NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE

by Margery Lawrence

  How it happened exactly, the clergyman never knew, but at that moment the spell seemed to snap and he stumbled wildly forward, shrieking, desperate . . . for a moment the entire universe seemed to swing round him in a whirling dance, clouds and moon and sinking sun, crowding trees and reeling churchtowers, to the tune of a wild shouting and glorious laughter . . . and shaking, dazed, Mr Minchin found himself standing on the path, a shaft of moonlight on his face, and Rosamond Perkins, quivering, smiling in his arms, her lips upturned to his! Dimly through a haze of rioting emotions he heard her voice—loving, eager, human.

  ‘Yes, yes! I love you—I’ve loved you all along! Darling—I felt you loved me—and after your sermon tonight I knew, I knew! . . .’

  ‘My sermon?’ ‘The Reverend gentleman was still dazed, but she patted his cheek with her hand and laughed triumphantly.

  ‘Your sermon—your wonderful sermon! If you could have heard yourself—the glorious theme—the fire and eloquence! . . . If I had not loved you from the beginning, I should have loved you after tonight! You seemed all of a sudden to have dropped all your funny little stilted ways, your stiffness—the grim hardness and intolerance, that—(forgive me!)—seems to have so long enclosed your great and generous heart like the hard shell of a nut that is all sweet and wholesome and tender within . . . but tonight all this fell away, and you spoke like one who, long-prisoned in a dark tower, looks out into the open and sees the wide and lovely sky. . . .’

  Still dazed, but with his hand fast-locked in hers, Mr Minchin turned towards the listening hills, the dark woods that seemed to watch him, the dusk-filled valley from which he still vaguely thought came an echo of joyous singing. . . . They had gone again back to Their secret places, these dear strange People who had turned aside to teach him wisdom, and his heart swelled within him in love and sorrow that he could not thank Them, bless Them, tell Them his humility, his deep-hearted gratitude!

  Mystified, the girl watched him, as, moving away a step, on an irresistible impulse he flung out both arms to the deep and smiling sky, and his voice, limpid, tremulous, rose to a joyful note that was almost a song.

  ‘Oh great god Pan, I know Thee!—I thank Thee—I bless Thee . . . Thee and all Thy People great and small—for indeed, indeed beneath the mantle of the God whose name is Love, is there not room for all in His world to shelter?’

  So Pan and his merry crew came to Little Ingleton, and so departed—and so the Reverend Thomas Minchin learnt humility. But deeply as he is now loved and revered by his flock—and indeed you would not know him for the same man—it is generally admitted that he has never again attained to quite the pitch of eloquence of that memorable Midsummer Day.

  Through cautious questioning of his betrothed, the young clergyman established, much to his own private relief, that not one of the congregation that night, not even Miss Perkins at the moment when Pan, playing his last elvish trick, literally thrust them into each other’s arms, had the remotest idea that any but their own accustomed priest had led the service . . . the truth lay hid in Mr Minchin’s breast, and there it was buried, gratefully and thankfully. Not one had dreamt of the Things of so strange life and shape and form that had elbowed them during that amazing Evensong—and in his undreamt-of happiness with his pretty wife the Reverend Thomas looks back upon that enchanted Midsummer Night with a deep and humble thankfulness. . . . For since that marvellous hour of sight—when for a little while the veil before his eyes was torn away and he saw horned beast of the field, wilful elf and goblin, faun and nymph, mingling with village maid and man, jostle together singing prayer and praise in the Church of Christ, he has walked humbly, tremblingly before men, and in his gentleness and understanding, his loving-kindness and readiness to forgive sin, his old cruel bigotry is long forgotten.

  Only on one day in the year does he mystify the village a little, and that is on Midsummer Day—now a great holiday in Little Ingleton, when parson and flock betake themselves to the fields and woods, dancing and singing and feasting as in the old days, for joy of the dear green world, the warm sun and the merry pagan winds of heaven. . . . And there is no stinting of the feast these days—good ale and foaming golden beer shoulder prim lemonade and gingerpop, and there is no lack of junket, and syllabub, of Granny Calder’s recipe, to eat with the cakes and pies, the plum-starred buns . . . and the village foots it to the tune of ragged Peter’s fiddle and old Dad Verity’s drum till the moon rises glimmering over the tree-tops, and busy little Mrs Minchin begins to gather up the food for distribution on the morrow to her beloved poor. But then her husband comes, and despite her eager puzzled questions, so frequent at first (though now she laughs and shrugs and lets it go, since he merely smiles and shakes his head!) silently, reverently the Reverend Thomas chooses a portion of cake, of fruit and wine, the best that remains, and disappears silently into the wood with his offering. There on a log or clear space of mossy turf, he lays his tribute, and after standing a moment with bowed head, goes softly away through the green shadows back to his flock, leaving behind him his yearly offering, libation to the old God who taught him wisdom, the God who was old when Christ was a stammering babe . . . the Great God Pan, who, in a whimsy moment, came and played parson to save a parson’s soul.

  July

  The Soldier’s Story

  Death Valley

  ‘We were out, a bunch of us, surveying—near the Zambesi Valley: it was as hot as hell,’ said Dennison, late of the Rhodesian Mounted Police, a bronzed shy giant whose normal taciturnity had at last melted under the influence of good whisky and better fellowship. He knocked out his pipe and refilled it, interrupting himself with a little embarrassed laugh. ‘Remember what I said, you folks! This yarn has no ending nor any explanation that I ever heard of . . . just plain horror. . . .’

  I refilled his glass and pushed it over as Saunderson replied for the silent, interested group round the big fire.

  ‘Don’t apologise, Dennison—get on with the yarn. It’s your turn now to shake us to the core—go on.’

  Gulping down a mouthful of Scotch, the trooper took up his tale.

  ‘Big Bill Jenks was chief of our party—just six of us, with a few Black Watch fellows, you know, the native police, fine chaps and no end plucky, to help. We were really trying to sound the possible whereabouts of a batch of ivory that had been cleverly smuggled away from the Government’s clutches, and the surveying was a mere cover—but we were glad enough to get away from Fort Beatrice, where our headquarters were—a dusty, dead-alive hole, like most of the South African mining towns. All right when one wanted a jag, but when there was a chance of shooting! . . . Hill was my particular pal, and we always used to hunt in couples—a damn good fellow if ever there was one. That’s why this yarn hits me where I live . . . never to know what got him—never even to get a hit at the damned thing! Well! As I was saying, there we were, messing about in absolutely wild country, not a sniff of a native anywhere except our fellows—wild, hilly country it was, miles of scrubby low bush varied with belts of thick woodland, stiff with game and always the same blue sky and broiling sun overhead.

  ‘We’d been out about a week, I reckon, when we struck a dip in the land that cut between two low hills like a shallow valley, more or less filled with trees—quite a shallow little valley, it was, this end at least, scooped out between the hills on either side; not more than half-a-mile across and perhaps a mile long, though it wound about a bit so we couldn’t see the further end. We camped in a copse of trees at the mouth of the valley, had a good feed while the boys looked after the horses, and sat around the fire afterwards yarning and playing with the dogs, and smoking like furnaces to keep off the bugs. My aunt—they can bite up there!

  ‘Even the dogs kept snapping and scratching themselves. Jack and Bella, a fine pair of crossbreeds, between Great Dane and mastiff, were our pets, Hill’s and mine in especial, I mean—they run that cross out there specially for hunting dogs, and fine fighters they make too, brave as lions; these two beasts p
lay a large part in the story I’m telling you. . . . Well, Jenks was talking about tomorrow’s plans—we were to divide and skirt round the two lips of the valley while one man rode through it, just taking a rough look around and reporting at the end of the day. Hill and I were next him, and he chose Hill to go—Lord, if it had only been anybody else! Anyway, we didn’t think anything, naturally—it was all in the day’s work. Guess how astonished we were next day when Hill called for Mbwana, the “boy” who generally went with him, to see the big native obviously reluctant and hanging back. We were all ready to start and the valley looked temptingly cool and green, filled with heavy forest, thick and shady; I frankly envied Hill his ride compared to our prospects, hours on end labouring through sunbaked bush, just not high enough to shade us from the merciless African sun.

  ‘Then Hill’s annoyed voice aroused me.

  ‘“Hi, Mbwana! Shake your feet, you lazy devil; what’s the matter with you?”

  ‘I came back to earth to realise that the natives were standing together in a group, whispering, reluctant, agitated; Jenks wheeled in his saddle, and rapped out in astonished anger:

  ‘“What’s all this? You’ve got your orders, Mbwana. What are you all muttering and whispering about, like a crowd of hens, eh?”

  ‘Mbwana, a magnificently built fellow, and a man with, I knew, the heart of a lion, stepped forward hesitatingly.

  ‘“Boss—boss not send me into valley?”

  ‘The question was almost a supplication, and my jaw dropped with amazement. Jenks’s eye hardened. This from Mbwana, his best and most reliable! What had come to the fellow? His answer was short and sharp.

  ‘“You bet I’m sending you—you and Boss Hill! Look slippy now and get on—and no talky-talky from you or any of the others, see?”

  ‘There was a stir and rustling among the group of blacks, and Mbwana threw up his hands, his eyes round in his black face, as he made answer, quick and fearful.

  ‘“Not in the Death Valley! Oh, boss, no good for white man or black! Valley called Death, boss—nobody never going in valley!”

  ‘For a second, astonished, Jenks hesitated—Mbwana’s voice was so breathless with horror and consternation.

  ‘“What on earth do you mean, eh?”

  ‘Mbwana nodded, his white teeth gleaming in the sunshine.

  ‘“Nobody go down there, boss—once white folks lived there—now no good, only house left. . . . Witch things there, boss—bad things. . . .”

  ‘Jenks threw up his head and guffawed.

  ‘“Good Lord! Some silly yarn—I thought you meant something serious, not a wooden-headed native superstition! . . . if there’s a house there, that may be worth your while exploring, Hill, as one of our ivory running friends may be using it as a cache? More than likely, as this fool story would make it pretty safe for him leaving the stuff about. Get on with Boss Hill, Mbwana, and don’t let me hear any more of this fat-headed nonsense! So long, Hill. We’ll camp at sundown at the far end of the valley—that gives you a good twelve hours to explore the place and report. Boys!”

  ‘Sullen, but obedient, the tall black followed Hill out into the blazing sunshine from the friendly little copse where we had spent the night, and my pal waved a cheery hand to me from his horse. I watched till the sharp slope down into the valley hid them, and with an unaccountable heaviness at my heart turned to my own duty. All that day, through the dust and heat and weariness, my mind kept recurring to Mbwana’s remarkable outburst, and a little worried feeling tugged at my heart. I acted and talked mechanically, and it was with real thankfulness that I heard Jenks give the order to picket the horses and prepare supper, and we flung ourselves on the cooling earth under a clump of trees to rest.

  ‘We had our supper—very good it was, too. Jenks’s cook-boy, Umgazi, was a genius, and we had killed an oribi that ate better than any venison you ever tasted in your life, with mealies and boiled shoots of some green plant or other. Someone broached a tin of strawberry jam and some biscuits, so we had rather a spread altogether. After the feed we gathered round the fire as usual, and talked—the “boys” at a little distance playing a concertina and singing in the monotonous drone of the native. I noticed in a vague way they had chosen to camp at a spot much further away from the lip of the valley than we had. At this end the valley dipped suddenly, cutting much deeper into the mountains, and the drop into the dark green-filled depths from the edge of the bluff where we were camping was a long one. As I lay and thought, Jenks strolled to the edge that curled over the valley and stood looking down into it, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the sky. He kicked a stone idly into the depths, and a sullen “splash” among the waiting leaves below rose faintly up; he walked back to us. Suddenly voicing my thought, he spoke:

  ‘“Hill’s longer than I expected; wonder if he’s going to camp in the valley for the night?”

  ‘“Shouldn’t be surprised—there may be more to explore than we thought,” said Mayhew, knocking out the dottle of his pipe; “anyway I’m sleepy. Any objection to my turning in, chief?”

  ‘Jenks stretched, yawning a cavernous yawn.

  ‘“Not a bit. I was going to suggest it, as a matter of fact. Hill’s an old campaigner, and it may be, if there’s more to report than he thought, he’s sleeping in the hut Mbwana was talkin’ about. He’ll be along at daybreak, I guess. Turn in, boys; Dennison, you and McCann take guard, turn and turn about, see? ’Night all!”

  ‘I took first watch, to McCann’s great joy. I wasn’t sleepy, and somehow, despite myself, a little beastly anxious feeling was at me—at me all the time. Where was my pal, Hill? I sat nursing my gun across my knees, or pacing up and down, mechanically keeping my eyes open for any lurking shadow that loomed unfamiliarly, my ears for a broken twig or stealthy movement . . . but all the time my second self, alert, strained, concentrated, waiting for the welcome sound of a climber labouring up the steep path at the ravine’s end. Slowly the hours of the night waxed and waned, and still McCann snored happily, and I waited, sleepless, anxious, tense, when suddenly I stiffened and paused—he was coming! The stones rattled and shot beneath the scrambling hoofs of a frantically urged horse, faintly at first, far below, and as I hurried to the brink and craned over, the sound grew stronger as rider and horse blundered and scrambled their way up the steep.

  ‘With a yell that raised the camp in a second I shouted Hill’s name again and again; at my side Jenks peered over into the gloom-filled depths, talking disjointedly as the sounds grew nearer.

  ‘“Good Lord, man, how you yelled! Well, I’m glad Hill’s back, though why he couldn’t have waited till morning now I can’t think . . . must ha’ been pitch dark ridin’ through that place down there . . . now he’s up!” With a final plunge and scramble, a flurry of stones, a wild-eyed horse blundered into the firelit circle—but it was not Hill who slid from its back and crouched moaning and shivering before us. It was Mbwana, and his face was grey and wet with fear as he raised it to mine.

  ‘“Boss Hill,” he whispered into the horrified silence. “Boss Hill! He dead!”

  ‘I knew it—before he spoke the dreadful little sentence and tumbled over flat, spent. Across his prone body, Jenks’s grim eyes met mine, and he nodded.

  ‘“The Death Valley, eh?” He looked down thoughtfidly at Mbwana asprawl at our feet, and held out his hand for my flask. “Keep his head up, Dennison. I want him to speak, and speak quick.”

  ‘An hour later we were still grouped round the black’s prostrate form, and it was with a puzzled frown of distress that Jenks at last stood up.

  ‘“No good. He’s too far gone for the moment. Turn in for an hour now, Dennison, and try and get a wink of sleep.”

  ‘Despite my anxiety, weariness and want of sleep told, and I slept soundly till dawn, to be waked by Jenks, his brow furrowed with news.

  ‘“Dennison, you were Hill’s pal, I know. I’ve got an ugly job for you, but maybe you’d like to do it. There’s been a mysterious business down ther
e, and I don’t fathom it at all yet; anyway, the poor chap’s dead right enough, and I’ve got to get a doctor over to certify death, and so on. I’ve sent Mayhew over to Nangi; they’ve got a mission doctor chap there, and he ought to be back by tonight, with luck. Anyway, whether he is or not, someone’s got to go there and mount guard over the body of poor old Hill for the moment. . .

  ‘I stumbled to my feet and shook myself.

  ‘“Of course, chief. I’ll go. It’s the last thing I can do for poor old Hill. I’ll take Palafin and plenty of food and I don’t mind how long I have to wait. Where did it happen, and how?”

  ‘Jenks shook his head, puzzled.

  ‘“That’s what floors me with Mbwana,” he admitted. “He’s as a rule got far more sense than most natives, and knows how I hate a silly yarn, and doesn’t try that sort of thing on with me—and yet he keeps persisting that Hill was killed by a devil, some devil that lives in a hut of sorts they found down there . . . says he never saw it, nobody ever does, but he knows it’s a white devil. Now, you know, that must be rot!”

  ‘“I don’t know what he meant by that,” I said wearily, “but it sounds an extraordinarily odd yarn. Well, I shall soon know. Yes, of course, I’ll draw up a full report of the way I found everything.”

  ‘Jenks turned away.

  ‘“Good,” he said; “I wouldn’t send you down alone, Dennison, but I can’t spare more than two out of the six of us, as after this business I must keep an eye on the whole of the valley, in case this is a case of those damned ivory-runners making a bolt with the stuff, and killing poor Hill to clear the way. I’ve to do without Mayhew, and four of us will be none too many to watch this damned ravine. . . . Well—so long! Take old Jack and the bitch with you—they may be useful in a scrap. Sorry—I’m blasted sorry about this. Hill was a good chap.”