the ghost of Marty Cubitt

 what better for New Year's eve than a good ghost story; I set this one in my own neck of the woods on the Blythe Estuary which you may drive past on the A12 and visit the notorious smugglers' pub and see the great church on the hill. Cubitt is a south Suffolk name rather than north, but Marty insisted he was Marty Cubitt, and I wasn't going to argue. Noyes is found between Blytheborough and Beccles and Michael Lamming is an incomer from Ipswich.

The Ghost of Marty Cubitt

 

Everyone knew the cottage was haunted. The cottage had been haunted for a long time ... well, ever since it had been used by smugglers, anyway.  It was spoken of in a matter-of-fact way since Michael Lamming had arrived, a year ago, in 1812.

Old Gaffer Noyes had tales by the dozen.

“And o’ course, there’s the ghost o’ Marty Cubitt,” he said, lowering his voice as the preventative officer came into the White Hart at Blytheborough.  “An informant he was, traitor to his own brother, they say, laying information. O’ course I don’t tell you what to think, thass beyond me, bor, t’maerke judgement, but they do say that onct Marty had laid information agin pore ow’ Matty Cubitt, wass his own twin, then them ow ghosteses hounded him to death, and Marty Cubitt walks, wringin’ his pore dead hands account o’ wass he’s done, doin’ his own brother to death like that.”

“Matthew Cubitt was never caught,” said Michael Lamming, the preventative. “Saying he was done to death is a lie, and it wasn’t ghosts who tied an anchor onto Martin Cubitt and left him at low tide mark in the estuary.”

“Ar, bor, yew du be a furriner from Ibsidge way,” said Gaffer Noyes, comfortably. “Caarn’t expect yew tu appreciate our stories. But yew’d do well to heed the warnin’s.”

“It’s notable that Matty Cubitt walks on the nights when it’s rumoured a consignment has been ‘run’,” said Michael.

“Ar! O’course he du, tryin’ for ter reach his brother, and beg his forgiveness,” said Noyes. “But then, pore Matty, he come to a bad end for his smugglin’, as a good preventative might expect, and wuz drug to Hell by Black Shuck. But pore Marty, he’s still a-tryin’ tu find Matty.”

“If only,” said Michael.

Much of the ‘trade’ was landed at high tide, directly into the cellars of the White Hart, whence it promptly disappeared up the hidden passageway to be stored, if rumour was correct, in the crypt of the great church on the hill. And let one good hint of a passage be found, and the church might be searched, but for now, the church was inviolate.

When goods came in on a half-tide, they went to the Cubitt cottage, a mile downstream, and had to then be brought overland.

“Yew wouldn’t wish the devil-dog to taerke no-one, would ye, squire?” asked Samuel Balls, suspected of being Matty Cubitt’s right hand man.

“I’ve as much faith in a devil-dog as I do in ghosts,” said Michael.  There were, to be sure, three burned scores on the church door, like the scratches of great, incandescent nails; and local myth said that the devil-hound of East Anglia had once invaded the service. But Michael was an educated young man, who had no belief in the supernatural. What he did have belief in was the love of Frances, or Fancy, Plumstead, daughter of a former rector of Holy Trinity.  The unfortunate rector had  died at the young age of fifty-four, supposedly of a heart-attack, after refusing to let the smugglers use the church. Michael had been the one to find him in the church, had sought for any signs of life, and had needed to be the one to take the disagreeable news to Fancy, a dark-haired maiden with blue eyes who looked fragile but who was stronger than she looked.

Fancy lived in a cottage at the back of the church, well above the marsh, which she had bought with what her father had left her. She taught basic literacy as a living, and read and wrote letters for the illiterate. Michael hated seeing her careworn, and did such chores around the house as would not give anyone cause to gossip.  There would soon be ill-natured gossip about an incomer who was unwelcome; and Fancy was unfortunate enough to have attracted the attention of Matty Cubitt before his disappearance.

Fancy did not believe in ghosts either, and was a more stalwart companion than the dozen preventatives Michael had at his disposal.

“If anyone is clever enough to catch them at it, it is you, Lieutenant Lamming,” said Fancy.

“I may hope so, Miss Plumstead,” said Michael. She had permitted him to hold her hand, seeing her home from church, for some weeks. “And if I do ... would you do me the honour of being my wife? I scarce like to ask it of you, on the pay of a humble preventative officer ...”

“I’m a good manager,” said Fancy. “Thank you; I would be honoured to accept.”

Daringly, Michael kissed her, and was kissed back. It had to be quick before one of the locals set sheep or goose on them for a laugh. Preventatives were not popular; the poverty of the locals was such that they saw ‘bottle fishing’ merely as sport, and some profit on the side, failing to recognise how dangerous the spies who often came in with the ‘run’ cargo.

However, much as he enjoyed dalliance with Fancy, Michael had his job to do, and a thankless task it was, hoping to catch smugglers at it. Fancy did her bit, overhearing such gossip as she might get to pass along.

 

“Word is they are at the  Cubitt cottage,” said Fancy, to Michael one evening, when he climbed the hill to see her.  “And if you ask me, it’s an exercise in trying to scare you, but perhaps you can arrest Matty.”

“I would ask you to come, for you’re a better man than any of my cowards, but of course it would be indefensible of me ...”

“I’ll come.  I will feel safer with you than worrying if it is a diversion of Matty’s to get you out of the way so he can sneak into my cottage,” said Fancy, tucking her hand into his. They went back down the hill, and Michael called out his men, a dozen villainous looking men who had taken service as preventatives more to avoid being press-ganged into the Navy than for any love of law and order. Michael had given up getting them to march or parade, so long as they took care of their muskets and practised their musketry.

 

They walked across the bleak salt marsh, Michael familiar with every bad place and inlet. The Cubitt cottage sat out on a partly constructed island, with a causeway of alderwood running out to it. There were some ghastly moans.

“Silver-paper folded over a bone comb,” said Michael. “I’ve done it myself, at school. Silver-paper being such fine paper as it is.”

A white, spectral figure rose in front of them. It did bear a resemblance to Marty Cubitt.  Which meant that it also bore a resemblance to Matty Cubitt.

“Halt; you’re under arrest!” cried Michael.

Half the men with him had fled.

The rest joined them as a hound, wreathed in blue flames, burst out of the bushes.

Michael stripped off his boat-cloak as the ghastly apparition streaked, baying, towards him; Fancy gave a little cry, but Michael threw the cloak over the dog, and tackled it to the ground.

“Poor old fellow ... there, old boy ... soon have you safe,” he was murmuring.

“Michael?” said Fancy.

“Never poured brandy on a Christmas pudding and seen it burn without burning?” said Michael.  “Poor old boy might be burned but we can treat his burns, and it shouldn’t be too bad. Those bastards, torturing a dog!”

The dog whimpered and licked his hand when he unwrapped his cloak. It had smothered the flames, but the dog still stank of best brandy.  

“It’s Marty’s dog,” said Fancy.

The spectral Marty appeared again,  and a mist crept in from the estuary.  The dog started barking again, and wagging its tail; and in the mist, a second spectral Marty appeared, with a burning black dog beside him. He looked at the dog which Michael still petted, and pointed a finger at the first spectre.

“Marty! No! No!” shrieked the first ghost, pulling off the fine muslin which had blurred the outlines of Matty Cubitt. “For the love of God ...”

“I fancy, more for the love of dog on Marty’s part,” muttered Michael, shocked.

The mist-figure seemed to pass through the screaming Matty, who fell down, and was still. The burning dog ran into the bushes, and a host of men with weapons ran out, screaming. The dog hounded them until suddenly the marsh edge gave way where most of them had run. The water surged up like white horses, plunging  down on them, and the dog ... vanished.

Michael made his way over to Matty.

On that chill, but not cold night, Matty had frozen to death and icicles hung on his tear-streaked face.

 

The other smugglers were not to be seen. There was no creek where Michael had seen the others engulfed.

“Sometimes, Black Shuck is said to aid lovers,” said Fancy. “And you have been kind to Captain here.”

 

Michael nursed Captain back to health. Then he married Fancy. The dog carried roses for the ceremony, in a basket; and he stopped and bowed his head at the three score-marks on the church door before trotting up the aisle with the happy couple.

 

The smugglers never were seen again in that district, or any other of a temperate clime.

 

       

Winter Wolf

 this one is inspired by the video of a song called 'Blind and Frozen' which YouTube popped onto a list for me, which is why she is called Cecylia, as it means 'blind'

Winter wolf

 

Cecylia awoke with a start, and sat up.  It was cold, so cold, but she was wearing a thin summer court robe.

She rubbed her arms, wondering where her maid was.

Then she shivered in terror more than in cold, remembering.

She had been cursed, to fall asleep on her sixteenth birthday, and sleep for one hundred years when ...

When she would have to fulfil the conditions of a poem, during the hours of daylight, seeking a kiss to free her from the curse, and if she failed to do so, she would sleep for another hundred years.

And she had woken once and gone down to the courtyard, and he had been there, the man who had grown from the boy, the witch’s son, who had been bitten by a werewolf because he had been seeking her when she was lost in the woods.  She had refused to kiss him, to cure him with royal breath.  And the witch had been unable to cure her son, and had laid the curse. Cecylia had fled, embarrassed and frightened; he was a man, not a boy, scarred, with matted hair and beard, dressed in skins. She put her face in her hands, as she had run into her tower, and as she reached the top room again, and the sun dipped below the horizon, the door had slammed shut. And the snow started in her room, and weariness overcame her, and she had lain down to sleep again.

Cecylia shuddered.

She got up and looked in the mirror. She was unchanged. How would he look? But she must kiss him. She looked at the poem, though she knew it by heart.

 

Embrace the beast

And what is lust is lost

Will melt, the curse to cease

And bring an end to frost

 

 

oOoOo

 

Vahktang shook himself, and howled in agony as his body shifted ... changed.

He was human again.

Had so long passed?

Apparently, or he would not have changed back.  Only by living in wolf form could he tap the immortal energy of wolf, and survive to try again to persuade Princess Cecylia to be his. He had always loved her, from the first time he had met her in the forest, and showed her the small wonders of nature. He could have sworn that she loved him, until her mother sent her to a school for ladies for a year. It had spoiled her, made her draw away from former companions who were peasants.  And she would not kiss him to cure the curse ... but the amount of blood had scared her, too. And what a figure he had presented last time!

Vahktang had prepared himself somewhat for this time; before submerging himself in the wolf’s eternal sense of ‘now’ he had stolen clothes. Clothes one hundred years out of date, but what would she know? She had slept through any fashion crisis.  He had laid spell upon the clothing to fit him perfectly, and to be preserved; and he had a comb for his hair and beard, even if he might not shave for fear of disrupting the wolf inside if he had to live another hundred years.

He loped back to his cave lair, and unearthed the chest of clothes, soft leather trousers, boots, a shirt and  a rich robe over all. He combed out the tangles as best he might. He had not aged substantially, and he hoped he would be acceptable.

He read over the poem which referred to him, though it seemed graven on his heart.

 

Follow the snowbride if you dare

And make her chamber cold your lair

Silver frost trumps silver moon

The curse removed shall be her boon.

 

He would have precious little time to make it to the tower, and he ran, ignoring the stitch in his side. A man who was fit could outrun a wolf, not in speed, but over time, as a wolf would not take down prey which had not tired. He reminded himself of that.

The sun was past its zenith when he reached the castle. The open gate was eerie, and Vakhtang shuddered as he went in, wondering if she even still lived, or whether a skeleton lay in the tower without a door ... or rather, with a door once day in every hundred years, to stop him seeking her out, and in case of itinerant adventurers. 

 

oOoOo

 

The sun reached its noonday height, and passed it. Cecylia huddled in to herself, fearing that he would not come. Perhaps he had been shot by hunters, or killed by other wolves; perhaps he had decided to give up on the spoilt little girl, her basic values eroded by associating with those to whom outward display was all.

She felt unroyal tears prick her eyes, and blinked on them hard; he would not want to see her red-eyed and crying.

And then she heard the crunch of boots on snow.

Boots? Last time he had been barefoot.

She rose and went to the door, out onto the courtyard.  There was a well-clad stranger ... or was he a stranger?

“Vakhtang?” she said, uncertainly.

“Cecylia!” his voice was hoarse.

“You ... you have made an effort ...”

“Forgive me for frightening you ...”

“Vakhtang! Forgive me for being a fool ... come inside.”

He followed her in, up to her chamber. The sun was on the horizon, red and misty through the snow clouds.

She reached out her hands to him, and he drew her to him, into his arms.  And then he kissed her.  Just in time as the sun sank.

The sun sank and  they were both away, in their own forms, no clang of a closing door.

“We are free?” said Cecylia.

“Free,” said Vakhtang. “And if you wish, in the morning, I will take my leave.”

“No!” she clung to him. “I was a fool.  I ... I need you .... if you will have me.”

 

oOoOo

 

They lay together in a bed no longer cold, and the misty snowclouds lifted from the castle and the forest around it, and when they awoke, winter had passed into spring, with birdsong, bees, wildflowers and grasses growing.

And Vakhtang’s mother was waiting.

“Many changes have been wrought in the world,” she said. “Magic is dying. Now you have broken my spell, magic will die here, and I will grow old and die as well. My last use of magic has been to enchant a mirror to enable you to watch the passage of time, and prepare you for how the world has changed in two hundred years.”

“Mother ...” Vakhtang embraced her, and Cecylia knelt.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“You have learned,” said the witch.

It was fortunate that the treasury had not been ransacked, for though the couple learned of the time that had passed, it was easier to live quietly in a small town, rearing their children to be children of their own time, caring for the witch until she died; and then, living out their own lives, contented but knowing that perhaps, if they had managed to get together the first time, there might have been more ...

But they did not dwell on it, for the sense of ‘now’ of the wolf forgives all time that passes, and Cecylia knew that it was reaching for more which had lost her Vakhtang and all her family in the first place.

 

 

 

Wear Wolf

 

 this is the one my editor demanded when she was feeling low and in need of entertainment. As you can see I'm backsliding and fulfilling some Polish withdrawal symptoms.

 

Wear Wolf

 

Klemens jumped on his brakes when a white shape dashed out of the black, stark, winter woods in front of his car. He had to work hard not to skid on the icy road, but he managed to stop without feeling the car touch anything. He got out of the car anyway to see what sort of animal he had almost hit.

To his amazement, he found at the front of the car a woman, with wild black hair, and otherwise stark naked, kneeling on the ground.

“Mother of God! What has happened to you?”

She looked at him with haunted eyes, so bright a hazel as to be almost tawny.

“Help me; he is chasing ...” she said.

“You’d better get in quickly, then, there’s a rug in the back seat to wrap yourself in,” said Klemens. He was glad of bulky winter clothes, she was a beautiful woman, and her nakedness had an inevitable effect on him.  He was glad that she leaped into the back seat of his old Skoda and wrapped herself with alacrity. He could hear the baying of a hound – a hound? Really? – as he got back in and started the engine. Soon they would be well away.

He was quickly back on the road, and glanced in the rear view mirror, making sure she could see his face so she would see he was harmless. 

“My name’s Klemens Laska,” said Klemens as they headed for the next town.

“A name of good omen,” said the woman. “You can call me Sylwia if you need a name for me.”

Klemens thought this an odd way of putting it, but if she was running away from someone, perhaps she was afraid to tell him too much.

“Do you feel able to tell me who it is that you flee from, and why?” he asked.

She shuddered convulsively.

“I don’t know his name and I don’t want to,” she said. “He smells  bad ... he wants me and he does not care what he does. He found my coat when I had taken it off to swim, and he will not let me have it back unless I sleep with him. But I think he will never let me have it back...”

Klemens looked into the rear view mirror to look at her, and her amber eyes burned with intensity. And there was another shape superimposed on her in the silver-backed mirror.

“You’re a wolf-woman,” he said, surprised at how calm he was and how easily he accepted something which should be legend.

Her eyes widened in fear.

“You guessed?”

“My mirror is silver backed, it’s an old one, a lucky talisman,” said Klemens. “Do not fear; I mean you no harm.  We must, however, get you some clothes while we consider what to do about the man who has your skin.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Sylwia, my family has stories about the atrocities of the Nazis during the war, and there is a wise saying. ‘They came for the Jews, and I said nothing. They came for my neighbour and I said nothing. When they came for me, there was nobody left to speak up.’ And to my mind, that’s a lesson to us to be tolerant of all. Sure, I’m scared of wolves; but I ask myself, is there any reason to be scared of a wolf who can speak, and who can listen to reason? Wolves are only dangerous when hungry and I am happy to get you food.”

“I am hungry,” admitted Sylwia. “I was looking to grab a chicken from that man’s hut. Just a chicken to keep hunger at bay.”

“Well, we’re nearly in town; I tell you what I’ll do, I’ll park somewhere quiet and get you some clothes, then we’ll go and grab some steak and then when you’re feeling better, we can plot. Uh ... you’re used to being human sometimes, right? So you’re happy with ...uh ... latrines?”

“I’m used to the amenities, yes,” said Sylwia. “My mother made me live with humans for a while so I would know their ways, mostly to avoid them.”

“A sensible er ...”

“She,” said Sylwia. “A sensible she.”

 

They soon reached the town, and Klemens parked in a darkish alley, near a convenience store which also sold some basic clothing.

Sylwia was pleased with the choices Klemens made for clothes, loose jog pants and a plaid shirt; her breasts were small and needed nothing fitted to support them. A loose sweater, socks and trainers completed her costume.

“If it takes us a while to get your skin back, you can get clothes you like,” said Klemens.

“I like these,” said Sylwia. “Do you like them?”

“Yes, but I picked what I thought would not be too uncomfortable if you are not used to clothes,” said Klemens.

“I think you are an unusual man,” said Sylwia.

The steak was only rare, but she had eaten cooked food before; she could live with it. And she was hungry. She wondered what he would do when he had her skin in his hands. All the legends of her people told how human men would hide wolfskins away to gain the best of brides. Apparently human legends told the same thing or that smells-of-lust-and-cruelty-man would not have held on to hers.

“I had an idea,” said Klemens. “I thought I would stop near where I found you and ask about a dark haired woman whom I unfortunately killed with the car, and took to the coroner in the next town.  If he thinks you are dead, he will not value your skin, and if I ask if he has furs for sale to make my wife a coat he might sell it.”

“You are wealthy, to buy furs?”

“No, but your need is greater than mine; I do well enough to get by and put aside some savings in the hopes of marrying one day. I would be selfish not to put right a wrong a fellow human has committed against you.”

“What is your job?”

“Oh, not very exciting; I am a farmer, but I also supplement my small income by accountancy for other smallholders. But if you ever came to visit, there would always be fresh meat.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you,” he blurted out, flushing.

“I do not understand ‘accounts’,” she said.

“Oh, it is important to know how much one spends, and how much one sells for and try to make sure the latter is bigger than the former, over the long run. And to pay taxes to the government for the facilities and things.”

“Like what?”

“Drains,” said Klemens. “Running pure water. And things like that.”

“Oh, I suppose they are worth having. And I understand the need to count. If one eats too many rabbits, they won’t have enough numbers to breed without getting sickly.  You have to understand these things.”

“It’s exactly the same, and other farmers pay me to count for them because I count better than a lot of people.”

She nodded.

“The one problem is that you wouldn’t kill me if you hit me,” she said.

“Not even if I had a silver St. Krzysztof medal on the front of the car?”

She blinked a few times.

“That could work. You don’t have a St. Krzysztof medal on the front of the car, however.”

“Not yet, but I will get one and wire it on.”

“You are thorough.”

“The aid of the  saint of travel never did a man any harm, anyway,” said Klemens.

 

***

Klemens pulled off the road when they got back to the place where he had picked Sylwia up. Sylwia refused to wait in the town where he had got their meal and her clothes, and hid under the blanket on the back seat. Klemens had instructed her to lock the doors in case the man’s hound was still around. He walked into the woods. Half an hour’s walking brought him to a wooden dwórek with barns, and several animals in pens or runs. A dog barked, and a man with a rifle came out.

“Be off with you; there’s nothing here,” he said.

“Oh, you don’t have a wife or daughter with black hair?” asked Klemens.

The man stiffened.

“What’s it to you if I have?” he said.

“Well, if you do, you might want to sit down, as I’ve bad news,” said Klemens.

“Whaddya mean?”

“I ... oh please don’t point that at me, it wasn’t my fault!” cried Klemens. He did not need to act hard; he was decidedly nervous.

“What wasn’t your fault?”

“She ran into the road in front of me ... it’s icy ... I couldn’t stop any quicker ... what a freaky thing to happen, to be impaled on my St. Krzysztof ...”

“Bloody hell!” said the man. “It’s dead?” 

“She,” said Klemens. “You might get a visit from the police, though, the coroner wanted to know why she was naked, and I couldn’t tell him.  Bloody nasty fright for me, too, and I come back out of the goodness of my heart to break it to you, and you wave a gun at me. It wasn’t my fault, and my wife is going to kill me when I return without a fur coat for her, all the shops will be closed by the time I’ve returned and done all my business.”

The man looked cunning.

“I tell you what,” he said, “I’ll sell you a whole wolf pelt. Your wife will like that, won’t she? And she can have it made up however she likes.” He smiled a nasty smile, and went out muttering. Klemens had sharp ears, and heard him say, “And when that bitch recovers and breaks out of the morgue, her skin will be no use to her and she will have no choice.”

Klemens dickered over the wolf skin and got it for considerably under the value of a cured skin of such suppleness.

He walked back to the car, able to unlock it with his key, and tossing the skin into the back.

“I’ll drive on a way and you can let me know where you want to get out,” he said.

Sylwia’s tousled head popped up into view of the mirror as he drove off.

“Just like that? You give me my skin and let me go?”

“Sylvia, you are a being; what else am I to do?”

“Klemens, I think I might like to marry you ... but I would like to keep my skin. And I will help you herding animals.”

“I’m not stopping until I get home in that case; I want a long distance between us and that bastard.”

 

***

Klemens and Sylwia got married, and Sylwia sometimes went out with her skin at nights for long runs; and Klemens did not even notice the small item in the newspaper in which a forest farmer burned to death in his own dwórek.  Burning hid the marks of wolf jaws.

And because Klemens gave her the choice, Sylwia gave birth as a wolf to their four beautiful children, all of whom had the power to wear their skins or not as they chose. And his farm prospered and he and Sylvia became well off, and had a long and happy marriage. Klemens just chose not to kiss his wife until she had cleaned her teeth after she had been hunting, preferring minty fresh to the alternative.