Wistman’s Joy, by Hereward L. M. Proops

“What I don’t understand is how you can live like that,” Ashford Brookes said, “It’s not right.”

“Right?” Bob Wistman asked, “How can any man say how I choose to live my life is wrong or right? My own business is my own and the meddlers can go to the devil if they think they can change me.”

Brookes leaned back in his chair and raised his glass to his lips. The orange glow of the fire flickered on his craggy features and glittered in the darkness of his watery eyes. He sighed with exasperation. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to offer his young friend advice, nor did he think it would be the last. Robert Wistman’s decision to build a farmhouse out on the moor had caused more than a few eyebrows to be raised. When his young niece moved in to help tend the livestock the more conservative folk in the town expressed their concern that a fine young maid should be living alone with her bachelor uncle. Tongues began to wag when the suggestion that Wistman and his niece shared the same bed began to circulate. Wistman made no attempt to quash these rumours, even confiding to his closest friends in Thainsbridge that now he had young Joy’s company he was no longer interested in searching for a wife.

Joy remained somewhat of an enigma to the townsfolk. She was rarely seen in town and when she was it was always in the company of her uncle. She was quiet and said little more than a few words to any that dared greet her. She always dressed in the simplest of clothes and kept her eyes downcast. Many said that it was a shame that such a beautiful girl should be so introverted, shunning the company of those her own age.

Brookes poured the last of the gin into Wistman’s glass and looked at his flushed round face.

“And the girl,” he asked, “What does she wish for?”

Wistman sniffed and waved a dismissive hand at the question as though swatting an irksome fly.

“I am lucky enough to have found a companion who is entirely beholden to my wishes and no other,” he said proudly, “My niece is happy when I am happy.”

“And marriage?” Brookes ventured.

“A needless expense,” Wistman snorted, “We are no more living in sin than the rams and ewes that frolic on my land.”

“Your land?” I was led to understand that you have recently allowed your sheep to roam out past the boundaries of the farm.”

“What of it? There is nothing on the moors for miles around, just a few ruined dwellings and that circle of old stones. What harm can they do?”

Wistman drained the contents of his glass and rose to his feet. Brookes followed his friend to the door where he bade him farewell. The old man shook his head as he watched Wistman stagger into the darkness.

“Adolescentum verecundum esse decet,” he muttered.

“What’s that you say?”

“Something Plautus said about the pride of young men,” Brookes answered.

“You can tell Plautus to keep his nose out of my business an’ all!” Wistman laughed.

#

The walk from Thainsbridge to his house on the moor normally took Wistman a little over an hour. In his inebriated state, however, it took significantly longer. Swaying from side to side, he whistled tunelessly to himself to fill the dead silence of night.

The lights of the town faded into the distance and he followed the beaten track of the Plymouth road until it reached the crossroads at Gallows Hill. There he turned off the main road and followed a rough footpath across the empty expanse of the moor.

With no light to guide him Wistman was grateful that the moon was full and the night was clear. He had not anticipated the lengthy stopover at the house of Ashford Brookes but neither did he resent it. The older man’s company was always pleasant and he had been more than generous with the drinks. Wistman had no doubt that Joy would be concerned by his tardiness but he had better things to do than concern himself with the feelings of a woman. His flock of sheep had survived the cold winter without incident and were almost ready to be relieved of their winter coats. Thirteen lambs had been born to him that April and though their number could be seen as unlucky by some superstitious souls, not one of them had fallen prey to poachers or predators.

He pulled his coat about him and strode onwards, making sure he did not stray off the path. Night swathed the moorland, smothering the rugged landscape about him in deep shadow. A flicker of light in the distance caught his eye and as he stared in its direction, he realised that it came from the ancient stone circle where a number of his sheep grazed.

“Poachers,” he spat, “Thievin’ bastards, takin’ what’s not theirs.”

Seething with rage, he stepped off the path and hurried over the waterlogged heath in the direction of the campfire. Drawing closer, he could see the silhouettes of the huge standing stones and the eerie, distorted shadows created by the dancing flames. There was no sound other than the wind howling across the open moor but he began to smell the sweet aroma of roasting meat. Wistman had not realised how hungry he was until the smells of cooking reached him. His mouth began to water and his stomach grumbled noisily.

Approaching the stone circle, he saw the small fire over which large chunks of meat roasted on a spit. Sizzling fat dripped into the flames and the aroma lingered in the air. Wistman looked around but saw nobody. Overcome by the tantalising scent, he stepped towards the spit wondering who would abandon such an appetising feast.

The growl came from behind and stopped him in his tracks. Turning cautiously, he saw a large black dog step out of the darkness surrounding one of the monoliths. The dog’s hackles were raised and glistening white fangs were exposed when it snarled. Wistman froze, his heart pounding in his chest with such force he wondered whether the fearsome beast could hear it.

The creature’s growls were joined by another, then another. Wistman moved his head to glance around and saw two more hounds, both as large and as ferocious as the first. The dogs flanked him and moved steadily closer, their resolute gaze not leaving him for a moment. Their coats were glossy black and the firelight reflected in their dark eyes, adding to their demonic presence.

Wistman swallowed drily and felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his spine. He wanted to run, to turn and flee from the stone circle but he knew that his legs would not obey. Paralysed with fear, he watched the three hounds move closer.

“Pay them no mind, Mister Wistman,” a voice called out, “They won’t harm you so long as I’m here.”

A figure emerged from behind the largest monolith and swaggered over to the fire. He was tall and thin. Dressed entirely in black, a tattered wide-brimmed hat obscured his face from view. There was a clatter as the stranger deposited the bundle of sticks he carried onto the ground before he skipped over to where Wistman stood.

“Hope they didn’t give you too much of a fright,” the man chirped, “I’m guessin’ they was just worried you were fixin’ on liftin’ their supper.”

“Who are you?” Wistman asked, “How do you know my name?”

The stranger removed his hat and gave an elaborate bow, his green eyes sparkling in the darkness.

“I’m not one for formal introductions.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Doing?” the man shrugged as he fed more sticks into the fire, “Nothing much. Cooking a spot of supper and minding my own business.”

“And the meat?” Wistman pointed at the spit, “Where did you get that from?”

“It’s not one of your precious sheep, if that’s what you’re implying.”

The stranger hummed to himself as he examined the spit and began to pull off the chunks of meat. He whistled through crooked teeth and the three monstrous hounds ran over to his side. Wistman watched with disgust as the man threw a few pieces of meat to the dogs who then proceeded to bark and snap at one another over the scraps.

The stranger crouched down and chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of meat whilst staring at Wistman. They remained this way until Wistman grew uncomfortable and broke the silence.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?” the man spoke with his mouth full, “Help yourself to the food.”

Wistman tentatively plucked a piping hot piece of meat from the spit and juggled it in his hands until it was cool enough to eat. The meat was tough and stringy but tasty enough. The stranger watched him as he ate, a thin smile visible beneath the brim of his hat. Wistman crammed the last morsel into his mouth and chewed noisily.

“It’s good,” he said, sucking the grease off his fingers.

“Have more, by all means.”

Wistman beamed gratefully and pulled another piece from the spit. The alcohol had roused his appetite and he wolfed the food down as though afraid the stranger would take it back. It was only after his third helping that he felt sated and made himself comfortable on the grass. The stranger sat on the opposite side of the fire and gazed into the flames. For a while the only sounds that could be heard were the crackling of the sticks and the occasional whine of the hounds. The silence was broken when the stranger looked up and focused on Wistman.

“Do you love her?” he asked.

“Love who?”

“Your niece,” the man spoke impassively, “Do you love her?”

“Love is for little girls and poets,” Wistman snorted, “I don’t believe in it.”

The stranger nodded and sat quietly for some time, as if reflecting on Wistman’s words.

“What do you believe in?” he asked eventually.

“Only what I can hold in my own hands. Money, good food, a warm body,” he chuckled lasciviously, impressed with his wit.

“Do you hunger for nothing else?”

“What more does a man desire?”

“The satisfaction of others.”

“Oho!” Wistman roared with laughter, “That’s rich indeed! Since when has a man been happy serving others? I am wholly content with my life and I am answerable to no-one.”

The man shook his head solemnly.

“You misunderstand me. One does not have to serve another to share happiness. Sometimes we do it without realising.”

“Then how can one tell and why would it matter?” Wistman yawned.

The stranger did not rise as Wistman pushed himself to his feet. He looked up as Wistman stretched and glanced at his pocket-watch.

“Going so soon?” he asked.

“It’s late,” Wistman answered, “And I’m tired. I must be leaving. Thank you for the food.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Though the remainder of the walk to his cottage passed without incident, Wistman’s thoughts were entirely taken up by his meeting with the mysterious stranger. It was only after walking for some distance did he realise that the man had never revealed his identity. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the distant campfire blazing in the darkness. How had the man known so much about him? He had not recognised the fellow and from listening to his accent he was certain that he was not local. He repeated the conversation over and over in his mind. Why had the man been so interested in him? The probing questions he had been asked had proven surprisingly difficult to answer. He pondered the encounter for some time and concluded that the stranger had been some kind of itinerant preacher out to do good. It was likely that the preacher had heard of him from one of the loose-tongued women of Thainsbridge and had decided to lead Robert Wistman back to the path of righteousness.

“Bad luck, holy man,” Wistman belched, “I’m far too comfortable to be changin’ my ways.”

He staggered on, his mind groggy with drunkenness and his stomach gorged with food. By the time he reached the cottage he was not surprised that there were no lights left on inside. Joy had probably tired of waiting for him and had taken herself to bed. He chuckled to himself as he thought of slipping into their warm bed and running his hands over her lithe young body.

Stepping into the house, Wistman expected to feel the warmth of the fire but was somewhat taken aback to see that the hearth had been untended all night. He blundered about in the darkness until he laid his hands on a lantern. Fumbling with the matches, Wistman swore at them volubly, unconcerned that his curses would disturb Joy. He breathed a sigh of relief when he was finally able to get the lantern lit, but this sigh quickly became a strangled cry when the darkened room was flooded with light.

Everywhere he looked were signs of a ferocious struggle. Broken furniture and smashed crockery carpeted the floor and drops of blood speckled the ruins. Horrified by the sight before him, Wistman’s legs fell from beneath him and he clutched the wall for support. He slumped to the ground and edged forward on all fours, his breath coming in sobs as he saw the butchered form in the next room. Joy lay on her back, her long blonde tresses soaking in the blood that pooled about her body. Pale eyes gazed emptily at the ceiling, her open mouth testament to her agonising final moments. His mind ran back to the stranger and the peculiar meal they had shared in the stone circle. A note was pinned to her chest and once Wistman had read it, he ran screaming into the night, wild eyed with terror and revulsion. A few words were scrawled on the paper in a spidery, untrained hand.

“Thank you for sharing your Joy. Sometimes we do it without realising.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I’m an aspiring novelist, currently living in the windswept Outer Hebrides with my wife, daughter and Europe’s stupidest greyhound. I have previously been published online and in “Crossed Genres” magazine.