By Martin Pearson, illo by Nimue Brown
It was another of those bitterly cold November nights on the island of Hopeless, Maine; its only saving grace was that the cruel, blustery wind that had been raging for days was keeping the rain at bay.
The ferocity of the wind had even kept the regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot away from the inn, leaving only those who lived within its walls to enjoy the quiet camaraderie of the snuggery. There, Bartholomew Middlestreet and his wife, Ariadne, sat enjoying some slightly tipsy conversation with Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton. Drury, the skeletal hound, slumbered contentedly before a flickering log fire that bathed the room in a rich chiaroscuro wash, rendering the little gathering into a study by Caravaggio.
“Dashed weather,” complained Reggie. “Is this blasted wind ever going to stop? I haven’t been out for a stroll for ages.”
“Moan all you will, but it’s an improvement on last November, “said Philomena. “Do you remember, Ariadne?”
The landlord’s wife nodded.
“We had so much rain that it flooded one of the privies at the orphanage, and brought down the wall,” she said. “It couldn’t be mended until the rain stopped. I remember Reverend Davies commenting that it was hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”
Philomena scowled.
“The miserable old so-and-so had the gall to blame me for the weather. He said it was divine retribution for bringing Dr Dee to the island.”
Reggie nearly dropped his tankard of Old Colonel.
“So you were responsible for bringing the alchemist, John Dee, here?” he said. “I know that this island is rum beyond words, but how on earth did you…?”
“It’s a long story,” interrupted Philomena. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”
(Author’s note: For those – and there must be many – who have no idea to what Philomena and Ariadne were referring, they could do worse than look at the tale ‘November Rain’, and any one of several tales in which John Dee has featured, beginning with ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’)
“Well, let’s be thankful that the bad weather is outside, and we are in here, snug and warm,” said Bartholomew. “I think I’ll put another log on the fire.”
“It’s a jolly good blaze,” observed Reggie.
“So it should be; it’s seasoned ash wood, and burns well,” said Bartholomew. “Seth Washwell lets me have all of the ash off-cuts from the sawmill.”
“Oh yes… now you mention it, I remember hearing that some types of wood make better fires than others,” said Reggie.
“Oh yes,” said Bartholomew, “I’ve learned, over the years that you have to be careful what you’re burning.”
“When I was a girl, Granny Bucket taught me a rhyme about the various types of wood, and what they’re good for.” said Philomena, wistfully.
“Do you remember any of it?” asked Ariadne, more out of politeness than anything else.
“As a matter of fact I do,” said Philomena and, assuming that Ariadne’s question meant that everyone was keen to hear the rhyme, cleared her throat, and began:
“Oak logs will warm you well,
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs of pine will smell,
But the sparks will fly.
Beech logs for Christmas time,
Yew logs heat you well.
‘Scotch’ logs it is a crime,
For anyone to sell.
Birch logs will burn too fast,
Chestnut scarce at all.
Hawthorn logs are good to last,
But cut them in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green,
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.
Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room,
Cherry logs across the dogs,
Smell like flowers in bloom
But ash logs, all smooth and grey,
Burn them green or old;
Buy up all that come your way,
They’re worth their weight in gold.”
“Well remembered m’dear,” said Reggie, applauding. “And dashed useful to know, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“But what’s all that about cherry logs on the dogs,” asked Ariadne. “I don’t think Drury would be too pleased about that.”
“It’s the fire-dogs,” said Bartholomew, pointing to where the logs were blazing in the hearth. “Like those iron brackets supporting the grate; they’ve been sitting there since before my grandfather’s time.
“I notice that your rhyme didn’t mention elder wood,” said Reggie. “I have heard that there are lots of superstitions surrounding it.”
“And well founded, too,” said Bartholomew, settling himself down to tell a tale. “Back in the early 1800s, old Corwen Nailsworthy was the community’s apothecary, vintner, distiller and guardian of a little copse of elder trees that grew on the edge of the common. These trees were the source of many of Corwen’s remedies and were hardy enough to put up with the climate. The blossom alone would provide folks with elderflower wine, cordial, tea and when flour was available, fritters. When the flowers were applied to the skin they could help with joint pain, and elderflower water soothed sore eyes. Of course, the ripe berries could be made into elderberry wine, port and syrup for all to enjoy. In one way or another the elder is the most miraculous of all trees, given what it provides.”
“Then why the poor reputation?” asked Reggie, puzzled
“Well, superstitious folks would say that it’s to do with witches, and suchlike,” replied Bartholomew, giving Philomena an awkward sideways look. “There’s more to it than that, though, as Corwen found out.”
Confident now that he had their full attention, Bartholomew took a swig of ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and began:
“There was a shipwreck one winter, and half-a-dozen sailors survived and made their way ashore. They were ruffians to a man, and took over a deserted cottage near the common. It wasn’t long before they started stealing and bullying without a second thought. Things came to a head when they cut down one of Corwen’s elders to use as firewood. He begged them not to, told them it didn’t burn well and warned that anyone who tried would find themselves cursed. Of course, they laughed at him and said that they would be back the next day for more. As you can imagine, Corwen was terrified; what could he do against men like that? The next day came and went, and they didn’t return. After a week Corwen plucked up the courage to go to their cottage, hoping that they had left. When he arrived there he found that the doors and windows were sealed in ice, and he could just make out, through the glass, six dead bodies sprawled all around, their faces horribly contorted and discoloured. It seemed as though the curse had taken them, after all.”
“There must be an explanation,” said Reggie uncertainly. He had seen enough strange sights in his army career in India and Africa to know that this was not always the case.
“Oh, there is,” said Bartholomew, then paused for dramatic effect.
“Tell us then,” said Philomena, impatiently.
“Cyanide,” said Bartholomew. “When elder burns it gives off cyanide poison. In their sealed up cottage those sailors signed their death warrants as soon as they decided to set the wood alight.”
“I’ll wager that’s caught many a poor peasant out in days gone by,” said Reggie. “All the superstition that grew up around it at least deterred people from burning it.”
“But don’t write superstitions off,” warned Philomena. “After all, this is Hopeless.”
As she spoke, the ghost of Father Stamage drifted through the room, on his way to meet Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless Lady, who haunted the flushing privy.
The others could only nod in silent agreement.
Author’s note: The full story of Corwen Nailsworthy and his trees can be found in the tale ‘The Elders’.
