The Hollow Land by Jane Gardam Read Free Book Online Page A

London father, Mr. Bateman, “that Harry is asleep.”
    â€œI don’t like it,” said one of James’s London friends, “I don’t much like that story. I don’t know that I believe it either.”
    â€œIt’s an old one. It’s a story you can hear with little differences all along the old Bowes road. The candle had to be made from the fat of a hanged man. The flame held in the hand was unquenchable.”
    â€œIt reminds me of something,” said Mr. Bateman, “it reminds me of another story—a light in a dead hand. Why, but it’s Roman, Kendal, isn’t it? Or it might even be Ancient Greek?”
    â€œIt’s both,” said Kendal. “Both. The Romans had it from the Greeks and when the Romans came a-conquering up here and sat for years in all the signalling posts along the road between Penrith and Greta Bridge they told it to all of us—giving thanks no doubt that they were among civilized folk and not on that other road farther north built by Hadrian where there was hardly a human being fit to tell a tale to. They told the story hereabouts again and again over the years, long after the Romans left. And there was still a trade in dead hands a hundred year ago. Well, my granny knew that servant. Bella, her name was. Old George Alderson was her master. Not very long since—just between the wars there was a hand discovered in somebody’s thatch over in Yorkshire. They were taking down the thatch to put a tile roof on after he’d died, and they found the hand hidden. He’d been a very rich feller, the owner of the house. Nobody had known where he got his money from, nor why he were always out at night.”
    â€œThat story, Kendal,” said the London father, ruminating, “must be old as Agamemnon. It’s a wonderful story.”
    â€œAye,” said Kendal, “folks do get excited by it. I thought it might amuse.”
    â€œI don’t know about amuse exactly,” said the London mother, picking up Harry and carrying him off to bed, and shivering.
    â€œWell no” said Kendal “it’s a bit of a chestnut to tell you the truth round here. There’s one or two more I could tell you more guaranteed for shuddering. Ghosts and horrors. As for things that has happened here in your house of Light Trees—my, but if you knew about the dead body that once lay in your dairy yonder for two weeks in the snow, stiff as a board on your cheese shelf—”
    â€œI’ll say goodnight, Mr. Kendal.”
    â€œStiff as a tree among the hams and the Wensleydale. Poor old chap, he’d be Joss Atkinson’s auntie’s father, they couldn’t get him down to the cemetery. They sledged him down at last, right down Quarry Hill to the carpenter’s. Made a sledge from old bits of your cow stalls in the byre—you can still see the marks out there if you look. Dreadful thing to do you know. That cow house is eighteenth-century woodwork—the stable’s got carved columns would grace a church. Oh this is a very historical house you’ve found. There’s folks watching you through every chink.”
    â€œ
Goodnight
, Mr. Kendal.”
    â€œAnd I dare say you’re going to greatly enjoy it over the years and time to come yourselves’ll be looking out of the chinks at others now unborn.”
    â€œ
Goodnight
. Mind the steps. Watch your feet over the yard. Can we light you to the gate?”
    The wind and rain had stopped at last. It was a still, black night. Not a light to be seen, not a star in the sky. The roadless fells rolled like unseen seas all about them as they stood on the old stone outdoor staircase. From far below and far away came up the twelve strokes of the Kirkby church bell as it had struck for hundreds of years.
    â€œMidnight,” said Kendal. “End of a grand and cheerful day.”

T HE H OLLOW L AND
    B ell and Harry lay on their stomachs in the