The Deadwood Curse

There was great merriment within the walls of the Ducking Pond Inn. The contents of tankards slopped and spilled, sending droplets of ale flying into the air, as they waved about in the hands of their tipsy drinkers. Well-worn boots stomped joyfully on the wooden floorboards. Twisting, and mixing the sawdust into the little pools of liquid; lying abandoned after falling from great heights. Laughter, singing, shouting, and coughing, all mingled among the tunes coming from a little fiddle. Its bow sawed hastily back-and-forth, back-and-forth, with its broken strands flying about, as they whipped to-and-fro, dancing in the air to their own joyful melody. Suddenly, a loud, long, rumble of thunder, shook the inn windows, stopping everybody in their tracks. Nobody had been expecting a storm and weren’t prepared for one either. Everyone stood silent, watching, as the inn slowly became engulfed in darkness. A couple of men rushed to the windows, and a wide-eyed look of shock crept across their purple, blotched, whiskered faces. “That be one hell of a storm!” cried a voice from among the crowd of muttering drinkers. Tankards were quickly supped dry, and a mass evacuation of the inn ensued. There were just three market traders left behind, each of them happily intoxicated and trying, without much success to put one foot in front of the other and walk in a straight line. One of them was a young man in his mid-twenties and the other two were much older, but possibly not any wiser. Giggling like naughty children, they staggered, bumped, and pushed one another through the inn door and out into the darkness. There they stopped; almost dead still, but swaying, as they looked up at the angry swirling clouds, hovering above their heads. “Best make a run for it, me thinks!” said the burliest of them, and began hurrying in a zig zag fashion towards his horse and cart, briskly followed by the other two, tripping and weaving their way towards the village green and their impatient, fretting animals. The eldest man’s horse was snorting and stomping; jolting its cart forwards, and the youngest man’s goat, which was tethered beside his barrow, began bleating madly at the sight of its owner. They were stood on the edge of the green when suddenly, the strongest and noisiest force of wind blew towards them, knocking the men backwards. The smallest of the two older men stumbled onto the ground, losing his hat to the almighty gust, as it was whipped from his head and into the air. They all stared open mouthed, as the sound of invisible galloping horses, raced past among the strong wind like a tornado, and disappeared into the darkness. The smaller man scrambled to his feet and staggered after his hat. He pulled it firmly onto his head saying, “Think I be having one too many,” and let out a nervous chuckle. “What that be then?” stammered the burly man. His face was flushed red, and his pale eyes were wide with shock. “Right queer that! It sounded like galloping horses, but I didden see a thing!” “I dunno!” trembled the youngest man. “But I do be needing another drink to calm me nerves.” And he shot back towards the inn door. The others laughed so loud that a few people from nearby houses opened their doors and peered out, to see what was causing the commotion. Eyeing the heavy clouds encircling the village, the other two men gathered themselves together and made a hasty retreat home. The younger man was back inside the Ducking Pond Inn, leaning heavily against the bar, and rubbing his hand over his head of neatly cut, mousy brown hair. “Thought ye be on your way home?” quizzed Isaac. “Zummat up man? You be looking a tad pasty.” “Dunno!” said the young man. “Zummat right queer just happened, and I do be needing another drink, look!” he held out his shaking hands. “I be all of a biver.” Isaac quickly poured him a whisky before leaning on the bar opposite; chin-in-hands and listening to the young man’s tale. Isaac began smiling. “You be laughing at me?” scowled the young man. “No… no!” said Isaac. “It do sound like you’ve witnessed the Whooshinpast ghost.” “What? Now ye be having a joke on me,” the young man grinned, shaking a finger at Isaac. “It be true!” said Isaac. “Ye just ask some of the oldens.” The young man began to laugh, he wasn’t buying it, but Isaac continued with the tale. “Every year at around this time, there be the strongest gust of wind, like a tornado and the sound of galloping horses. “It be very quick and not many have been a witness to it, but that be how the village got its name see. Folk avore us used to say… the noise! It be whooshing past! And so, it became known as the place of the Whooshinpast.” “Well, I’ll be!” gasped the young man. “Ooh-arr, they do say that it goes through the village and heads out towards the old dead woods, where tis told, there was once an old settlement, and many men were slaughtered. Folk do say that sometimes you can hear the cries of women coming from them woods too.” The serious look on Isaac’s face was enough to convince the young man that the tale was true. “Felt like the end of the world out there! What with it being dark and stormy too. I best get off home then, avore the rain do come.” The young man staggered back out of the inn and Isaac decided to lock up for the night. He didn’t expect any more customers to turn up in such dark thundering weather.