Listen to the Trees and Other Curious Tales

School

It is Friday afternoon in the year nineteen hundred and twelve, and class has finally come to an end for this week.

“Have a good day my pupils,” Mrs. Alder announces to the class. She is standing before the class in her starched white blouse with its high collar and her dark wool skirt that sweeps the floor and hides her smart leather boots. While she looks sternly imposing, the kindness in her eyes is well recognised and she is loved by her pupils.

 They are tidying up before leaving at the end of the school week. 

“Thank you Mrs. Alder,” the class replies as one with well practised voices before standing to leave. “Have a good day also.”

This is the one moment in the school day that Mrs. Alder hurries the pupils but only in a gentle chiding manner and the class know this; they respond with big smiles as always.

She would prefer that they all stayed behind because she truly enjoys teaching this mixed age and ability class of polite, well mannered and curious children.

William Thomas attends school every other day with his parents’ blessing and the slightly grudging approval of Mrs. Alder. He pulls his books together and ties them firmly with an old, well worn, leather belt.

The days that he is not attending Mrs. Alder’s class, the only one in the small village school, he is working with his father in the fields of the farm. At this time of the year, autumn, the cold weather is setting in. There are still a few cattle to attend to and the odd remaining crop of potatoes to harvest before winter starts in earnest.

“Leave your chalk boards on your desk,” she continues, “but please do not leave anything else of your own behind. I will be locking up after you have departed. Please enjoy your weekend. I will see you all next week, prompt and ready to continue where we left off today. ”

William is a thirteen years old senior boy and one of the six still in the class of twenty of varying ages, replies with the others, “Thank you Mrs. Alder.”

Mrs. Alder enjoys the pupils engaging with her like this and has encouraged them to do so because she knows it is a good grounding for their futures. The youngest pupil, a girl by the name of Fanny, a small, delicate child who wears an oversized pinafore over her clothes, is only some eight years old. Most of the pupils’ parents are associated with farming or livestock, which is the predominant occupation in this small market village. Fanny is the daughter of the owners of the village supplies store, is always dressed nicely and is somewhat precocious.

She is also always late, as today, with her diminutive, “Thank you Mrs. Alder.”

Mrs. Alder just smiles quietly by way of a reply while the pupils, mostly the girls, just giggle at Fanny’s slight ineptitude. She is still loved by the other pupils who accept that this is just the way Fanny is with everything that Mrs. Alder teaches; always a little behind.

William is the opposite of Fanny. He is straight talking, quick to respond and down to earth being the son of a local farmer. He wears his best trousers for school; they are a few years old and a little short, finishing just above his boots. His plain un-collared shirt is covered by an old, slightly threadbare but reasonably tidy, woollen jacket with leather patches on the elbows.

Once outside of the schoolroom he will pull his faithful cloth cap on firmly, one of his father’s old ones; a little too large but respectably worn. On his feet he wears his only pair of leather boots. These are normally used for working round the farm but are thoroughly cleaned for attendance at school. As a precaution because the weather is becoming cooler, he has come to school today wearing a woollen scarf crossed over his neck and tucked inside his jacket. He does not wear this in class as Mrs. Alder can be guaranteed to have a good coal fire burning on a cold day, in which case the scarf is stuffed, as today, into an inside jacket pocket.

Mrs. Alder works hard to vary the information each of her pupils receive although their understanding and take-up varies mostly by the pupils own abilities. Arithmetic is the hardest to get across although William seems to show a distinct ability here. He is a clever lad who could do well but is tied to his parents’ impoverished farm and it seems he always will be.

Next year will be his last at school after which he will be required to work full time on the farm, becoming a hard working assistant to his father. At some indiscernible point in the future it seems that he will eventually inherit it all. His mother has talked about him completing his education, receiving a meritorious school certificate then using it to obtain a clerk’s job perhaps or something similar in the nearby town.

This would take him away from the lifetime’s hard labour that has been suffered by his parents and is on the horizon to be his ultimate fate. His father wants him to finish his education so that he will be more capable at running and perhaps even improving his nearly failing farm.

William’s mother and father cannot really agree on his future. They are still amicable about their differences but he is their only child, coming late in his mother’s life and they both, in their own way, wish him to enjoy a good life when schooling has finished.

“Cheerio John, you too Steven,” William says goodbye to his friends who are of the same age as himself.

“And you too my friend,” one of them replies as arms go round shoulders with hugs in a ‘manly’ fashion. The younger pupils, as usual, precede the older lads as all the class gather loosely to make their way out of the single heavy wooden door. Walking steadily out of through this classroom door, Mrs. Alder will not have them running or barging each other, they gather in the small walled playground outside.

The Weather Changes

The sky churns with dark foreboding clouds that now threaten the evening with one of winter’s possible early storms. The dark masses beneath the clouds billow in and out like some upside down waves and appear to be skimming the tops of the surrounding hills; perhaps they are. They have not deposited their contents, not yet, but that moment cannot be far off.

William knows of the menace of such clouds as his father’s Coldstream Farm is positioned well up into the hills and if a storm performs, as it promises to do so, he will need to be home to help bring in the cows, batten the windows and fasten the barn doors tight-shut.

The pupils stop their chatter as a sudden cold gust strikes down upon them.

A sudden darkness that accompanies the cold wind tells William that he must be on his way as quickly as possible. He has some several miles to walk or run to get home but a substantial part of this is upwards to almost the top of Coldstream Hill. His scarf is hurriedly pulled firmly round his neck and then tucked inside his jacket. His jacket buttons are fastened next; none are missing thankfully. And his father’s old cap is pulled firmly down on his head.

The long route home, sticking to the basic roadway, running the length of the valley, followed by a rough track back up the slope of the hills is a full five miles.

If he can get away with a little trespass across a grumpy neighbours land without being seen, then the distance can shortened by almost half. Some walking along a road, an old bridleway and some trespassing will see him home in the shortest possible time.

William turns to wave his last to his friends as he and they exit the school yard gate. They are disappearing fast in other directions and they wave back for the last time this week.

Standing for a moment to look up at the darkening sky where the dark clouds appear to offer a greater menace than they did only a few minutes ago, he hesitates. The weather is turning bad and the cold, sharp sensation of moist air is felt by all the remaining pupils especially William. He is facing into the increasing wind, the direction in which he must travel.

He grips ever more firmly on the leather strap that is holding together the few second-hand books that his mother managed to purchase from Mrs Alder. These could be his passport to a life away from the farm and must be looked after at all costs.

Perhaps the opportunity will eventually appear that will allow him to make use of his education. He dreams of becoming a teacher himself, despite his mother’s expressed wish for him to be apprenticed as a clerk and his father’s simple vision of him taking on the farm. 

Coming to his own understanding that he will need to move on to higher education, of the sort that Mrs. Alder cannot provide herself although perhaps, he accepts that this may be a dream too far. She has intimated that she could provide a route to a good college if he fulfils the promise he has shown and can complete his schooling with a good certificate.

The last straggling pupils exchange a few, “Cheerio’s,” as they weave past his standing figure in front of the single school gate in the yard wall and head off in different directions towards their homes.

William strides away from the school gate to start his climb almost immediately on the upward incline of the cobbled way out of the village.

“Whoa,” he exclaims as the blustery wind tries to knock him over. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he chuckles to himself.

Looking up, he notes that the darkening skies are threatening a cold downpour at any moment. He tucks the strap-bound collection of his few invaluable books inside his jacket, just in case.

The cold moisture strikes hard against his reddening face especially as it is changing rapidly into a mixture of freezing drizzle and sleet. William has no real worries about the long trudge home; he can pretty much tolerate this without complaint although he makes sure that his cap is firmly jammed upon his head.

Stepping close to the stone wall he keeps out of the way of a horse drawn cart coming quickly down the incline towards the village.

“That’s silly,” he mutters to himself as the wheels of the cart strike the cobbles. “Perhaps he’s in a rush to get away from the bad weather that’s coming in.”

As William strides along the rough road that replaces the cobbles, he looks up to see the billowing darkness that is coming towards him. It is running along the route of the valley and will catch any travellers that are still out. There is only one at present, as far as he can see, and that is himself.

The loneliness of being the sole body travelling through the gloom of a wet wintry storm does not really bother William too much at all. He has been out in the most atrocious of weathers, driving rain, thunder and lightning, barely able to see his hand in front of his face while bringing animals back to the farm sheds. Even on those occasions when the lights of the lamps hanging in the windows of his home could not be seen until he was almost upon them, he braved the elements well but not without discomfort.

The only issue that really bothers him at these times is becoming too cold that he could not walk further and not knowing where he might be on the rolling hills. When the daylight becomes so dim as to become night, it was all important to find and take shelter quickly if home could not be reached.

No sooner have the thoughts of the weather worsening passed through his mind then a deep rumble of thunder, perhaps somewhere distant, perhaps not, portends of a dramatic change. As the temperature goes through a sudden drop, the clouds open up to their full potential with no gentle introduction of their white content. A harsh wind-driven, full-on blizzard now aims straight at poor William.

Get Home Quickly

“This is not good news,” William mutters to himself. “Perhaps it has to be the short cut today. I need to be out of this as soon as I can, it’s not looking good.”

Thinking to himself and weighing up the options he continues in thought mouthing the words as he does.

“Using the shortcut I might be able to turn these ever thickening, white sheets to my advantage. They’ll provide a cloak of invisibility in which to hide. Mr. Barker would have me for trespass if he saw me, the old bastard.”

Sticking to the road and then the old stony path would take William much longer to get home than simply cutting across the neighbours fields. With the weather turning for the worse, taking a chance with a nasty neighbour might just be what is needed to get home as quickly as possible.

There is another mile to walk yet before he can climb over the wooden stile spanning the dry stone walling. From here he will be able to use and make his way up the hill, at least for a part of his journey, along the ancient bridleway. This ancient route takes him only perhaps a third of the direct route after which he will have a decision to make.

Clambering out of it to continue his journey, he will have to decide either to use the shortest route, crossing Mr Barker’s fields and risking his wrath if seen, or follow a boundary wall with a massive dog-leg that will take him away some distance away from his home before looping back, an extra distance of a mile or two.

Whichever option he chooses, with the exception of the long road route, he will at some point, have to cross the stream that gives its name to his father’s farm, Coldstream. This watercourse, larger than a simple stream, is cold, very cold, at most times of the year. Its source is much higher up in the imposing high hills where everything is always cold, no matter the time of the year.

Either of these shortened routes is preferable to walking the road because of the distance that it runs from the village along the valley. There a connection with a rough track that turns back to run up the hillside leads towards the farmhouses of both Mr. Barker’s and his parents.

Step after slow step, head kept low, bracing against the wind driven snow William keeps going. He starts to count his steps then quickly changes his mind.

“No, no, do not count your steps, sunshine,” a knick name his mother often uses, “it only makes the journey longer.”

Still climbing upwards along the stony way, one hand holding his tightly bound books through the material of his jacket and with the other one keeping his cloth cap in place, lest it blow away, he battles against the ever increasing mass of falling soft snow being driven straight into his face. He has pulled up the collar of his jacket tight against his scarf, to reduce the amount of this driven snow finding its way down his neck.

His lower legs, his ankles, where his trousers do not meet with his boots, are feeling the impact of the snow being driven along the ground by the wailing wind. There’s nothing he can do about that but wishes that there might be some change in this dreadful weather which struck so unexpectedly. It is not winter yet but that seems to be completely ignored by what is occurring right now.

Trudging on, no point in trying to run against this onslaught, his mind wanders and suddenly realises that the timbers of the stile he was seeking have just been passed.

A swift turn round he places his back to the wind and hurries the few yards back to the stile. Now he faces the tricky task of climbing up and over the stile while keeping hold of his books and cap.

Deciding that his books are the most important items in his life, his cap is removed to be stuffed inside his jacket somewhere close to the books. These he considers increasingly safe especially as he puts his left hand inside his jacket to keep a firm hold of both.

With his spare right hand, William grabs the top fence rail to steady himself to traverse the stile despite the now increasingly howling wind. He soon realises this was a good decision to make as coming off the wet and slippy timber steps, he almost falls but for his grip on the rail.

Placing his body up against the part stone, part hedgerow wall that borders either side of the old bridleway, he finds some respite against the driving snow. Making use of these few moments of relief, he brushes off the snow that has settled upon his head and coat during his traversing of the stile before replacing his cloth cap firmly down on his head.

This old bridleway has been here for as long as he can remember. It must have continued in the past for a considerable distance up the hillside, although possibly not always in the direction of Coldstream. At some time in the past, someone had terminated the way with a blocking dry stone wall, the remainder of it running up the hill being dismantled for some reason, a boundary dispute or land purchase possibly and definitely before his time.

One of the two walls of that original route had been left in place to weave its way upwards by a large dog-leg to Coldstream. Perhaps there had been a dispute about its use, or boundaries or something. William didn’t know anything of this and never heard the subject raised by his parents.

William had also never seen any of the ‘sacred’ pieces of paper that his parents considered of the utmost importance to the ownership and running of the farm. He did not even know of the hiding place where these might be secreted.

His time could come, no doubt, to have his name appended to the documents, assuming that he acceded to his parent’s wishes to take on the farm from his father. He had no inclination to become a farmer, inheriting his parents’ property, but the future was still very unclear and he may, one day, have to.

All that came to fore in William’s mind was the decision to be made of whether to stay on his side of the single wall, when he reached it, or jump into Mr. Barker’s field and make a direct line, more or less, away from the wall but straight up to his home.

Staying on ‘his’ side of the wall, would mean following the large dog-leg away from Mr. Barker’s property before coming back towards Coldstream, the longer route. William shuffled along the old path taking shelter from the blown snow that was afforded by the overgrown hedgerows above the remains of the stone walling. The cold was getting to him now, as hardy as he was, and he had no wish to endure it any longer than he had to.

Another two hundred yards or so and the decision had now to be made.

“Now come on sunshine, “he found he was talking to himself again. “Stay on the right side of the single stone wall and endure an extra couple of miles to reach home or jump over the boundary and trespass across Mr. Barker’s property.”

This was not really much of a decision to make, Mr. Barker’s property it was.

Up the Hill

William calculated that it was most unlikely that grumpy old Mr. Barker would be out in this weather, bringing in his few beasts or whatever, as he would almost certainly have seen the dark clouds rolling towards him, probably long before William had left the schoolroom.

On either Mr. Barker’s open land to the left or his fathers land on the right side of the wall, he would be at the mercy of the elements with wind driven snow to give him a battering. He could, of course, walk alongside the wall on Mr. Barker’s land to give some sort of shelter from the wind and snow but that would only prolong his journey by still following the large dogleg of its route. He wished to see this journey over and done with as quickly as possible. He was almost succumbing to the cold and he needed the shelter of home and a warm fire to recover. Sheltering against the dry stone wall and remaining there would see him freeze to death. His decision was easy and came quickly; he had to reach home.

Over into grumpy Mr. Barker’s properties, then take a straight route walk up the open hillside where he would eventually encounter the boundary wall coming back on its dogleg curve. This assumed that William could keep a straight line through this worsening white sheet of driven snow. He had to take that chance; it presented less risk than following a curving extra couple miles of cold misery.

Cap back inside his jacket, he scrambles up and over the low stone wall to push his way between the snagging branches of the wild bushes. Just as he was forcing his way through, a strong gust of wind, or was it perhaps a loose dry stone that became dislodged, William falls forward and face down into the several inches of snow now cloaking the ground of the hillside.

With great determination as he fell, William had managed to keep his left hand inside his jacket to keep his books and cap safe, well as much as he could, but giving himself a most painful cut lip as he struck the ground. 

“Shite,” he exclaims; he doesn’t swear as a rule, well not that his parents have ever heard him. “That was stupid. Get up you fool,” he growls. There was no point in crying over a painful lip, this was not in William’s character in any case, so a quick rub with the back of his free hand he got to his feet.

Dry stone walling is one of the most important features of farm life and since he should not be here on this, the wrong side of one, he feels the responsibility and is determined to replace the dislodged stone. Besides, if Barker spotted it at some time in the future he would know who to come looking for.

 Placing his school books into a niche on this the leeward side and with his cap pulled firmly down to the ears on his head, he picks up the stone off the snow covered ground and places it back from where it was dislodged. It looked right to him and would pass any inspection that would certainly be many months away; well he hoped it would. 

While he was grateful for the protection it gave him, he wished that he was not wearing this particular flat cap, one of his father’s old ones. It was preferred by his mother for school as it was not as worn and had no holes in it as his own. It was a little large and easily blown off in strong winds, like those currently whistling round his ears.

Clearing the snow from his face, which took more time than he expected, he seems to fighting a losing battle clearing more from inside his jacket to recover his books and find them a home there. He had to keep them, his most precious of possessions, as dry as possible.

“Come on sunshine,” talking to himself again but gaining a little comfort from his own voice, he starts the steep climb upwards. With every step he attempts to brush the freezing snow off his jacket and trousers where it continues to accumulate, but to little avail. The snow will have to build up on him as he must stop wasting energy trying to prevent it doing so.

If he gets his direction correct, he will encounter the simple stepping stones across the stream, the Coldstream, which takes a perverse route along the hillside through Mr. Barker’s land but also through his father’s for several miles before tumbling downward. Cross the stream and within a few yards he will be up and over the ridge of the hillside. A little further he will encounter a final stone wall that is but a short distance from home and from where he should be able to see the lamp light shining through the old windows, even in this weather.

Having only started this next section of his climb, it’s not encountering Mr. Barker that he may have to contend with, but the sudden loss of what little daylight was penetrating this foul weather.

As he anticipated, everything suddenly descends into a strange, charcoal gloom to be followed immediately by a doubling of the snow. An increase in the strength of the wind drives mercilessly along the hillside into William.

This is dangerous and William realises that he has but a short time to reach home or some other shelter to prevent the inevitable freezing to death. He does not have the hardy clothes on that are worn normally for working on the farm, but these lighter ones more appropriate to attending school. The shape of the clouds can no longer be made out as their dark greyness is so low overhead. The quantity of snow being driven increases into serious blizzard-like conditions through which he can see very little.

William has never seen the weather this bad at this time of the year; in the middle of winter, yes, but not in late autumn. He realises that an uncontrolled fear is rising within him but he must keep his nerve. He must not give in either to his concern or to the weather. A hard nosed stoicism, the stock in trade of farmers and learnt by each generation, must come to his rescue and take him home.

“Forget Mr. Barker,” William tells himself barely able to hear his own words against the howl of the viscous winds. “Just keep the feet moving sunshine, come on, move yourself.”

Talking to himself seems to have helped. William focuses on the hard climb upwards, one foot after the other and slowly but surely, he starts to make progress. In the near darkness, the wind picks up to a strength reminiscent of the most severe winter conditions driving the snow hard into the right side of William’s face.

William is finding it increasingly difficult to see where he is going as the darkness, adding to the blinding snow, is forcing him to turn his head away and close his eyes down to a squint. His only sense of direction now comes from the slope of the hillside up which he most progress and as quickly as possible. He is shivering and even shaking badly from the bitter cold.

To the Stream

One foot after the other, he continues upward and forward at as steady a climbing pace as he can manage, trying hard, with limited success at not losing his footing in the deepening and slippery snow.

His only consolation now is that any worries he had about facing the wrath of Mr. Barker have completely evaporated. He will never see the lone figure of William, becoming covered by the driving snow, within the blanket of a driving storm hidden within this strange darkness.The cold air is starting to grip at his throat and he gasps for air with the increasing effort to climb upwards. The driving snow is piling up thickly against the right side of his body, legs and face. He concentrates hard on keeping moving with only the occasional brush of his free hand to remove the freezing snow accumulating on his face.

“Come on William, come on. Do not give in or you will never reach home,” he continues to shout, to order himself. “Push on, keep your feet working, never mind the cold, you must keep going.”

Hearing his own voice, albeit directed at himself, provides a little reassurance that he still alive and can still go on. His only hope now is to find the stream where a few bushes and the odd twisted, wind blown tree may provide a respite, if only for a moment, perhaps sufficient to find more inner strength for the last few hundred yards to salvation.

A painful twenty minutes, though it seems like hours have passed, he stumbles into bushes at this side of the stream and can just make out the sound of the water running along the stream just below. His considers it a good omen that his luck might be holding by colliding with the bush; a few yards either side and he would have fallen head first into the stream.

An inner voice tells him that he is close to home and that he must dig deep to find what is needed for completing his now increasingly perilous journey.

“A few hundred yards sunshine, just a few. Keep the body going, you must keep the body as one, together, concentrate, and try harder than you ever have done before.” In desperation he tries to raise himself to this final task by shouting out loud once more against the howling wind.

He has no wish to enter and attempt to cross the cold water of the stream directly, knee deep and with a possible stumble if he finds the wrong place. This is not the choice to make when so much has still to be accomplished and with feet that are dreadfully cold already.

“Find the crossing, find the crossing, come on just a little bit more,” he is urging himself on once again.

He must find the simple crossing place of a few flattish stones projecting above the surface of the water, sufficient for their use as stepping stones.

“Upstream or downstream, which is it William?” He is now talking to himself involuntarily as bewilderment starts to edge in.

His feet just take him upstream, putting the driven snow into his back rather than into his stinging face. It is now, however, going straight into his neck despite his jacket collar being up as far as it will go and with his cap jammed down over his head. This is still a slight respite however from his suffering of a few moments ago.

Only a short way further, perhaps a dozen painful steps, he encounters or perhaps a better description would be, collides with one of the wind gnarled trees clinging to the bank.

He barely feels the low branch that has struck him across his face; it is now badly numbed from the cold.

The collision is a good sign, however, as William recognises the tree; he actually recognises it, despite it not being on his father’s land. The stepping stones at the crossing point are not far away. But first he must stand on the leeward side of the tree, just for a few moments, protect his neck from the snow laden, cold blast, almost a small pleasure to the constant, cold pain he is experiencing.

The stones are but a handful of steps away and he must move. The sensation of momentary relief has almost drawn him into a finality he must resist. The word, “finality,” echoes in his mind and moreover loudly, strangely loud. His first few steps are suddenly halted as a different sort of cold enters his conscious thought; a cold that is within his soul.

“What is this William? Is this your end coming? Come on, there’s more left inside of you, there’s more to you than this. Push, push, you can do it, why have you stopped?” he exclaims loudly to himself. He is shouting even louder now but above the howl of the driving wind, he can still barely hear himself.

His feet find renewed energy from somewhere. He has to find the crossing soon because the realisation that this is a final point in his salvation is shining bright in his mind. The glow does not linger long, however, and is soon replaced by blackness almost as dark as the freezing air that carries the snow and continues to drive past him mercilessly.

He does not consider that he is not thinking clearly or sensibly any more, the cold is starting to take its final toll, he may not have long left. His thoughts become dulled and this prevents him from even realising that they are in this state. He is simply moving to some automatic dance, perhaps a final one that just might save his life; perhaps. Another few faltering steps and there they are; he can just make out the snow covered stones projecting above the running water’s surface.

One big effort, cross the stones, reach an old hedgerow, no longer a boundary but good shelter all the way up. From there to crossing the ridge to find edge of his father’s land a few hundred yards away, and he will find safety.

Then something odd happens, the wind suddenly eases, the driving snow is almost halved and a strange light prevails, a greyness replacing the dark. It’s as though someone’s hand has reached down and provided a strange respite among the maelstrom.

A Figure in the Gloom

This is almost a religious experience that somehow reaches deep into his soul and he stands as still as he can, despite his severe shaking, almost in a display of some sort of respect, but to what he has no idea.

William realises that he has stood there too long; he must not waste time but take the opportunity presented. He slips down the slight bank in preparation to step forward onto the first snow covered stepping stone. As he steps down the short distance to the first white patch, hiding the stone beneath, something catches his eye over to his left.

A compulsion to look, a compulsion he cannot resist, makes him turn his view to see what it is that has so caught his attention. His distraction results in him sliding straight off the stone and into the water. It is freezing; the shock goes through his whole body. Both legs up to the knees have submerged; his body slumps forward onto the second stone, thus preserving his school books. William in a state of panic, freezing shock and annoyance at what he has done, continues his passage through the water to the other side with an energy he did not know that he had.

What caused his concentration to be diverted he still has to find out. Scrambling out of the water onto the far bank with boots full of freezing cold water, he has a terrible urge overcoming his discomfort to look in the direction of what had caught his eye. Despite the severe shaking he is totally unable to control, he tries to focus.

Through the now gentle snow being driven by what has become a breeze compared to a few moments ago and in the strange grey light, he sees a figure, a figure that he recognises.

His father, no more than twenty yards away, has crossed the stream in the opposite direction. He is wearing his long, heavy winter coat, the one he wears most of the year, and his own distinctive cloth, flat cap. He had to have crossed further upstream through the cold water; there was no other crossing point.

“Father,” William cries out with his weakened voice but without any response. “Father, father,” he cries out even more loudly, almost screaming and finding an extra strength from somewhere. The air almost still, now carries his voice with ease over the short distance.

His father, just visible through the now gentle swirls of gentle snow, is on the side from where William started to cross the water. He stops at the sound of William’s voice and turns to look in his direction.

It’s as though he cannot see William. Even at this distance, perhaps some twenty yards or so away, William can see that his father has not noticed him, his face turning this way and that. Then in a moment of recognition at William stood there and waving his free hand wildly in the air, his father looks straight at him and great warmth from somewhere fills him from within.

Only a slight smile crosses his father’s face, he was never one much for humour, but in these circumstances William would expect his father to come to his assistance, as he has often done in the past.

William’s father gives a single wave and turns away, much to William’s surprise and consternation. What can he be doing, why is he walking away from the farm, through Barker’s land? Why walk through the water, why not use this crossing point that he had just fallen off, why doesn’t he come to me? The questions rattle through William’s mind.

William wonders where his father is going; to the village perhaps? Is there something wrong at home that has demanded that he takes risks to get to the village quickly?

“Father, father,” William cries out yet again as loudly as he can, but this only results in a momentary pause in the steps of his father who once again raises an arm but does not turn his head or pause as he starts to disappear in his walk away down the hill.

At the very moment that his figure starts to merge into the flurries of whiteness, the darkness suddenly descends again, the wind rises back to a savage, cutting pain and the driven snow resumes its blanket torrent. It’s as though the weather came to a temporary halt just to allow William to see his father for that one strange moment. But why was he walking away from home into the teeth of this wild and unnatural storm and across Barker’s land to boot.

William’s body ducked automatically as it was knocked sideways by a terrific thunderclap directly overhead. The pressure of the blast waves shook his body such to knock his dulled senses back to full awareness. He had to get a move on, whatever his father was doing and he certainly could not last for much longer in his soaking wet trousers and with his boots full of freezing water.

The old hedgerow leading to the wall marking the boundary of his father’s property could not too far away. He should be able to find it now, even with his eyes closed.

Ignoring the urge to empty his boots, he stepped away from the stream bank into the darkness towards home. After what seemed as only a few steps he came to the old boundary wall with the remains of a hedgerow to the right. He had felt as though he had only stepped forward perhaps a few yards but realised that he has just found himself instead, some two to three hundred yards further on.

He had no recollection of crossing the ridge to take the twenty or so steps downwards to the wall.

Stopping in the same state of shock as if he had just fallen once more into the flesh freezing stream, he was unable to work out equally in his confusion, how this had been achieved or what his father was doing walking down the hill.

Home

Another overhead thunderclap, with an accompanying blinding flash shocked his senses to the core; that was very close and he needed to get into cover, his home, and as quickly as possible. Ignoring whatever was happening or his strange thought, he had to cross this wall and head straight for the sanctuary of the farmhouse, only some twenty or so yards away and in a window of which, a lantern could barely be seen providing a guiding glow. 

Clambering his wet, shaking and quickly freezing self over the snow covered wall, disturbing a few stones from off the topmost layer but not bothering to consider replacing any, not now, he tried to dash but only staggered in desperation towards the yellow glow of the lamp. 

Colliding with the door and hitting the latch at the same time with his frozen free hand, he burst into the house colliding with the wind break wall. Struggling to extricate himself from this slight lobby, he fell to the floor in sheer exhaustion.

The respite from the elements is salvation and recovery is quickly underway. His mother, who he has not noticed, reached down to him and helped him get to his feet. She puts an arm round his very wet and cold person to hold him close.

There are tears in her eyes as she hugs him close.

“Now then my son, it will be all right, everything will turn out to the better in the end,” she almost sobs in his ears.

“I will be right in a few minutes, ma, just as soon as I can get out of these wet clothes,” William replies with a voice still trembling as are his legs with the cold still in them.

“Now then my son,” she repeats as she directs him over to the fireplace to sit on one of the stools there. “Come, take these wet things off. Let me have your boots, first and I’ll put them away from the fire so they do not crack as they dry.” 

She puts his boots upside down to drain against the wall at the opposite end of the room and then goes upstairs to one of the two bedrooms to bring back down, a large woollen blanket. By now William has removed his wet jacket, shirt and trousers and is down to his woollen, ‘long-john’ underwear. The warmth of the fire is welcome as is the blanket that his mother wraps around him.

He has even managed to put the schoolbooks on the mantel shelf over the fire because even though he did his best to shield them from the elements, they are still a little damp round the edges.

“Something has happened, my son, that I need to speak to you about,” his mother spoke gently to him.

“Yes Ma, and I have something I must tell you, something I must ask; can I speak first?” he asks. “Please.”

His mother is looking very tired and is no mood to argue with William, not that they have ever really argued. William is quite a placid, intelligent boy and does not go in for arguing, especially with his parents.

“Very well son,” she responds, taking away his wet trousers, shirt and jacket that he has left draped over his father’s rocking chair. William has already placed his flat cap and scarf on this chair which is nearer to the fire than he is.

William, besides placing his wet clothes on his father’s empty chair, realises that his absence here ties in with his appearance at the hillside stream and he is inquisitive about events.

“Ma, what is Da doing going down the hill for in this dreadful weather?” he asks his mother.

His mother turns an ashen grey and has to sit down on the remaining wheel-back chair opposite William. “Tell me, my son, what did you see on the hill? Please tell me, for I need to know.”

William tells his mother, through chattering teeth, about events on the hill, how as the weather cleared momentarily, he spotted his father crossing the stream and also how, after shouting to him, he responded with a wave but did not stop.

He also tells her about the strange experience of how the cold must have affected him because he did not remember the last two hundred yards to reach the yard wall.

His mother could barely bring herself to speak, sitting quietly as tears started to run down her ashen cheeks. William had no idea what he had said that so upset his mother. He reached across a hand from beneath the blanket to touch her wrinkled hand as a measure of simple comfort.

She clasped his hand in both of hers, looked up at William and managed a strange smile that, as it came through the tears, caught William truly off guard.

“Come my son, there is something I must show to you,” she says so quietly. “Come, come,” she insists as her hands grasping his, pulls him to his feet.

His mother’s tears increase; she is sobbing almost uncontrollably as William is pulled to her breast.

“What is it ma?” he tries, unable to control the onset of his sobbing in sympathetic rhythm with his mother.

he releases him momentarily to wrap the blanket better round his slight frame and putting an arm round his shoulder, leads him out of the warm room to the staircase.

“Come with me,” she requests very quietly, starting up the staircase.

William follows as his mother seems to find it a terrible effort to climb one step and then the next, as difficult as he finds climbing them with a shaking body and legs. At the landing she turns to enter the master bedroom.

There laid full length on the patchwork quilt covering the top of the marital bed is his father, his hands neatly laid in a self embrace and his face an ashen grey. This doesn’t make any sense to William who passed him only some thirty minutes ago walking away from the direction of the farmhouse.

“How did Da get back here so fast Ma? He was heading for the village when I passed him.” William exclaimed, unable to recognise the message of the scene before him. “And why does he look so ill? Has the doctor been told?”

William still does not realize the truth of the scene before him and reaches out from beneath his blanket to touch his father’s arm.

His mum urges him through her tears not to disturb his father, “Let the poor man rest in peace William. He has passed away. He has left us now and gone to heaven to the Lord. Let him rest in peace. We will let the doctor know as soon as this storm has passed and you are feeling up to the walk back to the village.”

“How,” is all that William can manage? “Why?”

He is still recovering from his ordeal and his thoughts do not come easy, nor the words especially through trembling lips.

His mother has no idea why, she just knows that he was slumped over the bed and that it was clear to her that he had passed on. She had laid him on the bed in the manner that she knew, a respectful manner, and would await the arrival of the doctor following whenever he could be told.

Her tears still flowed freely with a sobbing that she could barely control. Standing firm, her strong arm embraces William, realising that he will need all the comforting she is able to supply.

She was most aware that the ‘old man’ would never rise again, embrace her, take care of the farm through his never ending labours, nor see his son finish the education that they were both determined he should receive.

William tries to keep himself together, but finds he is sobbing in union with his distressed mother. Trying to be a man is in the tradition of such sturdy, stoic, farming folk and William does his best to immediately take on such a role, despite the sorrow tearing at his heart and the sobbing which he finds so difficult to control.

William clings to his mother tightly, whether in consolation or perhaps seeking the same for himself, he doesn’t know. He just needs some reassurance that his mother is still with him. He knows that he must grieve, that is what is supposed to happen, but he has no idea how or what. He has not experienced death before and doesn’t realise that he is already grieving by his emotional pain, his sobbing and the copious tears running down his cheeks.

The Doctor Arrives

Suddenly there is a heavy knocking at the door downstairs, becoming an impatient hammering. A change of focus finds William in a sudden realisation that he is almost naked beneath this blanket and that he is shivering badly, from the cold he tries to convince himself. The hammering becomes louder but with a sudden draft of cold air it is apparent, even here upstairs, that whoever it is, they have let themselves into the house without being invited.

William’s mother lets go of him and turns out of the bedroom to hurry downstairs. William tries to be not far behind her but pauses on leaving the room to turn and look once again at the still, cold body of his father.

Standing just inside the main room downstairs, William sees the local doctor, who doubles as the emergency vet, talking quietly to his mother. He is trying to brush off the accumulation of snow off his expensive full length overcoat with one hand while keeping a firm grip on his dark brown, well used, leather medical bag.

“I have come as quickly as I could, Mrs. Thomas,” he explains. “You will have to tell me what the problem is. I could not get the full information out of Mr. Thomas when he came into my surgery; he was in a very disturbed and anxious state.”

“He just babbled on, I was unable to interrupt him. Then left me as smartly as the moment he burst in. It seems that you have something of an emergency up here that he wanted me to attend to as quickly as I could. No explanation, just be as quick as I could. He even declined a lift back up here, well I think he declined, he was rather abrupt, and walked away from me quite briskly,” he finished.

The doctor, standing there in all innocence, waiting for an answer, was most surprised when Mrs. Thomas broke into dreadful sobbing and wailing as she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

William rushed to the aid of his mother while the doctor, surprised by William half naked beneath his blanket, only stared momentarily before assisting in getting Mrs. Thomas to her feet and into the rocking chair.

“Whatever is the problem?” the doctor asked of William who was once again attempting to keep a sober control of himself.

“Upstairs, Sir, upstairs,” was all he could manage. “Upstairs.”

William put his arms round his mother firmly, where she was seated, and joined in once more with her sobbing.

Author’s Notes:  

I heard this story from a friend who had lived his childhood in the village of the story.

Upon returning as a hard working chap, as he often did to visit relatives and friends, he had heard it from an elderly gentleman in the village pub who thought payment of a pint or two was adequate recompense for such a tale. This old gentleman’s father had been a classmate of the central character, William, and the story had been the talk of the village for many years although my friend had never heard it in full, only the childish rumours that had once circulated.

It seems that, despite or perhaps because of his popularity, no-one knew what became of William after the Great War (WW1) started.

As soon as he had become of age, after his mother had passed away, apparently, he was known to have enlisted in the local ‘Pals’ battalion and gone off to war He never returned nor was he known to have been a casualty.

The farm was sold off and only the story lingered of which my friend thought it good value for two pints of mild ale.

~ o ~