Immortal

by Gillian Shields

  “Okay.” She smiled. “Bye, Bonny, darling. See you later. You wouldn’t believe that she was a skinny wreck a few months ago, would you? My parents helped me to rescue her from some people who knew nothing about horses and were mistreating her. Now she’s as fat as butter. My other pony is called Starlight. Come and see him first, Evie; then I’ll show you everything.” I followed Sarah to another stall, where a handsome gray pony nuzzled her hand and graciously accepted an apple. “Thank goodness Wyldcliffe allows us to bring horses to school. I spend every spare minute with them. I’d be lost without some of my animals around me. At home I have three dogs, two cats, and a donkey, and they’ve all been rescued from one place or another….”

  Sarah chattered on, and I remembered what Celeste had said about her collection of “waifs and strays.” Well, I really was one of them now.

  We wandered around the stable yard, which was attached to the side of the main house. I noticed a faded green door that looked as though it was hardly used. I guessed that it led into the old servants’ quarters where Helen and I had been that morning. A black cat crossed the yard. We followed it and came to a walled kitchen garden set out with rows of beans and black currants.

  “We can have our own little garden plots here,” Sarah said. “I like growing things, digging in the earth and watching new life spring up. And I love the stables too. The grand parts of the Abbey can seem cold and gloomy, but out here I can really see what it must have been like when the whole place belonged to a proper family, with their gardeners and carriages and horses and dogs. But that was over a hundred years ago, when Lady Agnes was alive.” She looked at me and frowned, as though she was trying to remember something.

  “Who was this Lady Agnes?” I asked, trying to sound interested.

  “She was the daughter of Lord Charles Templeton, who rebuilt Wyldcliffe in the middle of the nineteenth century. The original Abbey, from the days when the nuns lived here in medieval times, was mostly destroyed long ago, but Lord Charles thought the ruins were romantic, so when he built his new house for his wife and daughter, he kept every last stone. Come and look!”

  We walked out of the kitchen garden to a graveled terrace behind the main house. From the terrace, a wide lawn sloped away to a lake. The lower stretches of the grounds were thickly covered with dense green shrubs, and beyond them, marching like sentinels around the Abbey’s grounds, were the wild moors. It was an impressive sight, but there was something else about the view that took my breath away.

  Next to the lake, the ruins of the ancient Abbey’s chapel soared up into the air. Gaunt, broken arches hung like petrified lace against the gray sky. Tumbled piles of stone were heaped about the base of the medieval walls, and where the high altar once stood there was a smooth green mound. Everything was reflected in the lake, as though an underwater cathedral lay dreaming beneath its glassy surface.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” said Sarah.

  “It’s…beyond words.” A strange shiver ran down my neck. “But it all seems so sad, somehow.”

  “So, you know about Laura, then?”

  “Celeste told me.” I didn’t know why, but my heart began to thud.

  “Laura was found here in the lake. She had drowned.”

  Just like my mother. I felt sick, and swayed slightly.

  “Hey, are you okay, Evie? I don’t want you fainting again.” She half dragged, half supported me to a seat that looked out over the lake.

  “Sorry. It’s nothing. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about this Lady Agnes.”

  “It’s not a happy story either,” Sarah replied reluctantly. “There was some kind of accident and she died young. I read about it once. That’s how this place became a school. After Agnes’s death her parents shut up the Abbey and went abroad.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess they couldn’t bear to see anything that reminded them of her. When they died there was no one left to inherit Wyldcliffe. The building was empty for a while before the school took it over, and the local people told all sorts of stories about it being haunted. It was easy to imagine, I suppose. A big empty house with a ruined chapel—it doesn’t take much imagination to concoct something out of that, does it?”

  “I guess not,” I replied, staring up at the ruins. Sarah’s story explained the cabdriver’s behavior the night I arrived. That cursed place. I couldn’t blame him, really. My own imagination seemed to be spinning out of control at Wyldcliffe. But looking at those tumbled stones, I found it easy to see why people wove stories about this place. It was haunted—haunted by the many lives it had known. And those same dark hills had looked down on this place during each and every drama, and the same bitter wind had sung through the grass….

  “Do you like it here?” I asked.

  Sarah burst into peals of earthy laughter. “How can you like anyplace that’s full of stuck-up snobs like Celeste? I’m not sure how much longer the school and its traditions will survive, to be honest. The world has changed, but Wyldcliffe hasn’t.”

  “So why do people still send their kids here?”

  “Wyldcliffe prepares young women for a place in Society, not just for academic success,’” Sarah parroted. “I’m the fourth generation of my family to come here.”

  “But did you actually want to come?”

  “I suppose so. The place itself is really special—you know, the ruins and the moors and the old house. I guess I love Wyldcliffe and loathe it at the same time. How about you? Do you like it?

  “Mmm. I’m not sure.”

  “So why did you come here, Evie?”

  “My mother is dead, and Dad is in the army. He’s stationed abroad right now,” I said, trying to sound as unemotional as possible. “My grandmother, Frankie, always looked after me. But she’s ill.”

  “I’m sorry. I sensed…I mean, I thought you seemed unhappy.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just the way it is.” I didn’t want any pity. But this unthreatening girl somehow made me want to talk. I swallowed hard and carried on. “Dad had heard of this school because Frankie’s family actually came from around here, ages and ages ago. He found out about the scholarship, and it was all arranged in a rush. I know I’m very lucky really.” Then I burst out, “But I don’t think I’ll ever fit in. My family hasn’t been coming to schools like this for generations.”

  “That doesn’t matter, not to me anyway,” Sarah said. “Besides, my family only made it here by the skin of their teeth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My great-grandmother Maria had been adopted from a traveling Romany family when she was a baby. If it hadn’t been for that, everything would have been different.”

  “Why? What happened?” I asked.

  “Her adoptive parents were rich landowners and desperate for a child. Apparently they had helped Maria’s father when he was wrongly accused of poaching from a neighboring estate, and when Maria’s mother died giving birth to her, they persuaded him to let them bring the baby up. It was a pretty unusual arrangement on both sides, but they adored Maria and wanted to give her the best of everything—clothes, travel, education—which meant Wyldcliffe, of course.”

  “Why? What’s so special about Wyldcliffe?”

  “It’s always been regarded as the most exclusive school in England. In other words, incredibly snobby and expensive.” Sarah laughed. “The school’s High Mistress made a stink about poor Maria and said she wouldn’t let a filthy gypsy child pollute the hallowed grounds of Wyldcliffe. But her adoptive parents donated a huge sum of money to the school, which did the trick, so here I am.” She looked thoughtful. “I often think about her. It’s funny to think she once walked on these same grounds that we’re on now. I sometimes feel—it probably sounds stupid—that she’s watching over me.”

  “You mean…like a ghost?” I tried to joke, but there was a catch in my voice.

  “Oh, I don’t know, really. But I do wonder about her. I mean, I wonder if she ever thought about her real fam
ily, or regretted not being part of the old Romany way of life. I sometimes think I would have liked those ways, living outside, close to their horses, close to the land, in touch with the old knowledge—” Sarah broke off and smiled. “My family still has tons of money, which is kind of useful. But don’t go thinking I’m anything like Celeste and her crowd, because I’m not, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I don’t think you’re like that one bit; I promise.”

  “Glad we’ve cleared that up.” She grinned. “Come on; we’d better get back to class if you’re feeling better, or Miss Scratton will be handing out more demerits.”

  She pulled me to my feet. I felt reluctant to leave the lake somehow. It was the only expanse of water I had seen since leaving my home by the sea, and I felt drawn to its green depths. And yet it was a place of terrible tragedy—a girl had drowned.

  I didn’t want to think about it. I turned away from the lake and glanced up at the moors. Perhaps the boy I had met would be out there, riding over the hills. Then a cloud blotted out the sun and a gust of wind tore across the lawn, making me shiver with cold. I started to run.

  “Hey, wait for me!” called Sarah. But I didn’t stop until I was safe inside the shelter of the brooding house.

  Seven

  THE JOURNAL OF LADY AGNES, SEPTEMBER

  17, 1882 I do not know what to make of this latest enthusiasm that seems to have cast a brooding spell over my dearest, my only friend. All I know is that I am disturbed, even afraid for him. Somehow I no longer feel quite safe.

  Yesterday S. brought me a great heap of gifts from his travels. The doctor had ordered him to rest completely, but he said he could not stay in bed a minute longer and had walked over from the Hall without letting anyone know. Walked! But then, he has always been stubborn when his mind is made up, and he was so eager to show me his parcel of presents. There were scarves and shawls and carvings and trinkets, so I scolded him for his extravagance, but he laughed and said they had cost only pennies in the bazaars. Then he held out a parcel wrapped in silver tissue paper.

  “This is the best gift of all,” he whispered. “The gift of knowledge.”

  It was an ancient-looking book bound in dark green leather. In faint letters much worn by time I traced the words The Mysticke Way. I undid the silver clasp and opened the book. A dry, stale smell rose from its pages. The printing was thick and black and cramped. Some of it was in Latin, and the rest in an old form of English. I read aloud:

  “Reader, if you bee not pure

  Stay your hande and reade no more;

  The Mysteries Ancient here proclaimed

  Must not bee by Evil stained.”

  I looked up and laughed. “What fairy tale is this that you have brought me? Don’t you think we are too old for such nonsense?”

  “It isn’t nonsense, Agnes; it’s the most important thing I have come across in all my travels! You must read it!”

  He looked strained and flushed, and I wondered if he was still feverish. Hurriedly, he took the book from me and began to read:

  “The Philosophers do tell us that the Four Eternal Elements of Fire, Air, Water, and Earth are the stuff of Life. And the greatest of them is Fire, which is an offspring of the Sacred Flame of Creation. Ye must also knowe that these Elements are the Key to our Mysteries. It is a grave error to think that such Elements are mere physical matter or bodily substance. The Great Creator made no body but that doth have its essence or spirit. For what is a body without the spirit? It is nothing, for the body doth corrupt and decay; but the spirit doth live for ever. And so it is also true that all physical matter hath an invisible spirit within. Thus the Air, Earth, Water, and Fire contain their own spirits, in which lie hid their great power.”

  He looked at me, his eyes shining. “Do you hear that, Agnes? Great power. Isn’t that what we all seek in this world?”

  “I don’t know,” I said cautiously. “What else does the book say?”

  “We in our Human condition are made of these four Elements—the Earth being our Flesh, the Air being our Breath, the Water being our Bloode, and lastly the Fire being our Passions and Desires. And so it doth stand to reason that we are by subtle means connected with the everlasting Spirits of the Elements. Now, herein lies our great purpose, which is thus: Those persons who truly and righteously devote themselves to the study of the Mysticke Way may learn to summon the Power of the Elements….”

  S. stared at me again, and his eyes glittered like blue fire. “What if we learned to summon that power, Agnes? Imagine what we could do.”

  “I think ‘imagine’ is the right word,” I replied. “It is a fable, that’s all, no more real than the tales of The Arabian Nights that we read together as children.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I have looked through these pages, and what I have read has amazed me. There are rituals here, teachings that unlock the sacred mysteries—”

  “Sacred?” I interrupted. “Aren’t they more likely to be full of unholy superstition? Let me see.”

  He passed me the book with trembling hands, and I glanced over its pages. My eyes were drawn to the following words:

  Yet let the unwary bee warned; it is no light matter to trifle with Earth and Air, Fire and Water. The four Great Elements of life may nourishe and protecte, but they may also destroy.

  “That is surely warning enough,” I said. “Where did you find this book?”

  “I will tell you, but you must keep this as our secret.” He drew me next to him on the sofa. “I was wandering in the bazaar in Marrakesh with Philips when we came across a stall draped all around with embroidered hangings and piled high with musty, antique volumes. The bookseller, an old man with long robes and hardly a tooth in his head, beckoned us over and showed us his goods. There were scrolls and books in every possible language, all jostled together in a great heap. We were about to walk on when the old man caught me by the sleeve and cried, ‘English! Young English master! English!’ He kept repeating this and wouldn’t let me go, signing urgently for me to pass into the depths of his little shop, which was hidden away like Aladdin’s cave behind the stall. Philips didn’t much like the look of it, but I was determined to enter and see what the old man was so insistent upon.

  “When we entered the back part of the shop, the bookseller unlocked a chest made of black wood, carved with strange emblems. With an air of great reverence, he lifted out this book and said, ‘This is what you seek, young master; this is for you.’ I asked him how much it was, but he pressed it on me and said, ‘Nothing, nothing. This is the moment; take your destiny.’ So, Agnes, what do you say to that?”

  “It is a good story.” I smiled. “I’m surprised he gave it to you for nothing. I suppose you gave him a handsome present for his trouble?”

  “I told you,” he replied impatiently, coughing a little before he could go on. “He wouldn’t take anything. He wanted me to have it for a reason; I’m convinced of that. I believe that if we follow these ancient rites, we could work marvels together. Haven’t you always said you wish to learn new things, to break out of the world of your mother and Miss Binns and all the petty restraints that hem you in like the walls of a prison?” His eyes became soft and pleading, and he laid his hand gently on my arm. A shiver ran through me, whether of pleasure or pain I couldn’t tell. “So here is something new. Please, Agnes. Give it a chance.”

  I looked down at the heavy volume on my lap. Almost of its own accord it fell open in the middle. Each page was closely decorated with strange symbols, and my blood began to race as I read the different headings printed in faded red ink: For conjuring Rain. To calme the Winds. To make an Amulet against Lightning. To enriche the Earth before planting crops.

  “Think of all the good we could do,” he urged.

  I carried on reading, entranced. Healing for a Dangerous Maladie. For easing the mind of Darknesse and Sorrowe. To find your Heart’s Desire. To Summon the Sacred Fire.

  In that instant my old familiar dream came back to me, but mo
re vividly than ever before. I was standing as usual before a column of white-hot flame. But now the fire seemed instead to be burning inside me, and I had only to reach out my hand to grasp whatever I wanted.

  “No!” I slammed the book shut. “I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s dangerous. It’s wrong.”

  “You mean that Miss Binns wouldn’t approve, and that fussing old vicar down in the village church, and the whole plague of reactionaries who have palpitations at any new discovery? I thought you had more ambition than to sit sewing with your governess like a stuffed doll that dares not think or breathe or live.”

  “It’s not that,” I said unsteadily. “I am happy to embrace all that is new and good in our modern age. But this is not progress. It is going backward into darkness.”

  “‘There is in God, some say, a deep but dazzling darkness…,’” he murmured. “Don’t you remember that poem? Do you think the All Powerful is limited to what we know and approve of here in this little land, in this particular moment of time? Of course not! And neither are we.” He snatched my hands in his and pulled me closer to him. “Don’t turn your back on this adventure. We could create something good that would last forever. Share this with me, Agnes.”

  “But it’s just a confusion of nonsense,” I protested.

  Laughing suddenly, he let me go, the passion cleared from his face.

  “In that case we can do no harm except to make ourselves look foolish. Besides, our intentions are pure, like the book says. What harm can come from this game to pass the time of my convalescence? Why shouldn’t we play once more, as we did when we were children?”

  He smiled at me as though I were the only person on the earth who mattered to him. A tiny knot of attraction tugged under my ribs. I looked away, suddenly self-conscious and tongue-tied.

  “Very well,” I said. “Let us play.”

  And so it is to be a game. That is all. And I hope with all my soul that, as in our old childhood games, it may lead to a happy ending. But if it were up to me, I would fling this book into the lake and let it sink into those deep waters, never to be seen again.