Deliberately I passed close to Broom Lodge and hid beneath the stems of a clump of foxgloves. I can only explain that by the mixture of motives which accompanies a foul temper. I wanted to see if routine was proceeding normally. I hoped to catch a glimpse of Elsa. I needed to know if Marrin had returned safely and to see his face. There was no chance of being caught unless somebody stepped on me.
Several of the druidical drop-outs went off into the forest. Useless as witnesses to anything so I let them go. The workshops were innocently busy. The only view of Elsa was her backside as she leaned over a garbage can. So I slid back into the cover of the trees, stormed on my way without caution and ran slap into the major who was peering along a straight ash sapling which he had just cut down.
‘Hi! Where are you off to, Piers? I thought you had gone.’
‘I am off to the police station, Major, and I shall be obliged if you will come with me.’
‘Not going to run me in, are you?’
I didn’t reply to that. My intention was to prevent him trotting back to Broom Lodge and saying he had met me.
‘Had a spot of trouble with the locals?’
I was so angry that I spat out the truth. ‘Your Simeon Marrin tried to kill me last night.’
‘What had you found out, Piers?’
‘Nothing – except that he’s a fraud.’
‘Oh, I know that! But a prophet, possibly a prophet! So I must forgive him so long as he doesn’t land himself in gaol or commit unpardonable blasphemy. Don’t blame you for thinking us all crackers! Simeon and the Stone Age. Me and stirrups.’
‘Stirrups?’
‘Roman cavalry didn’t have ’em in Arthur’s time. Heavily armoured they were. That’s why folk memory called them knights when the legends started seven hundred years later. Hovered around throwing things or poking at the enemy. If you charged, either you fell off or the lance broke. Then you carried on with the spike at the other end.’
Evidently the major was something of a historian. The surprise of finding that there was such a professional side to him made me forget self-pity for a moment and listen.
‘Arthur’s tactics – that’s what I want to improve. Stirrups all they needed to be able to withdraw the lance. Then charge at the trot knee to knee and go through the Saxon infantry like a dose of salts.’
‘Are you proposing to alter the course of history?’ I asked, for he seemed to be considering transmigration backwards in time as well as forwards.
‘Yes. Why not? Aren’t pleased with the present, are you, if you’re on your way to the police station?’
He caressed his ash sapling.
‘That’ll be the right weight when it’s seasoned,’ he said, ‘and it will bend not break. Now why set the cops on Simeon? After all, he only tried to kill you. Much more important things than that! You should find out what he’s up to before he can make a fool of himself again. A pity for Elsa that would be. Nice girl. Young chap like you should make a pass at her. Get your face slapped, I expect, but it won’t hurt.’
‘Don’t you know what he’s up to?’ I asked.
‘Whatever will do the most good to the colony. Ever heard of St Januarius?’
‘The martyr whose blood liquefies?’
‘That’s the chap. Dried blood kept in a holy bottle of some kind. Faithful come in their thousands to see it liquefy. Priests make sure that it damn well does when it should. A lie to the senses of course, but all to the good. It makes thousands believe truths which the senses have nothing to do with. Why are you carrying that kit? Been diving with Simeon?’
‘Yes. At night this time. And over a quicksand where he knew I must drown.’
‘Must or could?’
‘Must. But when the bore arrived it pulled up the whole bottom and me with it.’
‘So he doesn’t know you escaped?’
‘He soon will.’
‘Why not stay dead, old boy?’
‘What for?’
‘Want to know where he gets his gold from, don’t you?’
‘Not for myself.’
‘I know that. Heard you talk about a lot of antique economies on the first night. You’d rather be famous than rich every time. Stay dead and you’ll have a chance. Come marching into Broom Lodge with a warrant and you won’t.’
I asked him what his interest was. As he had once said to me, a monk ought to live in poverty but there was no reason why the monastery should. However Marrin came by his money, it kept the commune going.
‘Simple, Piers, simple! I’ve been worried. Old soldier, sane sometimes. Assume Simeon made the bowl. Where did he get the gold from? Alchemy, my arse! Imagine the scandal if he’s pinching it somewhere! Bloody newspaper headlines! Worse blasphemy than ever. That’s what I want to avoid. Assume he scooped his bowl out of the bed of the Severn. “Then Did Those Feet in Ancient Time?” We have to know what he has been up to. His father was a dear friend of mine. Didn’t tell you that, did I? You stay dead, boy! Much more alive that way. Tuck down in the Forest somewhere near! Needn’t tell me where. Two of us can check up on him when one can’t.’
With his visionary lunacies of Arthur, enhanced by trotting down the Mall in shining armour, his militant Christianity to match and his clipped speech, he puzzled me. He must have been close on fifty, though his straight back and flat belly were those of a fit man ten years younger. But the age difference hardly counted; I realised that he was treating me as if I had been one of his trusted subalterns in trouble. There had been a wholly charming smile when he described himself as sane, sometimes.
‘Stands to reason!’ he went on. ‘You’re dead and I’m not. I can’t dive but I’ve got a car. You haven’t got a car, but you can dive. I’ll be in Little Drybrook outside Bream this evening with some rations. Say, half past seven. I’m a guest and don’t have to dine in mess if I don’t want to. Up to you whether you decide to meet me or not. Old-fashioned Humber. Black. You can’t mistake it.’
When I left him I was far from convinced of his reliability, but I did not go to the Cinderford police station. Marrin’s motive had first to be investigated. If I could not present his reason for attempted murder my allegations might not stand up. It was open to him to swear that he had tried to rescue me, failed to find me and in order to avoid newspaper publicity for his beloved commune had kept quiet about the accident.
To remain dead was not difficult. My name and face were only known at Beachley and Blakeney, where I had stayed at inns on this side of the river. So movement was no problem, nor was food. Provided that I watched the street long enough to be sure that no member of the commune was about I could enter any village shop without arousing curiosity. Though the Forest seemed gloriously empty there were a good many hikers on the green tracks and a few genuine tramps drawing unemployment pay from a post office, saving on rent and living life as – in good weather – it should be lived. I could pass as either.
Business for the day was to find a secluded spot not too far from Broom Lodge which I could make my headquarters. I thought the right choice would be one of the conifer woods close-planted by the Forestry Commission, dark and dismal but without anything to attract travellers on foot who naturally stick to the great oaks spreading over their waving green sea. First, I quartered a plantation near Staple Edge. That was no good – neither dell nor free mine, too dense and thus with a risk of fire if I lit one. However, it held an outcrop of rock forming an unmistakable landmark, and there I hid the diving kit which was a nuisance to carry and could attract attention. Then I struck south-east towards Blakeney and found another dense and trackless stand of conifers not far from Broom Lodge.
It covered the side of a steep hill, pock-marked by the typical depressions which might be due to Romans after iron or free miners after coal. Exploration led me to a level patch where the timber was thin enough to admit some sunlight. A building, which may have been a large cottage or a small iron foundry, had stood there once and its site had not been completely cleared by the fore
sters. The bricks of an outside lavatory still stood to a height of some four feet – a weatherproof den if I could find a roof for the three sides. That was provided by a rusty base plate from some engine. When a lever and a ramp of loose stones had got it into position I covered it with dead branches so that it looked like a rubbish heap to be burned when the woods were safely wet. More twigs laid over the turf beneath formed a bed – uncomfortable, but still a bed. As for fire, there was no danger whatever, for among the ruins was the blackened dome of a hearth with a few courses of chimney. Industrial rather than sylvan peace, but it served very well. There was no sign that gypsies or enterprising small boys had ever pushed through to the heart of the plantation – no paper bags, plastic bottles or travellers’ turds.
All morning, while eyes and legs were searching for a home, mind had been pondering the major’s question: did Marrin make the golden cauldron or was it ancient work? That rich, two-handled vessel, primitive but exquisitely curved, might be Saxon or a Roman import from the east. I am no authority on art, and without an original in front of me for comparison I could not tell. In any case this conjecture came up against a dead end. Why the smoke screen of alchemy and the yarn of a win on the football pools if Marrin had discovered and dug up an ancient hoard from tomb or temple, and could have made a fortune even after splitting with the state or the landowner?
I could not give the answer, but I was convinced that I was on the right track. Whatever he had found – and the Forest with its ancient mines and ports was as likely a place as any to unearth a buried treasure – he was keeping quiet about it and iniquitously melting it down himself to support his bloody colony of cranks.
I was at last very content that the major had advised me to remain dead. I was free to study Marrin’s movements without his ever dreaming that in his mysterious excursions a silent follower was closely behind, ready to expose him and rescue for posterity what treasure was left. Now that I had a home, I could familiarise myself with my territory as cautiously as any animal. I was about to write ‘hunted animal’, but that was false. I was an animal with a grudge and my quarry was human.
Never before had I realised how unforgiving is the conflict between the sacredness of knowledge and the acquisitiveness of the greedy, whether for the sake of personal wealth or the propagation of a creed, positive right against a wretched negative. Marrin would put it the other way round, convinced to the extent of murder.
In spite of the major’s sound advice I might well have decided against meeting him that evening if he had not uttered the words ‘with the rations’. Since Elsa’s sandwiches the night before I had had nothing to eat except a slab of greasy fried fish bought from a passing van. Shops anywhere near my headquarters were to be avoided. The corpse was learning that continual caution was needed if it was to stay dead among the living.
The map showed me that Little Drybrook was a hamlet safely far from Broom Lodge, which could be reached by forest tracks. I arrived early to reconnoitre the surroundings and waited just off the roadside. His battered car was unmistakable.
‘Ah! Glad to see you. Fixed up? Better be! Rain tonight,’ he said as soon as I stopped the car.
‘I can keep it out.’
‘Used to open-air life? Not all books?’
‘Not all books. Camels, donkeys, canoes – you name it. I’ve travelled by it.’
‘Middle East?’
‘Middle East.’
‘Colder up here.’
‘Colder in Greenland.’
‘Been there too?’
His voice sounded regretful when, finding myself slipping into his staccato speech, I spoke of the extreme climates I had known. Since he had been just too young for the war he may have seen little active service. Possibly the unexciting existence of a regular soldier had unhinged a too contemplative mind and inclined him towards dreams of a past in which war for the sake of Christianity was the normal spice of life. He’d have done better to choose the Crusades, but I suppose the very dubious Arthur gave more scope for imagination.
‘Good man! Thought you’d manage! But you’ll need a blanket.’
He handed over a splendid carriage rug dating from the time when there were no car heaters and told me to take it with me when I left.
‘Jump in! Short run into the Forest where we won’t be interrupted.’
He had found an idyllic spot between the armchair roots of a noble oak where he opened his picnic basket. It had a luxurious air of the eighteen-nineties about it and had belonged, he told me, to his grandfather. Gin, whisky, white Burgundy, strawberries and half a cold Severn salmon appeared, each from its proper compartment.
‘Couldn’t swipe anything from Broom Lodge,’ he said, ‘so I got it in Lydney and hung about till the chap had cooked it for me. Ought to know how. Catches them.’
While we were eating I encouraged him to talk of his religion. He was as sure of immortality as any pious Christian but considered that Marrin’s belief in reincarnation was an unnecessary theory. I ventured to bring up the question of Arthur’s battles, in which he himself seemed to be personally involved; then he only choked on his salmon and raised an emotional, hot-gospeller’s voice to declare that the past was always the present.
‘What’s the past? Only a string of presents one after another. No such thing as time, Simeon says. He’s quite right there. So the past is always the present if you can recognise it. That’s the difficulty: to recognise the fourth dimension when you’re in it. Could draw a diagram if I were a mathematician.’
Having cordially accepted the string-of-presents theory as expounded by Major Quixote – there’s a flaw in it somewhere, but it does account for visions of the past – I started on the strawberries and asked him how much he knew of Marrin’s movements.
‘Too busy to leave the place in the day much unless he’s off to London to sell his trinkets, but he does go out at night when the tide serves his purpose. Meditating under water they say.’
‘And if I want to leave a message for you, how shall I do it?’
He asked if I was sure that I could find again the ragged stump of the sapling which he had cut. Yes, I was sure.
‘Then bury your note alongside and put a stick to mark it. I’ll do the same.’
It was now twilight. I thanked him warmly and got up to go.
‘Any trouble with alcohol?’ he asked.
‘No trouble.’
‘Good! Take the whisky bottle.’
I thanked him warmly and left, but did not go home. First I watched the major drive away; he was shaking his head and talking to himself when he got into the car, perhaps in sadness at the criminality of his enigmatic friend. Then I set out on foot for Broom Lodge. I reckoned that if there was anything at all in this meditation over the flowing tide, Marrin, after last night, would have a good deal to meditate about and might get down to it straightaway.
It was nearly dark when I arrived, so that I was perfectly safe in the garden on the open front of the house. Lights were on in the hall for those who preferred earnest discussion to bed; lights were going off upstairs as craftsmen and farm hands who would be up early settled down to sleep. It occurred to me that if Simeon Marrin wished to give his disappearances an air of spiritual mystery he would slip away at the back into the shadows of the trees rather than walk out of the front door like ordinary humanity; so I made a circuit into the woodland at the back and waited.
A little before midnight, eight persons left the house and took the forest track into the darkness. I could tell by his height that one of them was Marrin, carrying a box. Another appeared to be carrying a trumpet. When they had passed, I followed. I had no experience of this sort of prowling, but it seemed simple enough so long as the pursued made enough noise, however slight, to cover the sound of the pursuer. Of that there was little, for I kept to the soft grass in the middle of the ride and was ultra-careful where I stepped.
It was soon plain that their destination was not the river but somewhere deep in the Fores
t. They stopped in an open space between the oaks where the young green bracken was thick over the brown mat of last year’s fronds. Marrin used a powerful flashlight to satisfy himself that there was no one in the immediate neighbourhood, but omitted to search behind tree trunks. It looked as if an open-air ceremony was about to begin. That did not surprise me. I had thought all along that the commune was very secular – plenty of casual discussions and meetings but, apart from the hours of meditation, no set ritual. I had expected from that druidical inner circle robes, invocations and other impressive mumbo-jumbo.
Now I got it, and in that setting it was indeed impressive. The trumpet was not a trumpet but the torch of old times. When stuck in the ground and lit, it threw a steady, smoky red light over the proceedings, allowing me to see that Marrin was clothed in a long blue robe. He opened the casket which I had seen in the laboratory and took out the golden cauldron, lifting it high above his head by the two handles with the gesture of a priest. Its weight was obvious, and I was again convinced by its triumphant simplicity that it was ancient. While one of his seven tonsured acolytes chanted in a low voice some language that I think was old Welsh – as near as one could get to the vernacular in which British seamen and miners would have prayed to Nodens if they had no Latin – Marrin passed the cauldron to another. A third who carried a covered pot lifted the lid and poured the contents into the cauldron. A strong, intoxicating scent of herbs and honey came downwind to me. Meanwhile the remaining four stamped out a circle in the bracken with Marrin in the centre. When it was complete, one of them passed the cauldron back to Marrin across the circumference.
The object of the rite, so far as I could guess (and since the language of gestures is universal one tends to guess right), was to propitiate or help the spirits of the dead. I don’t wonder that Marrin had called a conclave of adepts. I’m going to need quite a lot of propitiation. He did not of course mention my name. To him alone the ceremony had special meaning.
Summon the Bright Water Page 5
