Cherringham--The Curse of Mabb's Farm (4 page)

Jack looked at Sarah. He could listen to this guy for hours. But maybe this wasn’t Sarah’s cup of tea, so to speak. At least they now had some idea of the basis for any ‘Curse’ in the region.

And it seemed like people still liked to wag their tongues and feed the fires of gossip.

He stood up.

“Will, I have really enjoyed listening to you, and seeing this, thank you.”

The historian beamed. “Come anytime.”

And Will led Jack and Sarah away from the battlefield, and to the front door.

Outside, Jack turned to Sarah.

For a moment he could imagine the village of some four hundred years ago. The carts, the horses, people bustling about much as today.

But it would have been a time of fear as well, human life so cheap, what with wars and diseases and the daily struggle simply to survive.

No wonder they held onto superstitions. Life and death must have seemed so random and unpredictable.

“Quite an engaging fellow,” he said.

“Knows his local history, that’s for sure. What do you think — should we go see those stones, then drop in on Charlie and Caitlin Fox?”

Jack squinted against the golden-yellow sun.

“Sure. Be good to see the place linked to the ‘Curse’. Then we can try and talk to the farmer.”

“Try?”

Jack nodded. “I dunno. Something about this is — well — odd.”

“Getting superstitious, are we?”

Another grin. “No. But they could have gone to the police. Instead, it’s almost as if they have something to hide.”

He watched Sarah’s smile fade. “You know I’m getting used to these ‘instincts’ of yours. Like a sixth sense …”

Jack laughed. “More witchcraft!”

“Seriously. They usually lead to something.”

“Chalk it up to experience. Either way, even if it’s nothing, I’d love to see a site that dates back to the Neolithic time.”

“Which was when?”

“Around 10,000 BC it began — along with farming.”

“Jack, you never cease to surprise me.”

“And I’m surprised you never went to the stones, even as a kid?”

“My crowd was into different Stones”

Jack laughed. “I bet you were. I’ll drive.”

They walked over to his Sprite. Standing out amid so many SUVs and compacts, the sports car was a throwback to a different era … of cars, of driving … maybe even — he often thought — of life.

“Can you get us there or should I turn on the nice new GPS lady?”

“Don’t worry, Jack. I know how you hate that thing. Turn around, and head west out of the village.”

“Hey — you sound just like her …”

Jack pulled out of the space, and did a U-turn, heading away from Goodchild’s house and the village.

They parked beside a broken fence that marked one end of the farm’s property, on a road that led to Charlie Fox’s farm.

From where they stopped, a broad meadow led up to the hill they had just seen on Will Goodchild’s battlefield.

The hill was crowned with woodland, just as it had been in the time of Cromwell.

Jack ran his hand over the splintered wooden rails, some broken in half, others missing sections completely.

This was a fence definitely in need of repair.

“Guess Charlie isn’t one for maintenance.”

Sarah found a spot where the fence consisted of a single rail, and she easily stepped over it. “The stones must be on top of the hill. Can’t see them from here.”

Jack looked around. “Nice.”

Sarah started walking across the meadow, the assorted grasses coming up to her knee. The heavy grass was wet with the rain of the last few weeks.

Jack walked beside her, with his long strides, taking a slower pace. “See — this is something we wouldn’t do back home, not anymore.”

“Really? A lovely walk in a meadow, why ever not?”

“Lyme disease. Carried by deer ticks. Nasty stuff. Can’t go hardly anywhere in the northeast that doesn’t have the deer ticks.”

“We get them in England too. New Forest, for example. Not so much here. At least I don’t think so.”

“Probably because you don’t have deer wandering around as much as we do.”

Jack stopped just as they reached a spot where the meadow turned into a gentle hill.

“You know, this land… This
could
be farmed, right?”

Sarah laughed. “If you’re asking me farming questions, you have the wrong girl. But I guess you’d need the right equipment, the workers. Could be just the things that Charlie doesn’t have.”

Jack nodded then started up the hill.

In minutes they reached the crest, where the hilltop flattened. And at that crest, Sarah turned.

To the east, she saw Cherringham, a postcard view from here.

“Beautiful,” Jack said. “If I was a painter …”

“Yes. It is, isn’t it? And down there you can see the farm at the end of the road.”

Sarah pointed to the small farmhouse and barns. A herd of cows stood outside, while a field behind the farmhouse had irregular rows of what looked like wheat.

She turned back to the hill.

A tight bunch of trees blocked the view of any clearing ahead, but she saw a muddy trail leading into it. The wood was made up of tall oaks and birch — a dense dark space.

She shivered.

It seemed ancient. And ominous …

“The stones must be through there.”

“Right,” Jack said as if he couldn’t take his eyes off this bucolic view.

She began to follow the trail, a two-feet wide path of muddy ground that was probably as old as the stones themselves.

In the deeply shaded woods, the air turned cold, dark and silent.

Sarah had expected birdsong — but there was nothing.

Finally they emerged from the trees to see the circle of stones.

Sarah’s first thought was
how was it I never came here as a child?

She wondered why her father, who loved history, hadn’t brought her here.

Although, to be fair, he was more of a museum person, interested in the great events, important treaties and documents signed in massive rooms with towering ceilings.

Not really one for hiking.

And she could well imagine how as a child she’d have protested at such a jaunt.

Though she did get dragged to all sorts of local World War Two memorials where her dad would become teary-eyed explaining the human story behind each memorial.

That
stuck with her.

Now she looked at the stones, a perfect circle twenty, thirty meters in diameter. Dozens of stones marking the shape, most looking like jagged teeth.

Were they merely sitting on the dirt, she wondered, or were they much larger than they looked, buried in the ground itself, their toothed edges pointing up?

Either way — the place had an aura.

“Amazing,” Jack said.

“Not exactly Stonehenge, but still pretty amazing that it’s here, isn’t it?”

“I know. To see something this old still standing … to think of who came here, and what they did …”

She could see that Jack was lost to his reverie, filling in this spot with people, maybe Druid priests, villagers, the unlucky sod selected to be sacrificed.

She didn’t know whether it was the wind or the fact that they were on a hill, but she felt a chill again. It wasn’t helped by the sun dipping below the trees to the west, throwing this ancient place into shadows.

Jack walked towards the nearest stone, three feet tall. He bent down and touched it.

“Guessing even the lichens on these stones are a thousand years old.”

Shows what I don’t know
, Sarah thought.
Lichens can live that long?
Then, as if he could guess what she was thinking:

“They do live that long, you know.”

He stood up. “There’s a plaque of some kind,” he said, pointing to a spot at the centre of the circle.

And they walked into the very centre of Mabb’s ring of stones.

Jack read: Though these stones date from the Neolithic era, from approximately 6000 BC, the name ‘Mabb’s’ was applied to them in relatively recently times, circa 1100 AD. The name may have originated in the ancient myth of the Fairy Queen Medb, though some suggest it was named in honour of Lady Mabel Repton in the thirteenth century. The Repton family owned much of what we now know as the village of Cherringham.

Jack laughed. “‘
Relatively recently …’
You have to work real hard in this country to be called ‘old’ I guess.”

Sarah skimmed the information on the plaque explaining the history of the stones.

“Look here. Says that the stones most likely served many ceremonial purposes but primarily they must have been a place for human sacrifice, tied to the yearly festivals and times of worship …”

No wonder Dad didn’t bring me here. That’s scary even now.

She turned to Jack. “Happened right here. On this spot.”

Jack looked around. For him, this was maybe a different and unbelievably ancient crime scene.

“You know, with a little bit of imagination you can guess what that looked like. People standing around, watching, waiting for the victim to be sacrificed to whatever pagan god was in fashion.”

He kicked at a pile of ashes. “Guess now just kids come up here, light up a joint and relive the good old days.”

“Never did that myself but—”

She had turned around, to see off to the side of the circle of stones something looking right at them.

“Jack — look.”

“Hmm … what is that?”

The Wicker Man.

They had missed seeing it, hidden by trees until they walked into the centre.

“Now
that’s
spooky.”

And it was. Created from carefully bent and entwined braches and wood vines, the man was a towering figure with legs, a body of brambles, a grotesque head — and one arm jutting out and pointing right at them.

“I’m beginning to understand why some people think this place is cursed. This spot alone could make anyone superstitious,” Sarah said.

“Yup. And we’re here in daytime. Imagine if it was night, full moon, wind blowing, and—”

Sarah heard a click from behind.

And then a voice.

“Now you two — you just turn around, nice and slowly.”

She caught Jack’s sideways glance, a signal she knew by now to mean …
follow my lead on this.

When they turned, Sarah saw a man pointing a shotgun right at them.

“You two. I saw you walking on my land. Trespassing.”

She saw Jack nod. “Charlie Fox?”

The man held the gun steady.

“What if it is? I want you off my land now.”

Sarah had a hard time believing that this ancient site was part of Charlie’s property. Maybe it was, but people probably had a right to walk on a footpath here.

She thought of saying that they just wanted to see these stones, which might be a lie but it could get Charlie to lower the gun.

But Jack spoke first: “Charlie, we were going to come down and see you.”

The man shook his head, the gun wavering as well.

How steady was his trigger finger?
Sarah wondered, wishing that the farmer would just lower his damn weapon.

“See me? What the bloody hell for?”

Now Sarah: “People have heard about the bad things that have happened to you. To the farm. We thought we might help and—”

“Don’t need any
help
. I help myself. I take care of my family.”

Sarah thought of Emily describing her disturbing chat with Charlie’s frightened wife, Caitlin.

“People are talking about a Curse. That you and your wife are scared.”

Charlie shook his head violently.

“That damn Curse talk again? Look, I’ve had enough with you and everyone else. I don’t want help, you understand? I didn’t need—”

His speech was interrupted by an explosive noise from behind. Sarah felt … heat.

And before she turned around she saw Charlie lower his gun, his eyes wide, mouth agape, looking as if a fiery ghost had reared up from the stones behind them.

Jack swung round in surprise, trying to work out what had happened. But nothing made sense.

The Wicker Man seemed to have spontaneously combusted: every twisted branch was alight and the whole structure roared and crackled with the intense heat. A whoosh of sparks made him back further away.

With an angry yell, Charlie raced past him toward the fire, shotgun waving in one hand.

“For Christ’s sake, Charlie,” said Jack. “Put the gun down.”

Charlie turned, for a moment hearing sense — and placed the gun against one of the ancient stones. Then he again ran toward the fire, arms stretched out as if in despair.

“What do we do?” he shouted.

“You got any water up here?” said Jack as calmly as he could.

The farmer turned and shook his head in a panic.

“Up here? No!”

“Then I’m sorry, Charlie,” said Jack. “But you’re just going to have to wait till it burns itself out.”

To one side Jack could see Sarah motionless, clearly shocked by the ferocity of the fire. And up ahead, Charlie was now frozen too, panting and staring. While the farmer gaped at the swirling fire, Jack walked behind him, carefully lifted up the shotgun, broke it, and removed the cartridges.

Then, resting it over his arm, he walked slowly around the fire, looking for signs that someone had been up there.

In the woods he saw a flicker of movement. He peered into the darkness beneath the great trees. Was there somebody there now?

The trees came to within a few yards of the burning Wicker Man. Someone could just have set the fire then retreated fast. And the dense forest gave perfect cover.

The fire had started fast, with a
whoomph
of hot air. Jack had seen enough arson to know that natural fires didn’t ignite that way.

He turned back to the Wicker Man and scanned the grass around it. There was no sign of matches or gas cans. He couldn’t smell petrol — in fact he couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary. But he also knew there were accelerants around that left no odour.

He grabbed a stick that had fallen from the fire, and poked around at the still-burning Wicker Man’s base, a pool of black discolouration in the grass …