Tales of a grandmother - The Tree of Knowledge

I spent a certain portion of every year in a village of Upper
Wharfedale, where I made many friends among the farm folk. Among these I
give pride of place to Martha Hessletine.

Martha Hessletine was always known in the village as Grannie. She was
everybody's Grannie. Crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed
for years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing
that one might expect from a French princess in the days of the _grand
monarque_. The village children would pay her a visit on their way home
from afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to
which her bed was always placed by day, was the Parliament House for all
the neighbouring farms. What Grannie did not know of the life of the
village and the dale was certainly not worth knowing.

Grannie's one luxury was a good fire. A fire, she used to say, gave you
three things in one--warmth, and light, and company. Usually she burnt
coal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in
June, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would
often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her
for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf
would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached.

I was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that
she was speaking.

"We allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and varra warm
they were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a
gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the
stars shining of a frosty neet."

"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" I asked.

"Aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the ash; we could
roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and
made our supper o' taties and buttermilk."

So her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not wishing to
interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing
geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was
I in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had
stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I
was doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly
heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "What is thou
doing that for?" and turning round, I was startled to see on her usually
placid face the look of a hunted animal.

Touched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to understand
why it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. For
a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice,
replied: "I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes."

"Why, what does it matter?" I asked, and, in the hope that I might help
her to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious
fancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs.

"It's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter truth, and
I've proved it misen, to my cost."

Seeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the subject,
but she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost
in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen in
them before. Then she turned to me and asked: "Has thou iver heerd tell
o' ash-riddling?"

"Of course I have," I replied. "Everybody knows what it is to riddle
ashes."

"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St Mark's
Day?"

Here was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my ignorance. It
was evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by
disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer
attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel.

"It was 1870," she began, "the year o' the Franco-German War, that I
first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's
father, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was
a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good
farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper
were noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went
wrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver
been afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt
that I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my
milking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by
the fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished
that I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter
wouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking
her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching
ways.

"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when
my man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. At first I wouldn't tell
him, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end I was glad on
't. But he nobbut laughed when I told him about Owd Jerry, and he said
he'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting
what he wanted. I got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get
shut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us."

"'I reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said Mike, 'now he's close on
eighty.' So I said if that were the case it would be a good thing for
the peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. Yon were
gaumless words, and bitter did I rue iver having spokken 'em. But Mike
nobbut laughed at what I said. "'Putten under grund!' said he. 'Nay,
father will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough
as a yak-stowp.'

"'He'll do nowt o' the sort,' I answered; 'and he wi' a hoast in his
thropple like a badly cow. I sudn't be surprised if he were dead by
Chrissamas.'

"'We can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' replied
Mike. 'It will be Ash-Riddling Day come next Friday, and then we can
find out for wersens if Owd Jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.'

"'What does thou mean?' I axed.

"'Why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver heerd tell
o' Ash-Riddling Day? What a thing it is to wed a foreigner! If thou'd
been bred and born in Wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about
Ash-Riddling Day.'

Well, I set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been brought
up in his dale, for I was wanting to know what he meant.

"'What thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake afore
thou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all
ower the hearthstone. Then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if
there's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the foot-step
o' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.'

"When he'd finished his tale I gave out that I reckoned it nobbut
blether, but I minded all the same; and that neet, when I were i' bed, I
couldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and I made up my mind
that I'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come Thorsday neet. Next
morning I thought different, but all the same I couldn't get shut o' the
temptation. Ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were
ticing me to eat o' the Tree o' Knowledge, same as he ticed Eve i' the
garden. So I said: 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I kept him behind me
all that day. But when it got dark, and I'd putten the childer to bed,
he came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. It wasn't that
I wanted Owd Jerry to dee, but I were mad to see if there was ony truth
in the tale that Mike had told.

"Well, Tuesday passed, and Wednesday passed, and Thorsday came. I said
no more about the ash-riddling to Mike, and I reckon he'd forgotten all
about it. But that day Owd Jerry were warr nor iver. He set up his
fratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it all
day. Nowt that I did for him were reet; if I filled his pipe, he said
I'd putten salt in his baccy, and if I went out to feed the cauves, he
told me I left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o'
cowd. Evening came at last, and by nine o'clock I were left alone i' the
kitchen. Owd Jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except Amos,
our eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the
lambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. He was a good
lad was Amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the rest
on 'em took after their father. So I sat misen down on a stool and
glowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as Jacob
wrastled wi' the angel. And the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile
deevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were
the souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out o'
the deevils' road. But the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap
'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean.

"At last I couldn't thole it no longer. Ash-riddling or no ash-riddling,
I said, I'm boun' to bed, and upstairs I went. Well, I lay i' bed happen
three-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark
i' my head stronger and stronger. At lang length I crept downstairs
agean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. All was whisht as the grave,
and the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils
to freeten me. So I took the riddle that I'd gotten ready afore and
began to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. The stone were hot,
but I were cowd as an ice-shackle, and I felt the goose-flesh creeping
all ower my body. When I'd riddled all the ash I made it snod wi' the
peat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, I crept back into bed and
waited while Mike and Amos came home.

"They got back about eleven, and then I thought, they'll happen see what
I've done. But they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the
stable, and I'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. I heerd
'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and
Mike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and I knew he'd
niver set een on the ash-riddling. He soon fell asleep, and after a
while I dozed off too, and dreamt I were murdering Owd Jerry i' the
staggarth. As soon as cockleet came, I wakkened up and crept downstairs,
quiet-like, so as not to-wakken Mike or the childer. And there on the
hearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of a
man's clog.

"It were Jerry's clog as plain as life. When I saw it I went all of a
didder, and thought I sud ha' fainted' for all that I'd dreamt about
murdering Owd Jerry came back into my mind. But I drave a pin into my
arm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit
the fire. After I'd mashed misen a cup o' tea I felt better, and got
agate wi' the housewark. But, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, was
yon. Ivery time I heerd the owd man hoast I thought he were boun' to
dee. But he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he
kept mending all the time. I couldn't forget, howiver, what I'd done,
and the thought of how I'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more
patient and gentle wi' Jerry nor iver I'd been afore.

"Spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, swallows and
yallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and
the childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods for
Whissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. We had a good lambing
time, and a good hay harvest at efter. I kept Jerry under my eye all the
while, and nowt went wrang wi' him. He'd get about the farm wi' the
dogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and
he'd ommost lossen his hoast. He fratched and threaped same as usual if
owt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket i'
the house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he could
get about and go down to 'The Craven Heifer' for his forenoon drinkings,
same as he'd allus done sin first I came into Wharfedale as Mike's
bride. And when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter and
tar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still Owd Jerry kept wick and
cobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when I forgot what I'd
done on Ash-Riddling Day. And when I thought about it, it didn't flay me
like it used to do; for I said to misen, 'I'll keep Owd Jerry alive
ovver next St Mark's Day, choose how.' So I knitted him a muffler for
his throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; I brewed him hot drinks
made out o' herbs I'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and
rubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey
frae the bee-skeps. Eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to
sup the herb tea and to let me rub him. He reckoned I wanted to puzzum
him same as if he were a ratton, and when I'd putten the saim and honey
on his chest he said I'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. But I set no count
on his nattering so long as I could keep him alive.

"Chrissamas came at last, and New Year set in wi' frost and snow. The
grouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played Hamlet about
the farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark
off the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. I did all I could to keep
Owd Jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would
toddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got
his hoast back agean i' his thropple. All the same, I wouldn't give in.
I counted the days while St Mark's Day, and tewed and rived and better
rived to keep him out o' his coffin. But it was weary wark, and I got no
thanks frae Jerry for all I was doing for him.

"At lang length St Mark's Eve came round, and a wild day it was, and no
mistake. There had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and after
the snow had come rain. It was a bad lambing time, and Mike and Amos
were about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the
lambs that had lossen their yowes. Owd Jerry had threaped shameful the
day afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down
to 'The Craven Heifer.'

"When I'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it were still
lashing wi' rain, and I said to misen, I'll keep Jerry i' bed to-day. If
I can keep him alive to-day I sal have won, and Jerry can do what he
likes wi' hissen to-morrow. So I hugged up his breakfast to his chamer
and told him I'd leet a fire for him there, and I'd get Harry Spink to
come and sit wi' him and keep him company. But Jerry wouldn't bide i'
bed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and
a wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. So off he set, wi'
the rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and
higher wi' the spate.

"Eh, deary me! What I had to thole that day! I was flaid that if he had
a drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the
town-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. I
offered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he
wanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do
wi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. Well, twelve
o'clock came, and when I saw Owd Jerry coming back to his dinner I were
that fain I could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on his
face.

"When dinner were ower Mike told our Amos that he mun fetch in the
stirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' Wharfe. The weather
were that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all
neet. So Amos set off about half-past two, and, efter I'd weshed up and
sided away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings.
And there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no
sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind
grew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me
that day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as
there's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the
time, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the
Almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge.

"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came back frae
school, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had
gotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet
awhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling that
I'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike
for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd
Jerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen,
but kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' the
stirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on
the road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms
round about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle."

For a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that
were now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be
the tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But
she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the
bitter end.

"Aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. It was
Amos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across
Wharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. It
wasn't Jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was Amos's; and the Lord had
taen away my eldest barn frae me because I'd etten o' the Tree o'
Knowledge."


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