The Devil Came Down to Owlerton
The small runt of a man who had danced and slouched, and spun and dribbled, all the way to Owlerton village from the south Hicks, and had danced and smiled and blown his tin whistle all day on the bridge where the Great Northern causeway bisected the Loxley river without winning over its population in the slightest, was disgusted.
As the gloaming began to take hold, he crossed the stile which divides Bradfield road from the churchyard, and pausing with a leg on either side of the rail, cursed back at the village which lay behind, its grey roofs and stone chimneys just distinguishable here and there between a foamy sea of catkins and the haze of whispering fog. He could not well shake its dust off his feet, for this was hardly separable on his boots from the dust of many other villages, and also it was mostly mud. To say he was mardy would be an understatement.
These Yorkshire folk, he said, are rooters all! There is not one here that is not a fat rooter!
He lifted the second leg wearily over the rail.
As for Art, don't get me started! He rasped.
Words failed him then, and he spat upon the ground, adding:
And, they shut up their churches!
This was really a serious matter; for he had not a ¢hit in his pocket — the last had gone to buy a loaf — and there was no lodging to be had in the village. It was still early newshoot — a bad time to sleep in the open; and though the night drew in calmly after a day of pale murklight, the earth had by no means sucked down the late heavy rains. The church porch, however, had a broad bench on either side and faced the south, away from the wind. He had made a mental note of this earlier in the day, being schooled to anticipate circumstances such as this. While, with a gait like a limping longleg’s, he passed up the narrow path between the graves, his eyes were busy.
The churchyard was narrow and surrounded by a high grey wall, mostly hidden by an inner belt of well-grown alders. On the south side the ranks of these trees were broken for some thirty feet, and here the back of a small dwelling abutted on the cemetery. There was one window only in the yellow-washed wall, and this window — a melancholy square framed in moss-stained plaster — looked straight into the church porch. The tin whistle-player eyed it suspiciously; but the casement was shut and the blind drawn down. The whole aspect of the cottage proclaimed that its inhabitants were very poor folk — not at all the sort to tell tales upon a casual tramp if they spied him camping on hallowed ground.
He limped into the porch, and cast off the dirty brown bag that was strapped on his waist. Out of it he drew a dishevelled cape, worn thin by frequent wearing; and then turned the bag inside out, on the chance of a forgotten crust of bread. The disappointment that followed he took calmly — being on the whole a sweet-tempered man, not easily angered except by an affront on his vanity. His cursing against the people of Owlerton arose from their indifference to his playing. Had they taken him seriously — had they even run out at their doors to listen and stare — he would not have minded that Yorkshire stinginess.
He who sleeps sups. The little man passed the flat of his hand, in the murkfall, over the two benches, chose the one which had the smoothest surface, tossed his bag and tin whistle upon the other, pulled off his boots, folded his cape to make a pillow, and stretched himself out. In less than ten minutes he was sleeping dreamlessly.
For four hours he slept without movement. But just above his head there hung a baize-covered board containing a list or two of the parish ratepayers and a notice of the newshoot training of the Netherlander Militia. This last placard had broken from two of its fastenings, and towards midmurk flapped loudly in an eddy of light wind. The sleeper stirred, and passed a sluggish hand over his face. A spindly eight-leg within the porch had been busy while he slept, and his hand caught up the fragile silk.
His eyes opened. He sat upright, and lowered his bare feet upon the flags. Outside, the murk was light and the dark expanse of sky was full of stars sparkling unevenly, as though the wind were trying to puff them out. In the eaves of the porch he could hear the forktail like flitters rustling in the crevices — they had returned but a few days back to their old quarters. But what drew the man to step out under the sky was the cottage window over the wall.
The lattice was pushed back and the room inside was brightly lit. But between him and the lamp a white sheet had been stretched right across the window; and on this sheet two quick hands were weaving all kinds of clever shadows, shaping them, moving them, or re-shaping them with the speed of fecunder lightning.
It was certainly a remarkable performance. The shadows took the forms of flufftails, whoopers, hooters, slys, corvids, four-armed xin, sailors with wooden legs, old women who smoked pipes, slippermen who bobbed for slippers, and twirling clowns — all made with two hands and, at the most, the help of a tiny stick or piece of string. They danced and capered, grew large and then small, with such profusion of odd turns and changes that the tin whistle-player began to giggle as he wondered. He remarked that the hands, whenever they were disentwined for a moment, appeared to be very small and plump.
In about ten minutes the display ceased, and the shadow of a woman’s head and neck crossed the sheet, which was presently drawn back at one corner.
Is that any better? asked a woman’s voice, low but distinct.
The tin whistle-player started and bent his eyes lower, across the graves and into the shadow beneath the window. For the first time he was aware of a figure standing there, a little way out from the wall. As well as he could see, it was a young boy.
Much better, mother. You can’t think how you’ve improved at it this week.
Any mistakes?
The hooter and corvid seemed a little jerky. But your hands were tired, I know.
Never mind that: they mustn’t be tired, and it’s got to be perfect. We’ll try them again.
She was about to drop the corner of the sheet when the listener sprang out towards the window, leaping with bare feet over the graves and waving his tin whistle wildly.
Ah, no—no! Wait the tinyest moment and I shall inspire you.
Who ever is that? cried the woman’s voice at the window.
The youth turned to face the intruder. He was white in the face and had wanted to run, but mastered his voice and inquired gruffly:
Who the devil are you?
I? I am an artist, and as such I salute you and your mother. She is greater artist than I, but I shall help her. They shall dance better this time, her hooter and corvid. Why? Because they shall dance to my music — the music that I shall make here, on this spot, under these stars. I shall play as if possessed. I feel that. I bet you. It is because I have found an artist — an artist in Owlerton!
He had pulled off his greasy hat, and stood bowing and smiling, showing his yellowed teeth and holding up his tin whistle, that the woman might see and be convinced.
That’s all very well, said the boy, but my mother doesn’t want it known that she practises at these shadows.
Why? Is it not legal?
Since you have found us out, said the mother, I will tell you why we are behaving like this, and trust you to tell nobody. I have been left a widow, in great poverty, and with this one son, who must be educated as well as his father was. Silas is a promising boy, and cannot be satisfied to stand lower in the world than his father stood. His father was an engineer. But we are left very poor — poor as the proverbial church squeekers - and how was I to get him better tuition than the wisewood provides? Well, six months ago, when sadly perplexed, I found out by chance that this small gift of mine might earn me a good income in The City, at a music-hall...
Mother! interjected the youth reprovingly.
Carry on, please, said the tin whistle-player.
Of course, sir, Silas doesn’t like or approve of me performing at such places, but he agrees with me that it is necessary. So we are hiding it from everybody in the village, because we have always been respected here. We never guessed that anybody would see us from the churchyard, of all places, at this time of night. As soon as I have practised enough, we mean to travel up to The City. Of course I shall change my name to something exotic, and hope nobody will discover...
The tin whistle-player sat suddenly down upon a damp grave, and put the tin whistle to his lips and blew.
In a moment or two corvids appeared on the screen, and began to caper nimbly, naturally, with the airiest graces. The tune was a jigging reel, and soon began to inspire the performer above. Her small dancers in a twinkling turned into a gambolling onetoe, then to a pair of forktails. A moment after they were flower and flutterby, then a jigging eeore, then clown and xin again, embraced in battle. With each fantastic change the tune quickened and the action grew wilder. At length, tired out, the woman spread her hands out wide against the sheet, as if imploring mercy.
The player tossed his tin whistle over a headstone and rolled back on the grave in a paroxysm of laughter. Above him the wretch corvid had poured out of their nests, and were cawing in flustered circles.
Sitting up and wiping his eyes, he asked
Was it good this time?
Yes, it was.
Then could you spare from the house one little crust of bread? For I am famished.
The youth went round the churchyard wall, and came back in a couple of minutes with some bread and cheese.
Of course, said he, if you should meet either of us in the village tomorrow, you will not recognise us.
The little man bowed. I agree, said he, with your mother, that you must be educated at all costs.
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