The Cleft Owl (H.E. Bulstrode's West Country Tales Book 6) by H.E. Bulstrode

Author:H.E. Bulstrode [Bulstrode, H.E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2017-02-10T18:30:00+00:00

A flourishing of swords

Damerell and Hill arrive, as instructed, shortly after nightfall, bearing swords. They are suspicious, and demand to know what it is that is wanted of them. When it is explained to them, Damerell finds the nature of the undertaking to be the cause of some mirth, exclaiming that ‘There be nothing easier than to kill a dead man.’ They are told that it will take ‘but an hour of your time,’ and they haggle for a brief while, before settling upon Tooley’s begrudging agreement to pay them a shilling apiece for their efforts. They are sworn to breathe no word of their enterprise, or of what ensues, to any other party.

The night is moonless and starless, the celestial lights hidden beyond and above the unbroken cloud. Only the glow cast by Tooley’s lantern lights their way a step or two ahead as they creep along the lane and out of the village, taking care not to trip in the water-filled ruts and puddles. It is deserted and silent, but for the trudge and splash of their steps, the sound of the breeze that rattles the sticks of bare hazel in the leafless hedgerow, and, carried from afar, the screech of a still-living owl. ‘Does such a creature mourn for its lost kin?’ Tooley asks himself.

With the village safely behind them, the three clamber over a gate and into the field. From there, they pick their way from tussock to tussock over the sodden pasture towards the northern wall of the churchyard. Better to gain access by scaling the wall here, than to risk attracting the prying ears and eyes of the sexton from his cottage by the gate.

The grave is soon found: an unmarked length of soil; a heap of grey clods now breaking down from a month of rain and frost. A fine drizzle drifts upon the air, moistening the men’s faces and hair. By the light of the solitary lantern, the three position themselves: Damerell at one end of the grave, Hill at the other, and Tooley standing at its side with his back to the church. In his hand, the conjuror holds a small calfskin-bound volume from which he recites verbal formulae that he says will lay unquiet spirits to rest. He pauses every now and then to take a swig of brandy, his voice a raised and emphatic whisper, made bold by the liquor’s fire. His speech is archaicised to impart a due loftiness to its tone, and by the time of its peroration his hirelings stand soaked to the skin, their arms aching from their constant holding and flourishing of swords. Tooley will have his money’s worth of them.

‘Unquiet spirit, I call upon thee to quit this parish and this world. Thy time here is done. Thou hast murdered thyself, and shalt not murder another. Leave off thy torment of Henry Meade, and his family. ‘Twas not he that was the cause of thy misfortune and death, but thyself, and only thy spirit shalt be held accountable.

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