The Fen Blow and the Pumpkin Kings, 7

The Shingles, the Shed, and Shirley’s Insight

The Spread of a Sickness
The painful spot on Ted North’s forehead, which began as a sharp sting after the Scarecrow Festival and his unnerving sighting of the black-suited figure, had escalated into something far more distressing. The dull, throbbing ache behind his brow bone now radiated around his head, causing a burning rash of blisters. The rash, clustered in the tell-tale bands around one side of his face, was unmistakably shingles, a painful manifestation of immense physical and emotional stress.

Lammas had come and gone and Ted’s mood had curdled. The overwhelming pain and fatigue of the shingles had crushed his usual joy in the Fen air. He had lost his appetite and the ease of his sleep, tossing and turning while the wind outside played its thin, reedy notes around the eaves.

The sight of his prized pumpkin, still magnificent and swelling on the allotment, offered no comfort. All he could think of was the grotesque green face of the Scarecrow Man, and the relentless, non-stop pain. He had pushed himself too hard, perhaps, but why now? Why did the illness strike immediately after seeing that terrible figure and feeling the sudden shift in the air?

Pete’s Quiet Guilt
Meanwhile, Pete South was flourishing. He moved with a new swagger, his extrovert nature now laced with an unbearable guilt-tinged excitement. He knew his pumpkin, grown from the purloined North champion seeds, was thriving. It was colossal, its skin taut and its colour a deep, vibrant orange that promised a sure victory.

He would often see Ted down on the allotments, but Ted was slower now, his movements stiff, his face pale and marked by the painful rash. Pete, leaning on the fence of his own plot, felt a pang of shame, yet he couldn't resist a thinly veiled attempt at camaraderie, trying to ease his own guilt.

“You look peaky, Ted. Not sleeping well, old boy?” Pete would call out, his voice rich with feigned jollity. “It’s those damp nights. I tell you, a good shed is a marvel for morale. Keeps the tools dry and your thoughts steady.”

The references to the shed were subtle, nervous probes, confirming his belief that Ted was too preoccupied with his own pain to have noticed the theft. Pete's plan was working, but the sweetness of victory was already tainted by the bitter taste of cheating his best friend.

The Violation of the Sanctuary
It was this thought, the need to check on his tools, to ensure the winter preparations were on track that drove Ted to his shed one afternoon. He walked past the huge, heavy, perfect form of his pumpkin, a fruit that represented three years of hard work and triumph. The pumpkin itself was fine, its skin unblemished. He reached the shed door.

He paused. The sturdy, new brass padlock was intact, gleaming in the pale afternoon sun, but as Ted reached for his key, his hand paused. The hasp, the metal plate fastened to the door frame, was slightly loose. He ran a fingertip along the wood beside it. There was a faint, clean score mark, perfectly concealed by the shadowing of the handle. Someone had not picked the lock; they had delicately, skillfully and silently, prized the hasp away from the frame, pulled it out just enough to slip the bolt free, and then carefully hammered it back into place, relying on the surrounding grime to hide the violation.

Ted’s heart made a slow, heavy roll in his chest. The yobs, he thought automatically, but no. The yobs, Charlie, Bill, and Stephen, were crude vandals. They smashed windows and kicked over bins. This was meticulous, quiet. This was premeditated and personal. This was someone who wanted something specific without leaving a trace.

He opened the shed and checked his storage cabinet. His precious fertilizer, his expensive rotavator, all untouched. And then he saw it: the small, deep recess in the rear wall, where he kept his labeled boxes of reserve seeds from past champion crops. The boxes were slightly disarrayed, the labels a little crumpled, as if a hurried hand had sifted through them.

A cold certainty settled in his stomach, overriding the ache in his head. The yobs wouldn't know the difference between prize seed stock and bird seed. Pete. Only Pete, obsessed with Ted’s winning strain, would know to look for the reserve seeds and would possess the patience to leave the scene looking nearly pristine. The break-in was not an act of malice, but a confession of desperate ambition, a devastating betrayal of their long-standing friendship.

Mary’s Ultimatum
When Ted returned home, he was not just unwell; he was devastated by quiet fury. He showed Mary the angry, painful rash on his forehead, which now had a tiny, central pinprick of black where the nerve was most inflamed.

“It’s getting worse, Mary,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with fatigue. " Someone was in my shed. I know it was Pete. He just wants the crown so badly.”

Mary North, seeing his physical pain compounded by the anguish of betrayal, felt her usual practicality waver. “Dr. Finlay will give you pain pills, Ted, but he knows nothing of this land. He’s a city man. This illness… it was triggered by the stress of what you saw, and what you’ve feared about the competition.”

She stopped him. “There is only one person who can look past the surface of this. Go to Woodend now and see Shirley Midnight. You need wisdom, not ointment.” Woodend was where Shirley lived when she wasn't staying with her sister, Samantha and as the crow flew, it was only an hour away.

Ted hated the idea. Shirley was too eccentric, too full of pagan nonsense; but the pain, combined with the crushing sense of betrayal, made him compliant. He pulled on his coat.

Shirley’s Insight
The air around Shirley’s cottage felt thick with the smell of woodsmoke and bog-moss. Ranjit let Ted in and immediately withdrew to a respectful distance.

Shirley sat at a low table, sorting dried herbs. She did not look up when Ted walked in, but her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

“Ted North. The Pumpkin King comes to me not for magic, but for truth,” she murmured, still not raising her gaze.

“It’s this rash, Shirley,” Ted said, forcing himself to be direct. “The doctor will say shingles, but it started the day I saw that… scarecrow figure near the allotments.”

Slowly, Shirley looked up. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were still and deep. She rose and walked toward him, her luminous green fingers hovering near his brow, a safe distance from the painful blisters.

“It is shingles, Ted,” she confirmed, her voice dropping to a low, firm register. “Shingles is weakness. It is the body’s surrender to stress. The wicked wind, the Fen Blow, does not mark you directly, but it saw the fear in your heart and the struggle in your soul, and it brought your body low.”

Ted went rigid. “My soul? What are you saying?”

“You are a good man, Ted North, but you have allowed ambition to blind you to your friend’s struggle. And now, your friend has wounded you with his own ambition. There is theft on your soil, and that betrayal is what made your soul weak enough for the sickness to enter. You must heal your heart before you can heal your skin.”

She paused, her gaze turning distant, fixed on something far beyond the cottage wall.

“The wicked wind blows close to Witchfordley. It does not want the King Pumpkin crown, Ted. It wants the debt repaid. And the debt will be collected by the hands of the young. Look to the shadows of the allotment. The drama is being set again, but not for you. Look to Bill and Stephen.”

Ted stumbled backward, shaken to the core. Shirley’s words confirmed his deepest fear: the betrayal over the seeds, while painful, was just a small drama compared to the historical violence now gathering speed in the background.

He left quickly, not bothering to thank her, the terrifying words ringing in his ears. He now knew two things: he was suffering from a real, painful illness caused by the betrayal of his best friend, and that ancient vengeance was about to strike the next generation on the very ground he cultivated.
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