|
|
|
|
The Curious Tale of Little Oakham |
|
| Written by Richard Johnson | |
| Wednesday, 20 February 2008 | |
|
Share it:      It had been approaching dusk when the driver called out to me. I had been starting to fall asleep in the carriage, and his sudden exclamation made me start in alarm. "What is it Parkins?" I muttered, rather irritably. "Begging your pardon, sir," he continued, "but the horses are growing tired. It may be prudent to stable them for the night." "How much farther to London, Parkins?" There was a pause. "About another hundred miles by my reckoning, sir." I sighed audibly. "Very well. Make for the next village."
The next village had in fact been the tiny hamlet of Little Oakham, whose existence had been brought to my driver's attention by a weather-beaten sign, rampant with weeds and almost completely imperceptible in the twilight were it not for his exceptional eyes. On one side of the road that led toward the village there stood a tall hedge, so densely overgrown that it hung over and above us like a canopy. The road itself was treacherous: stony, uneven and riddled with deep potholes that threatened to break the legs of the horses at every trot. At certain times I caught the sweet smell of wood smoke on the wind, mingled with the aroma of cooking meat, and something else that I couldn't quite discern. We reached the village just as dusk had fallen. It was a miserable little hamlet by all accounts. From my recollection there can't have been more than ten houses lining a crooked street, with a ramshackle church at the very end - the tombstones in the graveyard loomed jagged and ghastly in the dying light. The only visible illumination of a man-made source came from an Inn to our left, set back somewhat from the main street. It was a modest affair - a two-story building of Tudor design. I asked Parker to locate the stables and meet me inside once he had taken care of the horses. He nodded humbly, and went about his business as I made my way across the street. The smell of burning was more distinct here, and more acrid, but there was still no sign of a bonfire or smoke of any kind. Shrugging, I entered the Inn. Inside the atmosphere was noticeable different; it was a cosy, homely affair, much more welcoming than the deserted streets. A roaring fire sat in the hearth that I attributed at once as the source of the burning smell I had noticed outside. There were a few patrons dotted around the place, nursing casks of ale or talking between themselves. They did not seem to notice me, and even the landlord regarded me with a distant, glassy gaze when I enquired about a room. It transpired that I could have the pick of the rooms, as all were free; apparently Little Oakham didn't get many visitors nowadays.
Parker soon returned with my luggage, and after we had deposited the items in my room - a dark, dank and mould-ridden excuse for lodgings - we went downstairs and engaged the landlord in conversation. He was an amiable enough fellow, if a little distant and aloof. He had a terrible affliction of the skin that I did not wish to address, but could not help thinking must have been terribly painful. His hands and face were extremely raw and cracked, and I made effort to avoid touching his bare flesh in case I were to contract whatever frightful disease he may be carrying. As the night drew on, the patrons began to file out of the inn. It had only then occurred to me how quiet the place had been, despite it being relatively full. There had been a sombre mood, and the conversations stunted and hushed. When I asked the landlord if there had been a passing, he merely smiled at me in a way that made me feel distinctly uneasy. At twelve of the clock, Parkins and I retired to our room, with Parkins resigning himself to the floor. The blankets provided were damp and stale, and a terrible wind rattled the thin windows that night, carrying with it the incessant burning smell that seemed to permeate everything in the village.
Morning arrived grey and dull after our restless sleep. We descended the stairs hoping to find breakfast laid out, but instead found the inn completely deserted. The landlord was notable by his absence, and being on borrowed time, I left my payment behind the bar and followed Parkins to the stables. The horses were beside themselves when we finally reached them, and we had ourselves a terrible time trying to stifle their bucking and get the re-harnessed. Once again, the streets were completely deserted, but Parkins reassured me that he had settled the bill with the rather disagreeable stable master the night before, and I trusted him implicitly. "What time is it, Parkins," I asked, curious as to why the village was sleeping in so late. "Eleven of the morn I believe, sir." He looked up at the milky sun hanging low and fat in the grey sky. "Folks in this part of the world must value their sleep," I said absently. "Aye, sir," agreed Parkins.
Once the horses were harnessed, we disembarked. By this time it must have been at least one o' clock in the afternoon, and we had not seen a single soul about the village. The tiny windows of the crooked houses were dark and curtain-less but afforded no view of the inside. By this time I had grown quite uneasy with the place, and was beginning to develop the most frightful headache as a result of the stifling air that seemed to be growing evermore stagnant and choking.
It was evening once more when we finally arrived in the outskirts of London and I felt a sense of great relief as the bright lights of the city sprawled out before us. We checked into a coach house for the evening, and spent a very enjoyable night drinking and playing cards with a number of local townsfolk. It was not until I struck up a conversation with a particular gentleman, whose name escapes me, that I was to go on to have the most profound and ghastly shock. I had been regaling him with the curious tale of Little Oakham and its eccentric residents, when I noticed he grew ever more ashen and silent the more I went on. After I finished my tale, he finished off his glass of whisky in a single gulp and making his excuses, retired to his chamber. Before he had done so however, he had leant over to me - out of earshot of the other patrons who were busy with their raucous banter - and insisted that I visit the local library the very next morning, and enquire about the village of Little Oakham. Utterly bemused by the man's reaction and also considerably anxious, I too retired to bed so that I could depart all the earlier the next morning for the library.
At dawns first light the following morning, I hastily washed, dressed and made my way to the library, leaving a note for Parkins explaining that I had some urgent business to attend to and that he should remain at the coach house until my return. I arrived at the library in good time, and immediately asked to speak with the curator. He was a squat, comical looking man with a pair of thin pince-nez that teetered on the end of his large nose. He was more than obliging to help me with my investigations, and led me to a quiet corner of the library where old newspaper cuttings were kept. The book regarding Little Oakham was a heavy leather-bound affair containing a collection of newspaper cuttings from precisely eighteen months before. The curator opened the page at the Oakham entry, and gesturing to an empty table, bade me good day and went about his own business.
I shall never forget the moment at which my eyes fell upon that page. I wish for all the world that I had never looked upon that excerpt - that small, seemingly innocuous scrap of yellowing paper. I shall repeat for you now the first portion of the entry for Little Oakham as was originally printed. I cannot remember more, as I fainted not long after reading the passage and when I came to, I was in the home of a good friend of mine, being doted on by his chamber maid. Although the remaining passage is unknown, I have no desire whatsoever to seek out its conclusion. That first paragraph however shall be etched on my mind until my dying day. The passage reads as follows:
"A tragic fire swept through the hamlet of Little Oakham last night. Believed to have started in the kitchen of the Dog and Duck Inn, it swept through the village, exacerbated by the exceptionally dry summer the country has been experiencing. Alerted to the scene by smoke, the fire brigade was unable to stem the inferno in time. No-one is thus far known to have survived the blaze. It is believed that the entire village has perished in this terrible tragedy." Copyright 2008 Richard Johnson |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email
