The Burleigh Town Guild Chapters 10 to 12

Chapter Thirteen

 

The councilmen were in a tizzy.  They wouldn’t have put it that way, because after all they were men of substance, men of bearing and dignity, but their wives would have put it exactly that way.  The sentinel trials were scheduled for less than a month away and the man in charge, one of their own, had run off to play soldier. 

 

“At his age!” said Reverend Haley. 

 

“Well he always did think that he was the only one who could do anything,” said Mr. Deal.  “Probably plans to ride straight through to Scotland and have the whole thing sorted out in two weeks.”

 

Did he really reenlist?” asked the mayor.

 

“Mmm,” nodded Biggs, pawing through the sack that the colonel’s maid had delivered to the town hall.  “Very patriotic - God save the king and all that - but it rather leaves us hanging, doesn’t it?  He could have shown a bit of consideration closer to home, what?”  He turned the paper he was trying to read the other way round.  “I can’t read this blasted handwriting.  Does he mean to tell this feller that he’s invited or that he’s not?”

 

Deal got a lot of satisfaction watching the other men make a shambles of the tabletop – and the floor - and he waited until they were reaching the point of despair before he cleared his throat and offered to take on the planning job himself.  The schoolmaster knew that he was the only one who could get it done it in time to save the trials from becoming a complete fiasco, and honestly, why hadn’t they just given it to him in the first place?  He would have laid money that the colonel had only reenlisted to skip out on his duties in Burleigh now that it was coming time to pay the piper.  He bet that the colonel had made a balls-up of the entire thing and now any evidence would be waiting in Deal’s pocket when Sweeney got back.  Life was sweet.

 

 Of course, he said none of this aloud; he knew how to play the game.

 

Biggs suggested that the council declare a two-week school holiday in order to give the schoolmaster time to catch up, and after a short discussion about putting the older boys to work building a bandstand, the motion passed unanimously.  Toby offered to have his steward come round to the schoolhouse every day to do some of the secretarial work.  Miller suggested that the councilmen could take turns helping Deal, but the rest of the men soon dismissed this.  It was generally agreed that one man, if he were the right man, could keep a better handle on things. 

 

Soon afterward, the bulging sack of papers was on its way to Deal’s study and everyone was headed home again, pleased with the way they had taken charge of what could have been a serious setback and turned it into another triumph of the British can-do spirit.  Mayor Bodmer, for example, could be seen bouncing along the High Street in very good spirits indeed.

 

During the next few weeks, the sentinel contest took off.  Even Mr. Deal couldn’t believe how much paper he had to wade through and how many little details he had to decide.  Volunteers from town and country built the bandstand and the obstacle course, prepared the commons for the competition, cleaned the inn, laid in huge stocks of food – and Deal was right in the thick of it, yelling and pointing.  This contest was the biggest thing to happen to Burleigh in years and would bring in visitors from all over the county.   And it all had to be ready by May first.

 

The guide was moved to the mayor’s house to make the inn available for the sentinels.  Bodmer volunteered to take charge of the guide’s watch himself, freeing Johnson to concentrate on keeping the peace in town now that the big day was almost here.

 

The constable knew he would need help during the trials and deputized Toby and Biggs to manage the contestants.  Of course, the town wasn’t expecting trouble, but sentinels were chosen at least in part based on their physical prowess and ability to react quickly.  A dished sentinel was quite a different thing from a disappointed guide and Toby and BIggs had just the right qualifications for this job – hard heads and even harder fists.

 

The rest of the councilmen helped out in their own areas of expertise.  Miller was put in charge of food storage, the vicar collected money to help defray the additional costs of having to buy things at the last minute – Sweeney had done almost nothing – and Friars took charge of arranging additional entertainment for the crowds.  Part of his job at the manor was providing amusements for ‘the family’s’ elaborate parties and the councilmen were happy to let him do the same for them.

 

There was a guide promised to Burleighs

Whose hair was as long as a gurlies

When a sentinel stole him, the townspeople told him,

“We’ll get YOU by the short and the curlies.

                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So what do you think?”  Alfred Long asked the mayor hopefully.

 

The mayor handed the slate back to the boy and said,  “Ah, I wouldn’t show that to the schoolmaster if I were you, Alfie.  It’s a bit, er, ungrammatical - if you know what I mean.  And Burleigh doesn’t have an S in it.”

 

“It’s harder than you think, trying to make this stuff rhyme, Mr. Bodmer.  It must have taken me five whole minutes to come up with this lot.  Do you think this one’s better?”  He flipped the slate over.

 

 

There was a Lord, balding and surly

Tried to steal the guide promised to Burleigh

“Go on run, you can’t hide,”

The townspeople cried.

“We’ll catch YOU by the short and the curlies!”

 

 

 

 “So which one do you think I should I show the lads?”

 

The mayor stared sternly at Alfie for a moment.  “Both of them, I should think.  The second one is clearer but the first one shows a certain, ah, feeling.”

 

“Do you think I could show them to Mr. Sandburg sometime, Mayor?” the lad asked.

 

“Well, I don’t think he’s up to it just now, Alfie boy.   Hold onto them for a while.  I’m sure he’ll want to see them when he’s feeling a little, ah, better.”

 

“Gosh thank, Mayor!” the teenager cried, running off to find his friends.

 

“Good to see the boys are keeping up an interest in literature, “ Bodmer thought as he crossed the street, “what with all the excitement.”  Tradesmen were putting up bunting on the shop doors and housewives were sweeping their stoops furiously.  “They’re coming tomorrow, bless my soul, “ he thought.  “Must double-check with the Keatons.  Have we enough beds?   Wait, I guess Deal has taken care of that.  Still, it feels like I’m forgetting something…”

 

Then he saw the sweet shop.  He had almost forgotten to pick up some marchpane and ginger nuts for the get-together that the women had planned for later in the day.  It was heartwarming to see how fond the ladies had grown of the town guide, and their skill was amazing, but even the most dedicated nurses needed the occasional holiday.  This was their short breather between the long hard winter watch and the contest tomorrow.   Browsing among the items on display, he couldn’t make up his mind which dainties to buy.   He ended up with most of them.  “Nothing is too good for the ladies of Burleigh,” he told himself as he hurried home to surprise his own lady.  The morning’s council meeting had been a whirlwind of efficiency, thanks to Deal, and had concluded in less than an hour instead of the usual two or three.  He would hurry home and help Joan get ready for her little hen party.

 

 

The mayor needn’t have worried about the inn. The Keatons were preparing for everything short of a siege.  Neither of them had been old enough to remember much about the last Sentinel trials in Burleigh, but they had heard stories, and if even half of what the old-timers said was true, they were going to have to keep on their toes.

 

Every room had been cleaned and whitewashed, thanks to the boys of the town, and new blankets sat at the foot of beds whose mattresses had been re-stuffed and aired in the sun. They knew that the rooms would still be a little

uncomfortable to people with such exceptional senses – there wasn’t much they could do about the hay-filled mattresses, for example - but they hoped that the sentinels would give them credit for trying.  The room that Blair had been using until recently was set aside for Toby and Biggs, as the innkeepers had been told that no sentinel should be housed there – exactly why they were not told, and they had still needed to paint and clean it the same as the others, but if it helped to keep their inn in one piece they didn’t want to argue about it.

 

The Keatons could also have saved a lot of time and effort if they could have put two beds in each room, but again they were told that unlike guides, each sentinel had to have his or her own room.  This was apparently of the utmost importance.  Sentinels had to be able to defend their area, even if it was only fifty square feet, and any attempt to reason with them on this point was fruitless.  “Keep a few of them in town, if you have to,” Reverend Haley had told the couple.  “Or even one in the stable.  Just don’t put them together.”

 

It was going to be like hosting rival football teams, George Keaton complained - except that every sentinel played for himself alone, so maybe boxing was a better analogy.  Only one of them could win and the rest would have to be dealt with kindly but firmly.  The best plate had been wrapped in straw and carried to the cellar, and new locks fitted on the cellar and barroom doors. 

 

Mrs. Keaton and her mother had spent that morning scouring the kitchen.  The sentinels would all arrive tomorrow afternoon sometime and the bread and pies would have to be made then.  It was going to be a bit of a trial trying to serve nothing but fresh food this early in the year, but they had the reputation of the town and the inn to uphold.  This afternoon they were both going to take a break from their labors and go over to Mrs. Bodmer’s house for a party.  Alf complained that there was still work to do and that his wife should stay home where she was needed, but his wife told him quite plainly that she was done for the day and that he could sit at home and worry for the both of them.  Then she kissed him on the cheek and left to pick up her mother.

________________________________________________________________

 

Silas Bodmer did not enter at his front door.  He went along the garden path to the kitchen, gave the cook a conspiratorial wink and instructions to bring along chocolate for two in about an hour, and then tiptoed down the hall to surprise his little sugar cookie.  What he saw when he peered into the parlor made him stop short, close the door noiselessly and go back the way he had come. 

 

He told the cook that he had changed his mind about the chocolate and that he had just remembered a prior engagement.  He wouldn’t want his wife to think that he was getting senile.  He would be obliged if cook would just forget that he had been home.

 

The servant nodded in understanding and pocketed the coin.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

 

May first was a Saturday.  Two of the sentinels arrived in their own carriages, three on horseback, and three more on foot.  Their station in life would not make much difference in the coming selection process but rather more in the speed and comfort with which the losers would be leaving at the end of the week.  All of them were given nearly identical rooms, short carriage tours of the town, and plenty of supper served individually in their chambers.

 

The ones who were competing for the first time were surprised at the lack of admiration, or excitement, or even interest they received from the townspeople.  .  In fact there were not many people to see.  The carriages had not stopped anywhere on their tours and the town had appeared to be mostly deserted. 

 

The seasoned competitors knew exactly what to expect after supper and they gathered downstairs at the evening bell and were shown into the barroom.  Only the first-timers, who had to be found and escorted down, were surprised to find that the bar was now serving only sweet cider.  One by one their names were called and they were driven back into town for their formal interviews at the town hall. 

 

The process seemed designed not only to ensure privacy for the council and the interviewee, but to test the contestants’ endurance as well.  There was nothing to do but listen for the carriage.  Once dropped off back at the inn, each sentinel was asked to return to the bar where they all sat at almost the exact same distance from each other, allowing for the shape of the room.  No one moved until someone returned and someone else departed and then the sentinels rearranged their chairs ever so slightly so that they each had as much distance as possible between themselves again.  This group was not going to chat – one of the first-timers had tried mentioning the fine weather and was stared down as if he had said something rude.  They weren’t going to throw a few round of darts – which seemed to have gone missing from the board anyway – or play primero or hazard.  They stared at the pictures on the walls and at the nails on their hands.  They counted the threads in their stockings.  They waited.

 

“Perhaps the councilmen are conducting a clever test”, one of the veterans thought glumly, “but more than likely they just don’t give a toss.”  All but the greenest of the sentinels had suffered the whims of small town bureaucrats before and they no longer wondered at the thoughtless way they were often treated.  An unbonded sentinel was only a liability.  That was how the council would see it.

 

Their confinement ended just before midnight - with no explanation of course - and when the contestants were escorted to their rooms by the two biggest councilmen and bid good night, it had sounded very much like an order.

 

Joan was getting steadily more and more upset with her husband.  He had missed the sunrise ceremony that morning, having risen well before then, and then the maypole dance at noon.  The afternoon picnic in the woods had come and gone, as had dinner and the sentinel interviews, and now the final rites were less than an hour away. 

 

The note she had found on his pillow that morning had only said that he needed to be alone for a while, but that did not help her when the townspeople wanted to know where he was and when he was coming back.  She had been forced to show the note to Reverend Haley when it became apparent that the mayor would not be returning in time for the interviews.  The vicar told her that he would take Silas’ place and that she should just carry on as usual.

 

‘It’s May Day!  The sentinels are here!  Doesn’t the Mayor realize how important this is?’  She wanted to slap every person who thought they were the only one to remind her.  Did they think she was stupid?  Did they think she wouldn’t notice that her own husband was missing? 

 

By the time she had finished dressing for the rite, Joan had worked herself up into a state.  When her maid Jenny came in to help with her hair, Joan snapped, “He’s not back!  That’s what they sent you to find out, right?”

 

“I, I – Here is the circlet for your hair, ma’am.” The wise girl set the jeweled ornament down on the vanity and started backing away.

 

“Just put it down and leave,” Joan said, not noticing that her maid had anticipated her wishes.  “I’m sorry, Jenny, I just need a few minutes alone.”  The words reminded her of Silas’ note and she suddenly had an awful thought.

 

“Did any of you see Mr. Bodmer about the house yesterday morning after breakfast?” she asked the maid.  “Or did anyone else stop in?”

 

“Not that I know of, ma’am.  The master said he had to get to the council meeting early to set up.  He got back at noon, same as usual.  Lark has already spoken to the rest of the us and nobody remembers anything,” the girl said, looking down at the floor.

 

“Well, ok then.  You may go.  Have the horse and carriage waiting at the door.”

 

Yes, ma’am.”

 

 Mrs. Bodmer’s maid and her cook had been best friends - and confidants - since childhood.  Jenny shook her head as she made her way down the back staircase.  “It never pays to lie,” she thought sadly.  “The missus should know better.”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

There was a dolmen that had stood on the hill north of Burleigh for as long as anyone could remember -until passing witch hunters had objected to the heathen thing and ordered it torn down.  The massive pile of stones, which looked like a giant’s table with a back wall, or a child’s drawing of a crèche, was broken up and used to repair the flooring in the parish church.  The inquisitors had thought that it was a particularly good object lesson and the townspeople had been forced to agree.

 

Now, almost a hundred years later, the only part that remained of the ancient monument was the back wall.  Even though it was presumably just as heathen as the rest of the thing, the inquisitors had allowed it to remain as a sop to the local women.  From time immemorial the parish mothers had brought their children here to try to cure them of sicknesses - by passing them through the oval hole just below the center of the wall – and the witch hunters didn’t think it was worth their time to try to argue with such dim-witted creatures.  They had the local stonecutter carve an elaborate cross into the top half of the standing-stone, ordered the whole thing blessed by the vicar in a special service, and then they rode away secure in the knowledge that they had made the world a better place.

 

And in a way they had.  The dolmen attracted much less attention from outsiders this way.

 

Now, in the torchlight, it looked much taller than the twelve feet it actually was.  Many of the women arranged in a circle around one side of it were recognizable as wives of prominent citizens or important people in their own right.  Maudie Long stood in the center, as did Joan Bodmer and Elizabeth Biggs – the squire’s teenage daughter – and the circle contained the wives and daughters of each of the councilmen, including Mrs. Sweeney, who was given a place of honor for making such an important personal sacrifice for the town.  Mrs. Bodmer walked the circle, presented a wreath of ivy to each of the acolytes and then placed the final one on Mrs. Sweeney’ s bowed head.  “May the fruit of your womb be blessed,” she whispered in the older woman’s ear.

 

“How did you -?”

 

“We know that you loved your husband, despite the way he treated you, and that you have longed for the children he couldn’t give you.  We want you to have the family you deserve.”

 

“You can tell?”

 

“Blair told us.”

 

Mrs. Sweeney felt her knees give out and the women closest to her caught her up and kissed away her tears while two others tied ribbons in her hair and then escorted her around the ring.

 

“Don’t worry,” one of her escorts said matter-of-factly.  “He’s not coming back from America.  My cousin promised to explain a few things to him on the way over.”

 

“I’m just so glad you didn’t kill him for what he did. “

 

“Nah, this is better.  You get to be the widow of a war hero, your child is born legitimate, and our hands are clean - enough.  He wouldn’t have been a worthy sacrifice anyway, Mary.”

 

The other escort said under her breath, “We haven’t sacrificed anyone in well over a hundred years, Mildred.”

 

“Yeah, but the men don’t know that, do they?   We have our reputation to think of.”

 

The ceremony continued until midnight.  The men, who waited at the bottom of the hill, agreed that it looked especially mysterious and powerful this year, at least the little they could see of it.  It sounded impressive anyway.

 

Finally, at the blowing of the ram’s horn, the men were allowed to climb the hill and join the womenfolk in a ritual that hadn’t been performed in many years – the passage of the guide.

 

“I should have known,” sighed the vicar. “Time to make complete fools of ourselves and who shows up? - Me and Miller.  Thank you so bloody much.”

 

The rest of the councilmen would have perfectly plausible explanations for their sudden disappearances – except perhaps for Mayor Bodmer – and reliable Reverend Haley would be left to take the brunt of the crude jokes for weeks to come.  Looking around grimly he spotted a group of teenage boys, who had pushed their way to the front to get the best view, and he loudly called for their assistance.  “This ought to even things up a bit,” he thought to himself.  “Not nearly as much fun on this side of the audience, is it lads?”

 

The teenagers were reluctant to help but they couldn’t refuse the vicar’s request in full view of the town.  Miller and Haley carried a drugged and confused Blair out of the back of Clay’s wagon and over to where the suddenly red-faced boys were staring at their feet. They had heard some things about the ritual – it was supposed to symbolize the rebirth of the guide - but this was too horrible.

 

“I’m sure you know what to do, lads.  Don’t let him touch the ground,” Haley said with some satisfaction as he handed the naked guide over to the lads.

 

Now it was a very different thing to pass a two year old through a stone slit then to try to do the same thing with a nude man who had been thickly coated head to foot with magical ointment – in reality the women had used chicken fat mixed with flower petals and rosemary – and who though he was having a strange dream.  Blair’s uncoordinated thrashing slowed down progress considerably but did much to delight the crowd, who hadn’t realized that solemn rituals could be so sporting.  It was like watching a greased pig contest combined with a football scrimmage. 

 

The two councilmen pointed out to the dismayed boys that they were needed on the other side of the slab to catch Blair when he finally made it through.  The guide’s robe was laid out in the grass, both men bent down and kissed its hem ceremonially, and then they leaned back against the rock to wait, occasionally peering around the corner to see how things were coming along.  The ancients had made the ritual as true to life as possible.

 

The crowd did their part in the traditional way.  Everyone cheered.  Many of the men, and not a few of the girls, called out suggestions or demonstrated with helpful gestures.  The boys’ friends hooted and pointed and fell in the grass.  When one of the lads – who played for the town - made a valiant save and ended up with Blair’s arse in his face, his own mother could be heard shrieking uncontrollably.  It was one of those occasions that made small town life enjoyable. 

 

“Oh, yes, quite a success,” thought the vicar, catching a ride back to town with his wife and daughters, “and a double bIessing for the town.  I believe those young men have achieved a whole new understanding of the power of ritual.”

 

Blair was tired – and sticky.  He had just had the strangest dream.  Was it morning yet? 

 

“Blair, concentrate!”

 

“Mmmm?  ‘Kay.  Coshentrainin... concentranin… ‘m sticky.  How’s that?”

 

“I must know, Blair.  Did my husband come home Friday morning?”

 

“Huh?  Is it Friday morning?  Must be rainin’ ‘gain – kinda dark.”  As he woke up a bit more he started picking up on the strong emotions coming from Joan.  ‘Something’s the matter.”  Blair bolted up and stared apprehensively around the room.  “What’s wrong?  Mom!  Something’s wrong!”

 

“No, Blair, nothing’s wrong.  It’s the middle of the night.  Don’t worry; it’s just a bad dream.  You close your eyes and go back to sleep,” Joan whispered, resigned to the fact that she was not going to learn anything tonight.  She couldn’t let her emotions upset the bond.  “James and Molly are here with you.  Everything is fine.”

 

Blair looked at her like he couldn’t quite place who she was, but he followed her directions and lay back down.  Joan gestured to Molly, and the servant girl left her stool in the corner and came over to unlock the door.   The events of the past few days were taking a toll on Joan’s nerves and she paused for a moment on the landing to try to compose herself – all of her efforts came to naught when she turned and saw that her husband was right behind her.

 

Silas no longer looked like an amiable rabbit.  He stood dogged and imposing, like the warrior angels that stood on either side of the church doors, and his gaze was just as unpitying.  For the first time in her life, Joan was a bit afraid of her husband.  She took a step back and came in contact with the wall.  “I had to,” she said, at least partly to herself, as she held out the spare key and then followed Silas back up to the attic.

 

Lying on a pallet covered with old canvas tarps, Sir James Ellison lay curled up around Blair Sandburg, just as he had Friday morning in the parlor, only this time Joan was standing a the corner wringing her hands instead of helping his lordship to hold the guide.  Obviously, it was no longer necessary.

 

“I had to,” Joan repeated more loudly into the silence.  “He was dying.  I had to save him.”  She sat down on a packing crate and hugged herself.   “It’s the only secret I ever kept from you.  I promised my mother; I couldn’t tell.”

 

“He’s your nephew,” Bodmer said flatly.

 

“How - how did you…?”

 

Molly nodded at her.

 

 “Of course,” she thought, stunned.  “How stupid could I be?  This is Burleigh.  Someone in her family had told their secret - in strictest confidence - and that person had told someone else - with the solemn promise never to repeat it - and by now the only people in town who didn’t know that James Ellison was her nephew were probably members of her own family.

 

“Why did you think we risked our guide to revive him?” her husband continued in the same monotone. 

 

This was almost more than she could bear.  They all knew and they had taken pity on her - risked their precious guide for her - and see how she was repaying their kindness. Joan shook and gasped but she wouldn’t let herself cry.  She had known as soon as she saw Sir James in the woods what she had to do and what it would cost her.  What was funny was that this was the only truly unselfish thing she had ever done in her life.  Still, she didn’t expect anyone else to understand. 

 

“Early Friday morning,” she said quietly, staring at the far wall, “Sir Simon Banks sent a message to me – addressed so that I knew that he knew – asking me to meet him in the woods by the bridge.  When I got there he said that he’d been trying to get into the inn for a couple of days but what with the cleaning and all it was too dangerous.  I told him that Blair had been moved to our house.”

 

She waited for Silas to reply to this additional admission of perfidy, but he didn’t even appear to be listening.

 

“James was a - a mess, “ she continued.  “Sir Simon explained that James’ guide died of the fever almost a week ago, and Burlington told everyone that both his son and his son’s current valet had perished.  The funeral was Monday - in London - and Steven is the new heir.  Silas, we’re all he has left.”

 

“Not exactly, madam,” her husband said coldly.  “You saw to that.”

 

“Yes, I know, and the town’s punishment must be for me alone.  You can’t hold this against James.  Sir Simon rescued him from a shed in the slums where William had paid someone to keep him out of sight until he died.  He couldn’t even remember his own name until last night.  If I could have thought of any other way… Believe me, Silas - I’m not the best wife, but I know what I had.”  She put out her hand as if to caress his cheek. “You really loved me.” 

 

After that they remained still and silent for quite awhile.  Joan thought she should get up and ask her husband what he wanted her to do next – leave Burleigh, turn herself in to the constable – but she couldn’t get her body to obey her.   She didn’t even notice the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.

 

 

Sunday morning the sentinels were rounded up and driven into town for church services.  None of them was too surprised to discover that an additional contestant had been added to their ranks.  He must have arrived late in the night.  “Late for a trial. That won’t set too well with the judges,” one of them thought.  “Lucky bugger,” thought another, “How come he got to skip the interviews?”

 

The new man, introduced simply as Jim, wore ill-fitting clothes of poor quality and he looked like he had just gotten over a long illness – or possibly hadn’t.  The decisive point against him was that Jim had to be thirty if he was a day.  The other contestants, all of whom were twenty-five or younger, nodded condescendingly to the older man – if he hadn’t won a guide by now, he never would – and then forgot all about him and went back to worrying about each other.

 

The church was packed.  From their assigned seats in the choir loft, the sentinels had a bird’s eye view of the entire area – at least the councilmen had thought of something. 

 

The people of Burleigh must be deeply religious, the contestants decided.  The parishioners sat heads bowed in complete silence. The ones in the back and along the sides stood still – all of them.  No one was looking around to see what the others were doing - not the women, not even the children.  It could be a little intimidating to be the sentinel of such a place.  The words ‘boring’ and ‘depressing’ also came to mind.  Did Burleigh have Puritan leanings?

 

Finally, at the last moment – what all the sentinels had been waiting for.  From a door in the far transept, three people emerged.  The figure in the middle was covered head to toe in unbleached linen, looking for all the world like a pantomime ghost except for the heart and hand symbol painted in red on the front of his gown, but even in everyday dress they would have know it was the guide.  They could feel his power like a breeze on their faces. The man and woman on either side of him turned him to face the choir loft and he bowed in their general direction. One of the contestants let out a guffaw and the sound reverberated like the braying of a donkey in the silence. Two hundred parishioners stared up at them reproachfully.

 

“I saw something like this when I was a wee lad,” the offender whispered to the Biggs and Toby, who were standing guard in the loft.  “But that was a fourteen year old girl.  I thought this competition was for a grown man!”   None of the other sentinels had ever seen the old-fashioned guide robe used – it had gone out of use in most places generations ago – and they wondered if it had been revived to hide a hideous face or a deformed body.  The guide didn’t seem to have any trouble walking, apart from not being able to see.  The shroud did not have eyeholes, just a double thickness of hood that came down to the shoulders. 

 

The six men and two women –not counting old Jim, but then why bother - only knew that they were competing for a twenty-four year old male town-bonded guide who had graduated from Cambridge.  Now that they thought about it, the confirmation letters they had received had been rather sketchy and the fact that the confirmations had come so late was also suspicious.  They would have to keep their eyes open.

 

The guide and his escorts made their way up front to one of the enclosed worship boxes reserved for important families.  Maybe the finely dressed couple was the local gentry.  That would at least be a point in the guide’s favor.  The moment the door to the private box closed, the organ played a piercingly high note and the congregation burst into song.  The sentinels flinched as one – except for Jim - and covered their ears hastily.  Maybe the older man had already lost some of his abilities.

 

By the middle of the service they had all gotten their hearing back and were using their senses, imperfect as they yet were, to try to pick up clues on what could be wrong with the guide.  They didn’t have the vaguest idea what the long sermon was about, but they could have described the exact second that one bare hand reached out of the private box to grab hold of the alter rail, followed by the rest of the guide, still covered in linen.  So, ok, maybe there was something to the old ways.  None of them could remember ever being so enthralled by the shape of a plain square hand.  One of the women stifled a moan. 

 

Blair Sandburg, that was his name, felt his way along the railing to the middle of the church, where the vicar met him and led him up to the alter for an old-fashioned spring blessing  - more stuff and nonsense.  It went on bloody nearly forever and the locals seemed to be eating it up.  The contestants hoped the townspeople didn’t expect their sentinel – once they had one - to participate in such silliness.  Finally even the blessing was over.  Soaking wet from the pitcher of water that the vicar had dumped over his head, the guide turned to the congregation and pulled back his hood.   He spread his arms wide and walked down the center aisle slowly - so the parishioners could touch him for luck - and then, from the back of the church, he looked up at the choir loft – at them – and smiled like the sun.  

 

The sentinels all had to be helped down the stairs.

 

When they got back to the inn, a throng of townspeople had lined up along the roadside to greet them.  Farmers shook their hands until the sentinels weren’t sure they would ever be able to make a proper fist ever again.   Children brought them bouquets of flowers – and pretty weeds - from the fields.  Everyone wanted to speak to them.  Had it been that smile or was this just the strangest town in England?

 

The man who had escorted the guide in church earlier turned out to be the mayor of Burleigh.  He apologized humbly for being unable to greet them personally upon their arrivals yesterday.  He had been called away on unexpected business, but now he was back.  Were their rooms satisfactory?  What did they think of Burleigh so far?  Was there anything – anything at all - that the town could do to make their visit more enjoyable?  The sentinels revised their surmises once again.  Maybe it wasn’t the smile or the town - maybe the sudden change in their status was entirely due to the benevolence of the mayor.  They wished they liked him better, but they all thought he was kind of creepy.

 

By the middle of the afternoon the sentinels had met almost everyone, with the exceptions of the guide, of course, and the mayor’s own wife.  They hadn’t actually been told who she was, but only a husband and wife could have looked at each other with the misery and iciness that the sentinels had seen pass between the couple on their way to the worship box.

 

Anyone with an eye for small town politics would have enjoyed watching the people of Burleigh greet their guests. The townspeople gravitated unconsciously to the candidates that they felt most comfortable with, and so the more prosperous citizens surrounded the man and the woman wearing the latest fashions from London, the farmers swapped jokes with a well-muscled lad who looked like he knew which end of a hoe was up, and the shopkeepers talked business with a quiet man whose hairstyle and manner matched their own.  Of course, both the women received plenty of attention from all the men – good looks being almost a hallmark of sentinels – while their wives and girlfriends flirted with the men.

 

“Has it really been only eight months since we last did this?” the mayor thought to himself.  “Life goes along the same way for years and years, and then everything changes all at once.”  He picked up a tatted collar that someone had given to a contestant, and sighed at it before putting it back down. “I miss it; I miss the old days.”  He patted the collar before assuming his public face once more and going off to fawn over another sentinel.

 

By the end of the day it almost got to be a competition to see which contestant had the most stuff.  Little old ladies pointed and conferred before bestowing their homemade jams and candles on the lucky few, children ran out to pick more flowers for their favorites, and even the more sociable of the sentinels got into the spirit of the thing – modeling their new ribbons and lace – the women and the men, holding up the church ladies’ homemade treats, and even pretending to try to nab things from the others’ piles. 

 

If any of them noticed that Jim was missing from the social, they didn’t mention it.  Probably the old guy was tired from all the excitement or he didn’t trust his barriers to hold in the crowd.  They basked in the adulation and tributes that were their due as the cream of the crop.

 

Later that night the seasoned competitors went to sleep thinking that they had seen worse places and the two novices thinking that this outpouring of enthusiasm was what all choosings would be like.  The guide was still an unknown quantity – his face notwithstanding – but none of them was ready to pack it in yet.

 

Monday morning the neighboring villagers arrived for the festival.  Long ago the town forefathers had decided that their church must have been founded the first week of May – since all churches celebrated their founding with a fete.  With a stroke of the pen, they allayed suspicions about the town’s annual celebration and made a sentinel choosing into a double event.  Now the only cause for worry was the ability of the townspeople to keep their visitors from finding out about the ‘special’ events.

 

The sentinels lined up promptly on the green as their names were called and this time they were surprised to find out that two of them did not answer.  Brown, who was a frontrunner, and Miss Polly Green were both missing.  After a long wait, messengers reported that they had both been found – Brown with a hangover and Miss Green in a compromising position with the local blacksmith.  Regretfully, both of them had to be disqualified. 

 

The rest of the day consisted of tests of physical strength and agility.  The townspeople divided their time between betting on the outcomes and visiting the small fair that had been set up on the other side of the common.  Punch and Judy shows, jugglers, and troubadours alternated with tents selling all sorts of tempting items.

 

The day was a great success, with one exception.   One of the contestants twisted his ankle on the fifty-yard dash and had to be carried off the field.  The mayor was there instantly, apologizing for the terrible state of their track and offering to pay for any medical assistance the poor man might need to get back to perfect health.  Of course the poor man would not be able to compete further.

 

The next two days continued in the same vein.  The fair was well attended, the traveling players did a historical tragedy followed by a rather more popular comedy, and sentinels got sick to their stomachs, they passed out in their cups, and one of them got lost on a walk in the country and couldn’t be found until the next day.  It was like a curse hung over the whole competition.

 

At the end of the week, only the old man was left.  The contestants who hadn’t already departed felt sincerely sorry for the people of Burleigh, starting off the week with such high hopes and then having to settle for the also-ran.  Still, the results of a sentinel contest were always binding - even though Jim had won entirely by default.  And even Jim knew it.  The old guy was walking around like he couldn’t believe his luck. 

 

Well, good for him, they thought, as they packed to leave town. They planned to forget about the whole depressing thing.

 

 

Two months later, the sentinel and guide could be seen walking through Burleigh, stopping to talk to the shopkeepers and the boys playing ball behind the school.  Blair had the strangest feeling that the lads wanted to tell him something – he could feel the embarrassment coming off them in waves – but they had become much shyer around him since he became the official guide.  Either that or ‘Sir Jim’ still intimidated them.

 

Right now Blair was spending a lot of time showing Jim how to interact with the townspeople.  It was funny.  He had originally thought that he would be the fish out of water, but compared to Jim, he was a native.

 

Mayor Bodmer was coming the other way down the High Street.  “Good morning!  How are you?” the mayor called cheerfully.  Do you like your new accommodations?”  The bonded pair had been presented with the house across the street from the Bodmers.

 

“Good morning to you,” Blair replied for them both.  Jim was still liable to snap at people who presumed too much familiarity, but his guide was working on it.  “Can I talk to you privately for just a moment, Mayor?”  Blair turned to Jim and muttered under his breath, “You can listen, but don’t come over.”

 

Walking the mayor across the street, Blair asked, “Are things any better between you and your wife?”  He wouldn’t have been so blunt with anyone else, but after the last few months he felt he knew Silas Bodmer  - like an uncle.

 

 

“We’re talking,” the mayor sighed.  “I know she did what she thought was best and she didn’t do it to hurt me, but… I don’t know.  She was willing to lose me to save him.”

 

Jim started, but only Blair saw it.  Bodmer was turned the other way.

 

“She doesn’t love me like I love her.”  The mayor sounded so forlorn.

 

Blair didn’t know what to say to make Bodmer feel better.  Without his wife’s weakness, Jim would be dead and he would be paired with someone else.  A month ago he might have said that Sir James deserved a little retribution, but now he had gotten to understand the man – sort of, Jim was a hard nut to crack - and he wouldn’t change anything that happened.  Well, maybe the winter.  Blair had this odd feeling that things had happened while he was ‘ill’ that he really didn’t want to know about.

 

“I’ll come over and talk to you both if you like,” he offered.  

 

“Thank you,” Bodmer said gratefully.  “I should let you get on with your rounds.”

 

“Wait, I wanted to ask you about something else.”  This was going to be hard.  “I, uh, don’t know how to put this.  Can you tell me - did Grace Ellison have an affair with one of Joan’s brothers?”

 

Jim glared at his guide from across the road and started toward them.

 

“No, no, my dear boy –“

 

James halted in mid-stride.

 

“Lord Burlington really is Jim’s father.  His mother was a housemaid – Joan’s sister Betty.”

 

Jim looked thunderstruck.

 

“Grace couldn’t have children and when Betty came up – well, you know – old William arranged for the child to be christened as Grace’s.  It all happened in London.  Poor Betty only lived a few weeks after he was born and Joan was heartbroken when she found out that her big sister had died – of the plague, they told her.  Betty had been like a second mother to her.”  Blair knew that Bodmer was trying to explain how his wife could do what she did – mostly to himself.

 

Blair checked on his partner, who appeared to be having an epiphany in the middle of the High Street, and then he turned back to Bodmer, and for Jim’s sake he repeated it. “So, Jim really is an Ellison.”

 

“Of course, my boy.  There used to be a whole row of portraits hanging in the mansion – William had them taken down – of Ellisons from way back.  Jim has more of the family looks than either his father or his brother.  I bet we could dig up the old paintings if we asked Friars.  Burlington is a tight bastard, for all his money.  He wouldn’t have gotten rid of them.”

 

“I didn’t think that the upper classes produced sentinels.”  Blair was being deliberately obtuse.  He thought that people who used the expression ‘cruel to be kind’ were usually just trying to excuse their own mean streaks, but here he was doing exactly that.  He only hoped it worked.

 

“Don’t you believe it!”  Bodmer crowed.  “There’s been a sentinel in the Ellison family every few generations for as long as anyone can remember.  The family used to be proud of it – hell, it probably got them where they are - but now only the lower classes are supposed to produce sentinels.  Nothing but snobbery and superstition, my boy.  Come to think of it, many a noble family must have a member locked up in a convent or a monastery.”  The mayor shook his head at the stupidity of it – the waste of human life and potential - and then he bid the guide good day.

 

 

Epilogue

 

It was six months before Lord Burlington returned to the countryside with his wife and heir. Upon the news of the arrival, the townspeople had sent letters of condolence on his family’s deep personal loss, and a sealed invitation to a banquet that the town council had arranged in order to introduce his lordship to Burleigh’s new sentinel and guide pair. 

 

“Oh well.  I guess I will have to attend the thing,” William sighed. “Probably roast beef and pudding and an excruciating pianoforte solo by one of their precious brats.  God help me - country people are so predictable.