More scared than he had ever been in his life, Underwood reeled into the bar. There was a mirror on the wall. With a sense of grave trepidation, he went over to it.
The reflected image was not him. It couldn’t be. For the man that stared back at him from behind the thin layer of silver-backed glass was bruised and bloody, deathly, a living corpse, a car crash fatality.
Underwood continued to stare, unbelieving. ‘No!’ he cried, although no sound came from his lips. He could not, would not accept any of this. How could he be dead? The dead didn’t get out of their cars and walk for the best part of an hour through the night before entering a public house in order to find lodgings.
Didn’t they? spoke a little voice in his mind. After all, how would he know? How would anyone living know?
No! No! No! He silently screamed. Woodenly, he staggered out of the bar area and made for the stairs. Taking them slowly, he went up and headed along the corridor to the room at the end. He stood at the threshold and beheld his own dead body lying on the bed.
Insanity overwhelmed Clive Underwood as all outward sensation began to dissipate from him, to pour out of him like water from an upturned vessel. He was fading, disintegrating, becoming incorporeal, his time spent as one of the walking dead almost over. And still, he could not accept what was happening to him. He looked at his hands and saw with stunned horror that they were dematerialising before his very eyes. Then his arms and legs. Then, he disappeared entirely, simply phased-out of existence.
* * * * * * *
After the landlord had found the bar empty, he went upstairs and looked in the small room where his guest had stayed. There was no one there. Shaking his head in confusion, he went back downstairs and into the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. He was halfway through his cornflakes when the bell at the front door began to ring.
“Hang on,” he shouted. He went to the door, unlocked it and opened it.
On the front step was one of his locals.
“Morning, Derrick. Bit early for you to be up and about, isn’t it?”
“Thought you’d be interested in this. Happened yesterday evening, just down the road at that turning off for Houghton. A terrible black spot for accidents that.” The old man handed his morning copy of the local paper over. On it, printed in bold lettering was:
MAN KILLED IN CAR TRAGEDY
47 year old Clive Underwood was pronounced dead at the scene.…
The landlord found himself unable to read any more. His eyes were focused on the unfortunate’s photograph. It was the man who had stayed the night, the one who had been so scared by his tale of ‘The Devil’s Horseman’. He was temporarily struck dumb, his hands trembling.
“You alright? Looks like ye’ve seen a ghost or something.”
“It’s him. It’s the man who came here last night.”
“What man? There was nobody in ‘The Horseman’ last night save for you, me, and Malcolm.”
“But—” The landlord stared hard at the other. “But, surely you saw him? You know, the one we were winding up about the ghost?”
“It were just you, mumbling to yourself over by the fire.” Derrick shook his head. “I may be a bit deaf, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes. You’re the one who wears glasses.”
There had to be some confusion, thought the landlord. There had to be, for the alternative was impossible, unthinkable. He stared once more at the photograph of Clive Underwood. It had to be someone else.…
Of course his true horror was to come when he discovered what lay in the cellar.…
WITH THE SETTING OF THE SUN
It was only when the sun set that the ancient standing stone revealed its terrible secret.
“Britain is dotted with strange and peculiar Neolithic archaeological sites, many of which defy true explanation. What I mean is, when you get right down to it, expert interpretation is solely based on the surviving evidence; standing stones, ditches, and other features in the landscape. There’s no one around from prehistory to talk to and say: ‘Excuse me, my good man, but just why did you build this ring of stones and what’s it for’?” Professor Arthur Madden took a sip from his hipflask, the raw whisky stinging his throat and filling his gullet with a warming sensation, chasing away some of the chill of the cold mid-November morning. “Take this long barrow, for instance.” He gestured to the low mound that stood before the small gathered team of students, its entrance flanked by two large flat stones. “Similar to Wayland’s Smithy, it was excavated nigh on a hundred years ago by Pitt Rivers. Many of the artifacts are now in the museum, and I’d suggest you all take a good look at them. However, we’ve got very little to go by other than saying it was clearly used for burial purposes. As I said earlier, there are no written accounts from that remote time to clarify its real purpose, if indeed it had one other than as a repository for the dead.”
The lecture now over, the students spent ten minutes or so crawling inside to examine the cist chambers with torches and walking around the five-thousand-year-old earthwork, chattering to themselves and making notes and diagrams whilst Madden finished his whisky. He drank unashamedly, and indeed his fondness for booze was something which had endeared him to many of his students, making him more like one of them than some of the other dusty old fossils, his fellow academics at the university.
He was just about to call time, to get them all back in the minibus, when he saw a green car appear over the distant rise close to the car park some quarter of a mile away where the minibus was parked. The car came to a standstill and a man in a dark coat got out. He was using a walking stick, although his walking seemed fine. It surprised Madden that another person should turn up for, not only was it still a relatively early hour of the day, but this place was quite isolated, the closest village several miles distant. What would someone be doing out here?
His thoughts were interrupted when one of his brighter students came over.
“Professor, I read somewhere that there may be a ritual element involved with the spatial distribution of these mounds and tumuli, similar in some way to the positioning of the pyramids at Giza and the Mayan temples, and that there may be an astrological—”
“Astronomical.” Madden wagged a finger. “There may be an astronomical reasoning behind their location. Yes, I too believe that. Although it’s less apparent for the positioning of burial mounds, Newgrange aside, as say, for example, stone circles and avenues. Good examples of this are, of course, Stonehenge, Callanish, and the megalithic alignments at Carnac. I firmly believe that Neolithic man employed such layouts as celestial calendars. You must remember that farming was just becoming important as a means of subsistence, having replaced the thousands of years of hunter-gathering. And as any farmer will tell you, expert knowledge of the seasons is crucial for good farming practice.” He glanced over the student’s shoulder at the approaching mysterious visitor, and a tiny germ of apprehension came into his mind. It was nothing more than the unexpected, he tried to tell himself and yet, some small feeling of unease began to fester inside. Who was this person and, more importantly, what did he want? That rational part of his mind told him that this was perfectly innocent, nothing more than a casual visitor come to take a look at the barrow.
The student, noticing Madden’s curiously concerned expression, turned to look at the stranger who was now some hundred yards away.
“Why don’t you go and round up the others while I see what he wants.” Madden, like most academics, was not renowned for his social skills, preferring to deal only with university staff and students. Indeed, it was one of the main reasons why he had, from an early age, wanted to be an archaeologist for, in his opinion, the dead were far more interesting and easy to deal with than the living.
Now that the stranger was close, it was possible to discern his features and his overall appearance more clearly. He was quite short, his black hair streaked with grey at the temples and styled into a widow’s peak, which, together with his pencil-line moustache, leant him an air o
f peculiarity that bordered on the eccentric. His eyes were of piercing slate-grey and he was very finely dressed; a cravat and waistcoat were visible under the folds of his raincoat. The knuckles of his right hand were white from grasping the silver, lion-headed cane he had brought with him. There was something about his overall appearance that made Madden think of Victorian theatrical villains—all he was missing was a red-lined cape and a top hat.
“Professor Madden?” called out the stranger.
“Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?” Behind him, Madden could hear the sounds of his students mustering, getting ready to head back to the minibus, the field trip now all but complete. One more barrow and a cursus to visit, and then back to the university. All being well, they would be back in time for lunch.
“I do hope so. I really do. First, let me introduce myself. My name is Rupert Slythe, and I understand that you’re an expert on prehistoric monuments and the like.” He took out a long-stemmed clay pipe and pressed a wad of shredded tobacco into it, lighting it carefully, then blowing out a cloud of pungent blue smoke. “Forgive me, but I’m completely ignorant of such things; however, I do know something that might be very interesting to one such as yourself.”
“And just what’s that, Mr. Slythe?” At the back of Madden’s mind he couldn’t help but feel that this was a setup, a prank orchestrated by some of the students. This man was so outlandish, both in appearance and in his overall persona, that there surely had to be something funny going on. His students walked past, heading for the minibus, and he detected some sniggering as they went by. However, that could merely have been due to the bizarre look of the visitor, the less suspicious part of his brain tried to tell himself.
Slythe looked to his feet, clearing thinking how to proceed before raising his head to look the professor in the eye. “Well, you see, I own a large country estate, Farthing Downs Manor, to be precise—”
“I know of it. It’s near Cambridge, isn’t it?” interrupted Madden.
“That’s correct. Anyway, on the grounds of my estate there are several of these so-called barrows and things, as well as one small stone circle.”
Madden nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that. The Devil’s Ring is the name for that stone circle.”
“Yes, The Devil’s Ring.” Slythe smiled thinly. “I wonder why these things always seem to possess such names.”
“There’s an easy explanation for that. It’s called folklore.” Madden adopted his lecturing tone. “You see, over the course of the last few hundred years many myths and legends have built up around such places. Our ancestors, unable to explain the presence of such anomalies in the landscape—standing stones, ditches, dykes, hill figures and so on—thought that they must have been built with supernatural intervention. You see, it was hard for them to believe they were purely built by men. They’re frequently associated with all sorts of pixies, elves, and buried treasure—all nonsense, of course. We now know that Neolithic man was incredibly industrious and inventive. Take the bluestones at Stonehenge, for example: they were transported some one hundred and fifty miles from South Wales to Wiltshire.”
“Fascinating.” Slythe took a puff on his pipe. “It would seem that I’ve come to the right person. You see, only the other day my gamekeeper found one of these standing stone things in the undergrowth, hidden away in a small copse on the edge of my land. And, although I’ve yet to see it, he informs me that there’s some kind of writing on it.”
Madden was interested yet sceptical. “If there’s writing on it, you can be certain of one of two things. One—it’s not Neolithic or two—whatever writing is on it must be relatively modern, with the possible exception of Roman graffiti. Is it possible that it’s part of some folly built within the last two hundred years? Your gamekeeper could also be getting confused with so-called cup-and-ring markings or decorative whorls and spirals, which, along with labyrinth designs have been found on some standing stones. I can assure you however that there won’t be—” He stopped, intrigued, as the other removed a brown envelope from a pocket and took out a slip of paper. “What’s that?”
“This, is some of the markings he copied down.” Slythe handed the piece of paper to the professor.
Madden reached into his pocket for his spectacle case and took out his horn-rimmed reading glasses. Putting them on, he looked down at the scrap of paper, eyes widening in confusion and disbelief at what he saw. At first it was just an anarchic conglomeration of meaningless, chaotic symbols, none of which represented any known pictorial image. Crudely linear in disposition, and undoubtedly copied down hastily and poorly, there remained enough to point at some semblance to a rudimentary script rather than but a mere drawing. It was clearly untranslatable, by himself at least, and he doubted whether any of his fellows at the university would be able to understand it. With that thought, the suspicion that this was an elaborate, well-thought out hoax struck once more.
“Strange, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If it’s genuine.” Madden handed the piece of paper back to Slythe.
“Of course it’s genuine. What makes you think otherwise?”
“The fact that if it is authentic, then it turns our understanding of Neolithic life on its head, suggesting that writing, even in such a proto-literate form as this, existed in this country before the Roman occupation. And besides, why this one stone and no other? What’s so special about it?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d find out.” Slythe tapped out the burnt contents of his pipe. “I’d like to invite you and whatever team you require to have a look at this stone. I’m a rich man, Professor Madden, and I’d be more than willing to fund your investigation.”
“I must say I am intrigued.” The mention of private funding certainly sweetened the deal.
“Well, whenever’s a good time for you. However, could I recommend that you start sooner rather than later? It’s not as though it’s going to go anywhere, but I’ll be travelling to Europe in the New Year. So, can we say sometime early next month?”
Madden removed his diary from an inner pocket, consulted it briefly, then said: “What about if I come over in order to carry out a preliminary examination? Let’s say, a week on Thursday, December second.”
“Excellent.”
Together the two men headed back to the car park.
* * * * * * *
It was a cold and bright winter’s morning, the low sunlight throwing long shadows from the trees that lined the main approach to Farthing Downs Manor, making Madden squint in order to drive safely. Accompanying him, in the passenger seat, was Associate Professor Doctor Fred Walker, a tall, lean man with a curly mop of brown hair and a boyish look to his face, despite being in his late fifties.
“I am reminded once again that we must be in the wrong profession,” commented Walker, taking in the expanse of the visible grounds. “I bet this guy has some money. Just look at the size of this place. It’s almost as big as the entire county.”
“Over two and a half thousand acres, I believe,” replied Madden.
“Two and a half thousand acres! Good God! Imagine the potential for doing some field-walking here. I daresay there’s a lot that could be found if we were granted permission to undertake some full-scale excavations. I was looking at the aerial photograph you mentioned regarding this place the other day, and it’s covered in sites: barrows, ditches, dykes, you name it.”
“Yes, but remember we’re here to take a look at this standing stone.” Madden was slowing the car down, the huge, rambling manor house now coming into view. “Once we’ve got on Mr. Slythe’s good side by carrying out this investigation he may let us conduct a full examination of this area.”
They drew up into the large, gravelled car park at the front of the house. Bathed in the stark December sunlight, the three-storey building was grand in scale and opulent in architectural design, and yet it possessed a grim and slightly ominous look. Tall, sombre gables rose on either side of the massive oaken front door; small, leaded windows,
half-hidden by the clinging ivy, stared like sightless eyes across the sloping, overgrown lawn; high chimneys like pointing, accusing fingers thrust skyward from the crenellated roof.
Slythe had clearly been awaiting their arrival, for no sooner had the two of them got out of the car than he came striding towards them dressed in what seemed to be the same clothes Madden had seen him wearing on that first occasion.
“Good morning,” Slythe greeted them. “What a lovely day.”
“Hello.” Madden stretched his arms. It had been a solid two-hour drive, and his muscles were feeling rather tense from being stuck behind the wheel for that amount of time. “Yes, it certainly is a nice morning. May I introduce my friend and associate, Doctor Walker? He too specialises in Neolithic archaeology.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Walker nodded. In one hand he carried a large holdall filled with a collection of tools: trowels, paper for taking rubbings, tape measures, coloured chalks, a geologist’s hammer, and a camera.
“Excellent.” Slythe beamed. “Well, gentlemen, I’m sure you’re eager to have a look at this thing, so if you’ll just follow me around to the shed at the rear, we can pick up some tools to assist in doing a bit of clearance. As I told you at the time, Professor Madden, the area where it’s located is very overgrown. There are thorns and nettles as well, so we should all put on some heavy gloves.”
Together they marched off to the shed to don their gloves and pick up some old-fashioned sickles and a wicked-looking scythe before setting off.
Carrying the scythe, Slythe whistled as he led them out past the rear of the manor, his long shadow making Madden temporarily think of the Grim Reaper. Despite the fact that he no longer entertained the notion that any of this was a hoax, he was confident that it would all turn out be a gross yet innocent misunderstanding. Yes, there would undoubtedly be a stone somewhere in the dense undergrowth, but he figured it would be but a boulder upon which some vandal had scrawled such gibberish perhaps with the very intention of perplexing prehistorians.
The Chaos of Chung-Fu Page 11
