The Hallowed Grounds of Scarborough Manor — June 2020 Challenge Winner

[sokolov]

Spoiler: Inspiration Station

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine​

It is said that Scarborough Manor is haunted. Ask anyone in the little village that sits at the base of the foothills. The innkeep will tell you over a pint that wights roam the land within those wrought iron gates, and specters haunt the manor's ruined halls. The local shepherd swears up and down that he once lost an ewe beyond the wall that separates the Manor from the rest of the valley; that morning come, he found nothing but a few scraps of bloodied wool in the meadow.

Yes, it's true that no-one ventures beyond the Manor's gates. It's true, also, that the Manor fell into disrepair years ago. Its grounds lie abandoned, weeds growing amidst the once scrupulously-kept flowerbeds. No-one lives there. No-one of the living world, at least.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt (in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
(Tracing of sparrow on snow-crested ground)
Without no seams nor needle work
(Bedclothes the child of the mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call) ​

The people of the little village do not venture beyond those wrought iron gates. But if they did, they would find that a quite different sight awaits them than the one their minds conjure up of the dark unknown. The grounds are unkempt, yes, but they are beautiful in a wild sort of way, the green sprinkled with the white bells of spring snowcaps and the purple-blue of bluebells. Other wildflowers bloom there- a patch of wild parsley there, her tiny white flowers blowing in the breeze, or lady's bedstraw there in light gold beneath the oak tree. Mixed in with the carefully-cultivated foxglove and the roses that bloom near the Manor's walls, the grounds are a kaleidoscope of colour.

Everyone knows that Scarborough Manor was abandoned after the fire. The empty shell of the once-stately house lies there still, the sooty stone of its supporting walls overgrown with wild green creepers. The chimney can be seen off near the corner of the grounds, and the stable has since fallen into disrepair, grass growing where straw once made a bed for the horses. A few rabbits have made use of the chimney stack, burrowing underneath to sow new life into the burnt grounds. Indeed, Nature seems to have enfolded the Manor back into her arms, erasing any hint of the tragedy that left it so abandoned in the first place.

Tell her to find me an acre of land
(A sprinkling of leaves)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Washes the grave with silvery tears)
Between the salt water and the sea strands
(And polishes a gun)
Then she'll be a true love of mine​

However, it is further into the grounds that the real mystery of the Manor lies. It was these grounds that the lords and ladies of old would tear through on horseback, hounds baying just ahead of them, as they chased the red flags of foxes' tails. Before the fire, a tapestry depicting such a chase hung on the wall next to the fireplace. It has long since been burnt to ashes, but sometimes, it almost seems as if one can hear the bugle's call ringing through these woods. And if one is careful, if one knows how to step carefully, to avoid crushing the forest floor beneath your feet, you might just catch a glimpse of something in the trees.

There are countless stories of the monsters that roam the grounds of Scarborough Manor, but you think, as you lay eyes upon its heaving side, a more beautiful monster you have never seen. Its tail flicks from side to side, long enough to brush the ground and tipped with a handful of silky white hairs. The legs are strong, but stocky, capped with knobbly knees and unshorn cloven hooves the color of dirty ivory. One paws anxiously at the ground as you watch, tearing a chunk of heather from the ground at its feet. You can see the rise and fall of its breath, belly rounding with each inhale, every snorting breath. But the eyes are what truly captivate you.

Like two deep liquid pools, you could easily get lost in those dark eyes. You see your face reflected in them, and wonder if your pupils were always those large, the bags beneath your eyes so prominent, your cheeks that gaunt. You look like a man half starved. Your fingers tighten on the haft of the crossbow, and still, the beast continues to regard you with those long-lashed eyes. Fearless.

Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather
(Blazing in scarlet battalions)
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
(Generals order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather
(A cause they've long ago forgotten)
Then she'll be a true love of mine ​

The old tales said that a unicorn would only approach a virgin. You lost your virginity at 15 to one of the girls from the village. It had been awkward, that first time. To tell the truth, you don't remember it all that well, only the awkwardness that came after and that you'd never spoken to her again. You don't think you even remember her name, to tell the truth. Not that it matters. None of it mattered until you met him. And now that he's gone, nothing matters anymore.

It sounds crazy, but looking into those big dark eyes right now, you feel like you're seeing something familiar. The apathy fades away. So does the anger. The loss. The bitterness. The 'I'm never going to see his smile again, never going to hear his laugh, never going to sleep in the same bed because he's dead, killed, dead and burned-'. All of it fades to a dull background roar. With a startling clarity, you remember the first time that you'd met him. It had been here. On these very grounds. You, a boy of sixteen. And him, just a year older, wearing the best clothing that money could buy and still so unhappy. In that moment, both of you had simply stared at one another, two startled woodland creatures. Just like the way you can't seem to look away right now.

The crossbow falls from your numb fingers. And the beast snorts, paws at the ground, and darts away, tail streaming behind it like a white banner.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine
​

They say that Scarborough Manor is haunted. The little village down below still fears wights and bruxa, but you know better. You come back to roam the grounds beyond that rusted iron gate a few times a year. It's only in those moments that you feel truly at peace, the first time since the tragic accident that burnt the Manor to the ground and its young heir, the last of his family, with it. The woods of Scarborough Manor are peaceful. Birdsong fills the air. Most of the time, you are content to walk the grounds, but sometimes, you stand at the edge of the woods and stare into the trees, waiting for a flash of white that never comes.

In the two years that you've come back to visit Scarborough, you haven't seen the beast since. A part of you knows that you never will again. But you still keep looking.