Buried Fire

by Jonathan Stroud

  "Having any luck, Tom?" she asked.

  "I'm homing in," he replied, and went on searching.

  11

  The Wirrim that morning was at its most beautiful. The rounded folds were splashed over with an easy sunlight, which fired the grass slopes and the stone walls' broken chain with a tint of gold. Only the steepest valleys on the southern side remained in shadow, where cold streams plummeted in thin cascades a step at a time, and each step was a hundred feet. The air blew fresh and strong, and clouds fleeced comfortably in the sky, casting teasing shadows on the bright earth.

  Stephen and Michael climbed, each consumed by his own thoughts.

  Stephen hardly registered the view at all. The ease with which his brother had sworn the forbidden oath had shocked him, and made him deeply ill at ease. He was prepared to follow where Michael led – he owed the oath that much. But when Michael's imagination dried up, and his lie was left exposed, Stephen had no idea what he would do. A good beating was in order, but that would probably upset Sarah even more than Michael's behaviour had in the first place. She had set a lot of store on her family's mutual support in the last few months, and Stephen and Michael had done their best to be restrained. But now – Stephen kicked out at a pebble on the path – his restraint was hanging by a thread.

  Michael picked his way around the jutting stones of the steep path with unconscious skill. Almost as soon as he had made his declaration to his brother – a declaration that was both justification and challenge – he had begun to regret it. He did not regret the savagery of his oath, for his word was true; nor did he regret, exactly, showing Stephen the special place. It was more . . . well, he was not at all sure that Stephen really deserved this knowledge. As the morning wore on and they climbed higher, he felt a gnawing certainty grow in him that he should have kept his secret to himself. It was his own weakness that had done it, his weak-willed need to share; but how could he share something as strange and singular as this, even with his own brother? Stephen had no hope of understanding, he had no gift. He was just a common boy, special only for the hidden beauty of his face.

  Twice, on the early stages of the trek, while they were fringing the Russet and keeping to cattle paths and easy walk-ways, Michael had lagged behind his brother and turned the sight on him behind his back. Both times the outline of a horse's head, resplendent with pulsating life, had appeared to him, and suddenly, Michael had known what he was looking at.

  It was his brother's soul.

  What else could it be? It was no aspect of his physical state, that was for sure, yet it seemed to coexist with his physical body. It was constantly swirling in upon itself, like magma beneath the earth, or – Michael smiled at the simplicity of the analogy – like soup in a pan just before boiling. It had a thousand colours, lit by an inner light, and what he marvelled at most of all was the fact that it reflected Stephen's emotions. The whole thing was swirling with anxiety, with streaks of red, and darker thoughts. Once, when Stephen tripped on a tree root, and Michael heard his voice curse loudly, he saw a brief swirl of angry purple burst up from inside the soul and fade away.

  There was no question; it was a beautiful sight, and Michael could have gone on watching it all day and never switched back to the boring old colours of the summer. Yet he had to switch off, or risk losing his footing in the red-grey half-light.

  How stupid he had been to tell him. He could have been the only person in the world to know . . . and now he had sworn an oath Stephen would force him to justify. There was no way out. Unless . . . Perhaps he could persuade him to forget about it, treat it as a joke? Maybe, but it wasn't likely.

  "Stephen—" His brother stopped and turned, and his look killed the words dead in Michael's throat. There would be no going back. Not now.

  He smiled sheepishly at his brother and shrugged. Somewhere at the back of his eyes, something was aching.

  "Well," said Stephen. "Shall we go on?"

  12

  Mr Cleever was standing at the door, and in the act of ringing the bell, when Sarah turned the car into the drive. He turned and beamed at her as she halted and got out.

  "My dear, what perfect timing. I was just resigning myself to a long walk back again."

  "Didn't the boys answer, Mr Cleever?" Sarah fumbled in her handbag with what she was conscious was a fluster, found the keys and unlocked the door. "Please come in."

  "Thank you, Ms MacIntyre. I don't think Stephen and Michael can be home. I rang twice."

  "They should be here. Michael's not well." She plumped the handbag down on the dresser and hurried to the foot of the stairs. "Michael? Stephen?" She called up, but the house was silent.

  "All gone," said Mr Cleever beamingly, and then, as if it were a statement; "Boys."

  "Yes." Sarah was disconcerted now, and angry. The job in Stanbridge had gone tolerably well, and she had been happy to return home early and attend to her errant brother with Stephen's help. Now it seemed that they had both gone walkabout. This was too much to endure; she could not bear it. "Would you like some tea, Mr Cleever?" she asked.

  "Thank you. May I sit down?"

  "Oh, of course, please." Mr Cleever sat in an ample chair, and while Sarah made the tea in the kitchen down the hall, regaled her with small talk about the interminable dealings of the Geological Society and the Parish Committee on Education.

  "I cannot think," he concluded, "how things can have become so lax in these areas. Children can only suffer when taught with such moral looseness. Thank you, I will take sugar."

  He sipped his tea. Ms MacIntyre seemed discomposed.

  "My dear," said Mr Cleever, setting down his cup, "you are not happy. I will not ramble on any longer. What is the matter? If I can do anything, you may be sure I shall, if it is in my power."

  "It is too stupid," said Sarah, her feelings welling up all of a sudden. "Really, I am embarrassed to talk about it." But Mr Cleever, with gentle sympathy, elicited the information he desired.

  "It does seem highly singular," he said, when she had finished, "that Michael should . . . stray off the path so suddenly. After such a careful upbringing as he has enjoyed in your hands."

  "It has never been enough," said Sarah. "He misses his mother."

  "Of course he does, but you could not have done anything differently in all the time you have been here. You have been absolutely admirable. Where did you say Michael said he had spent the day?"

  "Up on High Raise, on the Wirrim, he said. Why, is it significant?"

  "Not really. I suppose he may have hiked across from Little Chetton. There are buses there to Stanbridge. Sarah – I may call you Sarah, mayn't I? – are you all right?"

  "Sorry, it's just so close in here—"

  "Say no more, we'll go into the kitchen. It'll be cooler there."

  So it was, and Sarah cooled herself quickly by drinking two glasses of iced water. Mr Cleever, however, declined a glass himself, and still seemed flushed by the time he made his kind proposal.

  "Sarah, my dear," he said, "you know, I expect, that I am Fordrace youth group leader. In this role I have dealt, on occasion, with children who are under the wrong influences, and I think I know the signs pretty well. There may be nothing in it. His denials, however strained, may be true; that is certainly what we should hope. Even if they are not, by acting now we can turn it into a minor aberration. If you think it a good idea, why not send him over to me, on some pretext or other, and I'll have a look at him and maybe have a quiet chat. It comes easier from some one less close, you know."

  Sarah agreed to this with relief. It seemed very sensible.

  "But where has he gone now?" she asked.

  "He won't come to any harm, I'm sure of it. Besides, you say Stephen will be with him, and I'm sure he's a good pair of hands."

  Sarah supposed he was. But then Mr Cleever gave a little exclamation. "Good heavens, I'd clean forgotten what I came to talk to you about in the first place. It's two things, really. Firstly, I want to speak to you in your capacity
as estate agent. You still work for that big firm in Stanbridge, don't you? Good. Well – I have an estate! It's a farm, actually. Hardraker Farm, not too far. from here. Do you know it?"

  Sarah did. Mr Cleever seemed pleased. "Good, that's what I hoped you'd say. Now, I don't actually own it, but I'm the executor of the estate. The previous owner, Old Mr Hardraker, died a few years ago, leaving the place in a dreadful state. He can't have worked it properly for thirty years, and it's in appalling disrepair. I've tried to find a new tenant, but no one will take it on, and it's completely deserted now. However, it does cover a lot of land, and now that I've been given leave to sell it, I'd like to get a valuation."

  "I'd be glad to see it," said Sarah. "If you want to make an appointment—"

  "Yes, that would be delightful. I'm a little busy over the next few days, but I shall ring you next week to arrange something. Thank you, Sarah; that's a weight off my mind. Now, the other thing. It's no less important either."

  He paused, appearing to sort delicate words into the correct order in his mind. His smile, when it came, was a little pensive.

  "It's about the Reverend Aubrey. About Tom."

  Sarah waited, holding her glass with both hands.

  "I know that you and Tom have – an understanding," Mr Cleever began slowly. "You must know him better than the rest of us. After all, it's been only a few months since he came here to St Wyndham's, and the pressures of modern pastoral work have kept him very busy . . ." He trailed off, as if unsure of himself.

  "Are you saying he doesn't spend enough time with his parishioners?" asked Sarah, crisply.

  "Not at all, not at all. He is, by all accounts, very industrious. Only – and I speak as a former church warden here, with some first hand experience – he is a little inclined to . . . go his own way. Perhaps he doesn't confide enough with those of us who are there to help in his ministry."

  "Really, Mr Cleever, this is ridiculous. I am sure Tom does everything properly—"

  "Forgive me, Sarah. This is not what I meant to say. He does confide in' us, quite regularly, and certainly has a close understanding with Miss Price. They make a very good team. No, what I wanted to ask you was whether anything has been pressing on his mind lately. He seems a trifle distracted."

  Sarah didn't know of anything that might be the cause. She wasn't sure she had noticed it herself.

  Mr Cleever finished his cup and flexed his fingers. "Of course. It's probably nothing at all – just my imagination. I'm sorry to have brought it up, only as parish councillor I need to be aware . . . Give my regards to Tom, when you see him. I've not called in on him today – I thought he'd have enough to do, what with the outrage this morning."

  Sarah wanted to know what outrage this was.

  "Oh, you haven't heard? I thought everyone knew by now. No, there was a break-in at the church last night. They believe the lost fragment of the cross was dug up and stolen. And .they have no idea who did it, or why. Very vexing indeed. Well, it is a long walk back and I must be going. I'm sure Tom will fill you in on the dreadful business when he has time. Don't forget to send young Michael over when you see him. I'll see what I can do. Thank you very much for the tea, my dear. Goodbye."

  13

  After only a few minutes, Tom's quest ended in success. To the left of the main shelf he spotted a small bookcase with a glass front, marked REFERENCE ONLY and filled with large, old, battered volumes. And there, between 'The Stanbridge Fire of 1823 – a personal memoir' and 'Fordrace Farming', he discovered a small green-spined volume, with thick, rough-edged leaves. Opening it on the title page, he read:

  LEGENDS OF FORDRACE AND THE WERRIM

  by Harold Limmins Esq.

  Coalgate Hill Publishers, Taunton

  There was no date, but Tom already knew it was a 19th century printing. He returned to his seat and settled down with satisfaction. Turning to the next page, he was intrigued to find, beneath a Latin dedication, several patches of handwritten notes. They were written in faint blue ink, in a tight, ordered script. The first one said:

  Willis' theories of W.low, worm etc. p.51

  The next one, a little way down, read:

  The Pit. Early refs. Dangers etc. p. 68

  The book was printed with very small, close type in long thick wodges of text, and it made Tom's eyes ache to look at it. Without any system whatsoever, he moved through the book, dipping in here and there, whenever one of the reference headings, which were placed in the wide margins for ease of understanding, caught his fancy.

  Harold Limmins Esq. wrote in a slightly fussy style, very much that of the opinionated amateur scholar. He carried a lot of information about Morris Men, May Dancing on Fordrace Green (which had been banned midway through the 18th century on account of the 'excessive drunkenness attending the revels') and a strange Spring festival called 'Furring the Root' which was still performed in March in his own day. Tom enjoyed the accounts of these folk customs, many of which he had never suspected, and he had quite forgotten the vague purpose of his reading by the time he came upon another patch of handwriting, scratched tightly in the margin in faint blue ink. Just below the side heading 'The Wirrim; Geology and Etymology' were the scathing words: 'The old fool, what does he know?'

  Tom had no idea how far Harold Limmins' knowledge stretched, but the passion of the sentence was clear. It was page 51, and the inked handwriting was the same as the notes at the front. Something had greatly angered someone, and on this emotional morning, that interested Torn. So he looked to the nearest main paragraph heading and began reading from there.

  It read:

  The Wirrim itself is a ridge of limestone and Carboniferous shale extending for five miles above the Russet countryside between Hopalming and Stanbridge. In width it is narrow, rarely reaching as much as three quarters of a mile broad, and sometimes, where the side valleys and mining operations have strongly cut away, a mere five hundred feet across. It runs East-West, with its main indentations in the Eastern half. The village of Fordrace is cradled in one such, where the Wirret Stream runs south from High Raise. It is a sheltered spot, south-facing and hemmed in on three sides by the Wirrim's arms.

  Since earliest times, the Wirrim has been the focus for Man's energies in this area. Open-cast mining (for coals and limestone) began in the later stone age, particularly on the Northern side above Little Chetton. Early settlements existed near the summit of the ridge; there is a bronze age site to the south of the depression named Wirrinlow, where bracelets and pottery shards have been found. A sword was discovered there in the 17th Century. No sign of the buildings remain, but the top of the hill is dotted with some fourteen burial mounds, and various holes and hollows, of which Stoker's Hole and Wirrinlow are the largest. It is possible that some of the hollows are the traces of sunken burial mounds or barrows. Others may be geological sinkholes or ancient quarries.

  Etymologies: Some controversy exists over the peculiar names of the Wirrim region, but it is generally accepted that 'Wirrim' itself derives from the Anglo-Saxon 'wer-gend' (gen, pl. 'werian'), meaning 'defender', since the ridge would be protection both from enemies and, in the valleys below, from the harshest weather. 'Wirrinlow' thus stems from the Anglo-Saxon 'werian-hlaew' meaning 'defenders' mound', suggesting it was once a raised point and may well have sunk. ('Hlaew' in Saxon may mean mound, cave or barrow.) The etymology of Fordrace is obvious: the village is sited at the fording point of a strong stream or 'race'.*

  It was here that the ink message in the margin pronounced its scathing message. The asterisk referred to a footnote at the bottom of the page. This read:

  *A dissenting view has been offered by Mr Arthur Willis, a local folklorist and archaeologist, whose theories are recorded here for the sake of completeness. He argues that 'Wirrim' derives (by a somewhat tortuous process) from the Anglo-Saxon 'wyrm' meaning 'serpent' or 'dragon', and that 'Wirrinlow' is hence a derivation of 'wyrm-hlaew', or 'dragon's mound'. This, while barely possible, is strained beyond belief by his conte
ntion that Fordrace stems from the Anglo-Saxon 'fyr-draca' or 'fire-dragon'. A case, perhaps, of a gentleman's obsessions overcoming his objective intelligence.

  Tom could just make out, very faintly, another ink marking here. He angled the page towards the light and traced the words. It said: 'Limmins and Willis, both fools – but Limmins blessed because ignorant.'

  Tom stopped reading and gazed meditatively towards the ceiling. The library was very quiet and Ms Sawcroft was nowhere to be seen. No doubt about it, there was something here, some issue which Tom did not understand, but which caused passions to flare. What was it? Why should words matter enough to deface a book? He sighed. It was more than probable that the ink writing was very old – perhaps a hundred years or more. There was no chance of it having any relevance today. The whole thing was pointless.

  He should go back to the church. There was more than enough to do there. And ring Sarah. He really must do that. The library, and this book, were just a waste of time . . .

  A woman carrying a bag of books entered the library and went over to the desk and rang the bell. After a pause, Ms Sawcroft appeared from a back room and came hurriedly over to renew the loans. Tom shook his head to dispel the mood of weariness and indifference which had drifted over him. Yes, he would go, and soon, but not before checking the other reference highlighted at the front of the book. Let's see . . . Page 68 . . . He turned the thick, clothy pages in his hand, slowly, carefully, until he came to the place he sought.

  This was side-headed: 'Wirrinlow – historical references and traditions' and was fairly brief. Tom read on:

  The hollow known as Wirrinlow has likewise appeared several times in local history and folklore, where it has a dubious reputation. The first reference is in a 16th century pamphlet kept in Hopalming museum, entitled 'Sprites and othere Visitations'. According to this, 'Marjorie Fawershame did, upon the 14th April 1583, receve upon the Wirrinlaw, also knowne as the Pitte, an unholy visitation, which lefte her frothing and nere dead. Aftere sixe days, complaining shrilley of devilles and impes around her, she was removed to Hostone Priorie, where latterly she died.'