The Morgow Rises!

by Peter Tremayne

  Noall came across with hot pasties and pickles and they fell to eating and chatting inconsequentially.

  “Hello, Miss Penvose.”

  Claire found herself looking up at the sound of the dry, crisp voice.

  Reverend Pencarrow stood before them toying with a half-pint of beer.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your luncheon,” he began, “but I thought I’d see if your uncle had turned up safely.”

  Claire found herself feeling a pang of guilt in that she had not spared Uncle Henry a thought during the last half-an-hour’s conversation with Bill Neville. She shook her head.

  “No, Mr Pencarrow. I have reported the matter to Constable Roscarrock, although he seems to think that Uncle Henry has just gone off on one of his expeditions down Wheal Tom and simply forgotten the time.”

  Pencarrow smiled thinly.

  “It sounds feasible. Roscarrock ought to know what he is doing.”

  “And speak of the devil,” interposed Neville, “here comes the constable now.”

  Roscarrock entered the bar followed by a man in a Coastguard uniform with Jack Treneglos close behind. Roscarrock paused, glanced round as if looking for someone, spotted Claire and came over immediately, removing his helmet as he did so.

  “Miss Penvose,” he came to a halt before them and stood shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Miss Penvose, I’m afraid I’m in possession of some information which necessitates an immediate search for your uncle.”

  Claire looked up at the burly form of the policeman slightly bewildered.

  “I don’t understand. What information?”

  “We have reason to believe,” began Roscarrock, managing to sound slightly pompous, “that the sea has burst into the lower galleries of the old mine workings — that Wheal Tom has flooded. If so, we must make sure that your uncle is not down there…”

  CHAPTER IX

  Johnny Treneglos had been given a new fishing line and hand reel by his father Seth for his eleventh birthday. He was very proud of it. He clambered over the rocks along the base of the precipitous cliffs which ran to the west of Bosbradoe, hauling his haversack and line with him. He was determined to catch something really big that morning; something that would impress his father and force him to give permission to allow young Johnny to go on a fishing trip with his uncles Jack and Charlie. More than anything Johnny wanted to go fishing on his uncles’ ketch and become a real deep-sea fisherman. But his father objected. Seth was the “landlubber” of the family and was totally set against his son taking to the sea for a living.

  Johnny scrambled over the slippery seaweed-strewn rocks until he came to an outcrop of granite which overlooked a fairly deep area of the sea. It was a spot where several villagers had hoisted mullet and even bass. Johnny squatted down, took out his new hand reel and unwound it. Then he stood up, placed one foot on the wooden frame, keeping clear of the line, and with one hand, began to swing the lead-weighted end around his head in ever increasing circles until he let go. The line snaked out with an abruptness, straight and true for the spot that Johnny estimated it would fall. The boy smiled with satisfaction as he saw the weight splash in and he waited while the line continued to pay out. When it had stopped he bent forward and began to reel in the slack. Having fixed his line he sat down on the rocks to wait, rummaging in his bag for an apple.

  He had been sitting on the rock, feeling slightly drowsy, when he felt his line tug sharply. With a cry of triumph, he sprang to his feet, balanced precariously on the rocks, and began to test the line cautiously. No doubt about it, he had something. The line was taut and dragging. In fact, young Johnny found it necessary to anchor himself to the rock, so strong was the drag.

  Then, to his anger, there was a slackness. The line had snapped.

  He reeled it in quickly, hoping against hope that whatever had been caught on it had simply managed to unhook itself. A few moments later his worst fears were confirmed. The line had snapped and his weight, hook and float were gone.

  He had hardly time to digest this fact when something caught his eye. A short way out to sea the water was beginning to bubble and swirl. Something was moving underneath the surface. He strained forward to glimpse it.

  The water foamed. A dark shape emerged.

  Johnny’s eyes widened with incredulity.

  He had heard tales of sea serpents, of the Loch Ness Monster, but Johnny was a sceptical child; a child advanced for his age who admitted that such things only existed in fairy tales and ancient myths. But this was such a creature as fairy tales were made of. He had the impression of a black, rubbery thing, something like a gigantic slug. Then it was gone. There was no trace except the swirling waters.

  For a moment or so, Johnny Treneglos sat in open-mouthed amazement.

  Then he sprang to his feet and was tearing back over the slippery granite rocks towards the foot of the cliffs, towards the cove and the cottages of Bosbradoe.

  Claire stared at Constable Roscarrock until the man dropped his eyes and made an uncomfortable gesture of indecision.

  “What are you saying?” her voice was unnaturally low.

  “Well, I’m not saying anything definite at Che moment, Miss Penvose. Please don’t get alarmed.”

  Lieutenant Polkerris, who had followed Roscarrock to their table, introduced himself briefly.

  “It’s merely a precaution, Miss Penvose. I understand

  that your uncle has been missing since yesterday and that he frequently goes down the local mine workings?”

  “He owns Wheal Tom,” Claire explained.

  “I see,” returned Polkerris. “Well, I understand from the constable that you reported him missing this morning. He has not been home since yesterday.”

  Claire nodded: “That is correct.”

  “Well,” went on the Coastguard. “We suspect that some time yesterday Wheal Tom started to flood. There are galleries which stretch out under the sea as far as Trevian Rocks. If they collapsed it would explain the whirlpool effect witnessed by Mister Treneglos from his ketch.”

  The locals were gathering round, ears straining to catch the Coastguard officer’s words.

  “Witnessed?” muttered Charlie Treneglos. “The damn thing near sucked our ketch under.”

  Jack Treneglos nodded agreement.

  Claire was white.

  “You’re saying that my uncle was in the mine when it flooded? You’re saying that he…he…”

  “Now we don’t know anything beyond what I’ve told you,” said the Coastguard. “There are possibilities that we must check out. Your uncle could be trapped or injured in the mine.”

  Neville reached out a comforting arm around Claire’s shoulders. She sagged against him gratefully. Her mind was spinning a little as she tried to understand the implications of what was being said.

  “Shouldn’t we get a search party down Wheal Tom?” Neville asked.

  Roscarrock nodded.

  “I’m just waiting for a mining surveyor to drive up here from the Camborne School of Mines. He should be here in about an hour or so. We shall go down as soon as he arrives.”

  “I’m coming with you,” declared Neville. “I’ve done pot-holing in the Peak District and helped in more than one rescue.”

  “Very well, Mr Neville,” replied Roscarrock. “That would be useful.”

  “And I’m coming too,” declared Claire in a small, determined voice.

  Roscarrock started to protest.

  Tm coming,” interrupted Claire. “I’ve been down Wheal Tom several times with my uncle. I know it pretty well. I’m coming.”

  The tone in her voice stood for no contradiction.

  “Do you want volunteers for the party?” asked Noall. There was a chorus of offers from the locals but Roscarrock shook his head.

  “More than four of us will be too many. People will just start to get in each other’s way.”

  He turned to Claire and Neville.

  “I suggest you both go and get into something suitable, stout
boots and heavy clothing, and meet me by the engine room of Wheal Tom in an hour’s time.”

  Outside The Morvren Arms Claire turned to Neville.

  “Would you mind giving me a lift back to Tybronbucca, Bill? I don’t really feel like driving at the moment.”

  “Sure,” smiled Neville. “Are you feeling up to going in the mine?”

  “I’ll be okay. Just a bit shocked.”

  Roscarrock, following them out, saw them drive off and walked slowly back to his cottage. His plump, homely wife was standing at the door waiting for him.

  “The inspector’s been on the telephone again.”

  “Alright, my love,” replied Roscarrock. “What a commotion, eh?”

  “Aye, it is that. Near thirty years we’ve been here and the only time I remember you being run off your feet was when that young tourist lad went missing from the holiday cottage. Well, I’ll put out some warm clothes and your walking boots, shall I?”

  Roscarrock nodded absently and turned into his office to report to his chief.

  Young Johnny Treneglos burst breathlessly into the bar of The Morvren Arms.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  Seth turned in mid-conversation with his brothers. “Now then, young Johnny. You know you ain’t supposed to be in here. Don’t let Constable Roscarrock catch’ee or he’ll have me up before the magistrate in no time.”

  “Dad! I see’d it, dad! I see’d it in the cove!”

  The boy was breathless with excitement, his clothes were askew and there were scratches on his legs and arms.

  “Now then, son,” rebuked Seth. “Calm down, will’ee? What have you been up to then?”

  “I see’d a sea serpent! A real sea monster. Just a few yards off…”

  There was a roar of laughter from the locals overhearing the boy.

  “You’d best run off and play your tricks on someone else, lad,” admonished his Uncle Charlie.

  The boy looked from his uncle to his father with pleading eyes.

  “It’s the truth, Dad. I swear ‘tis the truth. I did see it.”

  “What was it you saw, young’un?” asked Lieutenant Polkerris.

  Briefly the boy described what he had seen.

  Seth Treneglos stood staring at the boy in bewilderment. “Are you playing the goat, boy?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “Of course not, Dad. I did see it.”

  Jack Treneglos came forward smiling indulgently. “Here, young John,” he slipped the boy a coin. “Run along home now. Your mum must be waiting with your dinner.” The boy turned towards his uncle.

  “You believe me, don’t you, Uncle Jack?”

  “Sure I do. So does your father, don’t you, Seth?”

  Seth glanced at his brother and then nodded halfheartedly.

  “Get along home, Johnny,” he muttered.

  Reluctantly the boy turned and left the bar.

  “He’s got an imagination, I’ll say that,” chuckled Noall, returning to polishing glasses.

  “No, I think he did see something,” said Reverend Pencarrow quietly.

  “Of course he did,” agreed Lieutenant Polkerris. “But what? Flotsam, jetsam, a bit of wreckage? That’s enough for the untrained eye to see and start visualising sea serpents and the like. You’d be surprised how many reports of sighting of sea serpents the Coastguard have to deal with each year.”

  “Did you listen to his description, though?” asked Jack Treneglos thoughtfully. “It was quite detailed.”

  “Indeed it was. That’s why I don’t think it was just a piece of wreckage that he saw. I believe he saw precisely what he described.”

  The bar had fallen silent as eyes turned questioningly on the vicar.

  “And just what do you reckon he saw?” asked Polkerris.

  “Some sort of creature; a creature which science has not yet identified. There are millions of such species in the sea, species of life about which we know nothing.”

  “Aye, that’s all very well, Reverend,” smiled Charlie, “but a sea serpent? I ask you!”

  “Cornwall abounds with tales of sea serpents,” replied Pencarrow calmly. “What about the famous tale of the Morgow?”

  Noall articulated the perplexity which showed on several faces.

  “What in God’s name is a Morgow, vicar?”

  “There is an old legend…” began Pencarrow.

  “Legend?”

  There was a shrill cackle of laughter from the doorway. Old Mother Polruan stood there regarding the inhabitants of the bar with her mocking bright eyes.

  “The Morgow is no legend. It exists and always has existed. One day soon it will rise from the deep to claim its own!”

  This was greeted by several chuckles and a few scornful remarks were aimed at the crone.

  “Bedheugh war pan dhe an Morgow,” chanted Mother Polruan in her queer, high-pitched voice. “Oleugh rag an re ynfew…”

  “Speak English,” interrupted Noall. “None of us know the old language.”

  It was Reverend Pencarrow who supplied the English translation.

  “Beware when the Morgow rises,

  Lament for the living.

  Lament for the unborn.

  All things end!”

  Mother Polruan chuckled.

  “Aye, that’s it. So you have the Kernewek, preacher? You know the ancient tongue of our land?”

  “Well,” interrupted Seth, “that don’t mean to say there be sea serpents in these days. The ancients were always a superstitious lot. They saw sea serpents everywhere.” There was a murmur of approval.

  “But there have been sightings of such a creature in recent times,” said Pencarrow quietly.

  “Come on, Vicar,” said Polkerris cynically. “You surely don’t believe in things like monsters and sea serpents. You are a man of the cloth, after all.”

  “That is precisely why I do believe, why I keep an open mind, Lieutenant,” Pencarrow gave a wan smile. “Man is such a tiny, insignificant part of creation, he cannot presume he knows everything about his fellow creatures.”

  “The reverend is right,” Jack Treneglos said. “I recall back in twenty-six a couple of Falmouth fishermen hauled up some terrible creature in their nets. They were fishing just three miles south of Falmouth. The creature ripped open their nets and managed to escape. It was reported in the local newspapers at the time. My old dad knew one of the fishermen, Rees his name was. He swore to the truth of it and said it was like nothing he’d ever seen before.”

  “But that’s fifty years ago,” pointed out Noall.

  “An upcountry tourist saw a similar creature on Gyllyngvase Beach, near Falmouth, in the May of seventy-seven. That was reported in the Falmouth Packet,” interrupted a local from the back of the bar.

  “Indeed,” agreed Pencarrow, “and have you all forgotten the controversy throughout seventy-five and seventy-six about a creature which was misnamed the Morgawr? They must have meant the Morgow from Cornish legend for Morgawr is more of a Welsh spelling. Why, there was even a couple of television programmes about the creature in nineteen-eighty.”

  “I don’t remember that, Vicar,” said Noall, shaking his head.

  “Well,” went on Pencarrow, “there was a whole spate of sightings by very respectable people during that period. It started off with a man and woman sighting a creature off Pendennis Point in the September of seventy-five. They described it as a hideous humped creature with stumpy horns and bristles down its long back. They likened it to a conger eel with great jaws. But the main sightings occurred in July. At different times and places two more people saw the creature, whatever it was, near Falmouth. The sightings were reported in the Daily Mirror, Western Morning News and Falmouth Packet. Then two fishermen spotted it while fishing twenty-five miles off Lizard Point. A month later an eminent art historian from Cardiff saw a similar creature while sailing his yacht off the Scillies. In November the editor of the Cornish Life magazine not only saw the creature but managed to take a series of photographs off the mouth
of the Helford River. Not long afterwards more photographs were taken by a Mister Bennet of Seworgan who took his shots from Mawnans Beach. There have been numerous published accounts about the creature.”

  There was a silence following the vicar’s lecture.

  “So you think there is something in what the boy says after all?” asked Charlie slowly.

  “The boy ain’t usually given to lying,” observed Seth.

  “I think he saw something,” agreed Pencarrow.

  Mother Polruan gave a squeak of laughter.

  “’Tis the Morgow rising to claim its own,” she chuckled. “Beware when the Morgow rises…”

  She turned, cackling obscenely, and was gone through

  the swinging door. Faintly they could hear her voice chanting in the distance.

  “…Lament for the living.

  Lament for the unborn.

  All things end!”

  CHAPTER X

  Constable Roscarrock was waiting for them at the old engine house of Wheal Tom. With the burly policeman stood a thin, wiry little man with a shock of white hair spilling over his forehead. Both the little man and Roscarrock were kitted out as if for a climbing expedition with ropes, lamps and helmets. Roscarrock nodded approval as he examined Claire and Neville’s choice of clothing.

  The little man came forward with outstretched hands.

  “My name is Henry Pool, mining surveyor from the Camborne School of Mines,” he said breezily.

  They introduced themselves.

  “I’ve met your uncle,” went on the little man. “He came to give a lecture at the School of Mines. Sorry to hear that he may be in trouble. You know, I didn’t think anyone was allowed down Wheal Tom these days.”

  “My uncle owns Wheal Tom,” explained Claire.

  Pool nodded absently.

  “Dangerous though, dangerous.”

  He looked up at the towering black silhouette of the engine house and abruptly began to intone:

  “My a gews hep let, my a gan a goll War ow fossow los ydhyow gwer a dyf Lun a wakter of, ynnof lyes toll Genefbryny de powes where a gyf.”

  He glanced round self-consciously at their puzzled stares.

  “I’m a bard of the Cornish Gorsedd,” he explained. “Do you know Cornish poetry? No? It’s part of a poem by Edwin Chirgwin, one of the greatest of the modern Cornish poets. It’s called An Jynjy gesys dhe goll — The Deserted Engine Room. It just seemed appropriate,” he ended lamely.