Norman Invasions (4 page)

“I have seen it, and more than once,” said old Duncan to me, leaning forward, across the table, whispering. “Long ago, and lately, too, indeed, twice within the fortnight.”

“What?” I asked.

“It, the
calpa
,” he whispered.

“Of course,” I said.

“Twice on the beach, and last night in the village itself, amongst the houses.”

“Dear Duncan,” I said, “you are old, and it is your imagination.”

“Why have you come to the village?” he asked.

“To work,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Do what you have to,” he said. “And then go. It is best that way.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I bear you no ill will,” he said.

“I am pleased to hear it,” I replied.

“Nor it,” he said.

“It?” I asked.

“Aye,” he whispered, “it.”

“The calpa?” I said.

“Aye,” he said.

“I am sure that it, too, would be pleased to hear it,” I said.

“Tonight,” said Duncan, lighting his pipe, “it is the full moon.”

“So?” I said.

There was a rumble of thunder outside, which did not please me. Once before I had been caught in a storm here, between the pub and Hill House. I made a mental note to cut short the evening's pubbing. I had no interest in being soaked and chilled a second time, at least not so soon again. Indeed, even before I had left Hill House, Mrs. Fraser had referred to the menacing, gathering clouds, and recommended caution, and an early return. It might be a terrible storm.

“It was the full moon, too, once, long ago, when your father was here,” he said. “It seems to like the full moon, like some fish, like some animals.”

“There won't be much of a moon tonight,” I said. “Too many clouds. A storm is coming in. Listen. Hear the wind?” It was indeed beginning to whistle about the pub. “I'll walk you home.”

“No,” he said, quickly. “You go by yourself. I'll nurse another pint.”

“As you will,” I said. It was curious. I almost thought he might be afraid. Surely I could have seen him safely home, supporting him, even in the darkness, keeping him from falling. He was not young any longer.

“It likes the moon,” he said, “like some fish, some animals.”

“Oh?” I said.

“The moon,” he said, “will lay a road on the sea, leading to the cliffs. You won't see it, but it will be there.”

“You're mad, my dear Duncan,” said I.

“The world is mad, laddie,” said he, “only it does not know it.”

“If you believe in the calpa, and have seen it,” I asked, “how is it that you are still alive, that you were not killed, drowned?”

“I mean it no harm,” said Duncan. “I think it knows that, as you know I mean you no harm. I do not threaten it. I let it be.”

“But surely you believe it to be some unnatural, demonic, dangerous thing?”

“Too,” said Duncan, “I knew your father.”

I remembered the beast of the dream, rearing, snorting, with its wide, distended nostrils and burning eyes, its mane wild, whipped and torn as in the blasts of a hurricane, seeming to be in more than the room, the high, broad hoofs flailing above me, like hammers.

“What difference would that make?” I asked.

“I do not know what it is,” said Duncan. “I do know that it is, for I have seen it.”

“And you have lived to tell about it.”

“If none lived to tell about it,” said Duncan, “its existence would not be known, would it?”

“No,” I laughed, “it would not be.” It seemed to me that he made his point, or something like it, in his daft way. Certainly I granted it to him.

“Perhaps it does not know I have seen it,” said Duncan.

It does now.

“What did you say?” asked Duncan.

How strange he was. I had not said anything.

I myself had seen the thing, or a form of it, only in dreams. I had, of course, seen prints. So had most in the village, I wager, those who, in the daylight, had gone down to the beach.

“The whole thing is a hoax,” I said.

“Gavin is angry,” he said.

“Where is Gavin?” I asked.

“Not here,” said he.

“What is he angry about?” I asked.

“The whole business,” he said. “I warned him not to interfere.”

He will not interfere.

“What?” asked Duncan, looking up.

But I shook my head, again I had said nothing.

Sweet Duncan, sweet, superstitious old fool.

I waited until Duncan had finished his pipe, and then I finished my ale, I had limited myself to one, and took my leave.

I wished to avoid the storm.

I missed seeing Gavin, for I was fond of him. He was one of the few villagers of my own age, or nearly so, perhaps a year or two younger. He had had some education. Sometimes we had spoken, about the sea, the village, fishing, and about London, that great, mysterious, far-off, sparkling, bejeweled, wicked city to the south.

Some of the villagers were illiterate. I rather doubted that Duncan could read or write, but I never inquired into the matter.

When I left the pub, to return to Hill House, I glanced up at the moon, through the racing clouds. I felt a drop of rain. There was a flash of lighting, far out to sea. It was a full moon as far as I could tell, but I had not kept track of such things, maybe a little less, a little more, maybe full. The astronomy of natural satellites had little to do, as far as I could tell, with the economics of guild socialism.

It had started to rain when I came to Hill House, but I did not immediately enter. I thought I might have heard a small cry, far off, but it was the wind. I looked up at the window, and the adjoining wall, which had now been repaired, though not yet painted. I had rather expected to see the cat there, ensconced in one of her favorite coigns of vantage, but was disappointed. I trusted she would take shelter as the night threatened to be formidable. I was pleased I had left the pub as early as I had.

I turned toward the door when the clouds broke and the moon loomed over me, white and monstrous. Then the clouds closed again, obscuring it.

I would be very pleased to reach the shelter of my room. I entered and went up the stairs. The outside door had not yet been locked. I gathered it would be, later. At least one of Mrs. Fraser's roomers had suggested that precaution. The cat, of course, could come and go through the cat flap in the kitchen door.

I made a brief entry in my journal, and prepared to spend the rest of the evening reading. The storm, meanwhile, became angrily active.

Such storms can last for hours.

Muchly was I pleased that the repairs had been promptly and efficiently accomplished.

I think I fell asleep, over the book.

I remember awakening, rather suddenly. It must have been late. My first thought was one of annoyance, that I had fallen asleep.

I wondered if I had heard a noise, a whimpering cry, a plea as though for mercy, or help. That would have been in some dream.

I was angry that I had fallen asleep.

The storm was still raging. One could see flashes of lightning in the distance, out to sea, and then, several seconds later, hear the rumble of thunder, rolling inward, crashing ashore. The rain poured on the shingles. One could scarcely see through the window there was so much rain running on the panes, banking on the partitions, flowing over. The wind whipped the rain against the glass. The shutters, which I had not closed, rattled on their hinges.

I should have prepared for bed before reading, I suppose, but I had not planned on falling asleep in the chair.

The shutters, caught in the wind, suddenly banged open and shut.

It may have been that sound that had awakened me.

I went to the window to fasten the shutters, as I should have earlier, either back and latched, or closed, and latched, given the storm. I decided to close them. That way the slats would protect the window, and the unpainted partitions, and part of the sill. Too, that might make it a bit easier to sleep, as the room, abruptly, unpredictably, was, again and again, washed with white light, followed by roaring thunder. I could see lightning, too, far out to sea. It seemed to be coming closer.

It would not be a pleasant job, opening the window, to get at the shutters, but it needed to be done. Certainly one would not want them crashing back and forth all night. Too, they might disturb the other residents in the house. It would be embarrassing if Mrs. Fraser, or one of her roomers, came upstairs to see about it, perhaps offering to fasten them for me.

I raised the sash and, half closing my eyes against the ferocity of the storm, feeling the rain drenching my shirt, reached outward to grasp the shutters. I had actually begun to draw them inward, to fasten them closed, gratefully, when I stopped, startled, for below me, in the yard, in the driving rain, oddly illuminated in the moonlight, between bursts of lightning, was a small, white figure, she whom I had seen before. She had been running, it seemed, and had just fallen in the gravel and grass, and was on her hands and knees. She turned, and looked up, wildly, toward the window. She was gasping, and muddy. Frantic. She was naked, as before, absolutely so, starkly so, save for that wealth of long blond hair, feet in length, bedraggled, clinging thickly about her like golden, sopped slave cord. How terrified, how beautiful, she was! There, miserable, in the cold and rain. She might have been a delicate, high-born Medieval maiden, escaped perhaps for a moment from barbarians, who had loutishly removed her rings, her jewels, and then, doubtless enjoying her humiliation, mocking her tears, ignoring her protests, roaring with laughter at her unspeakable, unconscionable grief and shame, inappropriate in a thrall, however new to her bondage, her brocade, and lace, leaving not the kindness or grace, or mercy, of a single thread upon her, this preparatory doubtless to handing her about, man to man, victor to victor, she their prize, now belonging to them, rightfully taken from weaker men, theirs now, by the right of nature, putting her to their common pleasure. Barbarians, if they found her satisfactory, sufficiently helpless and gasping, I supposed, might take her with them, on a leash, bound, to their ship. Such do well in cleaning stables, in scrubbing the stone floors of rude halls, in laundering, in carrying water and cooking, in serving at a master's table, and in his bed.

“Come in!” I called to her, my words fighting the wind and rain. “Do not be afraid!”

From her hands and knees she looked up. I do not know if she could well see me, given her seemingly pathetic condition, her fear, the cold, the rain, the night, the storm. I must have seemed dark to her, perhaps frightening, doubtless silhouetted in the frame, the light of the lamp behind me. How did she see me? Could she not see that I was muchly concerned for her, that I was profoundly solicitous on her behalf?

“You will freeze!” I cried. “Come indoors!”

She scrambled to a position half kneeling, half crouching, one knee in the grass, looking up, terrified, trying to cover herself, drawing her rain-soaked, bedraggled, golden hair about her with her small hands, pathetically, as if it were a rich but muchly rent, tattered cloak.

Position, bitch.

She then, for no reason I understood, numbly, seemingly uncomprehendingly, fearfully, went to her knees in the wet grass. The rain poured down. Lightning flashed. She had flung her hair behind her, perhaps that it afford no impediment to one's vision, realizing perhaps that such was not permitted, in the least, and knelt back on her heels, with her back straight, and her head up. Her hands were on her thighs, palms down. Her knees were widely spread. How open, how vulnerable she seemed! Never had I had a woman kneel so before me, never had I known a woman could so kneel before a man. I dared not even conjecture what might be the meaning of such a posture, that of a woman before a man. She looked up at me, frightened, the rain streaming down her body.

She looked well, so before me.

She was not prompt, I thought, she will require training.

Then I dismissed such an improper thought. Though, too, I thought, it would be pleasant to train her, to make her something worthy of a man's needs.

“It's terribly cold out there,” I called down to her. “The storm! The night! You'll freeze! It's miserable! Come in! Come in, out of the storm!”

She rose to her feet, unsteadily, shaking her head. She stood in the cold, wet grass, in the moonlight, in the rain, partly bent over. Again she covered herself, as she could, ineptly, with her tiny hands, and hair.

Has she not risen to her feet without permission, I thought. That should require discipline.

“Who are you?” I called down.

Do you not know, the thought came to me.

“Come in!” I called to her again. “Come in, warm yourself by the stove, I'll fetch blankets, I'll make tea.”

She turned, looking wildly about.

I recalled, angrily, that, by now, the door to Hill House would doubtless be locked.

“Wait!” I called to her. “I'll come down. I'll bring a blanket!”

At this point she turned about and fled, as though blinded with fear, irrationally across the grass and gravel, toward the wall, across the yard, opposite the window. Her small, wet body was then at the wall, pressing against it, scratching at it, sobbing. She looked pathetically upward, toward its top.

“Wait!” I called.

She turned about, wildly, frightened, as though trapped, and looked up at me, in the window.

“Don't be afraid!” I called.

Her back was against the dark, wet wall, pressed back against the wet stones.

“Wait!” I said.

She looked wildly about, to the right and left, and then fled to her left, toward the gate. In an instant she had disappeared. I was angry, but could not leave her out on a night like this. I latched the shutters fiercely, brought down the sash, seized the blanket from my bed, and hurried downstairs, and, in a moment or two, was out in the yard, and through the gate. I did not know which way she had gone.