The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  Suddenly Sarah shouted out. ‘Here!’

  She was fifty paces from Fairfax, further up the bank. He had been looking in entirely the wrong place. They waded through the wet undergrowth towards her. She was staring at something close to her feet. Shadwell, slower than the rest of them, called out to her not to touch it. A piece of ribcage lay in a shallow depression, pale on the exposed brown earth.

  Shadwell came up and planted one of his bamboo poles beside it. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the ground, picked up the bone and brushed away the soil.

  Fairfax said, ‘Is it human? It seems too small.’ It looked as though it might have come from a dog.

  ‘Yes, it is. A child’s. See? And there are more remains there.’ Now that they looked, they could make out various other bones. ‘This place is a charnel house.’ Shadwell handed the ribcage to Fairfax, who held it gingerly – the thing felt fragile enough to disintegrate between his fingers – and then the antiquarian began to run his hands across the earth. He pulled back his hood and bent his nose close to the ground. He seemed to be sniffing the soil, like a bloodhound. ‘You were of the opinion that these bones had been revealed by the rain, I believe, Mr Fairfax?’

  ‘I thought it the most likely cause of their uncovering, yes.’

  ‘Well, you were wrong, sir!’ He turned to look up at Fairfax, oddly triumphant. ‘This exposure wasn’t the work of nature. This hollow has been dug out by human hand. See here, at the edge – the teeth mark of a tool? Someone has been here before us.’

  Fairfax nodded. ‘Father Lacy.’

  Hancock said, ‘Ye don’t know that.’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’

  ‘The flood washed away his workings,’ said Shadwell. He held up his hand. ‘Oliver – help me.’ Quycke offered his arm, and the old man, wincing at his stiffness, hauled himself to his feet. ‘We must dig a trench,’ he said, gesturing to show what he wanted, ‘inwards, towards this spot, along a line of twenty paces.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Lacy was a man of scientific method. If he dug here, you may be sure he had good cause.’ He took the ribcage from Fairfax and replaced it exactly where it had been found. ‘Oliver, would you be good enough to make a drawing of the site?’ He glanced around at the others. ‘Well? We must make haste. Dig!’

  Fairfax measured out twenty paces down the slope, rolled up his sleeves and stabbed the blade of his shovel into the ground. He was not unused to digging: there was a vegetable garden in the grounds of the chapter house where the younger priests were expected to do their share of work. But the earth of the cathedral garden was well broken, whereas here it was covered with ivy and ground elder, both deeply rooted, that needed to be sliced through, and then, once that had been cleared, the soil beneath proved to be full of rocks. Nevertheless, his sense of mission lent him strength – that desire to serve a larger purpose that was instilled in him as a priest – and soon his warm sweat was mingling with the cold rain.

  After a while he took a rest and looked up. He could see Hancock working furiously, Sarah and Quycke also digging, Shadwell walking up and down, occasionally stooping to examine some fresh find. There were four flags planted in the ground.

  He ignored the pain in his arms and went back to work. At a depth of about two feet, his shovel struck something softer than rock. He took the trowel from the bucket, got down on his knees and bent into the hole. Scraping away the loosened soil, he used his fingers to work off the clinging mud from the bone, and gradually, like a sculpture emerging from a block of stone, the earth yielded its occupant, or at least its top half, from the base of its ribcage to its skull. It lay on its back, a coverlet of soil drawn up to its waist, staring at the wet sky. A tall figure, or so it seemed to Fairfax, well in excess of his own height. He felt a peculiar shyness, as if he had woken someone from a long rest who had no desire to be disturbed. He touched his wet finger to the cold bone forehead and lightly drew the sign of the cross. ‘Who are you?’ he said softly.

  The light was becoming too weak for them to continue. Besides, they were wet to the skin. Shadwell, the only one well protected against the rain, declared they had done enough. Hancock, whose strength seemed to be equal to all of theirs combined, had dug a second trench, at right angles to the first, and exposed two more skeletons lying side by side.

  They stood among the bones and surveyed their work. Quycke handed Shadwell his sketch.

  ‘It is well laid out,’ said Shadwell, examining the figures. ‘These people were not left to rot where they fell, but properly buried. By my account, we have found ten. I feel certain if we dug for longer we would find yet more.’

  Sarah said, ‘So it is a cemetery?’

  ‘Exactly – and as such, proof of settlement, for why would anyone come up here from the valley to bury their dead? They must have lived close by.’

  ‘In the tower?’

  ‘No, your ladyship, there’s too little room in it. And where are the doors and windows?’ He pointed around the clearing. ‘Have you noticed the way the big trees all stop some distance from it? Something prevents their taking root. There is a structure underground, I’m sure of it.’

  Hancock said, ‘We should come back tomorrow and dig nearer the tower.’

  ‘Such an undertaking will require a great many men.’

  ‘I have men.’

  ‘You have men,’ said Sarah, ‘but will they come up here?’

  ‘They will.’

  Fairfax said, ‘I thought most refused to approach this place, even to look for Lacy’s body?’

  ‘Oh, they will come – they will come if I pay them well enough. How many would be needed?’

  Shadwell said, ‘My reckoning from experience is that a man can shift three cubic yards of earth an hour. But this land is hard. Say, twenty yards a man a day. That means that to make a decent mark we’ll need twenty men at least.’

  ‘Twenty I can find.’

  Fairfax said, ‘How will you bring twenty men up here and keep it secret? The village will talk. It will be known in Axford in no time.’ He looked around. He pictured Lacy, digging in this isolated place – a mad venture for one man on his own. A suspicion was beginning to form. ‘Where was Father Lacy’s body found? We have seen no ravine.’

  ‘Up there.’ Hancock gestured with his chin over his shoulder to the back of the Devil’s Chair. ‘Just beyond the crest.’ He studied Fairfax. ‘I can show ye, if ye like.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? We’re halfway there. It’s merely atop this slope.’

  Quycke interrupted. ‘I fear for Mr Shadwell’s health if we stay much longer in this damp and cold. We must find him someplace dry.’

  ‘Then why don’t ye all begin your descent?’ suggested Hancock. ‘Leave Fairfax and me our share of the tools to carry and we’ll meet ye at the wagon.’

  Sarah said, ‘Surely it must be dangerous in this bad light, John? Leave it till tomorrow.’

  ‘It will not take above ten minutes. Come, Fairfax. I’ll point out the spot.’

  He set off, forestalling further discussion, striding over the rough ground, and after a slight hesitation – for there was something about the captain’s eagerness he found unsettling – Fairfax followed him. Hancock moved fast for such a big man, nimble as a goat, jumping across the myriad of little springs that had emerged with the rain and were bubbling down the hillside, skirting rocks and fallen branches, hauling himself up by vines and trailing foliage. Fairfax was struck again by the land’s resemblance to a bulging forehead, the way in places it loomed over the clearing. It was dangerous, he thought, unstable.

  They reached the summit and Hancock turned and held out his hand to help Fairfax up the final part. ‘He lay just down there, beyond those trees. Go look. I’ll hold on to ye.’ He gripped the priest by the wrist and ushered him forward.

  The ground was loose under Fairfax’s feet. He could hear a waterfall somewhere, hammering down on to the rocks beneath. He ed
ged forward, parted the branches and found himself immediately swaying over space. At some time during the winter, part of the hillside had sheared away to leave a cliff edge that plunged at least a hundred feet to the narrow valley floor beneath. In the dim light it was impossible to make out much.

  ‘Whereabouts did the body lie, exactly?’

  ‘Just beyond a big rock, close to the stream. Can ye not see it?’

  ‘No.’

  He risked another half a pace forward, and suddenly he could feel the soil sliding away beneath him, his legs giving way. Rocks and loose earth tipped over the edge and crashed down to the bottom, and for a moment he felt sure he was about to follow. He turned and with both hands grabbed hold of Hancock’s arm. It flashed through his mind that the captain meant to murder him, and for a second or two he hung suspended. But then Hancock grinned – ‘I’ve got ye, Father’ – and pulled him back to safety.

  ‘Dear God,’ cried Fairfax. He backed away from the edge. ‘What a fatal spot!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Hancock. ‘Ye can see why folk are afraid to come up here.’ He seemed well pleased by the scare he had given the young priest. ‘So now is your curiosity satisfied?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Almost?’ Hancock frowned. ‘What more d’ye need to know?’

  ‘The day his body was discovered – I believe you didn’t come all the way up to the Devil’s Chair.’

  ‘No, we had no need – we came along the track down there and found him near the rock. Why? How d’ye know that?’

  ‘Because if you’d come up past the tower – before the storm – you’d have seen the fresh trench he’d dug.’

  Hancock nodded slowly. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Then don’t you understand? He was not at the Devil’s Chair that day for no reason. He had a task – digging bones. Why would he venture up on to the ridge? Something must have caused him to desert his work and clamber all the way up here – chased him up, I shouldn’t wonder. Whether accident or murder, I cannot tell, but I surmise he was in terror of his life, and that was how he died.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In which Mr Shadwell gives an account of the Apocalypse

  THE SKY HAD darkened while they were talking – so much so that by the time they began their descent, it was hard to see where to plant their boots. Several times they both went slithering, until they reached level ground and the open graves. The trenches gaped like wounds carved into the undergrowth. The outlines of the ancients’ corpses, their bones a lighter colour than the soil, were faintly visible in the shadows. It seemed an outrage to leave them out all night exposed to the rain. Fairfax bent his head to pray. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God …

  Hancock, further on, gathering up the shovels, turned to see what had become of him. ‘Oh come now, Fairfax, for pity’s sake! We have no time for that!’

  ‘Have you no soul, Captain Hancock?’

  ‘I have a soul, but these corpses have lain eight hundred years in unconsecrated ground, and another night won’t hurt ’em.’

  Fairfax ignored him, finished his prayer, made the sign of the cross and then shouldered his share of the tools.

  A wind had risen, rustling the branches of the trees, rippling the ivy clinging to the tower, as if the spirits of the dead were whirling all around them. Who were these people, born to live long lives, with inconceivable luxuries and wonders at their disposal? How had they come to die in such an isolated place?

  The others were sheltering in the back of Shadwell’s wagon. A lamp was lit inside. A carpet was spread out on the boards. There were cushions, two straw mattresses, chests, a rack of books. Dozens of Quycke’s drawings were glued to the canvas walls – sketches of grave sites, artefacts, ruined buildings. It was plainly where the two men lived when they were on the road. Shadwell was huddled on his own at the back, draped in an old rug.

  Hancock leaned in through the flap. ‘If ye’re agreeable, I propose we all pass the night at my house. It’s closer than the village.’

  ‘Anything to escape this rain,’ said Quycke.

  Shadwell started coughing.

  Hancock said, ‘It’s settled then. Stay here in the dry, Sarah. I’ll lead your horse.’

  ‘No, I’ll ride.’

  He looked ready to argue, but then decided against it. ‘As ye wish. I’ll borrow that lamp, if I may.’

  He mounted his horse and held the lamp up so they could follow him, then led them back out into the lane. He wheeled right and they resumed their journey in the same direction as before.

  For the next hour, Fairfax’s universe shrank to darkness and drizzle, the faint glow-worm of light up ahead, the clop of the horses’ hooves, the trundle of the wagon’s iron-rimmed wheels splashing through the puddles, the noise of the wind in the trees, the hollow cries of owls calling to one another in the forest. At length he sensed they were descending again, and not long afterwards, the lamp swayed off to the right and they entered upon a well-made drive. He could hear water rushing nearby and could just make out the black shapes of large buildings and a tall chimney stack silhouetted against the sky. A lighted window appeared ahead. A dog began barking. A crack of yellow light became a rectangle as a door was opened, and a woman’s voice called anxiously into the foul night: ‘John?’

  Addicott Mill House, like its owner, was large, solid, prosperous and proudly devoid of anything that might smack of frills or frippery. The whitewashed walls were bare apart from horse brasses. The brightly polished spotless oak floor exuded a strong aroma of wax, as did the plain oak furniture. In the sitting room was a newly carved baronial stone fireplace, not yet blackened by smoke, with a tiny fire on to which Hancock piled armfuls of kindling and heavy logs so that it soon became a blaze. They shed their wet coats and stood before it with their hands outstretched while their host issued various orders – bring gin, bring ale, fetch food, draw up a chair for Dr Shadwell, set up a table in front of the fire, close the shutters, warm the beds – most of which were directed at the heavyset grey-haired woman who had met them at the door and whom he introduced, almost as an afterthought, as his sister, Martha.

  Sarah said politely, ‘Allow me to help you, Martha.’

  ‘Spare yourself the trouble, your ladyship,’ replied Martha. ‘Ye’re not the mistress in this house yet.’

  Fairfax noticed how Sarah’s face seemed to tighten. ‘It really is no trouble to me.’

  ‘That’s gracious, I’m sure, but I know my place.’ Martha withdrew, triumphant.

  ‘Leave her be, Sarah,’ advised Hancock. ‘She likes to do these things herself.’ He tapped his foot in irritation, then followed his sister out of the room. They could hear him shouting after her, ‘Martha?’

  An elderly manservant and a maid came in, carrying a table, which they placed in front of the fire. The man returned with chairs and the girl with jugs and glasses.

  Sarah pulled a face. ‘I hardly dare presume, Christopher – will you serve us?’

  He poured them each a helping of gin and they all sat down at the table to drink, apart from Shadwell, still wrapped in his rug, who stayed close to the fire, his glass cupped in his hands, staring into the flames.

  Presently Hancock reappeared bearing a large tureen of soup. ‘Martha has retired to bed. She is unwell. She asked me to extend her apologies.’

  The maid fetched bowls and cutlery, the man a board of bread and cheese, and afterwards a pair of cold capons and some pickles. Hancock lifted the lid of the tureen. He inhaled the steam with relish. ‘Onion. Excellent. This will warm us right enough. Will ye favour us with grace, Mr Fairfax?’

  ‘I thought you were not a believer, Captain Hancock?’

  ‘It’s your Church I don’t believe in, sir. Your God I treat with respect.’

  Fairfax bowed his head and said mechanically, ‘Bless, O Lord, this food for thy use, and make us ever mindful of the wants and needs of others. Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’ Hancock beg
an to ladle out the soup. ‘Won’t ye join us, Dr Shadwell? Will ye fetch him to the table, Mr Quycke?’

  Quycke bent to whisper in Shadwell’s ear, and with some reluctance the old man allowed himself to be extracted from his fireside seat and manoeuvred into a chair at the head of the table. His face was unhealthily flushed, whether from the fire or his disease Fairfax could not tell. His spoon rattled against the side of the bowl when he bent to eat, and shed most of its contents on its wavering journey to his mouth. Still, he ate, and not long afterwards he took another glass of gin. He shrugged the rug from his shoulders and Quycke, ever attentive, rose to drape it over the back of his chair.

  Hancock said, ‘So, Dr Shadwell, what d’ye believe we might discover when we start to dig?’

  ‘That is impossible to know, sir.’

  ‘But there’s like to be an underground chamber of some description?’

  ‘Who can say? What once lay there may have long ago collapsed under the pressure of earth and time. Or it may prove empty. Or it may be a treasure house from the ancient world.’ He made a resigned gesture with his spoon. ‘I cannot foretell.’

  ‘What d’ye hope for?’

  Shadwell sighed and set down his spoon. ‘In my dreams?’ He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. Out of long habit he inspected it for blood, although Fairfax could see it was merely smeared with onion soup. Satisfied, he returned it to his lap. ‘Well, you’ve read what Morgenstern proposed. It could be nothing less than the necessities to one day restore the ancients’ way of life. That was his purpose, proclaimed in his letter, and the glass would seem to signify as much, though why it lay in the ground as it did is a mystery.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘Glass, for all its brittleness, Lady Durston, is like gold. It does not decay. Perhaps the rest has rotted. When we dig, we may discover, for often there are traces of wood and metal visible to the practised eye – mere stains upon the earth – that your husband most likely would have missed.’

  She said, ‘Do you really think there might be gold?’ She could not disguise her eagerness.