Then he touched the switch, and glow sprang up to show him the quiet interior of his room at Mrs. Fothergill's, the desk and the chairs, with the bed close to where he stood.
At once he turned on the light above the bed and sat down in its comforting glow. He examined his long, lean blade of silver. It ran blood almost to the hilt, wet and gleaming darkly red, the blood of the Stone Age.
He sighed deeply. From time to time in his adventures, Thunstone had killed fellow creatures. It had always been for dire necessity, but not once had he ever rejoiced in it. He fumbled out his handkerchief and carefully wiped the blade shinily clean. He studied the red stains on the handkerchief. Then he folded it carefully. Quite possibly some medical man—Jules de Grandin for one—would be interested in making chemical tests of the blood of a man who had died in England's far-off times.
He wrapped the folded handkerchief in a sheet of paper and stowed it in an inner pocket of his suitcase. He leaned the spear against the wall and restored his silver sword blade to the shank of its cane. For a moment he had the impulse to turn off the light above the bed, to plunge the room into darkness and plunge himself back into that ancient age where he had adventured perilously, where he had struck down two men of that stone-chipping time. Would the others be gathered at the hummock by now, at the spot where he must have vanished before their eyes?
The temptation was strong, but Thunstone brushed it away. It was his duty to be as safe as possible, to make a record, to come to a solution of all the enigmas which clung darkly around Claines.
Again he had things to write. Sitting at the desk, he filled page after page with the account of his night's experience and his reactions to it. He referred to the spear he had captured and told where the bloody handkerchief could be found in his suitcase. Finally he folded the written pages into an envelope, and upon it he wrote:
In case of the disappearance or disability of
JOHN THUNSTONE
deliver this into the hands of
LESLIE SPAYTE OR PHILO VICKERY
who will be in Claines on Monday morning, July 5
He tilted the envelope against the back of the desk, and felt better that it was there.
Then he took off his clothes, put on his robe, and sought the bathroom to take his nightly shower. As he soaped his brawny left forearm, he was aware of a slight scrape on the skin. He rinsed it off and studied it. That was where he had fended off the thrust of a spear of the Rough Stone Age. There, late in this twentieth century, was his souvenir of an encounter with an adversary of a century too long ago to date surely, an adversary who could have been his own ancestor. He had killed that adversary, had dealt him a mortal wound. Again he felt unhappy because that had been necessary. And he wondered what the man's companions could think about someone, a stranger, bobbing in and out of their awareness to strike and kill.
Back in his room, he put on pajamas and stretched out on the bed. As before, he left on the light. Hands behind his head, he thought and thought.
Here he lay under the protection of the electric light, late in his own twentieth century. Switch off the light, and he would instantly go back yet again to that other remote century. Did Gram Ensley mean something about that time when he kept talking about ten thousand years ago? If Thunstone turned out his light now and returned to the lichened hummock he had begun to know, he might have company close at hand, unfriendly company armed with sharp stone weapons. He had told Constance Bailey that he did not fear death, and he did not fear it, but he felt no zest for courting it just now. Very likely he would have ample chances for courting it later.
He went to sleep at last, and slept soundly. His dreams were not of bleak night landscapes and dancers in firelight, but of pleasant moments in faraway cities. He thought that he sat at a table, sipping wine and talking to someone he knew, someone with fair hair and rosy cheeks, who smiled and smiled her happiness to be with him.
Waking in the morning, he shaved as usual and went back to his room to dress as conventionally as possible for a Sunday visit to church. He put on dark trousers instead of the checked ones he had been wearing, a white shirt and a soberly patterned necktie and his dark jacket. Downstairs, Mrs. Fothergill welcomed him radiantly and introduced him to three other guests, two women and a man, and they went in to sit down to breakfast.
'This is the day you Americans celebrate, Mr. Thunstone," said Mrs. Fothergill, pouring coffee. "The Fourth of July, your Independence Day. We British rejoice with you. It’s too bad that we aren't the same nation now."
"Amen," said one of the ladies. "You say you'll be at church today. We drove in past that church on our way from London. Noticed it. It's a small church, isn't it?"
Mrs. Fothergill obliged with some talk about St. Jude's, how old it was, and how it was really only part of a larger parish at Gerrinsford. She amplified with talk about David Gates the curate and his almost frantic activity on behalf of St. Jude's. "But not a great many attend services," she said. "Today, this morning, I don't expect attendance to be out of the twenty-five or thirty."
"More, then, at your church here than at our home place," said the other lady, buttering toast.
"Will Mr. Ensley come to church today?" Thunstone asked Mrs. Fothergill.
"If he does that, I’ll wonder at it," she said. "He attends very little, though they do say he makes contributions. Mr. Ensley is a more or less secret man, withdrawn. Today you’ll be entertained by him the second time since you came here—first time was on the Thursday, right?"
"Friday," said Thunstone.
"Not many get inside Chimney Pots twice in the year."
Breakfast over, Thunstone strolled outside. The morning was bright, warm, with sunshine. He gazed up at Old Thunder on Sweep- side. The figure looked more misshapen than before, and Thunstone wondered if it had been relined in any way. A voice spoke beside him. It was Constance Bailey.
“What is it, Mr. Thunstone? You're having a look at Old Thunder."
“Yes," he said. “Have you noticed that, in that other place you and I can go when it's dark, Old Thunder glows?"
“I don’t think I’ve noticed," she confessed. “I’m always too afraid to notice any much of things."
“But it’s not Old Thunder I’m thinking about," he told her. “I’m thinking about how the people of Claines turn the Dream Rock every year, always at midnight."
“Always at midnight," she repeated. “The witching hour, somebody said."
“That was Shakespeare," said Thunstone. “And once I heard somebody explain midnight as the logical time for strange, evil things to happen. I think I can quote what he said exactly, it made a big impression on me." He paused, remembering. Then: “ 'It’s exactly midway between sunset and sunrise. Allows the supernatural force to split the dark hours halfway—half for the summoning of courage and strength to come forth, half to do whatever is in hand to do.’ ’’
Constance Bailey stared at him, impressed. “I say, I never thought of the thing like that, but it’s the solemn truth. Whoever told that to you?"
“His name was Rowley Thome. He was an enemy of mine."
“Was?" she said after him. “Was? You mean, he’s dead?"
“I earnestly hope so," Thunstone said. Still he gazed up the slope toward Old Thunder. “Tell me," he said, “does that figure seem to move?"
“It shimmers," she said. “Dances, you might say. Maybe the sun on it makes it happen like that in my eyes."
“Maybe," he said. “How did you rest last night?"
“Oh, all very well, considering," she replied. “Slept with my light on. I fancy Mrs. Fothergill wouldn’t like my light burning, but I did
leave it. Otherwise—” She shuddered. “Otherwise I'd have been out there, out where you and I know. If I may ask, did you rest well too?”
“After I got back,” he said. “I ventured back into that place and time.”
“Ow,” and she shuddered again. “What happened?”
“Several interesting things.
I’m still speculating on them.”
He turned his back on Sweepside and watched traffic on Trail Street. The other overnight guests came out of the house, got into a little car that surprisingly held them all and their luggage too, and went driving away toward the east. As they went, they chattered about how excited they would be at the place for which they were bound. Thunstone speculated that excitement enough would involve Claines when the Dream Rock was turned at midnight.
Dream Rock, he said to himself. What had the Dream Rock once been, what had it represented? What relationship was there between the Dream Rock and Old Thunder? Again he turned and gazed up at the outline in the chalk. It seemed to dance again, shimmer again, as when he and Constance Bailey had stood looking. That couldn't be natural. But it shimmered and danced, natural or not. Thunstone wondered what sort of danger he had come to in Claines.
He thought yet again about death and the fear of it, and the times he had come close to death. There had been Rowley Thome whose name he had mentioned to Constance Bailey, Rowley Thorne who had known so much about the night side of nature but had not known as much as he had flattered himself. There had been those strange people the Shonokins, sure of their title to the American continent, menacing but not undefeatable. And once or twice a vampire, and once or twice a werewolf. Here in Claines, what threatened? For something threatened. Nobody seemed to know what, except perhaps Gram Ensley. And he would be taking dinner today with Gram Ensley, at that huge old house called Chimney Pots.
He looked at his watch. It was well past nine. He went back inside. Mrs. Fothergill beamed at him through the door to her little room that did duty for parlor and office.
“When will church services be?” he asked her.
“Why, at eleven, of course/’ she replied. “I’ll leave here at about half past ten. Will you walk there with me?”
“It will be a pleasure,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “A pleasure, Mr. Thunstone.”
He went up to his room. There, he carefully filled a pipe with tobacco, kinnikinnick, and the shredded bark of red willow. He sat and kindled the pipe and gazed into the rising cloud of blue smoke. That, Long Spear had told him, was one way to see visions of what might come. Such visions would be a welcome change. Just then, Thunstone felt he had had quite enough of visions of the remote past.
The smoke rose in a slaty puff, another puff, another. It seemed to spread out like a fabric. Thunstone gazed into it, trying to see something. If Long Spear could see things in smoke, why not Thunstone? He gazed. He stared.
And saw something, faint, puzzling. He kept his eyes fixed, hoping it would clear. It cleared, a little. He sensed, rather than saw, what was there.
At first he thought that a great, grotesque animal was moving past in front of his eyes. It looked like a distorted dream figure of a dark bull. But though it moved, somehow it seemed static. No movement of the feet. Then he saw what the thing was—a picture of some kind, bizarre but at the same time workmanlike, a true picture of a bull. And it did not move. He moved; he was going past it.
Abruptly the sense of it faded before his eyes. He saw something else. It seemed to be a lattice like tracery of lines, and the figure of a man was there against it. He was only a smudgy outline, somebody of powerful build, his hands raised upon the lattice.
As Thunstone looked and wondered, the picture dimmed. The smoke was dissolving into the air; it took the picture with it.
His pipe had gone out. He reached into his pocket for a packet of matches, but did not strike one to rekindle the mixture of herbs and tobacco in the pipe. If Long Spear had been present, Thunstone might have done it. Long Spear was not only a chief of his people, he was a medicine man, could make strong magic. He would be a help here, would interpret. Thunstone wished for him but, without him, decided to evoke no more visions.
A glance at his watch told him that it was neady half past ten. He rose, looked in the mirror to straighten his necktie, and went downstairs.
Mrs. Fothergill met him in the hall. She had changed into a summer suit of pearly gray, and upon her mass of hair rode one of the flattest hats he had ever seen. In one hand she carried a black prayer book, red-edged.
“Oh, ah,” she said. “Are you ready to go to church, then?”
“If you are,” he said.
CHAPTER 12
Side by side they crossed Trail Street, just then strung with traffic. Thunstone took Mrs. Fothergill’s arm as though to guide her, and she seemed almost to cuddle against him. On the far side of the street, at the parking space in front of the Moonraven, Hawes the proprietor stood and watched them come toward him.
"It’s a fine, fair Sunday,” he greeted them. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Fothergill, and good morning to you, Mr. Thunstone. You're for church, I daresay.”
“That’s right, Mr. Hawes,” said Thunstone. “The curate, Mr. Gates, seems especially to want me there.”
“I must stay here and open at noon,” said Hawes. “I’d like to come, but Mrs. Hawes has to be there at the organ, and we can’t both be gone from duty at once. I was at church for early prayer already today.”
They continued along the sidewalk. A pudgy woman greeted them. Thunstone recognized her as the postmistress who had sold him stamps.
“Mrs. Fothergill,” she said, “and—eh—”
“This is Mr. Thunstone,” Mrs. Fothergill told her. “We’re on our way to church.”
“Ow, Mr. Thunstone,” said the postmistress. “Church. Yes indeed.”
They walked along. “She’ll come to church now, even if she hadn’t meant to,” said Mrs. Fothergill.
“Why should she change her mind and come?” Thunstone asked. “What’s on her mind?”
“For one thing,” said Mrs. Fothergill coyly, “she thinks we make a very handsome couple; that’s plain enough. Possibly you think the same.”
“You’re very handsome, anyway,” Thunstone let himself say.
“Oh, Mr. Thunstone.”
They passed the Waggoner pub, its door closed. Opposite, Chimney Pots looked closed, too, no human motion there.
“Will Mr. Ensley come to church?” asked Thunstone again.
“He attends very rarely. His servants come. Yonder comes one, now, that Hob Sayle person.”
As she spoke, Hob Sayle came tramping around the side of the house. He wore a black suit and he made purposefully toward the church.
“But not Mrs. Sayle today,” said Mrs. Fothergill. “She’ll be busy with the dinner that’s to be served you.”
She did not sound happy about that. Thunstone changed the subject.
“Quite a few people seem to be afoot this morning,” he commented.
“On their way to church, I fancy. The word's gone around that Mr. Gates will have something quite special in the way of a sermon.”
“Yes,” said Thunstone, “he hinted as much to me.”
They approached the church. People were going in at the door. Two or three others lingered outside, talking. They looked at Thunstone and Mrs. Fothergill, but none of them spoke. Thunstone escorted her inside.
The interior of St. Jude’s was, not surprisingly, a relatively small auditorium, with walls of a dull brown paneling. Two windows at the front had stained glass. One represented the parable of the sower going forth sowing, with, in gilded letters, the message in memory of nathan jackson morrison. The other was older and quainter. It portrayed a haloed figure with draped gown and long beard. Possibly it was meant to represent St. Jude himself. Other windows at the two sides were of plain glass.
Pews on either side of the aisle looked solid, old, unshowy. They had dim cushions. People already sat in the rear pews, avoiding the front ones as usual in a church. Up at the far end was an altar with vases of flowers upon it, and candles in sconces. Forward of the altar, to right and left, stood small lecterns, and, centered midway between them, the pulpit. There did not seem to be ushers.
As Thunstone showed Mrs. Fothergill into a pew and sat do
wn beside her, a mutter of music rose. That was from a small electric organ to one side, where an unimaginative choir loft had been built. The organist was Mrs. Hawes in a flowered hat, playing carefully and not badly.
More worn old cushions lay on the floor in front of the pew, and Thunstone and Mrs. Fothergill knelt in the traditional moment of prayer, then slid back and sat. The pews filled up. They seemed even crowded. Stealthy whispers crept in the air. Then David Gates entered at a rear door, in cassock and alb, carrying in his massive hands a long rod furnished with a length of lighted wicking. He crossed in front of the altar, noticing it as he did so, and lighted the candles on that side. He crossed back, with another bow to notice the altar, and lighted the others. Then he went out through the rear door again.
“Mr. Gates would be so happy if he could get acolytes to do that sort of thing for him/' Mrs. Fothergill whispered to Thunstone.
The music of the little organ rose, began to be a hymn. At the church door behind the pews, voices were singing. A procession of sorts moved along the aisle.
At the front, in the crucifer’s place, paced Hob Sayle, the manservant of Gram Ensley, bearing the processional cross like a banner. He wore a white cotta and stepped his way proudly. Behind him moved two men, then two women, also in cottas and carrying open hymnbooks and singing. One of the women was Rosie, the plump waitress. She seemed to have a good soprano voice. They marched to the altar, where Sayle planted the cross in its socket. Then they entered the choir loft. Sayle went with them and stood there, joining in the hymn.
At the rear of the formation had marched Gates, gigantic seeming now that he wore an ornamented chasuble over his alb and cassock and had draped his neck with a stole. He stopped before the altar, knelt for a moment, then rose and came to the pulpit, facing the listeners. His face looked bigger and broader than ever, and tense to boot.
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