NORMAN'S DOG - Part 2 (of 2)

NORMAN'S DOG

by

Albert Woods

PART 2

'Thomas Edwin Sinfield: Sheep stealing: Judicial execution: 2nd March 1864.' - the last officially recorded death on O'Dwyer's gallows that Joshua could find in the parish register; there were no further capital punishment entries after that. Until now, it had not occurred to him how fruitful a hangman’s marketplace Cormley Crag had once been. For such a small community, the area had seldom gone a month without an execution during the fifty years that the record spanned.

Joshua could remember attending the odd 'roping' as a lad. Memories were vague, but now that he thought about it, there was one particular occasion – several felons dispatched together; probably one of the last up on the hill before the landslide that made the place hard to reach. A young, fresh-faced, clergyman had conducted the prayers that day - the same man now proffering a glass of ruby-red Bordeaux.

"Here Joshua;" said Pastor Dunne, "take some sustenance."

The drink was accepted.

"Now, tell me," the split clerical-collared man went on, “what is your interest in all this?"

Joshua answered truthfully, though a little reluctantly. "I have to confide in somebody, Pastor. I believe there to be something evil in this place and, whatever it is, is connected with the Crag and its sorry past."

The man seemed wholly taken aback. "What are you saying, my son?"

"I've been speaking with old Norman."

"Oh, is that it?" Pastor Dunne looked relieved. "Surely you’ve not been taking notice of his wild fancies, have you? He's absolutely mad, you know. Now, come on, what has he been telling you?"

Where to begin – or to begin at all? Joshua had been told very little, but much had been implied. "Somebody killed his dog." he said. "Did you know?"

"Doesn't everybody?" smiled the pastor, benignly. "As a matter of fact, it was I who found them, outside in the bushes. A terribly sad business."

"Yes it was," Joshua agreed. "Norman believes - at least I think he does - that it was some form of punishment."

"For what? By whom?"

"I do not really know. But it's as though he has knowledge of something which certain people want to suppress; people who have a power over him. And, sometimes, he talks as though outside his body – as if he’s not Norman at all."

"Now, this is absolute nonsense Joshua," the pastor's tone grew serious. "It is not like you to allow your head to be filled with such poppycock."

"Poppycock is it?" the farmer sensed the man's insincerity washing over him. "Then, doubtless, you can tell me why it is that secret meetings are held in the crypt of your church; and why the council is trying to force me to give up title to the Crag - barren land with no value."

Pastor Dunne had to gather his thoughts before he replied. He poured himself more claret and quaffed deeply. "Look Joshua," he spoke at last, "I know nothing about that, except they think the place should be preserved as some sort of monument. The idea is not to my liking, at all, but it is a democratic community we live in; and if the majority will is to keep it, then keep it we must."

"The majority will of McLaughlin, you mean."

The observation was ignored. "Now, the meetings," the cleric moved on. "I can assure you that there is nothing covert, nor mysterious, about them. Have you not heard of the Order of Saint Lydwina?"

"No, I have not."

"It’s a fraternity. We are of a mind to cleanse our souls by fire; mortification of the flesh, as they say."

Joshua's eyebrows raised.

"No, no," the clergyman gestured reassuringly. "What we mean, by that, is penance. We believe we can achieve a state of grace by spending time in silent prayer. We hold vigils when we kneel all night to contemplate the divinity. We pray that the Lord will accept our discomfort as part of our eventual purification. Credit in purgatory, if you like; similar to the penitents who walk barefoot on pilgrimages, or wear cilices for days on end."

"Then why all the secrecy?"

"I’ve told you; there is no secrecy. It is simply that we do not wish to be seen making our supplications to the Almighty Father. Such things can lead to vanity; some people would wish to join us purely to be seen as devout. We discourage that."

Joshua shrugged, his nostrils flaring slightly. The explanation did not sit well with him at all. "What about the gentlemen of the council?" he asked. "Can I take it they are all members of this fraternity?"

"Indeed they are. Is it not good fortune that our leading men should set us such a good example?"

The question was evaded. Joshua was certain that it was not at all fortunate; nor was any example, especially a good one, being set. The whole thing sounded implausible - for, although he was not going to say so, he’d heard the laughter echoing round the crypt. Hardly typical of guilty souls seeking absolution. He decided to put another question while the man was in a mood for explanations, spurious though they may be. "You know he was the hangman?"

"Who?"

"Norman."

“Hah!” the pastor belly laughed. "Norman the hangman? He has certainly made an impression on you. The only hanging he’s ever done is putting out the widow Kelly’s washing on Mondays."

"Where did he come from? Do you know?"

"Amerhurst, I believe; or somewhere near there. His father was a pig breeder. Poor Norman was born badly. The mother died in labour; it left him as he is today. When the father passed-on, he let the place go to ruin; so the business was forfeit to the bank. They say he roamed the county for some years, and ended up here. Now, do you not think that you should put these wild ideas out of your head? Do not place any store by anything Norman tells you. The unfortunate fellow suffers with melancholia. He has, what they call, a split personality."

Joshua doubted that, as much as he was now doubting his host.

Pastor Dunne, on the other hand, felt he had settled his visitor. "Joshua;" he called as the man got up to leave, "the meetings; how did you come to learn of them?"

The farmer’s back was turned, so he could safely smile to himself. "Why would you ask?" he feigned mild surprise; resolved that the litany of falsehoods he’d just heard would not be matched with his truth. “Did you not say they’re no secret?

"I was just interested. It's no matter."

 

The next threshold Joshua crossed was at the Five Bells. He’d not thought the place would still be open at this hour, but the candlelight glimmering through the condensate on the windows, and the men supping within, attracted his attention. Somebody noticed him and pointed. He would not be intimidated, so went in.

Horatio McLaughlin managed to serve a beer, and take the money, without a polite word. But for the sideways glances and whispers, the outcast might well have been invisible to the rest of the clientele. He sat at a table, immersing his mind in deep thought, revising the strange events of the past twenty-four hours. There was a lot wrong about the pastor; that was obvious; but what else was it that had not rung true? Something had struck him as odd, earlier, but escaped him. How could he retrieve it? Then it came. The parish register!

The names; the names - Sinfield; yes, that was one of them, the last one - but who else? Carpenter was another, and Dowdy. Or was it Doody? No; Dowdy, and someone beginning with Pen. Pendragon... Pendry? Pendery, yes Pendery. And all on the same day!

Leaving his drink almost two-thirds full, he made a hurried exit from the inn and ran up to the churchyard. Snooping about there was not a task he relished, but it had to be done. At least he knew where to look; the unconsecrated ground that was fenced-off from the rest. Never tended, it abounded with brambles and gorse. By the time he reached the last grave marker, the light was beginning to dawn; not in the sky, but in his consciousness - though it was quickly extinguished when a sentry clubbed him.

 

At first, when he tried to open his eyes, the diabolical pain in the back of Joshua’s neck forced them closed again. Once they were open, they served little purpose for a time. He tried to focus on the indistinct forms before him, reaching up to rub the blur from his vision. But his hands would go no further than the level of his shoulders. The clinking of chains told him why. He tried to get up, then collapsed as his legs jarred at the restraint of shackles.

"You are with us now then, Farmer Thurston," the voice was immediately recognisable as that of Horatio McLaughlin. "It is as well that you should hear the sentence that I’m obliged to pass."

Joshua tried to speak. His mouth wouldn’t work; though he could make out a little more than before; the distorted faces of the council members, all looking down from their tiered pews. He could only listen, helpless, as he heard of the trial that had taken place, and the verdict reached.

"We find you guilty of subversion," the chairman announced, his voice booming round the sombre arena. "You have committed diabolical crimes; insidious acts designed to undermine the very fabric of our community. For this, you shall be put to death."

It was all unreal; so unreal that Joshua found it hard to separate from the nightmares he’d endured during his unconsciousness. Perhaps it was merely another. But the full weight of his situation soon struck home as they dragged him out of the chamber - which he now recognised as the crypt - and up to Cormley Crag, where they sat him astride a black mare and slung a looped rope over his head.

The voice had returned now, but he had nothing to say. The Devil's work was best over with. He prayed, inwardly, while the fanatics made their excited preparations. Already, somebody was wearing his fine calfskin jerkin. Another paraded about, showing off his rings. A third spoke of wanting the boots, but would wait until the body was aloft. "Easier to remove, once the bugger stops kicking."

Grandfather Thurston had chilled the boy Joshua with tales of the death rattle; audible spasms in the throat, said to precede the last breath. Joshua was certain he could feel it happening now, almost hear the sickening clicks. Surrendering to the inevitable, he closed his eyes on the world.

A commanding voice re-engaged him. "You will stop this," it ordered. “Now!”

The figure on the rock ledge above the gibbet had come quietly and unnoticed. The lynch mob stood frozen. Only the horse moved, though not enough to leave its burden without a seat.

Joshua saw the compassion on the face that was looking back at him.

"Now come on," Chairman McLaughlin tried to reason. “This must be. He knows too much."

The figure reached under its long cloak to produce a dog-eared and brittle tome; one with which the assembly were well familiar - and obviously feared. He held it up. The effect was immediate. The entranced gathering sank onto knees.

McLaughlin uttered again. "No, no," he insisted. "Not this; not now. No! No Norman!"

The book was open, and Norman began writing; completing the records. The councillors’ terrified faces glazed over, zombie-like. One by one, they quietly got up and filed across the Crag to a row of slight mounds, where each laid down at his allotted spot to expire.

Joshua had recognized the book as well, recalling - as he’d done earlier - that the last few entries were incomplete. Unlike others, they’d shown no places of burial, as neither did any markers in the churchyard. He was uncomfortable. The horse seemed restless; it might take off at any moment. "Set me down, please," he called to Norman.

Norman turned to him. "Are you satisfied," he asked, reproachfully, "now that you know?"

"I am not sure that I do know," said Joshua. "Were these people your victims?"

"Victims?"

"Were you not the hangman?"

Norman laughed. "No, my friend; but I knew him."

"Then who are you, and who were those people; if that is what they were?"

"They were people," the tramp was below the gibbet now. "We were; and this was the instrument of our undoing," he said; his hand caressing the stout oak upright, his eyes almost admiring it.

"You mean you were hanged?"

"Aye. All of us."

"Then how did you survive it? Were you revived - brought back from the dead?"

"Not our bodies, but our souls; our beings - residing in new shells."

"How was it done?"

"For that you must ask the pastor. It is his skill. He has the power to drive out the inhabitant."

"Why would he do that, a man of God?"

"Money, and the power it gives him. He knows no God. He lives handsomely on the tributes Horatio Mclaughlin and the rest of his cronies render at their meetings."

"And there?" Joshua nodded towards the mounds.

"Where our true remains lie; where our spirits must reunite with them. The records have to be completed, sooner or later. There is no avoiding it."

"Why the fool?" Joshua was curious.

"That was the receptacle found for me; the unfortunate kind of being who nobody wants, nor misses. But we did not know that the sheer depth of his insanity would leave a print. Sometimes it is so strong it becomes dominant, and controls my will. They wanted to frighten the fool, in case he made my mouth speak of these matters. He said he might. That was why they killed his dog."

The irony of the situation struck Joshua, and he felt obliged to share the perversity of it. "But they did not," he said. "It was I. I was watching out for them going to their meeting; the creature took me by surprise, biting my ankle. I pushed it away and it hit a tree stump. It was an accident, I swear. I meant to tell you - or should I say Norman the fool - on the first day we spoke, but your words stopped me. I had to know what it was that you were concealing."

"And now you do," Norman looked up, staring at the brightness and clarity of the half moon.

The wind was easing, but damp cold setting in. Joshua's hands were numb from his bonds, and the noose chafed his neck. "Let me down now," he insisted.

"There is one last entry to be made," said Norman. "I must have your word that you will do this for me."

It had to be done, Joshua knew. "You have it," he reluctantly confirmed.

"Then I shall make ready," Norman nodded his gratitude, laying down the book and pen by the gallows, and kneeling to offer a final prayer.

Joshua wondered if he would relate these events to the villagers. Probably not. Nobody would believe him; though he would have to deal with the pastor; put an end to his evil work.

The horse adjusted its position, turning him on the spot. "God;" he entreated, "get me down from here!"

He beheld the disintegrating remains of the council; those corrupt beings who had brought him here, now little more that yellowing bone and dust. Only his own belongings, which some skeletal fingers were still clutching, survived the instant decay. The spectacle was hideous, yet fitting. Joshua found it difficult to suppress a smile. They were gone, and he was secure - or would be, once released.

With his back to the tramp, he couldn’t see the change in countenance; the kindly expression morphing into a vague hollow grin. But he heard his liberator's voice as it approached. "'Ere Marster; oy' ‘eard tell it were you wot killed moy Kevin."

The fool was face to face with him now, bulging bloodshot eyes staring maniacally. Joshua gaped back in disbelief, and felt the renewed pulsations of the 'rattle'.

"That weren't a noyce thing ter do, were it," Norman scolded, shaking violently, as though gripped in an epileptic fit. He drew breath, snorting like a wild beast, then swung a mighty slap across the mare's rump. It bolted, tearing down the hillside with the cackling lunatic skipping along in pursuit.

 

It took little time for life to return to normal in the village. Nobody dared question the fate of the councillors, nor cared enough to enquire after Joshua Thurston. Pastor Dunne was summoned to Amerhurst, by the sheriff, and charged with the responsibility of organising elections. Whilst there, he attended a multiple execution, and thoughtfully offered to dispose of the corpses. Soon after, the new council was performing much the same as its predecessor.

And old Norman had a new dog; another bitch. He called it Kevin. He loved it very much, and it cupboard-loved him in return. Its pea-brain allowed few opportunities to access memories of better times; or the pangs of remorse from wishing that it had taken the sheriff's advice to keep its nose out of council affairs, and just stay on the farm.

*  *  *

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

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