The Moorstone Sickness

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘Why don’t you give it a rest,’ Mrs Palfrey said, ‘and stop prattling. Old fool.’ To Cassen she added disdainfully, ‘He wouldn’t have got anywhere if it hadn’t been for me.’

  Freeman stared at her for a moment then, assuming a nonchalant air, said: ‘Well, what time is this thing supposed to start? It’s getting late.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Mrs Palfrey said, ‘you’ve waited long enough. Can’t you be patient a little while longer?’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ Freeman retorted, ‘but I don’t feel well.’ Turning then from the old woman’s scornful expression he said to Cassen: ‘I must go and sit down for a minute.’ With slow steps he shuffled out of sight. Cassen and Mrs Palfrey watched him go, then they too moved away to join the surrounding throng.

  Rowan looked over at Hal. He was gazing at her. After a moment he said, ‘Don’t worry. We shall be all right.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. She—Mrs Palfrey—told me that we shan’t be harmed. Not in the least, she said.’

  As she finished speaking she became aware of a great commotion in the crowd and then the descending of a sudden hush. She looked up and saw that all eyes were now turned towards the figure of the vicar, Endleson. He had moved to stand beneath the swaying lanterns, his back to the wall. Someone over to the left murmured, ‘It’s starting,’ and Rowan closed her eyes in dread.

  31

  There had been singing and chanting, the voices coming from all sides and from down below. The sounds had rung out over the hillside. Now, the voices were still again.

  Mrs Palfrey and Tom Freeman stood flanking the tall, suntanned figure of Endleson. Lifting his head slightly, Hal found himself looking straight into Freeman’s eyes. Likewise, he realized, Mrs Palfrey was standing in a direct line with Rowan.

  Turning to Rowan he saw that she lay with her eyes tight shut. Don’t worry, he had said to her; it would all be all right. And of course he had lied. Just as Mrs Palfrey had lied when she’d said they wouldn’t be harmed. But there, the truth of her statement all depended on what was meant by harm.

  He closed his eyes and let his head sink back onto the cushion. He was bathed in sweat. He knew what the outcome of all this would be—and the thought filled him with terror. Perhaps, he said to himself, it would be better if he did not know; if Alison had never told him. But he did know, and it was pointless to conjecture.

  He had most of the answers now—and those he lacked were unimportant. He knew now why Mrs Prescot, their housekeeper, had been replaced—and he could guess at how it had happened. He knew now why ugly or old or infirm strangers were not welcome in Moorstone. Only the young and the healthy were wanted here. People like Paul Cassen and David Lockyer, people like Alison and Mary Hughes, people like Rowan and himself. He and Rowan, they were just two of the endless number that had passed this way. Who knew how many there had been? Who knew how many there would be in the future? There would be no end to them. The whole thing would just go on and on. . . .

  And what of those others who had lain here before, he wondered. Had any of them known what it was all about? Had any of them guessed at all? No, they couldn’t have. Who could? Ever? It wasn’t possible. They must have lain here then just as Rowan lay here now—totally ignorant of what was happening, the reason for it all. The young Cassen, the actor David Lockyer, Mary Hughes the painter—not one of them could have guessed. Alison, for all her suspicions, had not. And now Alison—the Alison he had known—was gone. Just as those others had gone—the real Cassen, the real Lockyer, the real Mary Hughes. And now, tonight, it was to be the turn of Rowan and himself.

  He opened his eyes again. He was glad of the cushion beneath his head; it allowed him to see without too much difficulty. He watched as Mrs Palfrey faced the vicar, a teacup and a small bowl in her hands. Freeman, holding similar objects, said peevishly, ‘I thought I was to be first. I went to the house first. I got my claim in first.’ ‘Be patient,’ Endleson told him. ‘Your turn will come,’ while Mrs Palfrey tossed her head and said scornfully, ‘Listen to the old fool. Just listen to him.’

  The vicar took the bowl from her hand, looked at its contents and said, ‘Were these willingly given?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘willingly.’

  He nodded, upended the bowl and cast the nail parings into the brazier. Then, taking from her the teacup he asked, ‘And this too was willingly given?’

  Paul Cassen took a step forward and gave the answer to this. ‘It was,’ he said, and Hal thought back to the morning when he had sat in Cassen’s surgery and watched him take blood from Rowan’s arm.

  Following Cassen’s reply Endleson gestured to Mrs Palfrey and she raised the cup to her lips. Briefly she drank from it then placed it in Endleson’s hand. Hal watched as the cup was tipped and red liquid streamed onto the glowing coals. Hissing steam rose in a cloud, its sound joining with a long, deep sigh that came from the throats of the onlookers.

  Complete silence. Mrs Palfrey put up a hand and wiped her mouth. She stood quite still for a few moments and then, giving a little smile at the watching assembly, stepped purposefully forward.

  As she did so two men moved out from the throng. One was Lockyer, the other a tall, dark-haired man whom Hal had seen on several occasions around the village. They followed the old woman to where Rowan lay, her eyes still closed. Lockyer knelt at Rowan’s head, the other near her feet. Slowly, and with some obvious difficulty, Mrs Palfrey got down onto the stone at Lockyer’s side.

  Hal, watching horrified and helpless, saw Rowan’s eyes open as she heard the sounds of movement immediately about her. As she screamed in terror he cried out, ‘Don’t touch her! Don’t! Please don’t!’ No one took any notice. While Lockyer held her head the other man gripped her feet. Tied by the cords and held by the hands she could only writhe and squirm and scream while Hal looked on, tears pouring from his eyes, unable to move an inch.

  And then, suddenly, Rowan’s voice was cut off in mid cry. Mrs Palfrey, after throwing back her head to take in a great gulp of air, had thrown herself forward and covered Rowan’s open mouth with her own.

  Again and again she did it, the old woman. Lying full length on the stone, one misshapen hand pinching Rowan’s nose, the other holding her chin, she kept sucking in the air and then forcing her breath into Rowan’s lungs. It went on and on and on. And all the time it was happening the surrounding onlookers edged eagerly closer, cheering and stamping their approval. Party squeakers squeaked, whistles and horns were blown and bells were rung. It was as if they were watching a game.

  Then all at once, just when the excitement of the crowd had risen to the point of hysteria, the ritual ended. Mrs Palfrey took one last, long, deep breath and clamped her mouth once more over Rowan’s. And this time the old woman’s body was shaken by a sudden, violent shudder. Again it happened, and again. While Rowan’s wide eyes rolled in their sockets the old woman’s legs twitched, quivered and squirmed as if she were in the throes of some obscene orgasm. Held by the two men Rowan’s body jerked and her back arched. Mrs Palfrey gave a final violent shudder, lifted her face from Rowan’s and sank down onto the stone at her side.

  It was finished.

  The deafening burst of applause that came from the crowd died away as Paul Cassen stepped forward, bent over the women and felt the pulse of each of them. Turning back to Endleson he gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘I think it’s taken,’ he said. The crowd cheered. Then he added, ‘But she mustn’t be moved . . .’ Who was he talking about? Hal wondered. Rowan or Mrs Palfrey? Looking at Rowan he saw that her face was peaceful again, her body as still as that of the old woman beside her.

  The voices of the onlookers had fallen now into a general chatter which was marked here and there by little laughs and excited exclamations. Then those sounds too died away and only the voice of Tom Freeman could be heard. ‘Now me,’ he was saying plaintively. ‘Now me. Come on—let’s get on with it.’ Hal raised his head and looked at the old man as he moved agitatedly about at the vica
r’s side.

  And now, he said to himself, it’s my turn . . .

  The same procedure was to be followed, Hal saw.

  Freeman, barely able to contain his excitement, stood pale-faced, cup and bowl in hand, before the vicar. Endleson reached out, took the bowl, looked into it and solemnly asked: ‘Was this given willingly?’

  Freeman looked anxiously over into the ring of onlookers and gave a grin of relief as Cleary the barber raised his hand. ‘Oh, yes, it was,’ Cleary said. ‘Yes, indeed.’ Then, while Freeman beamed his approval Endleson nodded and turned with the bowl towards the glowing brazier.

  Beyond the words of the ritual Hal had gradually become aware of a growing murmur coming up from the hillside and down around the base of the Stone. Now, as he listened, the murmur erupted and the air rang with the clamour of excited voices. Endleson, holding high the bowl, stopped, frowned and looked over towards the steps. The next second a man, a stranger, had pushed his way through the crowd, strode forward and snatched the bowl from the vicar’s hand. Turning then towards Freeman, he calmly relieved the old man of the cup.

  After a moment of stunned silence the people once again all seemed to be talking at once, though above their voices Tom Freeman’s could be heard as he cried out over and over, ‘What’s happening? What’s going on?’ And then, near the top of the steps, the crowd parted and three men appeared, side by side. The one in the centre was being carried by the other two, sitting on the seat of their linked, crossed hands. Moving closer to Endleson the bearers stooped and placed their burden on the stone floor, then stepped back. The man sat there, supporting his twisted body on his arms, his single leg thrust out before him. Hal stared. There was something about the face. Like the body it was grotesquely disfigured, but still it retained the trace of something that was familiar to him. Then, in the same second that realization came he heard a voice on his right murmur the name of Lewis Childs.

  Lewis Childs. So he had managed to return after all.

  As he looked at Childs Hal became aware that Childs was looking at him. Even from this distance he could detect the gloating, covetous expression. He turned away and shifted his gaze towards the figures of the women who lay on his left. Rowan and Mrs Palfrey. Still neither one had stirred. Lying side by side, they looked to be asleep.

  ‘It’s not fair!’

  Tom Freeman’s voice rang out and Hal turned to see him struggling in the arms of Childs’s bearers. He saw Endleson gesticulating, nodding and shaking his head, obviously trying to reason with the old man. It was doing no good, though. Freeman, ashen now, was fighting with all his strength to be free. ‘It’s not fair!’ he cried again. ‘I staked my claim. I was there at the house the whole time. It’s not fair.’

  And then Lewis Childs turned and looked up at the vicar. ‘Get on with it,’ he said.

  The bowl and the cup were held out. Endleson paused, gave a nod, took the bowl in his hand and threw the shorn hair onto the coals.

  His words almost drowned by Freeman’s desperate, whining cries, Endleson took the cup, held it up and asked: ‘And was this also willingly given?’

  Paul Cassen stepped forward. ‘It was.’

  Endleson stooped and handed the cup to the man on the floor. Childs drank from it and handed it back. Next moment the rest of its contents had been poured into the brazier.

  Heart thudding, Hal waited.

  His time was here; now.

  As Cassen and Cleary came to him to take a grip on his head and legs he saw Lewis Childs begin his slow, clumsy progress across the stone floor. It seemed to take forever. Grunting and gasping the crippled man moved towards him, slithering along like some great injured reptile.

  But then at last he was there.

  Hal looked up as Childs’s face loomed above him. He looked into his eyes. One of them was quite blind.

  Childs’s head went back and he sucked at the air. When, the next second, he brought it down again his mouth was still wide open. Hal felt the open mouth close over his own and cling there, like a leech.

  32

  He dreamed that he was floating, flying. He had soared upwards at first, high above the hills, above the clouds. There he had hovered for a long, long time and then slowly drifted down again. Breaking through a layer of mist he saw himself lying below. I must get back, he thought.

  Then, opening his eyes he realized that he was still lying on the high plateau of the Stone. He saw the people there, all standing around, staring. Suddenly the memory of the nightmare came to him.

  Aware of movement closer to his left he turned his head. Right beside him lay a discarded blanket and cushion. Beyond the cushion he saw the girl’s face. Rowan’s face. He found that the judging of distance, visually, had suddenly become difficult, and then he realized that he was seeing with only one eye. He could see her, though. That face he loved so well. The blue eyes. The heavy, dark hair—untidy now and falling tousled about the smooth cheek. He saw Lockyer there too, bending low, taking off the girl’s blanket and untying her bonds. He watched as she smiled up into his face, as he gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. She stood there in her slippers, nightdress and blue dressing gown, chafing the circulation back into her limbs.

  ‘Rowan—’ he said, and realized that the voice was not his own.

  She reacted to it, though—turning, glancing at him and then back to Lockyer. Laughing, she said, ‘Rowan—yes—I must get used to that name now.’ She looked down at Hal again. Her brief glance was at once cold and pitying. Then, on Lockyer’s arm she began to move away.

  Turning, he saw close by him the old figure of Mrs Palfrey. She was sitting on the stone floor, staring after the form of the young woman. In her horrified, bewildered eyes he could see that realization of the truth was dawning.

  Looking towards the wall he saw Lewis Childs standing talking and laughing with a group of villagers. He’s wearing my clothes, he thought; my face, my body . . . Lowering his eyes he looked down at the body that was his own now—at the ugly, crippled form that had so recently belonged to the other. Now it was Childs’s no longer; now it was his. He had known it would happen, but the knowing hadn’t prepared him for the horror of the reality.

  ‘Help us . . .’ he called out.

  It had all been for this—as Alison had told him it would be. Now Childs could continue his chosen life;—just as Mrs Palfrey could have her life again—this time in Rowan’s body and with Rowan’s name.

  ‘Help us,’ he called again. And still no one came. No one even looked his way. Many of the people were leaving the plateau, he saw. The ceremony was over. In twos and threes they were moving towards the steps. Soon they would be back in the comfort of their homes. Among those remaining was Tom Freeman. Over by the brazier with its dying coals Hal could see the pathetic, defeated old man. Freeman kept crying out that he had been cheated. But no one listened.

  ‘Hal . . . ?’

  He turned at the sound of his name and saw once again the old woman who sat on the stone nearby. As he looked into the stunned eyes he thought briefly of Miss Larkin as she had stood on the edge of the chalkpit. The look in the eyes was the same. Now he knew that when he had faced the old woman that day he had in fact been looking at the horror and bewilderment of the young Mary Hughes. It had been her spirit there; her soul, her mind, her personality—her talent, too; all of it trapped in an old, cancerous, discarded shell of a body. No wonder she had made such a choice.

  Now, looking into these old eyes—the eyes of Mrs Palfrey—he could see Rowan there, see her misery so clearly. She didn’t understand it—she never would—but she knew the truth, finally.

  ‘Hal . . .’ She spoke his name again as he looked at her. He nodded.

  ‘Yes, it is me,’ he said.

  She continued to stare at him for a moment or two, then, her voice cracking she looked down at her body and said, ‘What have they done? What have they done to us?’

  There was nothing he could say. After a while he closed his eyes an
d let his head sink back onto the stone.

  ‘Lewis . . . Lewis . . .’

  The voice spoke the name several times before he realized that it was being addressed to him. He opened his eyes and saw Paul Cassen standing above him. Cassen knelt beside him and Hal turned his face away.

  ‘It was necessary,’ he heard Cassen say. ‘It had to be.’

  Hal didn’t answer. After a moment Cassen went on:

  ‘Look—in a few minutes they’ll come to take you home. Both of you.’

  ‘Home?’ Hal looked at him. ‘Home . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, well—they’ll take you to Primrose House. You’ll be looked after there.’

  ‘Yes, and labelled insane—like all the others.’

  Cassen shrugged. ‘Would anyone, outside, believe you?’ He paused. ‘But you can continue with your writing there—if you want to. And you can have all your old gramophone records too.’ He looked over at the old woman and then back to Hal. ‘Anyway, at least you’ll have each other.’ He got up then and brushed the dust from his trousers. Behind him the remaining villagers were taking down the lanterns. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘But listen—just—just try and relax. Try and get used to it.’ He turned and walked away.

  Hal looked over to the woman. She was sitting staring into space, little misshapen hands curled in her lap. Rowan. This old lady with the wrinkled skin, snub nose and frizzy hair. Rowan . . .

  He tried to sit up and found he couldn’t. This body, this ruin of a shell in which he was clothed, was now a part of himself.

  ‘Ro . . .’

  She turned her dull eyes towards him.

  ‘Help me,’ he said.

  Slowly, as if waking from a dream, she got up, came to him and bent above him.