Jenny followed him over the stile and up a steep path, which owed its twisting route to the rocky outcrops and boulders which strewed the hillside.
“There’s an old stone quarry on the left,” Simon told her, “and the quarries have filled with water. It’s a marvelous place for swimming, or it was when I was a boy.”
Above the quarries there was a fence and another stile and then they were out on a wide upland walking through rough moorland grass. Ahead the seven stones leaned drunkenly in the clear, pale, faintly quivering moonlight.
“We’ll have to lurk at a distance until they’ve marked out the circle,” said Simon. I imagine it’ll be somewhere in the center of the stones. And then they’ll want to dump their robes and things. Look, we’d better go behind the rock over there, it’s too far away to hear much, but we should be able to creep nearer when we see where they’re setting everything up.”
They crouched behind the large shielding rock, which, like a tree or hedge, seemed to offer a companionable warmth as well as a hiding place.
“Listen,” said Simon, “we were only just in time.” Jenny listened and caught the sound of voices on the path; they were cheerful chattering voices but the sound of them sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
“Are you cold? Come closer,” said Simon putting a casual arm around her. “Aren’t you glad you’re not a witch? At least you don’t have to strip off.”
“Very,” Jenny whispered. “But I’m not really cold, it’s fear of the supernatural or something like that.”
Robed figures were climbing the stile. They carried an extraordinary assortment of objects: a besom broom, satchels, lanterns, staves, someone was swinging a censor. When they were all over they began chanting softly and then they walked toward the stone circle in single file. There were only seven of them, Jenny counted twice, and it was Bernard’s bulky figure that was missing. A feeling of relief filled her, without him they became a much friendlier, a more trustworthy coven; whatever power they raised it would be less malevolent without Bernard.
Some of the robed figures were marking out the magic circle with flat pieces of rock, others were placing lanterns or unpacking their satchels. It became obvious that the most drunken, the almost prone member of the seven stones was being set up as an altar.
“Good,” whispered Simon. “Once they start we’ll crawl over to the stone on the left of them, we should be able to hear everything from there.”
Bromwyn had shed her robe and, wearing only a necklace, she had taken up the besom and begun to sweep outward from the center of the circle, chanting as she did so.
“Sweeping out alien and evil influences,” whispered Simon.
Now everything seemed to be ready. The candles on the stone altar were lit, the other witches discarded their robes, crowded into the circle and began to chant. The moon was full and high and its pale, brilliant light threw the rocks and stones and people into unexpected relief. It gave them dark shadows, fluid and inconstant, and clothed them in the magic of things intangible, things half known, half seen.
“Come on,” whispered Simon touching Jenny’s arm.
They began to crawl forward. Nigel was at the altar now.
“Listen to the words of the Great Mother,” he began sonorously, “who was of old also called among men Artemis, Diana, Aphrodite, Arianrod and by many other names,” then his voice dropped a little and the next words were lost. Simon began to move faster in a doubled-up ape-like run. Jenny scurried after him across the short stretch of open space and joined him breathless in the safe shadow of one of the great stones. The ordinary witches had squatted down on the line of the circle and Nigel knelt before Bromwyn’s tall white figure in the center.
“Hail Aradia, pour forth thy love…”
Jenny missed the next part, but as he rose Bromwyn pointed her athame at the moon and the other witches stood up and joined hands, moving around the circle as they chanted:
“Darksome Night and shining Moon,
East then South then West then North,
Hearken to the witches’ rune,
Hear I come to call thee forth—
Earth and Water Air and Fire…”
As their speed increased the chanters’ words became less and less audible. Later, they became clearer but meaningless and outlandish:
“Eko, Eko Zamilak,
Eko, Eko, Cemunnos,
Eko, Eko Aradia.”
Then Bromwyn called “Now!” and with one accord, the chanters fell to the ground. She turned and in a low voice she began a long incantation. She mixed substances from the silver dishes, which stood on the altar alongside the image of the beautiful naked goddess. The sword and the wand and the athame were all there, and various other objects, less easy to identify in the flickering light. Bromwyn had taken up the Book of Shadows and was reading from it. A spell, thought Jenny, unable to make out the words. Then the other witches began to chant again and Bromwyn relaxed visibly. Her face ceased to be wrapt and withdrawn, the tension left her, she turned and smiled at Robert.
Nigel approached the altar.
Jenny, who had taken an occasional look at Simon and come to the conclusion that he was enjoying his view of the naked Bromwyn, felt his mood change as his father took over the ceremony. With his gray hair on end, his emaciated body partly clothed in the unbecoming loin cloth, his face stem and his eyes darting with hate or anger or suspicion, no one, thought Jenny, could want him even as an adoptive father. Feeling sad for Simon, she avoided looking at him and tried to concentrate on Nigel’s words. He seemed to be calling on the god to remove the strangers from the land.
Suddenly, there was a restless movement among the listening witches and Margaret called out impulsively, “No, Nigel. Stop. You agreed not to do it.”
She was quickly shushed by Bromwyn and Nigel continued unfalteringly in his preamble. The strangers were to be afflicted, Jenny could hear that much because he was repeating it again and again.
“Afflict the strangers in the land with all manner of ills and cramps. With pains and sicknesses and losses and sorrows. Make their lives here a burden so that they return willingly to their own lands and leave the natural dwellers of these parts to live out their lives in peace.”
He was doing harm then, thought Jenny. She turned to look at Simon. He was listening intently, but no reaction to Nigel’s words was expressed on his face. The other witches were uneasy. Robert was whispering to Margaret, the Carrs were fidgeting, Rosemary sat with her face hidden in her hands. Nigel went on and on. He began to mix things in a bowl, a little of this and that; he seemed to have a collection of containers, which had not been on the altar when Bromwyn officiated. The smell of the incense was different too; a strong, arid, bitter smell unpleasant even on that airy, open upland.
The other witches looked distinctly unhappy. Jenny could see that they disliked what Nigel was doing even more than she did and presumably, they understood what spell he was stirring up and what his muttering meant. She looked at Simon again. He was still listening intently, but now his wide brow wore a worried frown. When she looked back, Nigel had pierced his wrist with the point of his athame. He waited, patiently gathering the slow ooze of blood on the blade, then he shook it off into the silver bowl. He stirred and then he began to chant, looking up at the other witches as a cue for them to join in. There was silence; Jenny sensed mutiny.
Bromwyn looked anxiously from her high priest to her coven, torn by conflicting loyalties. Her face disintegrated into a series of twitches and convulsions. Then she stepped forward to the altar and began an incantation. The coven relaxed, it was obvious that they were back on familiar paths. Willingly, they raised their voices to join the chant and David Carr took up a drum and beat a jungle-like accompaniment. The pleasure was back in their faces, they danced faster and faster. Jenny could see that both Robert and David were in a state of sexual excitement and suddenly, she felt a deep pity for Margaret who wanted all this and yet looked so grotesque and was pre
sumably abandoned to the company of Bernard. It was like school, she thought, the strange negative cruelty, the non-acceptance of the ill-favored by the favored.
The dance was over, food and wine were being produced. Simon touched her arm and, pointing at the protective shadow cast on them by the stone, mouthed, “It’s going, we’ll have to move.” Jenny looked around and saw that the moon was high, that all the shadows had shortened. Simon was right, they must move quickly. She followed him bent double, expecting all the time to hear a shout of discovery, but the witches were talking and even laughing, though she thought she detected a forced note of gaiety.
“They are afraid,” she said when she joined Simon behind the comforting bulk of their rock. “What do they think Nigel is going to do? It sounded as though he was casting a spell to give the tourists gastroenteritis, but you don’t believe that that could have any effect on you?”
“Not unless the tourists knew about the spell and were fairly susceptible characters. But they’re not going to know and that’s what worries me. You see if he’s going to keep his place and fight off Bernard he’s got to prove that his spells and rituals work. My mother’s easy meat; give her a hint that there’s a curse on her or that someone has made a poppet and you’d have her rolling in agony next day; and there are plenty of people like her. That’s how voodoo works. But hordes of Easter tourists who’ve never heard of Dad’s spell, how can they be affected?”
“But that’s all right then, surely?” said Jenny. “I mean it’ll just be a flop. And if Bernard’s black mass turns out to be a fabulous party he’ll win round number two, but of course he may land them all in prison.”
“No, what I’m afraid of is that Dad intends to succeed at all costs. I think he’s prepared to go to any lengths to make that spell work; he won’t be fooling himself, just the rest of the coven.”
“But how could he?” asked Jenny. “I mean afflict the strangers with ills and cramps and pains and sickness so that they return to their own lands, or whatever it was he said.”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” said Simon. “We can’t stand by and let one mad old man murder half the holiday makers in Cornwall. Look, could you bear to crawl through the wire fence? If we could get through up this end we could cut across diagonally and join the path farther down and out of sight. If I have to stay up here much longer, watching that lot enjoy themselves I shall be whipping my clothes off and pressing my attentions on you!”
11
The Black Mass
Next morning, Jenny and Simon met in the garden and retired to a secluded bench to discuss the activities of their households.
“There’s a lot of muttering going on in the study,” said Simon, “and he called a seed merchant. Shut the door, too, when I took up a strategic position for eavesdropping. I tried to interest my mother in his plans, but she only said, ‘Your father would never do anything wrong, dear.’ I said you don’t consider making your wife ill wrong then? And having been certain that it was him two days ago, she now says that she has no proof. I’ve never known anyone shift their ground as she does; she’s quite impossible to argue with.”
“How’s her pain?” asked Jenny.
“Seems better. I’m sure it’s psychosomatic. The more fun she has the better she feels. But, by the time she’s sat up there alone for a few days she blames Dad for not having given her the good life and refuses to accept responsibility for herself,” he shook his head. “I asked her why she didn’t get a part-time job and earn some money of her own, but she said your father would never agree to it, he likes to know I’m in the house. It’s total nonsense. The old man doesn’t give a damn. He gets his own bread and cheese and half the time he’s out, buying junk at sales. Now, what about your boss?”
“Overexcited,” said Jenny. “Avid for kicks. Rushing about with gleaming eyes and also shutting the door when she telephones. I suppose that the book has filled her life for some time and finishing it set up a terrible anticlimax. Anyway the idea of a black mass has cheered her up again and I expect to be told at any minute that she’s off to visit a sick friend.”
“Look, we’ve agreed to keep out of that one, haven’t we?” asked Simon anxiously.
“Yes, we have. You needn’t worry, the last thing I want to do is to get mixed up with Bernard again.” Jenny shuddered. “I agree with your father over one thing, Bernard ought to have been cursed and banished for what he did to me and I feel quite angry with Robert for begging him off. I mean it was dangerous, either the well or the boulder could have hurt me badly or even killed me. They ought to have been much tougher with him.”
“I agree,” said Simon, “but they’re all crazy, you know. They’re determined to keep the coven going at any cost and with two mad old men showing off to each other… I really am worried about my father. If he sets off on some doubtful expedition are you game to chase him in your car, or lend it to me if you’re otherwise occupied? Though I must say I’m beginning to feel bad about the way I commandeer it; I think I really ought to go and hire one of my own.”
“Don’t be silly,” answered Jenny. “Of course I’ll come. And if I’ve gone out with Margaret just take the Mini. After all you saved me from Bernard and whatever he meant to do…” her voice trailed away as she remembered the grappling hands, the feel of the rough robe, the smell of camphor and the sheer terror of the attack. She began to shiver uncontrollably.
Simon was looking at her with concern. “I don’t want to be bossy or anything,” he said, “but don’t you think that you really ought to get out of here?”
“I’d made up my mind to go that day walking on the moor,” Jenny told him. “I just haven’t had the courage to tell Margaret yet.”
“Well, I think you should,” said Simon, “because I don’t intend to stay on after Easter and I wouldn’t like to think of you down here on your own once I’ve gone.”
“No, I wouldn’t like to think of it either,” agreed Jenny. “I’ll screw up my courage and tell Margaret. I don’t mind hanging on a day or two to type her short story.”
“Don’t be crazy, if you say that she’ll keep you here forever. A week’s notice is more than she deserves; if they’re not going to chuck Bernard out after what’s happened they really can’t expect you to stay. And if she makes any difficulties, send for me,” he added flexing his muscles and putting on a belligerent expression.
“I can’t have you blacking Margaret’s eyes,” said Jenny with a giggle.
Simon got up. “I’ve been treating the old man with such interest and consideration while I tried to find out what horrors he had planned for the tourists, that I’ve been invited to help him saw up a fallen tree in the coppice. He’s getting in next winter’s firewood. You should have seen his face when I suggested hiring a power saw – the extravagance! See you, Jenny.”
Margaret had a telephone call immediately after lunch and much of her previous excitement drained away. “I’ve got to go to Ermeporth unexpectedly,” she told Jenny. “I don’t suppose I’ll be long, why don’t you go and help the men with their tree-felling?”
Jenny watched the mustard-colored Opel depart and decided against helping the men. They were after all a father and son who had not seen each other for ten years, she felt that they needed some time together even if they didn’t care much for each other. She would do her mending. She would sit outside in the courtyard where the trapped sun had a delicious warmth and mend her red pants and her broken shoulder straps.
She sewed and thought about Colin, who’d receded to a background figure during the last few days. She knew now that she was going to recover. There was still pain and she knew that back in London, resuming a life of routine, she would miss him more and regret him more. Simon had helped. He was so different from Colin, a giver instead of a taker, his kindness felt like balm on a wound, but it was difficult to adjust to another person so soon.
She must tell Margaret that she was leaving, but life was satisfactory at the moment and she
didn’t want to disturb it; by doing nothing a state might be prolonged.
She finished her sewing and picked up the book she was reading – Jude the Obscure, lent by Margaret. As usual she became furious with Jude and his inability to master fate. When she reached the children’s death and the poignant note “Done because we are too menny” she could bear it no more and hurried into the house to make tea. She was comforting herself with buttered toast and the thought that life doesn’t have to be like that when there was a knock on the front door. Simon, she thought, he’d finished sawing. She ran to the door with an unconscious smile of welcome on her face.
There were two young men on the doorstep, who marched in as she opened the door; they carried a long, black, lidded box between them.
“We’ve come for the deceased,” said the leader with low voice and solemn expression, “will you show us to the room, Miss?”
Jenny looked from them to their box in amazement “But no one’s died,” she said. “You must have come to the wrong house.”
“You mean it’s the next house, the one opposite?” asked the young man producing a folded paper from the inner pocket of his shiny dark suit. He was tall with fair hair cut very short which accentuated the smallness of his small, round head set on the long thin neck with a bobbing adam’s apple. The second one was shorter, stockier and dark. Still in his teens Jenny guessed, and suffering from terrible acne. She stood puzzled, anxious to help until the dark young man in a sudden, swift movement kicked the door shut. The action thudded in her mind as the rabbits’ danger signal warns, jolting her to a sharp and horrifying recognition – they were undertakers’ men, Bernard’s men. They saw her face change and rushed her as she screamed. She fought them off frantically, scratching, kicking, struggling from one, only to be grabbed by the other. But she knew that she mustn’t give in with that long box waiting for her. It was her life she was fighting for. She kneed Acne in the stomach, dragged herself from the fair one’s grasp and fled down the passage to the writing room. She snatched off the telephone receiver, dropped it as the fair one pinioned her arms to her sides. She forced one arm free and struggled to dial but as they fought over it the instrument crashed to the floor. Acne was coming back to the fight; she overturned the coffee table in his path and screamed. Surely, Margaret must come home soon, surely Simon must have finished sawing, surely Rosemary must hear? She was sobbing now. It was so unfair, she couldn’t be expected to fight two of them. Surely, her friends weren’t going to desert her, to let her be put in that box. She was backing toward the writing desk. She knew that Margaret’s athame lived in the lefthand drawer, she must get it, she must be armed; it was her only hope, she was getting so tired. With a hand behind her, she opened the drawer and felt for the dagger, she grabbed it as the men threw themselves on her in a combined attack. She struggled ineffectually. They were rougher this time, more determined. Acne, seeking revenge for his battered stomach was twisting her arms behind her back, hurting. Unable to struggle she used her breath for screaming. “Help!” she screamed, “help!” And then a wordless scream of pain as Acne twisted her arm. Surely someone must hear?
A Place With Two Faces Page 12
