Unspeakable Secrets of the Aro Valley

by Danyl McLauchlan

But what was right? Another vital question his philosophy training had failed to make clear—although to be fair to his lecturers he had missed a lot of classes so maybe they’d covered it when he wasn’t there. His mind whirled as he walked down the path. What if he went inside, pledged his love to Verity—again—and won her back? He would be obliged to spend several hours with her afterwards. Winning back Verity was a major time commitment: Sutcliffe Parsons could use that window to find the Priest’s Soul and flee the valley. Could Danyl have that on his conscience?

  No. But as he neared Verity’s rented cottage he saw that she wasn’t just crying. She was crying and packing a suitcase: dumping in piles of towels and sheets from a linen cupboard in the hall. Why was she packing? Was she leaving the valley? Fleeing to start a new life, far from Danyl’s reach? Or, even worse, was she planning to reoccupy her house, cast Danyl out onto the gutter? Was she capable of such cruelty? He feared the answer was yes, and quickened his stride.

  ‘Buddy?’

  He turned. Steve stood on the road, the pickaxe balanced on his shoulder. He said, ‘Do you want me to go on ahead to Parsons’ house? Do some reconnaissance?’

  Steve? Reconnaissance? That had disaster written all over it. He replied, ‘No. Wait.’ Danyl stopped midway to the house and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I need to think this through.’

  Steve waited, expectant, while Danyl deliberated. Whenever he was on the verge of greatness something always distracted him. But which choice led to greatness, and which was the distraction? If he went in and apologised to Verity he would lose the Priest’s Soul. He knew this with a wretched, sick certainty. Sutcliffe Parsons would elude them: they’d find an empty house, an empty box, his dry laughter in the wind. But if they moved against Parsons and battled him for the Priest’s Soul then he risked losing everything else: Verity, love, his rent-free comfortable house. He circled around, trying to think, to clear his head, to rationalise.

  What would he say to Verity? That he was sorry? That he loved her? He had already played those cards, tossed them away that morning. No, he needed something better. Something that would sweep aside all her fears and doubts and bitter recriminations. Danyl took a deep breath and concentrated, calling upon all his imagination, his creativity, all his powers as an artist and a writer.

  Nothing came, as usual. It was impossible: there was nothing he could say. Walking into that house meant certain defeat. He needed an external advantage. Something powerful.

  Something like the Priest’s Soul.

  Yes. Yes. That was the way. He would continue on, confront Parsons, seize the Priest’s Soul and then return in splendour and use it to placate Verity. But he had to act quickly. Parsons was on the move.

  Steve awaited his decision. Danyl nodded towards the depths of the winding, narrow valley, and said, ‘Onwards.’

  ‘What about Verity?’

  There was no time to explain, so instead Danyl replied. ‘Things are coming to a climax. Before the hour is out we may have the Priest’s Soul in our grasp.’

  Steve brightened at this thought. ‘Onward to the Priest’s Soul.’

  ‘The Priest’s Soul.’

  ‘Whatever it is.’

  Danyl glanced through the window. Verity was nodding her head, her lips were moving. She must be talking to herself, rationalising whatever rash course of action she’d decided upon.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Danyl agreed, and turned away.

  The house of Sutcliffe Parsons looked diseased. The windows were papered over with newspapers, resembling blank, unstaring eyes: the white lichen on the walls looked like drool splattered around the mouth of the front door. Danyl and Steve stood on the street below, taking its measure. It was a week since the day they first came to this old house on a misdirected errand to retrieve Danyl’s archive.

  Steve said, ‘The end of all our adventures will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.’ He paused. ‘Why are we back here, exactly?’

  ‘The painting on the campervan windows led us here.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’ Steve reflected on this. ‘I still don’t get it.’

  Danyl explained. ‘Consider Stasia’s parable of her youth, and her grandmother’s stories of her own childhood, her encounters with Wolfgang Bludkraft and the death of her parents. On the surface it’s just fantasy: Russian mystics, tsarist spies, miracles. But the heart of the story is true. Bludkraft knew Stasia’s grandmother; her great-grandparents joined his Order; they sheltered him from government agents. There was a sickness, a fire. Stasia’s great-grandparents died. Bludkraft disappeared. The paintings from Sylvia Gold’s secret campervan show a burning house with Quarantine written on it.’ Danyl pulled a sheaf of computer printouts from the pocket of his kimono. ‘While you were out stealing that pickaxe I went online and searched the property records for this address. You were right all along.’

  Steve accepted the papers and examined the entries Danyl had highlighted. ‘A hospital.’

  ‘There was a large house on this site before the war, belonging to a local doctor. During the influenza epidemic he converted it into a makeshift hospital. There was a high number of fatalities. The building was evacuated and the neighbours burned it down for fear of contagion.’ He indicated the decaying hulk. ‘This house was built on the old foundations some forty years later. It all fits. The Priest’s Soul is here, somewhere, beneath the house or maybe buried in the garden.’

  Steve nodded in acceptance. ‘Why was Parsons’ box here, just sitting on the porch?’

  ‘Because he lives here now. One year ago the property came up for sale. It was bought by a local law firm, acting for an unnamed client who paid cash. The ownership was then transferred to Parsons.’

  ‘But Parsons was in prison a year ago.’

  ‘Yes. He obviously has an accomplice. Someone on the outside, doing his bidding, manipulating events. Keeping everybody else distracted, while Parsons has known the Priest’s Soul was hidden here all along. I’m guessing that accomplice is inside now, waiting for us.’

  They walked through the gate and up the zigzag path, and climbed the stairs to the porch. The rotting boards sagged under their weight. The front door was open: the interior of the house was black. The air from it felt cool and it carried the scent of damp earth. The sound of footsteps echoed from some remote region deep inside.

  They hesitated at the threshold. Danyl said, uncertainly, ‘Parsons is old, but be on guard for his apprentice. We don’t know who they are or what they’re capable of.’

  ‘Excellent advice.’ Steve stood aside. ‘You go first.’

  Danyl rolled up the sleeves of his kimono. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door. And screamed.

  41

  In the lair of Sutcliffe Parsons

  His foot descended past the expected level of the floor and he twisted and lunged for the door frame but his hands clawed at empty air. Steve stood on the other side of the doorway, just beyond Danyl’s grasp, his arms folded, watching Danyl curiously, and then he pitched away out of sight as Danyl tipped backwards into the darkness.

  Silence for a moment, then Steve called, ‘Are you all right?’

  Danyl rolled onto his side and spat out a mouthful of dirt. He lay on dry earth in an oblong of light cast by the doorway, a metre below where the floor should have been.

  The rest of the room was large and dark. As his eyes adjusted he made out an unplastered wooden roof, bare walls, a hallway leading deeper into the house. As he became accustomed to the gloom he saw the clutter all around him. The entire floor had been removed: the floorboards leaned against the wall, a rolled-up carpet lay on its side, the concrete piles supporting the house were spaced evenly across the exposed crawl-space with the skeleton of the floorbeams connecting them.

  Danyl climbed to his knees, then reached forward and picked up an object half-buried in the dirt
. He held it up to the light while beautiful bright green beetles scuttled down his arm. It was a red brick, half-blackened by fire.

  Steve climbed down to join him and together they moved deeper into the interior, ducking under beams and clambering over the debris, stepping across trenches dug in the earth at seemingly random intervals. ‘Parsons has been busy,’ Danyl observed.

  They reached the hallway in the far wall. It opened onto rooms opening onto rooms, all dark, all deserted, all excavated and smelling of ruin and earth. Danyl and Steve muttered and cursed as they searched them, their clothes catching on exposed nails, their feet tripping on discarded tiles. Once, climbing through an empty door-frame, both grasped the same piece of thin copper pipe at once so they were effectively holding hands, and when they realised this they both cried out in alarm and leaped apart, and stumbled and fell.

  And so, anxious and tired and covered in cobwebs and filth, they came at last to a hall with a closed door set in the far wall. It was outlined by a bright electric light shining in the room beyond. The entrance to the hall was obstructed by a stray copper pipe. Danyl tugged it aside with some difficulty, and regarded the door. ‘The lair of Sutcliffe Parsons,’ he said grimly. He started down the hall and then saw a shadowy figure lurking in the corner. The shadow stirred and detached itself from the darkness, moving to block the door.

  Danyl called to it. ‘Parsons?’

  The figure did not move.

  ‘Or are you Parsons’ secret assistant?’ His tone was mocking. ‘Parsons’ lackey? Have you carried out all his errands over the past year while you waited for your friend’s release? Do you even know why he was in prison? Did you know he abused a young, innocent girl, and that she’s now an emotionally troubled sociopath because of his crimes?’ Danyl drew himself up, his contempt booming in the close, empty space. ‘How do you justify serving such a man? What reward did he promise you? What would you say to that poor girl if she were here now?’

  Stasia stepped into view.

  ‘Oh,’ said Danyl. He and Steve stepped backwards and tried to duck behind each other. Stasia regarded them across the gloomy expanse of the hall.

  ‘Hi,’ said Danyl. ‘I—’ He swallowed. ‘Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I wasn’t quite— So, you and Parsons?’ He wound his middle and index fingers together. ‘After what happened?’

  ‘He is my starets.’

  ‘Wise man. Right.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘Did you follow me to taunt me? You try to destroy my life, my dreams, and now you come to laugh at me?’

  ‘Actually, we came to see Parsons. Is he here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we see him?’

  ‘He’s busy.’

  ‘I bet he is. You both are, aren’t you? Busy searching for the Priest’s Soul.’

  Stasia frowned. ’But there is no Priest’s Soul. You prove it. There is just priest hole. Just empty room.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t quite tell you the truth about that.’

  ‘No?’ Stasia flexed her neck. It cracked in the dead air. ‘You lie to me?’

  ‘I told you the full truth. Just not all of it.’

  ‘Is Priest’s Soul real?’

  ‘No. And yes.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ Steve admitted.

  ‘There is a treasure,’ Danyl said, and frowned. Stasia’s confusion seemed genuine. Something wasn’t right here. ‘But you know this,’ he insisted. ‘You’re in league with Parsons. He knows the Priest’s Soul is real, and that it’s hidden here. That’s why he had you buy this house for him with the money you made selling your grandmother’s campervan to Campbell Walker. But.’ Danyl was thinking out loud. ‘Why did you spend a year gutting dozens of houses around the valley in search of it if you knew the treasure was here all along?’

  ‘You lie. There is no treasure here. I search houses in valley because Sutcliffe, my starets, is dying. He tells me that only power of Priest’s Soul can save him, and that I must search the valley for it, and trick stupid, lustful men like yourself and the Campbell Walker to help me. Now you say there is no Priest’s Soul. It was all mistake, trick of language. This means that my beloved starets must die, and I come here to be with him for his last days. Now you are back, you say Priest’s Soul is real after all. Why do you torment me so?’

  ‘He tricked you,’ Danyl realised. ‘Parsons lied to you. He wants it for himself.’

  ‘Wants what?’

  ‘Whatever is hidden here. He had you buy this house for him, but then distracted you, sent you off on a fool’s errand while he waited to be freed from prison.’ Danyl clicked his fingers. ‘That’s why he only gave you one of the letters! He provided you with incomplete information so you’d never find it.’

  ‘More lies.’

  ‘And now he’s free, and he’s torn this house apart searching for it.’

  ‘Every word you speak is false.’

  ‘Look around you.’ Danyl gestured at the trenches, the floorboards leaning against the crumbling piles. ‘Holes. Fresh holes. He set you against Campbell and me, and while we were distracted he did this.’

  ‘He digs because he’s sick, and the drugs make him crazy. He does not know what he does.’ But her voice was uncertain, broken.

  Danyl pressed on. ‘He knows exactly what he’s doing. He may even have the Priest’s Soul already.’

  ‘This cannot be. My starets would never deceive me like that.’

  ‘Why don’t we ask him. Open that door. Let’s put these questions to him. If he can answer them, we’ll leave.’

  ‘I will pluck your limbs from your torso and toss them to stray dogs.’

  ‘OK, fine. But if he can’t account for himself, the Priest’s Soul is mine.’ Danyl smiled. ‘Deal?’

  ‘You want to speak to him? Ask him your stupid questions?’ Her face was twisted, her voice low and furious. ‘Go ahead.’ She turned the handle of the door and opened it a crack. She stood aside. ‘Talk.’

  Danyl and Steve approached the doorway. Its thin beam of light blinded them. They shielded their eyes and, trying to stay as far from Stasia as possible, they pushed open the door and walked through it.

  42

  Him!

  A kitchen, lit by a naked bulb hanging from a wire. The floor was intact, covered in sheets of vile green linoleum. A bench ran along the far wall, a stack of dishes and kitchen utensils dried on a kitchen towel. A small wooden bookshelf set against the left wall functioned as a pantry with cereal boxes and canned foods sitting in rows on the shelves. There was a wooden table in the centre of the room. It was covered in medication: bottles, vials, and packs of pills were all lined up in neat little rows converging on the figure seated at the head of the table. He wore a black suit and a white shirt; a black hat threw a shadow over his face. He did not look up.

  ‘Sutcliffe Parsons,’ Danyl said. ‘We meet at last.’

  The figure did not move.

  Danyl cleared his throat. ‘Actually, we sort of met the other night. At the old well. I’m Danyl. I was in the well.’

  No response. ‘This is Steve.’ Danyl grabbed Steve’s arm and tugged him through the doorway.

  ‘I’m just here as a scientist,’ said Steve.

  Still nothing. Danyl rounded the table. He waved his hand inside the man’s field of vision. He reached out and touched his shoulder. The man’s head rolled back. His eyes were open. Drool trickled from his mouth.

  Danyl stepped back. ‘You!’ he gasped.

  Steve drew closer. ‘Him!’

  It was the old man who had attacked them on the street a week ago when they stole the box, the old man who had appeared out of nowhere and whom they’d left sprawling and cursing in the dust. Danyl snapped his fingers in front of the old man’s vacant face and said, �
�Who are you? Parsons?’

  The man blinked. He smiled. His face cracked open like an egg, revealing yellow teeth and an abundance of translucent drool. Then he farted, a long, terrible noise tearing the silence asunder. Danyl and Steve retreated to the end of the table. They spoke in low whispers, casting glances at the old man, and the closed door leading to the hallway where Stasia waited in the darkness.

  ‘Is this a trick? Is that Parsons?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Danyl admitted. ‘I don’t think so. I met Parsons the other night. I didn’t see his face—but he’s sharp. He knows how magnets work. This guy’s a vegetable.’

  ‘But he’s sick. Look at all those pills. Maybe he’s medicated?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danyl remembered. ‘He said that his lucid intervals were rarer and rarer. It must be him. That’s why he’s still here, why it’s taken him so long to find the Priest’s Soul.’

  ‘Poor old guy.’ Steve regarded him with sympathy then turned to Danyl. ‘How do magnets work?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Let’s search his pockets.’

  Danyl glanced at the door to the hall. Still closed. ‘Good idea.’

  They walked around the table, stood on either side of Parsons and patted down his musty corduroy jacket. Empty. Danyl crouched down to check his trousers and Stasia’s voice whipped through the air. ‘Don’t touch him.’

  They both jumped. They hadn’t heard her enter. It was as if she’d materialised at the end of the table. She said, ‘So. You see the terrible Sutcliffe Parsons. Did you ask him your questions? Did you wring truth from him?’

  ‘How often is he like this?’

  ‘Some days only few hours. On bad days . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Most days now are bad days. Hospitals will not help him. They say he cannot be cured. But I know they turn him away because they think he is criminal. Only I know that he is great man. I thought I could help him. I thought I could heal him and we would be together again.’ She dabbed at the tears on her cheek with a red silk handkerchief.