Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

Harriet pushed the branches clear of her way and emerged into the clearing. They must, she imagined, be in the very centre of the little island now. Much of the chapel was still intact; its grey walls, however, were heavy with greenery and there was no trace of the doors and windows that must once have completed it. She thought of the skeleton. Here was the same story in stone. The summer home of the ancient Gretas must have stood to the right. One proud wall still tried to raise itself upright from the rubble around it.

‘Mrs Briggs told me that Mr Askew suggested she build new ruins here, rather than a summerhouse. He offered to hire a hermit to live among them for the delight of the pleasure-seekers in town.’ Crowther made no comment and she turned to see him standing in a square of sunlight that had struggled down through the trees. ‘I told her she need only provide you with a place to experiment and they might have a hermit at no charge.’

‘How did she take to that proposal?’

‘She did not know you at that point, so presumed I was only funning.’

Stephen found the nest of woodcutters’ cabins on the far edge of Overside Wood. Beyond it, a crop of new timber reached up the hillside, but he had climbed through old fat oaks to find it, then walked along the edge as Cook had instructed. He had a parcel of cold meats and cheese under his arm, an offering from the servants in the kitchen.

There were three cabins, grouped round a number of large stones that had been arranged to serve as benches and fireplace for those who sheltered here. It was simple to see which was the most regularly occupied. Of the three cabins, only one looked neat and solid, and the other two had fallen into disrepair so between them they laid open the manner of their construction. It was like looking at the pictures in some of Mr Crowther’s books where on one page was a picture of an animal whole, then next to it, Figure 2 showed the animal in the same attitude, but with its skin removed, and next to that, the skeleton alone. The hut to the west of the camp was the skeleton. It was no more than several long poles set in a circle, but tilted inwards so their tops met and were tied together in a bundle. Some thinner branches remained weaving through the struts. The second still preserved, laid over these thin branches like slates, shallow strips of turf, though it was fallen in places showing the basketweave below. The third, however, still had its skin whole and complete.

There was something wrong. The hurdle gate of the complete cabin was lying some feet off. Still, Stephen would never have thought to enter the cabin if Joe had not been dancing and cawing in front of it.

Stephen approached cautiously. He could hear no sounds from within.

‘Casper?’

A groan, and an arm appeared in the narrow hoop of light in the entrance to the cabin. Stephen sucked in his breath and stepped back.

‘Here, youngling.’ It was Casper’s voice but dry and faint as fog. Stephen moved forward again and crouched in the entrance. Casper was a low shape in the darkness. The sleeve on the arm that lay in the light was torn, and there were bruises blooming on the wrists.

‘Water.’ The arm lifted slightly off the ground, and in the darkness Stephen made out the shape of a pitcher lying on its side on the earth floor. He scuttled past the prone body and picked it up, then holding it to his chest ran out of the clearing and down the path to the place where it was crossed by a brook, then washed and filled the jug, his heart thumping uncertainly. He returned as quickly as he could without letting any of the water splash free.

As he approached the clearing, he slowed. Casper had dragged himself out of the cabin and was now sitting with his back to Stephen, his legs straight out before him, and his head low on his chest. Stephen stepped beside him and crouched down. The brown hands reached up rather blindly. Stephen guided them around the jug. As Casper lifted it to his mouth and tilted his head back, Stephen gasped. The left side of his face was red and scraped. His left eye was purple and swollen shut. The right gleamed, however, as Stephen drew in his breath.

Casper drank deeply and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Pretty, am I?’

Stephen swallowed. ‘What happened, Mr Casper?’

Casper drank again, then upended the jug over the top of his head. The water beaded on his dark hair, ran over his face like tears and made his shirt cling to him. His nose had bled, crusting his mouth and chin, and there were dark spots all over his shirt. The blood on his mouth began to run in the water, dripping from the corners of his lips.

‘More,’ he said, lifting the jug.

Stephen ran off again, this time with Joe bobbing along beside him, rattling and whistling as if trying to give a full narrative and a fund of good advice.

‘Shush, Joe,’ Stephen said. Then, as he put the water next to Casper and watched him drink again, he felt guilty for slighting the bird, and as Casper panted and drank, he fed the jackdaw crumbs from his pocket.

‘Beaten,’ Casper said at last, as if there had been no interval between Stephen’s question and his answer. ‘Last night before the storm. Knocked me flat, turned everything I own over, then did the damage you see.’

‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘I ain’t dead, so I guess I’ll have to live,’ Casper said, after considering a while. ‘They stole my rabbits though.’

Stephen remembered the parcel from Silverside and set it down by Casper, who undid the string and nodded appreciatively; he broke off a piece of cheese and ate some, feeding the scraps to Joe. ‘From Cook,’ Stephen said. ‘She sends her best greetings. Who beat you, sir?’

‘Just told you it was dark, haven’t I? Though I have a thought.’ Casper began very carefully to roll up his shirt and try to squint down at his side. Then he placed one hand on his flank and winced. ‘There’s a rib gone.’ He let the shirt go and looked at his hands, flexing and curling them and frowning as he did so. ‘Two men. There might have been another in the shadows.’

Joe jumped up onto his master’s thigh and began to work his way slowly up Casper’s leg, his head down and his wings very slightly open, making a low noise in his throat. Casper extended a hand and scratched the back of his black head. ‘Shhh. I’ve said I’ll live, haven’t I? You daft bugger.’

‘What can I do, sir?’

Casper squinted at him as if he had forgotten he was there for a moment. ‘Can you make a fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get one going then, and see if you can find my kettle and set it to boil. I’ll brew myself something that’ll help me mend, though I might need you to go foraging for me. You not expected back at the house?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘Mr Quince is ill, so I am free. Should I not get help?’

‘You are help.’

Stephen set to work.

The tomb had been left open, and its proper occupants removed to their new resting-place in Crosthwaite Church. Their effigies would follow them there shortly. For the present they still leaned against one of the far walls, watching them. The base of the tomb was carved with biblical scenes, though between the Ark and Jonah’s whale Harriet noticed a number of other faces, local grotesques, ghosts and witches the carvers had formed from life. Harriet walked up to it and ran her gloved hand over the stonework.

‘I presume this place had been abandoned before you were born, Crowther. Did you ever come here as a child?’

‘Long before, Mrs Westerman. I came here from time to time. I think my brother used it as a place to meet whatever girl in the town he had managed to seduce. I came only during the day. He came and went by night.’

He began to turn his cane between his hands, staring at the ground as the tip dug itself into the rotted leaf matter which was scattered over the floor. ‘I do not know why I wished to come here.’