Cover:
As mentioned in the LP of past books for this series, the "rule" pages are mostly standard every book because these are simple CYOA format with no complex rules. However, those pages usually contain a paragraph or 2 that gives some background to the story, especially regarding any relevant geographical or historical information.Everyone knows about the smuggling. It was a way of life on the Romney Marsh in those days. But greed brought violence...and revenge. Someone informs the Revenue men, and they bring the dragoons.
You are in the middle of this, because you have seen the body...and the secret crypt under the church. And your childhood nightmare begins to make sense. But can you act quickly enough to prevent more bloodshed?
For this book, this is the additional background info:
EDIT: Forgot that there's also a Map of Romney Marsh provided:In the south east corner of England, across the English Channel from France, Belgium and Holland, lies Romney Marsh. The marsh has long been famous for its sheep and the whiteness of its wool. Once, there was another trade on the marsh - smuggling.
The laws against smuggling were harsh and Revenue men were sent to the marshes to enforce them; but they got little help from the local population.
The purchase of smuggled silk, tea, tobacco and spirits was seen as a fair means of avoiding the huge taxes placed on such goods by the government of the day. There were few living on the marsh who did not support the smuggling trade. Many became wealthy from it.
But always there are some men who become too greedy; men who will not stop at violence' and even murder, to gain more money and more power.
It is the year 1740. Raised from childhood in the Romney Marsh, you are about to meet one such man. All fear him. A secret from your past gives you more reason to fear him than most, but you do not yet know that secret, though your very life could hang upon it.
The answers lie close by but, if you would find them and dare the darker shadows of the marsh, then read on following the simple instructions printed below.
It was many months since I had dreamt the dream. With the passing of the years it seemed to come to me less often in the night. Yet still it was the same; real and frightening, as if I were reliving something from the distant past - something of which I had no waking memory.
In my dream, I lie, crouched in a ditch, trembling, my body chilled by the cold of fear and by the icy water which soaks my clothing. The moon is up and, through the grass on the ditch's edge, I see a group of men and a single black horse. A man is seated on the horse. His arms are bound behind him and ropes passing beneath the horse tie him to the saddle. His shirt is torn and there is blood on his face and body. The men are beating him with sticks.
One of the sticks misses its mark and strikes the horse. The animal rears and gallops off, the men following.
The landscape is criss-crossed with ditches like the marshland where I now live. I too follow, keeping from sight by stumbling along the ditches.
I see the man on the horse slip sideways in the saddle so that he now hangs beneath the animal, held by the ropes which bind his legs. The horse stops and the men catch up with it. I am still a little way behind, but I see the man cut down from the horse and dragged towards a well which stands nearby. He is still alive, for I see him struggle as he is pushed into the well. I hear a light sound, like the tinkle of metal on stone - and then the man is gone.
The men have turned away when a muffled sound - a terrible sound between a cry and a groan - rises from the well. The men turn back. One picks up a stone from the edge and hurls it down. The others do the same. At last, they stop. But for the distant cry of a night bird, all is silent.
When I am certain that the men have gone, I run to the well and call down, again and again, into the darkness. Only my own voice echoes back. My eyes fill with tears. As I move away I catch the glint of moonlight on something lying in the grass. I bend down to pick it up...
It was always at this point that I woke, shivering on a tear-soaked pillow.
Turn to page 2.
It was morning. A pale sun shone through the tiny window, casting a square of light on the wall by my bed. The wind and rain which had swept across the marshes for a week past were gone. I could hear my aunt Betsy stirring the fire in the room below me.
I got out of bed, washed the tears from my face and dressed. I would say nothing of the dream. I had spoken of it many times before. "Tes listenin' to too many of they wild stories," was all that my aunt would say, sometimes adding, "There's many dangers in this world, but dreams cannot harm thee."
Perhaps she was right. The Romney Marsh was full of strange tales of smugglers, ghosts and witches, and I had lived there with my uncle Joseph and aunt Betsy for as long as I could remember. My mother had died bringing me into the world and my father had been drowned at sea when I was still too young to have known him. I turned my mind to happier things as I climbed down the steep, narrow stair. There was to be a frolic in the squire's barn that night. I was to spend the day there, helping to clean and tidy the place ready for the night's eating and dancing.
I noticed that my uncle was not at breakfast. I knew better than to ask where he was gone. I had heard him ride off late the night before. He would return by early evening carrying a sack - his 'dollop' of tea - and with a half-guinea piece in his pocket. My uncle should have been finishing his breakfast and setting off for his work on the squire's lands. He would. not be there this day. Several of the farm labourers might be missing, but nothing would be said. The squire would receive payment in French brandy and Virginia tobacco.
It meant that another cargo of smuggled goods had been landed on the beaches in the night. If there were Revenue men about, it would be hidden somewhere close at hand till it was safer to move it. The fact that my uncle had not returned was a sign that the cargo had been taken straight to its final destination, somewhere close to London town. Tired men and horses would, by now, have begun to make their way in twos and threes back towards the marshes.
Do we think the parson needs our help - and do we want to offer him that help if he does?I hurried my breakfast. It was not because I was impatient to begin work on the barn, but because I wanted to go by way of the church. The church of St Thomas à Becket stood a little way outside the village of Dymdyke and was built on a hillock. From its square tower you could see over the great earth wall which kept the sea from flooding the marshes and watch the ships that sailed the English Channel.
After heavy rain, the land about the church was often flooded. It was said that, sometimes, the church became an island, completely surrounded by water. My aunt and uncle told of a time when the whole congregation had been rowed back and forth in boats so that they might attend the service on the Sabbath. I had never seen the strange sight but, yesterday, there had remained only the narrowest strip of land where it was possible to cross. Though the rain had stopped, I hoped that I might yet see the church surrounded by water.
It was not only the land around the church which was flooded. As I made my way across the fields, ditches were near full to overflowing. Lakes of water lay on the grass and the marsh sheep stood, huddled together, on patches of higher ground.
My clothes, which had been clean when I left the cottage, were becoming wetter and more mud-splattered with every step. My aunt would not be pleased, but the thought vanished in my excitement as I approached the church. The church and churchyard of St Thomas was an island, though to be quite certain I must walk all the way round it.
It was at a point opposite to where I had started that I saw the boat. Two oars lay in the bottom and a rope hung loose from the bow. It was floating only two or three feet from the edge and moving gently on the ripples stirred by the morning breeze.
If the parson had used it to row to the church and had not tied it securely, it could have floated away. He could now be stranded on the island!
I did not like the parson; nor he me, for I could not learn my scriptures. I could go on to the barn and let him seek other help. I had never rowed a boat but I could try and he might like me better if I 'rescued' him.
