Lights in a Western Sky

by Roger Curtis

  by the same author

  Murchison’s Fragment

  and Other Short Plays for Stage and Radio

  From Higher Places

  Lights in a Western Sky

  Roger Curtis

  Copyright © 2018 Roger Curtis

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 9781789011890

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For my grandsons Elias and Finley

  in their later years

  A staircase spiralling

  Through generations

  Chimney-like

  In brick and stone

  But measured in time

  In its wall, vertically

  Apertures, permitting

  Glimpses

  Of emanations

  From men and their affairs

  Lifting from the earth

  Becoming

  Lights in a western sky

  Contents

  Preface

  The Physic Garden

  Snow in Winter

  Chemosit

  Shep Stone

  Johnny’s Ride to Town

  The Two Nuns

  Dawn Light

  Trexler’s Orchid

  Dust to Dust

  Intercity Trains

  Muntjac

  The Chapel of Antonis Stavros

  Window on the Mind

  The Tunnel

  A Jerusalem Trilogy

  Lazarus

  Judas

  Judas Thomas

  The Runners of Afton Jail

  The Widower

  Enduring Light

  Notes on A Jerusalem Trilogy

  Preface

  The twenty stories presented here are from the same stable that produced Murchison’s Fragment, a collection of short plays on the theme of trial and tribulation, with most having a twist at the end or an unexpected denouement. If they contain a message at all it is of the frailty and waywardness of the human condition, where what we do is seldom determined by a clear concept of good and evil but instead is influenced by the situations in which we find ourselves and the people that we encounter.

  Most of the stories are original and unpublished, but four of them were precursors of plays in the above collection – three under different titles – and appear here because, in the author’s opinion, they sit more comfortably in the present format. They are: Snow in Winter (The Pagoda), Chemosit (Murchison’s Fragment), Johnny’s Ride to Town (same title) and Judas Thomas (The Gospel of Judas Thomas). Notes accompanying the plays are to be found in Murchison’s Fragment.

  Three of the stories included here are based upon events surrounding the last days of the biblical Jesus. To those adhering strictly to the authenticity of the New Testament stories they may not be appealing. But for others uncomfortable with supernatural explanations for the miracles and the resurrection of Jesus they are attempts to show that rational explanations are possible, though no claim is made that they are more than illustrative. Since some background information is necessary for their full appreciation additional material is given in an appendix to the main text.

  Although some of the stories may owe their origin to situations or incidents experienced or observed by the author, all characters are treated fictitiously. With the exception of brief mentions of publicly known figures no characters are identifiable with real individuals, living or dead. Similarly, existing or pre-existing places and locations mentioned in the text are treated fictitiously.

  The Physic Garden

  It was a rare Sunday in June, in the year 1781. The oppressive heat of the previous day had carried over into the bright morning and brought forth an abundance of winged life to populate an air already thick with heady perfume. Clutching his stick, and with Rosa, his nurse, supporting his elbow, Dr Pentarius steadied himself at the entrance to the garden and raised the trembling fingers of his free hand to halt their progress. He stood framed within the arch of box, staring and still, allowing the garden to play with his damaged senses.

  ‘I told you summer had come,’ Rosa said, squeezing his arm. ‘You didn’t believe me did you?’

  Dr Pentarius smiled, dimly remembering her promise.

  They followed the gravel path to a point where the vegetation grew highest, forming a bower from within which neither the house nor noises from the Thames – in fact no other trace of human activity besides the creation that was the garden itself – could be perceived. Grasping Rosa’s arm, Dr Pentarius lowered himself into his cushioned wooden chair. His eyes followed the path leading across to the fountain and became fixed upon its bright and convulsing column.

  ‘Call me if you need me,’ Rosa said, picking up a little bell lying on the table and shaking it close to his face. ‘I will bring your drink and a pastry at ten.’ Then she added, ‘Amelia is coming today – you’ll like that, won’t you?’

  Dr Pentarius’ eyes widened at the mention of the five-year-old child who now came often to play in his garden. ‘Yes,’ he replied, incorporating her image into the tapestry of floral colour, buzzing insects and sparkling water spread out before him.

  On another summer morning six years earlier, the garden – or, rather, what was to be a garden within a garden – still existed only in Dr Pentarius’ imagination and on scribbled plans scattered amongst his papers.

  Seen from the river, the house on Mortlake Terrace stood back, square and regular, behind iron railings. Its fashionable symmetry had become softened by the twenty-year-old birches planted on the very day that the newly crowned George III married Charlotte-Sophia. The greensward in their shade swept around the side of the house, encompassing a miscellany of younger growths, fresh and bright in the sunlight.

  There was a familiar commotion around the steps leading down to the water’s edge. There, a decorated barge, pennants flying, lay ready to depart on the high tide. Oars waved aloft were challenged by antenna-like poles, their bearers barely visible beyond the parapet.

  From the window of his study beside the front door, Dr Pentarius observed this activity as an entomologist might scrutinise the waving appendages of a captured insect. He noted with satisfaction the tall and handsome figure of Charles, third son of Lord Somerset, looking on impassively while the bulky figure of his mother – Pentarius’ patient – was coaxed into the barge. A little apart now, Margaret, his comely daughter, stood deep in thought. Minutes earlier he had watched the young man’s hand hover within an inch of her waist, battling against its owner’s better judgement, while she had turned her head away, demurely, flushing pink. With a third son Dr Pen
tarius considered that his own indeterminate status and his daughter’s youthful beauty might yet render a social barrier surmountable.

  On top of that, it seemed that at last Lady Somerset’s acne was improving; and goodwill, too, was important in the equation. On this occasion he had prepared the tinctures with his own hand, releasing Margaret from the routine chore in the dispensary. The thought prompted him to wander into the adjoining room, where the walls were fronted by row upon row of jars and bottles, tidily arranged, their labels mostly in Margaret’s neat hand. On the central table an array of blocks, mortars, pestles and flasks flecked and smeared with diverse plant residues emitted a complex bouquet which Dr Pentarius sniffed as he might a rare and cherished wine.

  Margaret had followed him, unnoticed, and now stood at his elbow. He turned and they exchanged wry smiles. But the implications of their complicity were for the future. Just now there were more immediate matters to attend to.

  Side by side they looked out into the garden beside the house. The bare earth square of twenty-five paces might have been the foundations of a new building, were it not for the lines of tiny box plants marking its margin. Within its confines, Kingsland, the gardener, was raking the earth of beds whose irregularity contrasted with the geometric precision of the perimeter. Towards the far side a ragged hole suggested a pond under construction; nearer, a raised circle of bricks and mortar anticipated a statue or sundial. Only the previous day, from this same position, Margaret had been amused to see her father standing motionless on this very pedestal, eyes skyward, one hand clutching a herbal to his chest, the other grasping a lapel.

  ‘It was fortuitous, Margaret, that with the appointment of Forsyth as Gardener, the Chelsea Physic Garden adopted a more liberal approach to the release of plants.’

  ‘Your list was rather long.’

  ‘We’ll see what comes. When is the boat due?’

  ‘Around three.’

  ‘So we could start planting before dinner at five.’

  ‘Patience was never one of your virtues, Father.’

  Two hours later Dr Pentarius and his daughter were standing on the steps leading down to the water. They saw a black speck separate from the flotsam of craft towards Hammersmith and transform itself into a skiff with a single oarsman rowing with power and regularity. As the boat drew into the steps, Kingsland stepped down and took the rope. Not until the skiff was secure and the oars had been stowed did the rower look towards the doctor and his daughter. But by then their attention was directed, not at him, but at the treasures the boat contained. Fronds of green, brown and yellow emerged tantalisingly from ragged bundles of sacking; bare roots, bulbs and tubers spilled from open baskets. Most intriguing of all were the lumpy sacks that did not yet reveal their contents.

  The tousled black hair of the apprentice from the Chelsea garden was suddenly thrown back. Serious eyes, deep-set in a swarthy handsome face, engaged those of the doctor and his daughter.

  ‘Good day, Sir,’ Dr Pentarius said, extending a hand. ‘I can’t recall that we’ve met at Chelsea.’

  ‘Carlos, Sir,’ the apprentice replied, taking his hand. ‘New from Leiden, where some of your plants have come from.’

  ‘From Leiden? I gained my doctorate there. As a student I knew the garden well. It was where my fascination with plants really began. But should you not therefore be called Carolus?’

  ‘My origins are more… distant, Sir.’

  ‘Well, Florence will give you tea in the kitchen and you can discuss planting with Kingsland. There’s lodging in the stable, if you would like to stay.’

  ‘That’s kindness indeed, Sir. It would ensure an early start tomorrow.’

  Dr Pentarius looked again at the apprentice’s olive skin and burning eyes. He was unsettled by a confidence unusual in one so young. He decided to explore it.

  ‘Did you by chance have difficulty with the Dendranthema?’

  ‘I chose for you the variety sinensis. In my experience it has the more vigorous growth.’

  ‘Thank you. Margaret will assist in checking the inventory,’

  Dr Pentarius left them, but he did not go far. He stood back in the depth of his study and watched the apprentice unload the skiff with muscular brown arms; then, with Kingsland’s help, drag it out of the water, up the slipway and onto the grass, where they overturned it.

  On the days that followed, Dr Pentarius arose ever earlier to walk the bare gravel paths that in the dawn light resembled a rough square of lace. He displaced the stones to determine if soil had been spilt; he measured with the span of his hand the distance between seedlings of the same species. To his surprise the level of water in the pond had retained its depth, attesting to the integrity of the puddling, but already he imagined there a more formal structure that would one day bear a fountain. In his mind he saw the verdant square rising ever higher like a building on its foundations. He saw it as it would appear from the river or from the road, the palms and the giant ferns elevated above the bland density of the clipped box hedge, inviting curiosity and admiration. But most of all he savoured what the garden would yield – the medicines and remedies with which he would experiment.

  The next morning, while preparing tinctures in his dispensary, Dr Pentarius watched with satisfaction the three figures labouring in the garden. When Margaret excused herself from lunch he thought no more of it, then set about tidying his study to receive his patients. But even before he had finished his first examination he found himself returning to the dispensary, standing well back in the shadows to observe. It did not please him to see Kingsland working alone. ‘There was a discrepancy in the inventory we needed to check,’ Margaret told him at dinner. For the first time that he could recall, Margaret averted her eyes from his; then she left the room before Florence, their maid, appeared with dessert.

  On the morning of the fourth day Carlos told him the planting was complete.

  ‘Then why are there still bare patches?’ he asked.

  ‘For future needs,’ the apprentice replied.

  Dr Pentarius decided to spend the afternoon with Forsyth at Chelsea. He wondered about leaving Margaret alone and regretted giving Florence leave to visit her parents in Putney, then chided himself for being irrational. Nevertheless, to Forsyth’s surprise at his mounting agitation, he reversed his original decision to spend the night in town.

  Climbing back up the steps from the water at dusk he was reminded of Lord Somerset’s son and set out to find Margaret to ask if there was news. As he crossed the lawn, he saw what he now realised was driving his thoughts – the skiff still as it had been placed there. With beating heart, he hurried his steps. He searched the house from the servants’ rooms under the roof to the depths of the cellars where he stored his harvested plants. Then, returning to Margaret’s room as night finally closed in, he looked across to the stables, invisible beneath the trees but for a faint reticulum of flickering candlelight that seeped between the warped and badly jointed boards of the hayloft above.

  With trembling hands Dr Pentarius tried to replace his father’s riding whip on the two hooks on the wall of his study. But it fell dangling, and from it red drops hit the floor and seeped between the boards. But it wasn’t the blood – that much seemed deserved – but his final misplaced blow splitting the man’s face that caused him anxiety. He picked up a cloth and wiped the object as clean as the plaited fibres would allow. Then he lit a fire in the grate to destroy it. He lay back in his chair, trying to sleep, but the images of the entwined bodies of his daughter and the apprentice rhythmically writhing in the loft of the stable would not go away. He made himself an infusion of Hydrastis, accepting that the deep, dark dreams that would inevitably follow were at least better than wakefulness. Before the drug took effect he took a candle from one of the wall sconces and went upstairs to Margaret’s room, expecting to find her shaken and contrite, perhaps even receptive
to an accommodation of their different passions. But her room was cavernous and empty through the gaping door. He went to the stable, where his horse regarded him with quiet nonchalance as he looked in vain for signs of human presence.

  The following day the house remained silent. There was no word, no sign, from his daughter or the apprentice. When he questioned them, Florence and Kingsland just stared at him blankly, and he was too proud to probe their silence further. The upturned boat assumed the character of a beached whale that promised to remain until its carcase rotted away.

  But one morning a week later, after a night of turbulent imaginings induced by a larger than usual infusion, Dr Pentarius found the boat had gone. He wandered, desolate, into the physic garden. He noticed, but without particular interest, that the bare unplanted patches were now filled with fresh green seedlings he did not recognise. He resolved to ask Kingsland about it, then forgot to do so.

  As the nights grew longer, the days each seemed to pass through the same spectrum of grey. Perpetual mists hanging over the river foreshortened its vistas, transforming it into a lake traversed only by the most mundane of commercial craft. There was no longer a reason for the splendid barges and gay skiffs of early summer. Besides that, the frequent rains had made the road by the river an obstacle along which only the most intrepid of his patients chose to venture. Of his daughter and her lover there came no word.

  Yet the seasons were not wholly unkind to Dr Pentarius. The autumn leaves falling across the physic garden softened its impact on his gaze and obliterated the imprint of the upturned boat on the lawn. He wondered if Kingsland understood his instruction to leave them be. Christmas passed almost unnoticed. Then snow fell, long and deep, marking both an end and a new beginning.

  When spring came, Dr Pentarius busied himself in his dispensary. The bottles multiplied on the shelves, more labels now in his hand than in Margaret’s. Every morning Florence would chide him about the increasing number of mortars and vessels to wash. Carried away by his obsession, Dr Pentarius began to apply the remedies to himself and assess the results more critically than he had ever done with his patients. Not infrequently Florence would find him stock still, timepiece in hand, measuring his pulse or his breathing, then, clicking the instrument shut, passing to the mirror to check his face for pallor or rubor. But he sensed she hadn’t the stomach to tell him what he already knew: that the cause of the gauntness of his features must compromise his every experiment.