POOR THINGS

 

Too White

What if Downton Abbey was set in the Seventies?

 

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Hot Blood

  
 Hot Blood is a true crime novella set in fourteenth century England. Available as an eBook, soon to be released in all formats, you can read it on Amazon now. 

Hot Blood 

The Black Torment

The House in Marsh Row

 

Theatre of Death 1967 Christopher Lee Horror

From Hot Blood

   Three

  Brother Norton was never the same afterwards. Before his disappearance he was very friendly and jovial. He stopped talking. We didn’t know if he had lost his voice or if it was some other malady that caused this. “Give him time,” Brother William said. “Maybe he had a fright”. 

  “Perhaps it was exposure to the elements,” I wondered. “He was out all night, and it was damp.”

  “I am worried for his soul,” Abbot de Brinkeley remarked. “I’m going to take him to Mother Agatha.”

  The cloister on the grounds housed twenty-nine sisters. Like us their numbers had been decimated by the Pestilence. Unlike us, the townsfolk still held them in reverence and sent their daughters to replenish what had been lost. Half of the sisters had only just reached womanhood. Mother Agatha was their Mother Superior and the closest thing to a doctor that Bury St Edmunds had. Her wisdom was held in high regard throughout the land. During the Pestilence the cloister had become a hospital. The sick and dying were piled high. Although the dead were not given funerals, and like everywhere else were laid to rest in a mass grave on the outskirts of the abbey, near the tree line of the ancient forest; the sisters worked tirelessly to ensure that each person was given a proper shroud and kept records as to where each individual was buried. The fact that none of the sisters had run away further endeared them to the survivors of the little community. This was another thing that the monks could not boast, but we were not proud. 

  I went along with the abbot to the cloister that was a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Brother Norton was silent as ever but came along willingly. A tall middle-aged nun with dark eyes let us in. 

  “We’ve come to see Mother Agatha.” 

  She led us to a kind of parlor off of the stone foyer, to the right. Mother Agatha looked up from her reading and stood up to greet us. “Thank you, Catherine.” She motioned to a seat. Norton and I took it, but the abbot remained standing and took the plump little woman’s small white hand. “My old friend, what can I do for you?” She smiled. Her cheeks were rosey. 

  “Mother, Brother Norton, here, will not speak after having spent a long night in the forest.” 

  “When was this?” She went to Norton, touched his chin, and looked into his eyes. 

  “Just the other night.” 

  Now she looked to the abbot. “Not Walpurgis Night?”

  He nodded. “Yes, the same.”

  Suddenly she seemed concerned. “I presume he had no problems speaking before this?”

  He shook his head. “No, none.”

  “Can he sing?”

  The abbot chuckled. “Brother Norton was never known for his singing voice.” It was true, he was tone deaf and could not carry a tune. 

  “Well, try. Any other troubles with him?” She was studying him intently again. Took his hands and opened his mouth. He seemed obedient as a poodle. 

  “Well, he was always outgoing and gregarious, now he is withdrawn.” 

  “Maybe had a fright.” That’s what William had wondered. “Take him back. Feed him up, and keep him warm. If you have any other troubles with him, sleeping, or behavior, bring him back to me. We will keep him in our prayers.” The younger nun was still standing in the front of the room by the door with her back against the wall. Mother Agatha raised her eyebrows to her and gave a little nod. “Sister Catherine will show you out.” 

  The abbot took both of her hands this time. “Thank you, mother, we will do as you say.” 

  Flowers had sprung up along the path and colored our way back to the hall. Brother Norton seemed to be intent on studying a busy bumblebee. 

From Hot Blood

  Two

  His cassock was gone, nowhere to be found. His eyes looked wild and confused as he rose from the ground. I ran towards him. “Norton! What in God’s name?” I bent down, took his hand, and helped him up. He stumbled as if he was drunk. I didn’t smell any wine on him. He smelled terrible like a cave. “What happened? Where have you been? Abbot de Brinkeley is worried about you. We feared the worst.” We had come to expect the worst. It was easier. My father had said, “Hope in one hand, shit in the other. See which one fills up faster.” That was how it was, or how it had been for years now. 

  He rubbed his throat but did not speak. I turned him around on the path and started out of the woods. I thought I had. I thought I had only come off the footpath into the trees a bit before seeing the girl. Where were we? My breakfast rolled over. I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and mopped my worried forehead that was breaking out into a cold sweat. “Can you walk?” I let him go. “Where are we?” I felt dizzy and lightheaded as if my blood pressure had suddenly risen and dropped. 

  Just then a May Day parade broke through wearing animal masks, all whistles and bells. I stepped back, putting my hand against Norton’s chest, holding him back, off the deer path. There were foxes, owls, badgers, and boars. They picked up their feet and held out their hands. Their tambourines were strung with colored ribbons that they shook and patted against their hands and hips. I followed at a distance hoping they’d lead us from the woods, but they seemed to go on for miles deeper into the forest. I became tired and thirsty. Norton dropped to the ground and stared up at me like a child. I would’ve panicked if I wasn’t exhausted. I dropped down beside him and fell asleep for a long while. 

  I dreamed of the girl. She ran from me on and on through the forest and the trees. It was getting darker, and she laughed like a bird before disappearing into a mossy chasm hidden in the rocks. 

  I was woken by somebody shaking my shoulder. “Brother Francis, get up.” It was Brother Luke and Vigilius, two of the youngest brothers in their late twenties. Brother Norton was already standing beside them. I rose and downed a good bit of wine that Vigilius handed me in a skin. “We got lost.”

  “I see that. How?”

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed my head. “I didn’t think that I had come far into the woods. Then I made the mistake of following the mummers. They got us lost.”

  “Hmm…” The two of them took us back to the abbey. It was late afternoon by the time we got there.  

From Hot Blood

    An unkindness of ravens surrounded me as I left the gate. I reached into my pocket and tossed them some crumbs leftover from breakfast. Like the ravens we wore black cassocks. They were associated with Saint Benedict and the place. Usually they scattered and cawed thankful for the treats, but they hovered above me, their beady eyes on me. “What’s the matter?” I continued on the path alongside the grove in spite of their admonishment. 

  I didn’t know where I was going. The abbot didn’t ask much of me, so I wanted to find Brother Norton for him. If I was him, where would I go? I heard a strange sound coming from the trees and stopped. What was that? A flute? It sounded weird and unfamiliar. I found a deer path and took it into the woods. 

  It was darker, cooler here. The May breeze didn’t stir. It smelled like moss, and the earth was moist beneath my feet. I could still hear the flute, lilting, but it was faint. My heart beat into my ears like a Druidic drum. 

  A young girl, perhaps thirteen, stepped out from the brambles and startled me. She was very pale and thin, wearing nothing but a filthy shift. Her feet were bare, and her arms were scratched. Her matted and tangled hair kept tiny blossoms and blooms as if they had grown there. She was eating something, looked like a ripe sort of fruit that I had never seen around here. It was too early for fruit. She wiped her mouth with her dirty hand and smiled. She offered me the half eaten thing that she held out to me. 

  I shook my head. “No thank you. Have you seen my brother? He’s dressed like me.” I plucked at the skirt of my cassock. 

  She tossed the fruit into a thicket, waking little buntings who rose up like spirits and vanished into the morning shadows. She walked towards me. I noticed her left eye was a bit lazy. As she approached the hair rose up on the back of my neck, and I shivered. Then she laughed and ran off like a doe. “Hey!” She was gone as was the eerie flute. I rubbed my head. What was that? Birds? Insects? I don’t remember hearing it before. Then something stirred in the leaves to my left. I looked back. It was Brother Norton. Thank God. 

From Hot Blood

   “Brother Francis, find Brother Norton. Be snappy about it. Where could he be?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked to Brother William. If anybody knew where Norton had gotten to it would be him. Brother William Blundeston was the newcomer, only joining us last year. He was young and goodlooking. He had lost his entire family to the Pestilence. He was Norton’s best friend. Brother Norton felt sorry for him and took him in under his wing. William did not meet my eye. I felt uncomfortable and clammy. What was going on? 

  “You are excused.” The monks got up at once and cleared their places. There was no chatter. They all went about their work. 

  The abbey had bee hives for honey, apple, plum, and pear trees for preserves and cider, and a vineyard for wine. We traded with the townsfolk very little and kept to ourselves. We were mostly self-sustainable. Brother Henry fished the brooks for trout, and Brother George set rabbit traps. Brother Gregory kept the chickens, and Brother Michael tended the goats. Tommy helped Brother Mark with the sheep. In all there were only nineteen monks left. The Pestilence had cut our numbers in half, taking young and old alike. 

  I moved through the Great Gate. St Edmunds dated back to 1020 when the original stone Saxon church was built to house the relics of Saint Edmund, the martyr. He had been king of East Anglia when the Viking hoard invaded. He gifted them a set of fine horses in attempt to spare the land from rape and pillage. They took the horses and hunted him down. When they found him they shot him full of arrows so that he bristled like a hedgehog. Then they cut off his head and threw it into the briars of the oak wood. His ravaged body is the foundation of our original church constructed of blue stone and river rock. The hexagonal Norman tower and limestone hall, the Black Hostry, came later. Abbot Samson had done much to improve the place a couple hundred years ago. That was back when we were still loved and respected. So much had changed. 

Hot Blood

   My wild reading list has inspired a new horror, Hot Blood, based on a true story. 

 One

May 1, 1361

  The morning was warm, and I wondered at the wild hare who bound across the lawn, kicking up pink blossoms. He seemed a couple of months late. No matter, nothing was as it used to be. He was likely just thrilled with living, as we all ought to be. The abbey bells chimed the hour, and I joined the brothers for breakfast. 

  The porridge was hot, fresh today, and there were plum preserves and fresh mint. After grace Abbot  de Brinkeley cleared his throat and tapped his spoon. Where was Brother Norton? It was unlike anybody to miss breakfast, was he ill? Our numbers had dwindled so much that a moment’s lateness instilled worry, ten minutes, panic. Abbot  Brinkeley too furrowed his lined brow, which had come to resemble a country map, staring at Norton’s empty place, before beginning. 

  “The heathen will no doubt be playing the fools today, so keep to the grounds. Stay out of the woods and clear of the meadow. Where is Brother Norton?” 

  “He wasn’t in his bed,” Brother Eustace said. Unlike many abbeys where the brothers slept in a line, since the Pestilence, we slept two to a room. I shared my room with Brother John de Grafton who was seated to my left and began to down his porridge. We all relished our food and drink a bit more these days, but Brother Grafton had become fat as a friar. The silver tabby, Judas, caught up a moth in his paws and looked to be praying. 

  “Who let that cat back in here?” Abbot Brinkeley wanted to know. Nobody answered, but we all knew it was Tommy, the little idiot, who loved the cats. 

  

The Green Knight

The star is a bit spicy and long in the tooth for Gawain, but The Green Knight nearly makes up for it. 

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Men (2022)

From Ross Poldark

  "she had a store of nervous energy, unavailable at ordinary times but able to serve her in sudden need. It was a fundamental reserve which a stronger person might never know."

  "If death could come quietly and peacefully she would accept it, would sink into it as one sank into a bed only wanting sleep and self-forgetfulness."

Winston Graham

From Starve Acre

   "It seemed to Richard sometimes that Juliette had actually brought twins into the world: Ewan and Guilt. The latter had always been the stronger of the two. It fed more, weighed more, demanded more of their attention. When it had outlived Ewan, it had grown larger still."

"It seemed that he'd only come into the world to take their love and fill them with sorrow." 

Andrew Michael Hurley

  Funny, my book is from the Lancashire library. That's not only where the author is from, but my beloved late friend had sent me a copy of The Lancashire Witches from the museum that I could not put down. I really have to try for a nap and a dream. I'm back to that every three days thrice as much gig. Arthur and Frankie both sleep twice as much as I. TTYL... ✨

 

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Starve Acre

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