1704
Once the physician was summoned, he took three full days to reach the farm. Three days as he would not cut short his daughter’s wedding and because he refused to travel on the sabbath; three days where it should have taken one, and by which time the girl was almost dead.
The girl’s father had waited out by the roadside for the better part of a day, the rain soaking his woollen coat until it was as heavy as he was himself. When the cart came rattling over the fields using the old pilgrim’s way, he ran out to meet it, guiding the physician between clods of heather and low walls struck with golden disks of moss. The rain had turned both the sky and ground the same dead grey colour and the two men hurried with the horse’s harness before crowding the hearth, steam rising to mingle with the smoke.
Once the physician was dry, he followed the farmer through to a small chamber where the girl lay on a truckle bed, old but well built. The servants had been dismissed for the night, so the physician chewed on a hunk of day-old bread as he studied her. Her skin was waxy, the colour of curdled milk, and dark rings of sweat soaked the bed clothes. The physician examined her for an hour, though he knew she was beyond help on first sight. It was the sweating sickness, the same that had claimed the girl’s mother the previous Summer.
‘A terrible thing.’ He said, before taking his shilling and leaving.
The farmer knelt by his daughter – named after his mother – hands gripped as in prayer, though he spoke no words. He had seen too much to believe the Almighty would deliver his daughter from hurt. Instead, he reached out and held her tiny, hot hand in his, resting his head on her chest. He had not wept for many years. Even when his wife had passed, he had been too busy with the farm and organising affairs of the home to mourn as he should. Now, those tears fell freely, four seasons of grief for his only child.
Hands gripped together once more, pressed to his forehead, he swore he would not let her die; he would not fail her as he had her mother. In the darkness, the farmer cast his thoughts to the tales told by his grandfather; hands as cracked as the rock, eyes burning with stories. Talk of lingering spirits out amidst the whistling cairns the clergymen knew nothing of. Old gods wielding great powers, great powers that could be bought, for a price.

2004
Bernard Weaver stared at an iron kettle growing hot above a blue flame. It shuddered as the water within began to boil and he raised it triumphantly when it let out a high whistle. The electricity had been shut off months ago, water now had to be brought from the old well in the courtyard, but the gas remained. He had no idea why, perhaps a kindly employee of British Gas had taken pity on him and slipped his case to the bottom of the pile. It was unlikely though. More likely, he had been forgotten or misplaced in some digital overhaul of their system. Either way, he knew every cup of tea could be his last. He poured two cups, though he knew only one would be drank. It was the same every morning, but he still made two, just in case.
The farmhouse was old and let more heat out than it could keep in. Bernard wore three jumpers and held his cup in both hands until feeling returned. His family’s farm had gone to ruin. It was probably his fault, he knew that. He was a bad farmer and not suited to early starts or work in the wet. There had been bad luck too though; grants that never came, foot and mouth, a barn fire and an insurance company gone bust. Not all his fault he thought, as he looked out to the road and the bailiff’s van parked just beyond the hedgerow, before yanking the curtains to and walking out to the courtyard.
The yard was bare, anything of any value having been sold. Only the well remained, solemn against the bare sky. His uncle had told him once of a holy spring gurgling somewhere in the granite depths, but anything that old had surely been sealed and walled a long time ago. Bernard retrieved a tin bucket and slung it over the side, waiting for the splash. As he pulled on the cord, he looked up to the small window at the farms southern flank that gathered the most sun. Bernard smiled. It was an odd smile, one crowned in sadness and he turned back to the well as the rim of the bucket caught the stone.

1704
In the silent hours the farmer woke. The candle had burnt down to wisps and he reached out for his daughter in the dark. At first, he could not find her and his stomach plummeted, though of what he feared, he was not certain. But, as he spread his palms he found her hands. They no longer burned as they had before. Instead, her skin felt cold against his and he knew there was not much time. He had not eaten in days and felt his vision drift as he lifted her from the bed. She was so frail, so weak, that as he carried her, he felt as if he cradled nothing but rags and dust and air.
The night cut at his cheeks as they passed from the parlour and out under the eaves. There was nothing but the stars and whispering grass, the heather spread over the thin soil. Poor soil where nothing grew, nothing but the heather. On the moon-dusted moor, the well rose from the earth like one of the great tors. This was hard country, granite and gorse, no place for a child. When this was done, he’d take her to live with his sister by the sea where the fresh air would banish any sickness. As he held his daughter close, the farmer felt her faltering breath against his cheek as if it were a whispered psalm and by the time he reached the well, it had faded to almost nothing.
There would be no words. The moor before him, the sky above and the powers below the earth were all too stubborn to learn his tongue and he too young to have knowledge of theirs. It did not matter, they would know what was to be done.
Raising his daughter over the lip of stone, the water below reflected her in ghostly white and he spoke without words what he needed and what he was willing to give in return. The waters shifted, rising and falling.
A voice sounded around and within – a voice of broken glass and crashing waves – as his mouth worked words not his own and his heart pumped thundering blood. Blood he had now betrayed.

2004
Bernard returned with the bucket now creaking with water, placing it on a hook above the fire, watching steam curl with the smoke. When it was warm but not hot, he gathered the cups of tea in one hand and lifted the bucket with the other. The narrow corridor leading from the main house bore the scuff-shoed scars of a thousand identical journeys to and from the kitchen. There was only one door, one room, and Bernard placed the bucket in the ghostly ring left from the previous day before knocking, as he always did.
As always, there was no reply, but still he waited for a moment before entering, making his way over to the bed and the woman who lay there. Her eyes were not open or closed, but somewhere in-between, her pale skin framed by hair of crow-black. He smiled that same odd smile as he carefully pushed the hair from her forehead, feeling her temperature as if he knew how to help. After setting down the tea and checking the water, Bernard dipped a cloth into the bucket and began to wash her face and hands.
She had not spoken in many weeks. Sometimes he thought he saw her smile, but it was only a flicker, like light dancing at the corner of his eye but was gone before he could catch it. Her breath was shallow, her bones pressed against her skin and though she had faded almost completely, he clung on to every inch of her that remained.
‘Those swines are still out there, I’ve a mind to go out there and deal with them. I won’t Cath, don’t fret, just angers me is all.’
He paused, letting the cloth linger in his hands and looked away as tears stung his eyes.
‘A curse on our house.’ he whispered, though with a voice that felt not entirely his own.

1704
It was a selfish act. To spare his only child at the expense of his entire bloodline. He would never meet them, nor would his daughter or her children, but it would not make their pain any less fierce. A price would be paid, but it would be paid by those who came long after him. The farmer felt a twisting stab of guilt deep in his chest as he thought of it, of the suffering he would cause others.
But, as he carried his daughter back under the thatch, the moons silver glow caught her face and her tiny hand reached out to his; as he laid her on the bed, he knew there was no other choice he could have made.
‘A curse on our house.’ he thought, the words springing from nowhere, as he sat in the darkness.

2004
After nearly a week of listening to the radio and watching their breath steam the windows, the two employees of Collectinox Debt Collecting Services decided to take matters into their own hands. Apart for a few twitches from the kitchen curtains, they had seen nothing of the farmer – if he could still be called that – or his wife. Legally, they knew they couldn’t enter a home without being invited – like a vampire as they were often reminded – but there were always ways around that.
The pair left the van and used the high hedge to shield themselves as they skirted around the front of the house to the yard behind. It was silent, the drizzle-laden ground deadening their boots, the sheep long gone. The farmhouse looked as old as the moor that held it, the walls rising from the wiry grass as if they had been planted long ago. The two bailiffs kept to the edges, avoiding the old well at the centre as if it would swallow them up. After trying a few of the windows, they came to the back door. The frame was rotten, the paint flaking in great shards; it would not be hard to break open. But, as they reached it, they found to their great surprise it was not locked.
There was no sign of anyone in the kitchen or the living room and the neglected fire smouldered in the grate. Beyond, a long corridor led to a single door. It too was open, and so they entered. The room was bare, but a window set deep into the wall let in a square of pale light, falling across the bed and the two bodies lying side by side. They were mostly covered by blankets, but it was clear they were not sleeping. The Collectinox employees squinted as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, and as one ran outside to call an ambulance, the other stayed, noticing how tightly the pair on the bed held each other’s hands.

1704
In the dark of another night, the girl’s eyes flickered open. She felt weak, but with a wavering voice called out for her father, her father who had never left her side.