Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  More than ever, I felt alone. I told myself I was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of danger. It mounted steadily. I folded my arms about my waist. I could hardly stand still.

  The crowd murmured with anticipation as the dancers appeared, stepping into the cleared area about the fire as though by magic. All were in costume, the boys in tight black trousers and white shirts with full, gathered sleeves, the girls in white dresses with low-cut bodices and flaring skirts with hems several inches above the ankles. Boys and girls alike wore garlands of flowers over their brows. The boys carried flutes, the girls tamborines. They began to play a strange, soft tune that reminded me of woodlands and glades, and they danced to the music, moving slowly, gracefully around the fire, doing something that looked like a minuet. Bella expressed her disappointment to Alan and said she’d just as soon go home. He told her to just wait and she’d see something the can-can couldn’t compare with. She stiffled a yawn. He ignored her, leaning forward to peer at the dancers.

  I could hardly see why Queen Victoria should have concerned herself about such festivals. The dance was innocuous, quite tame. Or was it? The flutes began to play shriller, faster. The tamborines jangled and thumped. The dancers moved faster around the flames, making little jump steps, the boys leaping in front of the girls. As the music grew louder, the dance became more frantic. Boys leaped high into the air like frenzied acrobats. Girls swayed wildly, skirts flying above knees. The flames crackled, a part of the music, burning bright orange and blue. Shadows of the dancers writhed on the ground beyond them, weird, obscene. The crowd was spellbound, fascinated. Bella stood with her lips parted, her eyes filled with amazement. Alan looked tense.

  I closed my eyes. The shrill, discordant music split the air and shattered like broken glass. The crackling fire roared, popped, a great live thing mocking all decency. My eardrums began to ring. My head ached. The feeling of danger mounted, mounted, until I wanted to scream. Where was Edward? Why hadn’t he returned? Who was watching me? What was this evil that drew closer and closer? My hands were clenched, nails digging into palms. Against my closed lids I saw the obscene shadows, black on purple, and they seemed to taunt me.

  Someone tugged on my arm from behind. I froze. The fingers closed on my elbow and tugged again. I turned.

  Bertie Rawlins moved his lips without speaking. His face was even more thin and pale than I had remembered. The smudges under his blue eyes were darker, the hollows under his cheekbones deeper. The eyes were full of fear, and the thin white lips moved jerkily. He drew me away from Bella and Alan. We were completely surrounded by people who were absorbed in the spectacle that grew wilder and wilder, and we might have been alone in a dark forest of tall, immobile bodies that only smelled human. I could barely see Bertie’s face. He was trembling.

  “They got Jamie,” he whispered. “It was him they found.”

  “What do you mean, Bertie?”

  “I seen you yesterday at the fact’ry. You didn’t see me. I knew I had to tell you—they call me loony, loony-bird, but I gotta tell you.…” He looked around frantically at the bodies pressing close to us. “Not here,” he whispered hoarsely. “They’re watchin’. They know I know.…”

  “Bertie, try to make sense.”

  “The other ’un. Yeah, him they’re savin’ for the moon dance.”

  “Moon dance? Bertie—”

  “It was him they found. The other ’un they’re—”

  His lips continued to move, but no sound came from them. The eyes implored me to believe him. His hands fluttered, jerked. He was like someone addicted to opium who had been deprived of it for a week. I thought he was going to faint. He staggered a little, leaning forward, and kept looking over his shoulder.

  “Meet me by the river,” he stammered. “In the woods, over there. I gotta tell you—you gotta believe—they’re watchin’ now. Please come. The woods, by the river. They won’t see us there.”

  He disappeared into the crowd. I was alone, surrounded by the bodies like tree trunks. The music was screeching. The flames cast a yellow glow that only intensified the darkness, shadowing faces, making black patterns in the air. I smelled sulfur and beer and perspiring bodies. My head was spinning. I no longer even knew where Alan and Bella stood. He was mad, mad, of course he was mad, and I couldn’t follow him. It was insane even to contemplate it, but his face, his eyes, his voice, had all pleaded with me. I had to go. I had to listen to him. He was mad, but I had to let him talk. I couldn’t let him huddle alone in the woods, babbling to himself, crazed with fear.

  I would go tell Bella and Alan where I was going, and then I would go down to the river, through the woods. No, no, if I tried to explain it to them, I would waste too much time. They were both engrossed in the dances. The dances would last for at least another thirty minutes. I would be back before then. They wouldn’t miss me. I hesitated only an instant, then began to push my way through the crowd.

  It was difficult. People were packed solid about the clearing, rooted to the spot, refusing to move an inch in the fear they might miss part of the dance. I shoved against husky men in bulky jackets, murmuring apologies as I went. The crowd seemed to close in on me. I pushed and pleaded, my hair tumbling over my face. All the time, I felt the eyes watching me, but I could see no one following. A great slab of wood broke in two, sending a shower of sparks blazing up. The crowd stirred, pressing forward to watch the sparks drift down about the dancers. I was pushed back, caught in the movement. I was knocked against one of the surveyors, a red-haired brute with dark eyes who caught my shoulders to keep me from falling. I was on the verge of hysteria now. I pushed through the crowd, apologies forgotten, and when I finally reached the edge of the clearing, I was panting, my heart beating rapidly.

  It was curiously calm here, the crowd behind me, the woods in front. I saw a wall of backs, and beyond, over the heads, far away, the flames that licked up against the black sky. The yellow glow hung over the crowd, but here there were only shadows. I could smell the rich, mossy smell of the woods, rotten leaves, damp soil, sappy bark. The music was distant, dim, drowned out by the crisp rustle of leaves and the hoot of an owl somewhere in the woods. I could hear a faint gurgling that I knew must be the river. I caught my breath. I pushed the golden waves away from my face and adjusted the bodice of my dress.

  I hesitated again before going into the woods.

  Bertie was harmless. Everyone said that. He would do me no harm, but I suddenly wished I had never left Bella’s side. If only Edward were here. He would understand. He would see why I had to indulge that poor frightened man with the living nightmares. He would go with me, and I would feel much better with him beside me; but he had vanished into the crowd. No doubt he was filling his notebooks with songs, collecting gems that would sparkle in the pages of his book, but I still wished he were here. I wished my throat weren’t dry, my forehead hot, my pulse leaping. I felt dangerously exposed here on this strip of clearing, out of the crowd, not yet in the shelter of the woods. I felt the eyes on me, still and I turned and moved quickly between the trunks of the trees.

  It was very dark, and surprisingly cold. A chilly wind blew over the water, rippling through the brush, rustling the leaves. I walked very carefully, my heels sinking into the damp soil. The trees grew close together, tangled brush between them, leaving little room for passing through. I shuddered as silky strands of a cobweb brushed against my face. I walked into the trunk of a tree. I uttered a word I seldom heard and had never before used myself. My skirt caught on a thorn, the material ripping. I stood very still, knowing it was useless to try to go any farther until my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. There was rustling black darkness all around me, and little by little it lightened. Trees and brush began to take on shape and form, grew solid and visible. The blackness melted into a misty gray, and I could see the few beams of moonlight that managed to penetrate the heavy canopy of leaf and bough. I saw that I was standing in the middle of a thicket, my skirt firmly fastened to
a thorny branch. I began to separate the material from the thorns, trying to tear as little as possible. Birds called out to one another, shrill in the silence, and invisible animals scurried through the brush.

  I could hear the river, and far away, through the trees, I could see the wavering veils of mist that hung suspended over its surface, the breeze causing them to swirl and stir like ghosts. I caught myself just in time. No nonsense, I warned firmly, no flights of fancy. Mist is mist. Bertie is waiting. There are no ghosts. I backed out of the thicket, holding my skirts up to keep them free from the thorns. I saw a kind of footpath that wound through the trees toward the river. I followed it, moving as slowly as before, stepping over roots, avoiding overhanging branches. A beam of moonlight slanted down through the trees ahead, gilding a cobweb with silver. Drops of moisture hung from the silken strands like glistening gems. The darkness was blue-black and gray, with shades of dark green. I kept my eyes on the mist that floated over the river. The heel of one of my shoes sank down in the soil. My foot slipped free, and I was almost thrown off balance. I retrieved the shoe and bent down to put it back on.

  I froze.

  It was here, all around me, that evil I had felt before. The wind had died down. The leaves no longer rusted. The birds had stopped calling. The air was still, filled with a heavy silence that caused the hair on the back of my neck to bristle. A few seconds ago I had been calm, confident, yet now I felt myself on the verge of panic. That feeling had returned: the eyes that watched, the evil that lurked. It was as though the woods had become a living thing that held its breath, waiting. I slipped the shoe on my foot. I backed against the trunk of a tree. I could feel the bark rough against my skin. The air was permeated with evil. There was a muffled thud, a snapping sound.

  Something moved through the mists at the river’s edge.

  I wanted to scream, but I could only stare in horror as the figure in white stepped through a small clearing, paused, and looked back. It wore a hood with a peaked top and two holes for the eyes, all the rest of the body covered with a flowing robe, the brilliant white of the material gleaming, standing out against the foggy gray-white mist. I shook my head. I closed my eyes, saw whirling black circles, opened them, to see the figure standing as before. It was no ghost. It was something real, very real. I was not imagining it, not this time. The figure seemed to hesitate for a moment, still looking back toward the river, and then it moved on, to be swallowed up by the mist.

  Time stopped altogether. There was nothing but the woods, the evil, my fear. I was a little girl again, alone in the dark, wanting to cry but afraid to make a sound, afraid the things that lurked in the corners of my room would hear me and pounce. Those childhood phantoms had vanished by the time I was six or seven, but they had come back again, and I knew if I made a sound they would swarm around me. I felt something cold and damp sliding down my cheek. I realized my lashes were brimming with tears. The air was cold. The leaves were rustling again. I heard a low, moaning noise. I knew it was Bertie. I knew I must go to him. I moved quickly, following the pathetic sound.

  He was by the edge of the river. He seemed to be stretched out, resting, his arms flung out, one leg folded under him. Then I saw that his head was held at a curious angle. It seemed to hang limply from his neck. His blue eyes stared up at me. His lips moved. The moaning ceased, followed by a gurgle, a rattle in the chest. I knelt down beside him, afraid to touch him. I whispered soft words. My tears splattered down on his face. He tried to lift himself up, and his head lolled crazily on his neck.

  “Don’t—don’t move,” I whispered. “I’ll get help. Please—please don’t—”

  The blue eyes looked up at me. They were beginning to glaze over. The lips moved, but no sound came. The fingers of one hand lifted, imploring me to lean down closer. I did, my hair brushing his face. The lips moved again, and I could barely discern the words.

  “The moon dance—they’re waitin’ for—the moon.”

  I stood up. He was dead. His neck had been broken. I remembered the muffled thud I had heard earlier, followed by the snapping sound. I knew what that sound had been. So loud, I thought. I must go back now. I must tell someone what had happened. I started to move away, and then I saw something white on the branch of a bush. I pulled it free. It was a piece of white cloth with ragged edges, as large as a man’s handkerchief. I stared at it, knowing where it had come from. I was strangely calm, all the fear gone now. I heard footsteps approaching and stuffed the piece of white cloth into the pocket of my skirt.

  Burton Rodd came toward me. He looked livid with rage.

  “What the hell!” he cried. “I saw you leaving the crowd and slipping into the woods, and I couldn’t believe it. I simply couldn’t believe it! Have you lost your mind? What in God’s name—”

  I stepped aside so he could see the body. He stared down at it, then looked up at me, his cheekbones chalky. I watched as though in a dream as he knelt down, touched the rubbery neck, frowned, examined the curious position of the leg folded under the body. He tugged at a large root, and I saw that Bertie’s foot was hooked under it. Burton Rodd stood up. He came over to me and stood very close, looking down into my face. Neither of us spoke. The mist moved around us. The water splashed pleasantly over the rocks. It was all dreamlike, and I was very far away, watching.

  “It’s Bertie Rawlins,” I said in a voice that didn’t belong to me. “He worked for you at the factory. Everyone said he was crazy. Children used to throw rocks at his house. That was wicked, don’t you think? Children are sometimes quite wicked, even the best of them.”

  “Shut up, Katherine. You’re hysterical.”

  “No. I’m quite calm. I’ve never been so calm in my life. He was Jamie’s brother. Do you remember Jamie? They killed him. They killed Bertie too. I know. I heard—”

  “He caught his foot under that root and tripped. He broke his neck. It was an accident.”

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, you see, that’s how it’s supposed to look. I saw—one of them. All in white. Really. Not my imagination. He wore a white hood and a white robe, and he killed Bertie. You must believe me. I saw, with my own eyes.…” I spoke in a curious singsong, and from somewhere far off another Katherine Hunt wondered why that voice was so peculiar.

  Burton Rodd laid his hands heavily on my shoulders. He peered into my eyes. His face was very close. I could see every line, every crease. He spoke gently, but his voice was firm. “You saw nothing,” he said. “You saw nothing. Do you understand me? You did not see anything. Is that clear? I’m taking you home. I will tell Edward you were with me and grew faint and asked to leave. Katherine, do you hear me? No one is to know. No one!”

  I nodded. The tears spilled down my cheeks. My shoulders trembled. I tried to make them stop. His arms wrapped around me, and I buried my face against his chest. He held me tightly, stroking my back. I did not care who he was. I did not care what he had done. He was here, and he would drive the phantoms away. They could not seize me as long as he was holding me in his arms.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It had been raining all morning, but now the sky was gray and leaden, hanging low over the moors. The sun was a small white blur behind a ponderous bank of clouds. The moors were wet, desolate, gray. I stood at the window in the study, holding the curtain back and peering out at the bleak land. I wished Bella were here. Her merry chatter would have helped to relieve the melancholy that held me in thrall, but Alan had come for her a short while ago. They were going to spend the afternoon at Maud’s farm, inspecting the batch of new baby chicks and roaming over the fields. They would not return until later this afternoon. It was just now eleven. The whole day waited, empty, depressing. I didn’t know how I would get through it.

  Letting the curtain fall back in place, I went over to the desk and sat down. I stared at the neat stack of clean white paper set to one side, the bottle of blue ink, the new pen. I took out my notes for the first chapter and examined the outline I had made. The clock ticked loud
ly. Outside, the wind whistled over the moors with the sound of whispers. A window rattled. I put the notes away and folded up the outline. I tried not to think of what had happened night before last, but everything came back, each detail sharp and clear, tormenting me.

  Burton Rodd had not brought me home after all. The dances ended just as we returned to the clearing, the crowd dispersing. People swarmed around us, pushing, staggering, laughing, shouting at one another. Rodd held an arm about my waist, supporting me. We stood still as people moved in every direction, waves of humanity that crashed around us. The fire was almost gone, a heap of crackling orange coals that men were already covering with sand. Edward came tearing toward us, his hair disheveled, a frantic expression on his face.

  “Where have you been?” he cried. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “She was with me,” Burton Rodd said calmly. “We were watching the dances. She grew faint. I’m taking her home.”

  “I believe I can manage that, Burt,” Edward said coldly. “I brought her. I’ll take her home.”

  “Bella—” I began.

  “She and the boy have already left. I told them to go ahead, that I’d find you. She looked worried. I told her everything was all right.”

  “Did you get your song?” I asked brightly.

  “Yes, fantastic luck! And I got a great lead.”

  Rodd was reluctant to turn me over to Edward. He did not want to make an issue of it, but neither did he want to run the risk of my telling anyone what had happened. I broke away from him, telling him I would be perfectly all right, and thanked him for his attentiveness. Silently, with my eyes, I told him I would say nothing about the body in the woods. Edward drove me home, concerned about my headache, but bursting with excitement at his discovery. A family in the next county had a whole folder of songs one of their ancestors had written out in longhand. Edward had met the head of the house, a poor farmer, and he had agreed to let Edward come to the farm and make copies of all the material.