Keppelberg

by Stan Mason

  ‘Yes... he had a wife but she died on giving birth to his son, Jeremiah. The boy was a wastrel. Obadiah hoped that he would follow in his footsteps as a chemist but the young man had other ideas. He gambled away all his money, got deeply into debt, and eventually he was found stabbed to death in a gutter in Newcastle with an IOU sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. His death hit the old man badly but it didn’t deviate him from his excellent work.’

  ‘What did he actually discover in terms of chemistry?’ I asked cheekily, expecting to receive a multitude of responses, but I was to be disappointed.

  ‘They’re too numerous to mention but they benefit the community considerably,’ he replied, avoiding the question like a politician.

  ‘He insisted in his constitution that everyone should take two tablets every day, Why is that?’ The question was begging for an answer but it failed to come.

  ‘There was nothing sinister in that. His chemistry proved that a certain potion or tablet establish a harmonious feeling in every person. It’s a kind of salve. We all take them. They’re not harmful in any way. Obadiah wanted everyone to gain the benefit of his findings.’

  He was still answering my questions like a politician. I was no better informed than when I came. All he had told me was something about the personal history of the Founder and the fact that he had discovered the panacea of life which he had passed on to his people, the villagers... whatever that meant!

  ‘You’re the one person who has contact with the outside world, aren’t you?’ I continued smartly still trying to extricate every ounce of information from him that I could. ‘The only one allowed to come and go from the village.’

  ‘I have that honour,’ he boasted proudly.

  ‘I should imagine that the Founder’s inheritance is lodged in a bank earning interest.’

  He stared at me directly as if trying to determine where the conversation was heading. ‘I haven’t ever left the village so I don’t know.’

  ‘The money’s lodged in a bank,’ I persisted much to his displeasure.

  ‘The information is for me to know and for you to mind your own business,’ he chided angrily.

  ‘But what would happen if you suffered a sudden heart attack or had a fatal accident? Who would step into your shoes?’

  ‘I don’t expect either of those things to happen to me. In any case, Mr. Townsend would appoint another person, as he did when Mr. McBain died.’

  He was very confident about his health but everything he told me made me more unsure about the village. In fact it made me concerned for the villagers themselves although they didn’t seem to be troubled. They had lived their lives in self-sufficiency, never concerning themselves with poverty, avoiding all the ills of civilisation with regard to society and war. Yet there was an underlying wave of unreality that appeared to consume them. To my mind it was like living on the edge of a volcano about to erupt with the elders of the village building a timber fence to stop the flow of lava. Could I be wrong in thinking that the village was dying a slow death? The concept may have been right... or it may have been wrong... but I had that worrisome gut feeling!

  * * *

  A few nights later, at two o’clock in the morning, some of the villagers were awakened by flashing lights that appeared at the shopping centre. As I was a light sleeper, the reflection of the flashes woke me up. At first I thought that a storm had arrived and that there would soon be the sound of thunder but it didn’t come. It was apparent that something else was happening in the centre and I dressed and armed myself with my truncheon to investigate the problem, walking out into the darkness along the path. As I left the house, a number of villagers joined me along the way carrying rolling -pins, long knives, hammers and other articles which they intended to use as weapons to defend themselves and the village. We arrived at the centre to come face-to-face with the same television crew intent on making a documentary programme about the village. Apparently, the Desk Sergeant, after confiscating their equipment had released them after their van was destroyed advising them never to return but clearly the advice had been ignored. They had returned taking films of the shops, the church, the library and of the houses with a new set of cameras and flood-lighting. As soon as the villagers came near, they ran for their lives to another van they had brought in the hope of making a clean getaway. Before they could do that, however, the villagers stood in front of the van, preventing it from moving. For a moment it looked a close run things as the driver put his foot on the accelerator and revved up the engine but the villagers stood firm. They then pulled the intruders roughly out of the van brandishing their home-made weapons to frighten them.

  ‘We only wanted to take a few shots of the village,’ exclaimed the driver panicking. ‘It’s only a teevee documentary... nothing more! If you let us pass, we’ll be out of your way for good.’

  His words were not enough to appease the crowd. Before he could do or say anything more, an irate villager aimed a hammer at the windscreen and rammed it down repeatedly, smashing the glass into smithereens.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled the driver, twisting to avoid the shattered glass. ‘There’s no need for that! I’ll have you in Court to pay for the damage.’

  ‘Go to Hell!’ yelled someone in the crowd, inflamed at the threat.

  The men and women then started hitting the van with whatever they were holding in their hands. The driver was scared out of his wits to face such a large hostile crowd intent on doing damage recalling the destruction of the first vehicle which had been ravaged and towed away. I became concerned with the attitude of the villagers who were so incensed that they were prepared to throw caution to the winds. They turned on the van driver, stamping on him repeatedly with their feet, causing him to scream out with pain at the top of his voice. As this was going on, the other two members of the television crew took fright. They tried to push their way through the crowd in an effort to run away and escape from the horror they expected to face. This idea was soon deranged by someone throwing a rolling-pin which struck one of them on the head, causing him to collapse to the ground. The second man fell over someone’s legs and started screaming for help as he was lifted up and carried away by some of the villagers. The cameras and other equipment were smashed without reservation.

  The three men were hauled away, yelling and screaming for mercy, and I decided to follow them to find out what punishment would be meted out to them. It was my expectation that they would be beaten up and incarcerated in jail for about three days before being released. To my horror, as I went along with the mob, I almost fell over the driver who lay on the ground with a knife sticking in his back. I was shocked to the core at the murder of a man whose only crime, if one could call it that, was to enter the village to take some pictures for a television programme. I saw him flinch in the torchlight that someone had lit and I bent down placing my ear to his mouth.

  ‘We only wanted to make a documentary for television,’ he managed to say weakly, and then his head rolled to one side as his spirit left his body.

  A murder had been committed and I was concerned at the repercussions when it was discovered by the outside world. For a village that was obsessed by its independence, someone had committed a foul deed which could change everything. I moved with the crowd to the other two intruders hoping that they would be spared the same fate as their colleague. Sadly it was not so for they were battered to death by the infuriated mob and carried back to be placed by the side of the driver. I wondered how this could be explained away to the police when the authorities began to search for them. However, the village had its own way of staying out of trouble. In a very short time, a cart was brought, drawn by a horse, and the bodies were loaded on to it.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ I asked naively.

  ‘They’re going to be buried in one of the fields,’ came the reply. ‘Far from the eyes of anyone who might come lookin
g for them. We’ll do the same with the goods they brought with them and get rid of their vehicle to the man at the garage. There’ll be no trace of them left.’

  I realised that the village dispensed with major problems quickly and efficiently. It was their only way of remaining independent. As an outsider, who recognised the value of television, I fretted for the television crew who had come here in the night to complete their mission. They hardly deserved to be put to death by a community which tried to keep itself clandestinely away from the rest of the world. I thought about the convention set out by Obadiah Keppelberg and wondered what he would have said about the incident. He was probably turning in his grave!

  * * *

  I didn’t return home directly that night. I considered that the unannounced arrival of the television crew and the incident that had ensued would occupy the villagers for a while and that, after burying the bodies and the equipment, they would go home and pretend that nothing ever happened. Instead, I decided to take the opportunity of returning to the pharmacy to examine the powders on the shelves and to acquire any other information which would lead me to learn the truth. Looking around to check that no one was following me, I made my way down the path to the building and used my dummy keys to gain entry, knowing that it was highly unlikely I would be disturbed. I lit one of the paraffin lamps and walked down the aisle staring at the large jars of powder on each side. I noticed that most of them were of a white constituency although it meant nothing to me. I opened one of the jars, licking my finger before placing it inside, returning it to my mouth to taste it. There appeared to be no flavour in it whatsoever. I selected another jar on the same shelf to repeat the operation but the result was exactly the same. Frustrated, I looked around the pharmacy hoping to latch on to something that might interest me when my eyes fell on a formula written in large letters on a sheet of paper affixed to the wall. I went over to scan it carefully. C12 h22 O11 p13. From my knowledge of chemistry at school, C12 H22 O11was the formula for sugar... but what was the P13? I searched the rest of the pharmacy but there was nothing more to be found until I came to a large cupboard at the far end of the room. I pulled open the door to discover numerous jars of green powder resting on the shelves. This had to be the P13 part of the formula. I removed one of the jars and tested its contents. It had a strange kind of peppermint flavour which made the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. It reminded me of the time I swam in the Dead Sea in Israel when I had touched my lips with the salted water to taste the strength of it. The same thing happened then to the hairs at the back of my neck. I returned the jar to its place on the shelf and then rummaged around the cupboard. On the top shelf, I found a sheaf of papers which contained a diagram of a formula. Unfortunately, my knowledge of chemistry was extremely limited and I could not understand what it meant. Quite clearly, it had been formulated by Obadiah Keppelberg and still stood in good stead in modern times. I turned out the paraffin lamp and left the building feeling very disappointed at not finding anything to help me solve the problem. The pharmacy held a secret... it was the only place... and the tablets had something to do with it. What in Heavens name was P13. It had been discovered by the Founder and was the key element to everything that was happening to the villagers. I had to go on searching until I arrived at a satisfactory conclusion.

  On the following day, I went directly to the church to see the priest. I found him praying at the altar. I waited until he had finished his devotions and then approached him.

  ‘I wish to marry Bridget McBain and I’m applying for a date for the service.’ I advanced, expecting him to be jubilant in his attitude at such a union. Much to my astonishment, he rejected my application outright.

  ‘I‘m sorry,’ he responded in the sonorous tone usually employed by vicars, ‘I cannot do that. It‘s beyond my remit.’

  ‘Beyond your remit!’ I echoed dumbly. ‘What do you mean? I thought you were the priest in the village, authorised to undertake marriages.’

  ‘I am,’ he told me, ‘but I cannot sanction your marriage to Mrs. McBain.’

  ‘Why not?’ I was beginning to find it difficult to hold back my temper.

  ‘For two reasons.’ he informed me. ‘Firstly, a year has to pass after the death of a husband or wife before a further marriage can be contemplated. In this case, only a short time has gone by since Richard McBain passed away, Secondly, you’re a stranger to the village. You’ll need to be here for one whole year before marriage can be considered... and then you’ll need further approval.’

  ‘Look!’ I snapped irately. ‘I’ve read the constitution of this village set out by the Founder and there’s nothing in there that mentions either of those things. Who made them up and when is what I’d like to know?’

  He clasped his hands together and sat down beside me, ‘Over a period of time, the development of the village has caused secondary rules to be established,’ he explained calmly. Time doesn’t stand still even though we might hope it. The constitution only identifies the main elements required to be obeyed. Other minor maters ensued in the passage of time and they have to be dealt with.’

  ‘Bridget McBain is no longer grieving her late husband,’ I told him sharply. ‘She’s ready to get married.’

  ‘That’s only in your opinion,’ he returned smartly. It’s imperative that a period of one year passes by from the death of her husband. Feelings run deeply with individuals. Just because Mrs. McBain shows no sign of grieving doesn’t mean she isn’t affected. Marriage is a very solemn condition requiring two people to love and live together. It cannot be dispensed by a mere snap of the fingers.’

  ‘I thought that the number of the population here has to remain at eleven hundred,’ I forwarded.

  ‘That’s true,’ he responded solemnly.

  ‘Well if you won’t sanction our wedding, what’s to stop me from leaving the village and reducing that number?’ I was beginning to tread on very dangerous ground by threatening to leave the village although I didn’t really want to.

  ‘By that comment you can see why the second argument I put forward is so apt,’ he related bluntly. ‘As you’re still a stranger, you feel that you can stay or leave as you wish. It’s different for the people who live here.’

  I had to admit that he had run me to the ground on that point. I had stumbled into a weakened argument showing my vulnerability. If I had been as committed as I professed, I would never have mentioned anything about leaving the village. Apart from that, I was very angry at being rejected on an issue that I thought was extremely straightforward. I sat in the church for some considerable time reflecting my position. On any other matter I would have taken umbrage and left the village for good telling myself that it wasn’t the right thing for me to stay. However there was Bridget to bring into the equation. She was young, beautiful, slender, lovely and my partner who made love to me practically every night. She was everything I looked for in a woman and if I left the village she would almost certainly have remained behind even though she loved me. I mused that none of the villagers ever seemed to have the inclination to leave the place even though there were no people of pensionable age they might have needed to look after. There had to be a reason why that was the case. Where were the old folk? I had come so far in learning about the constitution, finding out about Keppelberg’s inheritance, the existence of the pharmacy, and all about village life here. It was sad for me to think I might have to give up searching for the secret guarded so carefully by the villagers. Indeed, I knew so much information about the village and its inhabitants that I could have gone into the television network in the city and made the documentary myself. Naturally, such a wild deed would be against my best interest but the notion did cross my mind in a moment of spite.

  The priest returned to his devotions, ignoring my presence, in the church. There was nothing left for me but to tell Bridget of the news and find somewhere to lick my wounds!

 
; Chapter Eleven

  During my lunch hour on the same day, I decided to revisit the school to see whether I could persuade the Headmaster to employ me as the sports master. I was beginning to miss watching teams play football and cricket... even netball would have been something to feast my eyes on. As I entered the school hall, I could feel that something was wrong. I looked into the first classroom to find it empty. It was lunchtime and there was every reason for it to be so but there was not a child to be seen in that classroom or in any other one. I went to the end of the hall and turned right to go into the playground, halting just inside the doorway. All the children were sitting in a circle on their haunches discussing something that was clearly important to them.

  ‘I say we should revolt,’ declared one young boy at the top of his voice.

  ‘You’ve got my support,’ exclaimed Robert vehemently.

  ‘And mine,’ came the agreement from a young girl, to be followed by a whole cacophony of positive responses.

  I edged forward to enable me to hear their comments more clearly.

  ‘What do we do about it?’ demanded one schoolboy.

  ‘We already burned down the village hall, ‘ boasted another boy audaciously.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ called out one of the girls. ‘We can do as much damage as we like but we’re not getting our message over to the oldies.’

  I shuddered as I realised that my earlier prediction was correct. The children were responsible for burning down the village hall. I knew it in my bones but no one had bothered to talk to any of the children about it.

  ‘That’s right,’ called out another boy. ’We need to get our point over or we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘They’ve got to understand what it’s doing to us,’ cried out another girl.

  They talked in general terms about rebelling but came to no conclusion at the end of the luncheon period.

  ‘Let meet again and talk about it in, say, two day’s time,’ suggested Robert who appeared to have become the leader of the group. ‘By then we should have some more ideas to discuss.’