Cherringham--The Curse of Mabb's Farm Read Online Free Page A

much.”
    “What is it?” Sarah asked.
    Goodchild smiled.
    Guy’s a storyteller , Jack thought.
    He has us.
    “Yes. First, I forget myself. Some tea?”
    Always with the tea, Jack thought. Hard to do anything in this country without a cuppa in hand.
    And truth be known, he was starting to get used to it.
    “Love some,” Jack said. Sarah grinned at him. Probably guessing his thoughts.
    “Sure,” she said.
    Goodchild raised a finger, a general about to enter the battlefield of kitchen and kettle. “Be back in a — what do you Yanks say? — a jiffy!”
    Jack might have mentioned that “jiffy” had fallen into disuse but their host had already departed.
    Jack took a sip of English Breakfast, with bit of honey, no milk.
    Talk about magic power … a cup of tea could feel mighty good.
    Will Goodchild put his own cup down on a small desk, then turned to his sprawling gaming table with the opposing English forces about to face each other.
    “Okay, I even put the site into the model. Used tiny flakes of slate. But,” he pointed, “there it is.”
    Jack leaned close, as did Sarah, and seeing nothing but a small rise that led from a farmhouse which nestled in a valley.
    “I guess that’s Mabb’s Farm?” he said.
    “As it was in 1640,” said Goodchild. “And, as I said, a little smaller.”
    “I don’t see—”
    Then, in a clearing atop the wooded hill above the farm, he noticed the small shavings of stone in a circle.
    He turned to Goodchild. “Those stones?”
    “Yes, those stones are what is called Mabb’s Circle.”
    “And who exactly was Mabb?”
    “The old Fairy Queen of mythology. Said to enter people’s minds while they were sleeping and make their dreams come true … In fact, in Shakespeare—”
    Sarah shot Jack a look; this quick visit to Goodchild seemed ready to turn into a marathon history lesson.
    “Be great to hear that sometime, Will,” Jack interrupted smoothly. “But these stones are important because?”
    “Well, to begin with, they’re Neolithic, probably constructed by early Druids for their arcane ceremonies. But exactly by whom, what tribe and for what reason still remains largely a mystery, much like Stonehenge or the Rollright Stones near Chipping Norton. But if there is mystical heart to all the superstition and mumbo jumbo floating around Cherringham, it emanates — if you will — right from there.”
    “None of which you believe?”
    Goodchild laughed. “Good Lord no. In ancient times there was all sorts of poppycock. Now, the stones are just an amazing artifact. You really should walk up there and see them. There is even the Wicker Man, a more modern addition of course.”
    “A Wicker Man,” Sarah said. “I remember one of my teachers talking to us about that. Something to do with human sacrifice?”
    “Absolutely. The originals were often burned in effigy along with whatever lucky person was to be sacrificed. The one on Mabb’s Hill popped up some time around the turn of the nineteenth century. More superstition there, if you ask me — I suspect it was installed to placate the Devil and guard the crops.”
    “And the witches?”
    “As I said, just three old sisters — the poor victims of tongue-wagging and accusations. Happened all the time, well into the seventeenth century. So the three of them swung by their necks in Oxford. Interestingly, there was quite a hoo-ha about where the bodies ended up. Rather important in those days. No record of their interment — they just … disappeared …”
    Jack looked at Sarah. He could listen to this guy for hours. But maybe this wasn’t Sarah’s cup of tea, so to speak. At least they now had some idea of the basis for any ‘Curse’ in the region.
    And it seemed like people still liked to wag their tongues and feed the fires of gossip.
    He stood up.
    “Will, I have really enjoyed listening to you, and seeing this, thank you.”
    The historian beamed. “Come anytime.”
    And Will led Jack and Sarah away from the