Mirror of the Night

by E. C. Tubb

  He is only searching for a dream.

  THE WINNER

  Bannerman was the last to arrive. He slammed into the improvised theatre, dropped into a chair and yelled to the projectionist. “All right. Let it roll!”

  The lights died, the resultant dimness spotted by the glowing tips of cigarettes. From the rear a girl squealed, the cry of protest echoed by a man’s yelp as her cigarette scorched a questing hand. Bannerman ignored the byplay as he concentrated on the screen. Considering the difficulties the camera technique was good. Grass stirred beneath the touch of wind, leaves fluttered from the branches of the five great oaks, clouds scudded over the face of a full moon. A pastoral scene at night with the visual hint of mystery and the promise of a peep at the unknown.

  Beyond the oaks a fire guttered, the flames occluded by dancing shapes. They were shadowed, only the gleam of naked flesh, the movement of arms and legs revealing their human origin. Behind a crude altar a tall figure crowned with antlers lifted both arms high. The camera zoomed, more grass, leaves, clouds, then aimed itself between the trees, which acted as a baffling shield to what was going on before the altar. More dancing, some prostrating, genuflections and then a wild mix-up of bodies.

  “Cut!” yelled Bannerman.

  Sherman blinked in the light. “Something wrong, Clark?”

  “It’s lousy!”

  “But—”

  “It’s a crummy load of phony codswallop! It’s as awesome as a load of cold peas pudding! If that’s the best you can do then you’d better go back to peddling blue films in Soho!” For a moment Bannerman revelled in the illusion that he was a big-time operator, that he could hire and fire and demand the impossible—and get it. That he actually paid these people to do the work he ordered. Sherman brought him down to earth.

  “So you don’t like it,” he said coldly. “So what? Maybe I’d better take my gear and find another company.”

  He would too and with him would go the cameras, the lenses, the continuity girl and most of the Arabesque Film Company. Bannerman swallowed his pride.

  “Slow down,” he said. “I meant nothing personal, Fred, but this isn’t good enough. If we hope to win at the Festival our entry has to be good. A real Witch’s Coven with all the trimmings could hit the bullseye. The judges are fed up to the back teeth with sex and will jump at something different. But this isn’t it.”

  “It’s what you asked for,” said Sherman. “A genuine coven at work. I had a hell of a job getting the footage, telephoto’s, hides, wide-angles, filters—you think it easy to take by moonlight?”

  “I know it isn’t,” said Bannerman quickly. “I’m not talking about the camerawork, that’s perfect, in fact I don’t know anyone else who could have done half as good with twice the equipment. It’s the subject that’s wrong.”

  “It’s genuine,” said Conway from across the room. Absently he rubbed the burn on the back of his right hand. “No sound as yet but we can dub that in later after the editing. Right, Mavis?”

  The blonde who had applied the deterrent nodded through the smoke of another cigarette. She was a tall girl with interesting curves and was a little careless as to how she positioned her legs. She could afford to be, she had magnificent legs.

  “That’s right,” she said in a clear, high voice. It was the product of Rodean, Lady Mavis Carter-Frobisher had received a good education. “The oaks have been known for years. Great grandaddy wanted to cut them down once but changed his mind after a forester got himself hurt. Not that he actually believed in the curse which is supposed to protect the place but he just didn’t want to take any chances.” She paused and then added, “Like Daddy.”

  “Do tell.” Helen was as dark as the other girl was fair, a serious-faced, intent person who wore thick spectacles, took art as a secondary religion and who was indispensable as an efficient, unpaid, continuity girl.

  “It was when Grandaddy died,” said Mavis. “Death duties, you know. Things were pretty sticky and daddy arranged to sell the timber. He had everything fixed up when Gleeson called. Gleeson is the agent,” she explained. “He warned daddy to leave the trees alone.”

  “Why?” Tony was the clapper boy, prop man and general dogsbody, and completed the team. “Did some old hag put a spell on the place?”

  “Something like that. I don’t know the details because I wasn’t home at the time. I had that posing job and was toying with the idea of joining a cabaret going to South America. Anyway, when I asked Gleeson he said something about old traditions and that daddy was really the custodian of the past and had no moral right to turn the trees into money. So he opened the estate to the public instead and mentions the oaks in the brochure. We get some of the oddest people come to visit it. Last year a group of American Druids wanted to perform some kind of ceremony and there’s always talk of covens and things. Weird, what?”

  Bannerman scowled, old history didn’t interest him but he had to be politic. Lady Mavis was his most important addition to the company, a bored girl after ‘fun’ jobs and who found it amusing to associate with dedicated amateurs. Not that Bannerman was wholly that, dedicated to the pursuit of fame, yes, but far from being a true amateur. He liked to be paid for what he produced.

  “Listen,” he said, bringing the conversation back to essentials. “We’re running short of time. I still think that we have a good idea but it’s got to be treated right. We’ve got to get right into the heart of the subject. Cut out all these shadows and blurring of detail. Show the real, red, raw passion that attends these things.”

  “Sex,” said Conway. “Close-ups of the devotees in frenzy. The works.”

  “That too,” admitted Bannerman, “but alone that isn’t enough. Kinnula is working on a sexpic, so is Opdal and so is Rautos. Akita Yamagari is producing a series of living ‘pillow book’ episodes and that character from Grenoble, Aur... Aurg...”

  “Aurillac,” said Sherman helpfully.

  “That’s right, he’s got an entire nudist colony lined up to participate in a thing he calls ‘creative copulation’. No, sex isn’t enough, we’ve got to be different.” He frowned, thinking, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!”

  They gathered around, listening. Whatever his other failings Bannerman didn’t lack for imagination.

  “We’ve tackled this thing in the wrong way,” he said carefully. “We tried to shoot an actual coven at work and it’s turned out a bust. Let’s look at it from another angle. The scientific one. We’ll do it again but this time we do it in depth. An actual, living experiment backed by all the scientific expertise we can get—and what we can’t get we’ll invent.”

  Helen frowned, she was a purist. “Is that morally justifiable, Clark?”

  “Art is the enhancing of nature,” he said curtly. “But we won’t cheat, not really, we’ll just compress. The ceremony will be as authentic as we can make it. A scientific record of an off-shoot religion treated straight and produced in living colour.”

  “Colour film is expensive,” said Sherman.

  All eyes turned to Mavis.

  “All right,” said Bannerman as she nodded. “That’s taken care of. Now the rest of you get to work. Helen, you go to the British Museum and research the ritual. Fred, try and scrounge some filters, mikes, speakers and other stuff—you know what you’ll need. Joe, you get to work on the incantations, Helen will guide you.”

  Conway nodded.

  “What’ll I do?” asked Tony.

  “You do the shopping.”

  “And you?” Sherman was curious. Bannerman smiled.

  “I’m going on location,” he said. “There’s nothing like whipping up some local support.”

  * * *

  Location was Fairfield Manor, the ancestral home of the Carter-Frobishers, a stately mansion with a resident hunt, acres of woodlands, a village, a straggle of cottages, a church twenty times too large for present congregations and a churchyard the gravestones of which read like pages from the Middle Ages. The place was old. I
t was also falling apart and staggering under a load of government-inflicted debt. The present Lord of the Manor was not the only member of the aristocracy to have discovered the high cost of dying and, like the others, he had turned to commerce to ease the burden.

  Unlike the others he was still in residence having found that it was wiser to keep an eye on the various concessions he had permitted on a profit-sharing basis.

  “Mr. Bannerman?” He rose as Clark was ushered into a study lined with mouldering volumes. He was tall and slim and a little vague with fading blue eyes and a balding skull. “Mr. Clark Bannerman?”

  “That’s right,” said Clark cheerfully. “Chief of Arabesque. You’ve heard of us, of course. Educational films catering to minority areas of culture. Our treatment of the Zambezi fertility rites is a minor classic though I say so myself. And perhaps you saw our documentary on the tribes of the upper Limpopo?”

  “No,” said Carter-Frobisher after a moment. “I can’t say that I did.”

  “But surely Mavis must have told you about it?”

  “She may have done,” admitted his lordship. “If so I have forgotten.”

  “It gained high critical praise and three honourable mentions at the Festival.”

  “Cannes?”

  “Trieste. But Cannes is the big one, of course. This year I am confident that we shall gain the highest awards. In fact with your help, I can’t see how we can fail. You have heard from Mavis?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bannerman, I have.” Carter-Frobisher drew a deep breath. “I naturally wish to help my daughter in every way I can but, frankly, I am not sure that I see the point of what she requests. The oaks have a certain traditional significance to the local population and I would not agree to having them cheapened in any way. A film company is not what I would regard as a means to enhance the atmosphere of the locality. I mean no insult, Mr. Bannerman, but—”

  “Say no more!” Clark lifted a hand. “I understand fully what you mean and agree with you all the way. But Arabesque is not just another film company. It is a dedicated medium devoted to the preserving of ancient ways and customs, a group of intelligent and sensitive technicians who want nothing but to preserve for posterity traditional ceremonies and interesting facets of folk-culture. The oaks have a special relationship to the little-known cult of witchcraft and are important to us for the scientific record we hope to make. I must stress the educational and cultural value of what we wish to do. With your help we shall make a valuable record of an interesting and scientifically controlled experiment based on ancient rituals and one which will immortalise both the oaks and Fairfield Manor for all time.”

  His lordship grew thoughtful. “There will be publicity?”

  “Inevitably, yes. I think it safe to say that the oaks will become a major attraction once our film has been shown.” Clark glowed with confidence. “A copy, naturally, will be donated to the Manor in return for your assistance and if shown it will provide a lure for all who are interested in the occult. And that,” he added shrewdly, “is a remarkable number of the population.”

  “All right,” said Carter-Frobisher. “You have my permission to make your film subject to certain conditions. I’ll send Gleeson to have a word with you. You are staying at the inn?”

  Clark nodded.

  “He will meet you this evening.”

  Gleeson was a withered man with a seamed face and the eyes of a ferret. He accepted Clark’s offer of a drink and promptly ordered a double whisky. In an alcove hung with gleaming horse brasses and ancient weapons he looked knowingly at the film producer.

  “So you want to film a coven. Is that it?”

  Clark coughed. “Well—”

  “I spotted your people when they were down here the last time. Not much goes on around here I don’t know about. How is Lady Mavis?”

  “She’s all right.”

  “A fine figure of a woman,” said Gleeson. He sucked thoughtfully at his teeth. “Wild but with the true spirit. Was this her idea?”

  Clark nodded.

  “It would be.” The agent frowned over the rim of his glass. “But what you want isn’t all that easy to get. The witches are shy of making themselves known. And they don’t like to think of people laughing at them. They take it real serious.”

  “It’s a serious business,” said Clark.

  “The vicar would agree with you. He doesn’t hold with all this prancing around naked in the moonlight. And he doesn’t like the things he finds in the graveyard at certain times of the year. It would be best if you didn’t tell him what you were doing should he ask.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Clark. “Have another drink?”

  Gleeson had another drink, and then another, and then still more. He remained as sober as if he drank pure spring water. It was, thought Clark, a disgusting waste of good whisky. Turning he looked over the bar. It was thronged with men and women, some young, most touching middle age. A fat man made conversation with the barmaid, a buxom young thing with a generous development. A stooped oldster leaning on a cane talked to a horsy female, wearing thick tweeds and a monocle. Gleeson touched his arm.

  “That’s one,” he said, “She’s a member of the coven.”

  “The barmaid?” Clark felt a renewed interest as he studied the figure beneath the straining fabric. Now she, at least, would be well met by moonlight. Gleeson grunted.

  “Not her! The other one. She’s talking to Simon Dene. He’s the head man.”

  “Of the coven?”

  “That’s right.” Gleeson pursed his lips. “He denies it but I know better. Many’s the night I’ve watched from the oaks and I recognised him despite all the stuff he wears.” He rose. “I’ll have a word with him and from then on it’s up to you. If you can lie as well as you did to his lordship you might get somewhere.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Mark was annoyed. “What do you mean, lie?”

  “Trieste,” said Gleeson. “The Zambezi. The Limpopo. I might be a yokel, Mr. Bannerman, but I’m no fool. You’re not the first to come wanting something for nothing. Not that it matters, what the Lady Mavis wants is good enough for me, but just so as you don’t get the wrong idea I thought I’d let you know. And I’ve my own reasons for wanting to help you.”

  “Such as?”

  Gleeson smiled. “That’s my business, Mr. Bannerman. And it’s going to stay that way.”

  * * *

  Tony’s voice was petulant as Bannerman climbed the stairs to the improvised theatre. “But, Helen! Mummified toads! Dragon’s blood! Dehydrated newts! Snake venom! Foxgloves! Corpse fat! How the hell am I going to get things like that?”

  “Get them!” Bannerman glared at the prop man as he thrust through the door and slumped into a chair. He looked haggard, a stubble of beard marring the smooth line of his jaw, detracting from the carefully cultivated appearance of youth which was his defence against the marching years. “Damn it,” he said. “You’re the prop man, aren’t you? You’re supposed to have special talents. Use them and stop whining.”

  “Clark!” Conway crossed to the chair. Lowering his voice he said, “Don’t rile him. He’s managed to get us a truck. Upset him and we’ll lose it.”

  “All right.” Clark smiled at the clapper boy. “I’m sorry, Tony, but I’ve had a hell of a time. Where’s Mavis?”

  “Out with Sherman. He’s using her car to pick up the stock. How did it go?”

  “Bad.”

  “How bad?”

  Clark shrugged and gratefully accepted the drink Helen, with womanly intuition as to his needs, placed in his hand. “I’ll tell you later when the others get here. Now about that list you were reading out. Where did you get it?"

  “From me,” said Helen. “And I got if from a lot of mouldering old books. They’re ingredients for magical witch’s brews.”

  “Essential?”

  “So the books claim.”

  “Then we’ll have to get them.” Clark handed back the empty glass and brooded over the refill. �
�A dragon is probably some form of lizard and you can get those at a pet shop. Foxgloves from a nursery or herbalists. Newts are easy to get from an aquarists. Toads?” He frowned. “Aren’t they used in research laboratories? Look up the classified. They don’t have to be alive and we can dry them out in an oven.”

  Tony coughed, disconcerted at his own inadequacy. “And corpse fat?”

  “A corpse is a dead body. Lard comes from dead bodies.” Mark gulped his second drink. “What’s it for anyway?”

  “A witch’s salve,” said Helen. “They mixed it with other stuff, digitalis, aconite, a real horrible mess and then, they stripped naked and smeared it all over. But, Clark, lard comes from dead animals.”

  “So what? A body is a body, isn’t it?” Clark turned as Mavis and Sherman entered the room. The cameraman was loaded with a heap of film. He set it down and wiped his streaming forehead.

  “So you’re back,” he said to Clark. “Have fun?”

  “No.”

  “Success then?”

  “I contacted the coven if that’s what you mean,” said Clark grimly. He looked at Mavis. “Your friend Gleeson fixed it for reasons of his own but I’ve a pretty good idea what they are. Is everyone down your way kicked on witchcraft?”

  She shrugged. “How would I know? How did you get on with daddy?”

  “He agreed to let us use the oaks.”

  “That’s all right then.” She smiled and sat down with her usual disregard. “What made you ask about my neighbours?”

  “Gleeson. He was a little too helpful and he admitted his interest. My guess is that he belongs to another coven and he wants to use us to deride the opposition. Not that they need deriding, physically that is, I’ve never seen such a bunch in my life.”

  Sherman leaned forward. “Useable?”

  “They’re willing to cooperate. I’ve gathered a wad of notes as to procedure and the rest of it. In fact I’ve had my ear bent with a mass of stuff on inner meanings, historical significance, white versus black magic, symbolism, pre-Christian antecedents, parallel religion, esoteric spirituality...” He broke off. “You name it and I’ve had it. But as for the witches themselves, no dice.”