Keppelberg

by Stan Mason

  I noticed Townsend standing idly in the crowd watching miserably as the building went up in flames and I made my way towards him.

  ‘This is terrible,’ I declared. ‘Who could have done a thing like this?’

  He stared at me with a jaundiced look in his eyes before replying. ‘There have been some unusual things happening here since you arrived,’ he said with innuendo. ‘I can only look to you for an answer.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath!’ I snorted irately. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I was at the entrance of the village when I smelled smoke so you can’t pin this one on me!’

  ‘Then who could have done it?’ he asked sadly. ‘We’ve always been a peaceful village. No crime... no problems... then someone burns down the village hall!’

  ‘I have an idea it may have been the work of the children,’ I advanced watching his face carefully. ‘They’ve been acting strangely lately. I think it could have been one of them.’

  He stared at me for a while before shaking his head. ‘Surely not!’ he muttered before walking away ending the conversation abruptly.

  I stared at his departing figure wondering what was going through the man’s mind. He was certainly experiencing some bad days lately. At first he considered it was my fault but now there was something more sinister going on in the village. It was obviously the latter notion that troubled him mostly.

  Bridget was extremely upset at the burning down of the village hall and I noticed her standing in the crowd with tears running down her face.

  I went over to her. ‘Why are you so upset?’ I enquired, suspecting that there was something more than the destruction of the building that was troubling her.

  ‘I think Robert had a hand in this,’ she speculated, her chest heaving with sobs.

  ‘You’re just guessing wildly,’ I told her. ‘He probably had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I’m sure he did!’ she cried sadly. ‘He told me that something like this would happen soon when I spoke with him.’

  ‘Why would he do this?’ I asked with surprise. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,,’ she told me candidly. ‘He wouldn’t tell me.’

  I shrugged my shoulders aimlessly. ‘I’d give him the benefit of the doubt,’ I submitted tiredly.

  I took her home and calmed her down. She was very upset by the incident believing strongly that her son had been responsible for the damage. I was more concerned that the way he had been acting lately would prove her to be right.

  * * *

  The next day was a nightmare. I had been acting s a security officer for just a short time and nothing of any importance had occurred. There were no trespassers, no strangers, no visitors, no tourists wanting to enter the village. I was becoming somewhat bored with the work, taking a book of Charles Dickens to read during my watch. Suddenly, everything had changed for the worst. I sat on the tree stub contemplating the burning of the village hall, with the book of David Copperfield in my hand, when a van arrived at the entrance to the village. The driver intended to go straight through but I stepped into the middle of the road holding up my hand in front of the vehicle to stop him. The driver leaned out of the window to speak to me as though he had full authorisation to do so.

  ‘We’re from NTV... come to do a documentary on this village., Keppelbury,’ he called out as though he had received permission to carry out the task.

  ‘Keppelberg!’ I corrected. ‘Who’s NTV?’

  ‘Northern Television,’ he explained briefly.

  ‘Why do you want to make a programme of this place?’ I demanded curtly, staring at the television equipment stacked inside the van.

  ‘There’s a number of things, man,’ he answered. ‘Firstly, the village is still livin’ in the Victorian age. Viewers are interested in strange things like that an’ they wanna know more details. Secondly, we heard a rumour that there’s no old people livin’ here and we wanna know why. It’s somethin’ everyone wants to know. Thirdly, we‘ve been told...’

  ‘I think that’s enough!’ I interrupted rudely. ‘Just wait here. I’ll get someone to sort it out.’

  I turned and hastened back to the police station expecting the driver to stay in the same place. However, after collecting PC7, we found the vehicle parked close to the police station.

  ‘I told him to stay where he was!’ I complained bitterly.

  PC7 ignored my comment, fuming at the impertinence of the television crew. ‘Didn’t you understand what the security officer told you?’ he shouted angrily. ‘You’ve no right to enter this village without permission!’

  ‘Come now, constable,’ came the quick reply. ‘This is a free country, you know. You can’t stop us from coming here.’

  PC7 moved closer to the vehicle with an angry expression on his face. ‘We have ways of teaching people good manners and to behave properly,’ he bombasted, facing the driver almost to the point of intolerance.

  The driver looked at him tiredly pointing at me. ‘I already told him the reason. We want to do a documentary of your village for television. There’s no need to fly off the handle.’

  ‘Well you can’t!’ Snapped the policeman. ‘We don’t allow outsiders to come into the village. I don’t know what you want to do but we don’t need it. So leave here right away!’

  ‘Come on, man!’ expressed the driver casually, as the rear door of the van opened and two people alighted carrying a television camera and associated equipment. One of them placed a tripod on the ground and started to load a large camera on it. The other waved a microphone on a long rod to get the voiced of the policeman.

  ‘Get these men back into the vehicle and leave here immediately!’ Shouted PC7 at the top of his voice. ‘Get out now!’ He moved to rear of the van attempting to push the two men inside, knocking over some of the equipment. ‘I don’t want to see any of you here again!’

  ‘Take it easy, man,’ yelled the driver, climbing out of the van. ‘Look I don’t know what makes you tick but you’ve got no right to shut us out. We’re here on a job. ‘

  ‘If you don’t move then vehicle now and leave the village, I’m going to arrest all of you and put you behind bars. Is that clear enough for you?’

  The driver raised his hands as if in surrender. ‘Okay... okay... have it your way. We’ll leave but don’t think we’re going away. You’ll have someone to answer to... you can bet on it!’

  He called out to his crew who replaced the equipment into the vehicle and then the driver climbed in and drove off not wishing to get arrested. However, it was clear that a single policeman was not going to deter the strangers. The driver stopped just outside the perimeter of the village to allow the crew to remove the equipment and start filming the front of the village with the sign ‘Keppelberg’. I was completely helpless. My remit was at the beginning of the village... they were just outside... I could nothing to see them off.

  ‘I understand there’s no old people here,’ declared one of the crew holding a microphone in front of me. ‘How come?’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you!’ I told him, turning on my heel to move some distance away.

  ‘Where have they all gone?’ shouted the cameraman, pointing his camera directly at me, hoping to gain a reply.

  He was out of luck because my lips were tightly sealed. In the first place there was no way I would answer any of his questions. In the second place, I couldn’t tell him anyway because I had no idea why there were no old people in the village.

  By this time, the policeman had recruited some villagers to assist me in watching the television crew. The vehicle was in the same place and the suspicion was that it would re-enter the village during the night to obtain all the pictures they needed. The script for the programme was probably already in place and the only things missing were pictures of places within the village and interviews with the villag
ers themselves. The television crew didn’t know it at the time but it was something they would never achieve.

  At eight-thirty that evening, as the darkness fell, the television crew managed to by-pass myself and the villagers to re-enter the village. There were no lamp lights anywhere which made it easy for them. They proceeded to use a large searchlights taking shots of places as the vehicle drove around fixating on the numerous shops in the main street moving as far as the burned-out village hall. That was as far as their intrusion went because they were quickly surrounded by dozens of villagers screaming for their blood. The television crew were helpless to safeguard their equipment and they were speedily forced out of the van. In front of their eyes, the vehicle was dismantled. The front tyres were removed, the distributor was smashed and the radiator hammered inwards. They were experts at dismantling a vehicle within minutes and I regretted having blamed the mechanic at the garage for perpetrating the crime on my car. Clearly he had been innocent of the charge. Then I saw the mechanic who had been called to collect the vehicle with his tow truck. I could imagine him repairing it, changing the number plates, and either keeping the van for himself or selling it on to someone else. And now was the matter of the three people... the three strangers who persisted in carrying out their task of providing a documentary for their television network. What was going to happen to them? Would the villagers turn them loose or do something really serious to harm them. The fact that their van had been damaged and towed away did not mean any litigation against the villagers. Who would be taken to Court? How would any damages be assessed. The crew had trespassed and had refused to leave. It was a real mess!

  Chapter Ten

  There comes a time in the life of most men when tolerance reaches breaking point. I had lived in the village for five weeks now, taking on the role of security officer, guarding the entrance to the village. I was living with a woman who had spent her whole life there as well as looking after her miserable son. Yet I was still regarded as a stranger and the secrets held by the villagers was kept from me. I felt that I deserved some reasonable respect in the matter and I made an appointment with Townsend to air some of my views. I should imagine that I was a thorn in his side. He arrived at the house one day and sat drinking tea with Bridget and myself.

  ‘I’m appalled at the treatment meted out to me,’ I protested strongly. ‘I’ve committed myself to this village in every way possible, becoming the security guard, and yet I’ve not been shown any respect whatsoever. Everyone still calls me ‘the stranger’ yet I believe I’ve fitted into this community really well. Bridget and I are even going to apply to the priest to marry us. Surely that will put everyone’s mind at rest!’

  ‘An application for marriage won’t be granted,’ he told me flatly. ‘You haven’t been with us long enough. The truth is that we don’t trust strangers and you’ll readily admit that you’re technically a stranger.’

  ‘But I’m living with one of your villagers,’ I claimed irately. ‘I have a job as your security officer. Surely that’s enough!’ I paused for a moment to think. ‘No... there’s something else I’m not seeing here, isn’t there? What’s the real reason why you won’t let us get married?’

  ‘You need to prove yourself,’ he told me frankly. ‘You said it takes years for a stranger to be accepted in the community where you come from in Cornwall. Well we’re the same.’

  ’I see,’ I reacted sharply. ’You’d prefer Bridget and I to live in sin together rather than to let us marry each other. What if we have children?’

  He ignored my remark as though I hadn’t said anything. ’I’m not going to get involved in that for the moment,’ he stressed firmly. ’Not that it’s likely to happen.’

  I looked at him with a stunned expression on my face. ’Why not? I demanded wondering how he could arrive at that conclusion.

  ’It’s not for me to say,’ he responded coolly. ’But let’s get one thing straight. We all treat you with respect... even though you’re a stranger in our community. It takes time to earn trust. I’m sure you’ll get there in the end.’

  I could see that I wasn’t going to win the argument with him on that score so I swiftly changed the subject.

  ’I know all about Obadiah Keppelberg’s constitution,’ I admitted watching his face closely, hoping to inflame him sufficiently for him to open up a little. ‘

  ‘You do?’ he replied completely unfazed. ‘How?’

  ‘I read the ten commandments,’ I boasted, smiling at him jubilantly.

  ‘So you’re the one who borrowed the documents stored in the plinth below our Founder’s statute,’ he stated, putting me in my place.

  I ignored the comment wondering how anyone had found out that the papers had been taken. ‘I’m puzzled how external payments are made from his inheritance. Where’s the money held?’

  ‘It’s not my department,’ he retorted. ‘If you want that kind of information you’ll have to go to the Treasurer of the committee.’

  ‘And who might that be?’ I asked impertinently.

  ‘It was Mr. McBain. You need to ask Bridget whether she knows anything about it. Look... there’s a lot of people in the village who’ve warmed to you, Mr. Ross. More than you could ever imagine. They recognise your style, your commitment, your relationship with Bridget. I can’t tell you more than that.’ He stopped speaking and stood up to leave. ‘By the way,’ he added finally, ‘If you’ve read the constitution, you’ll know the tenth commandment... to take your tablets every day. Are you doing that?’

  ‘I am,’ I said, puzzled as to the reason why he had brought it up. ‘I have too much iron in my blood. Why do you ask?’

  He shook his head and went to the door saying his farewell on the way. I stared vacantly at Bridget after he had left with his comment ringing in my ears. Of course I took the tablets every day. I had a blood disorder!

  That night, after Bridget and I went to bed, I sauntered into the bathroom to clean my teeth, and a thought entered my head which concerned me. The bathroom cabinet above the sink had left and right-hand doors. I opened the left-hand door, which was my side, to take out a tube of pills and swallowed one. For the first time, my hand wandered over to Bridget’s side. I opened the door and looked at the shelves to discover a small container of pills exactly the same as mine. I looked again just to prove they were the same. Surely she couldn’t have an overdose of iron in her blood as well. It was too much of a coincidence.

  ‘Do you have a blood disorder?’ I asked her on my return to the bedroom.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ she replied, her heart thumping in her chest as she realised that I was holding her tablets.

  ‘Then why are we both taking the same pills?’ It was an innocuous question requiring a simple answer.

  She paused for a few moments to gather her thoughts. ‘They belonged to Richard, my husband,’ she returned with an uncertain quaver in her voice. ‘I’ve been meaning to get rid of them.’

  ‘But your name is on the label,’ I accused knowing that she was lying.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded quickly. ‘I had to collect them for him. That’s why his name’s not on there.’

  ‘But I thought he died because he refused to take his tablets,’ I went on mercilessly.

  ‘Can we not talk about it.’ I believed that she was almost near to tears. ‘Talking about him upsets me.’

  I felt that I had to let the matter go but I was confused as to why she was lying to me To my knowledge, it was the first time she had done so but that didn’t resolve the problem. Why were we both taking the same tablets? Even more important was the effect they were having on our metabolism? From that moment onwards I decided not to take any more of them. I had only the doctor’s word that they were prescribed to reduce the amount of iron in my blood. He seemed to be trustworthy but I knew nothing about him except for the fact that he had never qualified. If my
condition meant that it would reduce the amount of years I would spend on earth then so be it. Some people died young, others lived to a ripe old age. It was a lottery! Regardless of that, I would not be taking the tablets any more.

  I returned the phial to Bridget’s side of the bathroom cabinet and went to bed not wishing to make love to her that night. It truly disturbed me to know that she wasn’t telling me the truth. It made me more determined to return to the pharmacy to find out what was going on. I had to know what effect the pills had on the villagers in the long run. That had to be the secret devised by the famous chemist, Obadiah Keppelberg. What did they actually contain? I had to find out the truth!

  After a brief discussion the next day, Bridget told me the name of the new Treasurer. It was William Webb, and she showed me the house where he lived. I knocked on the door and he invited me into his home. He seemed to be a reasonably intelligent man.

  ‘I’m not only the Treasurer,’ he informed me, ‘I’m also the historian.’

  ‘The historian,’ I echoed. ‘Then you know all about Obadiah Keppelberg and his work.’

  ‘Yes,’ he responded like a University professor. ‘Obadiah was a clever and very talented man. Way ahead of his time. He was a chemist who eventually started his own business and his foresight allowed him to advance very well. His talents led him to make a number of discoveries of the time and he marketed them to a small section of the community which earned him a substantial amount of money. He was very keen to create a village that would not age in any way, establishing those Spartan activities so that it would remain independent. It was intended to be apart from the rest of the country... indeed, the rest of the world. The aim was to create harmony, peace and happiness.’

  ‘Was he married? Did he have children?’ I interjected.