The Mayor of Gantick

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　One of these days I hope to write a treatise on the Mayors ofCornwall--dignitaries whose pleasant fame is now night, rememberedonly in some neat by-word or saying of the country people. Thus youmay hear, now and again, of "the Mayor of Falmouth, who thanked Godwhen the town gaol was enlarged," "the Mayor of Market Jew, sittingin his own light," or "the Mayor of Calenich, who walked two miles toride one." But the one whose history perplexed me most, till I heardthe truth from an eye-witness, was "the mad Mayor of Gantick, who waswise for a long day, and then died of it."It was an old tin-streamer who told me--a thin fellow with ashrivelled mouth, and a back bent two-double. And I heard it on thevery hearthstone of the Mayor's cottage, one afternoon, as we sat andsmoked in the shadow of the crumbling mud wall, with a square of bluesky for roof, and for carpet a tangle of brambles, nettles, and rankgrass.

　　* * * * * * *

　　It seems that the village of Gantick, half a mile away, was used oncein every year to purge itself of evil. To this end the villagersprepared a huge dragon of pasteboard and marched out with it to asandy common, since cut up by tin-works, but still known as Dragon'sMoor. Here they would choose one of their number to be Mayor, andsubmit to him all questions of conscience, and such cases ofnotorious evil living as the law failed to provide for.Summary justice waited on all his decisions; and as the village wagwas usually chosen for the post, you may guess that the horse-playwas rough at times. When this was over, and the public consciencepurified, the company fell on the pasteboard dragon with sticks andwhacked him into small pieces, which they buried in a small hollowcalled Dragon Pit; and so returned gladly to their homes to start onanother twelve months of sin.This feast of purification fell always on the 12th of July; and inthe heyday of its celebration there lived in this cottage awidow-woman and her only son, a demented man about forty years old.There was no harm in the poor creature, who worked at the Lanihorneslate-quarries, six miles off, as a "hollibubber"--that is to say, incarting away the refuse slate. Every morning he walked to his work,mumbling to himself as he went; and though the children followed himat times, hooting and flinging stones, they grew tired at last,finding that he never resented it. His mother--a tall, silent womanwith an inscrutable face--had supper ready for him when he returned,and often was forced to feed him, while he unlocked his tongue andbabbled over the small adventures of the day. He was not one ofthose gifted idiots who hear voices in the wind and know the languageof the wild birds. His talk was merely imbecile; and, for the rest,he had large grey eyes, features of that regularity which we callGreek, and stood six foot two in his shoes.One hot morning--it was the 12th of July--he was starting for hiswork when an indescribable hubbub sounded up the road, and presentlycame by the whole rabble of Gantick with cow-horns and instruments ofpercussion, and in their midst the famous dragon--all green, withfiery, painted eyes, and a long tongue of red flannel. Behind it theprisoners were escorted--a pale woman or two with dazed, terrifiedeyes, an old man suspected of egg-stealing, a cow addicted totrespass, and so on.The Mayor was not chosen yet, this ceremony being deferred by ruletill the crowd reached Dragon's Moor. But drawing near the cottagedoor and catching sight of the half-witted man with his foot on thethreshold, a village wit called out and proposed that they shouldtake "the Mounster" (as he was called) along with them for Mayor.It hit the mob's humour, and they cheered. The Mounster's mother,standing in the doorway, went white as if painted."Man in the lump's a hateful animal," she said to herself, hoarsely."Come indoors, Jonathan, an' let 'em go by.""Come an' rule over us," the crowd invited him, and a gleam of prouddelight woke in his silly face."The heat--his head won't stand it." The woman looked up at thecloudless sky. "For God's sake take your fun elsewhere!" she cried.The women who were led to judgment looked at her stupidly. They toosuffered, without understanding, the heavy sport of men. At last onesaid--"Old woman, let him come. We'll have more mercy from a mazed man.""Sister, you've been loose, they tell me," answered the old woman,"an' must eat the bitter fruit o't. But my son's an innocent.Jonathan, they'll look for you at the works.""There's prouder work for me 'pon Dragon's Moor," the Mounsterdecided, with smiling eyes. "Come along, mother, an' see meexalted."The crowd bore him off at their head, and the din broke out again.The new Mayor strutted among them with lifted chin and a radiantface. He thought it glorious. His mother ran into the cottage,fetched a bottle and followed after the dusty tail of the procession.Once, as they were passing a running stream, she halted and filledthe bottle carefully, emptying it again and again until the filmoutside the glass was to her liking. Then she followed again, andcame to Dragon's Moor.They sat the Mayor on a mound, took off his hat, placed a crown onhis head and a broomstick in his hand, and brought him the cases totry.The first was a grey mare, possessed (they alleged) with a devil.Her skin hung like a sack on her bones."'Tis Eli Thoms' mare. What's to be done to cure her?" they asked."Let Eli Thoms buy a comb, an' comb his mare's tail while she eatsher feed. So Eli'll know if 'tis the devil or no that steals oatsfrom his manger."They applauded his wisdom and brought forward the woman who hadpleaded just now with his mother."Who made her?" he asked, having listened to the charge."God, 'tis to be supposed.""God makes no evil.""The Devil, then.""Then whack the Devil."They fell on the pasteboard dragon and belaboured him. The sunpoured down on the Mayor's throne; and his mother, who sat by hisright hand wondering at his sense, gave him water to drink from thebottle. They brought a third case--a boy who had been caughttorturing a cow. He had taken a saw, and tried to saw off one of herhorns while she was tethered in her stall.The Mayor leapt up from his seat."Kill him!" he shouted, "take him off and kill him!" His face wastwisted with passion, and he lifted his stick. The crowd fell backfor a second, but the old woman leant forward and touched her sonsoftly on the leg. He stopped short: the anger died out of his face,and he shivered."No," he said, "I was wrong, naybours. The boy is mad, I think; an''tis a terrible lot, to be mad. This is the Devil's doing, out o'doubt. Beat the Devil.""Simme," said one in the crowd, "the sins o' Gantick be wearin' outthe smoky man at a terrible rate.""Ay," answered another, "His Naughtiness bain't ekal to Gantick."And this observation was the original of a proverb, still repeated--"As naughty as Gantick, where the Devil struck for shorter hours."There was no cruelty that day on Dragon's Moor. All the afternoonthe mad Mayor sat in the sun's eye and gave judgment, while hismother from time to time wiped away the froth that gathered on hislips, and moistened them with water from her bottle. From first tolast she never spoke a word, but sat with a horror in her eyes, andwatched the flushed cheeks of this grown-up, bearded son. And allthe afternoon the men of Gantick brayed the Devil into shreds.

　　* * * * * * *

　　I said there was no cruelty on Dragon's Moor that day. But atsundown the Mayor turned to his mother and said--"We've been over-hasty, mother. We ought to ha' found out who madethe Devil what he is." At last the sun dropped; a shadow fell on thebrown moors and crept up the mound where the mother and son sat.The brightness died out of the Mayor's face.Three minutes after, he flung up his hands and cried, "Mother--myhead, my head!"She rose, still without a word, pulled down his arms, slipped onewithin her own, and led him away to the road. The crowd did notinterfere; they were burying the broken dragon, with shouts and roughplay.A woman followed them to the road, and tried to clasp the Mayor'sknees as he staggered. His mother beat her away. "Off wi' you!" shecried; "'tis your reproach he's bearin'."She helped him slowly home. In the shadow of the cottage theinspired look that he had worn all day returned for a moment. Thena convulsion took him, casting him on the floor.At nine o'clock he died, with his head on her lap.She closed his eyes, smoothed the wrinkles on his tired face, and satwatching him for some time. At length she lifted and laid him on thedeal table at full length, bolted the door, put the heavy shutter onthe low window, and began to light the fire.For fuel she had a heap of peat-turves and some sticks. Having litit, she set a crock of water to warm, and undressed the man slowly.Then, the water being ready, she washed and laid him out, chafing hislimbs and talking to herself all the while."Fair, straight legs," she said; "beautiful body that leapt in myside, forty years back, and thrilled me! How proud I was! Why didGod make you beautiful?"

　　* * * * * * *

　　All night she sat caressing him. And the smoke of the peat-turves,finding no exit and no draught to carry them up the chimney, creptaround and killed her quietly beside her son.

　　THE END.