THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN
JUNE was at an end, and men cried aloud for rain. The hedges were white,
the fields scorched and brown; the leaves fell from the trees as at
autumn’s touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry and twisted on the
bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud.
Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a scrap of
mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a dog from some
neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, his bill-hook beside
him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world had gone contrary with him.
His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, leaving six
hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse thing had befallen
him; his gold was gone—his gold to which he had no right, for ’twas
blood-money, the food of his children, ay, and something beside; but
Dickon loved that gold piece above all the world—above Heaven and his own
soul—and it was gone.
A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which he had
deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i’ faith ’twas easy
carrying. There was but one piece, and Dickon minded how he had changed
his petty hoard to gold scarce a month back at the fair. Maybe it was
Thomas the charcoal burner had served him this ill turn; or William
Crookleg, the miller’s man; he was a sly, prying fellow, and there had
been ill blood between them.
He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side the forest, and
crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior might say ’twas ill-got
gain and well rid of.
Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, ill-fed,
unkempt. The day’s work was done, and on the village green he found men
and women, for the most part as ill-clad as himself, standing about in
groups gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at the ale-house door, thin and
peaked as his fellows; there was no good living for any man in those
parts, by reason of the over-lord who sore oppressed them.
A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorry horse by
the bridle, was talking eagerly.
“Nay, ’tis true eno’, and three crows saw I this very day on the
churchyard wall—it bodes ill to some of us.”
“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, “have it thine own way. Methinks the
ill hath outrun the omen, for there will be naught for man or beast
shortly—but fine pickings for thy three crows.”
The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up.
“What’s to do?” he said curtly.
“Nay,” said mine host, “Robin will have it that some further evil is upon
us—tho’ methinks we have got our fill and to spare with this drought—ay,
and ’twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw the corpse-light.”
“Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and naught to fill them,”
said Dickon surlily. “Whither away, Robin? ’Tis not far this beast will
travel.”
“Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny with the
carcass,” answered the little man; “give me my reckoning, friend John. I
must needs haste if I would see the Forester’s ere nightfall.”
He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When Dickon saw it his
eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning and put the piece in his cheek.
“Hard-earned money—’tis blood out of a stone to draw wages from my
master. Better it should light in my belly than in a rogue’s pocket.
’Tis as well for me that John o’ th’ Swift-foot swings at the
cross-roads. Godden, my masters!” And leading his weary beast, he took
the road that skirted the forest.
The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely way before
him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not rise.
“A murrain on the beast!” muttered Robin angrily, tugging in vain at the
creature on whom death had taken pity. “I must e’en leave him by the
wayside and tell Richard what hath befallen.”
He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a man slipped
from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet moonlight. There was a thud,
a dull cry, and Robin fell prone across the horse’s neck—a pace beyond
him in the moonlight shone the gleam of gold.
Next day Dickon’s child died, ay, and the other five followed with scant
time between the buryings. Another had fathered them and filled the
gaping mouths; but men shuddered at his care, for it was the Black Death
that they had deemed far from them.
Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had come of
Robin—he was dead when they found him—but no man gave heed. Death was in
the air, death held them safe in walls they might not scale. The heavens
were brass, food failed for man and beast, God and man alike had forsaken
them. The forest lay one side, the river, now but a shallow sluggish
stream, lay the other; ’twas a cleft stick and the springe tightened.
No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the rest and murmured,
cursing. All at once he made for the ale-house.
“Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when there is liquor
enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who is minded to go dry throat to
Heaven had best make haste; for me I will e’en swill a bucket to the
devil’s health, and so to hell.”
Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who strove to bar
the door. Some of the women fell on their knees and clamoured in half
delirious prayer; the rest slunk dismayed to their pestilent homes.