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  EPISODE TWO IN THE ANNALS OF NETHER-STAINING

  By Graham Johns

  Also by Graham Johns

  The Annals of Nether-Staining:

  Baabaric

  © 2019 Graham Johns

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the permission of the copyright holder, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Photograph © 2018 Susan Foster

  www.netherstaining.wordpress.com

  Dedicated to Steve, because he wouldn’t have agreed to proofread for me again if I hadn’t.

  And to Mum, because what kind of dutiful son doesn’t dedicate a book to his Mum?

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  EPILOGUE TWO

  CHAPTER 1

  SHEEP DIP, SHEEP DIP, EVERYWHERE,

  I SHALL VERILY BATHE IN IT, BUT ALSO BEWARE,

  FOR WHERE SHEEP HAVE BEEN THERE MAY BE DISEASE,

  BUT I SHALL FEAR NOT, FOR THE LORD I PLEASE.

  It was a cool autumn morning as Roger the Pure gazed onto the waters of the recently constructed sheep dip in the small farming community of Nether-Staining, situated just to the north east of the clear waters of the River Neth, which formed the boundary of Yorkshire and Lancashire. The water of the sheep dip was occasionally topped up from the nearby river and was currently steaming as the pleasant early morning sun caused some evaporation to occur. Roger had noticed what he liked to refer to as a small miracle as he glimpsed a rainbow in the generated mist.

  Nether-Staining was just beginning to grow but still consisted of only a few small stone houses and a tavern named ‘Ye Olde Doge & Ducke’, which had just been built. Image is everything to some people and there was a general view from the locals that you couldn’t call yourself a village without a tavern. On the opposite side of the muddy track to the sheep dip, Roger had chosen a site to build his church and the structure was almost complete. For speed of spreading the good word of our Lord, Roger had chosen to build the church from wood with a longer term plan to build from stone on the same site. He intended to name it the Church of the Holy Cross as there was a crossroads nearby, although it was really just a pair of intersecting dirt tracks. There was little here but a remote settlement of heathens who, at least as far as rumour suggested, would have their way with the local livestock and commit bestiality on a regular basis due largely, it was said, to an absence of females of the human variety. Roger had made it his mission to ensure that this was a village of good behaviour, with a decent supply of comely women and sound sanitary habits, which was why he’d decided to take a bath in the sheep dip.

  The sheep dip was little more than a deep ditch, about two sheep wide and deep enough to ensure that a sheep would be fully submerged on its way through. It would’ve been ideal if they’d built it a bit narrower to stop the sheep turning round, but then you live and learn. Roger had acquired a good stiff brush and his apprentice, known only as Young Harold, was ready to assist with the scrubbing.

  Being but twelve years of age, Young Harold averted his youthful eyes as Roger cast his cassock aside and waded into the stinking pool, the brown water slowly rising to cover his pudgy, naked, pasty white form to neck level. Only his ruddy, rounded face underneath his wavy brown hair was now visible. He was ready to be scrubbed.

  “Begin, Young Harold,” he said sternly.

  Young Harold was struggling to reach him from the edge of the pool and succeeded only in hitting Roger about the head, leaving an angry red mark on his tonsure.

  “It is well,” Roger said, attempting not to show his anger and trying to calm the nervous aide. “You will never reach me from the edge; you must step into the pool and accompany me in this cleansing act.”

  Roger beckoned Young Harold with a long index finger and an unsettling grin. Young Harold gulped the gulp of the nervous but appeared resigned. Cautiously looking around him before casting his own cassock aside under Roger’s watchful gaze, he too entered the water, slipping as he went and submerging briefly before Roger pulled him above the surface by his thick red hair. Roger helped him regain his footing once more before releasing his grip on Young Harold’s locks. The young aide coughed fiercely for a few moments as he tried to compose himself.

  “For God’s sake! I fear I may have swallowed some of this fetid mire,” Young Harold said with disdain, a grimace on his face. Roger slapped him around the head with the full force of his right hand.

  “Blasphemy is a sin, Young Harold! Repent!” Roger advised firmly. “The Lord will protect the penitent. Now scrub, and make sure you get into every nook and cranny.”

  Young Harold did the requested bidding to the slightly disturbing satisfaction of Roger before scrambling out of the water as quickly as he could; hopeful that none of the other local kids saw him. It was bad enough having red hair at the best of times without them seeing your dangly bits or the fact that you are bathing with a grown, naked man as well. He was shivering as he put his clothes back on. He then doubled over and began to vomit the contents of the sheep dip which he had consumed. Roger watched him do all of this with interest before he too stepped from the water and was assisted back into his own garments. As Roger pulled his head through the opening of his cassock, he was surprised to be greeted by the sight of around thirty swarthy men, their dark skin emphasising the whites of their eyes and those few teeth they had remaining. In themselves they were somewhat unremarkable except for their leather armour and swords, and their ability to creep upon Roger and Young Harold with barely a sound. One of them, who Roger assumed was the leader, pointed to the water and voiced little more than a grunt.

  “Be my guest,” Roger said with a sweeping movement of his arm in the direction of the filthy dip.

  Another of the men forcibly wrenched the brush from Young Harold’s grasp and gave him a stare which stated, “I just dare you to complain”. After a few of them were posted on watch, the others urgently went about the business of bathing.

  It took just minutes for them all to come out of the sheep dip looking just as pasty as Roger and for them to retreat whence they had come, to Lancashire in the west. The water looked no dirtier than it had before. Roger and Young Harold were staring after them when a roar suddenly went up behind them both. They turned back to the east to see a much larger party of maybe a hundred soldiers approaching. To call them soldiers was a little extravagant as they were rather ragtag and, in some cases, seemed to possess weapons that had more of a place on a farm.

  “This sheep dip could be the key to this village,” Roger thought in a self-congratulatory moment, seeing growth of his church, and of his own status within it, on the horizon.

  This new army charged. Realising that it seemed unlikely they would pause for a chat while stampeding in their direction with various pointy objects darting all over, Young Harold threw himself back into the sheep dip. Roger was beginning to open his mouth to speak the good word of the Lord and bless this band when he felt a
sharp tug on his cassock and Young Harold dragged him back into the water also.

  The men ran by right where he had just been standing.

  “Bugger me! That was close!” Young Harold said with relief.

  Roger the Pure appraised Young Harold and his choice of words with more than a small degree of guilt and a slightly evil smile. He would repent his impure thoughts later.

  “Who do you think they were?” the apprentice enquired.

  “I dare say we have just been stampeded by Yorkists seeking to destroy that small group of Lancastrian bathers and gain Nether-Staining the rights to be in Yorkshire. I think I spotted Honesty Boycott leading the group.” Roger sighed to himself, having no love for Honesty. Wars seemed rather futile in his opinion. Indeed he much preferred love to war. He noted and appreciated Young Harold once more and said, “In time they will see that bathing and good hygiene are vitally important before you go to battle as it is much better to die with a clean arse, in the hope you do not evacuate at the point of perishing. But I will save those teachings for another day…for now we had best get indoors and get these wet clothes off. We can then dry out together by a nice fire before we catch our death.”

  Roger winked at Young Harold, who ground his teeth nervously in reply.

  The recorded history of Nether-Staining didn’t record what happened to Young Harold. Sadly for him, he contracted typhus from his slip into the water that morning and died a most painful of deaths. Happily for him, however, Roger never did get to follow up on his impure thoughts.

  ***

  A strong breeze whipped around the blue, Lycra-clad ankles and sent the cape, which had been dangling there just a moment before, whipping out to the rear in a majestic, almost heroic, fashion. The eyes of Blue Boy narrowed through his mask as he studied the situation before him.

  “Help me, Blue Boy! My pussy is caught in a most awful predicament!” shrieked the comely wench.

  Blue Boy raised his left eyebrow and allowed himself a slight grin on the left side of his mouth.

  “Fear not, fair maiden! I shall rescue your cat without delay!” This was said with the authoritative gusto that only heroic types possess.

  Blue Boy checked for oncoming farm traffic before striding manfully across the road with his chest puffed out for full effect. He ascended a step ladder, which had graciously been provided by the cat’s owner, teetered just a little at the top, and rescued dear little Tiger from a low branch of a nearby apple tree.

  “Just the one scratch on my hand, hurts like a bugger though,” Blue Boy thought to himself, before asking, “Have you got a plaster and some antiseptic cream?”

  “My hero,” said the comely wench in breathless fashion, “how can I ever repay you?”

  Blue Boy’s mind took a sprint a few strides ahead, forgetting his mortal wound, and he began to fill out his Lycra just a touch more in the trouser department, “I dare say I can think of a way.”

  Blue Boy smiled the smile of the victorious and then began to kiss the comely wench whole-heartedly, applying plenty of tongue.

  ***

  The Sunday morning service at the church of St. Roger the Virulent ended as Reverend Burns slammed his bible shut with force. It had the effect of waking Mick from his very pleasing, some might say heretical, slumber in a rear pew. It had been quite a dream.

  He half-stumbled his way outside. It was autumn and a late Indian summer meant that the sun was beaming down happily on the village of Nether-Staining and lending the church a favourable look. Even the bell, which was perched above the front facing of the building, was reflecting a little of the sunlight through its tarnished outer. The general ambience of such weather was masking the years of accumulated pigeon droppings on the upper walls.

  Mick looked and felt rather refreshed as he extracted himself from the belched-out masses of the church congregation. He approached his good friend Gordon and said, while pointing at the droppings, “It’s about time they got that cleaned off, it really looks quite poor in our magnificent locale.”

  “The bastards. They’re just rats with wings, that lot!” Gordon replied thoughtfully, tweaking his mutton chops absent-mindedly with both hands, one per cheek. He had been enjoying the sun while resting his bulk on a bench in the cemetery.

  “Nice of you to wait for me outside to accompany me to the pub for opening, but you know you might benefit with a sense of moral wellbeing if you came into the flock,” Mick paused to let that thought sink in, “it might encourage you to dress a little more smartly too.”

  Ignoring the reference to his rather threadbare jumper, Gordon said, “We might have God to thank for saving us from the recent alien invasion, but that doesn’t mean I want to go crawling to St. Roger the Virulent on all fours begging for mercy. I think I’ll make peace with myself first.”

  “You’d best start by apologising to your sheep then, Shepherd!”

  The slight figure of Ernest Scoggins had just reached them, peering through his glasses with a myopic stare. He was smiling to himself, trying to contain a laugh which was slightly inappropriate for the immediate vicinity, but a stifled laugh sometimes has a power all of its own and so it broke free. Mick joined in.

  “Shut up, Scoggins!” Gordon said bluntly.

  Gordon noted that the Reverend’s wife, Sandra Burns, was just coming out of the church. From behind Mick and Ernest, she had zeroed in on Mick and was heading his way while trying to get his attention. A dalliance between them a number of months before was easier to let go of for Mick than for Sandra, he’d had a number of other local conquests since then.

  “Come on, Michael, it seems you’ve been spotted. Let’s get out of here,” Gordon said without explanation.

  “Pub?” Ernest asked.

  “Yes, pub,” Gordon and Mick responded as one.

  Ernest quickly let his wife Veronica know where he was heading and the three of them left.

  ***

  The Dog & Duck, the proud two storey stone tavern at the heart of Nether-Staining, was ready for business as usual. In early autumn the hanging baskets outside were living on borrowed time and starting to fade. There were still tables set up around the exterior of the building for smokers, and those who wished to avail themselves of the fresh Yorkshire air when the smokers were not present. Inside, landlord Bob Roberts was polishing the brass fixtures on the bar as the patrons arrived for a cheeky Sunday lunchtime beverage.

  “Blimey! Those taps are almost as shiny as your head!” Gordon shouted as they entered, referring to Bob’s bald pate.

  Bob rubbed his bushy ginger beard momentarily, as if to stimulate thought, before meeting fire with fire, “What’ll it be, you fat bastard?”

  “FAT BASTARD!”

  “Shut up, Broken!” Gordon shouted back at the pub’s mascot, an African Grey parrot who was astonishingly quick on the uptake and had a penchant for well-timed insults. Broken was begrudgingly given a degree of respect because he’d come to the rescue of Nether-Staining on more than one occasion in the recent past. Gordon approached the bar while Mick and Ernest headed towards a nearby table, “The usual please, Bob.”

  “Three of my finest Priest’s Holes coming up.” Bob went to work at the pumps while Gordon looked on.

  “You trimmed your beard?” Gordon asked while he waited. “It looks quite tidy by your usual standards.”

  Bob ignored his efforts at repartee. It did seem he had taken the extraordinary step of trimming his proud beard which had taken many years of careful cultivation and daily cornflake removal to achieve. It was usually a woman’s touch to blame for such things, Gordon thought.

  “Pity about the guest ales no longer being on,” Gordon commented in an effort to fill the silence, “I quite enjoyed Hippo Man’s Girth.”

  He was referring to the brewing of a new ale to celebrate Hippo Man’s part in a recent incident involving aliens, you’ll just have to revisit your recent history of Nether-Staining for a detailed account. There’s no point repeating such events in ex
cessive detail for those already in the know – cue a secret-sharing wink and tapping of the side of the nose in a way which says, “You really ought to remind yourself, it will enrich your life in a bit…trust me.”

  “Guest ales never last long, they’re just seasonal,” Bob replied, “and besides, people have short memories. I’ll bring them back for the annual Nether-Staining Alien Fan Fest though.”

  “Not the best acronym is it? N.A.F.F.?” Gordon asked.

  “Appropriate for the general standard of the festivals in this locale though,” Bob said sincerely. “Still, at least I’ll make a few quid from the idiot brigade who decide to descend on us.”

  Gordon flipped open his leather coin purse, possibly the only known one still in existence, and allowed Bob to take the right money, scrutinising him with an eagle eye before snapping it shut.

  ***

  Mick had switched on the television in one corner of the pub lounge and was watching the lunchtime news. The television was a recent addition to the pub to allow people a chance to watch sport, something Bob had sourced through slightly dubious contacts at a degree of risk to his licence.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he commented.

  “What? Having a TV?” asked Ernest.

  “No, think about it, we have this wonderful county we live in and yet all we hear about on the bloody news is what the American president is up to! The local news is supposed to be about Yorkshire, at the very least tell me about the goings-on in Leeds!”

  Ernest was a little shocked to find that Mick took an interest in current affairs. His shock was etched on his face as his lower jaw hung loose.

  “What?” Mick asked.

  “I’m just surprised you’re interested in the news is all.”

  “Though I might technically be homeless, I think given we previously foiled a plot to take over Yorkshire that it’s important to stay across what’s happening out there in case of future threats. First we’ve got Brexit and now we’ve got this independence nonsense in Scotland again; coupled with separatist, divisive crap across the world in general. It’s a crazy time. Plus, I need to keep tabs on governmental policy changes in case it affects my benefit claims; with Brexit they might scrap all of my income for all I know!”