Not Your Average Monster, Vol. 2: A Menagerie of Vile Beasts
Page 16
And yet, there is a Man, newly resident in these parts, whose Behavior since his late Arrival has given rise to Fears on my Part of an extreamly distressing Nature, Fears not the less distressing for their being almost entirely indefinite.
Not alone his Atheism; nor his sardonic, almost Satanic, Demeanor; nor his contemptuous, nay abusive, Conduct towards my honest, if simple, Parishioners; nor (least of all) my own uncivil Treatment at his hands, compel me to seek further Information about the Man. No, it is, I suppose, the Combination of these Things, together with some other elusive Quality that seems to enwrap him like a sable Cloak, which conspire, by some curious Alchemy, to engender in me a profound Sense of Unease regarding his Intentions and Capabilities.
I should here add, that he is, I have Reason to believe, a natural Philosopher of unusual Ability and Daring. That he is entirely without moral Sense, I am utterly assured.
I have harassed the entire Sum of my poor Circle of New-World Acquaintance, lay and clerical, with Questions about the Man, but his History remains as deep a Mystery to me as the Name assumed by Achilles when he hid himself among Women.
By his Accent, however, I should judge him to be a Yorkshire-Man. And so I write to ask what is admittedly most improbable: namely that, having resided for some Years in that vast and ancient Province, you may possibly possess some Knowledge of his History or Character.
His name is Joseph Suncoke or Suncooke, and he is either Knight, Baronet, or Fraud.
I hope this finds you in good Health, &c.,
E. Lovel
His correspondent’s response is as follows:
My dear Ebenezer,
Well may you have imagined, in putting your Query to me, that you were seeking the proverbial Needle in a Bottle of Hay. As it happens, however, I do in fact (mirabile dictu) have some slight—very slight—Knowledge (but no personal Acquaintance) of the Man you name.
But in reading the following Abstract of what I have heard, my old Friend, I would entreat you to mark not only its extream Brevity, but also its precarious Foundation upon the sandy Shoals of Country Rumour. What I know, I have heard at third- or fourth-hand only; and as you well know, one must frequently invert the Telescope of Village Gossip, with its prodigious Powers of Magnification (if you will forgive the Metaphor), to recover anything like the true Proportion of a Tale. How often have I heard Reports of Witchcraft and Deviltry, that proved to have their Origins in some petty Squabble over a Property-Line, or the accidental Death of a few Cows. With that Caveat, I shall gladly tell you all I know, which is little enough.
Jos. Suncoke is a fairly obscure Specimen of the Yorkshire Gentry, whose Seat lies some twenty or thirty Miles from the humble Rectory where I pen these Words. (His Title, by the by, is certainly real, and I believe, non-hereditary; though the circumstances of his Knighthood are unknown to me.) I have never seen his House, nor shall I, or any Man more, since, three Years ago, a Village Mob reduced it to a smoaking Rubble. The Squire himself, only escaped with Difficulty, fleeing England soon after, as was rumoured (and as you, my dear Friend, are best able to confirm), for America.
But, you may well ask, for what Reason was such an Outrage against the Man's Person and Property committed? Well, the Answer depends, upon which Account of the Matter one chooses to credit.
Some say, ‘twas the Squire's much-bruited Antagonism towards the Christian Faith, that did arouse the God-fearing People of his District to such an Extremity. More than once, ‘tis said, he was observed to expectorate on the Ground, at the very Mention of our Lord’s good Name. On another Occasion, he was heard to speak of Jehovah, as a Peer or Rival, rather than as that Power, to which we owe both Reverence, and righteous Fear.
There were Tales, too (to which I hope you will not believe me for one Instant, to have attached ought but Disdain), suggesting certain lunatick Connexions betwixt the Disappearance of Live-Stock in those Parts, and a Laboratory which Suncoke was supposed to have constructed in his House (the Man being, as you say, reputed to spend his Days in the passionate Pursuit of natural Philosophy).
In my own View, the most probable Explanation, is that the Man's high-handed orgulous Character (by yourself remarked, and of which the local Peasantry were frequently made the Victims) gave Rise to a simple Hatred in the Hearts of the People, whilst some murmured revolutionary Sympathies on his Part (he was known to have travelled much in France) permitted the roused Rabble to vent their Ire upon his Estate, under Colour of performing a patriotick Duty.
Yours truly,
George Branwell
After this exchange Lovel makes no mention of Suncoke for some time. Then, in early July, we find the first in a series of curious incidents, narrated in letters which do not appear to be copies—though they are addressed to certain of his more intimate correspondents, they do not, for whatever reason, seem ever to have been sent.
The first of these episodes concerns one of Lovel’s occasional parishioners, a woodsman who had been engaged, along with some others, in the clearing of some trees on a portion of Suncoke’s property. This man had but seldom attended services in the village church (indeed, Lovel seems to be unsure of his name). Yet, one Thursday morning, the minister looked up from the sermon he had been writing to find the man standing at the open door of his study: wordless, pale, and in a state of considerable agitation.
In an instant the minister was on his feet, leading the man to a chair and fetching him a small glass of spirits from a bottle which he kept handy:
For many Minutes the poor Man would say nothing, despite my Entreaties that he unburden himself to me, as it was plain to see that he was tormented by some Trouble. At last he muttered something hardly intelligible, of which I could only distinguish the Words, cretur inside me. Supposing the Fellow to refer to that Portion of us all which is in Thrall to animal Instinct (or, as a more conventional Theology would have it, to the Great Adversary), I asked him, whether he had committed some Deed, to which the Beast within had urged him? As he only stared distractedly at the Floor, I gently repeated my Question, imagining him probably to have committed some Act of Violence against a Leman, Child, or Fellow-Laborer, for the which he now sought Absolution.
In this I was mistaken, for now hearing me, as if for the first time, he looked directly into my Eyes and hissed, very distinctly, (and plainly laying Emphasis upon the plural Noun) the creturs inside me—hiding inside me!
Creatures? said I, frowning, and with a dawning Belief, that he had partaken of Spirits, well before I had offered him any, What Creatures?
There was a long Silence. Again he seemed hardly to have heard me. At length he said, They’re a-changing me, Reverend. I can feel Them. They—
Again he stopped, then said with a Stammer, The Squire—
At this Moment he caught Sight of his own Countenance in the Glass, which hangs in my Study. What he might have seen there, was more than I could discern; yet in an Instant his Visage was transformed into a Mask of Fear, and the Man was on his Feet and running away in starkest Terror.
As I listened to the clattering Sounds of his violent Departure from the Church, I wondered at the strange Spectacle I had just witnessed. I knew not what had so disturbed the Man’s Reason—for plainly his Mind had been powerfully affected by some Cause—but his frighted Reference to the Squire seemed to me to point unequivocally to its ultimate Agent. The old-Country Epithet sounded oddly from New-England Lips, to be sure; yet there could be little Doubt as to which Personage was meant by it…
Lovel, accordingly, paid a visit to Suncoke’s house in the woods that very day,‘Being convinced(as he puts it) that whatever plagueth mine Parishioner, the Gentleman in the Wood must somehow be the Author of his Trouble….’ Again let me give his own account of this (penultimate, as I believe) encounter:
He received me, with a Cordiality which now stood revealed as the merest Imposture; his Eyes fairly danced with diabolical Mirth as I told him of my Visit from his Workman, and of the Man’s strange Behavior.
Angrily I repeated to him the strange Words the Workman had spoken, asking if they had any particular Significance to him. At this Suncooke raised an Eye-Brow; the Shadow of a Smile creased his Countenance. A most curious Expression indeed, said he in a Drawl, and a cryptic one.
And yet, he went on, holding up a Finger, as if a sudden Thought had struck him, and yet, if the Fellow, unlettered though he be, had studied Physic at Edinburgh or Padova, he could hardly have put the Case with greater Accuracy (supposing him, of course, to be troubled, not by Drink, but by a Distemper). For if the Fellow be taken with a Feaver, or some such Complaint, are not his Words a perfectly accurate, if rustically expressed, Description of his Condition? Ay truly, is not a sick Man, one who is besieged from within, by—what said the Clown? Hidden Creatures? The littlest Animals, concealed in our Veins, may oft-times wreak the most monstrous Havock, may they not? Ha—the honest Fellow may be a pastoral Leeuwenhoek, for all we know, with a Microscope made of Barrel-Staves and cast-off Spectacles.
I had not come to bandy idle foolish Words with Suncooke, and I told him so, adding that I had my Eye upon him now, and that I would not see any of my Flock come to Harm through his Agency, if I could do aught to prevent it. As I turned to depart, however, he called after me to ask, in the blandest Tones imaginable, if in my professional Capacity I might have the Goodness to settle a point of Theology for him before I went.
I stopped without turning, my Hand upon the Door-Handle.
Wherefore, he murmured then, that is to say, for what Purpose, (the most insinuating Tone inflecting his Voice) did the Mountebank, Jehovah, fashion Adam from the primal Clay?
At this most unexpected Question I turned in Surprize, then affected a non chalant Laugh (choosing to ignore the blasphemous Epithet). Why Sir, said I with forced Unconcern, though something in the very Way in which he put the Question, made my Flesh crawl, I can only imagine that grayer and wiser Heads than yours or mine have wrestled with such-like recondite Topics for Centuries, without attaining any State of Unanimity. But I suspect, Sir Joseph (this spoken in a Tone of brave Irony, more counterfeited than felt) that, since you ask, you must needs have some Theory of your own about the Matter.
You are, he replied with a Smile, more perspicacious than many Others I have met with, in the Profession of Divinity. As it happens, I have indeed revolved this very Question in my Mind for some Years, and have resolved it to my own Satisfaction. Here Suncooke approached me, put his Lips to my Ear, and whispered some ten or twelve Words, the Import of which, I shall never be able to forget…
Exactly what the Englishman may have imparted to him, the good reverend absolutely refuses to commit to paper. But that this communication, whatever it was, disturbed Lovel extremely is clear enough; he reports a succession of sleepless nights, and of days during which he was able to eat hardly anything. His correspondence, too (or perhaps it is better to say journal or day-book at this point), dwindles to a mere trickle; for a period of some weeks he writes almost nothing at all. Then, in late August, there is one, quite dreadful, final letter, addressed to no one, and penned in a shaky hand, scarcely legible in places. I give it entire:
Early this Morning, shortly after Dawn, and after yet another Night of broken Sleep, I rose and went to the Church, hoping to find some Solace in Study (notwithstanding the Fact that, this has not yet provided me with one Jot or Tittle of Comfort, since my last Encounter with Sun-cooke). I o’erlooked some few Verses in Job with a dull Eye, then with a Groan pushed aside the Scripture and, for the thousandth Time it seems, allowed my Thoughts pleasingly to drift towards Day-Dreams of a Departure from this Place. I have a Sister in New-Bedford, with whom my wife and I might live in Peace, leaving this Village behind, which has become associated in my Mind, with the most dreadful Scenes and Ideas. Yet I vacillated still. There was my little Flock to consider. But what good, I reflected, would I be to them, with mine own Soul in such Turmoil?
At this Moment, as I sat, all irresolute, at my Desk, there came a frantic Knocking at the Door of the Church, which much surprized me, at that early Hour. Outside I found a female Congregant I recognized, in a State of Panique Fear. She would not be led inside to talk, but rather entreated me to come to her own House, nay dragged me there bodily; nor would she say aught of what troubled her, till I stood at the side of her Son’s Sick-Bed (for so may I call it, such was the poor Lad’s Condition). The Father knelt sobbing, some little Distance apart, his Face in his Hands. The Boy himself, who is I believe some eight or nine Years of Age, presented to my Sight a dully staring Expression, such as I hope never to behold on the Countenance of another living Being.
I asked the Mother, what had transpired to put the Lad into such a State. In a tremulous Whisper she informed me that the previous Evening, shortly before Night-Fall, the Boy had been walking idly alongside a Creek that meanders through the Wood, when he came to the Edge of a kind of Bog, wherein that Stream drains.
There in the stagnant Mud and Water, he had seen a collection of Things (some floating, others massed or piled) which he would or could not describe fully to his Parents. He had run home screaming, then barked out some Words to the above Effect, whereupon he collapsed and was put to Bed. During the Night he had spoken not a single Word more, until his Mother, fearing for his Sanity, had come at Sunrise to seek my Aid.
After comforting her as best as I could, I pulled a Stool to the Bed, bent low, and asked the Boy, in soothing Tones, what he had seen there. For some Minutes, he only stared up at me like a dead Thing. Then he told me
Here follow perhaps a dozen lines which Lovel effaced entirely after writing them; there is nothing at all legible here. Then there are the words:
…now back at the Church, where I find myself more tormented by the Implications of the Child’s Report, than even by his highly graphic Descriptions of the Things, hideous as these were. Impossible though it may seem, I am driven to the Conjecture that
Again there is a solid block of ink, blotting out Lovel’s words. Here, however, the effacement has been slightly less thorough, so that, with some effort, I believe I can make out some few words and phrases, as: ‘abortive’ or ‘abortion’; ‘the missing Workmen’; and ‘first Experiments.’ Then comes the end of the undirected epistle:
The Boy, I am certain, will not live out the Day. But his sad Fate decides me: my Lot is indeed here, among these poor Creatures, over whom such a terrible Danger looms. If he is not stopped… but I like not to meditate upon the possible Consequences. Nay, whatever be the Cost, I must confront that Monster in Man’s Shape, in his House of Horrours. If possible, I will bring some two or three stout Men of the Village with me. If not, I shall go alone. God preserve me; and if anything should befall me, most devoutly do I entreat thy Aid, O Lord, for the Safety of my Wife, who has lately learned that she is with Child.
E. LOVEL
This is the final letter in the packet.
It is now late afternoon; the family will return before long. I am resolved that, whatever his misgivings, I must speak alone with the lad, as the only inhabitant of this place, from whom I have any hopes of obtaining information (he it was, after all, who guided me to these letters in the first place, if indirectly).
My head is all awhirl; I hardly know what to make of Lovel’s wild narrative, or its abrupt end. At the first opportunity, I shall—
But I hear the banging of doors below. They have returned.
More anon.
# # #
Success!
Shortly before supper, I followed the lad unobtrusively to the well b
ehind the house, when his mother sent him for water. He seemed even more nervous than before, uttering a strangled yelp when I laid a friendly hand upon his shoulder.
As I expected, he was very reticent at first, looking in sullen silence at the ground as I asked if he had any knowledge of the history of the man for whom this town was named, or of the fate of the minister who had once served in the decayed church. Receiving no reply, I then asked if he knew where I could find the house that had belonged to Joseph Suncoke, and whether there were any representatives of the family line still living. At this query he opened his mouth, and then shut it again—he appeared, as before, torn between his wish to aid me in my quest and some unnamed fear—whether for my safety or his own I could not say.