couple of walnuts by our front door (having already raided our hazel tree). While I doubt he meant much by it, I put the walnuts in my pocket – and felt grateful.

A friend of mine, Lois Blyth, has written a lovely book about gratitude. Dipping into it recently reminded me how important it can be to focus on the good stuff, especially as the days grow shorter and cold nips at the air. On my way home earlier today, I stopped by a field of flowers. The sunflowers had drooped, necks bent, petals crumpled; but the dahlias were still a riot of colour, blasting out an orchestra of pinks, russets and golds. It started to rain, yet as I stood there I was reminded again about the power of small pleasures – and how a harvest like this can help carry us through the dark winter days.

Vine leaf

In other news, on Saturday 28 October, I’ll be taking part in Yeovil Literary Festival, talking about my book Down to the River and Up to the Trees. Please come along – it’d be lovely to see you there!