Fear and Folly

by Maurits Zwankhuizen

  The roar softened, then vanished. I made my way down the hill, between the musculature of massive boulders. A car passed along the road as I neared it. The faintest of howls ran across the surface of the boulders. The hairs on my neck stood up. Then another car passed below and again a faint howl swept the tunnel in which I walked. It was obviously just the sound of the car funnelling up to the folly, transformed by the vagaries of the landscape. The wolf was man and his modern machines warped by a fearful and fanciful mind.

  My long-haired guide had vanished by the time I reached the road and began the long walk home.

  The pub had a small beer garden out the front. The pint before me and the cloudless sky above conspired to make me sleepy but I kept one furtive eye on the road. Sure enough, he was on time. He walked rapidly along the path which led between the pub and the road. I’d never tried to engage a stranger in conversation before – well, not a male one anyway – and it took some coaxing to get him to sit down beside me but the offer of a free pint won him over.

  He looked curious but guarded. He eyed the pub with a concerned look.

  My first question was simple – his name.

  “Nick,” he said.

  My second took him by surprise.

  “Are you a druid?”

  His eyes flashed with suspicion.

  “There are no druids anymore.”

  “That’s something a druid would say,” I said with a smile.

  He smiled back with his lips but not his eyes.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’ve always been interested in druidry,” I lied. “Nature worship. Paganism, if you will.”

  “I haven’t seen you at any of our gatherings.”

  “You have gatherings?” I asked. “How many of you are there?”

  “Always one less than what we begin with,” and he drew a finger across his throat, a finger with a blue D tattooed on it.

  I gulped but he was smiling for real now.

  “I’m just telling you what you expect to hear,” he said. “The truth is more mundane. It’s just me. And I merely have an interest in the ancients. And in nature. You should call me a natural historian instead of a druid.”

  “Do you have an interest in beer?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Of course.”

  “Then let me get us some pints,” I said and went inside. Bill and his mate were seated at the bar. I saw them look from me to the outside beer garden and back.

  Bill got out the first bars of a mock howl before a shove from his mate silenced him.

  I nodded briefly, returned outside and was relieved to find Nick still seated at the bench.

  Before I could sit down, he caught me off-guard with a question of his own.

  “So why did you follow me to Deeble Tor?”

  How was I supposed to respond?

  “You saw me?”

  “No, but I’m omniscient. I know all that passes among the ancient hills. The trees, they talk to me.” He stared at me for a moment in silence before breaking into a laugh. “Of course I heard you. Seriously, you made more noise than a herd of elephants.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I’m interested in the ancients, too. I’m keen to get an understanding of the worlds beyond ours, the worlds we can’t see but can only feel.”

  “Other worlds, hey.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. He stared at me unsettlingly as he took a sip of his beer. As he grasped his pint, I noticed blue letters tattooed across all the fingers of his right hand just above the knuckle. Without showing my interest, I managed to see that the letters read C-D-N-R-N from thumb to pinkie. I had to look a few more times to confirm that I’d seen correctly, as they had been inked in a peculiar manner, sideways and upside-down.

  Surely it was the work of a madman and for a moment I considered getting up and severing my interest in the folly and its peculiar protector.

  I’d stared too long. Nick’s eyes were on me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t help noticing your interesting tattoos.” His stare frightened me but my curiosity for the subject outweighed my fear. “Is there any significance behind them?”

  He let out a mild chuckle but there was no humour in his eyes.

  “Great significance,” he said, and that was it.

  “OK,” I said, taking a sip from my beer, my hand shaking. But I wasn’t going to give up. “How great? What do they mean?”

  “I can’t reveal their meaning. Even if I did, to you it would just be a load of nonsense. A silly superstition. I have days like that, where I doubt. But deep down we all believe that there is something more going on. That there are hidden layers in life which we sometimes touch upon inadvertently.” He leant closer. “Tell me, do you believe that the number 13 is unlucky?”

  “No,” I said.

  “But do you feel a twinge of nervousness when it’s Friday the 13th. Or if you’re at a dinner and someone points out that there are 13 guests in attendance?”

  “Well, I guess so. For a moment.”

  “Why is that?” He pointed at me. “It’s because all of us have a well of belief hidden beneath the surface. We refuse to acknowledge it but it’s there. Just in case. Just in case there is truth behind our superstitions. Just in case there is a god. Or gods.”

  I nodded but considered his blatant tattoos to be more than just a contingency.

  Nick placed his left hand on the bench and I saw that it was tattooed in a similar fashion, a series of letters above each knuckle, written sideways but strangely these ones were the right way up. Together they read R-T-W-F-S.

  “Can I come with you next time you head up to Deeble Tor?”

  The words were out before I could stop them. Anything to distract my thoughts. And his.

  “Of course,” he said. “We need a new sacrifice.”

  He smiled and I smiled back, despite the shiver which ran down my spine.

  As soon as I got home, I grabbed a pen and scrawled the letters onto my fingers in the same manner as Nick’s tattoos. I gazed at them for ages. I even danced them in front of a mirror, in case a pattern would emerge at a certain angle, but the letters made no sense whichever way I looked at them. That was until I briefly interlocked the fingers of both hands. Suddenly the inverted letters on my right hand aligned perfectly with those on my left. But still they made no sense.

  C-R-D-T-N-W-R-F-N-S.

  All consonants and no vowels. There had to be vowels. For hours I grappled with what the word might mean. Perhaps it was an acronym. Or perhaps he knew the vowels. Interlocking my fingers again, I scanned the letters slowly and then I noticed it. The angles at which my fingers lay. They were all parallel apart from my thumbs, which met at a slight angle. Suddenly the word resolved itself in my mind, my mind’s eye superimposing vowels upon my skin, placing an I between each finger and an A after each thumb.

  There it was. Finally. C-A-R-A-D-I-T-I-N-I-W-I-R-I-F-I-N-I-S.

  It still did not make sense but at least it was pronounceable. It wasn’t English but I knew enough of language to see elements of ancient British within the stream of letters. It felt pre-Saxon, Arthurian, and my fascination increased a hundredfold. This word was in the language of the druids.

  I was typing away on my computer, searching for any mention of this word or parts of it, when my phone rang. It was Nick. He told me that he was going to Deeble Tor the following morning if I’d like to join him. I hoped he didn’t hear the tremor in my voice as I accepted, the blue letters on my fingers filling me with guilt. I washed them off hastily as soon as the call was over.

  The morning had been cold and wet but by midday the sun had slipped out from beneath its quilt of mist. I met Nick not far from the pub. Barely any words passed between us as we marched out of town along the road to Long Chilton. Only two cars passed us, both of them slowing down as they saw our hooded figures by the side of the road, then continuing on their way at greater speed.

  We
left the road a few miles further on and ascended the hill, climbing up between the slabs of granite until the dilapidated but still dignified tower of Deeble Tor appeared before us.

  “Wait here,” said Nick.

  He walked around to the other side and vanished.

  I waited, running my hand along the ancient stone, feeling every bump and dent, the whorls and warps of age, the pelts of moss and lichen. Looking further up the wall, I saw sooty marks extending up as if a flame had been held close there. I imagined it to be the Devil’s work, scorching the folly with his hot sinful breath as he constructed it, but I knew there must be a more mundane explanation.

  Nick reappeared beside me. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily. I saw that he was just pulling his gloves back on.

  “Did you climb inside the tower?” I asked. “Is there an entrance somewhere?”

  “I know a spell for walking through walls,” he said. I saw the hint of a smile form as he turned his back and moved behind me. Still, there must be a hidden entrance. Perhaps a series of loose stones which blended in with the rest but were easy to remove. I’d have to come back alone another time and investigate.

  “What about those marks?” I pointed up at the soot. “Are they the Devil’s work?”

  Nick nodded. “Those devils down there.” His words were accompanied by the sound of a car passing below us. Shortly after, another disconcerting howl swept up and over us.

  “It’s all just an act, isn’t it?” I said. “You’re just playing a role. Like me, you probably hope and wish that there was more to life, to this world. That there really are spells and wizards. It’s just an escape from banal reality. A rejection of modernity. Am I right?”

  “If you think so,” he said and he winked.

  Why did he have to play this game with me? I guess he was just bored. But could boredom explain the tattoos on his fingers? I couldn’t restrain myself any longer.

  “And what about the letters?”

  Nick turned to me with a cold gaze and I saw him clench his gloved hands.

  “This is not the place to discuss such things.”

  “Why?”

  Nick paused and I watched his hands come together, his fingers interlocking. It seemed to be a subconscious action. This was good. I was hitting close to the bone, close to the truth. At least his version of it, anyway.

  “Do you believe in rebirth?” he asked.

  It was hardly a question I was expecting.

  “Rebirth? Only inasmuch as we die and return to the soil and continue the cycle of life. We are reborn as parts of other beings. Our bodies provide nutrients for others. Just as previous beings did for us. Atoms passed on from generation to generation.”

  He nodded impatiently. “And what about time travel?”

  Again I paused, confused.

  “Well, no, not really. I don’t see how it can be possible.” I looked up at the crumbling walls of Deeble Tor as they loomed over me, seemingly on the brink of toppling as the clouds above scudded by. I tried to picture it how it might once have been. “Time travel is only possible in our imaginations.”

  Nick gave me a wry smile.

  “So…” I almost said the word itself. “So these letters have certain powers? Powers of rebirth and time travel?”

  “Let’s just say that they are a last resort.” Nick also looked up at Deeble Tor but there was more than just wild imagination in his eyes. There was a look of steely determination. “Should I ever wish to escape this world.” He shut his eyes. “Should it ever get so bad that I see no hope of escape.” He shook his head and changed the subject. “Look at the world we’re living in. Everything has gone to shit. Everything is broken. Wouldn’t it be great to wipe the slate clean and start all over again?”

  “I don’t understand. How can these letters do that? How can they do anything?”

  A smile was etched across the stone slab of Nick’s face.

  “Indeed,” he said. “How can they? They are just letters. But the ancients believed in them. The ancients believed that saying these letters a certain number of times would rescue you from the direst of predicaments. Say we were cornered here by our enemies, bloodthirsty brigands with swords and axes. Say we were cornered here by a pack of hungry wolves. But…”

  The clouds were thickening, the sky darkening. I felt a single drop of rain.

  “But what?” I asked.

  “But supposedly it didn’t just get rid of the brigands and the wolves. It removed everything. It erased history. It transplanted time itself.”

  “Where? How?”

  “Elsewhere. I don’t know.” Nick seemed nervous now, agitated. “We’d better return,” he said. “This is a dangerous place when it rains. Unstable ground. Loose boulders.”

  An image of Bill and his mate flashed through my mind for the briefest of moments.

  “And wolves?” I asked.

  Nick looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. It was the look of a hunter finding itself the hunted.

  “There are no wolves around here,” he said, “except for those four-wheeled ones on the road below.”

  “Yes,” was all that I could say in response. I stared up at the tower again, feeling like it was listening to our conversation. Or shaping it. When I looked back, Nick was making his way down the slope, moving between the first group of boulders.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “It’s going to be bucketing down soon.”

  I pretended to follow but the weird feeling which had played across my senses since I’d come here was too strong. I looked back up at the tower, which was still threatening to topple over and bury me beneath a mound of masonry. I moved closer, standing in front of it until my face was all but touching the ancient stone, my breath returning mossy and moist.

  I meshed the fingers of my hands. The letters weren’t there but I knew them well. I closed my eyes. There were a myriad little noises dancing around my ears but I blocked them out. As clearly as possible, I said the word as I thought it should be said. Then I repeated it, again and again, focusing on each syllable, then gradually allowing it to flow into one rapid stream.

  Ca-ra-di-ti-ni-wi-ri-fin-is.

  Perhaps I said it thirty times or a hundred but when I finally stopped there was complete silence around me. I opened my eyes and looked up at the tower rising above me. The clouds were warring over my head, bruising the sky black with their combat. I turned around, wading through a sea of golden leaves without making a sound. Dim with dusk, I could just make out the path between the boulders where I had last seen Nick but I was searching for something else, something to prove that the letters had had the desired effect.

  Nothing. It all seemed the same. Except that there was a peculiar freshness to the air, as sharp as the unnerving silence. Like the first intoxicating breath after rising from a long dive.

  Suddenly the most haunting howl swept over me from below. Sound had returned in the most unsettling way. Now I heard the wind and the rain. Now I heard the leaves again as I kicked through them in my rush to the path back to the road.

  I was composed enough not to shout out Nick’s name, not to break into a run. As calmly as possible, I made my way down the hill between the barricades of boulders. The rain was intensifying and so was night. Shadows pooled at my feet, distorting the terrain. A number of times I almost twisted an ankle. I moved more slowly, guided by my hands as the darkness slipped over my eyes like a blindfold.

  Finally I came out into the open. The road couldn’t have been that far below me but I couldn’t see it. There was no sound, no distant motor, and the clouds held any starlight at bay. Nothing could penetrate the darkness, which had fallen eerily fast. Hesitantly I said Nick’s name. Then again and louder. But there was no reply.

  I sat down for a moment to collect my thoughts. Nick had left me here. He was probably well down the road by now. The best thing for me to do would be to wait for a car to appear from the direction of Long Chilton and hitch a ride back into to
wn. That is, if they stopped for a strange man out here in the wilds after dark. But it was Saturday so there would be some traffic to and from the pub and cinema.

  As I sat and waited, steeped in the darkness of my mind as much as the night, another howl erupted somewhere around me. The hairs on the back of my neck shot up. I tried to convince myself that it was just a quirk of the landscape until I could no longer ignore the fact that no car had passed to create the effect and that I was well out beyond the tunnel of boulders.

  I shivered, every muscle and nerve tensed. The night was growing unexpectedly cold. It was best that I kept moving so I continued my descent to the road. I walked and walked, expecting the damp soil underfoot to give way to gravel at any time, waiting for the faint glow of cat’s-eyes to lead me home.

  REPOSSESSED

  Two horsemen reined their horses in at the top of a sandy hill. Sam was the jittery one, new to the business, lips bitten raw with worry; Tom easy in the saddle, eyes and mouth loose with age and confidence.

  Below them, somewhere beyond the labyrinthine gullies and skeletal woodland, there lay a rambling property. At its heart the small homestead of the Campbell family.

  Sam and Tom rode down into the surreal landscape, between hillocks eroded into fantastic shapes, eventually coming to a large white timber building. A fine veranda ringed the homestead, horses whinnied in the stables, and the corrugated sunflower of a windmill could be seen rising beyond a series of low outhouses.

  “All this is no longer theirs,” Sam mumbled, cigarette between yellow teeth.

  Tom nodded in silent assent, unemotionally surveying the homestead and the dead trees all about.

  They dismounted and led their steeds to a fence-line, tethering them in the finger-thin shade of a fire-blackened eucalypt. Tom led the way slowly, warily, to the foot of the veranda.

  The front door stood wide open. Brief breaths of white fabric fanned the windows. Within there was a scraping sound.

  “Mrs Campbell,” said Tom, “we are here on court business. We have come to take possession of this property, as decreed by law.”