“Percy Cotter,” he said. He had a long, drawn out face, too much forehead and chin. Pinpricks of firelight danced in the whites of his eyes. “My sister, Connie, and brother, Philip,” he pointed out. “Cotters all.”
“Jowan,” was all he said in reply, nodding at the others. They all shared the same stretched features. The young woman, eating noisily, watched him with watery-eyed indifference. “From the north, are you?”
“Aye, Whitby originally. We follow the fish. Been to Porthgarrow a few times over the years but pickings here are slim now, what with the fishing being so bad. But it’s pretty much the same everywhere else. Connie here is one of the fastest gutters of fish around, that not so, lass? She’ll always get the work.” She gave him a bored roll of the eyes. “You’re Cornish – local?” He said it like he knew it.
“Yes, I was born here.” He took a plate of stew handed to him by the brother, Philip, and he tore into the food hungrily. “I thank you for this,” he said through gravy-glazed lips.
“Born here and yet having to share the cliff top with us outsiders.” It was a question in another guise but Jowan didn’t bite. “So what you goin’ to do about a shelter?” asked Percy.
“I’ll manage.”
“I can give you a hand building one. A few stout branches, a good layering of bracken, and that will keep most of the weather out for you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Percy took up his plate and began to eat again. “True, but us clifftoppers have to look after one another. It’s the unspoken nature of things. Always has been.”
“No thank you,” he said, concentrating on eating.
Philip and his sister exchanged glances.
* * * *
Porthgarrow’s Bane: The legend of Baccan
The poor, labouring classes are destined to live their lives at the complete mercy of the elemental forces of nature. They might fill their bellies one year by its abundant generosity, and yet shrivel in starvation the next when such favours are cruelly denied them. Their desperate need and ignorance cause them to look upon God’s blessed natural laws with slavish reverence, for to show them scant respect is thought to bring down a full and vengeful wrath.
Such a populace inevitably puts great store in the observation of superstitions, many whose origins lay so far back in time that their exact purpose is now lost to us. Misguided they may be, yet one cannot but feel a certain pity in their desire to prevent or avoid ill fortune, to foretell what lies ahead, to guarantee good luck, or to appease those pagan spirits still said to inhabit the very rocks, the air and the sea, who hold in their magical and fanciful hands the fragile destiny of man. For, even in such enlightened times as ours, there are many who cling to the absurdity of our distant and uncivilised ancestors.
Such a community of believers is to be found still within the small fishing village of Porthgarrow, or Powgaen, as the ancients called it, where even to this day they hold true to their old beliefs. They have a great many superstitions that they observe, as if to do so were as natural as the sun setting, but by far the strangest of all, and most compelling to the people of Porthgarrow, is the enduring legend of Baccan.
As we have found within other tales I have related, there is to be found a mischievous and often dangerous spirit known throughout Cornwall as Bucca. To this day his name is spoken with trepidation, and some may say fear, for he is said to control the very winds and the ocean that the people depend on for their livelihoods. He is to the sea what the pixie or piskey is to the land, and his great powers, as he is so disposed, can be used for both good and evil. Throughout many centuries the church has tried to turn people away from belief in this spirit, but it lingers still. I myself, during an early morning constitutional, witnessed fishermen foolishly tossing fish onto the beach to appease Bucca, much to the consternation and frustration of the local clergy.
It is said in some parts that Bucca was not born alone, but had a twin called Baccan. Where Bucca had a periodic inclination to use his powers for good, Baccan used his only for dark deeds. He held a deep distrust of mankind; but he also needed the evil wrought by man, for this was as food to this spirit, and he grew strong upon it.
All men lived in fear of Baccan, and kept their heads low when he was in ill temper. They would avoid going out to sea when they knew his dark form was upon the waters for he would sink their boats and claim their souls for his. All men save one. His name was Myghal Connoch, who was known in those parts by the more terrifying soubriquet of Sinkblade Connoch. He and his accursed family had long lived in the cove of Porthgarrow, like wild animals inhabiting the many caves and passages that scored through the cliffs.
They were skilled at drawing ships onto the rocks at night by clever use of firebrands burning on the shore, and unwitting mariners, believing themselves in sight of a safe harbour were lured to their doom. Once the ships were thus wrecked, the family would fall upon any left alive and murder them, for they could legally lay claim to anything if all were dead. The sea, it is said, ran constantly red with innocent blood as the Connochs plied their nefarious trade. No one was safe from the Connochs’ cruel hands and their name was held in dread throughout the land, and none more so than their leader Myghal Sinkblade Connoch.
Baccan heard of the Connochs’ evil deeds, and filled with burning curiosity he travelled to Porthgarrow to seek them out. He sat before the great Connoch cave within which they lived and called out: “Myghal Connoch, it is I, the mighty Baccan who seeks an audience with you.”
But instead of cowering before him, Myghal laughed and said, “Why should I leave my warm fire to stand out in the cold and talk to you?”
Baccan was furious, but swallowed his pride, for simply being here before the murderer was as an elixir to the beast.
“I will make you rich beyond your wildest imaginings,” he promised, upon which Myghal agreed to talk to him.
They made an unholy pact between them, that Baccan would send fearsome storms which would drive ships onto the rocks so that the Connochs might indulge their devilish feast of blood. In his turn Baccan would feast off the Connochs’ evil doings and grow strong. He would also take for himself a share of the gold and silver they stole. For many years this ungodly alliance endured, and many hundreds of lives were lost amongst the cliffs of Porthgarrow, their skulls, it is said, piled high and thick at the back of their cave as macabre tokens.
Then one day Baccan discovered that Myghal had been cheating him, and that he had been hiding treasure which should have gone to the spirit. Baccan was seized with a monstrous rage and swore that he would destroy the Connochs. Not content with that he threatened to kill every man, woman and child within the land as retribution for the great wrong he had endured. He beset the coast with violent storms that turned summer into winter; he stirred up gargantuan tempests that knocked down houses and blew away the fishing boats. His was a fury that could not be stemmed.
The Connochs were cowed and felt terror for the first time. The people inhabiting the land about, knowing that Baccan was growing powerful on the Connochs’ evil, took arms and came as a mighty crowd to drive them out, banishing them from the land. But Baccan’s revenge would not be blunted. He increased his torment and the people began to starve for lack of fish and vegetables, their animals driven away or killed by the storms.
In their hour of desperation the people called upon the good Saint Feloc, for they had heard he could talk to animals and calm even the most savage of beasts. They begged him to help them and he went down to the sea to talk to the warring spirit. But his words were as a twig thrown into a river to alter its course and Baccan paid him no heed. Saint Feloc took himself to the highest point above Porthgarrow and stood on the cliffs facing out to sea. He looked to the heavens and beseeched Archangel Michael fly down from heaven to help the poor, starving people of Porthgarrow.
The winged warrior saint in shining armour and carrying a flaming sword answered his pleas. For seven days and seven nights he fought with the
hellish creature, their battle throwing up a mighty gale that caused the sun to be obscured as if it were night, and night to fall so dark that it was as the deepest grave. On the eighth day Baccan grew weak and seizing his chance Archangel Michael fastened the beast to a massive rock with a chain whose links had been forged in heaven. Baccan struggled against his bindings, consumed with a boiling rage and hatred of mankind, gnashing his teeth so much that many were dislodged and flung into the sea. Eventually Baccan lay still and exhausted, his power all but extinguished, yet his hatred of man, especially the people of Porthgarrow, burnt in his breast like a firebrand.
According to legend, he lies there to this day, and the great black rock to which he is supposedly chained can be seen there still, marked on maps as Baccan’s Rock – a most chilling sight when the sea mist hangs low over it. There is a ring of sharp and rocky protrusions, submerged just below the surface at high tide, but presenting a chilling aspect to any sailor pushed too close to the cliffs. These are known as Baccan’s Teeth.
Any storm or bad season is said to be the work of Baccan, for the people still believe he feeds off the ill-doing of man, and as his strength returns so does his anger. They remain terrified that one day he will grow as strong as to break his bonds and destroy Porthgarrow and its inhabitants. If the weather blows cruel, or the fish harvest is poor they will blame Baccan. They do not like to speak his name too often, particularly between dusk and dawn, for they are certain this too will rouse him, and to frustrate the beast are often to be seen tossing a limpet shell – a potent symbol of his secure fastening to the rock – and say, as they do so, ‘As a limpet on a rock, may Baccan stay till Baccan rots’.
You will rarely find in Porthgarrow such lewd behaviour as you would discover in our larger towns and villages; there is no theft, no swearing, and rarely do the inhabitants indulge in drink, such is the power of Porthgarrow’s curse, for any ill-doing is frowned upon and dealt with swiftly lest Baccan feeds upon it. It remains as fixed a belief as ever it was. It is my estimation that this strange little tale of Porthgarrow’s very own devil may linger in the hearts, minds and nightmares of the people of this tiny cove for a good many years hence.
“What absolute drivel!” said Denning snapping the book closed and placing it back onto the table.
* * * *
“So, Jowan, what’s the tail-end of your name?” asked Percy Cotter idly.
Jowan rested his spoon on his plate. “Connoch,” he said.
He saw them all visibly stiffen. Philip Cotter turned to his sister. “Go,” he said, and she rose and went inside their tent. He fixed Jowan with an icy stare. “No woman is safe from a Connoch, and no Connoch shares our fire,” he snarled, glancing across to his brother, eyes silently demanding. But Jowan was already on his feet, shrugging his bundle onto his shoulder. “In fact, you’re not welcome in our camp. If you know what’s good for you, get yourself out before anyone else knows you’re here.”
“I thank you for the food, Percy,” he said who didn’t look him in the eyes but studied the fire instead.
He left the two men exchanging words, the warmth of the fire gradually leeching from his skin into the cold air. Soon the voices and the music became muffled, replaced by the whispering of the wind in the trees and the sound of the ever-present heaving of the sea below. The path he trod was a barely visible scar through the wood, the dark in places like something solid, but he knew this place well, remembered from his childhood. Then the wood was at his back, that same path now cutting close to the cliff edge on his right. The bleached remains of a wooden fence stood out of the gorse like rotted teeth, the remainder having fallen down into the sea. He walked a little way, drawn to where the sea had carved out a large amphitheatre-sized piece of cliff, and stood close to the lip of the drop, looking down into the whirling waters below.
The sea glinted under the scratch of a new moon like liquid pewter, foaming around the many sharp and unusually shaped rocks that rose black and terrifying from the sea. This vile place had witnessed the death of many, he thought bleakly. The underworld made visible. The last earthly sight of mariners blown onto the rocks by storms, or drawn there, if legend were to be believed, by those that shared his own name. The crumbling cliffs had caught many unawares, giving way beneath the unwary, sucking them down as if into a hungry mouth packed with blackened, animal-like fangs.
This cove was Baccan’s Maw, and this is where his own father plunged to his death thirteen years ago.
He did not hear the men steal up behind him until he felt the sharp, searing pain of something hard and unyielding smash across his back. It caused him to sink to his knees, gasping fro breath. An arm snaked under his chin and fastened round his throat, jerked his head violently. A fist rammed into the small of his back and he was sent sprawling onto the ground choking. He rolled to avoid a boot he saw being directed at his side, but could not move in time and it landed home with such force the breath was knocked from him in a loud grunt.
Hands grabbed both his legs, and though he kicked out he could not dislodge them, making out the two men who held him, their faces masked by swathes of dark material. In a moment he was being dragged bodily over the rocks and could do nothing to prevent it, the fiery pain in his body excruciating.
“Over here!” he heard a third man call.
With sickening realisation he knew he was being taken closer to the cliff and fought frantically, but he was bundled over as if he were a doll, forced to lie face down with his head hanging over the edge of the precipice. He stared into the black abyss, the sound of the thundering sea melded with the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. He groaned as the weight of someone’s knee pressed firmly down between his shoulder blades, someone else on his legs, and he lay as helpless as a pinned butterfly.
His canvas bundle, which had been knocked from him, was lying beside him. A boot lashed out and sent it skimming over the side of the cliff. He tried to make a grab for it but his arm was thumped numb by a hefty fist. He saw his few belongings tumble into the dark, bouncing off rocks till all was swallowed up by the night completely.
“Take a long, last look, Connoch!” a voice growled near his ear. Jowan knew by his accent it was a man of the cove. “You should never have come back.”
“Now!” rasped another. “Over the edge with him!”
“Ready to join your father in hell, Connoch?” The man was relishing the moment.
Jowan sucked in a breath. “Bastards!” he croaked and felt the knee press harder, boring into his already injured muscles.
“Not good to be alone in the dark, walking up on these cliffs. A man might slip and lose his footing; the cliff might crumble. He might easily fall to his death like so many others have.”
An alarmed shout in the distance. And in an instant his assailants had released him, the sound of their boots crashing through bracken and scrub as they ran away. More hands on him, but this time pulling him away from the cliff, turning him over.
“Jowan, are you all right?”
It was Percy Cotter, bending concernedly over him. Walking towards them was his brother Philip holding a long wooden stave and looking back over his shoulder into the darkness.
Philip ambled over and loomed over Jowan. “This does not mean to say I like you, Connoch,” he said, spitting onto the ground and wiping his mouth.
The young man stared wildly up at him. He pointed over the cliff. “I saw him!” he said with a trembling voice. “When my head was hanging over the edge – I saw him, on the rocks below!”
“Who, man?” said Percy. “Who did you see?”
“I saw Baccan!”
* * * *
The Man in the Derby
He waited till the door clicked shut softly behind him before turning to face her. She sat rod-backed in a plush chair upholstered in lemon yellow. Ever the artist he deliberated on the jaundiced light it cast under her cheekbones. Her heavy lids blinked unhurriedly. A stray wire-grey hair fidgeted at her temple in a breath of air
from the open window. Her lips – thin, hard – struck across her jaw, a no-nonsense, fleshy tripwire.
“I am come, as ordered,” he said coldly. “But not without reservation.”
She motioned with her hand to a chair opposite. He hesitated, then did as he was bid.
“Tea?” she asked, her head nodding almost imperceptibly towards a delicate teapot on a low table.
“You did not summon me here to take tea, Mrs Denning.”
A bird-boned hand, once pretty but now bearing the telltale hallmarks of age, clasped the teapot and began to pour. “You do not mind if I have one, Mr Wilkinson?”
He chided himself for believing the action carried deeper meaning. “Cut to the chase, Mrs Denning. I have no time for games.”
She took a pair of silver tongs, dropped two lumps of sugar into the hot liquid. With short, elegant sweeps she stirred the cup, one tap of the spoon on the cup’s rim before resting it noiselessly on the saucer. “Come, come, Mr Wilkinson, let us not be uncivil with one another.”
He was aware of his forehead beginning to glisten with sweat. “What do you want of me?” he said.
She raised the cup, took a sip. Rested the cup on its saucer. Dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “The usual business, Mr Wilkinson.”
“We are through with the usual business, Mrs Denning. I made that quite clear. We had an agreement.”
A patient smile. Behind it the thought that she knew she would get what she desired. He wondered if it had always been so, even in her youth. “Let us not be too hasty,” she said. “Are you sure you do not want a little tea? I find it most beneficial in calming rattled nerves.”
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 11
