The Immortal Bind

by Traci Harding

  ‘I was the one who told you to protect her,’ Simon pointed to the depiction of Alexandre de Brie, and before the shock of the statement had even settled on Jon, Simon pointed to the quadrant of the tale that depicted the witch hunts. ‘I wanted to kill you to get to her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jon uttered, amazed.

  ‘And I was the one who delivered the damn chairs into the hands of your villain in the first place.’ Simon appeared distraught.

  Jon, however, was ecstatic!

  ‘Yes!’ He gripped his friend’s shoulders to look him in the eye.

  ‘You remember . . . how?’

  ‘I burned the chair.’

  ‘What?’ Jon shoved Simon away, so as not to hit him, before he processed the news.

  ‘It was only as it burned that I saw the visions.’ Simon was truly harrowed; Jon could clearly see the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Why?’ Jon appealed for a good reason not to kick him out of his life altogether.

  ‘I came here a few nights ago and found a paranormal episode unfolding around you and the chair in your room, the light from which would put a Spielberg film to shame!’

  Jon calmed a little. ‘I was wondering what happened here, during those episodes . . . but, Goddammit! I really loved that chair.’

  ‘I thought you’d been possessed!’ Simon stressed.

  ‘I can see that might have been a little distressing, but—’ Jon shook his head, resisting the temptation to lash out. ‘You should have just come to me and asked.’

  ‘I tried!’ Simon referred him to yesterday. ‘You said it was all coming from your imagination!’

  In all reality, Jon didn’t need the chair any more, he knew the stone was a fake and what he had to do to find the real stones. But what if it all came to a dead end? Without the chair there would be no more clues forthcoming. Could he trust that this sad turn of events was meant to be, and that everything he needed to find his unknown woman was already in his possession?

  ‘As soon as I saw the visions I immediately regretted what I’d done. I know in my soul — which I never knew I had — that I am somehow involved in this story.’ He referred to the canvas. ‘And I want to be one of the good guys. Now I have some idea of how much this woman means to you, just tell me what I can do to help find her and I’m there.’ He clearly hoped for a chance to redeem himself.

  ‘Well.’ Jon had been going to hire a car, but a lift and an extra pair of hands wouldn’t go astray.

  ‘Anything, any day, what do you need?’

  ‘A lift to Ipswich tomorrow.’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘Might be a day trip.’

  ‘Well, it’s ages since we’ve really hung out together, and it’s lovely by the river.’ Simon was eager. ‘What’s the agenda?’

  ‘You’ll find out tomorrow. But there is something I have been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Where did you acquire the chair in the first place?’

  Simon appeared overwhelmed by the question. ‘I only saw myself discussing the chairs with some Viking warrior guy—’

  ‘Not in the eleventh century.’ Jon couldn’t help but be amused by the misunderstanding. ‘I meant in this century, Simon.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Simon blushed. ‘From an antique store off Portobello Road.’

  ‘Would you take me there?’

  ‘No point,’ Simon was sorry to inform him. ‘I drove by there on the way here, hoping to buy a replacement. The store is not there and never was, according to the hairdresser next door. I kid you not.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised to hear that?’ Their spirit guide was so very good at appearing and disappearing as suited her purpose. ‘Then there’s only one avenue of investigation left open to me.’

  ‘India?’ Simon supposed.

  ‘Only if our trip to Ipswich is successful tomorrow.’ Jon had no idea how he was going to talk anyone into letting him dig up their land; with any luck the site was deep in parkland, but even then he would probably be sued if caught digging that up! This hunt could take years rather than days as he hoped. ‘It’s all in the lap of the gods now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, really I am. And for everything else I’ve done to you, ever.’ Simon made a huge circling motion with his hand towards the painting.

  Jon waved off the loss and cracked a smile of acceptance. ‘You paid with your life for selling those chairs to the Viking. And when you came to take her from me, you were only doing what you felt was your duty. When you asked me to protect her, you need not have bothered, I was in love with her anyway. You were always one of the good guys, Simon,’ said Jon in all honesty. ‘And a cherished friend.’

  Simon was moved to tears by the account, clearly pleased to hear that their friendship was still intact. ‘Until tomorrow then.’

  Jon had never seen Simon such an emotional wreck; clearly he needed to withdraw and gather his sensibilities. ‘Be sure and dress casual.’

  FORESHADOWED

  ‘Seriously, this is your idea of casual?’ Jon referred to Simon’s brand new jeans and long-sleeved designer T-shirt.

  Simon, who was driving, shrugged. ‘What? I had to go buy something.’

  Jon laughed out loud. ‘I should have lent you some clothes.’

  ‘No offence . . . but I’d rather look at a Jackson Pollock than wear it.’

  Jon was amused and picked paint off the shirt he was wearing. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of diversity and colour.’

  ‘Please tell me you are going shopping before you find this woman of yours; she’ll think you’re a vagrant.’

  ‘She’s seen me look a hell of a lot worse than this.’

  ‘Not in this day and age.’ Simon knew that for a fact. ‘If this meeting has been one thousand years in the making, you could make a little effort.’

  ‘She won’t care,’ Jon advised with a confident grin.

  At a roundabout Simon turned off the A137 and took the Strand exit to follow the B1456 down the west bank of the River Orwell. ‘So are you going to tell me what’s with the shovel and pick axe in my boot? Please say there are no dead bodies involved.’

  ‘Sorry, no can do.’ Jon grinned and admired the view; it felt strangely like coming home.

  ‘You’re not planning to kill me, are you?’

  ‘The thought had occurred . . . but no,’ he allowed, to set Simon at ease.

  ‘But we’re digging for something, obviously?’

  ‘At the Freston turn-off, keep going south along the river and then we’ll hang a left, I’ll tell you when.’

  Simon did not appear entirely satisfied with the feedback. ‘Are we going to be arrested?’

  Jon maintained his poker face. ‘Well, you did say you’d do anything.’

  ‘Very reassuring.’ Simon proceeded as directed.

  At the end of a dirt road they came to a small row of cottages by the river and Simon parked the car by the roadside.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, shall we?’ Jon was straight out of the car and pulled on a thick jacket as he headed through some trees to the water’s edge.

  The river bank was surprisingly unspoiled and fronted by trees, parkland and farmland in the main. This was a promising sign, as Jon felt there was a very good chance that the crumbled ruin of the manor had not been built over.

  ‘Glorious!’ Simon stood gazing out over the waterway littered by sailboats, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his woollen jacket. The afternoon sun peered through the clouds, casting the shadows of the trees at their backs along the shoreline. ‘I must say, this was a lovely idea. Should we rent a boat?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Jon, heading deeper into the wood. ‘What we are looking for is onshore.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Simon dragged himself away from the scenery to follow Jon’s lead.

  ‘A rather large pile of sandstone bricks.’

  ‘Look, if you want to renovate, I’m happy to buy materials—’

  ‘It’s a marker,’ Jon explained. />
  ‘Oh . . . right you are then.’ Simon joined the search to get this over with. ‘So what happens when we find the bricks?’

  ‘Let’s . . . just worry about that when we find them.’

  ‘And if we don’t find them?’

  Jon really didn’t even want to consider that query. ‘I come back and keep looking.’

  Simon breathed a heavy sigh. ‘I had an awful feeling you were going to say that.’ He wandered off in another direction, to help cover more ground.

  ‘Hey Jon, do you want to make a bet on who finds your pile first?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jon figured anything to get Simon into the hunt. ‘Fifty pounds.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Simon called back, ‘I’ll take cash.’

  ‘What?’ Jon’s heart jumped into his throat, as he raced through the forest to join Simon in a clearing, in the middle of which was what at first appeared to be a great mossy mound. Upon closer inspection, Jon discovered it was indeed a great pile of old sandstone bricks. ‘Holy shit! You found it!’ Jon paced around the large mound, trying to recall where the statue of Marchard senior would have been located. ‘It’s a wonder no one has dug these out of the ground to use for building materials — it’s beautiful stone.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ An older man entered the clearing. ‘This is private property.’

  ‘This is your land?’ Jon walked over to make the gentleman’s acquaintance with a handshake as the fellow nodded. ‘I’m Jon Trustler, and this is my business manager, Simon Dobbs.’

  The fellow was happy enough to shake Jon’s hand. ‘Richard Brooks, how can I help you gentlemen?’

  As Richard seemed an educated man, rather well dressed and cogent for a senior, Jon felt it best to be as forthright as possible. ‘We are on the trail of a bit of an archaic mystery.’ Jon grappled for a way to explain this and not come across as completely insane. ‘I was wondering, do you know the history of this pile of stones?’

  ‘I don’t know where they came from originally, no,’ he advised. ‘They date back centuries, I believe. I had thought of digging them out to build an extension on my house—’ He seemed to stop himself from saying more. ‘More bother than it’s worth, I decided.’

  ‘It is my understanding that back in the eleventh century these stones were once the manor house of a rich merchant family, known by the name of Marchard. The building was destroyed by fire when the matriarch of the family, Rosalind, set the place ablaze in a fit of grief, to bury herself in an antechamber off the basement storeroom beneath.’

  Richard was intrigued. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

  ‘She was possessed by a curse,’ Jon was candid, ‘and felt that she was protecting her descendants from inheriting the burden from her.’

  ‘A curse, you say?’ The man wore a strange expression; Jon wasn’t sure if he was sceptical, or curious.

  ‘I know it sounds a little odd—’

  ‘Where did you get all this information?’

  ‘Here we go—’ Simon uttered, and walked away to distance himself from the forthcoming confession.

  Jon saw no alternative than to just be honest. ‘From a ghost.’

  ‘A ghost?’ Richard said flatly.

  ‘That’s correct.’ Jon, although embarrassed, did not let his eye contact waver.

  ‘Do you live in these parts, Jon?’ Richard eyed the surrounding clearing warily.

  ‘No, we’re both from the city. This is actually my first visit here.’

  Richard appeared a little perplexed by this. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’

  ‘I do!’ Simon turned about and headed back towards them, only to trip on something in the long grass. ‘Ouch . . . that hurt!’ Simon gripped his battered toe as Jon approached to see if he was okay.

  ‘What the hell was that?’

  Jon took a closer look at the area, parting the grass to find the offending item, which appeared smooth and glossy, like marble. Digging around the item, he pulled part of a marble hand from the ground. ‘It’s a piece of statue — quite possibly the one that stood outside the manor.’ Jon’s heart jumped into his throat. This is it! He could barely breathe for his inner excitement — Rosalind and the real stones were right beneath his feet.

  * * *

  Their host led them into his backyard and through the rear door of the two-storey cottage. In the kitchen, a woman Jon assumed to be Richard’s wife was gazing at him with a questioning look.

  ‘Connie, this is Jon and Simon,’ Richard did the introductions. ‘Jon here believes he has a name for your ghost.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She appeared stunned in a pleasant way.

  She was not the only one. Jon and Simon were equally elated as it appeared their investigation was progressing rather better than expected.

  ‘They’re both from London.’ Richard headed for his bar. ‘So how Jon got chatting to your ghost, I’m yet to find out, but I thought I’d best bring them back for a drink before we got to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Indeed. Gentlemen, have a seat.’ She directed them to a table and chairs in the sunroom, an air of excitement about her. ‘What can we get you, a hot beverage?’

  ‘A stiff drink?’ Richard countered his wife’s offer as Jon and Simon took a seat at the table.

  ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having.’ Simon took Richard up on his offer, while Jon was happy to join Connie for a cup of tea.

  They were such a sweet old couple, both grey and wrinkled, but so comfortable and respectful of each other. Even when they spoke in jest about the other, you could see the love and care underlying their jibes.

  Jon conveyed all he’d told Richard to Connie and once he had, she appeared baffled.

  ‘But your name is Jon?’ Connie pointed out. ‘That’s contrary to something the ghost said.’

  ‘You’ve spoken with Rosalind’s ghost?’ Jon was fascinated to hear their side of the story.

  ‘A lot of folk around here know about her, but my wife’s the first one insane enough to follow the spectre into the wood and start asking questions.’ Richard, although having a dig, sounded proud to boast on her behalf.

  ‘Mostly people have just seen her as a sphere of light moving through the wood at night,’ Connie began. ‘When I saw it, I had to follow, and it led to the pile of stones, where it took the form of an old woman. “Leave this place be,” she said—’

  ‘I mentioned I was thinking of digging out the stones,’ Richard cut in. ‘That’s when the light phenomenon started up again. But it has happened every time someone has disturbed the site, according to local hearsay.’

  Jon and Simon’s attention returned to Connie, eager for her to continue. ‘Leave this place be,’ Jon prompted her to reveal the rest.

  ‘“He is coming to relieve me of my curse,” she told me. And so I asked her who was coming, and she gave me a name. Unfortunately that name was not Jon Trustler,’ she concluded, with a look of apology on her face.

  ‘Edwin Ryder,’ Jon stated with certainty, and Connie and Richard both gasped in amazement.

  ‘That’s right.’ Connie smiled, delighted, and turned to slap her husband’s shoulder. ‘Now do you believe me?’

  But Richard was still uncertain. ‘You know this Edwin Ryder?’

  ‘I believe that in Rosalind’s time, I was Edwin Ryder,’ Jon felt awkward confessing.

  ‘Is this a past-life thing?’ Connie was fascinated.

  ‘That would be a fair assessment,’ Jon supposed.

  ‘So why have you come for her?’ Richard was more interested in that story.

  ‘As long as Rosalind remains buried with her curse, her soul cannot move on,’ he began as Connie appeared open to supernatural subject matter. ‘She wishes for me to exhume the cursed items from her possession and return them to India from whence they came. Only then will the curse be lifted and Rosalind rest in peace.’

  ‘She will release my sandstone to me?’ That was all that interested Richard. ‘And stop haunting our wood?’

  ‘
Rosalind has lingered far too long already. I expect she will be as glad to see the back of this place as you will be to have your wood back.’

  ‘Sounds a fair trade.’ Richard cracked a smile, and Connie nodded to agree.

  ‘However,’ Jon continued, ‘I feel obliged to inform you that the cursed items in question are a pair of lilac diamonds that have sent everyone who has ever been in contact with them to a quick grave. Rosalind died less than a day after taking possession of the stones; the courier who brought them to her died of a mysterious illness within days, after her husband was slain by thieves trying to deliver the stones to her in England.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Richard found the whole thing a little heavy.

  ‘Obviously, you only have my word to guide you in this matter; the stones are surely priceless and buried on your land. But before they were stolen, they resided in a temple in Somnath, in India, dedicated to the Lord Shiva, and it is into the hands of the priests there that I intend to return the stones. Their legend is something I can confirm. Collectively they were known as the Eyes of Karma.

  Just google it . . . they have never been found.’

  ‘Oh my lord.’ Connie looked to her husband and nodded to confirm he should go and check, but Simon had already found some articles on his phone.

  ‘Here.’ He handed the phone over to their host to read.

  ‘You saw all this in dreams?’ Connie was enchanted.

  ‘I did,’ Jon confirmed.

  ‘Jon has painted the whole story in one huge work,’ Simon informed her. ‘If you don’t mind a trip up to London, you could come to his exhibition and see it?’

  ‘I would love that.’ Connie was beyond thrilled.

  ‘I thought we weren’t exhibiting that painting?’ Jon queried Simon’s change of heart.

  ‘Of course we are!’ Simon made it sound like blasphemy to suggest otherwise. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little diversity and colour.’