THE PROMISE

THE PROMISE

I kept my promise but couldn’t help but feel uncertain about it. The train I was on had a peculiar schedule. It would stop twice daily, waiting for the tide to go out. The overall journey accounted for each delay, which lasted 90 minutes. It was frustrating to have these delays, but I remained steadfast in keeping my promise.

“Have you ever been to Seamer Island?” Tom had croaked, his weakened voice barely audible. The cancer had ravaged his body, causing him to lose weight rapidly. Yet, despite his frailty, the glint in his blue eyes still sparkled with life.

“No, I haven’t,” I replied.

“You must go there,” Tom said emphatically.

“Why?” I asked, curious about his request.

“Just promise me,” Tom insisted.

“All right, I promise,” I agreed, sensing the importance of his words. But Tom wasn’t finished.

“The old church has graves dating back to the seventeenth century,” he continued. “On the fifth anniversary of my death, I want you to visit the church.”

“Tom, that’s a strange request,” I said, feeling a chill run down my spine.

“Just promise me,” he repeated, his voice filled with urgency.

“Okay, I promise,” I said, my voice trembling.

As I observe the cars patiently queuing up on the single-lane road, I can’t help but marvel at the tranquillity of the snow-covered countryside. The train, my faithful companion on this journey to Seamer Island, moved effortlessly along the railway line, mirroring the flow of the estuary receding into the sea. Taking in the view outside, I watched as the train progressed. The snowflakes glistened in the soft morning light, creating a serene atmosphere. Time stood still, allowing me to savour nature’s beauty and the serenity of this moment.

The rhythm of the train’s wheels clacking on the tracks provides a soothing soundtrack to my thoughts. I wonder about the stories in the cars waiting at the road crossing. Who are the occupants? Where are they headed? Are they also captivated by the serene winter landscape?

Lost in my musings, I contemplate the significance of this journey to Seamer Island. What mysteries await me there? The island’s allure has intrigued me for five years, and now, as I sit on this train, I feel a sense of anticipation building within me. I sense that reaching there will bring a revelation, similar to the ebbing tide.

As the train continues its rhythmic journey, I can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for this moment of stillness amidst the bustling world. It’s a rare opportunity to disconnect from the chaos of everyday life and immerse myself in the simplicity and grandeur of nature.

As time passes, I become more excited for the tide to recede completely, marking our arrival at Seamer Island. I yearn to fulfil my pledge to Tom.

And so, I sit here, captivated by the snow-covered countryside, the estuary’s ebb and flow, and the cars waiting at the road crossing. As the train idles close to Seamer Island, I can’t help but feel that this journey is more than just a physical one; it’s a journey of self-discovery and the beginning of a remarkable chapter in my life.

The train’s movement abruptly jolts me out of my daydream, and I am pulled back to reality. Glancing outside, the sight of a church perched on a hill cast a sombre shadow over the serene and snowy landscape.

The village’s rich history holds many secrets buried beneath its surface. Standing resolute, the gaunt square tower is a steadfast guide in times gone by for sailors navigating treacherous waters. Its presence is a testament to the enduring spirit of the seafarers who once relied on its guidance.

As the train winds towards the village, the landscape reveals scars of a tumultuous past. The ruined church and cemetery bear witness to the destruction of the Civil War. In its ruined state, the rood-screen serves as a sad reminder of past violence, despite once being a testament to faith. The stained-glass windows, shattered and lost to time, were casualties of the Roundheads’ occupation.

The village has signs of damage other than war. Centuries ago, thieves sought to profit from the church’s riches. In a daring act, they absconded with four of the five bells that once chimed with joyous melodies. The thieves took four of the five bells from the church, leaving only the heavy tenor bell behind, which bears the date 1492.

According to local lore, the thieves attempted to escape by sea using a small quay at the foot of Church Lane. Laden, with their loot, their boat succumbed to the weight, sinking beneath the waves. The four bronze bells now lie hidden beneath layers of mud and silt, waiting to be rediscovered.

Today, the parishioners who honour the past while looking towards the future tenderly cared for the church and its grounds. Though the scars of history remain, the village stands as a testament to its people’s resilience and enduring spirit. Perhaps, one day, the people will unearth the hidden treasures beneath the surface, adding another chapter to the rich tapestry of this remarkable place. They surmounted the tower housing the surviving bell, and from inside the building via an armoured door fitted with no less than three substantial locks. The little corner turret atop the tower used to serve as a signal for local and national emergencies, but it was likely removed a long time ago, probably after sustaining damages during the 1884 earthquake. They adorn the remaining tower corners with stone gargoyles shaped like rams. Crosses of flint in the church’s outer masonry show major repairs effected over the years.

I’ve studied these details for five years. I know more about Seamer Island’s solitary church than most locals. It’s become an obsession since Tom’s death, consuming my every thought.

Arriving at the church, I wondered, was it worth it? Despite the tough journey, standing before the towering structure filled me with awe and erased all doubts. The church stood majestically, its intricate architecture telling stories of the past. The weak wintery sun glowed on its weathered stone walls, illuminating the vibrant stained-glass windows. I couldn’t help but marvel at the craftsmanship and dedication that went into its creation.

But beyond its physical beauty, something else drew me in. It was an intangible feeling of peace and tranquillity that enveloped the surroundings. The air seemed lighter, as if carrying whispers of prayers and sacred moments.

I stepped inside, and the peaceful silence greeted me, broken only by the faint echoes of my footsteps. The scent of incense filled the air, mingling with the soft glow of candlelight. It drew me towards the altar, where the flickering flames danced harmoniously with my thoughts.

The journey was worth it. Obstacles faded into insignificance compared to the serenity within these walls, reminding me of faith’s power and self-exploration.

As I stood there, basking in the presence of something greater than myself, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. I am grateful for the opportunity to witness such beauty, the strength to overcome the challenges that brought me here, and the moments of clarity and reflection awaited me.

The journey led to a deep connection, and chaos disappeared. A reminder of worthwhile experiences requires perseverance and faith.

Leaving the church, I carried a renewed sense of purpose and a deeper understanding of what truly matters in life. The journey paid off, bringing me closer to myself and the extraordinary.

I surveyed the damaged tombstones in the desolate and frigid landscape. The eerie stillness amplified the otherworldly sensation, blurring the boundaries between life and death. Surveying the scene and meticulously recording the names of all those present, I noted their birth and death dates.

As I approached the north side of the church, it immediately drew my attention to a couple of graves that stood out from the rest. One grave in particular, belonging to Heather Cooper, intrigued me. They adorned it with an iron cage placed over the top, which piqued my curiosity.

The cage that covered her grave is called a Mortsafe. It safeguards against burial robbing by resurrection men or body snatchers. A common purpose of body snatching, especially in the 19th century, was to sell cadavers for dissection or anatomy lectures in medical schools.

However, according to local legend, this cage was used to confine those accused of witchcraft, preventing their escape. They placed the cage as a precautionary measure because they believed that Heather Cooper’s restless spirit could cause chaos if released.

The stark contrast between the dark iron cage and the snow made it even more ominous. It felt like the cage held Heather Cooper’s spirit and the wintry essence of the landscape.

As I approached the grave, excitement and fear washed over me. The intricate patterns in the iron bars spoke of the community’s superstitions and fears.

Was Heather Cooper a witch or a victim of mass hysteria? They lost the answers to time, buried alongside her.

No footprints or signs of recent visitation disrupted the snow around the grave. The cemetery’s secrets and mysteries captivated me.

A shiver ran down my spine as I stood there, enveloped in a silence broken only by the distant howling of the wind. They filled the air around the grave with a palpable sense of the supernatural, giving me chills.

Approaching Heather Cooper’s rusty cage, curiosity and nervousness overwhelmed me. Local legend spoke of her vengeful spirit, haunting those who disturbed her resting place.

What if Heather’s spirit sought solace instead of destruction? Could her release bring peace after centuries of torment?

The temptation to unlock the cage and set Heather free tugged at my conscience. Would it be an act of compassion or a grave mistake? The uncertainty troubled me, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to uncover the truth.

Kneeling beside her grave, I noticed another recent one beside it. I brushed the snow off the slab on the ground, revealing the occupant’s name.

I froze.

The name engraved on the slab sent a chill down my spine. It was the same name as the person buried in the grave I was kneeling beside. Confusion and disbelief swept over me as I tried to comprehend the unimaginable.

TOM COOPER

Born 28^thJanuary 1958 – Died 28^thJanuary 2020

The last of the Seamer Island Cooper’s

My mind raced with questions and doubts. Was it a mistake? A cruel coincidence? Was something darker happening? I glanced around, searching for clues or answers that might clarify.

Tom had insisted on a private funeral, where no one was allowed to attend. He left money for a wake, which I attended, along with other friends and family, but his funeral was clouded in secrecy.

The snowy surroundings and silent cemetery amplified my racing thoughts about the peculiar discovery.

I touched the second slab with trembling hands, hoping for some tangible explanation. The coldness of the stone seeped into my fingertips, intensifying the gravity of the situation. I couldn’t ignore the significance of this strange occurrence.

HEATHER COOPER

Died 28th January 1820

The first of the Seamer Island Cooper’s

As I knelt, I felt a growing sense of unease. It was as if the universe was trying to convey a message, but I struggled to decipher its meaning. I needed to investigate further to uncover the truth behind this bewildering revelation.

Leaving the graveside, I approached the cemetery office, determined to find answers. The crunching sound of my footsteps on the snow-covered path echoed through the stillness, adding an eerie soundtrack to my quest for understanding.

As I approached the office, a flicker of hope ignited within me. The caretaker or records could shed some light on this enigma. I pushed open the heavy wooden door, ready to confront the mysteries that awaited me.

In a remote church, Tom showed me the beginning and end of his bloodline. It was a significant moment that left me in awe.

He understood I would delve into the details, seeking to provide a sense of validation to his family’s narrative. He expected I would probe into their experiences and challenges, illuminating their journey and presenting a rational point of view.