The Deadwood Curse

By A. Howard

Little did Elsie or her family know, that from the moment she took the sickly-looking baby into her arms, she became the carrier of a very ancient curse. A curse that had been buried too deep. Too late for the crying souls of the women who laid it, but just in time for others, as the large sprawling roots of the trees in the old dead woods, had finally brought it to the surface. And now, nestled in its host, the six-hundred-year-old curse would use Elsie to carry out its mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press UK
• Release date: Nov 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781982287962

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SEPTEMBER 1146

A herd of armoured horses, raced across the soft dewy ground, sending small clumps of moss flying into the air, from beneath their heavy hooves. They were carrying a band of war hungry soldiers, straight towards a little hamlet in the low hills of Durnovaria.

Women began to panic, running to hide their children in the nearby undergrowth, and their men gathered what weapons they had, in readiness to protect their homes and families. But they were no match for the blood thirsty Norman soldiers, who swooped in like men possessed, murdering, raping, and pillaging. The unprovoked attack on the poor people was brutal, and the women felt helpless as they witnessed one by one, the slaying of their beloved men. Not content with their cruel killings, the evil soldiers then set fire to two of their homes, before turning their horses and riding away in triumph, leaving the poor grief-stricken women sitting amongst the brutally slain and bloodied bodies, of their loved ones.

Upon hearing the women’s loud pitiful wailing, the frightened group of children slowly began to emerge from the undergrowth, with their eyes wide in disbelief, as they stared at the burning huts and their father’s dead bodies sprawled across the ground. Suddenly their entire world had been destroyed, and they too began to cry, as they ran to their mothers waiting open arms. The young buried their heads into the chests of their distraught mothers, closing their eyes and willing the horrid scene to go away.

One of the older boys wiped his watering red eyes on his sleeve, looking around at the burning huts, and the group of helpless women sat on the ground. I have to go and get water he said, and slipped away from his mother’s arms, calling out to the other children to help.

The children began to fetch as many leaky wooden water carriers as they could find and hurried to the nearby river. They ran backwards and forwards, desperately trying to put out the flames and save their burning homes. Even some of the incredibly young children were doing their utmost to keep up, but it was no good, their little legs just couldn’t run fast enough, and they all gave in, watching, as the wood and straw of the two big roofs, crumbled into smouldering piles of charcoal.

The women were in pieces, how could those soldiers have been so cruel? How could they carry on without their men? Their minds were in complete turmoil as they huddled together, trying desperately to calm themselves for the sake of the children. Three of them could hear the sobs of a woman, coming from one of the huts nearby, and turned their heads to see her sat in the doorway. Her face was cut and bruised and her skirts had been torn to shreds. Realising what had happened, they hurried across to help her, their heads were filled with anger and repulse. Revenge was on their minds, as they helped the poor young woman to bathe and change her torn soiled clothing.

For the rest of that day, and all night, everyone just sat around in a state of total shock, their heads numb with grief. They were unable to concentrate on anything else until early the next morning, when with sore swollen eyes, and very heavy hearts, the women gathered to broach the painful subject of burying their men. After some deliberation, they decided upon a nice place that was just a very short walk from their little hamlet, where there was a small clearing, surrounded on three sides by many young trees, and they all agreed that to plant a sapling at the head of each grave as a sign of their undying love, would make the perfect tribute, letting their memory live on, as their little saplings grew into a mighty woods.

Digging the graves and moving the bodies was a long, arduous, and heartbreaking task and it took the poor women two days of hard labour before they had finally laid all twelve of their men to rest. On the third day, still weary from all the digging, they each went to find their own sapling to plant with their loved ones, and then took the rest of the day sitting in quiet prayer with the rest of their families. Apart that is, from the young woman that had been raped, and the three women that had hurried to her aid.

We need revenge! Curse them all! shouted one of the three, pacing the floor and looking at the bruised face of her poor dear friend.

Yes! cried one of the others. We can lay a curse on them.

The woman stopped pacing and looked at the other two, who were sat on the floor, either side of their poor friend as she rested on her bed. Do you mean what I think you mean? she asked. They all looked towards their friend for approval, as she sat on her bed with tears running down her bruised and cut cheeks. She gave a nod to the three women.

Anything, she said. If it has happened to me, we can be sure that it has happened to others too.

The hatred that they felt towards the soldiers, radiated in thick waves from the four women, as they quietly plotted amongst themselves how to go about setting their vengeful curse. They knew that they had to keep their actions quiet from the rest of their community, for fear of any repercussions, and decided that it would be best to carry out their revenge after dark, and away from their homes. But first they had to gather everything that they would need.

They each went quietly in different directions, so as not to arouse any suspicion and looked for anything that had been left behind by the cruel men, returning a little while later to the raped woman’s hut with their finds. Their collection was good, and they felt satisfied that the curse would work. The young women turned and smiled at one another, as they placed the items one at a time into a pouch made from the skin of a wild boar. They had wiped the blood from their own men’s swords onto the young woman’s torn and soiled clothing, then pushed it into the pouch. Next, they put in some whiskers, that the raped woman had torn from the cruel soldier’s beard. They had also gathered a large handful of long sharp thorns from the firethorn bushes nearby, and four large handfuls of mud and clay.

In the dead of night, the four women snuck out of their huts, taking with them the pouch and a spade, then headed towards the graves of their poor dead loved ones. First, they each made a small poppet from the lumps of soil and clay. They sat down in a little circle amongst the graves and began to mould their clay into the figures of men, keeping in their minds the faces of the wicked soldiers. Then they began to chant their curse as they slowly pushed twelve thorns from the firethorn bush into each of their poppets. One thorn for every slaughtered man. (Die evil men, wherever you are, as our curse kills your bloodline both near and afar. You shall tremble in terror whilst pinned to the ground, feeling cuts from our thorns as our storm strikes you down. You shall never harm women, never again. Our curse sends you to hell in fear and in pain.) The young woman who had been raped, grabbed the rough hair that she had torn from her attacker’s beard and quickly wrapped it around her poppet. Tears were welling in her eyes as she felt her fear of him once again. The other women laid out her soiled ripped clothing, allowing her to place her poppet in the centre. They placed theirs around it and laid the small piece of soldiers clothing on top, then they carefully folded everything inside. Next, they needed to decide upon the best place to bury it, they had to make sure that it was never found. They chose a place in the centre, between two of the graves where the soil was soft and easy to dig, burying it as deep as they could, and chanting their curse once again as they did so. Satisfied with their curse and convinced that it would work, they quietly hurried back to their hamlet, making sure that nobody saw them.

Twenty miserable weeks later, the poor raped woman began to cry out in pain. Her three friends were by her side waiting, ready to help her, as her muscles began to contract. Hush dear friend, hush, they whispered. They were the only ones who knew, and now that the foetus was aborting early, they wanted to keep it that way. I think our curse is working, one of them whispered.

Once again and for the last time, the women crept after dark to the graves, carrying with them a pale grey shawl, containing the still born child and a spade. Having found the spot where they had buried their curse they quickly began to dig, taking care not to disturb their earlier work. The other three women then stood back, allowing their friend who had given birth, to lay the tiny bundle into the hole. They had one more thing to do, and once they had pushed all the soil back into place they stood in a little circle, held hands, closed their eyes, and repeated their chant. ("Die evil men wherever you are, as our curse kills your bloodline both near and afar. You shall tremble in terror whilst pinned to the ground, feeling cuts from our thorns as our storm strikes you down. You shall never harm women, never again. Our curse sends you to hell in fear and in pain.")

Tender new tree roots were beginning to sprout beneath their feet, and a low rumble of thunder sounded above them, as they repeated their chant four times over, and finished by spitting on the newly dug ground. They turned and smiled at one another. That is a sign, one of them said, looking up to the sky.

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER 1746

It was sunrise, the birds were strangely quiet, and there was a light, white mist rolling its way across the vast twenty-acre meadow. The distant hue of red, yellow, and purple flower heads were gently bobbing about in the cool breeze as it swept in waves over the swaying grasses. An eerie whisper carried itself calmly through the dancing stems and ended abruptly where the meadow and the stony footpath met.

The little old man, wearing an old brown overcoat and a worn but much-loved brown floppy hat, couldn’t help but feel a little spooked that morning, as he scuffled along the long, familiar stony track in his tired-out black boots. With the meadow to his right and a hedgerow of hops and brambles to his left, he followed the gently winding track, heading down towards the river. His trusty old strawberry roan pony, whose name was Jed, walked obediently along beside the old man’s left shoulder. He was pulling behind him a small wooden cart that was piled high with an array of delicious pies and cakes, some still warm, having been baked that very morning. The sweet aroma of apple and cinnamon left an inviting trail drifting behind the cart. Jim Buckle was the old man’s name, and twice a week both he and Jed would set out at dawn to walk the three-and-a-half miles to the village of Whooshinpast, where Jim would sell his wares at the market held on the village green.

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Folk would gather at Whooshinpast from many little hamlets, some occasionally travelling twenty miles or more. It was certainly a popular occasion. The trader’s carts and barrows would be filled to bursting point with their fine assortment of produce. Today was Tuesday, and the village was being transformed from a quiet, sleepy little place into a great whirlwind of hustle, bustle, chatter, and laughter. Horses pulling carts of produce were clattering their way along the cobbled village lanes. Barrow boys were calling out to one another in greeting as they pushed their carts into position, in readiness for the arrival of their loyal customers.

Looks like a fine day for it, Will! calls out one trader with a cart full of metal tankards, cooking pots, ladles, knives and more. His shoulder-length, mousy hair was tied back in a ponytail, revealing his close-set blue eyes, which radiated a warm friendly smile. He had a long straight nose with a strong jaw line, covered with a short thin beard.

Arr, a little scorcher of a day by my reckoning, Matthew. You be well loaded up there mucka! replied Will in jesting manner. His own cart an artist’s palette of colour piled high with an assortment of rustic apples, deep-red plums, greengages, strawberries, gooseberries, and raspberries, all nicely separated with little golden bundles of tied up straw. Will and Matthew had become rather good pals over the years. Both traders had followed in their fathers’ footsteps from the tender age of fourteen, and here they were twenty-five years later, still enjoying their days on the village green. For the