The Morgow Rises!

by Peter Tremayne

  Claire made an affirmative gesture.

  “What the old woman said, about Uncle Henry, I mean…”

  Neville took her gently by the shoulders.

  “Don’t go letting the old lady spook you, Claire. She’s just an old crank, that’s all.”

  Dubiously Claire forced a smile, put on her coat and followed him across the path towards the black silhouette of Wheal Tom’s engine house.

  Andy Shaw stood on the breeze-blown quayside and tried to light a cigarette. He was feeling especially pleased with himself. Life was good and full of promise. He would get a by-line for this story and perhaps it would be reprinted by the London national newspapers. Apart from that, it was a beautiful morning. There was a gentle sea breeze permeating the soft tang of salt through the air. The sea spray licked at the end of the quay as the balmy rollers smacked the stone blocks. The sky was a soft blue and the autumn sun was uncharacteristically warm. Seabirds wheeled and dived above with their plaintive cries. Andy Shaw took a deep breath, suddenly tossed aside his cigarette, for it seemed a blasphemy to smoke in such a place, and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them he became aware of a small boy sitting on an iron bollard nearby, throwing stones disconsolately into the sea. He was flipping them so that the stones would bounce along the surface of the water. Andy Shaw smiled.

  “Hi there.”

  The boy glanced up.

  “Hello,” he returned, and continued his pursuit.

  “Do you know a boy called Johnny Treneglos around here?” asked Andy.

  The boy frowned at Andy Shaw in suspicion.

  “What for?”

  “I want a chat with him, that’s all.”

  “Are you a school inspector?” countered the boy.

  “No, I’m a newspaper reporter.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with interest.

  “Coo! A reporter like on the television.”

  Andy Shaw dimly recalled some popular television drama series about a newspaper. It was so unreal as to be laughable but he nodded solemnly.

  “Yes, just like the television.”

  “I’m Johnny Treneglos,” the boy said. “My dad owns the garage,” he waved his hand towards the village.

  Andy Shaw smiled. It was his lucky day.

  “I believe you saw some kind of sea serpent yesterday, Johnny. Would you like to tell me about it?”

  The boy’s face dropped and he kicked at the ground with the toe of his shoe.

  “My dad’s told me not to speak to anyone about it.”

  “Why’s that, Johnny?”

  “He caught me speaking to a lady reporter yesterday. He said everyone would laugh at me if I went round telling the story. He said that people — grown-ups — don’t see sea serpents and those that do are locked up in…” Johnny racked his brain for the words “…in loony bins.”

  Andy Shaw suppressed a grin.

  “Well, your old man is not quite right,” he smiled. “Fact is, Johnny, that a lot of people know you saw this serpent and have told other people. Now if you turn round and say you cannot speak about it then they are going to say that you didn’t see one in the first place.”

  Johnny Treneglos was indignant.

  “I did see it! I did!”

  “Well, you can’t expect people to believe that if you don’t talk about it. Now I’m not suggesting you go round telling everyone…but if you told me then I would make sure people knew you were telling the truth.”

  The boy hesitated.

  “How would you like a pound to buy sweets or something?” offered Andy Shaw, seeing the boy’s resolve weakening.

  Johnny Treneglos looked up with a new interest in his eye.

  “I snapped my new fishing line yesterday and lost my tackle. I could put the pound towards that,” he reflected.

  “Tell you what,” Andy Shaw said expansively, “if you tell me about it and show me the actual spot, I’ll buy you a new line and tackle. How’s that for a bargain?”

  Andy Shaw was not certain how much a fishing line and tackle would cost but he did not think it would greatly dent his expense account.

  Johnny Treneglos smiled broadly.

  “It’s a deal, mister!”

  He pointed across the cove.

  “I was on those rocks over there, by the entrance to the cove, just by the cliffs. That’s where I saw it.”

  Andy Shaw followed the line of the boy’s outstretched hand.

  “Can we get round there easily?” he asked. “I could take some pictures.”

  He carried a lightweight camera across his shoulder.

  “Easy, mister,” returned the boy, and set off along the quayside. Andy was hard pressed to follow the lithe figure as the boy began to scramble over the granite rocks.

  “What did this serpent look like Johnny?” he called as they made their way round the cove.

  “Long and black,” was the emphatic reply. “Like a big snake.”

  “How long was it?”

  “Don’t know, mister. It was huge anyway but most of it was underwater. I just caught sight of it swimming along.”

  Andy Shaw thought for a while. Before he had driven down from Plymouth he had spent some time in the clippings library of his newspaper reading up on the sightings of what had been called “The Morgawr” during the 1970s. The description did not seem to match too well. Hell, why should it anyway? He didn’t believe in monsters. This kid just had an over active imagination. Well, that was alright by him. It was the sort of rubbish that people loved to read about. It was a good story.

  “Over here, mister.”

  Andy Shaw scrambled to an outcrop of rock.

  “This was where I was fishing when I lost my tackle and that was when I saw the black thing.”

  Andy unhooked his camera and adjusted the sights. He took a few snaps.

  “Tell you what, son,” he suddenly said. “You stand or sit in exactly the same spot as you were in when you saw this, er, creature. I’ll take a picture of you.”

  The boy pulled a face.

  “My dad will beat hell out of me if he finds that I talked to you and had my picture taken.”

  “Remember the fishing tackle?”

  Reluctantly the boy climbed on to the rock. Andy scrambled back trying to get into a good position for his shot. He managed to get a position near to the edge of the sea and crouched down.

  “That’s it,” he said, focusing. “I know, look as if you are catching sight of the creature.”

  The boy sprang up with a cry, his eyes widened, his face became a mask of terror.

  Peering into the lens Andy Shaw chuckled gleefully.

  “Marvellous! Bloody marvellous! You’re a great actor, son…”

  He became aware of a putrid smell, like rotting vegetables. A dark shadow fell across him. Puzzled he turned round.

  His mouth opened for a scream but it did not come. The camera fell from his hand and smashed against the rocks. He staggered back, one arm trying to protect himself from the terrifying object which reared up out of the sea towards him. He slipped and fell back against the rocks, crying out in pain and fear. The black object swayed above him and then swooped.

  Johnny Treneglos stood staring for several seconds at the bubbling waters into which the man had been dragged. Then the adrenalin surging through his limbs broke his paralysis and he turned and ran like the furies of hell were at his heels. For all he knew, they were. He reached the quayside panting and sobbing and turned to run towards his father’s garage.

  Then he caught himself.

  What would his father, Seth Treneglos say? If he had not believed him yesterday, he would not believe him today. Also, his father had told him that on no account was he to speak to anyone about the sea serpent. How could he tell his father that he was showing a stranger the spot where he had seen it and that it had come back and devoured the stranger. His father would either laugh at him or take his belt to him for telling such lies.

  No, it was better not t
o say anything to anyone about what had happened. Better to pretend that he had never seen the stranger. He would say nothing. Yes, that was best.

  Johnny Treneglos took out his handkerchief, dipped it in seawater and bathed his cuts. Then he straightened his clothes and walked nonchalantly back up the twisting cobbled street into the village.

  CHAPTER XIII

  “Look! I think we have found something.”

  Constable Roscarrock pointed down a tunnel with the beam from his flashlamp. The others followed his indication. On the floor of the tunnel lay a crumpled rucksack. Claire, Neville and Pool followed the burly form of the policeman along the tunnel and halted around it. Roscarrock bent and picked it up.

  “Looks like it’s been dropped recently, I’d say,” he observed, his manner reminding Claire somewhat of a theatrical sleuth.

  “Would it be your uncle’s, Miss Penvose?” asked Pool.

  Claire shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why don’t you look inside?” suggested Neville to the policeman, “There might be some indication as to ownership.”

  “I was about to do that, Mr Neville,” returned Roscarrock in a rather aggrieved tone.

  Carefully, with almost deliberate slowness, Roscarrock unfastened the straps. Inside was a battered and bent Thermos flask, its contents shattered and dried up, some rotting sandwiches and a large notebook.

  “I wonder how that Thermos came to be so dented,” mused Pool. “It looks as though some great weight fell on it.”

  Roscarrock thumbed briefly through the notebook.

  “Is this your uncle’s, miss?”

  Claire examined the writing and nodded dumbly.

  “So he came along this way and dropped his rucksack,” observed Neville, underlining the obvious.

  “We’d better continue along this gallery,” Roscarrock said, indicating the tunnel way.

  “We had better be extra careful from this point,” Pool said. “So far there has been no sign of flooding but you never know…there might be local flooding.”

  Claire was already moving off down the tunnel and Pool, with an expressive gesture to Roscarrock and Neville, hurried after her. They had not gone far before the tunnel began to narrow so that they had to turn sideways to negotiate its slender twisting route. They pushed their way carefully along the dank corridor until they became aware of a strange far away booming — a sound like distant thunder.

  “What’s that?” demanded Roscarrock in a whisper.

  Pool grinned.

  “That’s the sea. You are hearing the sound of waves breaking against the rocks high above us. The sound tends to resonate through the rock.”

  They continued in silence for a while until they emerged into small cavern. It was lit; they halted in surprise. The light, tiny and flickering and only just alive, came from the flame of a Davy lamp which stood on the sandy floor.

  “Uncle Henry!” Claire’s voice resounded back from a thousand different places almost deafening her.

  Roscarrock had picked up the lamp and was peering about.

  “We seem to be on the right track,” he muttered with more than a touch of self-satisfaction.

  Three tunnels led from the cavern. Pool had taken out a plan and was frowning in concentration as he examined it.

  “Two of these galleries were cuttings made by engineers during the prospecting for lodes. The third tunnel is the passage to the old workings which is entirely sealed off. That was the area which flooded back in thirty-nine.”

  Neville went to the entrance of the third tunnel and peered down it curiously in the light from his torch. It smelled of sea water, dank and foul. He grimaced in distaste. Not far down he could see great concrete blocks barricading the tunnel.

  He was turning back when, glancing down, he saw something on the ground which made him pause. The sand had been broken up with a myriad of strange tracks and footprints. But then, one would expect footprints to lay undisturbed for years in such a place. No, the thing that caught his attention was something which splattered over a rock near his feet, something which was red and sticky. He reached down with a forefinger.

  It was blood!

  Johnny Treneglos walked moodily up the hill on the road to Tintagel. His father had just caught him and given him a sound thrashing.

  “You young varmint!” Seth Treneglos had stormed on spotting his young offspring scuffling back from the cove. “Didn’t I tell ‘ee to get to school this morning? Do you think I like truant officers coming to see me every five minutes?”

  “I hate school!” Johnny had protested.

  “There are lots of things I hates but which I have to do. By God, I’ll learn’ee to disobey.”

  Seth Treneglos had grasped hold of the hapless child and dragged him wriggling into the garage. Keeping a firm hold of the lad’s ear, he removed his thick leather belt, doubled it and brought it down several times on his son’s backside.

  “Now then, get’ee to school! I’ll be ringing your teacher to make sure you are there!”

  Smarting and sulking from his beating, Johnny Treneglos turned and sauntered defiantly out of the village towards the primary school building which was a mile and a half away. Next year Johnny would have to start his secondary schooling and he was not looking forward to it. He hated all manner of schooling and wished he were sixteen so that he could leave the hated prisons of youth where hawk-faced teachers screamed incomprehensible things at him about algebra, trigonometry, geography and other mysteries; things he had no hope of understanding. As soon as he was able, Johnny Treneglos was going to get a job on the boats, not the local fishing boats but the big ships — deep sea trawlers. That was the life for him.

  He sauntered up the hill past the footpath which led up to Men-Du.

  A bent, frail figure was leaning over the stile watching him as he approached. It was Mother Polruan. She cackled as he came abreast of her.

  “They say that you’re a bad boy, Johnny Treneglos,” she admonished in her queer high-pitched voice.

  Johnny frowned. Like all village boys, and most of the adults, he was rather afraid of the crone. It was well known that she was a witch. He squared his shoulders and turned to face her.

  “What do you know about it?” he demanded in defiance.

  “I know everything, boy. Everything. You’re a bad boy because you should have gone to school this morning.”

  “I don’t like school,” returned the boy. “Anyway, you can’t scare me.”

  “Why should I want to scare’ee, boy?” mused the old woman. “Hasn’t your dad put a fear into’ee by giving you a thrashing?”

  Johnny stared and found himself shivering as the old woman’s bright eyes gazed into his.

  “I know everything, boy!” she said, laughing at his discomfiture. “Don’t’ee think you can deceive me.”

  Johnny scowled and kicked at the dirt of the road.

  “So?”

  He tried to assume an air of indifference.

  “You saw it, didn’t’ee?”

  Johnny frowned.

  “Saw what?”

  “The serpent.”

  Johnny turned red, hung his head and then nodded.

  “You know I saw it yesterday.”

  The old woman pursed her lips.

  “No. You saw it this morning.”

  Johnny’s face was white.

  “Will you…will you tell my father?”

  He accepted totally that the old woman knew everything.

  “No, boy.”

  “You know about the man with the camera?”

  The old woman half closed her eyes.

  “A foolish young man; an arrogant young man. They are the first to meet the wrath of the Morgow.”

  Johnny stared hard at her.

  “What is it you want?”

  “I want to see the Morgow.”

  “The sea serpent?”

  “How can I see it? I must see it!”

  She spoke with a pec
uliar intensity.

  “Don’t you understand, boy? Don’t you see? The Morgow has risen — we are all doomed. Only I understand, only I can intercede…

  Johnny Treneglos found himself backing away from the strange expression in the old woman’s face. A sudden fear of the crone gripped him. He turned and fled along the road.

  “Come back, boy! Come back! Tell me how I may see the Morgow or we will all be doomed!”

  “Hasn’t Mister Shaw come back yet?” demanded Linda Truran entering the bar of The Morvren Arms and accosting Noall the landlord.

  The moon-faced man looked up from cutting sandwiches.

  “He hasn’t been back all morning, miss. Can’t say where he is.”

  Linda Truran swore under her breath and slid on to a stool.

  “Let’s have a Campari and soda.”

  Noall poured the drink and pushed it towards her.

  The noise of a heavy vehicle crunching on the gravel outside caused him to move to the end of the bar and peer out of the window on to the car park.

  “Fancy that now…it’s a BBC van.”

  Linda Truran suppressed a smile. She joined Noall at the window. Outside was a van with the legend “BBC Outside Broadcasting Unit”.

  “It seems that Bosbradoe has become news what with all these weird goings on,” remarked Noall. “Maybe I’d better cut more sandwiches.”

  The bar door opened and four men entered. Only one of them was dressed in a smart lounge suit and tie, his sleek hair was carefully brushed into place. He looked round disdainfully. Linda recognised him at once.

  “You’re Adam Taylor.”

  The man acknowledged the name.

  “I’m Linda Truran of the Cornish Times,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Taylor smiled thinly.

  “Ah, you’re the one who telephoned me. Well, we made it in record time from Plymouth. It sounds a good story — if we can get some scenic footage and use it on State and People you’ll get a fee.”

  Linda nodded.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll get some good film.”

  Taylor waved to his colleagues by way of introduction. The only name Linda caught was Taylor’s chief technician, a man called Bob who had a 1930s pencil moustache and wore a battered Aran sweater that had obviously seen better days.