by Heron Carvic
N. received a jolt when a penitent member of his congregation confessed that she belonged to the local witches’ coven and that on the following Friday night a sabbath was to take place in the Trossachs. After questioning her, he bought an animal mask, attended the sabbath and later succeeded in tracking the man who took the part of the Devil to a hotel in the city. N. called at the hotel next morning.
The two men had taken to each other at this first meeting. They had kindred natures, similar business methods and the same goal. There was no need for rivalry, indeed after a frank discussion they saw the advantages to be gained by combining their operations. Since neither man was a public company and each was the sole shareholder in his own concern there were no difficulties. A merger was arranged: Duke’s organization would provide a perfect purging ground for any member of Nuscience who was in search of sin; while any straying sheep from the Devil’s flock who had developed scruples could be sent to Nuscience to be revitalized and then returned to the Devil for a refresher course. As soon as their separate Glasgow enterprises were completed they would get down to details and plan schedules. Unfortunately there was a hitch.
When at the end of the prescribed time the devout nucleus from Nuscience emerged from their cave they found that the world had missed its date and was still spinning. Their total gain was two wasted weeks of discomfort; the loss of their valuables was also total. One hardheaded Glaswegian merchant, preferring to look a fool than be a sucker, complained to the police, who started an investigation. Fortunately for N., the merchant’s wife was a member of the witches’ coven. N. returned the lady’s jewelry, though not the money, and Duke, who never attended a sabbath without a candid camera, called on her. He showed her some recent exposures of herself, thus securing her full cooperation. That evening her husband was found dead in his car, the garage doors closed, the engine still running. His wife attested that he had lately removed all her jewelry from the bank, which the police verified, and that her husband’s complaint to the authorities had been the first step in an attempt to swindle his insurance company. She had been so shocked, she insisted, to learn of his intention that she had threatened to denounce him. The merchant’s death was officially declared to be suicide and although the police were skeptical they were unable to take the matter further in view of the wife’s sworn statement and the box of jewelry discovered hidden at the back of a wardrobe in the merchant’s house.
The episode proved to Duke and N. the benefits of amalgamation; but the squeak had been narrow. It was evident that the end of the world needed more careful planning. Both N. and Duke decided that in future it would be wiser for them to work in the background and to engage a front man who could take the rap in case of trouble.
Since the Devil was always in disguise, one man could play both parts. They made inquiries and chose Hilary Evelyn, an actor who had drowned his career in the best of spirits. Duke and N. made good. They also made improvements. Lacking a manual for their creed, they concocted a work of fiction, tentatively entitled The Beyond, until N., knowing his public and feeling it did not go far enough, decided it should be beyond that. It became the textbook of Nuscience, to be plugged at every meeting. An important modification was that for the future all caves must have a second entrance. Their adherents’ valuables should be put in a box to be sealed in front of witnesses and remain in full view throughout the time spent underground. It needed little knowledge of sleight of hand to remove the box and to substitute a dummy. It would remain optional to the faithful few as to whether, on their reemergence after the cataclysm, they should stay upon this earth and start repopulation, or whether they should take off for Elysian fields on other planets. When the box was officially opened and proved to be empty, it would be up to the few to increase their faith, to breathe even harder, and to follow their luggage, which had gone on in advance. N. and Duke picked a band of young men, called them Majordomes, trained them and paid them well to carry out all the preparatory work, to act as bodyguards and as keepers of the peace in both religions.
N. and Duke preferred to maintain a wide distance between each foray and, since their last campaign had been in Wales, Kent, where a witches’ coven was already flourishing, had been elected as the placement of their next eruption.
chapter
~8~
Nigel Colveden decided that he was making progress. For the first time in his nineteen years he had found a use for his removed cousin. At the end of the Maidstone meeting he had lost sight of the girl as the audience surged out, only to see her again near the main entrance talking to Basil Trenthorne. Nigel had breezed up to them, asked Basil tactlessly, How was crime? and forced an introduction. He had taken it from there. Of all the incredible luck to find that Merilee Paynel was actually staying in Plummergen at the George and Dragon. Nigel had insisted that it was his absolute duty as a resident to show her around and they were now ensconced at lunch in Brettenden’s most expensive restaurant, where he seemed to be increasing his lead. Merilee … Her parents must have been prophetic. She was the gayest and most amusing companion he’d ever met. He told her so.
She made a face. “Try living your life with a name like mine. Then on top of that to be dubbed the Merry Widow entails certain obligations, and while it’s excusable to fail your friends, it’s unpardonable to disappoint your enemies.”
Nigel was disconcerted. “Basil only said Merilee Paynel; I’m sorry but I didn’t know it was Mrs.—that you’d been married.”
“How should you? You don’t know anything about me. And the stigma of marriage doesn’t necessarily leave visible stigmata.” Nigel tried to question, to find out more. She evaded. Nothing, she declared, was so boring as the recital of another’s dullness. The waitress cleared their plates. He ordered coffee. Mrs. Paynel leaned back and took out her cigarette case. Quickly Nigel lit a match and bent forward.
“You—dull?”
She inhaled, blew a smoke ring and smiled. “You’ll learn the only intriguing people are the ones you never know.” “You talk like a book.”
“What harm? I’ve eyes to read.” She reversed the conversation and questioned him.
“My life?” He grinned. “Just … dull.”
“Oh, come,” she mocked, “it’s early yet; you’ve still got time. I don’t think the pattern forms before you’re twenty; you’re still in the melting pot. You could explore—I don’t know what, but there must be things still longing to be found. You could carry a briefcase and wear a bowler hat.”
“Or stay a farmer, which is what I like.”
“You could do that, become a scientist, or get religion.”
“Do you really belong to Nuscience?” he asked.
“I belong … to myself.” She stubbed her cigarette and took another, which he lit. “ ‘With no motor but the mind,’ ” she mimicked. “I’m all for cheaper travel, but somehow I don’t think my mind’s properly geared.”
“But you were at the meeting,” Nigel objected.
“So were you; but I didn’t take it for granted you belonged.”
“What”—he was puzzled—“brought someone like you to an off-the-track little place like Plummergen?”
“My car.”
He persisted. “Yes, but I mean—”
“Meaning?” She cut him short. “Why must meanings have a meaning?” She refilled their cups. “Tell me, what’s it like to live in a tiny village?”
Nigel shrugged. “Just like that. Everybody knows everything you do, and if you change your brand of toothpaste it’s a sensation.”
“Who’s your local artist?” she inquired.
“Local …?” He shook his head. “Haven’t got one.”
“Yes you have. I saw her down by the coast, painting.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “That would be our Miss Seeton; she’s a drawing teacher. She’s taking the schoolkids on an outing by the sea today.”
“But this wasn’t today. And she was alone.”
“That would be her. There’s be
en a splendid row about it. Some of the parents don’t think she’s fit to be in charge of their little horrors because half the village has suddenly upped and decided she’s a witch.”
“Have they?” He put down his cup; looked up surprised at her change of tone. “And is she?” she asked.
He grinned. “I wouldn’t put anything past her, the way she hops in and out of scrapes. I expect she was having a first look over the ground and doing a picture of the sea as a sample for the kids.”
“But she didn’t,” Merilee Paynel said slowly. “She drew the church.”
“What church?”
Impatiently: “The church by the wood, of course.”
“She couldn’t have,” protested Nigel. “That’s near Iverhurst, further inland—must be a good mile away.”
She put her cigarette case back in her bag and stood up abruptly. “Churches bore me, they’re so righteous and rectangular.”
He signaled for the bill. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
“No. I’ve an engagement.”
Nigel, with visions of Basil, spoke without thinking. “Who with? Couldn’t you break it?”
In a flash of irritation: “To sup with the Devil with a long spoon—and I never break engagements.” Then she softened. “Perhaps some other night.”
“Do you dance?” he questioned eagerly.
“Reasonably. Given sufficient reason.”
There was a hunt ball the following Saturday, just outside of Maidstone. Would she go with him? She would. Nigel paid the bill in a happy haze and drove her back in the little red M.G. that he had inherited from his mother.
The girl broke a long silence. “Why a witch?”
“A witch?” He had to collect his thoughts. “Oh, you mean Miss Seeton. God knows; I don’t. All I do know is, if she’s a witch and I was the Devil I’d stay downstairs—it’d be safer.”
How very worrying. Miss Seeton searched. The portfolio was the only likely place and, indeed, she was almost certain she remembered putting it there. But evidently not. All her other sketches were here, including one, in fact, which, now she came to look at it, was completely unfamiliar. She studied it. Very slapdash, she was afraid. Just a brief note of a rather desolate-looking church with trees behind it. Well, of course, they weren’t properly drawn, only smudged in—it looked really more like a large wood. Yes, that would be it. A quick impression of something that she’d seen, somewhere, at some time, and had put down so as not to forget it. Meaning to work on it later. And now she had. Forgotten it, that was.
Miss Seeton retied the tapes of the cardboard folder and pushed it back into the bottom drawer of her writing desk. She got up from her knees.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d have to do without it. She’d manage time to make another sketch of the view this afternoon, while overseeing the children. If it was to be a competition, there must, she felt, be one accurate representation; something one could use as a standard for comparison. Now, did she have everything she needed? Her sketching frame, pencils, brushes, paints, scissors, some colored magazines and paste. And—oh, yes, she’d had a feeling she’d remembered she’d forgotten something—that notebook she’d always kept with pieces of material pressed flat between the leaves. Yes, that was all. Oh, no. It wasn’t. She’d quite forgotten lunch. Miss Seeton hurried to the kitchen and collected the Thermos flask and sandwiches that Martha had prepared for her. Yes, that truly was all. She could safely say that now she was ready.
“Miss.” “Please, miss.” “If you please, miss.”
Miss Seeton went from one to another, discussing, proffering advice, discussing again and sometimes, when asked to, making a correction. One ten-year-old sat staring at the view, her paper blank. Miss Seeton squatted cross-legged on the grass beside her and looked out to sea. Finally the child spoke.
“Can’t draw it and don’ wan’ to.”
“No?” Miss Seeton smiled. “Doesn’t it mean anything?”
“Oh, yes,” the girl replied with fervor. “It means”—she struggled—“means words to me, not drawing; don’ like drawing.”
“You don’t have to. Painting is only a method of putting down impressions; of trying to tell others what you’ve seen. There are lots of ways of doing it. Building and modeling, and writing; even just remembering, but that perhaps is rather selfish because it entails keeping it entirely to yourself. And then sometimes one forgets.”
“You mean”—the girl turned to her eagerly—“you mean I could write it?”
“Why not?” Miss Seeton rose. “It’s just as good a means as any other.”
One small boy was sitting, mutinous. His paper too was blank. Miss Seeton stood behind him. He fidgeted.
“Drawin’ an’ paintin’s sissy,” he told her. “Me”—two small hands screwed together—“I like t’ make things.”
“Well, do that,” said Miss Seeton. She brought him the glossy magazines, the notebook with material scraps, the scissors and the paste.
“But y’ can’t do all that.” He waved a hand at the view. “ ’S too big.”
“Then make a frame of your fingers and look through it. Choose the bit you like, and if you want a smaller picture hold your hands farther away.”
He tried it grudgingly; became interested. “If you do that,” he explained to her, “y’ get a proper picture in a frame.”
“Good,” said Miss Seeton. “Then you choose a color for a bit you want, cut it the right shape, stick it down, and then work on from there.”
He looked at the magazines. “How’d I know to cut it right?”
“Well, one way,” she suggested, “is to draw an outline.” She sketched one lightly on his paper. “Say that’s that strip of grass; then you cut a piece to fit. Or”—she produced some—“you can use tracing paper.”
Within a few minutes he was hard at work. Some of the others grew jealous and intrigued. Could they stick things on theirs? Miss Seeton encouraged them: Why not? She crossed the grass to look over the shoulder of the budding authoress.
The sea, the sky,
The grass and stones
The sea, the sky
Are here and nere
Are far away,
And wen they stop
They never stop.
They drop.
They drop to sand were shells begin,
Then sea with fish that swim away
To meet the sky with birds that fly
But never stop.
“That,” observed Miss Seeton, “is one of the best pictures I’ve seen.”
Everyone appeared to be occupied for the moment and her own sketch was finished and put away. Miss Seeton took her handbag and umbrella and looked around. Would they, she wondered, finish before the bus arrived to take them home, and need another view? Over there was a possible vantage point, where there was that rise in the ground. On reaching the mound she discovered that the rise was more abrupt than she had thought. To help herself gain a foothold she used her umbrella as a lever. The umbrella point sank into the ground. Surely it was very soft. Crumbly, in fact. One didn’t want the children with sprained ankles. By the way of experiment she prodded the earth hard. Yes, she was quite right. It was crumbly. She could feel the vibration and the shift beneath her feet. Well, first she’d see if the view from the mound was worth it. And, if it was, one could probably find another route. She raised one foot and leaned her weight on her umbrella; but instead of Miss Seeton going up, the umbrella went down as the abused earth disintegrated beneath her and fell away with a patter of soil and stones to leave a gaping hole. There was time for gasped surprise and one small cry of shocked dismay before Miss Seeton disappeared.
chapter
~9~
Miss Seeton opened her eyes. And closed them quickly: so very bright. She waited until the discomfort of her position became palpable, then opened her eyes again and saw the sky. The sky? she blinked several times. The sky remained. She managed to sit up and look about her: memory returned. Really.
How very careless. She should have foreseen … She flexed and felt. No, nothing seemed amiss. Except for one’s head, of course. Gingerly she explored the back of her head. And even that might have been worse. A slight swelling, a little painful; but her hat had saved her. Which was more than she deserved. So very stupid. Worrying about the children spraining things and to forget that one was equally vulnerable. She picked herself up and dusted at her clothes. It made her sneeze. Well—having fallen in, she must now climb out. She searched and recovered her handbag and umbrella, then looked above her. Rather far above. As best she could, she pushed some of the loose rubble into a pile and climbed upon it. Yes, now she could get the handle of her umbrella over the edge. If she could hook it there and pull …? She pulled. She got more rubble and a bigger hole. When she had finished coughing and the air had cleared she looked at her watch. It didn’t appear to be broken. A quarter to four? She put it to her ear. Yes, it was still going. Good heavens, the bus was due in half an hour. And the children might be wondering. She must get out at once. She took stock of her position. She wasn’t exactly in a hole. At least only in one sense. For the hole continued in one direction as a passage. But it was too dark to see how far it went. Well, one might, of course, have to try it as a last resort. But first she must make sure. It ought to be possible to get out the way she had come in. A wall of rubble faced her. She stepped upon it. It gave way, disturbing dust. She stood back and considered. Was there a better place? Yes. Here, where that large stone was, looked more promising. It held her weight. She scrambled up a little way, her foot slipped and she slid to base, landing with a bump.
