Herald of the Hidden (7 page)

‘What Bentley had to do to evade this fate sounds absurdly simple: hit the deck. He would then no longer be the axis. Besides, such an action would imply renunciation of the tower scheme, restore him to the level of the Hill, and carry with it an element of homage. But he could not do it. He was, in both senses, enthralled by the wild impetus of the white spiral. You know yourself, I think, the sense of overwhelming yearning which that phenomenon creates—the desire to belong to its throng, be a part of its chaotic dance. Imagine then the intensity felt at its heart.

‘Yet I could see no way through to Bentley without myself succumbing. It was your sudden plunge into the circle that provided the opening. Momentarily, there was a hiatus in the process whilst you were—temporarily, I am glad to say—absorbed. It was then I burst through. It felt like my head was ripping asunder, and I was sure I’d emerge at the centre just a fleshless skeleton, but I survived intact and then struggled with Bentley to get him to kneel down. I thought at first he’d get the better of me. He resisted with more than his own strength. And all the while the sensation of the surging circle was flickering at my consciousness too, luring, offering me the temptation to which it was fatal to yield. In the end, I as good as tripped him up, pushed him into the pasture, and dived down myself. It was a gesture, and not much more, but it was sufficient. We clung to the grass with desperation, Bentley from instinct, and I from insight; and that deep dependence upon the form and fabric of the Hill was accepted as an expression of contrition. The whirlpool flung out its debris—including you—and was recalled.’

Ralph, wearying of the intricacies of his narrative, lit a cigarette, and began to set up a new Tawllbort board.

‘What did you tell Bentley?’ I enquired.

Ralph sighed. ‘I said that, however he might wish to interpret his experiences, it seemed to me prudent to give up his plans for a Prospect Tower. He agreed quite readily. I mean, apart from anything else, his recent close inspections of the hillside have quite spoiled two suits—positively covered in dust they were. He appears to recall the rest imperfectly—a sense of unease deters him from pursuing his ideas for developing the Hill, and I supplemented that with very strong recommendations along similar lines.’

For myself, I was grateful to take refuge in the singular game that our latest escapade had interrupted, whose mental stimulation was of the tranquil, ordered kind I found to my taste; and I sensed that on this occasion, Ralph Tyler was perfectly ready to concur with this sentiment. . . .

Afterword

A week or so after the Madberry Hill experience, I tackled Ralph Tyler about a matter which I had discovered by virtue of a little research of my own.

‘There is no such plant as the glowberry,’ I said.

‘Really?’ he replied, and pretended to be searching for his noxious cigarettes.

‘They were common or garden snowberries,’ I continued, warming to my theme, ‘Just an ornamental shrub.’

‘Hmm. Well, I may have confused the names.’

‘What is more,’ I added, ‘I believe it was you who plucked a few so that it appeared Bentley had eaten them.’

Ralph stared at me oddly, attempting unsuccessfully to conceal some amusement at my deduction.

‘Very shrewd,’ he conceded. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘You wanted to mislead him into thinking everything was alright, so that he would continue visiting the Hill. You wanted to see what would happen.’

‘Very ingenious of me,’ remarked Ralph sarcastically.

‘It’s hardly ethical,’ I objected feebly.

For some reason Ralph found this comment a source of some hilarity. When he had finished sniggering, I tried my finishing touch.

‘Furthermore, the snowberry does not give off strange fumes. Neither is it necessarily hallucinogenic.’

‘Proper botany buff aren’t we?’ was Ralph’s riposte. ‘But look at it from my point of view. Had I said to Bentley straight out—Oh, yes, you’ve had a vision of the Great Goddess, you must throw in the Tower project at once—do you think he’d have accepted that? Not he. It had to be the way it was. Besides, his insistence on an instant answer needled me. I needed time to follow through my instincts as to the meaning of the first apparitions he saw; and to check up on the history of the Hill. So I gave him the kind of explanation he wanted.’

‘You might have told me,’ I protested, somewhat lamely.

‘I might have done,’ agreed Ralph. ‘But you’re not as good a liar as I am.’

I am still not sure if this was intended as a compliment or not.

‘But what made Bentley think the taste of the snowberry
was
the taste he was left with after the first apparition?’ I persisted.

‘I did,’ replied Ralph, shortly. ‘The fact is that he passed out, and when he came to, his breathing was sharp and his mouth rather clammy. There was no especial taste left with him, really. Likewise, the snowberry’s flavour has been described as “ethereal”. He accepted that this was the supposed aftertaste because he wanted to believe it, and because I assured him of it.’

I was silent for a few moments.

‘What about all this rot that the berry was the warning of the Goddess as to the importance of the full moon?’ I finally demanded in a hurt tone.

Ralph shrugged, grinning.

‘She moves in mysterious ways . . .’ he said.

The Ash Track

The Ash Track is a
curious remnant of a once long and well-used green
lane, which
ran
from the
neighbouring
county of Bedfordshire deep into our
own
area, passing through
and
connecting a number of straggling settlements. Much of
this ancient route has now disappeared.
Some of it has been superseded by a major road
which,
however,
eschews
the almost aimless curvings
and
contortions of the older way, and
imposes
instead a more rational
line across
the countryside, as straight as
was
negotiable. Thus, fragments of the green lane are left forlorn and stranded in the middle of fields,
moorland
or woods.

The
Ash
Track is one such; there is
access
to it by a footpath from the
main
road, it ambles along for a
little over a mile, and
then comes to an abrupt halt in the
middle of private
pastures. There is no alternative, without trespass, to turning
and
retracing your steps. It is an oddity, a leftover, but one carefully
preserved
by the
local hikers’
group, who jealously guard
the
popular
privilege in
this
matter, and ensure the path is
walked
at regular intervals.

The landowner whose field sees the sudden end of
the path is
tolerant
but
firm. He makes no attempt, as did his predecessor, to prove by
archival
research and legal representation that the right-of-way
is
a
chimera;
he
has
reconciled
himself
to
the
intrusion upon his domain. But, nonetheless, he declines to allow the footpath’s extension
across his lands
by about a quarter
mile, which would take it to a gate onto a by-road not far from the village of Fernho.

The usual theory concerning the Ash Track is that it did indeed extend further once; but successive ages witnessed the requisitioning of great stretches of it by unopposed landowners, until the definitive survey earlier this century could only accept the present anomalous conditions.

Even local opinion differs regarding the Ash Track’s name; some attribute it to the trees of that type which grow at intervals along it, whilst others note the dark, dusty topsoil of the lane, and say that this so resembles cinders, as to be responsible for the title.

An acquaintance of mine is a leading light in the walking club I have already mentioned, and as I have a passing interest in the hobby too, we occasionally exchange talk about our latest rambles, forthcoming events, natural history notes and so on. I knew that Stephen Hope was rather inclined to enjoy the seemingly pointless stroll along the Ash Track, and it was usually he that watched for any depredation upon the public rights there. Indeed, he was in a real sense the sole warden of this historic vestige, for few other people had cause or desire to tread upon it. My attention was stirred beyond the usual, therefore, when he remarked, during a lull in conversation when I was paying him a call:

‘There’s something rather worrying about that dead end lane up by Fernho.’

‘How do you mean?’ I responded.

‘Well, whenever I’m down there lately, there seems to be a sort of whirring in the air. At first I thought my hearing was getting defective, but I never have any problems anywhere else. Then, I wondered if it might be the wind in the trees, but it just isn’t like that. It seems to rise to a certain pitch, then falter and break apart. I can’t fathom it.’

‘Farm machinery?’ I suggested.

‘I’ve never noticed any. Anyway, it doesn’t strike you as mechanical.’

I shrugged. ‘What else?’

‘Oh, nothing much, probably. It’s just that . . . have you ever noticed wheel ruts about halfway along; very deeply sunk into the
ground?
They’ve
been
there
for ages. But it only really occurred
to me
the
other
day
that no vehicle uses the track, it would be a
futile
and rather tricky exercise anyway, it’s so narrow and
overgrown
and stony.’

‘Not a tractor?’

‘No, the
grooves are far thinner than
that would make.’

‘Motor-bike? A bit of amateur
scrambling perhaps?’

‘No, the tracks
are
a set of
two
wheels.
And
no treadmarks that I
could
tell.’

I gave up accounting for the incidental curiosities associated
with
the Ash Track, and the talk turned to other
matters;
however, I asked Stephen Hope to let me know if much else
turned
up to foster
his
suspicions. I had in
mind
that it was from such inconsequential beginnings that stranger matters might emerge, and so told my friend Ralph Tyler of what I had heard.

It was evident to me
that
the polite attention he gave my account of Hope’s
comments masked
a more eager interest. Some
weeks
had
elapsed
since our last involvement in any ‘case’ and the fond recollection of
success in past
incidents was
beginning
to strike pale. Ralph
was
never more absorbed than when
some disturbing occurrence
demanded
his energies and
intuition, even more so when
the
matter
lay
close to home, in the region which was our own.

It
was
therefore
not so great a jolt
for either of us when Hope fairly burst into
number
14, Bellchamber Tower at the late
hour
of 11.30 pm one
night,
a few days later. We had
been
mulling over an intriguing
geometric
board-game
Ralph had been recommended by a
correspondent
of his, one of those with whom he frequently exchanged notes about their mutual
pastime
of
games
of skill. The
flow
of play kept us deeply immersed and insensible to
the passing
of the
hours, and we were
both snatched abruptly out of
our
pensive attention to the board when a
rapid,
loud noise at the door announced Hope’s arrival. He rather breathlessly spluttered out terse explanations
—

‘Glad you’re
still
here, went
round
to
your
place, but they
said
you were
still
at
Ralph’s. Look, eh, sorry to
barge in right
at
this
time of
night
only it’s quite
important,
you
see, well, you
remember what I
said
about the
Ash
Track .
. . ?’

Ralph took advantage of this brief
pause
to
motion
Hope into a
seat, and himself assume
his favourite, slumped attitude in the grey-flecked, disreputable armchair
that
had
seen better days.

‘There were wheel marks and an odd undertone of humming the last I heard,’ Ralph confirmed, and I nodded.

Our visitor’s nervous agitation seemed to have subsided a little now, and he said quite calmly:

‘I have seen something down there. I don’t know if it’s a delusion, a hallucination or what. Well, it was so blurred, I am hardly sure now.’

‘
When
did you see—it?’ demanded Ralph, eager to ascertain facts.

‘Tonight. I’ll start from the beginning. I’m sorry, I haven’t really taken it all in yet.’

We waited as Stephen Hope appeared to collect his thoughts.

‘I was in Fernho with some mates. We went for a drink at the New Inn. I stayed for about an hour-and-a-half, I suppose. Left a little after ten. I only had two pints and as you know that’s nowhere near enough to get to me. Well, I thought as I was out that way I might as well take a turn down the Ash Track, the cool night air would be very refreshing and it’s quite an enjoyable sensation,
being utterly alone under the stars just walking along . . .’ Here our visitor grinned ruefully, as if in embarrassment.

‘I hadn’t gone so far along when I was struck by the solemn silence I was in. That’s not unnatural of course, given my situation, gone ten at night in remote countryside, but I feel it was more than that. Anyway, I was lingering in the experience of it when there came over me the impression that the lane ahead was
growing
blacker,
more opaque. I remember stopping, unsure if I should go on any further. Although the way is so familiar to me, I suddenly felt as if it were a yawning abyss in front, daring me to take another step. Nervousness swept over me.

‘As I peered, hesitating, I caught sight of a flicker of flesh in the dim distance, as if a face had appeared briefly, then been hidden again. I took a few more faltering steps. And then the same image, only greatly multiplied, splashes of face as it were, emerging, hovering, disappearing all along the lane ahead, like masks hung on the bushes. Well, then I must have been rooted to the spot in morbid fascination. Telling it to you now, I can see normally I’d have run like hell. Something held me there, I suppose it was sheer fright.

‘As I watched, I began to make out that these faces, sort of shivering, sort of blurred, belonged to bodies, but
they
were all
dressed so
darkly
it
was hard
to
tell
where
their
forms ended, they seemed to fade into the atmosphere. The
more
I looked,
the
more I
seemed
to see.

‘It
was
like
two
long rows of people, on both sides of the way,
dotted at intervals,
receding into the dim horizon as though like a tunnel. And they were all
just standing
there, still. I don’t really know how it came to an end, the scene
just sort of swayed inward and
went away, without a sound. Then I
bolted, got in
the car, drove away pretty recklessly, pulled in to a lay-by a few miles on, tried to make sense of what happened, got very
unhappy and
frustrated,
and
so I’ve
come
straight here. I hope you don’t
mind. . . .’

Stephen
Hope looked
at us eagerly, as if
fully realising for the
first
time
the strangeness of
his
situation, and half-wondering how we would respond.

Ralph
murmured,
hardly
looking
up from his sprawling repose:

‘If you were able to see
actual
people in your
vision . . .
what
did
they look like?
Ordinary,
everyday?’

‘It’s so hard to tell. The
clothing was
dark, I remember that. Mmmm, it
didn’t
seem to be a proper
modern
way of dressing. Maybe I
just
imagined that though. I
don’t
know. Everything
was so . . . sort-of,
smudged.’

‘The faces
then.
Could you
see individual
characteristics? Expressions?’

‘Ye—es.
Yes. I could
see
they were all different. Men and
women, a few children.
And
it was all so heavily
serious, that
was very distinct, a great impression of solemnity.’