SLEEP NO MORE

by L. T. C. Rolt

‘Well,’ queried Elphinstone as they drew their chairs to the fire after dinner, ‘what’s the verdict now?’

  Carfax hesitated. Considered in retrospect, his fears seemed so intangible and groundless, that he felt foolish and doubted his ability to express them in so many words. With the other’s encouragement, however, he presently gave as detailed and faithful an account of his day as he was able. During his narration Elphinstone nodded occasionally, but seemed to evince no surprise. When Carfax had finished speaking he remained silent for a few moments, pulling at a thin, black cheroot.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said at length. ‘Very interesting, but not, I can assure you, a unique experience by any means. For years, I might safely say for centuries, strangers have been made aware, by some such means as you describe, that they were not welcome in this valley.’

  ‘But it’s not just the people,’ put in Carfax. ‘It’s as though the valley . . .’

  ‘I know, I know,’ the older man cut him short. ‘It’s not as simple as that, is it? “An angel satyr walks these hills”,’ he quoted; ‘know who wrote that? Why Kilvert. “Angel satyr”—a curious association of opposites—what do you suppose induced a mild little Victorian curate to use such a term?’

  ‘I think I can understand now,’ Carfax admitted. ‘And yet,’ he went on, ‘I refuse to believe that this sense of evil is a natural emanation of the place itself. As a Christian, I hold that both good and evil are human concepts, and that they do not exist in nature.’

  ‘Well put,’ said the other, ‘and probably true, but if, as a Christian, you believe that there are spiritual as well as material powers, then don’t you think it possible that man might abuse and pervert the former no less than the latter?’

  Carfax nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose such a thing is possible.’

  ‘I am sure of it,’ Elphinstone went on, ‘and what’s more I consider that this valley can prove my contention.’

  ‘Go on,’ prompted Carfax.

  ‘I believe,’ the other continued, ‘that some evil force dominates Cwm Garon. I think it is a natural force which man, in some remote time, released and harnessed to secret and perverted ends. For centuries this dark power has been, as it were, dammed up in this valley until it has soaked into the very stones of the place. That is why a more superficial mind than yours might imagine that it is a natural phenomenon. Outside interference has an effect upon it like that of a stone flung into a still pool. That’s why Cwm Garon and its people have always implacably resisted intrusion.’ He paused.

  ‘But is that really so?’ queried Carfax. ‘What evidence have you?’

  ‘Apart from many similar experiences to your own,’ the older man replied, ‘there is ample historical evidence. Take this Abbey, for instance.’ He made a sweeping gesture. ‘It did not survive until the Dissolution. What happened? The community dwindled. Its numbers could not be maintained. Finally, a new Abbey of Llangaron was built in the safe, flat lands beside the Wye, and the old was abandoned. It has been said that it was too solitary, too open to attack by wolves or raiding hillmen. Do you find that explanation convincing? Do you think that a Church which deliberately sought the solitudes, and which established flourishing communities at such places as Valle Crucis or Strata Florida would be defeated merely by the loneliness of Cwm Garon? No, I suggest that they went because they feared something more potent but less tangible than wolves or robbers.

  ‘You say you saw the ruined church at Capel Cwm Garon; do you know the history of that? It was built by a nineteenth-century religious sect headed by a man who called himself Brother Jeremy. What happened? History repeated itself; the community dwindled; misfortune followed misfortune. The eventual result you have seen for yourself. It’s not only the efforts of the Church that have failed,’ he went on. ‘On the slope of the mountain just behind here you’ll find the ruins of a house. There’s not much to see, but it is all that’s left of the place that Alaric Stephenson the artist tried to build for himself. I say “tried” because it was never finished. He apparently had some grandiose notion that he was going to make a sort of miniature paradise for himself here, but he soon found he was mistaken. Everything went wrong. No local contractors would work for him. What was done during the day was undone at night. Even the trees he tried to plant were uprooted. I could quote several other examples of the same kind of thing, but the repetition would be boring.’

  ‘But do these . . . these forces manifest themselves in any way?’ questioned Carfax.

  ‘That depends,’ was the answer. ‘Unless you deliberately seek them or try to interfere with them, I should say no; you might stay here a month without experiencing any more than the sense of hostility and surveillance which you felt today!’

  Elphinstone rose to his feet and lit the candle on the side-table.

  ‘What is this extraordinary influence, and how exactly does it affect the people who live in Cwm Garon?’ Carfax persisted.

  The other was standing in the doorway about to bid him good night. His keen eyes glittered in the flickering candle flame as he smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I cannot answer that question,’ he replied. ‘At least, not yet. I think I have a shrewd idea, but one day—soon perhaps—I hope to know.’

  The conversation had filled Carfax’s head with disturbing speculations, and despite his long day in the mountain air it was some time before he lost consciousness. Even so, it must have been a light doze instead of his usual sound sleep, for he presently awoke and, glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly midnight. He became aware of stealthy movement in the room overhead at the top of the tower, movement betrayed by sounds so slight that he could never have detected them but for the profound stillness. Then he heard the pad of stealthy feet descending the stone stairs. A thin pencil of light flickered momentarily beneath his door and was gone. Carfax climbed softly out of the bed and crossed to the open window. He was in time to see a tall, slightly stooping, figure which he recognised unmistakably as that of Charles Elphinstone, cross the grass below and disappear beyond the ruined wall of the cloister garth. As he watched, he suddenly recalled the association of the name which had eluded him all day—Professor Charles Elphinstone, probably the greatest authority on folk-lore and magic since Frazer. ‘One day—soon perhaps—I hope to know.’ He seemed to hear an echo of his last words. Though Carfax was by no means of a timid disposition, he felt a reluctant, even envious feeling of admiration for the intrepid old man. Admittedly, on the face of it, a midnight stroll in this quiet Welsh valley seemed to call for no particular display of courage. The night was clear and brightly moonlit, the scene the same as before, the same black shadows of the nave arches on the dew-laden grass, the same black grandeur of mountains framed in the gaping east window, the same stillness. Yet this time, Carfax had no thought of Vaughan or Traherne, for he knew the fear that lurked in this silence. Were those lights, moving and dancing along the slopes of the mountains, or was it merely a trick of moonlight shining upon stone? Somewhere near at hand an owl hooted mournfully, and there came into his mind a line from the thirteenth chapter of Isaiah: ‘Owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.’ He shivered, and returned to the welcome warmth of the bed.

  The Professor did not appear at breakfast. Doubtless he was making up for lost sleep thought Carfax, but the reflection could not dispel a vague sense of uneasiness which refused to be quieted. He deliberately loitered in the dining-room, hoping Elphinstone would come. When, at half-past ten, his place was still empty, Carfax determined to settle his fears. He climbed the tower stairs to the Professor’s room. A can stood outside his door. It was full, and the water was quite cold. He knocked softly, then more loudly. There was no response. Turning the handle very gently he opened the door a few inches and looked in. The room was empty.

  Some instinct prompted Carfax to set out on his search in the same direction as he had taken the previous day, towards the ruined church of Capel Cwm Garon
. He was still trying to reassure himself that his fears were groundless. Though Elphinstone had not, it appeared, warned the inn of any intended absence, he might well have decided to stay out on such a fine morning, while even involuntary absence might be caused by no worse mishap than a sprained ankle. Yet the feeling of foreboding would not be appeased. He realised that the date was May the first, that last night, in fact, had been ‘Eve of May’ of ancient celebration, and somehow this knowledge by no means allayed his concern. Meanwhile, his senses observed the same atmosphere of hostility and watchfulness, but now, pre-occupied with fresh fears, he no longer turned to peer at vacant windows or into the shadows beneath the trees, knowing that to do so would be fruitless. So he strode on until he came in sight of the crags of Black Daren which towered above the ruined church. As his eyes roamed over the precipice, he thought he detected a movement among the boulders of the screes below. He fumbled for his binoculars, and focused them hurriedly. Two men appeared to be bending over something which lay behind a rock invisible to him. ‘No doubt a sheep has fallen from the crags,’ whispered reason, but dread lent wings to his feet.

  Professor Charles Elphinstone had obviously slipped and fallen from a great height in attempting to scale the crags, and his body lay against the rock in that attitude of macabre abandonment which betokens shattered bones. His hat had fallen off, and the luxuriant white hair was matted with congealed blood. Carfax, who was familiar with death in many forms, was not dismayed by these gruesome commonplaces of violent dissolution. What drained the blood from his face and impelled him quickly to replace the sack which covered the body, was the expression on the face. He would not have believed that the features he had lately seen so calm and self confident, could have been moulded by terror to such hideous contortion.

  It may be thought that Carfax would have no desire ever to revisit the valley; he would certainly have subscribed to this view himself when he left Llangaron on the day following the tragic accident. Everything about Cwm Garon had become repulsive to him and, as many others, it seemed, had done before him, he retired defeated. Never did the mundane environment of the outside world seem so friendly and welcoming. When the train pulled in to the little station at Pont Newydd he could scarcely resist the impulse to run up to the footplate and shake the driver by the hand. Yet—and to those who have never visited Cwm Garon this will seem the most improbable part of this strange story—as the weeks went by after his return to London, fear turned to curiosity, and repulsion to an attraction which he found increasingly difficult to resist. It was almost as though some powerful influence was luring him back.

  Be that as it may, Carfax did return to the valley, and a sultry night on the eve of August the first found him once again walking up the lane toward Capel Cwm Garon. The heat in the valley that day had been stifling. Everything had felt hot to the touch, and the outlines of the mountain ridges shimmered in a haze which mingled with the acrid smoke of a heather fire. Never had the atmosphere seemed so surcharged with still suspense. Even the interminable voice of the Garon had been muted by weeks of drought. Only occasionally, far away over the mountains toward Radnor, faint thunder growled and muttered. At evening a grey veil of cloud had spread slowly across the sky so that the night fell black and starless. Yet the heat was still insufferable and there was no breath of wind. Everything, from towering mountain to individual leaf or grass blade, seemed poised in tense expectancy as though awaiting some tremendous event.

  I will not attempt to analyse Carfax’s state of mind as he strode on through the dark of the high-banked lane. Though still beyond the reach of his five senses, his reason no longer questioned the reality of a malign, unsleeping watch. Yet still, ‘For lust of knowing what should not be known’, he held on purposefully. Somewhere above the invisible crags of the Black Daren a heather fire was still burning, a livid wheal of flickering flame twisting snake-like across the face of the mountain. But Carfax also saw other lights in the darkness, moving points of light which no comfortable theory could explain. They appeared to move swiftly along and down the mountain walls, converging, it would seem, upon the church at Capel Cwm Garon. There must, he thought, be another fire just beyond the church, for the ruined walls were visible against its dull red glare. As he approached more closely, however, he saw, with a new fear stirring in his heart, that he was mistaken, and that the light was actually coming from within the church itself.

  While fascination fought with terror within him he drew nearer, leaving the lane for the short turf of the field where his footfalls made no sound, until he reached a position from which he could see into the roofless nave. In the centre of the church stood a brazier which glowed redly and sent up swirling clouds of smoke whose pungent aromatic odour drifted across to where Carfax stood. Around and about the brazier moved a considerable company of men and women. They were naked, and as they moved, their bodies seemed to capture and reflect the ruddy glare of the fire as though they were lacquered. When he glimpsed them momentarily in the firelight, Carfax thought that the faces of a few of the taller ones seemed vaguely familiar, but the majority of the company appeared to be very short in stature, so short, in fact, that at the first instant of vision he thought they must be children. Their bodies, however, belied this impression, as did their faces, for their countenances were such that Carfax was grateful for the smoke which prevented him from seeing them clearly. Sometimes the company moved in slow and stately dance, sometimes the pace quickened to a frenzy accompanied by gesture and posture indescribably obscene. Naked feet moved silently and there was no sound of music, yet always they seemed obedient to the measure of some inaudible rhythm. Now and again the smoke whirled aside to reveal, in the shadows beyond the brazier, a horned figure seated upon some kind of throne. Carfax marked this inhuman shape with a renewed access of fear until he realised that it was a man clothed in skins and wearing a horned head-dress. He knew then that he was beholding the celebration of rites unbelievably ancient, and temporarily his interest overcame his revulsion and his fear. But only momentarily, for it dawned upon him that this spectacle, for all its diabolic depravity, was human, and that it inspired a purely physical emotion, whereas the malignant power which brooded over the valley itself was something more or less than human. These forms which writhed in the firelight might conjure or appease that power, but they were not the power itself; their monstrous celebration had not abated the tense expectancy of the stillness. The valley still awaited some greater event.

  Suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning, followed immediately by a crash of thunder tore through the veil of darkness and silence. Reverberating like great drums, the mountains took up the roar of sound and flung it from wall to wall, echoing and re-echoing down Cwm Garon. The figures round the fire had ceased their dance and flung themselves prostrate on the ground. The fire itself burnt low. The thunder died away with a sound like the closing of some vast door, and with its passing there seized Carfax a terror of the soul so abject that it was as though the valley yawned like the mouth of hell. For there fell about him a silence that was like the soundless desolation of outer space, and a sightless darkness blacker than any midnight. Though his eyes were blinded and his ears heard no sound, he knew that there stalked through the valley something intangible, unearthly, monstrous and very terrible. Though no leaf moved, something stirred in his hair. It seemed to pass as a storm cloud passes, sweeping down Cwm Garon, and with that passage the spell which had bound senses and held limbs from motion lifted. Carfax screamed, and, slipping and stumbling, he ran towards the crags of Black Daren. At the sound of his voice, two squat figures left the circle round the fire. Their pale forms glimmered in the darkness as they followed lithely after, moving in swift silence over the screes.

  A Visitor At Ashcombe

  ASHCOMBE IS A FINE EXAMPLE of the smaller stone-built manor-house, a type in which the Cotswold country of Gloucestershire is peculiarly rich. I need not specify the precise location of the house beyond saying that it is not many miles
from Stow-on-the-Wold. The local saying

  ‘Stow-on-the-Wold

  Where the wind blows cold’

  is true enough in winter when the east winds whip across leagues of undulating, dry-walled uplands. Yet the stranger who travels in winter along one of the main roads which stride across these high wolds obtains a false impression of treeless bleakness. For they conceal within their folds many warm and sheltered combes in which the grey villages and farms lie snugly, linked to the great ridge roads by narrow, break-neck lanes. In such a sheltered and secluded site stands Ashcombe Manor, protected from the north and east, not only by the swell of the wolds, but by hanging beechwoods which flame with colour in autumn. The gabled front faces south down the combe, and the windows, with their stone mullions and hood moulds, look out over a smooth lawn and a strip of unfenced common to the village church. The view is uninterrupted because the lawn ends in a ha-ha, but the road discreetly skirts the edge of the common on its way to the little village which lies beyond the church.

  For some years now the Manor has stood empty. Old Mrs Greening at the lodge keeps the key and, provided the old lady has not stepped down for a gossip or a dish of tea with her sister who keeps the village shop, the house is open to public inspection with the exception of one room on the ground floor. Empty country houses are no rarity in these highly taxed and servantless days, but, unlike the majority, Ashcombe is of small size and convenient plan, so that many visitors must have speculated on the reason for its desertion. Their curiosity goes unsatisfied. The more inquisitive may discover the belief, held by a few of the older villagers, that the house is haunted, a rumour which frequently attaches itself to an old, empty house and which, in this case, appears to have no specific foundation either in fact or folk-lore. If old Mrs Greening knows any more than the rest of the village she does not betray the fact.