Book of Shadows

by Marc Olden

  “Below you’ll find fairly civilized livin’ conditions. There’s a shower, fridge, water heater, and a gas stove, all in good workin’ order and let’s keep ’em that way. You’ll find a chemical toilet for when you’ve got to do the natural and there’s cabinets to hang your belongin’s in. About our toilet: bigger boats have summer houses. Summer his, summer hers but The Drake ain’t no ocean liner so we’re blessed with only one such convenience. I’m askin’ everyone on board to treat it with care and reverence. In the past there’s been a few people on me boat who’ve conducted themselves like baboons and I’ll have none of it this trip.”

  He pointed to his right. “If you look over there you can see one of the women’s colleges. That’s Saint Hilda’s.”

  Robert shaded his eyes against the sun. “How many women’s colleges are there?”

  “Seven, I should think.”

  Robert shook his head. “Each named after a virgin, probably.”

  “Thirty-four colleges altogether,” said Lyle, ignoring Robert. “City’s over twelve hundred years old and it’s turned out a few right smart fellas in its time. Them that don’t end up cleanin’ up after the elephants in the circus have the misfortune to go on to write books.”

  Robert stage whispered to Marisa out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s his sense of public relations that impresses me the most.”

  She said, “I think he fights dirty. Keep your legs crossed.”

  The sun was warm on her face and there was beauty and history all around her. On either side of the dark green river were the towers and turrets of churches, cathedrals, and the many colleges comprising Oxford University. Willow trees covered the river banks and here and there old men fished and smoked pipes. The Drake passed several college rowing eights, the knife-thin boats containing eight rowers, all of whom dipped their oars into the water as one man.

  Larry, using a new camera Nat had bought him, was taking a picture of Nat and Ellie arm in arm and Robert was poised at the top of the small stairway leading below when Jack Lyle swallowed the last of his stout and raised his voice.

  “Before you leave us, Mr. Robert, a word to all of you. We’ll be leaving the river soon and enterin’ the Oxford Canal. This means we pass from one water level to another. Fact is, we do this all the way along the canal, which means a bit of manual labor for us all. We open and close locks, which fills and empties certain chambers, which lifts us up or lets us down as required. We use a key, that is to say a large metal handle and I’ll point that out to you later on. The entire process only takes a minute or two and you may end up with a little blister and an ache here and there, but you’ll come to love it. Aye, that you will.”

  Robert said, “How did you manage until we came along?”

  Jack Lyle smirked and scratched his stomach. “I don’t know, Mr. Robert. But the Lord has answered me prayers and sent you to me and I’m truly grateful. Shows you how bein’ a Christian has its rewards.”

  Robert rolled his eyes up into his head and disappeared below.

  Marisa winked at Jack Lyle, who winked and smiled back, showing stumps of yellow and blackened teeth.

  That first night was spent moored in the canal miles from any town. Lyle tied two lines securely from the boat to nearby trees, using an intricate knot he called a “Turk’s head” because of its resemblance to a turban. Ellie cooked a light supper of omelettes, salad, toast, and wine and Marisa and Larry cleaned up afterwards. Later they all put on sweaters and came up on deck to stare at the stars and listen to Jack Lyle, who smoked a black briar pipe and drank from what appeared to be an inexhaustible and hidden supply of stout and whiskey.

  “Witch country over there,” said Lyle pointing with the wet stem of his pipe. “I’m talkin’ further east. Essex, Cambridge, Suffolk, and the like. Happened a few hundred years ago when Matthew Hopkins had his witchery trials. Them what survived Hopkins or had somethin’ to hide, they come west, closer to us, and they just disappeared. Went to ground in caves, forest, and some towns what ain’t even on the map. Lots of witchery stories in this country. Tourists seem to like ’em.”

  Larry shivered. “I love being scared. Like, it’s not real, you know? But you get into it just the same.”

  “Oh, it’s real enough,” said Jack Lyle. “You can hop into a car and you drive a few miles in any direction or you can even walk, and you’ll come across things that were once real enough and still are downright terrifyin’.”

  He cleaned his pipe by tapping it on the hull of The Drake. “Fer instance, there’s a town not too far from ’ere where a woman once ate the flesh of babies to prevent her from dyin’. Didn’t work. They hung ’er when they found out what she’d done. I’ve talked with people who say they’ve seen Viking warriors walkin’ towards them out of the mist. The Vikings are supposed to be lookin’ fer a ship to take ’em back ’ome.”

  Robert, standing behind Marisa with his arms around her, said, “Sounds as though some of these tales came out of a bottle.”

  Marisa stepped on his foot.

  Jack Lyle snorted. “You must be one of them fellas possessed of a modern education. I suppose you only believe in reason and hard cold facts.”

  Robert shrugged.

  Lyle said, “The modern world’s full of such fellas. When they’re not rushin’ after a headshrinker to make ‘em well, they’re takin’ all sorts of pills, but I don’t suppose you’d call that superstition, would ya?”

  “Don’t mind him, Mr. Lyle,” said Marisa. “Go on, we’re listening.”

  The little boat captain looked down at the bottle of stout in his hands. “Them stories is real enough to the folks in these parts, missy. There’s a tale about the ghosts of children who can be seen in those very woods behind you. They were given to an uncle by their dyin’ father and the uncle he wanted their inheritance, so he hires a couple of men to kill the tots. One man ’e ’as a conscience so ’e murders ’is friend and leaves the little uns in the woods to die. Their ghosts still wander about.”

  “Far out,” whispered Larry.

  “There’s women ghosts,” said Lyle. “More ’n a score of ’em got raped and killed by various monks and it’s their ghosts you can see in some dark places.”

  “Got to watch those country vicars,” said Robert.

  Lyle said, “A little further up we come to a town where a lady was murdered by her lover, who then lied to her parents and claimed to have married the girl in another town. Her mother she dreams of the murder and someone starts searchin’ and they find the girl’s body. They hung the gentleman in question and used is skin to bind a copy of the court proceeding.”

  “I think my supper’s coming up,” said Ellie. “Bedtime for me, children.”

  Nat said, “Think I’ll join you. Nightie-night, one and all.”

  Robert, Marisa, and Larry stayed to listen to Lyle, who drank and talked and never seemed to get drunk or become incoherent. He spoke of the mass hanging of witches, of huge demon dogs that haunted the night, of ghosts who walked and dead smugglers and dead soldiers who sometimes laid a cold hand on the living. He told them of headless drummer boys, of the ghost of Anne Boleyn said to be seen in dozens of places throughout England, of corpses riveted at the knees and elbows with iron at burial to prevent them from walking around after death. And there were phantoms who could drive one to suicide by whispering in one’s ear.

  The actress in Marisa was drawn to the drama of Lyle’s tales. The child in Larry was entertained by them. The ambitious writer in Robert was suddenly attentive. Robert, Marisa knew, was searching for that one idea to put him over, the one book that would give him the money and recognition he craved. While she was sympathetic she’d often kidded him about his intense desire for fame. She’d seen what ambition like Robert’s had done to men and women in her business. Robert, however, wasn’t interested in consequences. He wanted results.

  In the cool night, with Robert at her side, she suddenly sensed that he wasn’t on vacation. He was on a hunt. As
always.

  She saw his eyes stay on Lyle’s face as the boatman told a particular story.

  According to Lyle, in three days they would sail past the town where the story took place. He told them that in 1901 a woman named Maureen Clannon disappeared from her home. A week later her corpse was found barely covered by earth and leaves in a shallow grave deep in a forest. She had been burned to death and the news was shocking to the small village, for Maureen had no known enemies.

  An investigation revealed her husband John had come to believe that Maureen had been spirited away by witches and a changeling—a witch who resembled her—left in her place. For several days John Clannon, Maureen’s parents, and some of John Clannon’s friends had secretly tortured Maureen in an attempt to get her to admit she was a witch.

  Maureen denied the accusation, insisting that she was John’s wife and meant him no harm. She begged him and her parents to release her, to recognize her as someone they had known and loved for years. Clannon, however, continued the torture over a period of days, demanding that the “witch” return his beloved wife or die. Maureen clung to her story and finally the exasperated John Clannon threw a pot of lamp oil on her, grabbed a brand from the fireplace, and touched it to the oil on her body.

  Maureen Clannon’s remains were placed in a sack and taken to the forest.

  A trial revealed that John Clannon was insane.

  When Jack Lyle finished his tale, Marisa, Robert, and Larry were silent. Then Robert said, “You mentioned that the Clannons’ village was on our route. I’d like to see it.”

  Lyle stood up and stretched. “I think we can arrange that, Mr. Seldes Robert. I suggest you all turn in. I’d like to get an early start tomorrow.”

  Larry smiled at him. “I really enjoyed tonight, Mr. Lyle. Thank you, thank you very much.”

  Robert watched Lyle move forward on the boat and disappear into darkness. “Yes,” said Robert under his breath. “Thank you, Mr. Lyle.”

  He looked at Marisa. He was breathing faster.

  She said, “Is that passion or asthma?”

  He kissed her lips absentmindedly, his mind elsewhere. “Mr. Lyle spins a fast paced yarn—a good read, as we say in the trade.”

  “Four star all the way.”

  “I want to make a few notes before we go to sleep.”

  “With five people sleeping within inches of each other down there in that cramped little space there isn’t much else we can do. Lyle’s sleeping on deck alone. Wonder what he’s doing up front in the darkness by himself?”

  Robert grinned: “Peeing.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Listen.”

  Marisa did. “My God, do you think he’s shy?”

  “Mr. Lyle is old-fashioned, my dear, a man from a bygone era and not too friendly at that.”

  “He’s probably seen too many rich bitch tourists and I guess every now and then he has to put someone in their place. Can’t blame him for that.”

  Drawing Marisa closer to him, Robert stuck his tongue in her ear and slipped his hand under her sweater, squeezing her breast. “This is it, kid,” he whispered. “It’s going to have to last you until we reach land.”

  Marisa laughed against his chest and whispered, “I used to do better than that in the hallway when I was a teenager. Your date brought you home and it was twenty seconds of feelsies against the wall before your parents opened the front door and demanded to know what you were up to.”

  “What were you up to?”

  “Ask my date. He was more up than I.”

  Marisa would always remember the first three days of the trip as the happiest.

  Morning. The narrow canal and the lush green land on either side of the boat were hidden in a soft white mist, as though boat and passengers were totally surrounded by white cotton. Somewhere in the mist geese honked, and Marisa looked overboard to see several long-necked swans idling at The Drake’s waterline waiting to be fed. When the mist began to clear, Jack Lyle pointed to other birds: mallards, kingfishers, herons, swallows, coots.

  Food was purchased from a village store. There were veal and ham pies, Cumberland sausage, jam, fresh butter, bread, scones; home-made spice cakes, roast chickens, fruits and vegetables newly torn from the earth, steak-and-kidney pies, cheese, smoked fish, coffee, tea, brandy. Whenever they docked and slept ashore in a hotel or tiny inn, the food was just as wholesome and plentiful. Jack Lyle knew the people in each hamlet and town. He knew the land and the water and if his manner was brusque, his tales were never dull.

  Marisa heard the people along the canal address Lyle as “Number one.”

  “Means I’m an independent skipper,” he said. “I captain me own craft. Ain’t but a few of us left. Born on a boat, I was. Me father and his father before ’im was born and raised on canal boats like The Drake. Sixty-five years afloat fer me and I wouldn’t live on land if the queen made me tea every day and tickled me feet into the bargain.”

  He bent down and scooped up a handful of canal water and said to Marisa, “When I was a lad horses used to draw the boats. Took longer to get where you was goin’, but I prefer it. You might say this ’ere canal used to be a bleedin’ ’ighway. Boats carried coal to factories, carried iron, glass, cloth. Then came progress.”

  Lyle stood up and spat on the ground. “Progress. Toilet paper is the equal of bloody progress. But I prefer toilet paper. It’s easier on me arse.”

  Marisa laughed. Nat, returning to the boat with a spinning wheel in his arms, asked what was funny.

  Larry was the only one to dive into the canal. It was a warm day and on a dare from Robert, Larry stripped naked, did a brief bump and grind to a Barry Manilow cassette blaring from a tape recorder he carried with him everywhere, then climbed onto the rail and with Robert and Nat applauding, clumsily dove into the water.

  Jack Lyle ran to the rail. “You bleedin’ twit, get yer arse outta there!”

  “It’s—it’s cold!”

  “I know it’s fuckin’ cold, you stupid sod! Get outta there before somethin’ bites you!”

  “Bite? Hey, what’s—what’s gonna bite me? Mr. Lyle? Mr. Lyle? What’s gonna bite me?”

  Muttering under his breath Lyle turned from the rail in disgust. “Bloody poof. People throw old mattresses, broken glass, tires, prams, every bleedin’ bit of junk you can think of into that water and he goes and jumps overboard. Bloody poof.”

  Marisa cupped her hands and yelled down at Larry. “It’s not safe, Larry. You’d better come out. Mr. Lyle says there’s a lot of junk down there.”

  “And ’e’s part of it,” yelled Lyle. “I’m goin’ below. When Snow White comes aboard, tell ’im I said to take a fuckin’ shower.”

  They sailed north, past Aynyo, and docked at Banbury, where they walked around the town eating the famed Banbury cakes made of flaky pastry stuffed with spiced dried fruit. They saw the Banbury Cross, which only dated from 1859. Jack Lyle told them that the original had been destroyed three hundred years ago by religious fanatics. They visited Broughton Castle, the moated fourteenth-century manor house, and saw herds of wild deer in a forest where Henry VIII once hunted. Nat Shields purchased Georgian silverware.

  Jack Lyle and Robert avoided each other. It was obvious that Robert looked down on the little boatman, while also being afraid of him. Lyle treated Robert with cold contempt, speaking to him as little as possible. It was as if the two men had been born to dislike each other. Marisa wondered if it had anything to do with her, for she enjoyed Lyle’s company, his conversation, his tales of England and canal life. Robert would dig at Lyle, then back off as Lyle revealed a sharp tongue and a wicked temper he barely kept in check.

  In the large, simple restaurant of a Banbury hotel, Marisa, Nat, Ellie, and Larry stood with a busload of Australian tourists around an upright battered piano and sang “Home on the Range.” Over her shoulder Marisa quickly glanced at the bar and saw Robert smiling and talking to a young blonde girl who couldn’t have been more than eightee
n. Jack Lyle walked past the two of them, stopped for only a fraction of a second to stare coldly at Robert, then continued walking out of the restaurant.

  You took the words right out of my mouth, Mr. Lyle, thought Marisa, who turned around and sang, “And the skies are not cloudy all day.”

  The next morning an annoyed Marisa left the breakfast table to walk out of the hotel and into the quiet streets of Banbury. Robert and Larry were carrying on like college sophomores. The two were having a food fight, throwing pieces of bread and fruit across the table at each other and disturbing the people around them. An embarrassed Ellie and Nat had left the table and sat nearby, their backs to the two men. Other patrons in the dining room looked at Robert and Larry and shook their heads. Americans. What else could you expect from people who insisted on ice in their drinks?

  Outside in the chilly morning Marisa shivered, stuck her hands up the sleeves of her sweater, and began walking toward the boat. They’d spent the night in Banbury, with Lyle staying on The Drake to guard it and watch their luggage.

  Alone in their hotel room, Marisa had mentioned the blonde girl to Robert.

  He said, “If you spent less time talking to that old fart Lyle I wouldn’t have to go looking.”

  “You’ll always go looking.”

  “Ah, but window shopping isn’t the same as buying.”

  “Listen to me, hot breath. If you ever window shop in front of me again, you’ll wish you hadn’t”

  “Threat or promise?”

  “Both, sweet thing. Both. I don’t like it.”

  He shrugged and drew her to him, the palm of one hand gently rubbing her nipple. “Picky, picky.”

  She felt herself getting sexually aroused and wished she weren’t. That was Robert’s little trick. Sex was his wonder drug, the cure-all for his lapses, lacks, and various and sundry slips.

  “Robert …”

  “Been a long time between drinks. Can’t do much in a bunk bed, especially with four people watching. Hmmmmm?”

  “Why don’t you like Jack Lyle?”

  “Ask him why he doesn’t like me. Take off your clothes and let me play with your private parts.”