The Reaping

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘Give . . . me . . . my . . . son . . .’

  No one moved. The only sound in my ears was that of my own harsh breathing and the sputtering of the torches.

  ‘Give him to me,’ I said, and raised the branch higher.

  ‘It’s too late.’

  The voice, dull and flat, had come from Mrs. Weldon. I turned my eyes in her direction.

  ‘You can accomplish nothing,’ she said. ‘You’re too late.’ As she spoke she took from the folds of her robe a knife and, moving quickly into the lift, she leaned down and held the point of the blade over Simeon’s body. ‘Now, Mr. Rigby,’ she said calmly, ‘I must persuade you not to do anything in a hurry.’

  I came to an abrupt halt in my movement across the flags. I knew that were she determined to harm him I could never reach her in time to stop her.

  ‘Please . . . don’t hurt him . . .’ Tears sprang into my eyes. My knees felt as if they were made of rubber. In my raised hand the branch shook. I lowered it slightly. ‘Why did you take him?’ I said. ‘What do you want him for? Weren’t the others enough?’

  ‘No, they were not.’ Mrs. Weldon put her head slightly on one side and smiled at me. ‘We wanted a seventh son of a seventh son—but you realize how rare such a being is nowadays?—they’re freaks, just about; as scarce as hen’s teeth. So—as we couldn’t find one we had to make one. We were quite certain that with all those offspring you so obligingly sired here we’d have at least one healthy boy. We only wanted the first-born, of course, which would—so we thought—be your seventh.’ She smiled again. ‘And there were healthy sons born—oh, yes. Unfortunately, though, we soon realized that not one of them was your seventh son.’ She shook her head. ‘They all lacked that—that essential power that comes with such a state.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘So we decided we’d have to look a little more closely into your past. And then we found what we were looking for. It’s a pity we weren’t a little more thorough in our initial investigations . . .’ She grinned at me, her hand holding the knife never wavering. ‘In so many ways you were the perfect choice, Mr. Rigby. You may not be the world’s greatest lover but when you do get moved the results are very satisfying.’ She paused dramatically and then asked. ‘Did you know that you have another son?’

  I just stared at her. She nodded smugly and then went on:

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean those born to the girls we had here, but one much older . . .’ She smiled appreciatively at my total bewilderment. ‘He’s twenty-one now. His name is Clifford Jarvis. He was born to one Rosalind Jarvis, spinster, of Brighton. Jarvis—does that name ring a bell?’

  Into my mind came a sudden picture of the girl with long red hair, whom I had met and painted during that long-past holiday in Brighton . . . Seeing the realization in my face Mrs. Weldon gave a little nod. ‘Yes, it does ring a bell,’ she said. ‘You didn’t sow that many wild oats, Mr. Rigby, but when you did they certainly proved potent.’ She paused. ‘The Jarvis boy looks just like you. You’d be proud of him.’ She looked down at Simeon as he lay enveloped and so still in the blanket. ‘Your son here—whom you thought of as your sixth son—is in fact your seventh. Ironic, isn’t it? He’s the one we were looking for all the time.’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ The sound, croaking hollowly, came from the figure of Miss Stewart. I looked at her as she sat in her wheelchair, draped in her voluminous brocaded robe and the endless array of brightly coloured scarves that muffled her throat and shoulders and flowed to the ground. On her head she wore a wide-brimmed hat from which hung a veil. Even at a distance I was touched by the smell of her. ‘Yes!’ she said again, ‘he was the one. And now we have him.’ She raised one gnarled and shrivelled hand and waved it in a peremptory gesture of impatience. ‘Get on with it!’ she rasped to the others there. ‘Get on with it now!’

  ‘No!’ I took a step forward. ‘Don’t do anything to him. I beg you. Please—let me take him.’ As I spoke I suddenly realized that he had lain all this time without moving or making a sound. ‘He’s dead!’ I cried out. ‘He’s dead! You’ve already killed him.’

  ‘No . . .’ Mrs. Weldon gave her sideways smile. ‘He’s not dead. He’s perfectly all right. He is merely—sedated. It was necessary, I’m afraid; we couldn’t put up with his whimpering and squalling.’

  ‘Please,’ I said again, ‘—let me take him . . .’

  Miss Stewart spoke again at this. ‘No,’ she croaked. ‘That is not possible. He is here to fulfil a dream—a plan. And we have each of us worked too hard and too long to stop now.’ Turning from me she rapped out an order, her voice echoing around the walls. ‘Enough! Enough of this! There is no more time. Get on with it. Now!’

  At the command Mrs. Weldon arose, nodded at McIntosh and stepped out of the lift. The moment she was clear of it she and the doctor snatched at the ornate gates and slammed them shut. I leapt forward. In the same moment McIntosh reached out to a panel at the lift’s side and pressed a button.

  At once the chamber rang with noise. There was a loud whirring sound, a creaking, and the crunch and clang of metal on metal. Added to this came a high-pitched whine that grew to a shriek of deafening intensity. A howling rush of wind burst up from the shaft below and buffeted Miss Stewart’s wheelchair so that her frail, swathed body rocked and her scarves went streaming and flying about above her head. I saw the lift shudder, and again, more violently; then, like some monstrous beast awaking from sleep, it shook itself once more and slowly began to rise.

  As I rushed towards the lift gates McIntosh threw himself in front of them crying out above the noise: ‘You’re too late! You can’t stop it now! Nothing can stop it now!’

  I didn’t hesitate. I swung the branch down and across in a sweeping arc that caught him a thudding blow on the temple. I watched as his eyes rolled blindly upwards in his head. As he fell at my feet I turned just in time to see Hathaway coming at me.

  The force of his charge sent me reeling and I stumbled over McIntosh’s body and crashed into the gates of the lift. I felt the ironwork graze my cheek and for a brief moment I sagged, clutching at the gates for support, the breath gone from my body. And then Hathaway’s hands were at me, trying to wrest the branch from my grip. I struggled to turn and face him. The chamber was full of noise—the sound of voices, the gasping of our laboured breathing and the shrieking and clanging of the lift’s machinery. Held fast in Hathaway’s grasp I swung violently from side to side, trying to shake him off. But my efforts were not enough, and the next moment I felt his hand clawing and gouging at my face. In desperation I moved my head and, snatching at his hand with my mouth, bit down on his fingers. I felt the crunch of bone between my jaws and he screamed out in pain. A second later I had forced myself around and together the two of us crashed to the ground.

  We struggled together, rolling on the stone flags. Through the haze of my fury and desperation I became dimly aware that the other red-robed figures had surrounded us and were closing in. I paid little heed to their presence, though; I was bent on only one thing—Hath­away’s destruction. I was like a man gone berserk. I knew, though, that my strength and energy couldn’t last much longer and, summoning all my remaining power, I made one great effort and swung his body away from me. Swiftly following, I threw myself on top of him, raised myself up and lifted the branch high over my head. As I did so I saw from the corner of my eye a darting figure coming towards me in a blur of scarlet. And saw the knife flash in Mrs. Weldon’s hand.

  As the blade shot towards me, within a foot of my neck, I dodged the blow, twisted around and, changing the direction of the branch’s swing, struck out at her arm. She screamed and let fall the knife, but not before I’d felt the blade slice into my forearm—a blinding, nerve-­tearing pain that shot up to my shoulder. I let the branch fall uselessly from my hand and Hathaway, reprieved, seized the moment and with a lurch sent me crashing over him to fall heavily onto the flags.

  As I struggled to my f
eet I saw him stoop and pick up the knife. For a second we just looked at one another; and then he was coming at me. In the very moment of his forward dash I leapt to the side and, stretching up, wrenched the flambeau from the sconce above my head. Then, in a continuation of the same movement I swung it down and plunged it full into his face.

  His screams sounded louder than the noise of the lift. Blinded, he staggered in a drunken circle, clawing at the burning oil that seared his flesh. Pitiless, I watched as he blundered into the wall and fell in a thrashing, moaning heap on the floor.

  Breathless and gasping I raised my eyes from his quivering form and looked around me. Nearby Mrs. Weldon knelt, holding on to her arm and groaning. A few feet away to her left the red-robed figures of Miss Harrison, the maid and the two old men stood motionless. They offered no resistance; their eyes only showing anxiety and fear. I ignored them and, still clutching the flaming torch, ran across to the lift.

  Although the cage had gone beyond my sight I could tell by the shuddering of the cables and the movement of the slowly descending weight that it was still making its slow upward climb. The noise was still there too, now changed, though, by the addition of a loud, asthmatical wheezing sound. Into my mind came again the thought of some enormous beast—but one which, after too long and too strenuous an exertion, was fast approaching the limits of its strength. I turned away from the shaking, rattling gates and swung to the right where the stone steps started in their upward curve around the lift shaft. Then, dripping a trail of blood from my injured right arm, I started up them at a run.

  What I was heading for I didn’t know. I was only sure that in some way Simeon’s fate was balanced on a razor’s edge. I began to run faster, taking the steps two and three at a time, climbing higher and higher, holding the flaming torch above me, its flickering flare lighting up the sharply curving walls.

  Twice as I climbed I found myself emerging onto a landing with doors leading off. On the second floor I paused in my running and looked upwards into the dark, windswept shaft. The bottom of the cage was not far above me; I could just make it out in the gloom. It was moving so slowly. I turned and sped on; with luck I would catch it on the next floor. Somehow, I felt, I must stop it before it reached the top . . .

  I reached the next landing just as the lift slowly rose up to appear in full view. Desperately I searched around for some means of halting its climb—but I could see nothing; there was no control button, nothing at all. By the light of the flickering torch I could only stand and watch helplessly as it continued on its shuddering, noisy, sluggish way. The bundle on the floor that was Simeon lay only two feet from me. Yet I was powerless to get to him. I cried out to the huddled figure in the wheelchair—‘Stop! Stop, for God’s sake—!’ but she made no reply, only turned her head slightly in my direction and then looked away again.

  As the floor of the cage creaked up and up, rising past the level of my head I flung myself towards the next flight of stairs. They couldn’t go on much higher, I thought; soon they must come to an end. I tore up the steps, feet ringing on the stone, and at last came out onto the top floor.

  The chamber was quite bare. The top of the lift shaft was the only thing in sight under the high, arching roof. It was a little brighter there, though; one of the narrow window slits hadn’t been fully covered like those below and a fine ray of late sunlight glanced palely in. Breathing hard I moved across the floor and stood waiting at the closed lift gates. I looked down and saw the top of the cage as it slowly came up, up . . .

  The noise of the lift’s machinery had never abated. Neither had the wind, and it made the flame in my hand flicker and dance. I looked around me for somewhere to put the torch; I would need both hands to carry Simeon . . . There were sconces on these walls too, I saw, and I moved quickly back across the floor and placed the flambeau in one of them.

  Stepping back to the lift I crouched and gazed down; it had risen high enough now to allow me to see into its interior. I peered into the shadows, eyeing the dim form of Simeon’s still, covered body. The lift rose higher still; I stood up; it was almost at floor level . . . And then suddenly the sound of the moving machinery hiccupped, and with a grinding of gears and the screech of rusty metal the cage shuddered to a halt. It hung there, swaying gently, and the only sounds in my ears were from the rushing wind and my own breathing.

  I strode forward and grasped the handles of the gates, threw them wide and stepped inside the lift. Stooping, I wrapped my arms about Simeon’s body, lifted him up and stepped backwards onto the chamber floor. All the while the figure in the wheelchair didn’t move.

  ‘It’s all right, Simmy.’

  I spoke hoarsely. I could hardly get my words out; my throat was so tight I felt I was choking. I kept on saying the same things over and over: ‘Simmy . . . Simmy . . . Simmy . . . it’s all right . . . it’s all right . . . you’re safe again . . . safe . . . you’re safe . . .’ Murmuring softly to him I held him in my arms and rocked him against my chest.

  His body was too still. He seemed lifeless in my arms.

  Loosening the blanket’s constricting tightness I pulled it away from his face.

  And I looked down at the tiny, wizened features of an old, old man.

  ‘Simeon—!’

  I saw above me the high arch of the chamber’s ceiling as I threw back my head and screamed his name.

  ‘Simeon—!’

  The sound, bellowing out, echoed around the cavernous room and came back to me like a mockery.

  ‘Simeon—! Simeon—!’

  I found myself trying to run, but I was hampered by his weight and the pain in my injured arm. I dragged myself like a cripple across the floor, screaming out his name, over and over and over.

  But there was nowhere to run to. In the centre of the chamber I stumbled to a halt and stood helpless, my chin against his sparse white hair. His body was unutterably heavy in my arms and I sank down. Dazedly I noticed blood dripping from my arm onto the floor. I looked again at my son’s wrinkled face, laid my cheek against it and wept.

  * * *

  As I crouched, huddled over his still body, I became aware of a noise coming from the direction of the lift. I opened my eyes and saw that the woman was trying to get out of the wheelchair. I could see the chair rocking with her exertions to free herself and escape. She couldn’t, though; somehow she was caught. For a few seconds I just stared at her, then, carrying Simeon as best I could, I stepped forward and gently laid him at my feet.

  As I stopped in front of her she ceased her frantic movements and sat still, gripping the arms of the chair. She turned her face towards me; I could sense her watching me from behind her veil.

  She was held, I saw, by her long, flowing scarves. The fringed end of one had become caught in the ornate iron-work behind her while another had floated through the open-work roof to become entangled in part of the lift’s machinery above. Both tangled ends were out of her reach.

  ‘You . . .’ I said bitterly, and watched as she flinched and shrank back into the wheelchair. ‘Why have you done this thing?’

  She remained quite still. The sound of the rushing wind had died away now and in the quiet there came to me from the lift’s machinery a faint, rhythmic sound—like a strange, steady, metallic breathing—as if the lift were imbued with a life of its own.

  Life or not, it certainly possessed power. My earlier fear, I realized, had been of some unknown horror that waited for Simeon at the lift’s destination—this top chamber. But no horror had waited, lurking there. The horror was in the lift itself.

  I knew that full realization of the truth was beyond my comprehension, but even so it came to me through the haze of my bewilderment that that had to be the answer. It was the lift. With its malign, magical power it was itself the medium by which the horror and the evil had taken place. The very process of its climb had been the means of changing my son from a young, vital child in
to the grotesque, aged shape that now lay before me on the chamber floor.

  Yes . . . As far as it was possible for me to know, I thought I now knew the how of it all . . .

  But I still didn’t know the why.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Tell me why. You’ve taken away my son with all his—his youth and his life before him, and you’ve returned him to me—like this.’ I sobbed on a great gasping intake of breath. I took another step closer and she cringed and, reaching out, tugged ineffectually at one of the silk scarves. I stepped into the lift and her hand faltered and fell back again.

  And I stared at it, that hand. For it was not the same.

  It was not the old, misshapen, wrinkled, mottled hand that I had seen before. And her arm, too, as she had reached out—that also was different. It was no longer thin and scrawny with the loose flesh hanging in slack, crepey folds. Now I saw it smooth and creamy, with the firm texture of youth. It was the arm of a young woman—a girl.

  Everything about her was different, I realized now. Her figure no longer had that hunched, wasted, ancient look that I had seen in the chamber below just minutes before. Now she sat straight and supple in the chair. Gone was every sign of the old woman. And gone too that sickening smell of age and decay.

  And what of her face . . . ?

  As I leaned towards her she started violently and defensively put up her hands. There was nothing she could do to stop me, though, and with one movement I reached out and roughly tore the hat and veil from her head.

  In the room’s dim light I gazed at the dark chestnut hair that framed the smooth, oval face with the dark-lashed, blue-grey eyes.

  Ilona.