‘The Devil himself.’
‘Not far short o’ that, according to Ernie.’
Again Mr Gauntlett found difficulty in keeping back his laughter.
‘What happened?’
‘Ernie hadn’t had no luck with the rabbits so far. There didn’t seem none o’ them about. Then, as soon as he drove into the big meadow, he noticed a nasty light round The Fingers. It seemed to come in flashes like summer lightning.’
‘Nasty?’
‘That’s what Ernie called it.’
‘Probably was summer lightning. We’ve had quite a bit of that. Or his own headlights reflected on something.’
‘He said he was sure it wasn’t the car’s lamps, or the moonlight. Unearthly, he said. It didn’t seem a natural light.’
‘When did he see the Devil?’
‘Four o’ them there were.’
‘Four devils? What form did they take?’
‘Dancing in and out o’ the elder trees, and between the Stones, it looked like, turning shoulder to shoulder t’ords each other, taking hold o’arms, shaking their heads from side to side.’
‘How did he know they were devils?’
‘They had horns.’
‘He probably saw some horned sheep. There are a flock of them round about here.’
‘It was horns like deer. High ones.’
‘How were they dressed?’
‘They weren’t dressed, ’cording to Ernie.’
‘They were naked?’
‘Ernie swears they were naked as the day they were born—if they were human, and were born.’
‘Men or women?’
‘Ernie couldn’t properly see.’
‘Can’t he tell?’
Mr Gauntlett gave up any attempt to restrain the heartiness of his laughter. When that stopped he agreed that Ernie Dunch’s sophistication might well fall short of being able to distinguish between the sexes.
‘Appearing and disappearing they were, Ernie said, and there might ha’ been more than four, though he didn’t stop long to look. He figured there might ha’ been two male, and two female, at least, but sometimes it seemed more, sometimes less, one of ’em a real awful one, but, such was the state he was in hisself, he was uncertain o’ the numbers. Even in his own home, when he was telling the tale—Mrs Dunch and me nigh him—Ernie began to shake. He said he didn’t go any nearer to The Fingers, once he saw what he saw, just swivelled the Land Rover round as quick as might be, and made for the farm. He said to me ’twas a wonder he didn’t turn the Land Rover the wrong way up on the run back, banging through the tussocks o’ grass and furrows o’ ploughland. His forewheel did catch in one rut, but he managed to right the wheel again. Mrs Dunch says he was more dead than alive, when he got back. She says she never saw him like that before. Ernie swears he don’t know how he did it.’
‘He thought they were supernatural beings?’
‘I don’t know what Ernie thought—that the Devil had come to take him away.’
‘They must have been some jokers.’
‘You tell Ernie Dunch they were jokers, Mr Jenkins.’
‘If they’d been the genuine ghosts of The Fingers there’d only have been two of them.’
‘Ernie may have seen double. He wasn’t at all positive about the numbers. All he was positive about was that he wouldn’t go up there again that night for a thousand pounds.’
‘This happened last night as ever is?’
‘St John’s Eve.’
Mr Gauntlett, always an artist in effects, mentioned the date quite quietly.
‘So it was.’
‘Mrs Dunch reminded Ernie o’ that herself.’
‘What did Mrs Dunch think?’
‘Told Ernie it was the last time she’d let him out after dark with the Land Rover. She said she’d never spent such a night. Every time the young owls hooted, Ernie would give a great jump in the bed.’
‘What do you think yourself, Mr Gauntlett?’
Mr Gauntlett shook his head. He was not going to commit himself, however much prepared to laugh at Ernie Dunch about such a matter.
‘Ernie looked done up. That’s true enough. Not at all hisself.’
‘Would you be prepared to visit The Devil’s Fingers, Mr Gauntlett, say at midnight on Hallowe’en?’
Mr Gauntlett looked sly.
‘Don’t know about Hallowe’en, when it might be chilly, but I wouldn’t say I’d not been on that same down on a summer night as a lad—nor all that far from The Fingers—and never took no harm from it.’
Mr Gauntlett smiled in reminiscence.
‘You must have struck a quiet night, Mr Gauntlett.’
‘Well, it were pretty quiet some o’ the time. Some o’ the time it were very quiet.’
Mr Gauntlett did not enlarge on the memory. It sounded a pleasant enough one. At that moment Mr Tudor appeared beside us. I don’t think Mr Gauntlett had more to say, either about Ernie Dunch’s experiences at The Devil’s Fingers, or his own in the same neighbourhood. He now transferred his attention to Mr Tudor. Mr Tudor either wanted to ask Mr Gauntlett’s advice, as a local sage of some standing, or the two of them had been hatching a plot, before the meeting, which now required to be carried a stage further. They moved off together towards the easterly fork of the ridge. I pushed on alone.
This final field, plough when Isobel and I had visited the place several years before, was now rough pasture. In their individual efforts to obtain an overall picture of what would be the effect on the landscape of the various proposals, the assembled company had become increasingly spread out. Several were studying maps, making notes as they tried to estimate the position of proposed new constructions and plantations represented by the markers with their different coloured flags. Mrs Salter, pruning-hook under one arm, writing in a little book, was furthest in advance. Now, she fell back with the rest to gain perspective. I found myself alone in that part of the field. Over to the east, the direction where Mr Gauntlett and Mr Tudor had disappeared together, lay the workings of the quarry scheduled by its owners for expansion. High chutes, sloping steeply down from small cabins that looked like the turrets of watchtowers, rose out of an untidy jumble of corrugated iron sheds and lofty mounds of crushed limestone. The sun, still shining between dark clouds that had blown up, caught the reflection on the windscreens of rows of parked cars and trucks. To the west, over by Ernie Dunch’s farm, still more clouds were drifting up, in confirmation of knowledgeable forecasts that the day would end in rain.
The scene in the fields round about resembled a TEWT—Tactical Exercise Without Troops—such as were held in the army, groups of figures poring over maps, writing in notebooks, gazing out over the countryside. My own guilty feelings, on such occasions, came back to me, those sudden awarenesses at military exercises of the kind that, instead of properly concentrating on tactical features, I was musing on pictorial or historical aspects of the landscape; what the place had seen in the past; how certain painters would deal with its physical features. That was just what was happening now. Instead of trying to comprehend in a practical manner the quarrymen’s proposals, I was concentrating on The Devil’s Fingers themselves.
The elder thicket was flowering, blossom like hoar frost, a faint sprinkling of brownish red, powdered over the green and white ivy-strangled tree-trunks, gnarled and twisted, as in an Arthur Rackham goblin-haunted illustration. In winter, the Stones would have been visible from this point. Now they were hidden by the ragged untidy elders. The trees might well have been cleared away, leaving The Fingers on the skyline. Possibly the quasi-magical repute attributed to elderberries—the mysterious bleedings of which Mr Gauntlett spoke—had something to do with their preservation.
I was mistaken in supposing Mrs Salter the foremost of our party, that none of the others had pressed so far as the elder thicket. That was what I had decided to do myself, a small luxury, before bending the mind to practical problems. Somebody else from the morning’s expedition must have had the sam
e idea; got well ahead at the start, then moved on at high speed across the big field. Now he was slowly returning towards the rest of us. I did not know him by sight. The dark suit probably meant an official. Most of the other representatives of local authorities had moved off to the right and left by now, or withdrawn again some way to the rear. As this figure emerged from the elder trees, advanced down the hill, I felt pretty sure he had not been among those collected earlier at the stile. He must be a stray visitor, a tourist, even professional archaeologist, who had hoped to avoid sightseers by picking a comparatively early hour to visit the monument. Usually there was no one to be seen for miles, except possibly a farmer herding cows or driving a tractor. This man could not have chosen a worse morning for having the place to himself.
He did seem a little taken aback by the crowd of people fanned out across the landscape, the markers on the higher ground, their coloured flags looking like little pockets of resistance in a battle. He paused, contemplated the scene, then continued to walk swiftly, almost painfully, down the slope. There was something dazed, stunned, about his demeanour. The dark suit, bald head, spectacles, looked for some reason fantastically out of place in these surroundings, notwithstanding the fact that others present were bespectacled, bald, dark-suited.
‘Russell?’
‘Hi, Nicholas.’
Gwinnett was far less astonished than myself. In fact he did not seem surprised at all. He was carrying under his arm what looked like a large black notebook, equipment that had at first assimilated him with other note-takers in the fields round about.
‘I was told you live near here, Nicholas.’
‘Fairly near.’
‘What’s going on?’
He managed to establish a situation in which I, rather than he, found it necessary to give an explanation for being on that spot at that moment. I tried to summarize briefly for him the problem of the quarry and The Devil’s Fingers. Gwinnett nodded. He made some technically abstruse comment on quarrying. In spite of outward calmness he was not looking at all well. This was very noticeable at close quarters. Gwinnett’s appearance was ghastly, as if he had drunk too much, been up all night, or—on further inspection—slept on the ground in his clothes. The dark suit was covered in dust and scraps of grass. His shoes, too, were caked with mud. He brought with him even greater disquiet than usual; a general sense of insecurity increased by the skies above becoming all at once increasingly dark.
‘Have you been visiting The Devil’s Fingers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re staying near here?’
‘Not far.’
‘With friends?’
‘No.’
He named an inn at a small town a few miles distant. It appeared from what he said that he was alone there.
‘I didn’t know you were interested in prehistoric stuff—or has this something to do with your Jacobean dramatists?’
Gwinnett, as was often his habit, did not answer at once. He seemed to be examining his own case, either for a clue as to what had indeed happened to him, or, already knowing that, in an effort to decide how much to reveal.
‘I’ve lost my way. Just now I came up the same path, as well as I could remember it. I don’t know how to get down to the road from here.’
‘You’ve been to The Devil’s Fingers before?’
‘We came up on foot last night. I couldn’t sleep when I got back. I thought I’d drive out here again. Make more notes on the spot. It’s because I’m tired I’ve forgotten the path down, I guess.’
‘You’ve got a car with you?’
‘It’s parked in a gully off the road. Beside some old cars that have been dumped there. I took the steep path up the hill. It stops after a while. That’s why I can’t find the place.’
‘You were here last night?’
‘Some of the night.’
His manner was odd even for Gwinnett. He talked like a man in a dream. It occurred to me that he was recovering from a drug. The suspicion was as likely to be unfounded as earlier ones, in Venice, that he was a homosexual, or a reclaimed drunk.
‘Were you one of the party dancing round The Devil’s Fingers last night?’
Gwinnett laughed aloud at that. He did not often laugh. To do so was the measure of the state he was in. His laughter was the reverse of reassuring.
‘Why? Were they seen? How do you know about that?’
‘They were seen.’
‘I wasn’t one of the dancers. I was there.’
‘What the hell was going on?’
‘The stag-mask dance.’
‘Who was performing?’
‘Scorp Murtlock and his crowd.’
‘Are they at your pub too?’
‘They’re on their own. In a caravan. Those taking part in the rites travelled together. Scorp thought that necessary. I met them near here. We came up to the place together.’
‘Who were the rest of the party?’
‘Ken Widmerpool, two girls—Fiona and Rusty—a boy called Barnabas.’
‘Was Widmerpool in charge?’
‘No, Scorp was in charge. That was what the row was about.’
‘There was a row?’
Gwinnett puckered up his face, as if he was not sure he had spoken correctly. Then he confirmed there had been a row. A bad row, he said. Its details still seemed unclear in his mind.
‘Did Widmerpool dance?’
‘When the rite required that.’
‘Naked?’
‘Some of the time.’
‘Why only some of the time?’
‘Ken was mostly recording.’
‘How do you mean—recording?’
‘Sound and pictures. It was a shame things went wrong. I guess that was bound to happen between those two.’
The flashes of light seen by Ernie Dunch were now explained. Gwinnett seemed to find the operation, in which he had himself been anyway to some extent engaged, less out of the ordinary, less regrettable, than the fact that some untoward incident had marred the proceedings.
‘Russell, what was all this about? Why were you there? Why was Widmerpool there? I can just understand Murtlock and his crew going on in that sort of way—one’s reading about such things every day in the paper—but what on earth were you and Widmerpool playing at?’
Gwinnett’s features took on an expression part obstinate, part bewildered. It was a look he had assumed before, when asked to be more explicit about something he had said or done. No doubt his present state added to this impression of being half stunned, a condition genuinely present; if not the result of a drug, then fatigue allied to enormously heightened nervous tension. Again, seeming to consider how best to justify his own standpoint, he did not answer for a moment or two.
‘Gibson Delavacquerie said you’d seen something of the Widmerpool set-up, the commune, or whatever he runs. He said Murtlock had joined up with it. Murtlock seems to have taken over.’
Delavacquerie’s name appeared for some reason to bring relief to Gwinnett. His manner became a trifle less tense.
‘I like Delavacquerie.’
‘You probably know he’s abroad at the moment.’
‘He told me he was going. I talked to him about seeing Ken Widmerpool again, but I didn’t tell Delavacquerie the whole story. When Ken sent me a letter after the Magnus Donners Prize presentation last year I said I just didn’t have time, which was true. Anyhow I wasn’t that anxious to see him. I thought he’d forget about it this time, though I may have mentioned I was coming over again. I don’t know how he found out I was in London. I hadn’t told anyone here I was coming over. I only was in touch with Gibson after I arrived. Then someone called me up, and said he was speaking for Ken, who had a young friend—and master—whom he wanted me to meet.’
‘Master?’
‘It was Scorp himself telephoning, I guess. I hadn’t met him then. That was how it started. While he was speaking—and I’ve wondered whether Scorp didn’t somehow put the idea in my head—it came t
o me in a flash that I’d often thought these weirdos linked up with the early seventeenth-century gothicism I was writing about. Here was an opportunity not to throw away. I was right.’
‘It was worth it?’
‘Sure.’
This was much the way Gwinnett had talked of his Trapnel researches.
‘As soon as I went down there, I knew my hunch was right. Ken was altogether different from the man he had been the year before. He was crazy about Scorp, and Scorp’s ideas. It was Scorp’s wish that I should be present at the rites they were planning. A summoning. Scorp thought my being there might even make better vibrations, if I didn’t take part.’
Gwinnett stopped. He passed his hand over a face of light yellowish colour. He looked uncommonly ill.
‘Scorp said these rites can’t be performed with any hope of success, if those taking part are in a normal state of mind and body. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink myself now for thirty-six hours. I didn’t want to miss the chance of a lifetime, to see played out in the flesh all the things I’d been going over and over in my mind for months—like Tourneur’s scene in the charnel house.’
‘What were they trying to do?’
‘The idea was to summon up a dead man called Trelawney.’
‘How far did they get?’
Gwinnett gave a slight shudder. He was detached, yet far from calm, perhaps no more than his normal state, now aggravated by near collapse.
‘They got no further than the fight between Ken and Scorp.’
Gwinnett’s use of these abbreviated first-names gave a certain additional grotesqueness to what was already a sufficiently grotesque narrative.
‘Did they have a scrap during the rite?’
‘In the middle of it.’
‘The horned dance?’
‘No—during the sexual invocations that followed.’
‘What did those consist of?’
‘Scorp said that—among the ones taking part in the rite—they should have been all with all, each with each, within the sacred circle. I was a short way apart. Not in the circle. Scorp thought that best.’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 4 Page 66
