Kingsholt (8 page)

‘Back to Nimbus,’ said Sam.

Aidan nodded. ‘I suppose we could take a leaf or two out of Alfred’s book. He was a great fighter, as you know. He knew all about enemies and really understood King David’s cry for God’s help. After all, King David’s situation was not unlike his own.’

‘The effect of the past again.’

‘That’s true,’ said Aidan, ‘but to come back to the present. The only other West Saxon prose version of the first fifty psalms of the Psalter is preserved in a single manuscript, now in Paris, in the Bibliotheque Nationale. It was copied in the mid-eleventh-century. If there
is
a copy here, hidden underground, it makes it very valuable.’ He looked up, eyes shining. ‘It would help me to build the chapel and repair Kingsholt and maybe fulfil Uncle George’s dream, that is, if your parents were in agreement.’

‘You sound as if you believe there is a copy,’ said Sam, pulling a face.

Aidan looked solemn. ‘I really have no idea. What matters now is that Nimbus is sure the book exists and that it’s his by rights.’

‘There’s something about a Roman mine in Devon Myths and Mysteries,’ said Sam, thinking he’d better return the book.

Aidan gave him a searching look. ‘Now we’re on the subject, you might be interested to know that map I’ve lost is something to do with the stone mines. It may even have had something to do with the so-called treasure.’

‘Where did
you
find it?’

‘In one of the books but at that moment I didn’t have the time to study it.’

‘If you’re anything like my mother, you might have put it back and forgotten all about it.’

Aidan shook his head. ‘I wish I had.’ He wandered round the room looking at pictures, staring into the mirror, touching books, as if the room itself held many secrets.

‘What’s all this got to do with Chloe?’ asked Sam.

‘Everything,’ said Aidan, sitting down again. He leaned over towards Sam, clasping his work-worn hands together. ‘I think Nimbus is trying to win over Chloe for his own purposes and if he does, I’m not sure we’ll ever get her back.’

‘You mean he’ll —’ The idea was too horrible to voice. ‘Honestly, Aidan, it’s all rubbish.’ Then he remembered Chloe crying and felt confused. ‘Anyway, it’s her own fault. She’s got a mind of her own, hasn’t she?’

Listen to this,’ said Aidan, purposely opening an old, leather-bound book and leafing through it. ‘This is the Chronicle of Kingsholt, an early Victorian translation from Old English. It’s a local account of how the Vikings rode into this valley. This is the bit that matters.

‘The pit,’ said Sam quickly. ‘It’s open. It stinks.’

Aidan nodded. ‘I believe the pit where the monks were buried is the very one Nimbus uses as a refuse dump. It was near the pit that I found Uncle George dead. It’s there I want to build a little chapel and bring back the light.’

They sat for a moment in silence. The sun had come out again and was shining through the window on Aidan’s head, hallowing his iron grey hair so it looked white, making him insubstantial somehow, and ageless.

‘The light against the dark. We must use everything we can.’

‘But legends,’ said Sam, pulling a face, ‘Come off it, Aidan, legends are for fun but they’re not true.’

Aidan looked thoughtful. ‘Not in our sense of the word. But
they come out of big events and often give some sort of clue to what happened.’

There was a noise outside and Aidan stood up as if someone was watching him over his shoulder. Sam looked round. Was it the sudden dip in sunlight, the cloud that went over the sun? Or the slight wind that started up from nowhere and somehow fluttered in the old velvet curtains. Sam looked away from Aidan and into the mirror. To his surprise he no longer saw a reflection of his own face. The glass was covered in a white mist and he had the strong feeling someone was trying to break through.

‘It’s this place,’ he said, ‘it gets you in the end.’

Aidan spoke gently. ‘If you’re sensitive, as you are, Kingsholt, like many places of trauma, gives you a sort of passport to go into the past.’

‘That’s news to me,’ said Sam, jokingly. ‘When my Dad was around, he always kept my passport for me. At least I’m in charge now, or think I am.’

Aidan laughed and took advantage of Sam’s apparent good humour. ‘Come on, let’s go and have some tea.’

But Sam persisted. ‘It’s this place,’ he said again, ‘it’s creepy. I’ve never been on two levels at once at home.’

Of course, that wasn’t quite true. There was the time he saw Dad standing in his green pyjamas at the bottom of his bed, but that was a different thing altogether. He
needed
Dad.

Aidan interrupted his thoughts. ‘Chloe needs you, Sam. And so do I. We must break the darkness and help her.’

‘She doesn’t have to stay around, she has a mind of her own,’ said Sam firmly.

‘She’s captured,’ repeated Aidan.

‘She doesn’t have to be captured,’ said Sam, adding aggressively, ‘besides, she looks awful and is awful.’ He looked straight at Aidan. ‘You
can’t
believe those stories,’ he said scornfully. ‘History’s one thing, but they’re another.’

Aidan shrugged. ‘I believe sometimes, we’re given help to
overcome evil through something as small and strange as a legend.’

‘But it might not be enough.’

‘It might not. But we have to act.’

‘How?’

‘You must use your good influence on Chloe. And I must build a chapel to God. These two things are intertwined.’

‘I don’t see how,’ said Sam, ‘but I’ll have a go. Chloe used to be nice and normal, you know. The truth is, her parents don’t give her any attention at all and I think that’s why she thinks Nimbus is great. He’s become her father.’

‘I didn’t know you went in for analysis, Sam,’ said Aidan with lifted eyebrows. ‘Anyway, all we can do is to have faith that she’ll become her old self again.’ He abruptly closed the Book of Kingsholt and put it beside Asser’s Life of King Alfred and Uncle George’s diaries. He looked tired.

‘I think it’s time to go.’ He strode out of the room.

As Sam stood up a limp darkness drifted over the library, as if a mourning cloth had been spread out and everything had lost its shape and colour. Aidan was already clanking the keys and beckoning him through the door. Sam carefully avoided the mirror as he turned to go. But in his mind he could see the monk with a white, rough woollen cowl drawn over his pale head, and a long, brown quill in his right hand.

Chloe stood by the hospital cage, next to Sam. A bird with an injured wing was hopping into a dish of water.

‘It’ll never survive,’ she said.

‘Yes it will. Aidan will make sure it does.’ Then after a while, ‘What’s the matter, Chloe? You’re so pale you look as if you’re going to be sick. I reckon it’s all those pills you must be taking. Look, why don’t we have some fun?’

She smiled. ‘It’s not an in word round here.’

‘Telling me!’

Chloe turned towards him, the words rushing out as if she was making a confession. ‘Leela tells me I’m a passerelle. It’s a word she made up. Sounds like a butterfly, doesn’t it? But it means sensitive to the past. Like our grandmother.’

Sam studied her silently. Would that account for her pale face, her glazed eyes, her lack of substance, her forgetfulness? Was she in the grip of the black past Aidan had talked about, that hung over the stones and woods, the shrieking massacre that came up from the open pit and infected the bones of the valley? Don’t exaggerate, he told himself.

‘Should be mentioned on the family tree,’ he said lightly. ‘Chloe Penfold – passerelle.’

‘Shut-up,’ she said, pressing her hands against her head.

‘Only a joke,’ said Sam. ‘As a matter of fact, Aidan mentioned it to me. He said it’s in the family.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Chloe petulantly, ‘he’s not to be trusted. He’s the enemy.’

‘Well, he’s my friend.’ Sam looked at Chloe. ‘Anyway, whose enemy?’

‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

Sam waved his hands. ‘Okay. All is well, passerelle. Now, like I said, why don’t we have some fun for a change.’

‘Like we used to,’ she said, in a half-mocking voice. ‘Exploring the loft. That was your favourite, wasn’t it?’

‘Why not?’ said Sam, ‘there’s no age barrier, is there?’ He put his arm round Chloe. ‘Come on, let’s go and see what there is to eat.’

Chloe said she couldn’t eat lunch and went up to her room. She flung herself on the bed. If only it was like the old times. If only she could forget Nimbus. She wondered why it was so difficult when he was bringing her nothing but misery. Even now she could feel his deep hypnotic gaze, touching her, overwhelming her. The drink and pills made her feel strangely powerful, which was more than she did without them. But she must fight her feelings.
She must get back the map and never see Nimbus again.
Then the other voice started up, the one that felt sorry for an outsider, for she was one herself.
The truth is Mum and Dad simply don’t care.

She forced herself to get up and go to the window. Leela was passing in her yellow sari and at the sight of her, some new innocence stirred in Chloe’s heart and mind. It no longer seemed impossible to go up to the attic and play around.

Sam was already up there, looking out of the dusty window. The room was full of junk and boxes and piles done up in string or rope.

He pulled out two puppets from an old box and held them up. Out of the two he chose the red cheeked clown wearing a blue striped trouser suit. He flopped it down on top of the dusty box so that its strings became tangled. Chloe picked up the other puppet and examined its fluffed-out brown hair and spherical grin. She danced it up and down. ‘Do you remember how we used to do plays?’

Sam picked up the first clown and undid the knots.

‘Hallo,’ he said in a squeaky voice, ‘I’m a magic clown.’

‘And I’m a pear shaped princess,’ said Chloe in a light voice. ‘I’m lost, I’m lost, I’m lost. Can you tell me the way home?’

‘Follow me, Princess.’

Sam danced the puppet all-round the attic, while Chloe followed, skipping her princess over the old luggage and packing cases and back to the window. Sam went down into the dim reaches under the eaves and let his clown slump on the floor. They laughed together at their game. ‘Second childhood,’ said Sam.

Then something caught Chloe’s eye and she opened the window, leaning into its patch of sunlight. When at last she turned round her expression had changed.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I’m going down.’

‘What for?’

‘There are things you simply don’t understand, Sam Penfold. All this prancing about – it’s crazy. We’re not children anymore.’

‘It was just a bit of fun. In short supply these days.’

Chloe made a rush for the door. ‘Nimbus is down there waiting for me. I have to get —’

‘You’re not going!’ Sam pulled her back but she struggled free.

‘Get out of my way, Sam. You don’t understand. You go and play football or something. That’s just about your limit.’ She ran back to the door and Sam spoke quickly. ‘Don’t go, Chloe. You can’t trust Nimbus. You’re a puppet in his hands. Get it? He’s caught up!’

‘Caught up!’ she mocked. ‘All right, maybe I’m caught up. Listen, Sam, there’s lots of ways of looking at things. There are people in this world who haven’t had the privilege of learning to read or write. What’s wrong with my helping them?’

‘I suppose you’re referring to that geriatric hippy who’s old enough to be your father. Tell me, Chloe, what’s going on between you and him?’

Chloe turned the door handle. ‘Okay then, since you ask for it, I’ll tell you what’s happening. Rosie was my age when she was killed by Uncle George. The truth is Nimbus is in grief. Now
Gina’s left with the baby. How do you think he feels about that? He needs help. He needs me. He’s about the only person who does.’

‘Pull the other one,’ said Sam. ‘He needs you for what he can get out of you.’

Chloe pointed her finger. ‘So you’re on Aidan’s side.’

‘I’m on your side, Chloe, though I can’t think why.’

‘Nor can I,’ she said as she went out.

Sam went over to the window and waited for Chloe to come into sight. Below him, the roof sloped down with tiles missing and ivy poking up and over the edges like green fingers. He could see Bones Wood rising up, the place where Aidan was cutting branches to make his shafts of light, so he could begin to build his chapel. And there was Nimbus’s cottage, high on the slope, at the edge of the valley, tiny as a toy house. Soon Chloe would be going inside.

He turned away. This attic is full of secrets, he thought, as he came across a pile of odd things; an old brown silk blouse, a dusty, glass sweet jar, full of silver sand, piles of old books. Then, as he was unknotting the puppets’ strings and putting them back into the box, he found a tiny notebook, hidden between the soft sheets of tissue paper. At least this would take his mind off Chloe.

‘EMILY PENFOLD 1942’
he read with interest.
‘RIDDLES FOR REFUGEES.’

Like me, he thought, that’s just how I feel; a refugee from London.

The riddles were written carefully, in a fine copperplate.

Mad as Chloe, he thought. He put the puppets and the notebook back in the box and went downstairs. Now he would have to invent something else to stop himself from wanting to strangle Chloe. Leela? But she was busy with the housework, going round the mansion with a feather duster. Tyler might be the answer – Tyler, with his dog Judy and his cow Daisy.