Bodkin
The written version is below, for those who prefer to read their stories whilst an audio version is record (I'm still not sure how to record voice without the visuals, so you'll have to put up with my mug until I work out how to make better use of technology - if anyone can explain how to do so, in words of one syllable or less, bearing in my the severe limitations of my computer-understanding, then please mail the instructions to me. I had been lecturing at the college for nine years before one of the students explained to me, in about 30 seconds, how to use the record facility on the laptop for their presentations - until then I didn't even know the laptop had that capacity).
Bodkin
Sir Richard watched with pleasure as his guest surveyed the
contents of the display cabinet. It is a common enough problem for those
possessed of the collecting mania to find that they very rapidly exhaust what
very little interest their relatives and neighbours have in the object of their
mania. All too soon there is nobody left to whom a collection can be shown,
much less anyone with more than a minimally polite interest in actually seeing
it. So this occasion was as much a pleasure for the owner of the archaic
articles as it was for the house guest, one Reverend Doctor Jasper Keane.
The clergyman, whose mother had been of Suffolk stock was
enjoying a rare trip away from his parish duties to visit St Botolph’s, by way
of an informal pilgrimage. There was nothing in the church of especial interest
to anyone, but for the familial connection that his recently deceased mother
had been baptised there and requested that her only surviving child donate a
percentage of her meagre savings to the upkeep of the building. This task was
soon dispatched and indeed could have been achieved through the vagaries of the
postal service, but for the fact that Keane had an additional motive for
visiting the quiet village of Colliton. The late matriarch had, on a number of occasions,
told her children of the unsavoury history of the village and of the collection
maintained by the elderly squire in regards to it.
“I am planning, you see,” the cleric told Sir Richard, “a
short paper for a forthcoming colloquium on challenges facing the Church. It is
my intention to draw analogies between the depredations of the Witchfinder
General and some of the denouncements and ideological purges one sees carried
out today.”
At once the rather gnome-like gentleman had whisked his
visitor up to his study to view the case whose draperies had to be first
whisked away. There, amidst various artefacts associated with murders and
massacres from centuries past, he indicated a wooden bodkin with a four-inch
iron spike. This article, he needlessly explained to his guest, was once the
possession of the notorious Matthew Hopkins who had used it to probe
unfortunate suspects for the supposed Devil’s mark. Insensate to pain, this
mark was placed upon those who had sold their souls to the Beast.
“You are quite sure it belonged to Hopkins?” the host assured
his guest that it was undoubtedly so, cautiously removing the instrument of
inquisition in order to point out the letters ‘MH’ carved into the handle. Sir
Richard went on to explain that the parish records had it that three people
were arrested following interrogation by Hopkins and his assistant Mary
Phillips. One, the nonagenarian Mother Stride, died in gaol before coming to
trial. The other two, young Marjorie Norwood and the querulous old scholar Dr
Byron, ended their lives upon the gallows their names besmirched by accusations
of cursing cattle, having shameful congress with demons, and causing the deaths
of several small children. The same records refer to Hopkins’ hasty departure
and the discovery of a small valise in his room at the local inn. The contents
of the case were nowhere listed, but it was accepted by local historians that
the bodkin and the whittling knife, also ensconced in the glass case, were
amongst the goods left behind.
As the aged host rattled off an account of the wizened
familiar spirit supposedly in attendance on the cantankerous Byron, the Reverend
tilted the bodkin in the sunlight till his eye fell upon what looked like a
knot in the grain. This he pushed, causing the spike to retreat into the handle.
“A charlatan, I knew it!” at once the visitor launched into a
voluble denouncement of Hopkins and his ilk that used deceptive wiles to
terrorise the hapless and exploit the fears of the gullible. The exposition
ended with a yelp, when the spike popped back out of its chamber and pierced
the hand of the cleric. A single droplet of blood fell upon the glass lid of
the display cabinet.
“My dear sir, I had no idea it was still sharp!”
The ministrations of the gentry proved predictably ineffectual
but, when the wound in Keane’s palm continued to ooze blood even after their
return to the drawing room, a servant appeared with a dressing. For the duration
of the lunch the puncture throbbed and distracted the Reverend from what should
have been a most pleasant afternoon.
That night, as Keane was readying himself for bed, the dull
throb became a sharp and persistent pain. The dressing had become somewhat
loosened over the course of the day, and the unfortunate man peeled it gingerly
back to see the small hole still seeping blood and the skin for an inch around
it now discoloured and purplish. The bodkin had not appeared noticeably rusted,
but he had heard plenty enough cases of blood poisoning suffered by careless
factory labourers. He resolved to contact a general practitioner on his return home
to London the following afternoon.
Normally Reverend Keane did not dream, or at least he never
remembered them. When he awoke screaming at 3am, the image refused to leave him
of the bearded man in a black capotain hat glaring at him as he thrust the bodkin
repeatedly into his flesh. For an hour he sat in the armchair shaking and
sweating, starting at every sound and wincing each time for his tender parts
were covered in bruises where the iron spike had pierced him. Even as the dawn
penetrated the heavy curtains the mental spectre had not fully dissolved, nor
the echoes of the softly insinuating voice demanding that he confess to some
unstated crime faded.
Shuffling down to the inn’s dining room like a man twice his
age, Keane reached for the tepid tea pot and dropped it to the flagstones where
it shattered. His right hand had no grip and a queasy glance showed that not
only had the dressing come away entirely but the dark purple stain had spread
across the whole palm. Not only did it look repulsive but even the slightest
flexing of tendons caused him to almost weep with pain. Giving up on the hope
of tea he sat as still as could be, hoping to calm mind and body alike. An unfortunate
infection – that was all it could be – coupled with nightmares brought on
because of what he knew of the history of the bodkin. He murmured apologies to
the maid as she picked up the shattered crockery, her obvious annoyance
replaced by a look of concern as she saw the state of the man giving her such unnecessary
work. The only other guest in the dining room looked as one might at a
potentially infectious leper.
Dreams of being accused raised the possibility of some
deep-rooted guilt. Always a forward thinker, the Reverend had read Freud and
grasped the concept of repressed fears and memories. His faith was conventional
to the point of being rather bland, as his sister was wont to tease him, so he
could scarce be accused of heresy nor of any belief in things occult.
Keane limped slowly to the bathroom and tipped the remaining
bath salts from the jar into the tub before running the water as hot as the inn’s
antiquated system could make it. Removing his dressing gown he surveyed the
bruises in the long mirror that dotted his thighs, stomach, back, and arms. Each
was starting to turn a horrible shade of purple. As the steam began to fill the
room the mirror misted over till he could only see a blurred outline. For an
instant it seemed as if that indistinct figure were wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
Lack of sleep, it was nothing some painkillers and a good night’s rest would
not dispel.
It was with considerable effort that he perched on the edge
of the bath and gradually swung his legs into the almost uncomfortably hot
water. Whimpering, he sank fully into the bath and sighed as the heat penetrated
his aching limbs and torso. He thought of the benighted Dr Byron hauled before
the court after being subjected to all manner of torments and indignities. The poor
man had finally admitted all charges after –
“Swimming the witch!” hissed a soft voice moments before a bony
hand shoved Keane’s head under the heated waters. Struggle as he might, arms
and legs flailing, he sunk and sunk into the murky depths where the weeds
wrapped themselves around his face, clogging his mouth.
“Sir, sir are you alright?” plump arms pulled his head out of
the bathwater, slapping his back as he coughed and spluttered, gasping for air.
The sensation of a mouthful of river weeds faded as he regurgitated soapy water
on to the bathroom floor, eyes streaming and stinging.
“You must have fallen asleep and slipped under,” the publican’s
man wrapped him in towels and guided him to the safety of the chair besides the
tub. The platitudes flowed around him as Keane sat trying to recover his wits. The
punctured hand was still hideous to behold and made the process of getting
dressed almost impossible without the frankly embarrassing assistance of the
over-solicitous lad. The conviction came over Keane that the further away he
went from this Suffolk village the better his injury would become. With this in
mind he took an earlier train that originally intended, vowing never to return
to his mother’s birthplace.
ReplyDeleteThis story lends itself to the start of the Robin Herne Playwright!