A Ribbon Runs through It

A parodic re-telling of 'The Green Ribbon', heavily influenced by M.R. James and John Finnemore.

As there seems to be some question as to why one sings about 'scary ghost stories' at Christmas in 'It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year', I think I may just have such a one that you have nothing better to do than peruse today.

My tale starts when I was just a boy of four and ten in the year eighteen-blankty-blank.  It was warm for December, but of course, it was July.  I had been sent by my parents to spend the summer, as I did every year, with my elderly widowed aunts in the village of Blankton in the county of Blankshire.  My best friend during these times was a boy by the name of Chip Carruthers who was near my age at five and ten and who was himself visiting his own elderly widowed aunts next door to mine.  Chip and I spent many a summer's day traipsing across the windswept moors, exploring the old growth forests, swimming the majestic lakes, trekking along the chalky coast, and just generally lazing about the green and pleasant hills, all for which Blankshire was narrative-conveniently known.

 

One day that summer, however, just around St. Swithin's Day, who should we discover as having moved in next door to Chip's aunts than a girl visiting her own set of elderly widowed aunts. (It is here I should point out that the population of Blankton is indeed made up almost entirely of elderly widowed aunts.)  She was a pretty young thing, around the age of six and two and four and one, with auburn hair and blue eyes, but what struck me most was the peculiar green ribbon tied in a bow around her neck.  We were both immediately struck by the charming young woman, but as we had not been introduced, we of course never spoke to her.  Her aunts and ours were in the midst of a feud involving an ill-tempered goose, an aspiring goose thief, and an incompetent judge who hanged the goose instead, and so not a word passed between us all summer.  We would, however, see her each day reading by one of the majestic lakes, picnicking on one of the green and pleasant hills, or doing some other appropriate activity on one of the other unaccountable landscapes, and notably each day wearing the same green ribbon.

 

The next summer came, our aunts had resolved their original feud but were now embroiled in one involved a flock of revenge-minded geese and a severely pecked judge, and so still unintroduced, no word passed between us.  The next summer found our aunts involved in another feud, this one bafflingly involving a revenge-minded judge and several severely pecked geese.  Still, we had not been introduced, and so for a third summer we said nothing to the young woman.

 

That winter, however, both Chip and I were sent to visit our elderly widowed aunts for Christmas, and to our amazement, so had been the girl next door.  The aunts' latest feud resolved, the girl's uncle, the judge, had become suitor to Chip's younger elderly widowed aunt, and so it seemed at last that we might have our chance to be introduced to the young woman, and indeed we were invited to a party at the judge's house on the twelfth day of Christmas.  Upon the first day of Christmas, Chip's aunt found herself gifted with a partridge nestled into a pear tree, and for nearly a week after, the judge daily sent her an increasing number of birds.  The sixth day, unfortunately, found the feud reignited, our invitation consequently rescinded, and Chip and I lamenting the loss of our prospect of introduction.

 

On the morning, Chip and I pooled our money and rented a cabin on the windswept moors of Blankshire so that we might commiserate in more appropriate surroundings and also so we could get substantially schnookered.  On the eighth night of Christmas a terrible storm came upon the moors.  Rain, snow, and ice pelted against the windows, and the wind howled from the north, gusted from the east, and did rather unmentionable things from the west and south as well.  Just after sunset, we heard a knock on the door, and a small voice plaintively calling, 'Please, let me in!'  We opened the door and beheld none other than the young woman from next door, wrapped in a woolen cloak, and just visible under the base of the hood, the green ribbon.

 

'Thank you so much,' she said as we led her straight to the fire.  I noted a Scottish brogue coming from the girl -- well, that would explain her forwardness when we had yet still to be introduced; however, that now out of the way, I asked her, 'What on earth were you doing out on the moors?'

 

'I am eight and four and one and three and yet unmarried,' said the girl, 'and so my aunts thought to send me on an errand to Blankford just before a storm.'

 

'Ah!' I nodded as Chip handed her a cup of tea.  'The traditional way of finding a husband in Regency Britain.'

 

'Oh, but you're those two boys from next door, aren’t you?' she said with some surprise.  I introduced Chip and Chip introduced me (there's no reason to let protocol go completely out the door after all) and the girl introduced herself as Maeve McGarrigle of Edinburgh.  'I've been curious to meet you for some time,' she continued, looking shyly at Chip.

 

'I've admired you for some time,' admitted Chip.

 

'And I you,' said Maeve.

 

I let a moment pass before clearing my throat, feeling perhaps a bit like a third wheel on a thing that's only supposed to have two wheels, the bicycle having yet to be invented.  Maeve asked if she might have a room to change (considering the errand, her aunts had thoughtfully packed a spare set of clothes for her), and once she was away I congratulated Chip on his good fortune, having long resigned myself as a confirmed bachelor, even at the age of six and one and three and two and five.

 

'How might we pass the night?' she asked upon her return, completely changed except for the green ribbon that still encircled her throat. Chip and I stumbled for answers, our plans of getting unabashedly blitzed now put on hold for being in the presence of a lady.  Finding no answer, she made her way to our cabinet, poured herself a tall whiskey, ('Golly!' croaked Chip), and sat by the fire.  'Perhaps we might entertain each other with ghost stories?' she suggested.

 

'Surely,' said Chip, 'Ghost stories would be more appropriate for Halloween?'

 

'Ah,' replied Maeve, 'but at this point in history, Halloween is more about pranks and mischief and won't start to develop its familiar characteristics for a few decades, and certainly won't be popular in the UK for well over a century.  Ghost stories, though, have a strong tradition for the winter months when the nights grow long and cold, becoming most popular around midwinter and Christmas as families and communities huddle together by their fires.  And this is a storied land, our hills roamed by exposition, our hills teeming with clichés, our woods haunted by denouements.  A good ghost story at Christmas,' she finished, 'is the finest of British traditions.'  Maeve sipped her whiskey, flashed a wicked grin, and cocked her head just slightly so my eyes went right to the green ribbon.  She beckoned us closer and we sat beside her. 'Shall I begin?' she asked, and she did.

 

Maeve began the evening with a tale of a newlywed bride whose game of hide-and-seek goes morbidly awry.  Chip followed with his own story of a guest house whose room #13 was to be found only at midnight, and whose ghastly inhabitant terrorised its neighbours nightly.  I succeeded his with a tale of a small rabbit gamboling around the hills of Blankshire that I admit might have gone somewhat amiss of the point of the evening.  After only a minute in, Maeve interrupted with her next story, and so we continued as the night passed.  As the hours went by, though, my eye kept getting drawn to the green ribbon around the girl's throat, and once or twice I glanced at Chip to see his eye went that way as well. 

 

The storm continued on even as dawn approached, and Chip's curiosity broke before mine did.  'I couldn't help but notice that you always wear that green ribbon.  I can't help but wonder why,' he said.

 

Maeve touched the ribbon gingerly with what appeared to be disquiet, before looking at Chip and replying, 'It's a gift from my uncle, the judge.  He gave it to me when I was born and bade me never to take it off.'

 

Chip looked at me with unease before turning back to the girl asking, 'and have you?'

 

She gave him a sly grin by means of reply. 'Would you like to take it off?' she asked.

 

Chip hesitated, glanced again at me, and then at Maeve before lunging forward and tugging loose the bow that fastened the green ribbon around her throat.  We both leapt back, Chip dropping the strip of cloth, a clattering sound echoing through the cabin.

 

We sat for a moment in silence, until Maeve leaned forward to pick up the ribbon and her glass that had dropped on the rug during the lunge.  'What?' she asked, with some confusion as we both stared.

 

'We um...' Chip stammered.

 

'What??' she repeated, looking at me this time.

 

'We, uh...' I started.  'We thought... perhaps… it was keeping your head attached,' I finished lamely.

 

She shot me a look of pure disgust. 'You did?!  And you?' she asked, turning to Chip.

 

'Um...' said Chip weakly, 'a bit... yeah.'

 

Horror spread across her face, replaced quickly by anger, 'And you were all too happy just to rip the ribbon of my neck then?  Bit keen on that, don't you think?  "Ohhhh, here's the girl I've fancied all these years, let me invite her in from the storm and then when morning comes off goes her head?!"  You think you’re Henry the bloody Fifth and First and Second?!'  She gathered her things and strode to the door, 'I'll take my chance with the storm rather than with a couple of sociopathic would-be murderers! Thank you very much, I don't think!' she roared as she opened the door and stormed out into the still howling wind.

 

'Wait!' Chip implored as he immediately got up and ran after her.  Just as he left the cabin, though, his head was taken cleanly off by a ravenous flying deux-ex-machina, and his spirit haunts the moors of Blankshire to this day.  See?  Told you it was a ghost story.