Six Geese a-Laying

Dark Tidings

Twelve Days of Christmas—Dark Tidings is a Substack special holiday event. Each day beginning Friday the 13th, we’ll count down to Christmas Eve with a dark tale featuring one of the gifts from the classic carol. A guide to all the stories can be found here.

Art courtesy of Mark Of The Brand

19th December 1920

Mr Timothy Wicklow arrived at Harewood Court after six in the evening. The wheels of the motorcar bounced along the country road from the station to the mysterious home of his host, Virginia Dawson-Langley. His host’s home, Harewood Court, stood proud in the moonlight, its Gothic turrets pointing to the cloudless, starlit sky. Mr Wicklow rubbed his hands on his knees, and wondered what the hell he was doing there. A firm believer of carpe diem since his two years’ experience of gambling with death in the trenches, Timothy had jumped at the invitation. As much as he wanted to believe he was seizing the day, it was actually Mr Wicklow’s inability to say no, that brought him to Harewood Court. This weakness was firmly ingrained into his soul even before the war. It is rude to decline when you have no other plans, his late mother used to say. As a child, he felt he had been dragged along to many a dull gathering simply because his mother couldn’t say no. The corners of his mouth turned upward; he was just like her, after all.

The driver pulled on the brakes and got out of the car. “Follow me, sir,” he said, reaching for Tim’s single carpet bag. Tim, in the firing line of a bitter wind, wrapped his scarf around his neck as many times as it would go, and followed the driver up the gravel path to the covered porch. Tim watched as the driver’s gloved hand pulled on a rope, resulting in a resounding ding, dong. He swallowed. What the hell are you doing here, man?

The enormous black door opened with a creak, and the warm glow of light shone through the gap. “Mr Wicklow is here to see Madam,” the driver said. He placed the carpet bag down on the top step and Tim watched a slender, white arm reach for it. The owner of the arm was a young maid, no older than sixteen and surprised to have visitors, by the look on her baffled, round face.

“Mrs Dawson-Langley is expecting me,” Tim added nervously.

The driver had already gone, turning the car around and taking it to the garage. The maid said nothing. She simply held the bag in one hand and the door handle in the other. After what could only have been a few seconds—but to Tim, felt like an eternity—she bowed slightly and said, “come in,” with a surprisingly friendly northern accent.

He stepped into the hall and removed his hat, coat and scarf, hanging them on the empty stand behind the door. The maid closed the door and placed his bag near the stairs. “Madam is in the parlour,” she said.

Tim looked around at the abundance of mahogany doors in the hallway. Although he had by no means been poor growing up, his parents’ home had one front room and one dining room. That was the limit when it came to space for entertaining.

“Is that him?” came the slurring voice of an old woman, somewhere down the corridor. “Let me see him! Hurry Emily, I want to see him.”

“Follow me,” the girl said, walking to the third door on the left.

In the armchair beside the fire, he spied a grey-haired woman, pencil-thin but finely dressed in a beaded gown and a feather headdress. Her long, thin arms were partly covered by black opera gloves. Her ears, sagging from carrying the weight of fine jewellery all her life, held glittering sapphires. He had never seen such wealth in one place, on one person.

“Mr Wicklow!” she exclaimed with the enthusiasm of a close friend. The gaunt face became animated, flashing a set of well-kept teeth for a lady of her advanced years. “Hang on—Emily—” she said, coughing slightly. “I am out of sherry, darling.”

“I’ll be right back, Madam.” The door closed behind the maid.

Alone with this strange woman, Tim glanced longingly at the door and wanted the girl to come back. Realising he was being rude, he turned to look at his hostess.

“Don’t worry darling,” the old lady said, winking at him. “I’m not looking for a beau.”

“Mrs—”

“Yes?”

“Mrs Dawson-Langley,” he said, as she offered out her hand. He took it and kissed it politely.

“Aren’t you just a darling?” she said, beaming at him. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, and looked toward the blazing hearth, where three stockings hung. “Those are for us,” she said. “You, Emily and myself.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind.”

“You’re probably wondering what the hell you’re doing here, aren’t you? Come! Sit!” She gestured for him to take the chair opposite, which he did. She couldn’t take her watery, wrinkled eyes off him.

“I’m afraid,” she began, “there’s a lot to get through.”

The little maid returned just as Tim opened his mouth to speak. “Sherry, Mr Wicklow?” his hostess asked as Emily pulled out the cork and poured some sherry into two crystal glasses.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

Emily, after handing each person a drink, was gone again; young Mr Wicklow was alone with Mrs Dawson-Langley once more.

“That’s a very splendid Christmas tree you have there,” Tim said, pointing to the tree. The scent of the fresh pine had been the first thing he noticed about the room.

“Don’t change the subject, dear. I can barely remember what I’m talking about as it is.”

He pushed his back further into the winged chair, as though it would protect him from whatever came next. “You’re here because you are required. But first, you must let me give you the story. We start on this very day, in December, 1868.”

---

19th December, 1868

“Uncle!” the little girl cried out as she flung her arms around Giles Harewood.

“Bubs! You are nothing but skin and bone!” he remarked. “I saw your kind just recently,” he said, lifting the little girl up. She buried her face into his chest.

“You did?” she asked.

“Yes. Mummies as skinny as you are.” His heart weighed heavy as he felt her lightness in his arms.

“I have missed you,” he heard her tiny voice say.

“And I you, little one.” He stroked the child’s chestnut waves and put her down. “What say you to a decent meal?” he asked. She looked up at him and nodded.

“Not in the dining room, Giles. We have guests—remember,” interposed his wife, Athena. Athena Harewood was a beautiful woman, adorned in red silk, but the warm tones of her makeup and clothing contrasted heavily with the temperature of her heart.

“Tonight?” Giles puffed his cheeks up and sighed comically. “I’m rather too tired for—”

“You said it would be fine,” Athena snapped. “They’re eager to hear about your adventures, you know.” She cast her eyes down toward the child. “Supper is in the kitchen. Cold cuts. Mrs Harper has left you some. Go.”

The little waif shuffled off into the kitchen, slowly glancing over her shoulder once more at her uncle before she disappeared behind the closed door.

“Why is she so thin, Athena?” he asked in a low voice.

“She’s a child. They run about a lot,” she said dismissively. As she turned to walk away, Giles, in a manner that surprised even him, grabbed her wrist.

“Are you mistreating her?” he asked, feeling his throat tighten.

She levelled a sneer at him. “Heavens, no. I provide what I can for your sister’s discarded offspring.”

“She died, Athena.”

“Yes, and so did that commoner husband you let her run off with. They died together in a fever den. That was their choice. Having a child was their choice. It wasn’t mine.” She looked down at his hand on her wrist. “Now let go of me, Giles, or I shall have bruises to show everyone, and I’d say interest in that would trump the interest in your dust-ridden artefacts.”

Giles let go. “Where is her nanny?” he asked, trembling. She took a couple of steps toward the parlour room and stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. Even at a height of nearly six feet, Giles felt small when caught in his wife’s gaze.

Athena raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Rachel’s gone. Long gone,” she said with a smirk.

Giles took a deep breath.”You left our niece with nobody to care for her?”

“No, Giles,” she turned on her heel and pointed a finger at him. “You left her. It was you, who left her alone here. She was never in my charge, Giles—God, just look at you! I had no say in this and you dote on her as though she were your own.” Athena adjusted her dress and fired another glare at her husband. “You would choose her over me. She’s not even your child!” she hissed.

“She’s the closest I’ll ever have to a child of my own. You made sure of that.” He straightened. “I wouldn’t even know what you look like under that dress.”

His eyes watered as the hot sting of the slap spread across his cheek, but he laughed this time, which enraged her.

“Dinner is at eight,” she said. “I expect you to come to your senses by then.”

Athena, experiencing one of her headaches, retired to her bedroom within ten minutes of saying farewell to the final guest. Giles, still awake, sat in the dining room, admiring the ornament he’d shown to the dinner party hours earlier.

“Wherever did you find it, Professor?” Colonel Hartwright had asked, sipping his port.

“Near Thebes. Professor Whitely and I found it in a tomb beneath a statue of Isis.”

“Who, or what, is Isis, darling?” asked Athena encouragingly. Her thin lips parted to reveal a set of good teeth. Every man in the room had wanted Athena Harewood at some point in their lives. Giles, at that moment, wished one of them would just take her away.

He removed his spectacles and cleaned them on his shirt. “The goddess of life, magic and protection. Healing—that sort of thing.”

“Oh, marvellous,” remarked Lady Cole-Wilshaw. “And why the geese?”

“They were symbolic,” Giles said, standing from his chair. He crossed the room to come closer to the artefact. “Geese were said to be the messengers between heaven and earth. Isis’ birds. They are also said to symbolise fertility…” he turned it around in his hands, “and also marital bliss. It varies from culture to culture, but regardless of the story, they mate for life.” His eyes met his wife’s as they rolled away from him in disgust. Pretending not to notice, he sipped some more of his drink. “Her wings are those of the kite, or the falcon. Their cries are akin to the cries of distressed women and children. Isis protects them.”

“So what is it then, exactly?” asked Lady Cole-Wilshaw, losing interest.

“It’s just a little statue, really,” Giles said apologetically. This time, he hadn’t brought any mummies or cursed jewels like other explorers known to the Harewoods. His wife’s disappointment in him penetrated through his dinner suit, sinking its teeth into his skin. He shuddered and put the statue down carefully. The little figure of Isis, as pristine as though no time had passed since the statue was first cast, sat atop a round base—her winged arms open wide. Beneath her, around the base, were six golden geese.

“Are you sure this is ancient Egyptian?” Lord Cole-Wilshaw said. “If it’s gold, I imagine you’d get quite a bit for it. How do you know it wasn’t cast recently?”

“Oh, it’s ancient—truly,” Professor Whitely said, nodding his ginger head vehemently. “The Egyptians were quite advanced—machinery, construction, jewellery—Gold was easier to get than silver, and they had a lot of it.”

“For savages,” Athena began, “I’m rather impressed with them.” Her comment generated a laugh from every guest but the two professors.

Hours later, in the silence of the sleeping house, Giles drained his glass of sherry and watched the little gold statue shimmer in the light of the Christmas tree candles. “They didn’t appreciate you,” he said, raising his glass to Isis. “I’m very sorry about that. Savages—the lot of them.”

“Who are you talking to, uncle?”

Giles jumped out of his skin and laughed faintly at the sight of the little girl in the doorway. “Myself, but sometimes, little Isis here.”

“Can I see?”

“All right… but it’s past midnight, so make it quick.”

The emaciated little creature skipped over to the side table where the statue rested.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Bubs,” Giles said, his regret catching in his throat. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

She turned around to look at him with unnaturally large eyes, still bright with youth, and smiled. He brought her into his arms and sobbed into her boney shoulder. “I’ll never leave you again.”

The following morning, when Mrs Harper, the cook, came upstairs to make breakfast, she crossed paths with the maid. “Mrs Harper, did you hear the racket last night?” the maid asked.

“Oh, that lot?” Mrs Harper said quietly. “They drank the cellar dry.”

“No, no—the geese. Did you hear the geese?”

“In the night?” The cook shook her head. “No.”

“Oh it was a racket! I came up here and went to the window, thinking perhaps they were on the lake out there. Nothing. Nothing but their gaggling, squawking ruckus. It frightened me, it did! I’ve been awake all night.” She looked around the hallway and lowered her voice. “And I swear I heard them hissing down the corridors. Like they do when you get close to their nest, you know? I heard ‘em hissing, Mrs Harper!”

Mrs Harper looked at the maid steadily. The girl's eyes, a testimony to her story, were almost bloodshot. “Dear me,” Mrs Harper said. “You need a cup of tea.”

“Not right now,” the maid said. “I’ll be with you shortly. I’m late for lighting the hearth in the bedrooms.”

Mrs Harper watched the maid scurry up the great staircase and into the shadow of the first floor. As she turned to open the kitchen door, she was frozen in place by the blood-curdling scream coming from upstairs. With energy that surprised her, Mrs Harper broke free, turned and ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened!”

She found the maid standing at the foot of Athena Harewood’s bed, her mouth covered by her shaking hands as she sobbed audibly. Athena, still dressed in her evening gown, lay on her back, her arms crossed over her face. Up and down each arm, and on her distorted face were red gouges.

“Her eyes, Polly!” the maid cried. “She has no eyes!”

---

19th December, 1920

“Giles Harewood never remarried, but he was a good father to me.” Mrs Dawson-Langley wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled wistfully. “He moved us away from here. We lived happily in Italy, until he died of old age, with a full stomach and a full heart. I married eventually, but… children never happened for us. He was rather handy, Mr Dawson-Langley—and—he simply dropped dead one day.” Her gaze slipped into a daydream for a moment, until she shook it off. “You may still be wondering, dear Mr Wicklow, what any of this has to do with you?” She gave a faint laugh and shook her head. “I shall tell you. After my uncle had passed away, I returned here, to Harewood Court. It was here that I discovered an unopened letter from a woman you may know. Her name was Faye Wicklow.”

Tim felt his heart leap into his throat. “My mother’s name.”

She cast him a knowing look. “She wrote me concerning her mother in law’s affair with Giles Harewood. A confession made on the old girl’s deathbed—with letters, to boot. You remember the nanny in the story? Rachel, was her name. Rachel was the mother of Giles’ only son—Patrick.”

“My father.”

“Indeed. Patrick Wicklow. Soon after her dismissal from Harewood Court, Rachel married another man, as many women did when they’d no chance of marriage with the father of the unborn child. Don’t worry, dear—I had several trusted sources investigate this claim. The dates leading up to your late father’s birthday match perfectly with Rachel Hughes’ employment here. She was here until 1867. He tried to find her, you know—Giles. He never could. I read his letters and all that, God rest his soul.” She smiled, despite the lump in her throat that called for tears. “I believe that Rachel Hughes was the love of his life.”

Tim, stunned into silence, stared at the old lady with an open mouth. Amused, she threw the remainder of the sherry down the back of her throat and slammed the glass down on the table. “So, how does it feel to be the heir to Harewood Court, dear boy?”

“I…I…”

She waved a hand and stood up. After steadying herself, she crossed the room to the sideboard. Opening the cupboard door, she reached in and brought something out. It was wrapped in heavy cloth. She returned to the fireplace with it and handed it to Tim. “Happy Christmas, Timothy,” she said.

He opened the bundle and gasped. In his lap rested a golden statue of a woman with winged arms. Around the edge of the statue's base, he spied six geese.

“Open it.” The old lady said. “I learned recently—after a few drinks—that Isis comes off.”

He gently pulled the statue upwards and revealed a cavity inside the base. Inside was a nest of six golden eggs.

“Now, I don’t know what they mean,” said Mrs Dawson-Langley, “but if I w

ere you, I wouldn’t move them.” Her expression darkened. “Strange things have happened to people who have crossed the Harewoods. If you get rid of those, you get rid of your protection. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh,” Mrs Dawson-Langley said, pointing to the window. “God’s given us snow. Look at that.”

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