“It was my doom, father! It would have been better if I had died at my birth!”
Daylight was fading away. Precious daylight! He swam back, dressed, and set off afresh for Penmorfa. When he opened the door of Ty Glas, Ellis Pritchard looked at him reproachfully, from his seat in the darkly-shadowed chimney-corner.
“You’re come at last,” said he. “One of our kind (i.e., station) would not have left his wife to mourn by herself over her dead child; nor would one of our kind have let his father kill his own true son. I’ve a good mind to take her from you for ever.”
“I did not tell him,” cried Nest, looking piteously at her husband; “he made me tell him part, and guessed the rest.”
She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was alive. Owen stood before Ellis Pritchard.
“Be silent,” said he, quietly. “Neither words nor deeds but what are decreed can come to pass. I was set to do my work, this hundred years and more. The time waited for me, and the man waited for me. I have done what was foretold of me for generations!”
Ellis Pritchard knew the old tale of the prophecy, and believed in it in a dull, dead kind of way, but somehow never thought it would come to pass in his time. Now, however, he understood it all in a moment, though he mistook Owen’s nature so much as to believe that the deed was intentionally done, out of revenge for the death of his boy; and viewing it in this light, Ellis thought it little more than a just punishment for the cause of all the wild despairing sorrow he had seen his only child suffer during the hours of this long afternoon. But he knew the law would not so regard it. Even the lax Welsh law of those days could not fail to examine into the death of a man of Squire Griffith’s standing. So the acute Ellis thought how he could conceal the culprit for a time.
“Come,” said he; “don’t look so scared! It was your doom, not your fault;” and he laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder.
“You’re wet,” said he, suddenly. “Where have you been? Nest, your husband is dripping, drookit wet. That’s what makes him look so blue and wan.”
Nest softly laid her baby in its cradle; she was half stupefied with crying, and had not understood to what Owen alluded, when he spoke of his doom being fulfilled, if indeed she had heard the words.
Her touch thawed Owen’s miserable heart.
“Oh, Nest!” said he, clasping her in his arms; “Do you love me still – can you love me, my own darling?”
“Why not?” asked she, her eyes filling with tears. “I only love you more than ever, for you were my poor baby’s father!”
“But, Nest – Oh, tell her, Ellis! You know.”
“No need, no need!” said Ellis. “She’s had enough to think on. Bustle, my girl, and get out my Sunday clothes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nest, putting her hand up to her head. “What is to tell? And why are you so wet? God help me for a poor crazed thing, for I cannot guess at the meaning of your words and your strange looks! I only know my baby is dead!” and she burst into tears.
“Come, Nest! Go and fetch him a change, quick!” and as she meekly obeyed, too languid to strive further to understand, Ellis said rapidly to Owen, in a low, hurried voice –
“Are you meaning that the Squire is dead? Speak low, lest she hear. Well, well, no need to talk about how he died. It was sudden, I see; and we must all of us die; and he’ll have to be buried. It’s well the night is near. And I should not wonder now if you’d like to travel for a bit; it would do Nest a power of good; and then – there’s many a one goes out of his own house and never comes back again; and – I trust he’s not lying in his own house – and there’s a stir for a bit, and a search, and a wonder – and, by-and-by, the heir just steps in, as quiet as can be. And that’s what you’ll do, and bring Nest to Bodowen after all. Nay, child, better stockings nor those; find the blue woollens I bought at Llanrwst fair. Only don’t lose heart. It’s done now and can’t be helped. It was the piece of work set you to do from the days of the Tudors, they say. And he deserved it. Look in yon cradle. So tell us where he is, and I’ll take heart of grace and see what can be done for him.”
But Owen sat wet and haggard, looking into the peat fire as if for visions of the past, and never heeding a word Ellis said. Nor did he move when Nest brought the armful of dry clothes.
“Come, rouse up, man!” said Ellis, growing impatient. But he neither spoke nor moved.
“What is the matter, father?” asked Nest, bewildered.
Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two, till on his daughter’s repetition of the question, he said –
“Ask him yourself, Nest.”
“Oh, husband, what is it?” said she, kneeling down and bringing her face to a level with his.
“Don’t you know?” said he, heavily. “You won’t love me when you do know. And yet it was not my doing: it was my doom.”
“What does he mean, father?” asked Nest, looking up; but she caught a gesture from Ellis urging her to go on questioning her husband.
“I will love you, husband, whatever has happened. Only let me know the worst.”
A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breathless.
“My father is dead, Nest.”
Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp.
“God forgive him!” said she, thinking on her babe.
“God forgive me!” said Owen.
“You did not –” Nest stopped.
“Yes, I did. Now you know it. It was my doom. How could I help it? The devil helped me – he placed the stone so that my father fell. I jumped into the water to save him. I did, indeed, Nest. I was nearly drowned myself. But he was dead – dead – killed by the fall!”
“Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?” said Ellis, with hungry eagerness.
“No, he is not; he lies in my boat,” said Owen, shivering a little, more at the thought of his last glimpse at his father’s face than from cold.
“Oh, husband, change your wet clothes!” pleaded Nest, to whom the death of the old man was simply a horror with which she had nothing to do, while her husband’s discomfort was a present trouble.
While she helped him to take off the wet garments which he would never have had energy enough to remove of himself, Ellis was busy preparing food, and mixing a great tumbler of spirits and hot water. He stood over the unfortunate young man and compelled him to eat and drink, and made Nest, too, taste some mouthfuls – all the while planning in his own mind how best to conceal what had been done, and who had done it; not altogether without a certain feeling of vulgar triumph in the reflection that Nest, as she stood there, carelessly dressed, dishevelled in her grief, was in reality the mistress of Bodowen, than which Ellis Pritchard had never seen a grander house, though he believed such might exist.
By dint of a few dexterous questions he found out all he wanted to know from Owen, as he ate and drank. In fact, it was almost a relief to Owen to dilute the horror by talking about it. Before the meal was done, if meal it could be called, Ellis knew all he cared to know.
“Now, Nest, on with your cloak and haps. Pack up what needs to go with you, for both you and your husband must be half way to Liverpool by tomorrow’s morn. I’ll take you past Rhyl Sands in my fishing-boat, with yours in tow; and, once over the dangerous part, I’ll return with my cargo of fish, and learn how much stir there is at Bodowen. Once safe hidden in Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you may stay quiet till your time comes for returning.”
“I will never come home again,” said Owen, doggedly. “The place is accursed!”
“Hoot! Be guided by me, man. Why, it was but an accident, after all! And we’ll land at the Holy Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old cousin of mine, the parson, there – for the Pritchards have known better days, Squire – and we’ll bury him there. It was but an accident, man. Hold up your head! You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen w
ith children, and I’ll live to see it.”
“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my race, and the son has murdered his father!”
Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The fire was extinguished, the door was locked.
“Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle while I guide you down the steps.” But her husband bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest gave her father the bundle (already loaded with such things as he himself had seen fit to take), but clasped another softly and tightly.
“No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a low voice.
Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong helping arm round her waist, and blessed her.
“We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But where?” and he looked up at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward.
“It is a dirty night,” said Ellis, turning his head round to speak to his companions at last. “But never fear, we’ll weather it?” And he made for the place where his vessel was moored. Then he stopped and thought a moment.
“Stay here!” said he, addressing his companions. “I may meet folk, and I shall, maybe, have to hear and to speak. You wait here till I come back for you.” So they sat down close together in a corner of the path.
“Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen.
She took her little dead son out from under her shawl; they looked at his waxen face long and tenderly; kissed it, and covered it up reverently and softly.
“Nest,” said Owen, at last, “I feel as though my father’s spirit had been near us, and as if it had bent over our poor little one. A strange chilly air met me as I stooped over him. I could fancy the spirit of our pure, blameless child guiding my father’s safe over the paths of the sky to the gates of heaven, and escaping those accursed dogs of hell that were darting up from the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes since.
“Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him in the darkness of the copse. “Who knows what may be listening?”
The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror, till they heard Ellis Pritchard’s loud whisper. “Where are ye? Come along, soft and steady. There were folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and madam in a fright.”
They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and embarked on board Ellis’s boat. The sea heaved and rocked even there; the torn clouds went hurrying overhead in a wild tumultuous manner.
They put out into the bay; still in silence, except when some word of command was spoken by Ellis, who took the management of the vessel. They made for the rocky shore, where Owen’s boat had been moored. It was not there. It had broken loose and disappeared.
Owen sat down and covered his face. This last event, so simple and natural in itself, struck on his excited and superstitious mind in an extraordinary manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so to say, by laying his father and his child both in one grave. But now it appeared to him as if there was to be no forgiveness; as if his father revolted even in death against any such peaceful union. Ellis took a practical view of the case. If the Squire’s body was found drifting about in a boat known to belong to his son, it would create terrible suspicion as to the manner of his death. At one time in the evening, Ellis had thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the Squire in a sailor’s grave; or, in other words, to sew him up in a spare sail, and weighting it well, sink it for ever. He had not broached the subject, from a certain fear of Owen’s passionate repugnance to the plan; otherwise, if he had consented, they might have returned to Penmorfa, and passively awaited the course of events, secure of Owen’s succession to Bodowen, sooner or later; or if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away for a short time, and return when the buzz and the talk was over.
Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary that they should leave the country for a time. Through those stormy waters they must plough their way that very night. Ellis had no fear – would have had no fear, at any rate, with Owen as he had been a week, a day ago; but with Owen wild, despairing, helpless, fate-pursued, what could he do?
They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men.
The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger holds the lands of the Griffiths.
Swim At Your Own Risk
Matthew Gorman
The trip to Rome had been a bumpy one. Overcome by exhaustion, Mrs. Worthington flopped onto the gilded bedspread and affixed her sleeping mask while her husband paced neurotically about the spacious suite commenting upon its amenities.
“Darling, please,” she scolded him. “The flight was simply atrocious, and if I don’t get a nap in before dinner I’ll be a complete disaster.”
“Well, don’t sleep too long, turtle dove, we have reservations at Il Paradiso at 8, and you know how much I’ve been dying to try their taglierini con tarufi,” Mr. Worthington said, over pronouncing the Italian like he always did.
“Yes, I am well aware of our reservation, darling.”
“It’s supposed to be the best in all of Rome, even better than the one they do at La Pergola. Did you know they actually have the truffles sent in daily from Alba, dear? That certainly must cost them a pretty penny.”
“Chester Worthington,” she said, speaking as if a mother to a wayward child. “Surely, there is something with which you might occupy your time while I take a short rest. Doesn’t this hotel have a casino or something, darling?”
“I’m afraid there are no casinos within Rome, my dear. In fact, I believe that there are only five land-based casinos in all of Italy and, sadly, none of them here in the city. A shame, as you do know how much I enjoy my baccarat.”
“Yes, yes. Well, something then, darling. I really must sleep and that’s quite impossible to do with you standing there yammering on and on about gold-plated bathroom fixtures and imported truffles. Surely, you must see that?”
“Yes, my dear, I’m sorry, my love. Actually, I’d thought I’d be up for a little swim. Did you know that the Palazzo d’Oro boasts one of the first indoor Olympic-sized swimming pools in the world? In fact, several members of the Italian national swimming team even used the hotel pool as a training ground in their preparation for the 1960 Summer Games right here in Rome. Quite fascinating, wouldn’t you say?”
“I most certainly would not. A pool’s a pool. So go, go, swim, swim,” Mrs. Worthington mumbled, the half of a valium she had taken at check-in already starting to work its magic.
“Of course, dear,” Mr. Worthington said, and went to fetch his swimming trunks.
By the time he left the hotel suite, shutting the door gently behind him, his wife was already snoring peacefully away.
* * *
Mr. Worthington made his way to the basement level of the hotel where the pool was housed. A few dozen laps ought to be the very thing to work up an appetite for the rich pasta that he planned to consume at Il Paradiso tonight.
He located a small but richly appointed changing room just off the pool’s main entrance and there he traded his shoes, shirt, and linen trousers for a pair of electric blue swimming trunks with a red racing stripe down either thigh. He drew his fitted neoprene swimming cap over his balding head, attached his purple silicone nose clip, and donned his anti fog goggles before leaving for the pool. Mr. Worthington was a rather capable swimmer and with all his fancy accoutrements he felt he truly looked the part.
Ready to swim, he stepped out barefoot into the pool’s natatorium and found himself instantly struck with awe. As the Chief Financial Officer for a Fortune 500 company for nearly two decades before his retirement, Mr. Worthington was accustomed to a certain standard of luxury, particularly when he traveled Europe, but the opulence of the pool and its environs were far and away above most that he had seen.
Inlaid pilla
rs of pink marble rose high to meet the vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate frescoes of cherubs and angels that called to mind – quite intentionally, no doubt – those of the Sistine Chapel as they gazed down upon the water below. The floor surrounding the pool was wrought in a chessboard pattern of alternating Italy pink marble and stunning white Calcutta marble veined with gold, while potted palms thrust their fronds from intermittent alcoves along the walls to lend a hint of lushness to the massive room of metamorphic rock.
And the pool, itself, was a perfect shimmering field of turquoise blue that stretched the length of the enormous space with wispy white tendrils of steam rising up from its heated water.
But despite the grandeur of the room, there was an unsettling quality about it that Mr. Worthington couldn’t quite put his finger on. It certainly didn’t help that the only source of light came from a pair of crystal chandeliers suspended from the muraled ceiling high above. They bathed the room in a subdued and somber light where shadows hung from the corners like dark draperies. Nor did it help that he appeared to be the room’s sole occupant. It seemed rather odd to him that none of the hotel’s other guests had been up for a mid-afternoon swim.
Supernatural Horror Short Stories Page 39
