by Maynard Sims
"If everyone, as you say, avoids this place like the plague, tell me how it can be that a hurricane lamp that must have been hanging in the shrine for years, since the island became a place to be avoided, can still have enough oil in it to burn for just under an hour? And how there can be the remains, fresh remains, I hasten to add, of a fire by the altar?"
"Get out of here," the landlord said without malice, and he handed us our bags across the bar. "And if I were you I'd think very careful, before coming back to this place."
"I take it then you can't answer my question?" I said.
"Go," he said almost in a whisper. "Please, just go."
Frank and I walked through the door together leaving our erstwhile host and his cronies in a huddle of animated conversation. We were still wet, but the sun had returned to the sky and its warming rays helped alleviate our discomfort. We took the road to the local railway station and hoped we would not have to wait too long for a train to take us to the nearest mainline terminus.
"I think you put the fear of God into them," Frank said smiling wryly.
"I think I put the fear of something into them, but I don't think it was the fear of God. In all honesty, Frank, what did you make of all that?"
"I don't think there's anything wrong with these locals, that a few months in the city with its dullness, its sheer down-to-earthness, wouldn't cure. That would soon knock some commonsense into the fanciful straw bales they use instead of brains. Superstitious claptrap," he said again, and laughed heartily.
We reached the station and on enquiry at the ticket office were gratified to learn that there was a train due in about fifteen minutes. We settled ourselves in the waiting-room. A short while later the stationmaster entered. He looked at us appraisingly, then from us his gaze travelled to our fishing tackle. Slowly a smile crept over his face. He had obviously noticed our wet clothes and drawn the wrong conclusion.
"Been fishing, eh?"
We nodded and waited for a remark that was sure to follow.
"No need to ask who came off the worse." He broke into an earthy chuckle. "Townies," he said, shaking his head in mock despair as he left the room.
"I wonder if he would have been so cheerful if he knew where we had been fishing?" Frank said, after the stationmaster had left us.
"Whatever you do don't tell him, he'll probably bar us from the train," I said.
With a roar of steam-power the train pulled into the station. Soon we were aboard and heading north at a comfortable pace on the first part of our journey home. I sat back in my seat and relaxed, I took my favourite briar from my pocket, filled it and lit it, drawing slowly on the stem, savouring the rich flavour of the tobacco. I was pleased to be away from Cawle with its mysterious island and peculiar population. The sway and bustle of Paddington station, when we finally reached it, would provide a pleasant contrast, I mused.
"Glad to be heading home?" Frank asked, but I was lost in my thoughts. He tapped my knee and asked me again.
"Let's just say that I wouldn't lose any sleep if someone told me that I couldn't visit the place again," I said, puffing contentedly on my pipe.
"My feelings exactly," Frank said, looking in his pocket for something. "But at least we didn't leave empty-handed."
I eyed him questioningly. "What do you mean by that?"
He produced something from his pocket and tossed it over to me, then stood up and opened the carriage window.
"What on earth are you smoking? It smells like you're burning old rope."
I looked down at the object in my hands. It was a small ivory plaque measuring about four inches by two. On it were carved two figures, one a man, crouched cowering away from another figure that was a perfect likeness to the hideous creatures we had seen drawn on the walls of the shrine. There was something about this ivory cameo that I found quite repellent. So delicately had it been carved that you could see the expression of terror on the hapless individual's face as he contemplated the creature. Equally you could see cold evil in the creature's eyes as it towered over the man, and you could almost sense the awesome power of the brute, a power, I knew instinctively, that could only be used for destruction.
I looked up at Frank who was studying me, eagerly awaiting my response. "And where did you come across this gruesome little find?" I said, knowing full well what the answer would be.
"In the shrine, it was buried in the ashes of the fire."
My thought that it would have been better for it to remain there went unspoken. Instead I asked, "What do you suppose it is?"
"I don't rightly know," he said, taking the plaque from me and looking at it. "I suppose it could be an icon. Obviously it has a direct connection with those wall drawings. Perhaps it represents a judgement of some kind. I have come across similar things to this, but of course, they were Christian in origin. But this..."
The roar of the wind drowned his words as the train entered a tunnel. Through the open window smoke billowed in. Both Frank and I began to cough. "The window," he called through the darkness and the noise. "Close the window."
I got to my feet with the intention of doing just that, but suddenly I was back in the shrine. At least that was the almost overpowering sensation that swept over me. The smell in the carriage was identical to the smell we had encountered in that dank mouldering cell – smoke mingling with the reek of decay. Frank was choking. The sound broke my trance and I made for the window. What happened next is a little confused in my memory.
I reached for the strap with which to raise the window, but as I did, my hand came into contact with something standing between the door and myself. The only impression I was able to get in that brief contact was of brushing my hand against a sheet of coconut matting ... or something that felt like coconut matting, something coarse and warm. A vicious blow knocked me bodily to the opposite side of the carriage. As I lay there, winded, I heard Frank scream, once, sharply.
I opened my eyes as the train was emerging from the tunnel. I got to my feet and looked around as light filled the compartment. Frank was sitting on his seat his eyes closed, his face ashen. His body trembled and his hand opened and closed spasmodically, revealing a hank of long, coarse black hair. Of the icon there was no trace.
"Are you all right?" Was all I could find to say.
He nodded, eyes still tightly closed, and said nothing. To give him time to regain his composure before discussing what had happened I returned to my seat and recovered my pipe from the floor. In an almost desperate need to do something completely normal I refilled and lit it, drawing deeply to steady my nerves. Frank gave a short sharp cough, followed by another, and then began to wave the air in front of him. He opened his eyes.
"No more smoke, please, no more smoke," he cried quietly, but not to me.
THE WINDOW
When he retired early from the Diplomatic Service, after spending twenty years in the Middle East and India, John Derbyshire returned to England to find a quiet corner in which to settle, and to see out the few years he felt he had left. The reasons of health that precipitated his retirement were progressive but terminal.
An adequate pension, coupled with a comfortable private income, meant he could choose a house with grounds, in a not too modest situation. He stayed in rooms at Richmond while he perused the advertisements in Field and Country Life. Several times he visited estates, but on each occasion the property did not quite match what he was looking for. He was, however, prepared to wait for a suitable property. Abroad he had become accustomed to heat, poor sanitation and flies; it was a pleasure to return to the equitable, if unpredictable, climate of his native country. He knew people in town, and he spent his time visiting old friends and acquaintances, many of whom he had not heard from since he had been away.
In October he decided he should increase his search, and he telephoned several agents about houses that took his eye. One sounded exactly what he was after, set in the green Berkshire countryside, flanked on either side by suitable villages, but within sight a
nd earshot of neither of them. He arranged to meet the estate agent at the house, and hired a car for the drive.
A drifting wind ransacked the hilltop as he stopped to search for landmarks. It was a crisp morning with a pinch of frost in the air. He drove on down a winding lane, the purr of the engine disturbing some mallards who swam on a lake, while in front stretched a curved valley whose sides were coated with evergreen trees, and clumps of coloured debris where the last wild flowers of autumn were laid to rest. The lane became narrower, bordered by hedgerows filled with small nests from which rose startled magpies and finches. Eventually the car began to climb slowly, the hill curling round one side of the valley between the trees, revealing fields of tall grass swaying in the sharp wind.
As the incline grew steeper, the silence became stronger. The wind whined amongst the trees but there were no birds to answer its call. The valley side, rich in foliage, was quiet, moving gently. When the car reached the level, Derbyshire stopped, and looked behind at the distance he had travelled. The road was grey amongst the green on either side, the silence unbroken except for the noise of the car.
The countryside as he drove on was hilly, with mounds of earth scarring the forest floor. The road tossed and turned until at the end of a straight half a mile, where the trees met in an archway over the road, the house came into view. Then left off the main road and on down the curved drive, to park next to the estate agent's car, owned by the firm. The man Derbyshire had spoken to on the telephone was sitting in the car reading a newspaper. When he saw the Bentley slide to a halt he got out and soon introduced himself. He began talking immediately, pointing out the long drive, the lawns at the front, badly in need of a trim and the attention of a rake to the browned leaves blowing across.
Derbyshire stood back from the house to get a proper view. It was a small manor house of the seventeenth century, although it had been decorated to bring it in line with the 'Grecian' taste of the late eighteenth. The pristine portico remained, with tri-cornered pediment and ornamental entablature, but the original stucco had been covered with a modern paint substance. The door was polished oak with a gleaming lion's head knocker in brass. Mullioned windows sparkled as the sun rose higher in the sky, a weak heat warming the two men.
Inside, the hall rose to the beamed ceiling. A carved staircase led from the hall to the first floor, and a small flight led to the attic rooms. There were five rooms leading from the hall; a dining room, study, library, morning room and, largest of all, a sitting room, where the agent had been astute enough to arrange for a beckoning log fire to be lit. On the first floor there were four bedrooms connected by a maze of corridors.
At the back was a long passage that ran from one side of the house to the other, and linked the main bedroom to what had once been the servants' quarters. In the centre of the passage there had originally been a large, round-headed window, but this had been crudely and inexpertly bricked in. Without the window the passage was dark, too dark for normal taste or comfort.
An inspection of the grounds behind the house found them to be overgrown, the grass leading into the woods beyond. A summerhouse nestled in a hollow in the ground, its lock sealing in dust and white cane garden furniture. The exterior of the house was solid, the interior comfortable.
"I am interested in the house," Derbyshire said, as they stood by the cars.
"Very good, sir, I knew right away you would be. It's a rare opportunity, and so easy to get people in for cooking and cleaning."
"Why was the window in the long passage bricked in?"
"Ah yes, untidy job that." The man sucked his lips as he thought of a lie. "Can't rightly say. The house has been on our books for some time, not that there's anything wrong with it, and the window has been like that all the time. Possibly the last owner did it, though I can't see why. Shall we discuss terms?"
"I should like to have the window re-instated."
"That will be fine; improve the place no end, I agree with you. If you like I can arrange for a local firm to call and do the job before you move in. I know them all around here better than you do, I expect."
"That will be very satisfactory."
"It's a twenty year lease, sir."
Derbyshire laughed an elderly man's laugh, "I don't think I shall be needing it that long. No matter, we can discuss the financial arrangements when the necessary papers are signed. I shall leave you to contact me when they are ready."
It was a month before Derbyshire was able to move into the house, a month spent organising his affairs, buying several small pieces that the house lacked, generally preparing himself for the move. When he did move into the house the window was still bricked in. He immediately telephoned the estate agent who was not available. Eventually he spoke to the fellow's secretary, who was extremely apologetic. Apparently the local builders had been reluctant to take the job on, although they would give no reason why. In despair the agent had arranged for two men to call from outside the district, and they should arrive in the afternoon. Satisfied with this, Derbyshire began the laborious task of settling into his new home.
A knock at the door and two men were standing with a ladder, behind them a van. Derbyshire showed them the window from outside and inside the house. "No trouble at all," they said, and began. First they removed the unwanted bricks, working from the centre to the sides, where they carefully chipped away the plaster. A new wooden surround was fitted, then the glass, a single pane measuring some six feet high by four feet wide. By the time there was a hint of shadow creeping in from the woods the job was done.
A few days passed while Derbyshire grew accustomed to his new routine. He breakfasted late, read the newspapers, kept up his correspondence, and spent the afternoons idly. After much bother he managed to get a woman to agree to clean for him one day a week, and the grocery store to deliver what provisions he needed. A certain surliness in the character of the villagers did not hasten him to deepen his acquaintance with any of them.
At the end of the second week a clear day invited him into the garden, where he began to cut the long grass using a rather rusty lawn mower he found, in the kitchen of all places. Within the grass he found daisy in abundance and troublesome plantain, with its rosettes of leaves flat on the ground. Against these the mower was useless, he would have to go weeding another day. He made good progress. Beginning at the far end of the lawn near the boundary of the woods he cut a path three yards wide. It was harder work than he imagined. He rested for a moment, sighed breathlessly, the sweat soaking into his shirt. A portly man, his neat grey hair framed a round smooth face. Though overweight, his appearance was one of dignified sophistication, which was aided by a height of over six feet.
A stone had wedged between the blades of the lawn mower. He stopped to dislodge it. As he did so he thought he saw something in the woods, a face pale in the distance, but in the fleeting moment it was gone, leaving him to wonder if it had been a face, or just a movement of the trees, a mask created by the hanging leaves and branches. He hoped none of the villagers were exercising their curiosity about the newcomer. Eventually he conceded defeat, left the grass to grow another day, and had lunch. The afternoon he spent in the library, examining the leather and finely bound volumes, mulling over plans for an index.
The passage at the rear of the house was the only feature of his new home with which he was unhappy. Despite the window being restored the place still seemed gloomy, by far the darkest part of the house. This, combined with the draught that perpetually blew along its length, did not make it a comfortable spot.
He spent the best part of a day investigating the cause of the draught. The main bedroom where he slept was warm and sound. The end of the passage where the servants' rooms used to be now served as airing and drying rooms; as such they were dry and warm. He walked along the passage pondering on his problem. When he neared the window he noticed the curtains were moving, billowing out towards him. He reached out to close the window, then realised there was nothing to close, it was one p
ane of glass.
`Intruder', a whisper sounded in his ear. He turned round quickly, a cold breath of air played lightly on his cheek. The passage was empty. The curtains no longer billowed, but the damp draught continued to blow, apparently from the direction of the window.
He examined the work the men had done, it was a first-rate job, no gaps. The glass was firm. He went downstairs as soon as he could, leaving the incident to be forgotten, dismissed as imagination, a trick of the mind. Fear had been an occasional companion during his years of service to his country. He had learned to confront the obvious, and observe the obscure until it could be recognised.
A few nights later he lay in bed unable to sleep, listening to the now familiar sound of the wind whining in the passage, howling with demented fury. It was as restless as he, unable to settle to anything, his mind wandering from the book he tried to read to places, people, things he had done and seen. When the wind abated, a muffled silence replaced it, in which a board creaking or a log crackling in the grate sounded uncommonly loud.
He fell into a half-sleep, only partially conscious of his surroundings. Like all the rooms his bedroom was wood panelled, carpeted in deep pile, with an ornately decorated ceiling. He slept in a four poster, a high-backed chair was draped with his clothes. The dying fire cast lazy patterns about the room, darkening the already dark corners, highlighting the polished wood. He jerked awake, then drifted again into a light sleep.
Gradually he became aware of a curious ritual chanting somewhere outside his room. He sat up and propped himself against a pillow. A low rhythmic murmur was carried by the wind from the garden to the house.
He put on his dressing gown and listened at the door. The sound continued, low and pulsing. In the passage the draught was worse, pulling at his clothes, flapping the curtains like the sails of a ship. He peered through the window at the darkened garden where a light rain had begun to fall. Somehow, he could not decide how, the scene he looked at seemed different from the garden he knew. There were more trees, the woods were nearer to the house, no path ran from the side of the rose garden. It did not seem to be the garden he had become familiar with, yet he could not be sure if the darkness merely made it appear to be different.
