Above the crag: there are many crags on the Wirrim – Raven, Dovetail, Old Toe, High Burr Span . . . It was impossible to know which was meant. But one thing was certain – the dragon was linked to the Wirrim, in this rhyme as in the place names.
I remembered then the significance of Wirrinlow, the old name for The Pit, that sizeable hollow high on the Wirrim. That this must stem from Wyrm-hlaew – 'Dragon's Mound' – is obvious to all except the foolish.
A pattern of belief was becoming clear to me.
Between the trees, there stands the hall: This was obscure. I felt this might refer to a hall Wyndham/Wyniddyn may have built. Maybe this was where he rested . . . Impossible to say.
Beneath the hall, there lies the seal: All the more likely then that Wyniddyn built the hall after his victory over the dragon. He buried the seal deep in the earth to protect it, and covered it over with his building.
Where could this building have been? I can only guess, and my guess leads back where we started from, at St Wyndham's church. We do not know when Wyniddyn was meant to have lived. It must have been before the Welsh poems, and therefore before the sixth century. There was a Saxon church on the present site by the Eleventh Century. Christianity would have arrived here centuries before. A hall or temple associated with the magician-warrior Wyniddyn would have presented problems to the Church. They would have been unable to destroy his influence on the people, and would have had to act quickly to link his old traditions with the new beliefs. The best way to do this was marry the two together. I think they set up their church on the site of the old pagan hall, and made Wyniddyn a local, unofficial saint.
Wyniddyn's seal, if it exists, is somewhere under-the church, or within the church grounds.
What is this seal meant to have been? Who can say, but it evidently contains the magic the magician used to bind up the fire of his formidable enemy. No doubt it is best for Fordrace that it remains undisturbed!
WIRRINLOW
The 'Dragon's Mound' has a long history of folk tradition attached to it.
[There followed the stories of Marjorie Faversham, Meg Pooley and Mary Barratt which Tom had read in the library, the day before.]
The good lady of the village admitted to me, after some hesitation, that The Pit was the setting for 'bad stories', though she refused to divulge them.
RELATED FOLKLORE
Interestingly, a good deal of more recent folklore surrounds one of the farms on the lower slopes of the Wirrim. Seen on maps from the Ordnance Survey, the Hardraker farm lies almost midway between Fordrace church and the Wirrinlow. It is an ancient small-holding, and seems at one time to have been prosperous, though it is now much restricted. A story my informant told me concerns an inhabitant of the farm several centuries ago.
'Bad John Hardraker was a Wizard. Tales were told about his dealings with fairies and worse. He put the eye on you if he caught you up on the hill. He flew too, high over the village church at night. One day a girlie was out on the hill after dark; she'd been fooling with her sweetheart in Stanbridge and was walking home late. She was getting pretty jumpy, what with the lateness of the hour and all, and she kept looking behind her as she went.
'Well, she looked back, and she looked back, and all at once she saw a man following her, a long way off. He was dressed in black and had a long cloak on. Well, she speeded up then I can tell you, but a little bit later she couldn't help herself, she had another look behind her. He was closer then, and he called out to her, "Slow yourself, Kitty, and bide a while with me!" She walked on all the faster when she heard that, but a little bit later she couldn't help herself, she looked behind her again. He was closer still this time, and she could see he had red eyes. And he called out again, "Slow yourself Kitty, and bide a while with me!" Now she began running, down the Haw path it was, down to the village, and her breath was coming in gulps. After a long while, she came near the mill stream, and she hadn't heard anything for a bit, so she snatches a quick look over her shoulder. And what should she see but him floating in the air not two feet behind her, with his cloak out and arms stretched and him smiling like a devil in hell. "Ah, you'll slow now, Kitty," he says, "and sure, you'll bide with me." And he makes a grab at her. But she gives a scream and makes one last effort, and she leaps over the stream, leaving a lock of her hair in his hands. And he can't cross running water, so he's left there, shaking his fist and hollering curses, but he can't do anything about it that time, so he has to go back up the hill.'
My good lady informant says that when she was young the children kept clear of the Hardraker farm and made signs against the evil eye when they passed close. I do not remember this in my boyhood. Nor have I found reliable records of this John Hardraker ever existing. Enquiries at the farm were not well received!
However, strong witchcraft traditions are linked to the Wirrim, and to Wirrinlow in particular. It may well be that the story of the ancient struggle between hero and dragon has left many magical associations in these parts.
(Our friend's continuous manuscript breaks off at this point. However, we include below a few disconnected notes, found tucked in his manuscript, which we suppose were to be worked into his book, had he lived.
J.G, N.P, W.B.)
Fire seems to crop up often in a lot of the tales.
July 1896: I have discovered that Meg Pooley and Mary Barratt were themselves Hardrakers!! They lived on that farm before their marriages in 1733. Perhaps this is the source of that farm's bad reputation? Perhaps not. Their brother, William Hardraker, lived on after them to a great age, dying in 1803.
Is it possible that the link to the past is stronger than I thought?
I have come across rumours – rumours only, mark you – which suggest that certain people in the village (I shall not write their names yet) have closer ties to the dragon legend than might be expected. Can there be a conspiracy? People will believe strange things. I must probe closer.
One boy says he saw something . . . He is scared, but I think I can offer him enough. All rumours. I must be careful.
In the Nineteenth Century!!
There is too much silence in this place. We shall see what is said when when the book is published. If it ever will be!
I must apply myself.
And there the book ended. Tom sat for a long time, deep in thought, with the faded pamphlet on his knee. Then he got up and went to look at the cross.
22
When Stephen came downstairs, Sarah was sitting out on the lawn drinking coffee and finishing off her grapefruit. She was in casual clothes, and there was an air about her of relaxation.
"You look dreadful," she said.
"Thanks."
Stephen sat himself in a garden chair. He surveyed the table. Raucous birdsong sounded from every tree.
"Oh. No cup," he said at last. He got up and wandered back into the kitchen.
"Sorry, I only made my breakfast this morning. You'll need a bowl as well, and the grapefruit's in the fridge."
"The cup will do."
Sarah appraised him as he returned. "Couldn't you at least put some trousers on?" she asked, surveying his boxer shorts and rumpled T-shirt.
"No." He poured out the coffee and looked over at the rose bed beneath the house. In the fragile sunshine of the early morning he could just see the marks where the soil had been rucked and flattened by a heavy weight.
Sarah blew her nose loudly. "It's going to be a bad day for hay fever," she said. "Again."
"This coffee's cold."
"Well, make some more. It's not my fault you get up late. Why are you in such a foul mood?"
Stephen made no response. He poured another cup of cold coffee. Then he said, "Are you going out this morning?"
"Well, no. I've got no houses to view till after lunch. So I thought I'd stay with you and Michael. I haven't seen enough of you lately." Sarah added a winning smile, but Stephen just looked sullen. She did her best to remain calm.
"Did you see Michael last night?" she asked, t
rying to keep her voice cheerful. Stephen looked at her. He nodded.
"Was he OK? Only I sent him down to Mr Cleever's on a pretext. He was going to have a word with him, about – you know. I'm not sure it was the right thing to do, but it might make a difference . . ."
"It certainly had an effect."
"Oh. Good. I hope it was the right thing."
Stephen sat back in the chair and stretched his neck back to where it ached, looking straight up at the sky. He yawned savagely. Such sleep as he had had in the hours before dawn had done him few favours. His whole body was out of sorts.
He hoped Sarah would change her mind and go away. He had a few things he wanted to discuss with his brother.
After waiting by the window for a time, Stephen had tried to rouse Michael, but without success. His breathing had been slow and deep, as if heavily asleep; there had been a reddish tinge about his eyes, and his colouring was pale. At last Stephen had lifted him into bed, and gone downstairs, switching on all the lights and checking the locks. He had felt sick with fatigue and stress, but no longer sensed a threat from outside the house. The tingling in his own eyes, which had burned strongly ever since he saw the reptile souls, had subsided almost immediately after the incident at the window. The assault had ended. For the time being.
"There you are; at least one of you has the decency to put his trousers on."
Stephen had not seen Michael appear at the kitchen door, and he looked him over sharply. Michael was dressed and seemingly washed, and his face was perfectly dreadful. He had a dazed expression, and there was a blankness somewhere in his eyes which made Stephen squirm in his chair, even as he gave his brother a careless greeting. Surely Sarah would notice the eyes too, and think of Tom's accusations.
But Sarah seemed to notice nothing.
"The cups are in the kitchen," she said. "I didn't expect you down so early. There's grapefruit in the frid—"
"I couldn't get your pamphlets." Michael's voice cut in tonelessly as he walked over the grass.
"Oh, that's all right—"
"For the simple reason that they didn't exist."
"I don't—" Sarah turned the red of confusion. Stephen frowned. His eyes had tingled faintly.
Michael rested his hands on the vacant chair and considered his sister. "What were you trying to do, sending me to Cleever?" he said. "Did you think he'd give me a talking to? Did you think he might Do Me Good? I told you the truth yesterday morning, and it wasn't good enough for you, was it? Before the day was out you sold me for your peace of mind. Well, don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes. You can't any more. All I want to know now is—was it his idea, or yours?"
Stephen stirred in his chair. "Forget it, Michael," he said.
But Michael took no notice. "Was it his idea, or yours?" he repeated, raising his voice. "Was it his idea, or yours?" By now Sarah had had enough.
"It was his idea! Does that satisfy you? I was worried. He said he would talk to you. If it was a mistake, I'm sorry. Can't you see? I was upset and it seemed like the right thing at the time."
"Fair enough," said Stephen. "Now do us a favour, Michael, and shut up."
But a sudden curtain of contempt had fallen across Michael's mind. Out of the confused images and feelings awash within him rose suddenly a clear picture of his sister's grotesque stupidity. Her miserable ignorance, her trifling weariness, her pathetic and shabby emotional games – all were suddenly made plain. Stephen, sitting next to him, felt the shift in the atmosphere, a heat grow in his own eyes. He stole a glance sideways at his brother and saw the eyes refocus, becoming distant and unreflective. He saw him staring at his sister.
"Michael," he said at once, "leave it. Leave it alone."
He stood up, but before he could act he knew Sarah had already sensed Michael's invisible attack. She shivered, and something behind her eyes seemed to crumple as if a sudden grief had come upon her. She looked like she was about to cry, and did not know why she did so, but instead she got up, whey-faced and shaking.
"What are you looking at me like that for?" she cried. "Stop it! God, you're sick! What's wrong with you?" Then she shuddered and half-ran towards the kitchen door.
Michael turned to follow her with his eyes. He didn't blink.
"Sarah!" Stephen caught up with her at the door, and hugged her. She was still shivering.
"He didn't mean it," he found himself saying inanely. "He's a little confused." Sarah hugged him tighter.
"I felt—" she began, and stopped, at a loss for words. Stephen did not blame her.
"Go and see Tom," he said. "You need a break from us this morning." He paused, and looked over at the motionless figure by the table. "I'll deal with him."
Michael, at that moment, was filled with a ferocious joy. The colours of another's soul had been revealed naked before him, and where he had once been in awe of that hidden thing, his awe was now turned entirely in on himself and his own power. He had seen that slow and stupid dog-shaped soul quail before his gaze. He had seen its surface shudder, its outline weaken and its colours grow pale and indistinct. The flow of motion had slowed perceptibly, and the life-force in it had stuttered, and all of this because of his own clear gaze. All of this through fear!
Fear.
The soul had sensed it. The colours had revealed it. And Michael had fed on it in that moment with a wild delight, drawing strength on the fragility of his sister's soul.
He laughed to himself.
The soul was a pretty bauble, it was true. He had noticed that right from the start. Even his stupid sister's was exquisite, beautiful as jewels. But what right did she have to it? She would never see it, never weigh its beauty in the balance. Never know the subtlety and scope of its fluctuations, its endless vibrations which made the heart sing to see them. It was wasted on her.
Michael felt like a collector of great wealth and wisdom, who sees a priceless gem owned by an ignorant amateur, someone who would never truly know what she held in her hand.
And with that perception came a contempt for the owner, and all such owners like her, and a new distaste for the gaudy objects in their possession.
"You fools," he whispered under his breath, looking over at his brother and sister by the kitchen door. "You're poor sad fools."
23
It was only when she closed the kissing gate behind her and started walking up the path to the church door that Sarah began to feel better. Throughout the short drive down to the village, her hands had shaken at the wheel and her head had spun; so much so, that she had once had to pull into the side until her vision cleared.
Now, as she walked up past the gravestones, the memory of Michael's anger grew less acute and her spirits rose. There were answers to all problems, no matter how insoluble they might seem.
Sarah pushed open the door and looked inside. She could see Tom standing by the vestry curtains, looking down at the cross. He paid no attention as she entered and pushed the door to, nor even when she came up close behind him.
"Tom."
He visibly started. "Oh – Hi, Sarah! You gave me quite a shock." He hugged her, distractedly. "Sorry about last night."
"That's all right. What are you doing? You were completely lost."
"I was thinking. Listen, Sarah, it's crazy, but you know what I was talking about last night? I think I'm on to something."
"It can wait, Tom. I need your help with Michael. He's just – done something which is really hard to explain, but it was bad, and I need your help."
"Of course. Sit down and fire away."
As Sarah spoke, she became uncomfortably aware that the morning's argument didn't sound nearly as horrid as it had actually been, and she was unable to express quite why it had upset her so much. But Tom listened carefully, and nodded as she finished.
"I'll come and talk to him. I should have done so yesterday. He does sound unsettled, and it may be that his talk with Cleever has made him worse. But Sarah, why on earth did you send him there? Cleever would infu
riate a saint."
Sarah felt herself frown. "All right, it may not have been the best idea, but at least he seemed interested."
"Meaning I'm not? Well, let's not argue about it. I'll come back with you in a minute. But listen, Sarah, I've got to tell you something first. It won't take a sec, and it's too exciting to wait. I think I know what this cross is!"
He grinned with scarcely controlled excitement. "Look, you remember what I was telling you about yesterday? Well, read this. It won't take a minute. It's really short. And there are some strange things about it that you won't believe! Please, Sarah. Have a read."
He handed her a faded pamphlet. Sarah looked at it dubiously.
"Go on, Sarah. Please. You'll think I'm mad otherwise."
She sighed with exasperation. "All right, Tom, but I'm acting under protest."
"OK, OK." While she read, Tom hopped about her, seemingly unable to keep still. He looked over her shoulder, scuttled over to look at the cross, and came back again, all the time making little laughs of amazement to himself. Sarah grew extremely irritated. Finally, she looked up.
"All right, I've read it. Now what's the point? I want to go back home, and I want you to come back with me.
"In a minute. How did it strike you?"
"The ravings of a madman. Where on earth did you get it?"
"The Birmingham Research Library. I went up especially early this morning. Listen, Sarah, didn't anything strike you about it? When he talks about that Welsh poem, and the seal, the seal that he thought was buried on church land?"
"You think the cross—?"
"Is the seal. Yes. Yes I do. Come and look at it."
She came over, her interest jostling with her impatience. The stone lay below her, ornately carved and very old.
"It is a dragon, isn't it?" he said.
Sarah nodded. She followed the sinuous lines around the interlacing body from the long thin head, with its rows of teeth, round the looping back, past the splaying claws and so on to the endless tail.
"And you think—" Sarah cleared her throat. Suddenly the air seemed heavy. She was not quite sure what she was going to say. "But this is a cross. Willis said that Wyniddyn was pre-Christian. He wouldn't have made this, would he?"
Buried Fire Page 11
