The Ploughman's Apprentice (standard:horror, 3718 words)
Author: Ian Hobson	Added: Jan 24 2008	Views/Reads: 3297/2107	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
He dropped the skull and jumped backwards, shuddering at the sight of its grinning jaws and earth-filled eye sockets…

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clean. 

'Maister.'  Wainwright turned in his saddle as John Barley approached
with another two skulls and an armful of bones.  His son Daniel was not 
far behind, similarly loaded.  Both boys were soaking wet and covered 
in mud, almost from head to foot.  'What about this, maister?' John 
asked.  He dropped one of the skulls as he held up a rusting strip of 
metal.  'It's a sword, maister.' 

'Is it, by God.'  Wainwright swung down from his mare and strode towards
the two boys.  He was a small man, in his mid-thirties, with a 
potbelly, and a bushy beard. 

'And I found this, Father.'  Daniel dropped his load of bones onto the
grass and then carefully pulled a well-rusted, but dangerous-looking, 
dagger from his belt.  Wainwright took the dagger from his son, and 
then the sword from John, and examined them both closely. 

'Are there any more weapons?' he asked. 

'Just them so far, maister,' John replied.  'But there's a cartload more
bones, an Maister Goodman ain't ploughed all t'field yet.' 

'I can see that for myself, lad.'  Wainwright looked over to where the
ploughman and horses were still toiling.  Less than a fifth of the 
field had been ploughed and with the thickening clouds it would soon be 
too dark to work.  He turned back face John.  'Go and tell Master 
Goodman I said to make this furrow the last for today.  Then there'll 
be bread and pottage at the house, if you want it.'  He looked up at 
the rain-filled sky.  ‘And you'd both be best sleepin' in the barn with 
the horses tonight.  Then we'll make an early start tomorrow.  I reckon 
this storm'll soon pass over.' 

'But where's all this lot come from, father?' Daniel asked as he picked
up the bones he had dropped. 

'War, boy.  War.' 

*** 

The Master was right about the weather, because the next morning the
rain-clouds had all but moved away and, after a hasty breakfast, the 
ploughman and his apprentice were able to lead the two horses back to 
the lower pasture to begin ploughing again; though without the help of 
young Daniel because his mother had insisted that he had caught a 
chill. 

Though Daniel had been lively enough the previous night, when there had
been much discussion as the Wainwright family, together with Henry 
Goodman and John Barley, sat down to supper around the huge oak table 
in the dinning room at the rear of the farmhouse. 

Wainwright's wife, Mary, and his twin daughters, Anne and Jane, wanted
to hear all about the skeletal remains.  'But where can they 'ave come 
from?'  Anne had asked.  She and her twin sister, Jane, were both 
sixteen, and usually took little interest in workaday subjects like 
ploughing. 

'War,' their father had answered.  'War.  Seventy or eighty years ago,
at least.' 

It was left to their paternal grandmother, Meg, to explain further. 
'Them bones must have lain there since the War of the Roses,' she said, 
as she slurped down a second steaming bowl of pottage.  'There was a 
great battle in these parts: the battle of Towton.  Thousands of men 
died, thousands!  And they say the pastures down towards the river ran 
red with blood.' 

The twins pulled faces at the mention of blood, and then screamed when
their brother, Daniel, produced a skull from under his chair and chased 
them around the table with it. 

But they would scream much louder before the week was out. 

As the second day's ploughing began, Wainwright was not there to
supervise.  After breakfast he had mumbled something to Henry Goodman 
about church authorities and then saddled his mare and ridden off, not 
returning until midday, with his mare in a lather, and himself in a 
foul vexation.  He stopped and glared at the growing pile of bones and 
skulls; it had almost doubled in size since the day before.  He rode on 
past John as the lad, now pulling a small handcart, hauled another load 
up towards the top of the field. 

'Is there some't amiss, sir?'  Goodman asked as Wainwright approached. 
He could see that his employer looked distressed. 

'Dammed clergymen!'   As Wainwright reigned in his mare, she stamped and
snorted.  'I take the trouble to ride over and inform the dean of what 
we've found here, and he insists that the remains be delivered to the 
church for Christian burial!' 

Goodman slowed the plough horses to a stop and looked up at Wainwright. 
'What, all of 'em?  But that'll mean...' he scratched his head and 
looked first towards the pile of bones and then at the remaining 
unploughed field, 'well, a fair few cartloads.' 

'You're dammed right, a fair few cartloads, and if the dean thinks I'm
goin' to pay fort' cartage he better think again, by God!  The man even 
suggested I pay for the diggin' of the graves!  He can dig his own 
graves, and if he wants that pile of old bones, he can come and fetch 
'em 'imself, afore I burn the whole lot!' 

*** 

The ploughing and bone collecting continued for another four days, until
Saturday afternoon; and it was then that James Wainwright carried out 
his threat, or tried to.  Ignoring the wishes of the church, he ordered 
his farmhands, and members of his family, into nearby woods to collect 
firewood, and by late afternoon a huge stack of dead and newly chopped 
branches, at least twice the height of a man, stood in the field close 
to where several heaps of the bones and skulls of hundreds of dead 
fighting men, lay. 

'We'll need the kindling now,' said Wainwright, addressing John Barley
and his son, Daniel.  Earlier the two lads had been sent to the barn 
for armfuls of hay, which Wainwright now thrust into a hollow beneath 
the woodpile and ignited.  It took a while for the fire to take hold 
but soon the timber was well alight, and when he judged the time to be 
right, Wainwright threw the first few bones into the fire and grunted 
his approval as they vanished into the flames. 

'Now lads,' he said to his farmhands, 'not too many at once, we don't
want to put the fire out.  I'll leave you in charge, Master Goodman.'  
So with the fire blazing, the farm workers began to throw on the bones 
and skulls while Wainwright walked home with his family. 

'What will you tell the dean if he asks about the bones?' his wife
asked. 

'I'll tell 'im to mind his own business,' Wainwright replied. 

*** 

Feeding the fire with bones was hard and thirsty work, and with the
master gone home, the farm workers began to complain and say that they 
too had homes to go to; though in truth they had a mind to get to the 
nearest alehouse.  They had used up the last of some surplus timber 
dragged from the woods and, as one of the older hands pointed out, the 
fire was beginning to die down and would soon go out if many more bones 
were added. So, one by one, the men began to slink away until, as 
daylight faded, only Henry Goodman and his apprentice remained. 

'You may as well get off home, lad, before it gets any darker,' Goodman
suggested.  'I'll tend the fire a bit, and then check on the horses, 
and then I'll get off home myself.' 

'Thank you, maister, and goodnight to you.'  John turned and began to
walk away.  He had earned his first weeks wages and was keen to get 
home to his mother and younger siblings, but a loud crackling from the 
fire made him turn and look back; and to his amazement the skeletal 
figure of a man, wreathed in flames, came staggering out of it. 

He was a tall man, and though there was no flesh on his bones and his
head was just a grinning skull, he carried a shield on his left arm and 
a sword high in his right hand, and he was striding after Goodman who 
had turned away to pick up more bones to throw on the fire. 

'Maister, look out!'  John cried. 'Look out!'  But before Goodman could
heed John's warning, the swordsman was on him, slashing and hacking 
with his sword until Goodman lay lifeless at his feet.  The swordsman 
thrust down with his sword once more, striking Goodman through the 
heart, as if to be sure he was dead.  Then he turned back towards the 
fire and, raising his sword high, he beckoned to his dead comrades, who 
came staggering out of the flames as though from the depths of hell. 

*** 

'Now, who can that be?' exclaimed James Wainwright, irritably.  He had
just lit the candles, poured himself a jug of ale, and sat down to eat 
with his family, when there was a loud hammering at the back door. 

'Whoever it is, send them away,' said his mother.  'We don't want no
disturbance at this hour.' 

Wainwright's chair scraped on the stone floor as he reached for one of
the candles and went to see who was there.  The door opened directly 
into the room and as soon as he pulled back the bolt, it was thrust 
open by John Barley who came stumbling in with a terrified look on his 
face. 

'What ever is the matter, boy?' Wainwright asked. 

'They're comin', maister, they're comin!' John gasped, as he turned and
slammed the door closed.  He was exhausted from running the quarter of 
a mile from the lower pasture to the farmhouse, but found the strength 
to push home the door bolt then turn and run past Wainwright's 
incredulous family, where he shrank down against the wall, mumbling and 
quaking as though he had some kind of fever. 

'Comin?  Who's comin?  Are you mad, boy?'  Wainwright unbolted the door
again and looked out, holding the candle aloft, but there was nothing 
and no one to see.   But as he turned back to face his family and the 
obviously insane John Barley, who had now backed into a corner behind a 
heavy oak dresser, the master stumbled forward as though shoved from 
behind, and then, with a look of disbelief on his face, he shrank to 
his knees and fell forward with a thud. 

It was then that the screaming started, for an arrow was stuck in
Wainwright's back, encircled by a growing patch of bright red blood.  
Mary was the first to scream, and her chair fell backwards with a crash 
as she hurried over to her husband, while Wainwright's mother, 
realising they were being attacked, looked for a weapon to defend her 
family with.  The two rusty relics, the sword and the dagger, that had 
been found in the pasture at the start of the week, still lay on a 
side-table where Wainwright had left them. So Meg grabbed both of them, 
one in each hand, and turned towards the door, from whence the threat 
surely came. 

It was then that the hollow-eyed, skeletal leader of the long-dead
warriors appeared in the doorway, striding forward and slashing down 
with his sword, just as Mary looked up from her husband's lifeless 
body.  The sword cut deep into her neck and blood sprayed, 
fountain-like, turning her attacker's bones red, as she fell on top of 
her husband.  Then, accompanied by the screams of the children, there 
was a tremendous clattering of bony feet as more skeletal warriors came 
striding into the room. 

For a moment Meg stood transfixed as the grinning wraiths approached
her, some of them prodding towards her with their swords and pikes; 
then with the courage of a matriarch protecting her offspring, she flew 
at them, striking with both sword and dagger, but was immediately 
overwhelmed and slashed to death by a dozen blades. 

The three Wainwright children, still screaming, shocked and frightened
almost beyond sanity, had at last found their feet and were backing 
towards a door at the far end of the room.  But as Jane fumbled with 
the handle and wrenched the door open so that the three could make 
their escape, two of the skeletal intruders rushed forward and grabbed 
Anne's arms.  For a while there was a tug of war as Daniel and Jane 
tried desperately to pull their sister through the open door, but as 
more grinning wraiths came to help their comrades, Anne too was grabbed 
by bony hands. 

'Run, Daniel, run!' Jane managed to shout and then she and Anne screamed
as they were lifted high and passed, hand over hand, and then dropped 
onto the oak table, scattering pewter cups, plates and candlesticks, 
which fell noisily to the floor. 

The room was much darker now, lit only by the glowing embers of the log
fire and a single candle on a bracket on the opposite wall.  And there 
was relative silence as the two girls, having screamed themselves 
hoarse, lay head to head on the table, surrounded by a sea of grinning, 
candlelit skulls, and twitching as they were nipped and prodded by bony 
fingers.  The leader, still dripping with Mary's blood, dropped his 
sword and shield and climbed up onto the table and leapt onto Anne, 
straddling her and leaning forward until his skull was touching her 
face. 

Anne began to scream again, but Jane, ignoring the prodding and grasping
of long bony fingers, struggled to her hands and knees.  'Leave my 
sister alone!'  Bravely she tried to wrestle with the bloody skeleton, 
tugging at his bony arms.  But this just enraged him and, taking hold 
of Jane's hair and snatching a dagger from one of his comrades, he slit 
her throat and shoved her back along the length of the table with such 
force that she slid off the end and crashed to the floor. 

The leader turned his attention back to Anne and, still straddling her,
he waved the dagger in front of her face.  Anne whimpered and struggled 
but the leader held her down, while his comrades banged on the table as 
if applauding his actions.  But then the ghostly figures around the 
table froze, and slowly their heads turned towards the outside door.  
With a start, the leader stopped what he was doing and turned and 
looked over his shoulder.  In the semi-darkness of the doorway there 
stood a hideous-looking man, if man was the right word, for though he 
stood on two legs, his feet were cloven hoofs, he was covered in hair, 
horns protruded from his head, and a long forked tail hung from his 
rear; he was evil personified, he was the Devil. 

Rattling with fear, the leader climbed down from the table and cowered
away from the Devil's evil gaze.  Then as miraculously as he and his 
followers had appeared from the flames of the fire, they and their 
weapons simply melted away, into the walls and floor, and were gone.  
Making animal-like grunts, the devil made his way to the table where 
Anne still lay.  She lifted her head then, as though waking from a 
nightmare, and began to scream again as the devil leapt, cat-like, onto 
the table. 

Somehow, John Barley had been overlooked as he crouched in the corner of
the room beside the dresser.  He had seen or heard a lot of what had 
happened, despite having had his eyes shut and his hands clamped over 
his ears for much of the time.  But now, Anne's screams seemed to 
pierce his soul and he could take no more. 

He crawled out from his hiding place.  There was just enough light to
see that the room was littered with overturned chairs and dead bodies.  
Whatever was happening on the tabletop, John did not want to know.  Not 
daring to stand, he crawled past Jane, unable to avoid the pool of 
blood in which she lay.  He was trembling with fear but he continued on 
under the table, and had crawled almost the full length of it when the 
screaming above his head stopped and was replaced by a horrible sucking 
noise that sounded like a stuck boot being pulled from a bog. 

Fearing that the creature would hear him, John crawled slowly towards
the end of the table then scrambled out from under it and ran towards 
the door, only to slip on spilled blood and fall flat on his face.  
Terrified, he rolled over and looked back.  The Devil was crouched over 
Anne's dead body, and in his hand was her still beating heart.  The 
devil flashed John an evil grin and then stuffed the heart into his 
mouth.  John's stomach heaved and he almost vomited but, spurred on by 
sheer terror, he managed to find his feet and stagger outside where, by 
the light of the moon, he kept on running and did not stop until he was 
home. 

*** 

I said that I was in no way connected to the accused, John Barley, which
is true enough; though my client and close friend, Charles Green, as 
James Wainwright's cousin, is and looks likely to inherit the 
Wainwright farm.  Unless of course the boy, Daniel, regains his wits.  
He was found, the morning after the murders, cowering in a barn at a 
neighbouring property.  Apart from a few scratches, he was unharmed, 
but since that day he has not spoken a word, and if anyone tries to 
take him back to his father's farm, he seems terrified and cannot be 
made to go there.  Perhaps it would have been better if he too, like 
his kin, had died that terrible night. 

As for John Barley; he will surely hang.  His story of skeletal warriors
rising from the flames, though fascinating, is of course, quite 
ridiculous.  One need only consider the evidence: the boy's 
bloodstained clothes, and the rusty but deadly sword and dagger found 
at the scene.  I can only conclude that the handling of so many bones 
must have awakened some hitherto concealed lust for murder.  Though I 
have advised my friend, Charles, that if he should take over the farm, 
it might be best to follow the wishes of the church and have the 
remaining bones buried in hallowed ground - and to consider rearing 
sheep. 

***** 

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