The Guardian Stones (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

The face staring back at Edwin startled him. It looked old and haunted. How could that be his own reflection in the dark windowpane? Only yesterday he'd been a schoolboy, savoring the long summer of freedom still ahead. He told himself he was just tired from hiking around without enough sleep.

He closed the blackout curtains in the living room, noticing a framed photograph sitting on the side table by the window. Grace. No, he realized, turning the photo to catch the lamplight. It was an older picture of another young, broad-faced woman with dark eyes and hair.

“My daughter, Mae. Grace's mother.” Martha came into the room.

Edwin moved his hand away from the photo, feeling like a guilty child caught in the act of…what? Looking more closely at a photograph? But hadn't he heard a note of disapproval in Martha's tone?

Martha dropped into the chair closest to the cold fireplace. She let out a grunt and pulled a potato out of a pocket in her baggy, mud-colored cardigan.

“Guards against the rheumatics,” Martha explained to him, shoving the potato into a more comfortable pocket. “Grace refuses to carry one with her when it's chilly. She'll be sorry. Stubborn girl. Takes after her mother. I tried to teach her all my secrets but she never wanted to know.”

“Where is Grace?” Edwin had abandoned his quest for the barrows after his run-ins with Jack Chapman and Harry Wainman. He returned to find an apparently empty house, until Martha emerged from her room.

Martha buttoned her cardigan. “Must be out on patrol. That's where she usually is, when she isn't home. Unless she's got a boyfriend.”

Edwin ignored the last remark. Hadn't Grace said that Martha's mental facilities were not what they once were? “It's very late,” he said. The country was on war time and darkness came at a totally unreasonable hour.

Martha stared at Edwin so intently he wondered whether her eyesight was failing, though the pale blue eyes looked clear enough. “You're here to study the Guardians, aren't you?”

“That's right. You offered tell me about local folklore.”

Martha looked flattered. “Get your notebook, then.”

Soon Edwin was scribbling snippets of herbal lore and Noddweir superstitions, hardly able to keep up with Martha's torrent of words.

“Lavender, now,” she said. “A few drops of lavender oil in a bowl of hot water is what you want. Stick your feet in, it'll perk you up when you're tired. It were an evil day when we heard we were supposed to dig up flowers to plant vegetables. Dig for victory, you know. But we managed to keep lavender.”

She rubbed arthritic hands together. “Horehound tea, that's the stuff for coughs. Ragwort will rid you of sciatica.”

She ruminated for a moment. “'Course, you can't get lemons these days. The juice did miracles in stopping hiccups. Did you ever have raspberry tea? Good for gargling, that is. My preparations are better than that rubbish they sell at chemists, but people don't believe. The old ways are dying. I done my best to pass along knowledge to Issy. I wish there was news of her.”

For a moment she fell silent. Her small hands stopped darting around to punctuate her words. The wild hair falling in disarray over her shoulders glowed preternaturally white in the lamplight. She shivered. “A curse on that devil Hitler. Someone should poison his dinner and give him a nasty death.”

“Something in the herbal line?” Edwin suggested, surprised at her sudden change of mood.

Martha smiled grimly. “I could give his cook a few suggestions. And speaking of devils, about the Guardians…”

Edwin adjusted his glasses. “Yes?”

“Well, now.” Her momentary gloom lifted immediately. “T'is said a wise woman who lived in the forest went to the top of Guardians Hill every time there was a horned moon and there she worked persuasions.”

Edwin noted her choice of words—persuasions and wise woman rather than spells and witch. “What do you mean by horned moon?”

“What you'd call a crescent moon. It exerts a malign influence. Them as is born under the horned moon is born close to the devil.”

“Cursed, you mean?”

“Depends on how one looks at it. Close to the devil's a powerful place to be.” A shadow passed over her face. “But we was talking about persuasions, not curses.”

“Going to the hilltop, wouldn't that mean working these, er, persuasions in full view of the village?”

“Why not? The villagers consulted her for help.”

“And these persuasions were for good?”

A sly smile quirked Martha's lips. “Some say so, some say not. But as time passed, whenever things went wrong, when a cow lost a calf or a wife strayed or a family member fell down the stairs and broke a leg, she got the blame. Soon it was said she danced with the devil, and meant to kill everyone in Noddweir one way or another. A dozen men from the village decided to do something, went up one moonlit night, and never came back. In the morning there were thirteen stones standing up there. All the men and the wise woman, who had turned them and herself into stone. And there they remain.”

“But why are they called the Guardians?”

“Because the men are guarding the wise woman, making sure she can't do harm or get away.”

Edwin had not yet counted the stones in the overgrown weeds but he guessed there were more than thirteen. Then too, they were not nearly man-sized. And wasn't it strange that the wise woman had apparently also turned herself into stone? He kept his doubts to himself. Folklore was not necessarily rational. Instead he asked about the barrows which eluded him earlier.

“Oh, them moundy little hills in the middle of fields, you mean? What we call tumps. Nobody knows anything about them. Not worth bothering with if you ask me, but if you want to poke about one, you don't have to go that far. There's one closer in the forest. Just follow the path coming out on the other side of the pond behind Susannah Radbone's house. It's the house with the red shutters.”

Martha continued to ramble, telling stories about the village. Edwin learned of a quarrel about a horse that resulted in one family not speaking to another for several years and that the election of Meg Gowdy as head of the local Women's Institute caused lingering ill-feelings, certain villagers objecting on the grounds of “her being an outsider and all.” And this despite the fact that she and her husband had run the Guardians pub for years.

Noddweir was one of those places where one who wasn't a native remained eternally an outsider. Edwin hated to imagine what sort of alien creature the villagers considered him to be, a man from another country altogether.

The lecture went on. When Martha began to repeat something she'd just told Edwin five minutes earlier, he gently reminded her.

“Ah, well. If you say so,” she said, resignedly. “It's old age, you know.”

Aside from that her mind seemed clear. Edwin learned that it was unlucky to kill a bat and that local farm laborers, on hearing the first cuckoo of spring, celebrated by taking the day off and still tried to do so, even in wartime.

He also recorded more tales about the Guardians, including the belief that on certain midnights they danced in a circle, but since the dates appeared to be unknown, nobody had actually seen this happen. Village children were warned, however, never to be within the circle after sunset. There was, to his delight, a children's rhyme, or so Martha said.

Time stands still
On Guardians Hill
Circle round
Unholy ground
The Guardians dwell
In deepest hell
Don't go alone
Inside the stones
That surmount still
Guardians Hill

Despite being fascinated, Edwin glanced frequently at his watch. It was now well toward midnight and he was worried about Grace.

Finally Edwin looked up from his notebook to see that Martha had fallen asleep, her head against the back of the chair, halo of white hair spread out over the antimacassar, sparrow's beak of a nose pointed toward the ceiling.

His gaze fell on the photograph of Grace's mother, so like her daughter. Taken around the same age, he guessed. Early twenties. Why was she absent? Had she died? Asking Grace would be rude. It was none of his business. He didn't see any photo of Grace's father.

The front door opened and Grace stepped into the room.

She looked haggard and distressed.

“What is it?” Edwin asked.

“We've been out searching again. It's Reggie Cox this time. The crippled boy who's staying with Susannah Radbone. Now he's vanished, too.”

Chapter Twelve

Sunday June 15, 1941

If Reggie Cox was limping along a road or railway line on his way back to Birmingham, he would be very damp and cold on this Sunday morning, thought Reverend Timothy Wilson. Grace had arrived early, while Wilson was lighting the lamps, to tell him about the crippled boy's disappearance.

A heavy fog clung to Noddweir, swirling against windows and concealing the forest. His parishioners shook moisture off their hats as they entered the Church of Saint Winnoc. If Reggie had any sense he would have taken refuge in a barn until the sun came out. Then again, if he had any sense he wouldn't have even thought about fleeing on foot with one leg in a metal brace.

Wilson brought out extra lamps. Their flickering light animated the stained glass window behind the altar—Saint Winnoc grinding corn in a hand mill. Grey daylight struggled in through the remaining windows. The altar flowers he had hurriedly arranged without Issy's assistance this week looked washed out in the dull light, but their scent was strong. The stone-flagged floor chilled the air. Despite the miserable weather, the church was unusually full.

Under the circumstances, was it surprising?

He surveyed his congregation.

Susannah Radbone sat with a pale and dazed Emily Miller near the front. He guessed Susannah, a notorious skeptic, was present as a kind gesture to Emily. She had once told him bluntly that she did not expect to see the inside of his church until her funeral, and only then in a metaphorical sense. Wilson could not imagine she had come to seek divine aid on behalf of Emily or her own vanished evacuee lodger, let alone to seek solace for herself.

Then again, he had observed soldiers who, after an artillery barrage, found God amid the scattered remains of their colleagues.

And there was Joe Haywood, a broad-shouldered presence huddled in a great-coat, who had not set foot in church either. He sat alone at the far end of a back pew. No one wanted to be seen with him, at least not in church. Who could he be here for, except himself?

The Wainmans, also largely absent from services, sat in front of Haywood. Louisa's plain, weathered face wore an angry expression and rubicund Harry looked apprehensive. Marriage trouble, or losing three young farm laborers they counted on for help with haying? Wilson would have expected Harry to be the angry one, since the surly farmer was angry as often as not. Harry turned toward his wife, who immediately opened a hymn book and stared at it fixedly, as if she were memorizing a verse or two.

Louisa might be visiting the vicarage before long, Wilson thought. What would he say to her if she asked his advice? Marriage was a sacred bond, but from what he knew of Harry Wainman, he didn't like the man. However, it wasn't his job to represent his own viewpoint on such matters.

Muffled laughter rose from the back pew across the aisle from Joe Haywood. A gaggle of boys—all evacuees—had congregated as far from their families as possible. They were freshly scrubbed, but the hair once plastered to their heads was stirring, stray strands swinging down across their foreheads as they pushed and punched one another.

A movement caught out of the corner of his eye pulled his gaze to the front pew, where Grace Baxter sat with Wilson's thin, solemn-faced friend who was lodging with her. Edwin looked uncomfortable. He had never mentioned attending church in their correspondence. But those two had not drawn his attention. Rather it was Martha Roper, sitting between them.

Her presence was more than remarkable. It was tantamount to a miracle.

A miracle Wilson preferred to do without.

Martha's ancient brown hat, perched on her mist of white hair, was in danger of falling off. She scowled at Wilson with a malignant expression. He couldn't help thinking of old wives' tales about the evil eye.

Seeing him look in her direction, Martha smiled.

He looked away quickly, scanning the church. Was it his imagination or were the families huddled away from their neighbors, casting tense, suspicious looks at each other? Were they wondering if a person sharing their pew knew more than they were telling about the missing children?

Did Martha's malevolent stare put the idea in his mind? His nerves were bad enough as it was.

Wilson cleared his throat and began his sermon in the soft, hoarse tone that was as strong as he could manage to project.

“We all follow the war in Europe, yet it is also right here in our own hearts and homes. Our cities are nightly infernos and we have taken in children who need shelter, to keep them safe. But now another trial has beset Noddweir. The children we seek to protect flee as if being lured away by a malignant heart.”

He stopped for a moment to study the tense, exhausted faces before him. “We are tired,” he continued. “Tired unto death. When will it end? Where do we find the strength to carry on?”

He saw Louisa Wainman bite her lower lip.

A boy in the back pew stuck out his tongue.

Wilson half turned and gestured at the stained glass behind him. “Every Sunday you see here our saint, even in his old age, even though it is the Sabbath, grinding corn, laboring while I stand here and talk and you sit and listen. Of course, Saint Winnoc was not able to do it by himself. He prayed for divine aid and the Lord caused his mill to grind corn without assistance. If only we could pray and the Lord would return our children to us, would cut our hay for us, would endure this time of fear and deprivation for us.”

Harry Wainman gave an audible snort.

Wilson coughed as discreetly as possible into his handkerchief and paused, less for effect than to catch his breath, before continuing.

“But the Lord does not do our work for us. The miracle of Saint Winnoc's corn mill does not teach us that the Lord will do what we should be doing for ourselves. Remember that Saint Winnoc was born to a noble family. Not far from here, just over the border. Yet when he joined a monastery he did so humbly. He spent his life performing the most disagreeable manual tasks. Even when he was enfeebled with old age he wished to continue working. So he prayed to the Lord and the Lord enabled him to continue.”

Wilson's voice had already begun to lose what little strength it possessed. The parishioners, mindful of his weakness, made not the slightest sound, not even shifting uncomfortably in the hard pews.

“That is the message Saint Winnoc has for us,” Wilson resumed. “If we are truly determined to endure, we need only turn to the Lord and He will grant us the strength to do so. As is said in Hebrews ‘…let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus…' What better advice can we find for this long race we are even now engaged in, this race of good against evil?”

***

The fog was lifting as the congregation emerged from the church. However, the still clammy air sent everyone hurrying away without exchanging greetings and gossip.

Louisa Wainman waited until she and Harry had turned off the High Street onto the road to their farmhouse before she spoke.

“Well, Harry, what did you think of them flowers on the altar?”

“Flowers?”

“You heard me. Didn't get an early look at them this week, did you?”

“What?”

Wisps of fog rose from the fields beside the road and huddled in the shadows of distant trees. Louisa stopped walking and caught his arm. “Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Harry.” Her voice was venomous. “The entire village knows you met Issy there on Saturdays, when the girl arranged flowers for the vicar. I can barely hold me head up whenever I meet one of those old gossips.”

“But—”

His wife sneered. “No point in denying it. Nosy parkers made sure I know you've been seen leaving the church then, when you'd supposedly gone off to market.”

“But I did go to the market! Remember, I got hold of that tea you wanted last week.”

“Bought it off Joe Haywood, more like. But you don't have to stay long to finish your business with that little tart. I should know. Then you can shove off to what you're supposed to be doing.”

“Louisa, do we have to go through this again? I told you before there was nothing to the talk. I even promised I'd go nowhere near the church, even though I hadn't been there to begin with.”

“With you, promises are made to be broken.”

“What do you think I am? How could you suspect me of….of…?” Harry's yanked his arm out of his wife's grasp. His fists clenched and unclenched. “Isobel Chapman was nothing but a child.”

“Was?”

“What are you thinking? Is. Was. She's gone. Missing.”

“Do you know something?”

“Louisa!”

“You just better hope nobody else thinks about that as well. Particularly that fool Tom Green.”

Before Harry could reply, Duncan Gowdy hailed them from behind. “It's Bert Holloway,” he shouted, running. “He's back!”