Marie O'Regan - The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

“Greeting, good patrons, and drunkards too, a merrysome Autumn eve to you.

“Our play today is fearsome bold, a tale of quandaries aeons old.

“I am Saint George—” A patriotic cry went up from the crowd. “I like to fight.”

Here Willy leaped in to deliver the rhyme. “He smites Man, wyrd worm and ass alike.”

Saint George crowed over the laughter and pointed at Willy.

“Lo, the Fool who pulls a tinkers cart, brays ‘eey-ore’, lifts his tail and f—”

Thom’s Little Devil danced in then.

“Far and wide doth search the godly saint, to fight the bad – or those that ain’t.

“But no good deed goes quite right, when the devil watches from the night.”

Thom withdrew. To the crowd’s delight, the Saint lunged at the Fool, wielding a squeezebox as a weapon. On the run, the Fool dashed over to Ailen, who offered up the mechanical dragon pipe. While the Saint played a jig on the squeezebox, the Fool brandished the dragon pipe. Steam belched from its jaws.

The audience “oohed” and “aahed” at the oddity. Willy the Fool made no attempt to play the pipe. Instead it was paraded as the worm mentioned in the verse – a puppet with gleaming scales and tick-tock inner workings.

Performing their ceremonial dance about the floor, the Saint succeeded in overpowering the dragon; Willy mimed the creature’s death throes then tossed it back to Ailen, who caught the pipe and tucked it back into his pack.

Running over to Popule, Willy announced, “Saint George has slain the worm fast and true, and now my sword will do for you.”

Willy stabbed the man in the belly with his finger. Popule howled and made a great show of staggering about the stage, to the general amusement of the spectators. At last, he collapsed and lay on his back.

Willy tugged on his donkey’s ears.

“Oh, Lord, he’s dead! Oh, me! Oh, my! Why’d that old windbag go and die?

“I’ll have to face the Queen’s cavaliers, and me not yet supped all my beers.”

Ailen strode out on to the stage. He stopped opposite Willy, the crowd clearly enthralled by his bulk and appearance.

“Behold! The woodland son, the Jack o’ the Green,” exclaimed Willy, sinking to one knee. He clasped his hands, imploring, “Oh, sacred son, do not judge me by this bloody scene. Indeed the knight deserved to die.” Willy pointed to his donkey’s ears. “He was a greater ass than I.”

Ailen held out his arms, the feathered sleeves of his tunic fanning out like wings.

“I cannot save this Christian son, who slayed my worm for sport and fun,

“But to save thee gross palaver, I’ll do away with the cadaver.

“In my wyld wood where fairies dwell, I’ll make his death a living hell!”

He swooped towards the onlookers, saw a flash of fear in their eyes accompanied by nervous smiles. At his back, Naw stepped forward, tall black hat exaggerating his height.

“At peace, Green Man, you know as I, all return to your wyld wood once they die.”

Naw switched his attention to Willy.

“Doctor Sham. I alchemize stone into gold, heal the sick and lame,

“Help spirits rest, clear unwelcome guests and raise the dead again.”

Willy the Fool butted in, “You raise the dead? Oh, say it’s so, and to the gallows I’ll not go.”

Naw kneeled down beside Popule, who rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Holding out his arms in appeal to Willy, Naw spoke,

“This holy knight I can revive at your behest,

“For one-tenth your mortal soul – and the devil take the rest.”

Thom jigged from one foot to the other at the back of the stage. He hissed in a loud aside, “I’ve use for a foolish man, spread on toast like gooseberry jam.”

The Doctor waved his fingers over the prone Saint.

“Wake up, wake up, our noble son, there’s beer to sup now the play’s done.

“Arise, Saint George, with magic black, so this young fool escapes the rack.”

Popule staggered to his feet, reeling about the stage so that his audience leaned away, laughing and clutching their ale glasses tight. The Fool, the Doctor and the Saint joined hands and bowed as one. Thom began to circulate the pub, holding out his black velvet purse by its twin sticks and requesting mummers’ alms. Meanwhile, Ailen stepped forward and bowed. Sweeping out his feathered arms again, he delivered the final verse.

“It’s story’s end, night’s drawn in and we must bid farewell,

“To saints and fools and wyrd worms beneath our mummers’ spell.

“If we have cheered your autumn eve, please spare a coin or two; And so we take our final bows and bid goodnight to you.”

Ailen Savage knew it took a special breed of man to want to assist a Spirit Catcher. He had been born to it, his great-grandfather having originated the role. In the year 1754, as a young man fascinated by elemental folklore, Tam Savage had found a way to divine a restless spirit and capture it via a multi-metalled steam pipe. At a time when religion was in decline and science us providing the answer to many of life’s mysteries, Tam Savage had chosen to work alongside the local vicar as a Spirit Catcher. Perfecting his skills and instruments, he had passed the knowledge down to Ailen’s father, who in turn had passed it on to Ailen. Some argued it was a brutal business to hand on to a child. Ailen himself considered it no more dangerous than a life spent in Birmingham’s factories or down Leicestershire’s coal mines or taking a chisel to the worn-out heights of Lichfield’s cathedral.

Less obvious were the reasons why the others joined him.

“I can see the science in your method,” said the young canon, Nicholas. He hugged himself against the cool air, or the awesome sight of the cathedral veiled in early morning mist, Ailen wasn’t sure which. “That pipe contraption of yours . . . It has a heathen design but the science is no doubt godly.” Nicholas lowered his voice. “You are a man of breeding. Why take up with a mummers’ band?” He pointed ahead to the three men and the boy, dressed in costume and paint even at that hour.

“I’ll set you straight, Canon, because you aren’t a man to see past his own faith or social standing. Once, mind, and then no more will be said on it. Those men might be carved from God’s arse-end, but they are still of his flesh. There’s living and undead aplenty outside your great and glorious cathedral, and Willy, Thom, Naw and Pop have helped me separate the two more times than I care to remember. Take Willy there.” Ailen nodded at the man wearing the donkey’s ears. “He’s a product of Lancashire and Cajun blood. Look past the paint and you’ll see his features lean towards the exotic. Turns out Willy’s mother couldn’t take the Lancashire climate. Back home in her native Louisiana, she contracted typhoid fever – or became possessed, as Willy tells it. In the third week, she started to cut the flesh from her own bones. Willy lent himself out to every witch around – drawing water, mending what was broken, giving up food meant for his own mouth – all in a bid to learn the way to cast the demon out.”

Ailen’s eyes softened. “He didn’t learn enough in time to save her. After his mother’s death, Willy returned to Britain and put his skills as an exorcist to good use.” He placed a heavy hand on the canon’s shoulder. “The others have similar tales. We sniffed out the fear in each other – not fear of personal attack by the supernatural elements we encounter, but fear that we would not save others from those same dangers.”

Nicholas frowned. He took time over his words, as if adding to a stack of cards. “Please understand, Mr Savage. Dean Richards is in a vulnerable state and our cathedral . . . it houses some remarkable treasures.”