Tales from the Tower, Volume 2, Page 2

  ‘You’ve come,’ was all he said, and motioned her inside.

  She held back for a moment. ‘What am I to expect?’

  ‘The same as always,’ he said, his voice taking on a hard edge.

  She made no attempt to hide her impatience. ‘This is too high a price to pay! Why don’t you control these girls more?’

  ‘And why don’t you control those menfolk out there?’ he countered.

  She snatched the obstetrics bag from me. ‘Let’s get it over with then,’ she said, and pushed past him into the house.

  I made as if to follow, but he barred my way.

  ‘Not you!’ – the words barked out in a tone of command.

  ‘He’s right,’ Gretel agreed. ‘Wait out there. I’ll call if you’re needed.’

  And the door was closed in my face.

  Left to myself, I sat in the shelter of the porch and drew my coat closed, for it was a cool night. Through the flimsy planking of the door, I could hear people coming and going, and voices. A little later the shrieking began – terrible screams the like of which I had never heard before – and I blocked my ears with both fists and willed myself to sleep.

  Gretel woke me an hour or so before dawn.

  ‘What of the mother?’ I asked.

  ‘She survived,’ she said, and handed me a bloodstained sack. ‘Don’t look inside,’ she added quickly. ‘Just go and bury it.’

  But I had already looked, and despite the darkness there was no mistaking what the sack contained: a jumble of monstrous infant limbs, and an even more monstrous head.

  I drew back, appalled. ‘My God, what is it?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she said. ‘Just do as I say, and then forget this happened.’

  ‘But we have to register births and deaths,’ I replied stupidly.

  ‘In this case we register nothing!’ she shouted, her voice cracking under the strain. ‘Now, if you have any affection for me, any sense of trust, stop all these questions and bury this thing.’

  So I did. We always kept a shovel in the buggy, to dig out the wheels on muddy roads, and I used it to scrape out a shallow grave. I was still trampling down the loose earth when Gretel and the tinker reappeared.

  ‘My thanks to you,’ he said, and gave one of his formal bows.

  ‘And mine to you,’ she answered with a sad smile.

  ‘What of her?’ he asked, meaning me.

  ‘She stands apart . . . for now.’

  ‘Ah yes, for now.’ A hint of melancholy flitted across his brutal features. ‘That invisible clock of yours, how it ticks and ticks and carries you along with it.’

  Then, without further comment, he left us.

  Back in the buggy, the horse plodding wearily ahead, I had so many questions I hardly knew where to start, but she brushed them all aside.

  ‘I’m asking you to trust me in this matter,’ she said, much as she had before. ‘Believe me, all this will be clear one day. When the time comes.’

  When the time comes.

  I guessed what she meant by that, and I didn’t have the heart to press her further. Not then, nor later. Because the truth is, I did trust her. I had even come to love her, in my way, as the mother I’d never had. So I left her in peace through the remainder of our journey, and on into the days and months that followed.

  In all the time I spent under Gretel’s roof, she was less than kind to me on only one occasion. It was a short, upsetting episode, soon forgotten, and I mention it here not to diminish her in any way, but because of its bearing on subsequent events.

  Some months after our unhappy visit to the tinker hovel, I started seeing a young man, a local farmer. I won’t pretend I was wholly serious about him. Aside from mutual attraction, we had little or nothing in common. Yet the body, like the mind, has its needs, as any twenty-one-year-old woman knows. Also, he said he loved me, which I found flattering.

  Although not yet lovers, we had begun to keep regular company. Word soon got about, as it must in small com- munities, and arriving home late one evening we were waylaid by Gretel. Feeble though she was, she dragged me down from the buggy and sent my suitor packing.

  I was momentarily incensed. ‘What right have you to interfere in my private life?’ I shouted at her.

  ‘Every right!’ she shouted back. ‘Like it or not, I’m here to remind you of your responsibilities. As a professional, you have to stand apart from these people.’

  ‘Have to stand apart?’ I took her up angrily. ‘Are you my keeper now? Was this the condition of my coming here?’

  She answered with disarming honesty. ‘Yes, it was.’

  I stared at her in astonishment, too taken aback to speak.

  ‘You are here because of me,’ she went on. ‘I chose you – I alone – and I can unchoose you if I so will. Remember that.’

  I rushed up to my room and very nearly packed my bags there and then. Except where was I to go at such an hour? By morning, of course, I had cooled down. Lying at length in my bath, it struck me that there would be ample opportunity to look for a husband after she had gone. Not that I longed for her death. Quite the reverse. My fondness for her had deepened, in spite of her attempt to control my life. After all, no one else had ever bothered about me enough to try. Then, too, there was the fact that I genuinely respected her. She knew her job, she loved the people she served, and she still had a good deal to teach me.

  So, as on the night of the secret burial, I decided to bide my time.

  I’m glad I did, because soon after that she went into a slow decline. Day by day more of the work fell to me, until eventually she grew too frail to leave the cottage. I did the rounds alone then, and on my return she was always eager to hear how this or that woman and child were faring. She never lost interest in our work; never complained; never felt sorry for herself.

  ‘In a week or two I’ll be up and about again, you’ll see,’ she assured me more than once.

  It was an elaborate pretence, and we both knew it, but it kept us from becoming maudlin and gave a welcome veneer of cheerfulness to our lamplit evenings.

  All along I knew we could not go on like this indefinitely. Yet still it came as a shock – a body blow almost – when I returned to the cottage one afternoon to find she had suffered some kind of seizure. It was probably a minor stroke, though it’s hard to be sure because she wouldn’t hear of sending for a doctor.

  ‘But I have to!’ I urged her desperately. ‘If I don’t . . . !’

  She placed a finger on my lips and gave that characteristic turn of the head, refusing to meet my gaze directly even then. ‘What would be the use?’ she said in a whisper. ‘We both understand what’s happening. How can a doctor help?’

  ‘He can give you more time!’

  She managed a half smile. ‘A day maybe. A week.’

  What was I to do? Go against her wishes? Fetch a doctor whether she wanted one or not? She must have sensed my indecision and pitied me.

  ‘You can send for one later,’ she said. ‘Sit with me for now. That’s my dearest wish.’

  It was a hard request to refuse, and for the rest of the afternoon I remained at her bedside, her hand in mine. Thankfully, she seemed to improve a little as the hours passed, and by evening she had slipped into a peaceful sleep.

  Careful not to disturb her, I disengaged my hand and went downstairs to prepare an evening meal. I had barely begun when there was loud knocking at the door. The way it sounded through the house reminded me of an earlier occasion, and I half guessed what awaited me on the porch. It was a small boy, one of the tinker clan, his face thin and pale, his wretched clothes damp with sweat. In one grubby hand he still held the bridle of the horse he had ridden bare-back. The horse itself, standing just beyond the porchlight, humphed and pawed the ground as if impatient to be off.

  ‘It’s her,’ the boy blurted out. ‘She’s bad. He says the other one . . . the old one . . . she has to come.’

  It was more or less what I was expecting.

  ‘Te
ll him I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I said.

  He gave me a pinched, doubtful look. ‘It’s the old one he wants.’

  ‘Never mind what he wants,’ I said shortly. ‘Just go back and deliver my message.’

  With a scowl he sprang onto the horse and wheeled it about. ‘He won’t like it!’ he shouted as he galloped off into the dark.

  Having collected my coat and bag, I ran upstairs to check on Gretel. She was still asleep, or so it seemed, but as I turned to leave, her eyes flicked open.

  ‘You’re going to them, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘The tinkers. He’s called you to a birthing.’

  I nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t be gone long. Try to rest while I’m—’

  She waved aside my soothing words and clutched my arm. ‘When you get there,’ she said in an urgent whisper, ‘show no curiosity, no surprise, whatever happens . . . even if the child is . . . is not what it should be. Deliver it as you must and be on your way. For God’s sake don’t linger!’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said, thinking that would satisfy her, but she hadn’t finished.

  ‘And . . . and if the light . . . the light . . . if it flares around you, close your eyes. Ignore it. Pretend you’ve seen nothing. You must promise me that.’

  I had no idea what she was talking about, but time was passing, and a promise was easily given.

  ‘I’ll do as you say,’ I assured her. ‘My word on it.’

  She let out a relieved sigh and released my arm. ‘Go then,’ she murmured, and gave me a strangely squint-eyed look before slipping back into sleep.

  Within minutes I had hitched up the buggy and was on my way. It was a warm, still night, with a nearly full moon, so I needed no lamp to light the road ahead. Our old horse seemed to understand what was expected of him anyway, for at the crossroads he didn’t hesitate, instinctively choosing the lesser-used track that led westward to the end of the valley. The journey itself proved uneventful, but as I left the cultivated fields behind and entered the scrub country beyond, I felt a chill of loneliness, like someone wandering in a foreign land.

  I was almost glad when the dark shape of the hovel came into view. Hastily I looped the reins over the nearest fencepost and hurried forward – to where, once again, he stood waiting. He looked past my shoulder enquiringly, and then back to me. In the moonlight his face was gaunt and hard, etched out by shadow.

  ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

  ‘She’s ailing. Too weak to leave her bed.’

  ‘Ah yes, I always forget about you people. What it must be like for you.’

  I interpreted his softened tone as a sign of acceptance and made for the porch, but he stepped directly into my path, the two of us so close that I could smell the rankness of his unwashed body.

  ‘Did she send you in her place?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m her apprentice. Who else would she send?’

  ‘So she trusts you in . . . in everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He paused for some moments, pensively. With one brawny hand he wiped at his mouth, his palm rasping against the stubble. I took the opportunity to ask a question of my own.

  ‘The woman . . .’ I nodded towards the hovel. ‘Is she the same one as before?’

  ‘No, but just as foolish.’

  ‘How is it foolish to have a child?’

  ‘You saw the last child,’ he answered coldly. ‘Wasn’t that folly enough for you?’

  ‘How can you be sure . . .’ I began, and stopped as he raised his face and his eyes caught the moonlight. ‘Come,’ I added quickly, changing tack, ‘we’re wasting precious time here. I need to see her.’

  Without waiting for his permission, I eased past him and onto the porch. As I entered the house itself, the foul stench of it hit me full in the face, and I paused for some seconds, gasping. I had hardly recovered when an older woman appeared from the shadows and led me upstairs – our way lighted by a crude lamp which was little more than a wick floating in a saucer of oil.

  At the head of the stairs she pointed to a door across the landing. I pushed it open, the stench growing stronger as I did so. Inside, on a bed of filthy straw, lay a young woman. She was naked, her face and limbs bathed in sweat, her belly unnaturally enlarged. She whimpered when she saw me, and covered her face, though not before I noticed her gapped teeth. It was the girl from the market.

  By the flickering light of a candle, I squatted beside her and made my initial examination, the woman with the lamp watching from the open doorway.

  ‘Is it bad?’ she asked.

  Before I could answer, a terrible contraction gripped the girl, so strong that it contorted her whole body. Her moan of pain soon grew into a shriek that went on and on.

  And so began the long night of her delivery.

  The tinker chief was right, of course. It turned out to be a bloody affair, just like the last, the baby far too big for her and horribly deformed. Had they called me sooner, I could have got her out of the valley to the relative safety of a hospital. But that was not their way. So given the circumstances – the filth and lack of equipment – I was forced to make a choice that faces all midwives from time to time: whether to save the mother or the babe. It is no choice at all, really, and towards dawn, after a dreadful night, I eventually removed the child in pieces. It was the best and only thing I could do. The head emerged last of all, an ogrish thing that I swiftly consigned to a sack held open for me by the woman with the lamp. Even she was shocked by its distorted features, and fled the room before I had finished.

  Working alone, I did what was needful for the mother and made sure there was no haemorrhaging, then stroked her sodden hair to soothe her. At first she shuddered at my touch, as a horse trembles when patted by an alien hand; but exhaustion, rather than trust in me, won her over, and she dropped into a murmurous sleep – muttering words I had never heard before.

  I gathered up my bag and the bloody sack and groped my way down the unlit stairwell. On the lower level I could sense figures moving in the shadows. One, an old woman with stringy grey hair, appeared briefly. Reaching out one work-hardened hand, she offered me something that flashed gold in the poor light, but I refused her and hurried out onto the porch.

  He was standing exactly where I had left him, the moon now low in the sky, the stars faded almost to nothing by the upcoming dawn. He turned, and I saw him glance down at the sack in my hand. I placed both sack and bag on the ground as we faced each other – I, in the partial shade of the porch; he, with his face exposed to what remained of the moonlight.

  ‘So it’s done,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s done,’ I said, ‘but should never have happened in the first place.’

  He dipped his head slightly. ‘We are agreed on that.’

  ‘Why does it happen then?’ I pressed him. ‘Is it some genetic disorder? Because if it is . . .’

  He clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘You shouldn’t meddle with things you don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s exactly my point,’ I said. ‘I need to understand. This is the second time this has happened. I can’t keep com- ing here like this. It’s only fair that you tell me the truth.’

  ‘The truth will not change anything,’ he countered.

  ‘I need to know all the same. Otherwise I can’t promise to come next time.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ he growled, his hand stealing to the knife at his belt.

  I corrected myself hastily. ‘No, I’m appealing to you. It’s your help I’m asking for here.’

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘Very well, the simple truth. Our girls like to seduce the young farmers, especially the married ones. It gives them a wicked sense of joy. And they both pay a price for their folly. The farmers no longer delight in their wives, and the girls . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, you have seen the result.’

  ‘But why should it always end like this?’ I asked, indicating the sack at my feet.

  He swept one arm round in a half-circle, including both the hove
l and the rocky landscape surrounding it. ‘You have seen where we live. How we live. We are the poorest of the poor, the lowest of the low. Different from your kind. As different as night from day, as . . . as past from future. Our two peoples can never mix, our bloodlines never cross over.’

  He spoke like a man convinced, and I was too tired to try to prove him wrong.

  ‘You can at least keep your girls on a tighter rein,’ I said wearily. ‘Stop them stealing out at night.’

  He laughed at that, a hollow, unhappy sound. ‘Haven’t you noticed? We are an unruly people.’

  I stooped for the sack. ‘So this abomination will continue?’

  He shrugged again. ‘So it seems.’

  Hiding my disgust, I trudged past him, sack in hand.

  ‘My thanks to you,’ he called after me, ‘and to the old woman too. Tell her she’ll be missed.’

  After which, the door of the hovel banged shut.

  Because of the recent rain, it didn’t take long to dig a second grave alongside the first. That done, I unhitched the horse and was climbing into the buggy when I remembered leaving my bag on the porch. I hurried back, tiptoeing the last few paces so as not to disturb those inside. As I stooped for the bag, however, I heard something. The sound of laughter, of merriment; plus a softer, tinkling sound which I took to be some form of music. It was all coming from inside, clearly audible through the cracked, thin planking of the door.

  I put my good eye to one of the cracks and peered in. What I saw cannot be easily described. Where there should have been darkness, or at best a dim candle-glow, there was now a shimmering golden light that transformed the sordid interior into a place of splendour. In the midst of the light, equally transformed by it, was a group of stately creatures. I can’t say they were wholly human, or animal either. I can say only that they were beautiful beyond words, and also terrible beyond imagining. They were laughing and singing together, like gods at play, and I knew, even as I spied on them, that I shouldn’t have been there. I was doing a forbidden thing. Still, it was hard to pull away. The golden light, the creatures themselves, drew me back to my childhood, and to those nights of longing when I had called out to Robin Goodfellow.