The deadtaker spits on hims fingertip and rubs at hims boot. I write more of Grandmam’s story:
Long, long ago, a woman killed her husband. No one believed she would have done it for she were right quiet, only squeaked instead of having proper talk in her mouth. She were a bit rodent-like in her appearance. All short and sharp with two buck teeth. Everyone else on the island were
under suspicion, and she herself were so shocked at what she’d done she never spoke at all, not even to squeak, after him were dead. She locked herself in the Thrashing House one day, she couldn’t stand the guilt
.
She were turned into a chain, for she’d felt herself chained to him, and had no other way to get away from him, other than to kill him dead with a knife. The Thrashing House thrashed the truth from her and that chain were the truth in her, of why she killed him. A rodent on the end of a chain can be right dangerous, so that’s the moral of that: make sure you never keep something dangerous chained to you, even if it’s smaller than you are. Its teeth might be sharp, and if it’s not of a mind to use them, it can always raid the knife drawer
.
A woman burglared every house on the island and were caught one night. Caught with her hands plunged deep in a jewellery box, a shimmering green glass ring on her finger, what we all knew never belonged to her hand. She became a gleaming ring which were dull copper on the inside: it were only coated shiny
.
She were looking for value: fine metals, jewels or secrets; anything she could find what would make her seem greater than what she really were on the inside. And that were the truth in her. On the outside she thought herself shiny, only the truth of her were that she were dull
.
Another, a girl of fourteen, had a vicious run-in with her Mam. In a fury like a Glimmera, she cut off her Mam’s hand. Showed no remorse, all she’d say were that ‘It were her or me.’ Neither would say what the fight started over, and it dun even matter. Something about wanting to swap colours of hair, some such nonsense what were impossible all along. She wanted something her Mam had, and her
Mam wanted what the daughter had. So the daughter took a hatchet to her Mam’s hand, so her Mam couldn’t get at it first. She became a glove. A left-handed one, to fit the hand what had been took. Not too much to learn from that one: just that you can cover up something what’s been lost, like putting an empty glove over a hacked-off hand; but sooner or later, it’ll flap clean off like a shadow and show you there’s nothing really there
.
The deadtaker taps hims foot on the floor. Polishes a boot with hims sleeve. I’ve nearly filled four sheets of paper, so I write:
People who have gone mad, or are dangerous, or done something so bad we dun know how to punish them – get sent in there. Sometimes folks seem to go in of thems own accord. Only it’s not really thems own accord. The Thrashing House can seek out the truth. If it senses someone has done something bad, or is dangerous to others, it calls to them, and the truly guilty slowly and surely find thems way into it
.
I say, ‘I’m done. You going to show me your documentation about Mam then?’
Him stands up, quick. Strides over.
‘You’ve left that lace undone.’ I point at hims boot.
‘Look in the desk in the room through the middle door. If I’m not here to see you read my documentation, you did not read.’ Him holds out a hand. ‘Agreed?’
I drop Grandmam’s story in hims pale palm and snatch my hand back.
Him puts it in a hidden pocket on the inside of hims jacket. ‘You’re not as quiet as I remember, Mary Jared.’
I ask him how come him recalls my name, and him says that him reads hims documentation book a lot, that him wishes him had asked more questions when Mam died, and him had questions for Da, but Da shut the door on him.
I say, ‘Well, you’ll not get any answers out of an old worn boot.’
‘A what?’ Him walks to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Nothing. But tell me, and tell me the truth.’ I breathe in. ‘You got the dead body of a three-year-old boy in this house?’
‘There have been no deaths of late.’
I breathe out. ‘So the drawing of Barney really is from your wife’s head?’
‘It’s similar to an inkblot technique, but using a more advanced and experimental skill. I assume you’ve never heard of the collective unconscious, of individual consciousness? She’s developed a visual language that speaks of much that is lacking in these theories. I admire her skills greatly. Her dedication.’
‘Look, your family’s too cooped up together, you’re coming up with some dipsy nonsenses what make no sense. What’s so special about your belonging people, or what’s so wrong with us, that you got to keep us out?’
Him walks up the stairs. One of hims legs walks straight and the other drags a little. I hear hims footsteps step and slide across the floor above me and climb the next set of stairs, one foot louder than the other.
I walk past the flickering candles and the shelves stacked with planks of shipwreck wood and open the middle door.
The deadtaker’s chair is covered with shining brown leather. A desk stands in the middle of this small room. A circle of light from a flickering lamp lights up the desk. A pen and ink bottle, blank paper and a glass jar of deep red liquid and a wine glass are lined up neat on top of the desk. I drop my bag on the floor.
Inside the drawer in the desk there’s a thick leather book. I lift it out, thud it on the desk and open the cover. The deadtaker has written in neat black ink:
List of the Dead
.
I run my finger down the page and find:
Beatrice M. Jared pages 30–34
.
I open it on page 30:
Beatrice M. Jared (embroiderer)
(married to Mr Ned Jared, mother to: Mary and Barney Jared)
Report on the Unfortunate Circumstances
I was summoned to inspect and remove the corpse of Beatrice M. Jared on the southern cliffs that look out across the ocean towards the geographic anomaly which is known locally as ‘the Pegs’. I was hailed there by a local man, name of Mr Martyn Spender, in the evening. He reported to me in a most breathless fashion that he: ‘went after my Annie’ (Wife of Mr M. Spender. Anne-Marie Spender, common name Annie, occupation: knitter) ‘as I dun think she really knew what she wanted. I went to the cliffs by the Pegs to find her in a right frazzle (assume: in great distress) as she and that pair, (Mrs Valmarie Slarius: occupation: herbalist, and Mrs Kelmar A. Barter: occupation: midwife, spinner and seamstress) ‘had found Beatrice unconscious, and were trying to stop the deadedness coming over her complete.’ (Assume: remaining with her in her final mortal moments.)
Upon my arrival, I noted that the three witnesses were
chanting and were physically located around the deceased. I requested that they desist immediately, in order to enable room for the procedures required in order to check for the usual signs of life. I proclaimed that the three witnesses should avert their gazes, and wait some distance away. They persisted in their observation of me, although I repeatedly requested that they avert their gaze, considering their observations and comments at that time to be particularly distracting as they persisted in asking me what I was doing and requesting the reasons for each slight movement of my person whilst concluding my investigation. Despite this annoyance, I did rapidly ascertain that Mrs B. Jared was, in fact, deceased. The two unusual aspects of the three witnesses, aside from the chanting, was the fact that one carried a rope, and all three women were wearing gloves. This was mildly unusual in relation to my observations of local dress customs. I choose to deem it insignificant as it was a particularly cold day. However, it may be worth noting that the corpse was not wearing gloves
.
The deceased presented the usual pallor of death, but I observed a blue tinge to the lips and the lower extremities. The corpse had two puncture marks upon her right ankle, which were raised and appeared to be the site of the poison entering the body
.
I understood from the information I gleaned from the three witnesses and Mr M. Spender that they believed the snake responsible for the bite to be a variety of snake they referred to as the Diamond back Addersnake, which they informed me was venomous. However, when I requested one to be procured, to provide venom samples for comparative purposes, none of the local people were able to provide such a snake
.
Summing up:
From conversing with all three witnesses, and from further inspection of the corpse post-mortem, I confirm that the only reasonable cause of death to be ascertained under the circumstances is that Mrs Beatrice M. Jared’s unfortunate demise was caused by the bite of a venomous snake, which was not located in the moments, nor days, after the death
.
In fact, for several weeks, I personally sought out any variety of local snake by conducting a thorough search of the island, and despite my most persistent efforts, I was unable to locate a single snake
.
In consulting my reference material on snakes, I have drawn the conclusion that the Diamondback is in fact a fictitious name, derived from some local folk tale
.
The reason for the women being present was clear, though the content of their proposed discourse remained withheld; some kind of argument which required one of the women to bring a rope to the scene seems to be indicated. I can only deduce that it was a disagreement over some aspect of craft-making, which these women believed necessitated the element of mystery, when faced with persons, such as myself, perceived to be outsiders
.
The fact that they were chanting when I arrived was certainly suspicious but when I asked the women about this they all stated that they were singing and went on to imply that I was a buffoon of some description if I was not capable of determining the difference between a chant and a song
.
The evidence post-mortem was clear enough to ascertain that the cause of death was by venom entering the body via two puncture marks directly into the ankle, which would imply death by some variety of snake bite, but not, as the witnesses claimed, by a ‘Diamond back Addersnake’
.
Them had a rope with them and there’s no such thing as a diamondback addersnake. I get up and lock the door. I rummage in my bag for the Thrashing House key. Someone will have thought of Mam’s death while them held this key. One of the women will know.
It’s not here. No. I rummage deeper. Must be. It’s not … no. Morgan wouldn’t have took it. I spill everything out on the floor and put it back in.
No key.
Morgan were so innocent … but she were in and out of my bag when we were stitching up my dress, and now I’ve lost all the women’s stories.
I flick the pages of the deadtaker’s book backwards and forwards. Dropping it on the desk, it falls open at the list of the dead. The last name on the list is scratched out. I lean over it. Him has written a name in and scored over it, like the person were dead and isn’t dead no more. I flick through to the last pages him has written on:
For all of this time I have lived here in this remote place, I have not yet encountered anything so strange. I was walking to the tall building on the hill, known locally as the Thrashing House, in order to confirm any suspicions in my mind regarding some rumours I had overheard. One such example that easily and rapidly springs to mind is a female voice on the other side of my garden fence, in conversation with others. This voice had clearly stated: ‘The men are thrashed good an’ hard. We’ll not be seeing them again.’
There was no doubt in my mind when I made the decision to investigate this statement that I would be thwarted yet again in my attempts to learn more of the Thrashing House, which holds these people in thrall, but yet remains locked, day and night
.
I approached the building after dark, in order to investigate, but I was distracted by an owl in the graveyard, hooting on a grave. Recalling my eldest daughter’s youthful love of the description of owls as a parliament, and feeling a little nostalgic for our shared past, I took a detour into the graveyard to see the owl. What I experienced at that graveside distracted me completely from the task of investigating the building
.
At first glance, the owl was of the appearance of a variety of barn owl, its feathers light in colour. However, as I approached the grave, it flew away immediately, and I did not see it return. And yet there was no one at that grave, but the soil of the grave was recently turned
.
It was the grave of Beatrice Jared. And I could hear a female voice, muttering
.
As soon as I heard the voice I drew close, hid myself, took out my notepad and set to recording the words I heard. I was convinced in that moment that if I did not fully document what the voice said, the sense of disbelief which was frustratingly present in my person would eradicate any information that I could temporarily understand with a later confusion and dream-like sensibility that I felt certain I would experience as soon as the voice was quiet. The following is transcribed as I heard it, copied faithfully from my notes as they were recorded, alas, with a slightly tremulous hand:
‘… torn
.
Dig soil from mine grave
.
Obey two women that dig and call and form me
.
Mothers now
.
Give life. Not death. Not same before
.
Scatter earth from grave, free mine instincts. Then release … fly flap fall first face smash bruises. Then. Up up up, fly, swoop
.
Instincts drawn out
.
Yes, punish
.
Men with lines of thoughts, guilty. Scratch, tear thoughts
.
What were names …
Only name, myself. Once Beatrice …’
Summing up:
As I recorded these mutterings, and in the moments afterwards, the voice seemed further away, so though this is not a death as such, the voice spoke the name of the woman who lies in that grave. As yet, I have drawn no conclusions
.