J. THUNSTONE
He folded the sheaf into the largest envelope he had brought with him and addressed it to Professor Leslie Spayte at the University of London. He put stamps on the bulging envelope, and took both his letters out to seek the post office.
CHAPTER 6
Thunstone’s watch said it was nearly five o’clock. Overhead, dull clouds had begun to roll up across what earlier had been a sky of soft blue. They rose above the horizon to westward and sent out exploratory tendrils of dark gray. Thunstone headed past Albert Porrask’s machine shop. Porrask was inside the open door, his massive body stooped as he peered into the motor of an automobile. Next door, at the Waggoner pub, a little knot of men lounged. As on the previous evening, they were waiting for the door to open.
He strode past the side street along which he had adventured to Sweepside, and looked at Old Thunder. On the white border line of the huge, rude image clung two dark dots, men working to cut and smooth away the turf to let the white chalk show through. Porrask and his mate who had been there earlier must have been relieved by another pair, and Ensley had seemed to have something to do with directing the work and its performers. Thunstone remembered how Ensley had spoken praise to Porrask, condescendingly lofty praise, and had told him he would be relieved at the job of outlining the figure. That had been a casual dismissal of sorts for Porrask. Then Ensley had flared into anger when Porrask had called his attention to Constance Bailey at her herb-gathering. Certainly there had been nothing casual about Ensley’s dismissal of her. However Ensley supervised the annual repair of Old Thunder, Constance Bailey was to have no part in it. Thunstone had felt embarrassment that he had been present at her banishment.
He passed the cindery-dark pile of Chimney Pots across Trail Street, and again approached the little church they called St. Jude’s. Gates, the curate who wanted to be a vicar, likely sat in his study, but Thunstone had no notion of calling on him there. Gates would certainly be at work on his sermon for day after tomorrow, the sermon he had promised to make memorable in Claines.
Thunstone paused beside the Dream Rock, but this time he did not touch it with the ferrule of his cane. He studied the markings upon it. At what would have been the upper end before the thing fell were the remains of carved or chiseled lines, washed and worn by who could say how many centuries, that might have suggested eyes and mouth, a face that looked up at him. Nor was that face dissimilar to the greater outline of Old Thunder’s face on Sweepside yonder. Elsewhere on the fallen pillar showed a faint pattern of marks like chevrons, with lines and loops. Writing of a sort? Did the ancient dwellers at Claines tread the fringe, the threshold of true writing? Thunstone wished for several scholarly friends, men whose judgment would be better than his, to come and study the Dream Rock. They might even manage to decipher the writing, if writing it truly was, might give its message to the modern world.
He continued on his way past the church, past the last house on Trail Street, and reached the murky stream that bounded Claines to the east. He had had a walk of considerably more than a mile. He moved out on the concrete bridge and leaned on the rusted iron railing and looked down into the water.
It moved slowly, did the water of Congdon Mire. It had nothing like the bright ripple of the little brook at the foot of Sweepside, the brook that must flow into it. The current crawled as dark as a shadow in winter. No light bounced upon it from the sky overhead that was now well cloaked with clouds. Congdon Mire rolled stealthily below the bridge, seemed to writhe its way along like a great gloomy snake. There was no way of judging depth, but Thunstone could guess that anyone who fell in would be over his head. He surveyed the flow and wondered at the proportion of solid matter in the liquid. And what sort of solid matter?
As he stared, light came from somewhere into that slow current. First came flashes, as if reflected from a mirror. Then circles like halos, one after another, glowing, blinding, greatening, rising. He had a sense of faintness, and clutched at the upper rod of the iron railing.
Into his ears stole a throb, like a ruffle of approaching drums. He planted his feet apart to hold himself where he was.
“Sir, are you all right?”
It was the voice of Constable Dymock, anxiously raised. Dymock pedaled his bicycle swiftly along the bridge and sprang off to catch Thunstone strongly by the elbow. His mustache quivered. “Are you all right?” he asked again.
“I am, now I am,” Thunstone replied. He was not looking into Congdon Mire now, and his head cleared. “I had a feeling of faintness just now; I don’t know why.”
Dymock still held him by the arm. “Some people do go dizzy here on the bridge,” he said. “Once or twice, someone has fallen in. I’ve had that feeling myself in my time.”
“Why does it happen?” asked Thunstone, feeling better.
“I’ve wondered that, but I’ve never heard it explained. It seems to affect walkers on the bridge at this time of year, more or less. The weather, I fancy.”
“The weather’s been beautiful,” said Thunstone. “Even if it rains.”
Dymock stooped and picked up Thunstone's cane. “Here, you dropped it. Handsome stick, that. Good job it didn’t fall off the bridge.”
“I’m glad I didn’t lose it,” said Thunstone, taking the cane back. “It was given to me by an old friend.” He turned back toward Claines. “Thanks for troubling about me.”
“Not at all.”
They walked along the bridge together, Dymock trundling his bicycle. A truck passed them. Its driver honked and waved, and Dymock waved back. “I know that chap,” he said. “He delivers dairy products along this highway. I see him sometimes at the Moonraven. He says he wouldn’t live in Claines if they gave him free rent.”
They were off the bridge now, walking along beside Trail Street. “Why won’t he live in Claines?” Thunstone asked.
“As I remember his talk, he was made nervous by Old Thunder up there on the hill. Says he spent one night in Claines—it so happens that it was this time of year again, around the first of July. He stayed at Mrs. Fothergill’s where you’re staying.” Dymock looked thoughtful. “He says that Old Thunder came to his window where you’re staying.”
“I had a sort of dream of my own there last night, but nothing about Old Thunder,” said Thunstone. “All right, Officer, what do you make of all this strange evidence?”
“It’s not evidence so far, only conjecture, only a question. The first thing I learned at police school was to stick to facts, not conjectures.” They were passing St. Jude’s by now. Both of them glanced down at the Dream Rock. It looked like a long carcass of some sort, a carcass flayed and pallid.
“May I say something, Mr. Thunstone?” said Dymock suddenly. “Connie Bailey said you were kind to her today.”
“Oh, that,” said Thunstone. “She’d gathered some plants and dropped them, and I picked them up and saved them for her.”
“You were kind to her,” repeated Dymock.
“You seem to like her,” ventured Thunstone.
“Yes, sir, I do like her. I don’t know why Connie is hated and mistrusted in some quarters; she never tries to hurt anyone. She does call herself a white witch. But now, I’d suppose that witch is a word coming from wit or wisdom, and perhaps she’d be better off to call herself just a wise woman. Because she does have wisdom.”
“As I understand, the word witch seems to derive from the old Saxon word wicca, ’’said Thunstone. “Wicca meant sorcery. Wickedness may be a word related to wicca, and some argue that.”
“In any case, there’s nothing wicked about little Connie,” said Dymock definitely, “and there’s nothing on the statute books to say that witchcraft of itself is a crime. I’ve no reason to suspect her or arrest her.”
They were walking in front of the Waggoner pub. Men moved into it and out of it. “What sort of place is that?” Thunstone asked.
“Oh, quite respectable, I’d call it,” replied Dymock. “Yes, and needed here. The Moonraven is a capital pla
ce, but Claines is a trifle big for just the one pub. The Waggoner takes care of the overflow from the Moonraven, and it has a clientele of its own.” He leaned his bicycle beside the front door. “I'll go in, just for a check. Would you care to join me?”
“Thanks, I'll have some dinner at the Moonraven.” Thunstone looked at his watch. “It's a minute or so past six, time to eat."
“I hope to talk with you again," said Dymock, and entered the Waggoner.
As Dymock went in, Porrask came out. He stood with his feet planted wide and watched Thunstone walk along the street. After a moment, he followed.
Thunstone came to the paved space in front of the Moonraven and paused for a moment beside a parked car. Without seeming to, he saw Porrask approaching. He went into the Moonraven and to the bar, where Mrs. Hawes filled him a pint mug of lager. A number of customers sat here and there, eating and drinking. Thunstone carried the mug to a table and hung his cane on the back of a chair. Porrask, too, approached the bar, ordered a drink, and went to another table.
The plump waitress came smiling to where Thunstone sat. “Would you be taking dinner with us, sir?" she asked.
“What’s for dinner tonight?"
“Well, it’s Friday, and we have good fish, fresh or smoked. Or if you don’t fancy fish, maybe a nice slice of ham with peas."
“What’s your fresh fish and what’s the smoked fish?" Thunstone asked her.
“The fresh is fried plaice and the smoked is finnan haddie. Chips with either one, of course, and a salad."
“Let me have the plaice and chips," decided Thunstone. “As for the salad, can you just bring me some lettuce and some oil and vinegar? I’ll mix my own."
“Very good, sir, thank you sir."
She trotted away to the kitchen door. Thunstone took a sip of his lager. People at the bar and at the tables chattered. From a radio set came a reedy, mournful strain of music. Porrask sat drinking. He stared toward Thunstone without looking directly at him.
Some minutes passed, and the waitress fetched a tray to Thunstone and set down a plate of fish and chips, another with a pale green wedge cut from a head of lettuce, and cruets of oil and vinegar. He paid her and tipped her. Carefully he shredded the lettuce in his big fingers, poured on oil, then sprinkled salt and pepper. He stirred the salad with a fork, ate a morsel, approved it, and then tried the fish. It was crisply brown and sweet. He seasoned it with vinegar and dripped some on the chips.
Porrask was eating, too, an enormous sandwich from the edges of which fluttered red fringes of ham. He finished his pint, went to the bar, and brought himself back another. Sitting again, he scowled down at the mug, then scowled toward Thunstone. Other customers chatted over their plates and mugs.
Thunstone finished his dinner and let the waitress clear away the plates. He sipped slowly at his pint of lager. Porrask was heading back for what would be his third.
“Mr. Thunstone,” said the subdued voice of Constance Bailey. She stood diffidently beside his table. At once he was on his feet.
“Sit down,” he invited. “Could I bring you something? Gin and bitters suits you, I believe.”
“Yes, please, if you will.”
He sought the bar and paid for the gin and bitters, and fetched the glass to the table. Constance Bailey murmured her thanks and sipped. She looked at him with round, troubled eyes.
“You were kind to me, Mr. Thunstone,” she said. “Keeping the Saint-John’s-wort for me as you did.”
“Not at all. I just happened to think of it.”
“The thinking of it was kindness,” she insisted. “But, Mr. Thunstone, I came hoping to find you here, to talk to you. Warn you, I might say.”
“Warn me?” he repeated.
At that moment, Porrask began to sing, loudly and hoarsely:
He came home the first night, as drunk as he could be,
He saw a head upon the bed where his head ought to be.
“My kind wife, my loving wife, my dear wife,” said he,
“Whose head is upon the bed where my head ought to be?”
The others in the room had stopped talking to listen. A pudgy man with short gray hair snorted with amusement. The woman with him looked shocked.
“You just don’t know, Mr. Thunstone,” said Constance Bailey in a hurried voice. “Things get out and walk at night, this time of year. You can hear things, see things, around the time they turn the Dream Rock.”
“I did have a sense of something outside, last night,” said Thunstone. “But you say you want to warn me. Warn me against what?”
“Danger,” she replied. “Something’s up this turning time, something bad. And you’re going to be in it, maybe get hurt. You oughtn’t to have come at turning time.”
“I came on purpose because I wanted to see the turning,” he said. “How do you know I’m in danger?”
“Don’t ask me how I know. It’s a witch’s business to know things, see them before they happen. And you’re a kind man, a good man, and I don’t want any bad thing to come to you.”
She was utterly in earnest. Her eyes were wide; she clenched her glass in her hand.
“Mr. Gram Ensley’s up to something, with all his study of those old pagan folk who used to live here,” she said. “He raised them from the dead, I think. And with you here, he wants you in it somehow.”
“I don’t understand that,” confessed Thunstone.
“I don’t truly understand it myself. But I can see things, I tell you. I’m a white witch—”
“One who does her works for good,” supplied Thunstone, smiling, and from the corner of his eye he saw that Porrask didn’t like the smile.
“I can see things to come,” repeated Constance Bailey, again in a voice barely audible. “When I was just a girl, somebody taught me. I say that this time of year, when they turn the Dream Rock, the nights go strange.”
“Yes, you've said that. And I heard it today from someone else. But how do the nights go strange?”
“Maybe I’m the only ooe who can feel and see,” she said. “I don’t know anyone else who can. Not Mrs. Fothergill. She tells me not to talk foolishness. And Mr. Gates doesn’t believe, either. So I don’t talk to anyone about it.”
“Talk to me,” Thunstone invited her.
“Well,” and her hands fluttered, “after dark, at the turning time of year, this place can be different. I can look out the window and see another kind of country, no houses on it, not even the house I’m in myself. And bits of brush, and things moving in them, like a bad dream everywhere, though I’m awake. And nobody believes me.”
“I believe you,” said Thunstone, “because that’s how it was with me last night.”
Her eyes grew wider still. “You saw it, you felt it? You’ve got the second sight in you?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never thought of myself as being particularly psychic, at least not any more than most people. I do believe that certain sensitivities can be developed. Maybe I’ve done something like that.”
“You saw that other empty dark land too?” she almost cried out. “Now I know you’ll come to danger in it.”
Porrask sang again at his table, sang with all his might, beating time with his mug:
“You old fool, you damn fool, you son of a bitch,” said she,
“It only is a cabbage head my mother sent to me.”
“I’ve traveled on land, I’ve traveled on sea, a thousand miles or more,
But I never saw a cabbage head with whiskers on before.”
“That’ll be quite enough of that, Mr. Porrask!” called out Hawes from beside the bar.
Everyone in the room had fallen silent, was watching. Porrask paid no attention to Hawes’s warning. He surged to his feet, a great rough rock of a man. He stamped resoundingly toward the table where Constance Bailey sat with Thunstone. Stooping, he peered into her face and licked his bearded lips.
"Why don't you get out of here, and proper stay out of here, you little witch girl?" he growled thickly
. "I saw Mr. Ensley put you off his property today. He doesn’t like witches, and neither do I. You ought to be driven right out of Claines.”
"I don’t have anything to say to you,” stammered Constance Bailey, manifestly frightened.
"Oh, you don’t? But I’ve got something to say to you, then, not ’alf I don’t.”
"No, you haven’t anything to say to her,” said Thunstone. He was out of his chair, swiftly and lightly for all his size. "She told you she doesn’t want to talk to you. Leave her alone.”
Porrask straightened up, hiked his big shoulders, and fixed bright, murderous eyes on Thunstone.
"Gor lumme, it’s the sodding Yank we’ve got ’ere in town,” he said. "So you want to take up for little witchy-bitchy here?”
All the other customers watched, in taut, expectant silence.
"You want to know what I think?” mouthed Porrask.
"It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me what you think about anything,” said Thunstone. "Go away and stop bothering us.”
"Why, goddamn you—”
Hawes came hurrying to them. "Come on, Mr. Porrask, you’re making a fool of yourself.”
"Fool, is it?” roared Porrask. His face was flushed as red as a tomato; his eyes rolled. He pushed Hawes away from him, so violently that Hawes staggered and almost fell. Then he swung around to face Thunstone again.
"How would you like to get knocked on your bum?”
"I wouldn’t like it,” said Thunstone, "so don’t try it.”
A concerted gasp went up from the onlookers as Porrask lumbered at Thunstone and threw his big, hairy right fist.
Thunstone bobbed skillfully. The fist went singing past his temple. Instantly he stepped in close, clutching Porrask’s meaty upper arms in his broad hands. Porrask strove to shake free, but Thunstone clamped hard, his thumbs questing along the inner lines of the biceps and then driving in hard on the nerves there. Porrask howled in sudden pain. Thunstone expertly kicked his feet out from under him. Porrask floundered heavily down upon the broad planks of the floor.
Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 Page 7
