Kingsholt (7 page)

‘Nimbus tribe?’ Sam put down the binoculars and looked hard at Aidan. ‘Sounds like something from the Stone Age!’

Aidan laughed. ‘It is a bit like that! When Uncle George came across Nimbus and his family living in a squat, he offered them this cottage. Your uncle was the kindest of men, Sam. He knew Nimbus from years back, when they were both children in the village.’

Aidan looked up at the pest house. ‘They live their own kind of life. A law unto themselves you might say. Or unto Nimbus. It’s true a lot has happened to make him as he is, but —’ Aidan looked sharply at Sam. ‘He’s dangerous. He’s giving Chloe drugs you know.’

‘Can’t we call the police?’

‘First of all, Nimbus will deny it, and then he might precipitate something far worse. We have to be careful.’

Sam shook his head. ‘It’s like a story.’

‘It is a story, a very old story.’ Aidan picked up the binoculars and looked through them. After a while he gave them back to Sam. ‘What can you see?’

A tall, hefty man in black leather swung into the view finder. That had to be Nimbus himself. Why was he staring like that at Chloe?

‘Caught up, that’s what they are.’ said Aidan.

Sam went on staring at them. ‘Caught up in what?’

Aidan sighed and spoke in a voice he seemed to dredge up from another depth. ‘You could say it’s the darkness of a long ago massacre. You could say it’s the darkness that still lingers in the stones round their cottage. It
was
the pest house you see, where they kept people with the plague. Or you could say it’s simply human inadequacy. Blame, anger, revenge. A tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye. And grief of course, at losing Rosie and his wife. The common feelings.’

Sam peered at Aidan over the binoculars. ‘What do you mean?’

‘They were circus people once but a tragic thing happened.’ Aidan stopped abruptly. ‘Honestly, Sam, there’s no point going on about it if you’re leaving. Of course if you stay, it’s another matter. You’ll learn about it all too soon anyway. You’ll have to.
And,
how with God’s help, we’re going to try to bring it to an end.’

Sam looked through the binoculars again. Nimbus and Tammy had disappeared inside the house. If Chloe went up there again, would she ever come out, he wondered.

‘She’s in danger,’ said Aidan. ‘What she needs is a friend, a real friend, to protect her. But if you’re going home…’

A real friend
! Sam felt in his pocket and brought out the train time-table. If he went this afternoon he’d be home in three and a half hours, door-to-door. He could download his latest game and when Mum came home she would be pleased to see him, safe and sound. Nimbus would be blotted out forever.

And so might Chloe.

Very slowly he folded the timetable into four and gave it to Aidan. ‘You keep it for me for the moment. I always lose these things.’

Aidan smiled and put it in his pocket. He squatted down and took out the sandwiches, holding them out to Sam who took one and began to eat. For some reason he couldn’t quite make out, he felt relieved.

‘There’s always hope,’ said Aidan, munching vigorously. ‘You mustn’t forget that, ever. It’s one of the great Christian virtues. This valley used to be called the Nimbus Valley and that means light as well as dark. That’s how Nimbus got his name. There are ways through, Sam. There are always ways through. We’ll go to the library and I’ll tell you more.’

Sam looked up at the stained glass window above the stairway, the stuffed heads of tiger and deer, the faded oil paintings and the prints of hunting scenes his mother had described. It’s another world, he thought, it’s as if the whole place is floating into the past.

Aidan was inspecting one of the tigers. ‘It was Uncle George’s great-grandfather who shot it out in India. He was an officer in the army. You have a long line of soldiers in your family, Sam.’

They went halfway down the hall and stood at the foot of the great stairway in front of the portrait of Uncle George and commented on the sideways tilt of his head, the fair, trimmed moustache, the straight nose, the sharp blue eyes.

‘Eyes like yours,’ said Aidan.

‘And the nose,’ said Sam, ‘short and straight – like my Dad’s.’

‘Family likeness!’ Aidan laughed. ‘And look at this portrait of Uncle George’s mother. She was very sensitive to the past. I suppose you could say it runs in the family.’

Her pale face was set on a long neck and slim shoulders, her fair hair drawn back into a bun. The expression in her blue eyes was vulnerable, as if she had experienced something from which she had never quite recovered. Yet it was not an unfocussed expression and Sam felt as if she was directing her gaze on him alone. Like Chloe, he thought, she looks just like Chloe.

Sam wanted to know more about Uncle George. There were plenty of rumours but what had
really
happened to him? How had he died?

They climbed the wide stairway with its carved oak balustrade, past the tall stained glass window that rose above the half landing, and up to the next flight where the stair-carpet became even more threadbare and grey and the walls and ceiling were stained and streaked with dirt and cobwebs. The first
landing led to a corridor on the right and they followed it past a couple of doorways to another right bend where there was a heavy oak door. Aidan stopped and took out a bunch of keys from his jeans back pocket. ‘If you carry on down this corridor, you get to the back stairs that lead up to your bedroom,’ he said, ‘but this is where we stop – it’s the library.’ He selected a big, old key, inserting it into the lock.

Sam was surprised. ‘Do you always lock up?’

Aidan shook his head. ‘I never used to. A copy of an old map disappeared a few nights ago. It was very valuable to me and it might simply be that I can’t see for looking. But I have to be careful, I don’t want anything else to go.’

The door creaked open onto a room that was in semi-darkness. Sam stood in the doorway as Aidan drew back the red velvet curtains. Like an explosion, the late afternoon sun shone on rows and rows of books lining the walls. Only the chimney place was free of shelves. Above a white marble surround, a huge, ornate, gilt mirror gleamed with light. Sam saw his own reflection gazing back at him and he turned away to avoid his own squint. ‘I feel as if I’m in a public library!’

Aidan laughed. ‘It is a bit daunting, isn’t it. It was Uncle George’s great-grandfather who collected many of the books. Some of them go back a long way.’

Sam scanned the shelves for something interesting but all the books seemed old and untouched. ‘How many have
you
read?’ he asked.

‘Just a few. There’s a lot of other things to do here, as you know.’

Aidan went over to the big leather-topped table in front of the chimney place and leafed through a few papers that were neatly stacked beside a pile of hard covered exercise books. He frowned and went through them again, this time more carefully. ‘That map must be somewhere. I must have tidied it up. Can you see it anywhere, Sam?’

‘What map?’

Aidan didn’t give him a direct answer. ‘I wish I knew. I no sooner find it than it disappears. It’s a copy your grandmother made when she was a young girl.’

‘You’d think she would have better things to do.’

‘You have to know more of the story,’ said Aidan. ‘Anyway, it’s on an old sheet of paper, and all the places on it are marked with very tiny writing. I’d like to get it back.’

‘What are these?’ Sam tapped the pile of exercise books.

‘Uncle George’s diaries. At least
they
haven’t gone.’ He pulled out a chair and Sam sat on the other side of the table, opposite the ornate mirror. Aidan fumbled in his pocket and brought out his train timetable.

‘Do you want it back or shall I keep it?’

‘I’ll get myself another one,’ said Sam, lightly. ‘You can give that to Chloe when she needs it.’ He paused. ‘Is she in real trouble?’

Aidan nodded and Sam walked over to the big window and looked out. The hills behind the house were a clear gold-green but the pest house was out of sight, on the other side of the estate. He walked slowly back to the table. The mirror was gold with the low, straight light of early evening and sunlight skimmed the leather table-top. There was an air of friendliness about the library, as if all the books had good things to say and the possibility of evil seemed a long way off.

‘I want to know all about Chloe,’ said Sam.

‘This story goes back well before her. You have to understand the background or you won’t understand what’s happening to your cousin.’

‘You sound like my history teacher,’ said Sam, ‘he was always side-tracked. Okay, Aidan, I’m only teasing, I’ll be patient.’

Aidan leaned back and put his fingertips together. ‘Terrible things and wonderful things have happened here. It all started long ago, in 876 A.D.’ He took up a little book. ‘This is the first
biography of King Alfred. It’s by Asser, who dearly loved the great Christian King. Of course, he was one of his bishops, so he might have been biased.’

‘What’s that to do with it?’

‘Patience Sam and forgive the old fashioned English. I’ll leave out the irrelevant bits.’ Aidan found the right page and began to read slowly.

Aidan looked up. ‘It was during that march that I believe they passed the monastery that was once here and sacked it. There’s also a legend that Alfred, who was pursuing the Viking army, arrived a few hours too late. The whole place was burning, the treasure had gone and most of the monks were massacred and buried nearby. In some ways that massacre still casts its shadow on our time. How can I explain?’

‘I’m a dab hand at monasteries,’ interrupted Sam, as if he almost didn’t want to hear about any shadow that might be affecting Chloe. ‘Let me see.’ He began to speak in a sing-song, ‘They worked the land, said and sung prayers, studied bibles or copied manuscripts by hand, taught and kept silence.’ He stopped and smiled ruefully. ‘My mother’s keen on all this.’

‘King Alfred was keen too,’ said Aidan, ‘he thought faith and learning walked hand in hand. He kept the belief even when things were really bad for him and he had to live hand to mouth in the Somerset marshes.’

‘Are you preaching again?’ Sam teased.

Aidan smiled. ‘I’m back to our local legends. They say that several monks survived the massacre by hiding in the stone mines. Some of them went off and ended up in the monastery Alfred later built at Athelney. The few who remained erected a wooden home and a chapel up in the field. The legend also tells us that out of gratitude for their survival, they built another chapel in the stone mines. It was to be used as a hiding place for church treasure, if ever the houses of God were destroyed again.’

Sam spoke glibly, ‘Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries.’

Aidan was too intent on his thoughts to comment. ‘The past hasn’t gone,’ he said. ‘It lives inside us all. It’s more powerful than many think, especially for people who have had trauma in their lives.’

‘Like the Holocaust?’

‘In our century, yes. But even the deeper past can affect us.’

‘Are we back to Chloe?’

Aidan looked up. ‘Maybe. But we’re certainly back to Nimbus. His daughter’s death has aroused terrible feelings in him and the past surrounds him with its shadows.’

‘Is Chloe going to be all right?’ asked Sam quickly. To his shame, he found there were tears in his eyes.

‘We’re here to help,’ said Aidan gently. ‘With God’s help we won’t fail.’ He looked hard at Sam. ‘Whether you like it or not, you’re one of those people who are sensitive to the cusp of time, where past and present meet. Isn’t that true?’

Sam pulled a face. He remembered the sightings of his Dad and then there was the monk. Heightened imagination was how he liked to think of it, so reluctantly he said, ‘Maybe,’ and turned away from the subject. ‘It’s amazing! I actually don’t remember Alfred’s dates.’

Aidan laughed. ‘So the system does fail from time to time!’ He spoke as Sam might. ‘Alfred the Great 849-899 A. D. King of Wessex, a Saxon kingdom in southwest England. He became
King of England by defeating the invading Danes and established the over-lordship of the West Saxon royal house. What is more he built the first English fleet, encouraged education, and translated several Latin works into English, becoming the father of English prose history.’

‘I won’t forget,’ said Sam. ‘Carry on.’

‘There’s too much to tell. What matters to us is that when Alfred built first a fort and then a house for monks at Athelney – that’s a little to the north of Kingsholt – it’s possible he sent monks from there to help rebuild this monastery. Anyway, the second building lasted right up to the time of HenryVIII who, as you know, pillaged and sacked the monasteries all over England, including our one.’ Aidan’s eyes grew concentrated. ‘The legend tells us that one of the books hidden in the underground chapel was a copy of the first fifty psalms, translated by Alfred himself in the last year of his life. He introduced each psalm with a little personal comment.’

‘Like what?’ asked Sam.

Aidan had a paperback copy of the translation on the desk. ‘This is what he wrote about the second psalm.’ He looked up. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I wasn’t a choir boy for nothing,’ said Sam, grinning. ‘Anyway I always like to know what people have to say and King Alfred was no mug.’

‘There’s nothing difficult about this,’ said Aidan and began to read.