“As I was saying,” said Kathleen Evenholme. “There appears to be a curse on the village. Some malediction has been laid, and we need it found and lifted.”
“I see,” replied Mari, though she didn’t. There was no evidence of a curse or malediction. Usually it would be all too apparent. Dying trees, browned grass, sickened livestock, dead birds, streams and ponds turned to blood, bloated toads burst upon the road… there was none of that, or any of the other portents. The people of Nether Warnstow also looked perfectly healthy. “How has this curse manifested?”
The vicar held out her thumb, followed a moment later by the others all doing likewise, save the solicitor, Rawson. Mari obligingly stepped forward to peer at the vicar’s offered digit. It was rather red, more so than Evenholme’s other fingers. But only as if she had been washing dishes and her thumb had somehow soaked in the suds longer than the rest of her hand. The others all had similar, somewhat reddish, perhaps slightly chafed, left thumbs.
“The curse has made your thumbs a little red?” Mari asked. She knew a faint smile was spreading on her face and tried to pull her mouth back into a stern, professional line.
“Rather more than that!” protested the vicar. “Something tried to pull it off!”
“Something?” asked Mari.
“An unseen presence,” said the vicar, pulling her priestly shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “I was working on a sermon last night in my study when it came in. I heard the door slam open, the lamp at my desk suddenly blew out, and the next thing I knew a creature of darkness had my thumb in an icy grip and was pulling me across the room! If I hadn’t struck at it with my pen who knows what might have happened.”
Mari blinked. A creature of darkness that could be sent off by stabbing it with a fountain pen did not sound very likely. Anything summoned or released by a real malediction would have had the vicar’s thumb entirely off in a second, and her head a moment later.
“A creature of darkness? Did you feel the Goddess react to this, or sense Her presence?”
“No…” replied the vicar. “One doesn’t, most of the time.”
The central tenet of the Church was that the Goddess was asleep, and Her few interactions with the living world came about from the deity’s occasional dreams. As this also applied to Her Antagonist, it was considered in the world’s best interests if the sleeping continued and the dreams were sparse. This could be assured, the First and Second Testament said, by doing good works, which kept the Goddess happily slumbering, and refraining from doing bad things, which might wake the Antagonist.
Despite her somnolent state, the Goddess was known to make Her presence felt if real evil intruded upon her consecrated servants, even though She rarely did anything useful about it. Her lack of interest tended to suggest that whatever had gripped the vicar’s thumb was not a truly malignant creature of darkness.
“You did not see anything, or perhaps feel the shape of the intruder?”
“No. Only it was cold. Like ice water.”
“Did it feel like a hand gripping your thumb? Could you feel individual fingers?”
The vicar shook her head slowly. “It was so cold…”
Mari looked at the others. “You all had a similar experience?”
Everyone started to talk at once. Mari quietened them again, and listened carefully to their stories. They were much the same as the vicar’s. Each had been ‘attacked’ in the night, their left thumbs gripped and held up, but it was clear to Mari that the otherworldly assailant had not actually tried to pull the thumbs off. Nor had it been driven away by poking with a fountain pen, an uppercut from the sergeant—like punching a snow drift, he said—or any of the other defensive reactions. The reason that Rawson’s thumb had not been pulled was also clear: she lived in another village, several miles away.
“I do not think this has been caused by a malediction,” said Mari. “It has the classic signs of a shade of some sort seeking a part of its body that has been removed, in this case the thumb bone. Have you had any recent burials? No? Your graveyard is by the church? Perhaps I might have a look?”
“Certainly,” replied the vicar. “But there has been no disturbance. The most recent burial was old Jaggers, and that’s six months—”
“Eight months ago,” interrupted her husband. He was still carrying the plate, but the pile of rock cakes had diminished and every shirt but Mari’s and the vicar’s was adorned with crumbs. The russet Labrador had left the war memorial steps and was following along to collect the fallen remnants and the odd sultana with judicious licks of her tongue.
“Eight months ago,” continued the vicar smoothly. She pointed to the lych-gate in the low wall on the far side of the green, next to the church.
“I think we can let these good folk go about their business,” said Mari, as it seemed clear the full entourage hoped to dog her steps. “Perhaps we can meet later to discuss whatever I have found. Oh, could someone put my broom and valise somewhere safe?”
“I’ll take it to my police house, Dr. Garridge,” said Sergeant Breckon quickly, for once, getting in before the vicar. “Sixth house down the street. The blue lamp is outside, but hard to see; it’s a little overgrown with the passionfruit.”
“You can grow passionfruit here?” asked Mari with interest. “Through the winter and all?”
“Year-round. It’s the only passionfruit for two hundred miles,” replied the sergeant proudly. “It is said a Roman wizard planted it, in ancient times, when they first drained the fens. That’s why we never cut it back.”
“I must take a look at it,” said Mari.
“You don’t think it has something to—” the sergeant began, a look of absolute horror forming on his face.
“No! No,” Mari hastily reassured him. “I am sure it doesn’t. I’m curious, that’s all. And I like passionfruit.”
“Oh, good,” said the sergeant. “I’ll take your broom and bag, Miss. I mean, Doctor.”
He did a smart about-face, almost ruined by the others not getting out of his way, and marched off. After a few moments of hesitation, Dr. Ware, the steward Robe, and the solicitor Rawson muttered largely inaudible pleasantries and followed him.
Only the dog remained, eyeing the single remaining rock cake.
“Go home, Bella,” said Lawrence, pointing to the imposing vicarage that could be glimpsed behind the church. The dog looked at him and set off across the green in the opposite direction. Lawrence sighed and shook his head.
“Oh, do come on, Lawrence,” urged the vicar, though her husband was already moving towards her. “I have a great deal to get through today, after all this disturbance.”
The graveyard did not provide Mari with any clues. It was undisturbed, and there was no sign any of the inhabitants had been roaming. In fact, it was quite peaceful, and when Mari leaned her hand against one of the hawthorns that lined the southern side of the cemetery, the tree confirmed that nothing untoward had occurred in all its long life, extending back a century or more.
“Have any of the other villages nearby reported any… er… thumb attacks or anything similar?” asked Mari.
“No,” replied the vicar. “Not even Upper Warnstow. Are you sure it’s not a curse, centered in the village?”
“I am confident it is not,” said Mari. She thought for a moment. “It must be a shade seeking a missing bone. But that means a recently disturbed grave, or a death, somewhere close to the village.”
“I don’t think there’s been anything like that,” said the vicar, her husband nodding confirmation.