‘A dog.’
‘The second word is “sema”. Well, you remember how I told you that the Pythagoreans - early Gnostics in many ways - had a chant which was “soma sema” - the body is a—?’
‘Tomb!’
‘Excellent! And so we have—?’
‘The dog’s tomb. Thank you, Mr Vereker.’
‘Why do you wish to know, young sir?’
‘You know, Mr Vereker, you really are a most excellent teacher. It is a wonder to me, sir, why you are not a schoolmaster at a famous school.’
Mr Vereker was not one to suspect that he was being deliberately distracted by flattery; guile of that kind was beyond the scope of his understanding. When he spoke, it was to unburden himself of a long unexpressed preoccupation.
‘I was elected to a Fellowship of Balliol when I obtained my degree. But Fellows of Oxford colleges may not be married. My wife Clarissa was the daughter of an Oxford apothecary. I suffered from boils and the only relief from them I could obtain was a penny ointment from Clarissa’s father. I became very attached to this young lady whom I met in the shop and the depth of our attachment became such that I was—’ He hesitated, then finished, ‘—obliged to marry her and resign my Fellowship.
‘I had already taken Holy Orders, so I was launched on the world as a poor clergyman with no influence, obliged to take what curacy I could to save my growing family from destitution. I have applied for teaching posts at some schools, but the conditions under which most masters labour is little short of slavery and they frown upon persons who are as heavily engaged in matrimony, as I.’
During the Reverend Hamlet Vereker’s account George had caught a fleeting glimpse of an adult world of poverty and uncomfortable choices. It was interesting, of course, but not something he wished to dwell on. It made him decide there and then, however, that he would never marry.
That afternoon he wandered the grounds in search of the dog’s tomb. Having been at some pains to discover the meaning of the name, George had thought that the rest would be easy. He only had to look for a monument in the park with a statue of a dog on it, but there was none. He did, however, discover many other curious features in the grounds. There was a small Palladian bridge across the canal which supplied the main lake, but the bridge was not a bridge, because one could not cross it: both ends of it were blocked by solid walls of rusticated masonry. There was an obelisk inscribed with hieroglyphs on a plinth at the end of an avenue of yews. There was a shell grotto which housed the statue of a naked old man, a river god, probably, with a long beard, crouching over a scallop-shaped basin of granite. The stone of the statue was a mottled grey colour, but from his open mouth the dark green stain of some kind of lichen extended the length of his beard, as if he had been vomiting bile. It had been a fountain: water had once poured endlessly from the river god’s mouth.
Behind the Abbey the grand design of Humphry Repton, the landscape architect, was bordered by a great wood which had been permitted its wildness in order to harbour game, but even here George found evidence of classical incursion.
There was a slight clearing in the trees out of sight of the Abbey in which stood a severe Doric temple of dark stone. In the triangular pediment above the portico a single grinning head dominated the central space of the tympanum, while under the portico and above the temple’s doors were carved the words:
MORS IANVA MORTIS
‘Death is the gate of Death,’ George muttered to himself. But surely that was wrong. Shouldn’t it be Mors Ianua Vitae: Death is the Gate of Life? He noticed that the bronze doors of this little building were very similar, albeit on a smaller scale, to those of the Temple of the Sphinx.
As he pondered these things, George heard a noise from the trees beyond. Someone was walking through the undergrowth. George crouched behind one of the Doric columns to observe. A man in a much-stained bottle-green velveteen jacket and leggings emerged from behind a belt of trees. He walked furtively but purposefully, examining the ground as he did so, clearing it slightly with a walking stick. Over his shoulder he carried a large canvas bag. Suddenly, emitting a little grunt of satisfaction, he bent down to pick something up. It was a rabbit caught in a snare and it was still struggling. The man gave it a smart tap on the head with the knobbed end of his stick and the creature went limp.
‘I say, you! What are you doing?’ said George.
The stranger turned suddenly and George could see that the man was afraid. A few seconds passed before his expression was replaced by one of cunning when he realised that it was only a boy that he faced.
‘Good afternoon, young sir,’ said the man tipping back the battered moleskin cap that rested on his head. ‘And what might you be doing in these woods, if I might make so bold?’
‘No, you may not make so bold,’ replied George. ‘You, sir, are trespassing and I’ve a good mind to tell my uncle, Sir Augustus, and have you taken in charge.’ George observed the effect his words had. ‘What is your name?’
‘Now why should I tell you that, young sir?’
‘Because if you don’t, curse you, I’ll fetch some men from the Abbey and have you hunted down like a dog, you damned poaching rascal.’
‘Fine language you use for a young gentleman, I must say.’
‘Damn your impertinence! Your name!’
‘Jem Mace. And I was once gamekeeper here.’
‘Mace? Are you married to Mrs Mace, our housekeeper, then?’
‘Bless you no, young sir. She is my sister. She was never married. The “Mrs” is by way of being what they call a “honorabilic” title, sir, in accordance with her position.’
‘You know this park well, then?’
‘As well as my own hand, sir.’
‘And why are you no longer our gamekeeper?’
‘That I will not say, sir.’
George paused and considered whether he should threaten Mace again, but decided not to. He was going to be gracious.
‘Very well, then, Mace. I will say nothing about what you were doing. But you must tell me one thing in return. Where is the dog’s tomb?’
Mace looked at him in puzzlement for some time, scratching his head. ‘Who told you about that?’ he said eventually.
‘Never you mind that, Mace.’
‘There was a dog, had a kind of tomb, coal-black he was. A spaniel, good hunting dog, too-—’
‘What was his name?’
‘Don’t rightly remember, but you’ll find that when you find the tomb, so-called. As I was saying, he was Sir Augustus’s favourite dog. Then Sir Augustus goes off to the West Indies and brings back his bride, the Lady Circe, her name was - strange name. Well this here dog, he takes to her something wonderful so he would hardly go near Sir Augustus no more. Some said she had a way with creatures, according to the customs of her people. All I know is that this dog would follow the Lady Circe everywhere and lost all his taste for hunting with the master. Then one day, not long it must have been before the Lady Circe’s own death, that dog was found dead. I don’t know how he died, but his neck was broken, that’s for sure. He was found by the oak and the Lady Circe, she wept hard for him. The oak had a hollow in it and so they made that his tomb, and she had a stone cut to close up the entrance to the hollow and had his name carved on it. I expect you may see it even now if it is not overgrown.’
‘How did the Lady Circe die?’
‘Well, young master, I’ve told you my answer to your question and I must be gone. As long as you don’t tell a living soul about me, you may find me hereabouts of an afternoon.’
‘And if I do tell on you?’
‘Then, young master, I won’t answer for what may happen.’ He lifted his moleskin cap in a perfunctory salute and was gone.
The next minute George was running at full pelt towards the oak. He felt curiously exhilarated, as if a veil was slowly being lifted from his eyes, but he was afraid, too.
It took some time to find the tomb. The lower reaches of the oak tree were overgrown wi
th ivy and George had a hard time tearing it away, even with the help of his pocket knife. While he was doing this, he thought for a moment he heard the sound of panting, like that of a dog. He looked around, but there was nothing. It must have been his own hard breathing from his unaccustomed exertions. A cool breeze fanned his cheek and shook the leaves above him gently.
He had removed nearly all the ivy from the base of the oak before he found a smooth triangular piece of granite jammed into a gap between two great knotted roots. On the stone had been carved in capitals a single three-letter word: DIS.
Shortly before dinner George knocked on the door of the library. He was not beginning to feel easier about making these visits; quite the reverse. He would always find Sir Augustus in the same position, in his chair behind the desk. Sometimes he seemed in a trance, half-asleep, but never fully unconscious, his long saturnine features tense and alert even when the rest of his body appeared relaxed. George always had the impression that his uncle was waiting for him, or someone, or something.
Then there was the chessboard. Sometimes it was set up for a game, and often the pieces had been moved as if a game were in progress, but George had never seen Sir Augustus playing with anyone. Nor had Sir Augustus ever moved a piece in his presence.
George heard Sir Augustus’s sharp ‘Come!’ and entered.
‘Well?’
‘I have found Cynossema, Sir Augustus.’
His uncle’s features assumed an aspect of wary scorn. ‘Oh, really, Nephew? And how did you do that?’
‘I found it beneath the oak.’
Sir Augustus started violently. ‘By God, who told you to look there?’ But George had his answer prepared.
‘No one, sir. Unless it was Mr Gainsborough.’
‘Eh?’
George, assuming his most innocent expression, pointed to the painting of Sir Hercules and his dog above the mantelpiece. ‘I assumed that any dog of yours might have been entombed where the painter had shown Sir Hercules’s animal, by the oak, so I looked there.’
‘And the name? I asked for a name.’ Sir Augustus was searching George’s face hard for signs of deceit.
‘The name, sir, is “Dis”. Though whether that is the name of the dog or the name of the tomb I do not know, for Mr Vereker tells me that Dis is an ancient name for the land of the dead, and also of the god of the dead.’
‘I know that, damn you! Don’t presume to lecture me, you insolent puppy!’
‘So may I tell Mrs Mace that my dietary regimen is to be relaxed, Sir Augustus?’
‘While you were searching round the oak, did you see or hear anything?’
‘See or hear what, Sir Augustus?’
‘Did anything untoward occur?’
‘Nothing, Uncle. It has been a fine day, has it not? And now may I tell Mrs Mace—?’
‘You may go to the Devil, for all I care. Leave me be!’
George obeyed and left the scene of his victory. But he was beginning to learn that all victories have consequences. He had been left with a greater mystery and a greater darkness than before.
That night something woke George. A noise from within the Abbey was penetrating its usually silent vastness. George left his room and went to the top of the staircase that led down into the main hall. Looking down, he saw that a faint light was coming from the library, whose door stood ajar. It was from there too that a sound emanated. It must have been a human sound, but it did not quite seem human. It was a groan, followed by a sobbing exhalation of breath. The groan was strangely like the noise the bronze doors had made when he opened the Temple of the Sphinx.
Then there was another light accompanied by echoing footsteps on the flagstones. From the door to the servants’ hall came Hargreave carrying a lighted candelabrum. He walked slowly towards the library. When he was in the middle of the hall, he stopped, as if alerted to something, and slowly turned his head to look up to where George was watching. George retreated quickly into the shadows and then to his room.
He was restless and could not sleep. Once he went to the window to look out. It was a clear night, but the moon was on the wane. By the oak he thought he saw two figures in shadow. One looked like the Negro with the noose that he had seen before, the other was a dog. No movement came from the human figure, but the dog flicked his tail twice. George blinked and withdrew from the window, but when he returned to it a moment or so later they were gone.
*
V
A few days later, the Reverend Hamlet Vereker was once again invited to dine at Sir Augustus’s table. George had gathered from Mrs Mace that Sir Augustus was not a naturally hospitable man, though in the days before his marriage he had been more sociable.
Mr Vereker was no conversationalist - a few quiet platitudes about the weather was his normal limit - so it was not quite clear why Sir Augustus had invited the curate, unless it was to torment him on doctrinal matters. His assault began, as before, at the dessert stage, when the port decanter was already half-empty. This time Sir Augustus turned to the subject of atonement.
‘Now then, young Hamlet, tell me: what are your views on the forgiveness of sins? Do you believe in it?’
‘Unquestionably, Sir Augustus.’
‘Come come, sir, we must have no “unquestionably” here. Questions are all we have on this earth. If we cannot question we die. But let that be. We take the forgiveness of sins as your belief. And yet you have told us that eternal damnation is also in your creed. Now, how can that be, sir?’
‘Why, Sir Augustus, that is surely a simple thing that any child knowing his catechism might tell you. God’s mercy is infinite, but there is no forgiveness except the sinner repent of his sins.’
‘I see. So whatever the sin, if I repent, I will be forgiven.’
‘That is so.’
‘So I may tell myself, I am to commit a murder, but all is well. I shall repent thereafter and make myself again as white as snow … Well, Mr Vereker?’
There was a pause. The curate seemed more than usually nervous and when he spoke he stammered. He said, ‘B-but that would not be true repentance.’
‘And who are you to judge such a thing? No, don’t answer that. Tell me this. In your creed, it is said that Christ died for the sins of all mankind?’
‘That is so.’
‘Then there is no need for repentance. Our transgressions have been atoned for already by the crucifixion of the Nazarene.’
‘The sins of all that truly turn to him are forgiven.’
‘Ah! So it is not for all mankind after all. And if a poor sinner is born in Africa and dies there without ever having heard word of our Saviour then he is not redeemed. It might be better had he been taken for a slave, for at least then some canting plantation pastor might have had him baptised.’
‘Sir Augustus, what do these questions of yours signify?’
‘I am testing your mettle, young Hamlet. I am trying to find the core of your being. Is the blood of truth running in your veins sir, or are you a mere mouthpiece of acceptable cant? I wish to know. I own the living of Tankerton as you are aware; it is a solemn duty to look to the integrity of my clergy.’
Mr Vereker sat still and did not flinch.
George wondered if this was because, as he himself suspected, Sir Augustus’s answer had not been the whole truth. George, even at his young age, could tell bluster when he heard it.
Mr Vereker said, ‘I can only speak from my own experience, Sir Augustus. I know myself to be a sinner, and I know myself to be redeemed by the blood of Christ. I know this firstly from my own heart, secondly from the confirmation of Scripture, thirdly from the wisdom of saints who have gone before.’
This time it was Sir Augustus’s turn to be silent. Eventually he said, half to himself, ‘So you call yourself a sinner, noble Hamlet. I wonder if you know what sinner means. What is this sin? You believe that sin was committed by the first man and the first woman?’
‘We are all sons and daughters of Adam.’
‘And so that sin is inherent in us from birth?’
‘That is so.’
‘But if there had been no sin of Adam and Eve, might we all still be running about naked, like savages in the jungle?’
‘These are vain speculations, Sir Augustus.’
‘Indeed, sir! And who are you to say that my speculations are vain? Let me put it to you thus: that the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil was good fruit, and without it there might be no great nations, no mighty victories, no music, no statued temples and high places. Sin and its knowledge unites us in one bond. Innocence is well lost. Does not the philosopher Diderot say that we are compensated for loss of innocence by loss of prejudice?’
‘Diderot was an atheistical Frenchman, Sir Augustus.’
‘He may have been both, but he may also be right, Hamlet. There are more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. And what is sin, if by it came wisdom and then salvation? Tell me, if sin is forgiven, is it forgotten, or does it not remain and become our strength?’
‘It binds us, Sir Augustus. We may not be free until we are absolved of sin.’
‘And only Christ may do this?’
‘Man may act as intermediary for this atonement. Absolution is a sacrament of the priesthood.’
‘Or a goat.’
‘Sir Augustus?’
‘Does not Aaron in the book of Leviticus offer a scapegoat as atonement for the sins of the tribes of Israel?’
‘That may have been so in the Old Covenant, but not the New.’
‘So no goats in our brave New Covenant. That is a pity. It must be a man - such as you Reverend Hamlet - or perhaps a boy.’
Sir Augustus rested his cold glance on George for some moments. George shivered; Mr Vereker half-rose from his seat. Sir Augustus laughed.
‘Yes, yes, Mr Vereker! You are released! Or should I say absolved? You may return to your quiverful. The fruit of your loins and your sins no doubt. Stand not upon the order of your going, sir!’
Mr Vereker stood up and very deliberately turned to George.
A Book of Horrors - [Anthology] Page 30
