Michael JECKS - A Moorland Hanging

Straightening up, Henry Smalhobbe groaned and rubbed at his back. The sun was low in the western sky, and as he winced at it, face screwed into a walnut of wrinkles, he could see it was late. He should return to his hut; it would be dark in another thirty minutes or so. In Bristol the hills and trees all round quickly blotted out the sun and its light, but here twilight crept slowly toward true night, the stars gradually flaring above like tiny diamonds.

Shouldering his small leather sack of rocks, he hefted his shovel and pick and began to make his way homeward. The ground rose shallowly from the old river bed, and he had to climb the slope to the flat plain above, cutting straight across country to get to the hut and Sarah. It was a path he had trodden every day for some weeks now, and he knew it well. There were no dangerous marshlands, providing he walked carefully and kept the gray mass of Higher White Tor before him and Longaford Tor to his left, and the way was easy, being fairly level and grass-covered. There were few rocks.

The stream chuckled merrily behind him as he clambered upward, and he soon missed the sound as he walked on. Apart from the birds, his only company during the day had been the trickling water. At this time most of the birds were nesting, and the moors were quiet. Only the soft whispering of the wind could be heard. It made him shoulder his pack and frown ahead. There were too many stories here of Crockern for any man to feel entirely comfortable as night thickened and the light fled to leave the moors to the spirits.

But Henry Smalhobbe was not unduly superstitious, and he thrust all thoughts of the spirits of the moors to the back of his mind. He had learned to do that while still a small boy, leaving unproductive fears behind like so much unwanted baggage. There had been little which could upset the peaceful, even pace of his boyhood. Once he’d reached adulthood, most of his time had been spent in loyal service to his master, and the work had kept him too busy to have any terrors of ghosts or spirits. But that was before…

Stopping, he rubbed at an eye with the heel of his hand. His eyelid kept twitching – a strange but irritating quirk which had developed over the last few months, and which occasionally preyed on his mind in case it was the precursor of blindness. That thought terrified him. To be blind was to be the target of abuse, or worse. There was no protection for a blind man unless he was wealthy, and Henry Smalhobbe was not rich. If he were to lose his sight, he knew what would happen. Other miners would take over his land; he and his wife would be driven from the moors. How could a blind man find work? Their only hope would be for Sarah to earn them a living, and there was only one way she could do that.

He set his jaw and carried on. It was foolish to waste time worrying about such things. After all, there were many other dangers here on the moors. He could be bitten by a rabid animal or snake, fall into one of the bogs or catch leprosy. There were many ways to die horribly without exercising the imagination.

As if on cue, a low howl shivered on the soft breeze and he glanced at the horizon. Wolves – but a long way off, from the sound. He strode a little faster.

It was almost dark, and he was relieved to see the flickering light of the fire in his hut’s doorway. He and Sarah had built their small cottage with regular-sized stones from what appeared to be an old wall a few yards away, jamming pebbles and mud into the gaps to stop drafts, but they had only an old, thick fustian blanket to act as a door. It was little good in winter-time, but it served well enough now, in the warmth of summer. Sarah always left it open at night until he got home, to help him find his way.

The ground was flat here, with a light scattering of moorstone. One or two bushes broke the soft undulations of the grassy plain before his door, but in the main the area was empty as far as the eye could see. While some way off, Henry stopped, frowning. Up ahead, between him and his hut, a bush appeared to have changed. When he had left that morning, it had been a thin straggling plant, but now it seemed larger, and more substantial.

For a moment he felt as if his heart had stopped. All the terror of the moors struck him anew: he suddenly recalled the stories of the moorland spirits. The tales he had heard when sitting before the hearth of the inn with a quart of ale in his hand had seemed laughable then, but now, miles from anybody else, he felt defenseless. A gust of wind flicked the hair from his forehead, and in its light caress he felt the icy trickle of sweat. When the shadow-like figure slowly moved, the hairs at the back of Henry’s head rose like a dog’s hackles in a chilly spasm of fear.

Whatever it was blocked his path. He could not get to his door without passing it; could not see how Sarah was. She must surely be inside, but he dared not call to her – not for his own sake, but from fear of what the thing might do to her.

Then the fear disappeared as if blown away with the wind. The figure had coughed! Any creature which made such a mundane sound was only flesh and blood like himself. Gripping his mattock, he quietly placed his pack on the ground and crouched. Whoever it was seemed to want to remain hidden. The small explosion of sound had been stifled, as if smothered by a covering hand. It had only been the breeze, carrying the sound to him like a friendly spy, which had betrayed the man. Who he was and why he was here was a mystery, but one which Henry was keen to have answered. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, he stalked his prey, circling widely to come upon the man from behind.

The figure slowly resolved itself into that of a squatting man, resting easily with elbows on his knees. Clad in a dark cloak, he surveyed the land ahead, occasionally glancing behind him at the hut with a cautious deliberation. Henry felt the blood hammer at his ears. This was no casual moorman, this was clearly an ambush, and the miner felt a rising anger. This man was waiting for him. There was only one reason, as Henry knew, why anyone would want to attack him, and if he could surprise the stranger, he might be able to capture him and gain the upper hand.

With infinite care, he crept toward the dark shape. Each time he saw the head begin to move he froze, holding his breath. Then, as it turned back to the path, Henry continued, his feet rising high and slow in a parody of normal motion before being carefully placed down, testing each step to make sure that it would make no sound. There were no twigs or dry leaves to betray his presence here. In a state of exquisite tension, his scalp tingling with his excitement, his hands locked like cast iron round the stave of his mattock, his mouth open to silence even his breathing, he painstakingly moved forward.

But then it all went wrong.

“Henry? Henry?”

His wife’s call, betraying a slight anxiety, came clear on the night air from the doorway. She stood peering out into the gloom. It was only because he was late. Sarah had been waiting with his food ready since dusk, for he normally returned before full dark. Now it was quite black outside as she walked to the curtain and twitched it aside. Henry was never this late, she thought to herself, and she wondered whether he could have hurt himself, maybe falling into one of the bogs which proliferated in certain areas, or perhaps having an accident while digging. But that was ridiculous. He knew all the land around here, had walked over the whole area with her to make sure that it was safe. Her husband was a careful man, she knew, and unlikely to harm himself. But though not yet worried, she nonetheless felt a vague trepidation. It was unlike him to be so late, he loathed walking across the moors in the dark.

Head thrust forward, she frowned out, staring. Up ahead there was a shadowy figure. She called, saw his face turn to her, yellow-white in the gloom, and scared, and then she saw the other form spin and rise, and the two men springing from beside the path. That was when she screamed.