by Antal Szerb
I didn’t want to say it, but Lene’s theory sounded rather improbable. If it was a question of a friendly chat, why not stay and have it here? No, they’d caught him in a snare. There could be no doubt about it.
We went back inside and flopped down around the old oak table. Mr Mansfield brought us cheese and some cider, and Lene made a show of eating and drinking voraciously to cheer us up. We all had a bit of the cider.
“What do we do now?” asked Osborne. “We can’t go home. Who could repair the car?”
“We’ll just have to wait,” said Lene. “Wait patiently and calmly. The Earl will be back soon, and we’ll know everything.”
And we waited. Not because we had much hope; we just couldn’t find anything better to do. Osborne had slumped into an ancient armchair and gone silent. Cynthia quietly sobbed, and Lene comforted her. I felt like a man whose insides had become paralysed. I couldn’t think of anything constructive, and had nothing to say. I just kept telling myself it was too late: too late for everything.
The rain drove down steadily. Giant mushrooms were growing in the woods; slowly the flora of decay was covering everything. Evil had been unleashed, and the last bastion had fallen. The Satanic kidnapper would continue to haunt the mountains, and the one person who might have stood up to him was dead …
“They threw them into Llyn-Coled,” Cynthia suddenly burst out. “The English Lords of the Marsh, took them there, the five hundred Welshmen. It was in the days of Llewellyn ap Griffith … Ever since then, the Lake has been grieving in Welsh.”
In the end it was Lene who could bear to wait no longer.
“No. We must do something. After all, we’re in a civilised country. This isn’t Maeterlinck’s Castle. The police … Where’s the nearest police station?”
“In Bala,” Osborne replied. “We could get there in an hour by car.”
“Yes, we must go there. To warn the police and the military. We can’t just sit here like this. We should have gone ages ago.”
“But how do we get there?” I asked. “Mr Mansfield, does anyone in the village have a car?”
“No one, sir. It’s rather old-fashioned around here.”
“Or a carriage?”
“There could be. Apple wagons, the sort farmers use.”
“How far is the nearest place where we might find a mechanic to repair the car?”
“Well, it depends, sir. There are many sorts of place in the world, and Merioneth is very large.”
“True. But which is the nearest?”
“As I say, that depends, sir. By cart, the nearest is Abersych. On foot, Betws-y-teg.”
“Why is that?”
“The road to Betws-y-teg goes all the way round the mountain, but the footpath cuts straight across it. You can walk it in an hour and a half.”
“And in which of the two would there be a car?”
“In both. Merioneth is a rich county.”
“Then to be on the safe side, we’d better go to both, and meet at the police station in Bala. Mr Mansfield will kindly get us a cart to take us to Abersych, and one of us will go on foot over the mountain to Betws-y-teg.”
My suggestion was accepted, and Mr Mansfield hurried out to look for one. Now we had to decide who would ride in it, and who would walk. By this stage we realised that poor Cynthia was in such a state she would have to remain where she was. She had taken no part in the discussion; she had just sat shivering and trembling in a corner. Since we couldn’t leave her on her own, Lene would have to stay too, as the only one who could do anything to calm her. However Lene also undertook to arrange for the broken-down car to be transported home, should we not return.
That left Osborne and myself. The more practical thing would have been for him to do the walking. As an athlete and a native he would more easily find his way about. He then confessed, rather ashamedly, that on the last part of the journey he had sprained his foot and didn’t think he could use it for another hour and a half.
We ate some of the cheese to give us strength.
Meanwhile Mr Mansfield had returned with the cart, and Osborne set off for Abersych. I took my leave of Cynthia, who sat staring straight ahead, apathetically, said goodbye to Lene, and went out with our host.
The old man accompanied me to the far end of the village, pointed out the path and explained the route I was to take. I was unhappy from the start. The explanation took the form that I was at various times to pass through a beech wood, then one of birch; and an oak wood would also play a major role. But I, alas, had been city bred from a child, and had studied only the liberal arts. I had never been able to tell one tree from another.
However I dared admit none of this to Mr Mansfield. I took my leave of him and set off on my journey. In the final analysis, I thought, all I had to do was go over the mountain.
At first it was plain sailing. The importance of my mission and the sense of being on a real adventure filled me with childish pride. Whistling cheerfully, I progressed up the slope with rapid strides. I thought there would be some sort of view from the top to show me the way. By the time I got there I was thoroughly exhausted. Only then did I realise that there was not just a single peak, but several, one after the other: it was only from lower down that they appeared to be a single feature. And it was growing steadily darker.
I went over to a tree and tried to determine what sort it was. I couldn’t. It was a tree, a generalised tree.
Never mind, I thought, just keep straight on ahead. I lit a cigarette and started downhill, in the direction that seemed to me to be a continuation of the way I had come. But I had some misgivings. I knew that as a rule my intuitions of this sort were seldom reliable.
Nonetheless, I pressed on regardless. It was only when I had come down from the ridge into a valley and found that the peak facing me was altogether too craggy and precipitous for me even to think of climbing it, and there was no sign of a path leading upwards, that I started to worry. The old man had said a regular, and easily visible, path went all the way to Betws-y-teg. I was obviously lost.
The best thing of course would be to go back and look for the track at the top. But a Roman does not retreat. And to climb a steep hill one had only just finished coming down presented certain psychological difficulties.
In the little valley where I stood, a path wound away to the left. Perhaps if I followed that I’d be able to work my way round the mountain and get off it somewhere. So I set out again.
Meanwhile darkness had descended. Not pitch darkness: the clouds had dissipated, and a crescent moon and some stars had appeared. I made my way ‘by the uncertain light of the moon’, as Virgil puts it, and I felt the full force of that magnificent epithet ‘uncertain’.
It was all utterly confusing. At the back of my conscious mind lurked the anxieties of the actual world: what might be happening to the Earl, and what would be the outcome of this adventure. But in reality I could think of nothing but the complete uncertainty of my route, and what direction I should take. And the only thought I had on that subject was to follow my instincts, however unhappy and uncertain they might be.
I am not exaggerating their demerits. For the first fortnight after arriving in London I lost my way back to the hotel every single day, though it was a mere ten minutes’ stroll. What hope had I now of finding my way in the great Celtic Forest, where I had never been before? My situation was as comically painful as it had been at school when the maths master got carried away, deriving one formula after another and covering the entire blackboard in scribbles, while we grinned and sniggered at one another in despair, having lost him at the second step he had taken.
My spirits steadily sank. The forest was becoming more and more hostile as my weariness grew and the darkness deepened. I was forced to sit and rest briefly on a tree stump. I lit a match and looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock. I had been walking for a whole hour.
When I looked at my watch again it was eight-thirty; the next time it was nine. I sat down, then stood
up again. I pushed on stubbornly and miserably, and always it seemed to be through the same bit of forest.
At last I caught a glimmer of light, and hastened towards it. Ahead of me lay a sort of luminous clearing. As I drew closer I realised it was a lake reflecting the moonlight. The trees dipping their branches in the water conveyed an inexpressible grief, and the little reeds endlessly sighed.
It was Llyn-Coled—or its twin.
I recalled what Cynthia had said: the five hundred Welsh soldiers thrown into the lake in the days of Llewellyn ap Griffith; the waters grieving all night in Welsh. And yes, the reeds were whining, whimpering, sighing in the wind, so human-like …
The old woman was still sitting by the shore, spinning, spinning her net, as if she were Fate itself; from time to time she threw a pebble in the water. It did not occur to me to ask her the way. In fact, the very thought that she might see me filled me with horror. I turned and retreated back into the woods.
Weariness and hunger infused my thoughts with a mild delirium, tinged with nausea. I was no longer walking: I was fleeing.
I was in the Celtic Forest, where every improbability becomes possible. Every ten minutes held a new terror. A bush would take on the precise appearance of an old hag, a rock became a crouching giant: worst of all were the ink-black brooks, the hollow trees and the sudden, loud flurry of owls taking flight.
It was now eleven o’clock, and I was wandering over a plateau. Here at least there were no woods: no trees, no owls, only moonlight. There was no Birnam Wood to come to Dunsinane, but little piles of stone scattered about as though the very bones of the earth were thrusting up beneath its skin. Ahead, to one side, stood a much larger pile, perhaps a Celtic burial site, I guessed, from pictures I had seen.
Approaching nearer I realised, with a sort of half-pleasure, that it was a building. The pleasure was qualified because, on a remote upland like this, I could imagine that the old peasant couple dwelling there might not be very friendly. I did my best not to think of any of the many phantom possibilities, and resolved to be brave.
I had now reached it. It couldn’t really be termed a house; it was rather an immense cube. I could see neither windows nor a door. I found none on the next side, or indeed on the third. When I had gone all the way round and ascertained that there were none at all, I was filled with an unspeakable terror. Nothing is more frightening than the completely inexplicable.
I was desperate to get away. Even the trees were better than this man-made enigma. But—I can’t say whether through sheer fatigue or my overexcited imagination—I stood rooted to the spot, as paralysed as a man in a dream. I just stared, hypnotised, at the whitewashed wall.
Then the wall moved. With infinite slowness, it slid to one side. Behind it was utter darkness. Out of this darkness stepped a man, very tall, dressed in black from head to foot, with only his hair and ruff-collar glinting white. I uttered a terrible scream.
Tiny circles were spinning before my eyes, like little flashes of lightning; they grew in size, turning lilac-coloured and carmine; then one small spot became larger, larger, and unbearably bright.
I was enclosed by four walls. It was pitch-black, and only by groping about could I establish that I was incarcerated. The silence was so deep it was almost tangible.
I wondered: how could I be sure I wasn’t dead? I lay down on the stone floor and sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
My memories of what followed are extremely confused. Even in normal circumstances my dreams tend to be vivid, and I sometimes mistake them for things that have actually happened. Already during this strange adventure I had totally lost my sense of reality. As I don’t wish to distort or exaggerate I shall need to exercise extreme caution when narrating what occurred next.
My exhaustion and unbearable mental stress were intensified by the fact that, as I always do, I had caught a cold in the endless rain and was slightly feverish. My inner censor was working only fitfully, and every fevered vision took on the solidity of fact.
For instance, it seemed to be entirely real that from time to time I would eat and drink, though I do not ever remember feeling hunger or thirst. What I ate, and how I came by it, have quite escaped my memory.
Quite understandably, I have no sense of how long my ghostly imprisonment lasted. My watch had stopped. The place in which I was incarcerated had no windows, so I was unaware of changing night and day. My periodic recurrences of sleep were no guide either. I dozed in patches, lay in a half-dream or felt superhumanly alert. There must have been hours which I experienced as minutes, and minutes which felt like hours. It is of course well known that fever alters our sense of the passing of time.
When I think of that episode, my most lasting memory is also the first, that of a certain smell: the smell of some kind of smoke that pervaded the entire building. It was not unlike incense, but more bitter, and prone to induce giddiness. I know that all sorts of herbs are burnt in magic rituals, and this particular blend must have been one used for liturgical censing. I believe it was one of those I had read about in occult tomes—verbena, myrrh, carib grass or ambergris, perhaps—but I really don’t know: I had only read about them and could in no way identify any by name. However it was the same smell that had enveloped me when the midnight rider galloped past, on the road from Corwen.
… A strange, greenish light filled the room and a tiny figure swayed and tottered before me. It is difficult to describe what it was like—rather as I always imagined gnomes to be. It wore a kind of miner’s outfit, with something like a pilot’s cap on its head, which only intensified the clever, malevolent, thoroughly unpleasant look on its face. The most real thing about it—or him—was the screeching voice.
But even then I realised my visitor was not flesh and blood, because—this was really grotesque—his size changed constantly, flaring up and dying down, like a flame. Occasionally he flapped his wings and crowed, and sometimes he had no wings at all.
“Greetings, Benjamin Avravanel. I shall bring your robes at once.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “I’ve never been called Avravanel. And I don’t recall ordering any robes.”
“It’s no matter,” the gnome retorted, and crowed shrilly, which by now seemed entirely natural.
He was sitting on a high stool, which hadn’t been there before, and he was flickering—steadily and continuously flickering.
“Honour and glory to the Great Adept,” he declared.
“As you say,” I answered, not wishing to offend. “Honour and glory.”
“The Great Adept is preparing to complete the Great Work. It is the Will of the Stars, the Stars, the Stars … ”
Strangely enough, I could see everything as he described it. One moment the stars were revolving in the sky, and the next they had suddenly, and significantly, stopped.
“The Great Adept requires an assistant,” the gnome continued. “He has chosen you for this task, Benjamin Avravanel, Scholar.”
“But excuse me, I know nothing of these mysteries,” I remonstrated.
“You know rather more than most, and much more than the people of Merioneth.”
I took this as a great compliment.
“But, damn, damn, damn,” he exclaimed.
He fluttered and sizzled, like damp wood when you try to light it.
“The Great Work has been arrested at some point. We cannot proceed!”
Again I was able to see what he meant: a vast apparatus had appeared, glowing with its own light. It consisted of alembics, glass tubes, moving pistons, spirit lamps and bowls assembled in a wild Heath Robinson manner, though the overall effect was rather pleasing, like the body of a fine animal. Along the tubes, and down into the basins and alembics, flowed a golden liquid.
“This is where the Great Work has been arrested,” the gnome said, indicating part of the mechanism. “Here. It has stopped moving. Do you observe how golden is its colour? But it is not yet gold. Not yet gold.”
Then the gnome and the app
aratus both vanished, leaving me with an intensely painful headache.
After some time the gnome and the apparatus appeared again. He was now dressed in black, and immensely solemn.
“Lean closer to me, Benjamin Avravanel. I have a terrible secret to whisper in your ear. The Great Adept has been compelled to turn to Black Magic for the Great Work to proceed. The Highest declined to help, so he has called upon the Deepest. You, oh wise master, are the assistant. You must participate in the ceremony. Rise, and prepare the sacred site. The hour has come, the hour has come.”
An hourglass shimmered before my eyes, its last few grains running out. I rose and followed the gnome.
We were in a pentagonal room, lit from above by a luminous body identical to the one I had seen in the depths of Pendragon.
I was wearing a black, sleeveless robe and immensely heavy shoes, made, I should think, of lead, with astrological symbols embossed on them.
I immediately began preparing the room. There was a wand, the end of which I dipped in some blood-coloured liquid in a bowl and used to draw two large concentric circles on the floor. Inside these I drew a triangle, and inside that three further circles, not concentric.
I placed an incense burner in one of these last, and a black, crescent-shaped candlestick in each of the others. I then nailed a dead bat to a point along the line of the outermost circle, and that was the North; and to another point a skull, and that was the West. To the South went the head of a goat, and to the East the corpse of a black cat.
Meanwhile the smell wafting up from the burner was growing steadily heavier, and I staggered back to my room. The whole building was humming and vibrating like an organ. In my room stood a large, comfortable couch, covered in black, and I lay down on it.
How shall I account for this strange episode? I did not do so at the time: I lived it. It all took place as naturally and self-evidently as furnishing a new flat. Since then I have thought about it constantly, and have come up with two possible explanations.
