THE OLD BOY
Josiah Bentley was the innkeeper of The Old Arms, an ancient inn that the
Bentleys had owned for generations. He was a crusty, white-haired,
bulbous-nosed old man in his late sixties, and he brewed his own ale.
The Old Arms was on Bread Street and was so called because of the two rusty
swords that hung on the mantle over the fireplace, and which with Bentley's
great-great-great-grandfather was said to have fought bravely in the Battle of
Goldenfield. As old as this battle gear was, the inn itself was far older: the
Bentleys always swore that St. Hodge had blessed the corner-stone way back in
the days of King Cadvan. The Old Arms under Josiah was famed throughout
Corgrave as the place for good ale and long tales.
It was late in autumn, and a golden afternoon tinged in shadow, and Josiah
as usual was weaving his tales, but this time with even more liveliness than
was his wont. Part of this was due to the effects of his ale, and part was
excitement over having what he considered a virgin audience.
A young gentleman from Belbury, a stranger to the legends and ways of the
country round, was travelling to Oxshire and had stopped for refreshment. His
name was Thomas Norfield, and he was a curious one. Josiah was only too glad to
relate some of his best stories again, with the excellent excuse that the traveler
had never heard them. All the regular patrons of the inn had settled down to
hear the old classics and note how the Belbury boy received them.
"So the four queens brought the King acrost from Glastonbury up to
Arthur's Rest, and there he walks to this day, lookin' out to sea to Britain,
where he will return some day. They say ye can see him, on moonlit nights, and
specially on May Eve, gazin' over the water. Ever he watches for Saxon ships,
and other such marauders, and no one armed for war has landed in Arthur's Bay
yet!" the old man finished up triumphantly.
There was a general round of applause. The stranger joined in
enthusiastically. He was a bright contrast to the drably clad villagers, and
with his sea-blue greatcoat and tricorne he stood out like a bluejay among
sparrows. He was young, with black hair and grey eyes, and his pleasant but
unremarkable face was now brightened by an approving smile.
"Very good, Mr. Bentley," he laughed. "That's one tale of
Arthur I'd never heard."
"No, nor never would've neither, outside Alben. We knows the truth o'
the matter here, we do." Old Josiah took a long pull of his tankard. The
ale seemed to seep right down to his feet and start them tapping to an unheard
song.
"But I always heard that Arthur went to Avalon at the end,"
Thomas Norfield added.
"Aye, and so he did, Tom, he did. But as Britain comes from Brut,
Alben has come from Avalon, through the long wear of years, which will whittle
away words as water wears stone. Alben is the true Isle of Avalon as there is
any," creaked the innkeeper.
"Well," said Tom, and sat back in his chair with a look of amused
incredulity, a look that Josiah took no notice of.
"What'd ye like to hear of now, Tom?" he asked.
"Tell 'un o' the boat o' Hodge," suggested Enoch Fisher from the
chimney corner.
"No, no, the tale o' the Ford o' Ferlin, and the Black Arm,"
called another.
"Sing the song o' Father Bentley!" someone cried.
"And that I will," pronounced Josiah, and he started in a rusty
yet strangely tuneful voice to sing the following song:
"Father Bentley, ye're old and wrinkly,
But how came your hair be so white?
'I was at the Battle o' the Goldenfield,
And there I catched a fright
And so me hair is so white-o.'
Father Bentley, ye're crooked and hobbly,
And your legs are horribly lame-ed.
'I wrassled th'Old Boy at Goldenfield,
And on his wrasslin' I blame it.
And so me legs are lame-ed-o.'
Father Bentley your nose is knurled,
And 'tis large and bright and red.
'Part it's the Old Boy tweakin' my nose,
And part 'tis the ale in me head!
And so me nose is red-o,
And so me nose is red.'"
When he finished the last note there was a round of applause, and some
laughter and catcalls. Thomas joined in happily, and when the noise had died
down, he said, "Very good, grandfather. A first-rate recital. But who is
the Old Boy?"
Immediately the laughter fell completely dead. All the patrons of the inn
seemed to have suddenly found something vastly interesting between their shoes,
and were staring pointedly at it. Mother Holden drew her mouth into a straight
line and clamped her teeth tightly down on her clay pipe.
"He'm a ghost," she said.
"No, no, one o' the Hidden Folk," protested a voice from the back
of the crowd.
"He's the Devil hisself," said Fisher with a shudder. "I
seen him once, as I passed down the road. His body was black as pitch. He
stared at me out from under the hedge, with eyes moon-pale and round."
"Hush your mouth, and avert all evil from this house!" Josiah
exclaimed, crossing himself and adding a gesture even older in that country
than Christianity. "No one knows quite what he be," he added in lower
tones. "But me great-great-great-grandfather, him as was in the song and
who carried them swords there, he met the Old Boy on the eve o' the Battle o'
Goldenfield, and he strove with him, like Jacob and the angel. But 'twas a dark
spirit. Granther's hair was turned white, but he was able to fight the next
day. The Old Boy is still see'd by some--like Enoch Fisher there--as he haunts
the road 'twixt here and Harton."
"Really?" said Tom, with off-handed interest. "Why, that's
the road my schedule is taking me now. I ought to be in Harton tonight, at the
latest."
"Lawks!" squeaked Old Man Marsh, a tiny wizened man in a battered
cloak. "Ye can't do tha-at. Ye'd be far better to stay here for the
night."
"Well, but I truly must go," said Tom as he rose and picked up
his pack and his walking stick. He stretched, and seemed to suddenly realize
the time. "Dear me. I'm actually on rather pressing business. I fear I've
been having such a good time I've forgotten my errand. I must get to Oxshire as
soon as possible, and I've delayed here too much already. See, the sun's almost
down."
Josiah limped over to the window. "So it is," he said. He turned
and looked steadily into Thomas Norfield's eyes. "Your set on goin' to
Harton tonight? Te can't stay? Ye will go?"
"My good man, I must," said Tom.
"Then ye'd best be quick." The innkeeper became briskly
business-like as he started to call out orders. "Hie, Hobden! Get out
Hardheels and Silverfoot, and make 'em ready! Mother Holden! What have ye got
for this lad, as is use against such as...?"
"Foolishness, I calls it," muttered the ancient beldame.
"Let me see." She rummaged through a little sack tied to the belt
that girdled her waist.
"Not much...here's rowan and red thread, to put the witches to their
speed...sprigs o' oak and ash and thorn, that evil kind have ne'er
borne..." She scrabbled in it some more, muttering bits of doggerel verse,
then pulled the strings of the bag closed with a final gesture.
"Naught for the Old Boy." She chuckled grimly. "Better know
your prayers, boy."
"There must be somewhat," mused Josiah.
"What do you mean? What's all this about?" demanded Tom. He had
slung his travelling bag over his shoulder, and stood mystified at the exchange
between innkeeper and old wife.
"Ye'll need a charm against the Old Boy," explained Josiah.
"We can't send ye out unprotected. Wouldn't sit on our minds right."
"The spook? Oh, but really! Anyway, it didn't hurt Mr. Fisher, did
it?"
"That 'twas in the daylight. No one goes that road at night."
Josiah snapped his crooked fingers. "I have it. What about your grandson
Jack?"
"He'm no use," grumbled Mother Holden. "The lubberly lout.
Ain't e'en settled to an honest trade, yet."
"Well, he may well get one now. Charlie boy! Go fetch Jack Holden, and
fast! And bring Father Eli, too!"
"But...," began Tom, but he was interrupted by the arrival of
Hobden outside the door with two large horses. The innkeeper hustled Tom out
the door to examine them. They were fine beasts, one a deep chestnut color, the
other black with a white cross on its forehead, a white tail, and white socks
on its feet.
"Now, the horses are a pound apiece, and better ye'll not find for the
money," said Josiah. He went and patted the chestnut. "This one's
Hardheels, the other's Silverfoot. A special one, that one is. Born on Easter
Sunday. A fair sign, I call it. Ah, here's Father Eli now."
A small party consisting of chattering children, yelping dogs, and confused
men came marching down the little lane. When they reached the inn, a tall
saturnine man dressed in black robes stepped out of the middle of them.
"What is this, Josiah? What do you need me for?"
"Mister Norfield here would ride to Harton tonight. Could ye say the
Word over the horses for us, for safety sake?"
"He rides...tonight?" The priest sucked in his breath, held it,
and stared at Tom. "Well, well.
These be the horses, man?"
"Aye."
The priest approached the horses and spread his long thin hands on their
foreheads. "May God bless these horses and their rider," he said
lowly and fervently. "In coming and in going, in the road and at its side,
by day or night. Send the angels to watch and ward. May they ride at their
tails and on their heads. Amen."
The man turned sharply, and looked hard in Tom's eyes.
"God be with you," he said evenly, and then vanished into the
gathering shadows of the street.
As Tom was still gaping after him, a stout looking young man dressed in
brown with a white shirt pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
"What do ye want o' me, Mr. Bentley?" he inquired.
"Ah, Jack, us has a job for ye, lad," said old Josiah with a
wink.
"Well, what can I do, then? Do ye need me to cord you up some wood
again, or is it helpin' at the taps?"
"No, I mean a real job. I mean ye to be Mr. Norfield here's squire,
and guide him up to Harton, and beyond."
A smile broadened the young man's features. "Well, that's good. No
more Jack-o'-trades for me, then!" He came up to Tom and extended his
hand. "Jack Holden, at your service, sir. Pleased to meet ye, Master
Norfield."
"And I you," said Tom, taking his hand. "And now I really
must--"
"First we must have a swearin' in," said Old Man Marsh, raising a
rough hand in an official manner. "'Tain't legal wi'out a swearin' in.
Draw your sword, young master, and hold it cross-like."
Tom hesitated a moment, and then, looking at the expectant circle of faces
around him, slowly did so. Old Man Marsh nodded.
"Now Jack, you say, 'I, Jack Holden, do swear, by my head and the
cross of this sword, to do faithful service to thee, Thomas Norfield, until
death or ye release me.'"
Jack slowly and carefully repeated the formula.
"That's fine, lad. Now, you say, 'I, Tom Norfield, take thee, Jack
Holden, as squire, to pay and preserve and provide for, till death or my word
release ye.'"
Tom spoke the words haltingly, then stood self-consciously staring at the
suddenly solemn crowd silently watching and witnessing. The moment was broken
by the bustling Mother Holen who came in a flurry of skirts out of the inn.
"Hah, Jack, I've your bag here," she said, dumping it into his
startled hands. "Now, ye be good, and good luck to ye!"
"What! D'ye mean we ride tonight?" the young man asked
incredulously. "What about--Him?"
"The horses got the Word on 'em, and, well...ye know who ye are, Jack.
Now ye've been squired, and can't rightly back out. Now haste ye, for the sun
sets!"
After a hurried exchange of silver between the bewildered Tom and the
innkeeper, the two travellers, now master and squire, were helped up onto the
horses, Tom on Silverfoot and Jack on Hardheels. Josiah brought them a lamp on
a long pole to place on the crupper of the chestnut. The crowd cheered
farewells and well wishes.
"Good-bye, boys. Good luck to ye!" Mr. Bentley stood leaning on
his stick and watched them until they disappeared around a corner. Then he
sighed and turned back toward the inn. "Ye shall have need o' it," he
muttered.
***********
The two men rode silently down the road a while. Tom was a little nervous.
He couldn't help but feel that he might have been hustled a bit by the people
of Corgrave. And he wasn't afraid of the Old Boy, but the people at the inn had
seemed quite sincere in their beliefs. Perhaps there was something real behind
it all, like a highwayman who covered his activities with the old tale, and
therefore a real threat.
"Well, Master," said Jack, startling Tom out of his reverie.
"Ye've picked a good road to travel at night."
"Listen, Jack," said Tom, stopping his horse. Jack stopped next
to him. "This is pretty foolish. There's still enough light left for you
to make it home. If you want, I will release you, and you can go back."
Jack thought a moment, his head cocked to one side. Then he picked up his
reigns and set his horse going again. "No. I figure 'tis like Mother
Holden said. I'm squired. Besides, I wouldn't let any man ride this stretch
alone. If two Christian souls can't beat you-know-who to Harton, and one o'
them a Corgrave lad, then Alben ain't got no hope anyways. What time've ye
got?"
Tom drew out his pocket watch. "It's five minutes past six."
"Aye. Aye, the moon'll rise 'round seven-thirty."
They rode on in silence a while in the gathering gloom. Black trees and
skeleton hedges rose up on either side of the road. Dwindling in the distance
could be seen the warm, cozy lights of Corgrave.
The first stars had kindled and the lamp was shining brightly when Tom
spoke again.
"The people at The Old Arms spoke of you as some kind of charm,"
he said. "Why is that?"
Jack, who had been peering into the shadows on either side, replied evenly.
"Oh, that. Well, I'm the seventh son of a seventh son, seemingly--never
knew my grandad or nuncles--and so I'm uncanny at a number o' things. I can lay
ghosts and such, but mostly luck favors me. I can find lost things more readily
than most."
"I see. And your presence is supposed to keep the Old Boy from
attacking me."
"Avert," said Jack, and made the old sign. "Won't do no good
naming names. It'll only draw...attention. But aye, that's the general hope. I
can't vouch that I'm a sure charm against Him, though. When ye're a seventh son
ye know when ye see somethin' whether ye can tackle it or no. Glad the parson
put the good word on the horses. Keep 'em from boltin' or freezin' when they
see Him."
"Ah. What should I do if we see the Old-, er, Him?"
"Don't do nothin' till he speaks. I'll tell ye then if I can handle
Him. If I can't, clap spurs and ride for life's dear sake, I guess."
On and on they rode, as the stars wheeled overhead. Eventually the moon
rose--it was a sickle--from behind the low hills off to their left.
"Them are the Yarely Downs," Jack had said laconically. "The
grave mounds of the old people." They rode on.
Eventually they came to a stone marker, about man-size, that read
"Harton--2 Miles."
"We're almost at it, Master," said Jack. "Mayhap we'll make
it."
They hadn't gone seven yards from the stone when Jack said in low warning
tones, "Ssss. Master. Look at the lantern!"
Tom turned and looked. The fire burned low and blue, and flickered in a
wind that neither man felt.
"Don't turn around," whispered Jack. "Let me look
first."
Tom watched his face as he slowly turned. It was corpse-pale in the dead
blue light and beads of sweat glistened in the glare.
"Aye, He's there," Jack said in strangled tones. He turned away
and faced front. "He's sittin' on the stone, watchin' us."
Suddenly a cold voice from high up bleated through the night air.
"I'm coming for you!" it called, and there was a thud as if
something had jumped heavily to the ground.
""I can't lay it, Master!" screamed Jack. "Head for
Harton!" And he kicked Hardheels in the ribs, making the great horse
plunge headlong into the night.
A nightmarish ride began for Tom, the worst he'd ever had in his gentle
life. He urged his horse on and on through endless tunnels of hedges, past
broken stones and through over-grown weeds. And ever the steady thump of hard
feet swiftly behind, growing slowly but surely closer, and ever and anon,
stabbing the night, the cold bleating cry of "I'm coming for you!"
Hardheels and Silverfoot raced neck and neck through the dark, as the two
men clung desperately to their reigns.
"I'm coming for you!"
They passed through mown fields, where stacks of hay threw deep shadows in
the moonlight, and threadbare scarecrows leered mindlessly over nothing.
"I'm coming for you!"
They passed under a gibbet, and the dead man's toe bones trailed over their
shoulders and faces.
"I'm coming for you!"
"Look! The town--!" gasped Jack. Tom looked up. Ahead of them lay
Harton, a few lights gleaming in the windows. "Make
it--churchyard--," Jack puffed, and tried to urge his horse faster on.
But the desperate chase had had its toll on their steeds, and they slowed
as they neared town, despite their riders' frantic efforts. Finally they
stopped exhausted, just short of the town limits, and all the two men could do
was sit and watch in horror as the thing drew nearer. It groaned in delight.
Tom turned and faced his pursuer for the first time that night. It had
slowed too, and was coming closer, gloating.
It was shaped like a man, pitch black, but its limbs were spindled out of
all human proportion. The sharp, upcurving horns of a goat sprouted from its
skull, and it twitched them from side to side, cutting the air. Its eyes were
ice under moonlight.
"Now, I have you!" it screeched, and lunged forward, talons
outstretched to fasten upon the helpless men.
Suddenly, clear in the night, a bell rang, in a deep pure voice. The Old
Boy looked up in fear and surprise. The bell rang agin, piercing the night with
silver music. The gangrel creature held its ears and cried out in pain. It
turned its hateful eyes on Tom and Jack.
In a coarse reedy voice, it snarled. "If the bells of the church
didn't ring so nigh, sure this night you both had died."
The bell rang a third time. The Old Boy turned and fled howling up the
road, striking blue sparks off the stones with its feet, and set up a cold wail
that seemed to echo off the moon and into their hearts forever.
When the stable boy at the inn in Harton took their horses, he remarked,
"Damn! Ye must have rid these like the Devil hisself was after ye."
Thomas Norfield turned a haggard eye on him.
"As a matter of fact, He was."
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