HERALD OF THE HIDDEN
and Other Stories
Mark Valentine
Tartarus Press
Herald of the Hidden and Other Stories
by Mark Valentine
First published by Tartarus Press, 2013 at
Coverley House, Carlton-in-Coverdale, Leyburn,
North Yorkshire, DL8 4AY, UK
Copyright © Mark Valentine 2013
The publishers would like to thank Jim Rockhill and
Richard Dalby for their help in the preparation of this volume
To the Doppelgängers, sharers in the secret glory
CONTENTS
Introduction
Ralph Tyler Stories:
St Michael & All Angels
The Folly
Madberry Hill
The Ash Track
The Grave of Anir
William Sorrell Requests
The Hermit’s House
Herald of the Hidden
Heritage of Fire
The Almanac
Other Early Stories:
The Guardians of the Guest Room
Go to the West
Tree Worship
Twilight at Little Brydon Cricket Club
Woken by Candlelight
Their Special Glee
Acknowledgements
Introduction
This is a selection, mostly, of my early supernatural stories. The first, ‘The Grave of Anir’, was written in July 1983, when I was, just, twenty-four years old: the rest, in the period up to around 1995. Why revive them? My main excuse is that the idea wasn’t mine. It was kindly suggested by the eminent ghost story anthologist Richard Dalby, who selected some of them for his books when they first appeared. And the tales do have a certain gusto, almost a fierceness. There’s a real sense of a younger author trying to put a lot of intensity into their work.
The Ralph Tyler stories reflect my affection for the occult detective form, which I’d enjoyed in William Hope Hodgson’s Carnacki the Ghost-Finder, in Algernon Blackwood’s John Silence, and in the adventures of Arthur Machen’s Mr Dyson, for example in The Three Impostors. But I tried to make my character a little different. He isn’t prosperous, doesn’t have private means, and hasn’t been trained with any special knowledge. Sometimes, he doesn’t play fair with his clients, or his friend, the narrator. He’s not fancy: he smokes foul cigarettes, slumps in his chair, and has a threadbare jacket. And he’s from Northampton.
Indeed. As well as his inspiration in the classics of this type of tale, Ralph Tyler reflects my upbringing in Northamptonshire, then and now one of the least-regarded parts of England. It’s a quiet, apparently unremarkable place, and I lived on the edge of the main town, five minutes’ walk from fields, woods and mostly unfrequented lanes. Commentators were always making excuses for it: ‘surrounded by more counties than any other, it has something of the character of all of them’; ‘a crossroads, all its rivers rise there, and it has more ancient routeways than most’; ‘a place whose charms are better known to the dweller than the visitor’. Well, I was a dweller, and I wanted my home county to have its own supernatural sleuth. So, some of the scenes in the stories might just be recognisable in that obscure but still sometimes secretly lovely shire now.
These stories first appeared in small press booklets and journals published by friends, particularly Jeffrey Dempsey and David Cowperthwaite, editors of Dark Dreams magazine. They started with booklets cranked out on a duplicating machine. You had to type the story on a stencil, which had a thin skin (liable to split), and stretch that over a cylindrical drum filled with ink. Somehow this apparatus churned out copies on thick furry absorbent paper, if you were lucky. Very often it sulked, or gave you pages of faded ash-grey, or sheets blotched as if black candle-wax had been dripped over them. The print runs under these conditions were seldom high. But later, this stalwart team progressed to photocopying, and even commercial printing. And I also saw my work appear in further splendid but short-lived publications of the time, such as Lichgate, edited by Colin Langeveld, and Nerve Gardens, edited by Barry Duggan and Keith Jones.
These brought me another thing even more important than publication: friendships. When I had first started reading the classic authors in the field, I supposed that I was one of the few who knew about them. In a certain sense, that was true of some: Arthur Machen interest was then in one of its periodic doldrums, and despite several reprints of his work, even the outlines of Hope Hodgson’s life and career were not well-established. So it was a real pleasure to encounter others who had heard of these, and to share thoughts on others to try. We became an informal group, The Doppelgänger Society, the dedicatees of this book. For a while we even went on ‘jaunts’—excursions to ancient churches (and pubs), in search of inspiration. We paid homage, and spilled a libation of wine, at the grave of the last court jester, Samuel ‘Maggotty’ Johnson, known as Lord Flame, in a little spinney in unconsecrated ground; and at the tomb of Lord De Tablay, Victorian composer of marmoreal verse, we ate the berries growing over his memorial stone. At Abbey Dore, in the dreaming Marcher country, we learned that the alabaster head of a knightly effigy had been stolen (Why? For what use? Was there a story here?): and in mouldering second-hand bookshops we might at times discover strange slim volumes of unheard verse. In an era not noted for its grandeur—the 1980s and early 1990s—we clearly had a hunger for the Romantic and outré. And in celebrating dark fiction, we were trying to keep a corner of our times mysterious, mist-veiled, and glorious with the deep hues of decay.
As a tribute to those days, I have written two new Ralph Tyler stories, ‘Herald of the Hidden’ and ‘The Almanac’, especially for this volume. Another, ‘Heritage of Fire’, though written earlier, is published for the first time. Most of the others are previously uncollected.
The small press ephemera where these stories appeared are elusive and faded. But however quaint these publications may now look, they are coated with a magic glamour for me, because they contain my first stories in print, and the stories and work of friends. The smell of the ink, the texture of the paper, bring back to me all the camaraderie and the excitement of those early days. And I hope some of all that might still be able to transfer itself to the reader of these tales today.
St Michael & All Angels
I peered wistfully into the murky dusk of an October evening from a window of number 14, Bellchamber Tower. I knew from his preoccupied air that my friend Ralph Tyler had become absorbed in a certain slender pamphlet.
I had found him studying it when I called: aside from brief greetings and an assurance that he would ‘be with me in a minute’ we had exchanged hardly any conversation.
At length he sighed, put down this intriguing literature, stretched, then adopted the slumped, lazy position in his threadbare armchair which usually betokened a reflective mood, or the prelude to some thinking aloud. In accompanying Ralph Tyler during his researches into strange and disturbing matters I cannot pretend to have very often contributed much by way of practical insight or specialised knowledge, but I believe that he was often glad of the presence of someone to whom he could expound his theories, or put forward several possibilities. This process seemed to enhance the ready intuition which was his most notable faculty.
‘It is like this,’ he began, suddenly, and without any other preamble, almost as if resuming an interrupted conversation. ‘St Michael & All Angels, near Enderby, is a redundant church, obtained by a trust last year, who have taken on the task of preservation. It stands on the edge of parkland belonging to the local Hall, though of course it was previously used by both the family and the village. Enderby is much depopulated and the retention of the church was no longer a viable proposition; demolition w
as even a possibility, but the exertions of certain local figures sufficed to raise enough funds to prevent this. St Michael & All Angels is therefore administered by its own charitable trust, but kept freely open to visitors who naturally are encouraged to donate towards expenses. I believe the sale of guidebooks . . .’—Ralph indicated the booklet he had been reading—‘and postcards and so on also helps in this way.’
I nodded, murmured my interest, and waited for Ralph to resume his narrative. He lit a cigarette, whose fumes stole insidiously through the air with a bizarre reek, before continuing.
‘I became interested in all this because of a brief note in The County ——’ (This was a weekly newspaper covering mostly village affairs in the south and west of our shire). ‘. . . It said that vandals have been hindering restoration work on St Michael’s. They supposedly climb up the scaffolding against the tower and then throw large blocks of masonry down.’
‘Pretty dangerous,’ I commented.
‘For the vandals, yes. Very hazardous. Clambering up apparatus about sixty feet high, balancing along an unsafe roof and hoisting off heavy chunks without toppling over? Hardly likely, I thought.’
I began to appreciate my friend’s point. Whilst someone out for a ‘lark’ might well want a certain element of risk involved, this escapade seemed to stack the odds rather too highly.
‘With little else to do, I decided to take a look out there. You know I’m always keen to delve into anything curious of this kind. Often there is the most prosaic and uninspiring explanation, but then again, once in a while. . . . Anyway, I found that the church is quite notable in its way. For one thing, it is built in the form of an equal-armed cross, not the conventional elongated crucifix. But it also has an interesting past. I’ll come to that in a minute.
‘When I arrived at Enderby, I was straightaway doubtful about the vandal accusation. The place is so remote: even allowing for the possibility of drunken hooligans on a rural joyride, it was scarcely the most likely area for such exploits as the paper described. Daubing graffiti, smashing windows, trampling over graveyards, that goes on from time to time, due to sporadic outbursts, but not this. My examination of the outside of the church confirmed my suspicion. The possibility of footholds is slim, beyond trained workers: and although the stolid bulk of the tower could be tackled by use of scaffolding, it would require an astonishing attainment of dexterity and coolness.
‘On the path which encircles the church could be seen several large lumps of stone amid debris which made it plain they had hit the ground with considerable force. I gave them a pretty thorough examination. Yes, I’m sorry, I even applied the old magnifying glass to a few.’
Ralph grinned rather sheepishly at this commonplace contrivance of detection.
‘Then I decided I might like a brief tour inside, but not surprisingly the door was locked. A note pinned to the porch board advised that keys were available from the custodian at a nearby address. I strolled over and obtained these, and naturally did not miss the chance to cast a few pertinent questions. The opportunity arose when the old chap urged me to “Please be sure to lock up after, what with the trouble they’d had lately.” . . .’
‘I wonder he let you in,’ I interposed drily.
‘I was looking quite respectable I assure you,’ returned Ralph with mock dignity.
I snorted.
‘I told him I’d read about the vandal problem,’ continued Ralph, unperturbed by my jibe. ‘And asked whether they’d caught anybody yet. He ventured the opinion that the (ahem) so-and-sos had got clean away. No, he could not say what they looked like, no-one had actually seen the culprits, despite their decidedly prominent position high on the church roof. Perhaps it was after all accidental damage, I suggested. Certainly not—the contractors for the restoration were adamant that there was outside interference.
‘I murmured in sympathy, then made my way back to St Michael’s. Inside, I picked up the booklet which describes its history and architecture. I already knew some of this, having consulted some background material before setting out on my excursion. The church was founded about 1140 by the Fitzgilbert brothers, Guy and Peter, barons of this domain. They had conducted an irregular war against each other in those troubled times of King Stephen, skirmishes over lands or possessions, but these culminated in a feud so bloody and stained with such atrocities that the intercession of neighbouring magnates, prelates and even the King himself was necessary. The enforced truce was to be commemorated and sustained by the building of this church as a united enterprise between the brothers. It is presumed the design of the equal-armed cross symbolised the absolute parity between them, and such careful balance is evident elsewhere in the fabric of the church. The eastern arm contains the altar; the western the tower; the southern the entrance porch; and the northern, the Fitzgilbert family crypt.
‘The endowment of the church did not succeed in tempering the enmity between the brothers, but it taught them to lace their hatred with religious zeal. As well as proclaiming each other traitor, outlaw and usurper, charges of heathenism and witchcraft were levelled. This picturesque era was brought to an end when, before work on the church had even finished, Peter Fitzgilbert died suddenly, how and why not being known, and his brother Guy was left in sole possession of all he surveyed. His dynasty retained this state of affairs until it succumbed during the Wars of the Roses.
‘As to the interior of the church itself, it was fairly unexceptional, rather colder than some I have visited, due to disuse no doubt, and missing the minor trappings which go to make up what you might call a working church. It gives the impression of being an empty, forlorn shell. The crypt of the Fitzgilberts is railed off, and, as the booklet reminds people, not accessible to visitors. After a few cursory glances around, I placed some coins in the collection box and left, carefully locking the low arched door behind me.
‘When I returned the keys, I asked the custodian if I might obtain permission to go into the Fitzgilbert crypt. I said (which was by now quite true) that I was very interested in the church and wished to research it further. He gave me the address of the Trust’s secretary and recommended I put my request in writing. I have done so. I also mentioned in my letter that I was disturbed to read of the vandalism, and should they require any help and support in this matter I would be glad to oblige. I hope I expressed this in such a way that it might sound like common concern for such an antiquity, yet with rather more significant interest between the lines.’
‘Very deft,’ I complimented, ironically. ‘Any response?’
‘This.’ My friend produced from within the guidebook by his side a letter on headed blue notepaper:
From R.W. Alwyn, M.A., F.R.S.A., Hon. Secretary.
St Michael’s (Enderby) Trust.
Dear Mr Tyler,
Thank you for your letter of third inst.
I confirm that access to the Fitzgilbert crypt at St Michael’s will be permitted on the date you propose. I shall myself be present to accompany your inspection.
I am grateful for your concern regarding certain unfortunate incidents at the church recently. Perhaps we may discuss this matter further when we meet.
Yours faithfully etc. etc.
‘Hmm, impressive, if cautious,’ I conceded. ‘When are we going?’
‘On Saturday. I chose a day when you could come along. There may be nothing to all this, but on the other hand . . .’
‘Might I be correct in believing that you are refraining from telling me all you know?’ I suggested, gauging a certain intonation in Ralph’s voice. ‘You might,’ he replied non-committally.
As arranged, we both caught one of only four buses per day serving the district around Enderby, alighted at the little wooden shelter, and made our way to the church. It lay at the foot of a rise in the ground, a green knoll, in the far corner of Enderby Hall’s parkland. Bleak, nearly leafless trees clung grimly to the sward, some brackish and neglected ornamental ponds shuddered with a dark rippling sheen nearby, and the f
ootpath was slimy underfoot. We passed through the gate of corroded iron palings, into a churchyard in which lilted that mouldering odour, a mingling of damp evergreens and rank decay, so often to be found in such sites. At the porch we were met by a dignified but slightly distant gentleman of between fifty and sixty, whose greying hair receded from the forehead but clustered in unorthodox and mildly eccentric locks about the nape. Ronald Alwyn introduced himself, eyed us with polite but keen detachment, and ushered us into the gloomy interior of the church. We exchanged casual, general conversation about the purpose of our visit, as he unlocked the tall barred railings guarding the Fitzgilbert crypt, and gestured for us to follow down shallow, worn stone steps.
Electric light had been installed via one acorn-shaped lamp in a nook of the low ceiling, and this cast a brightness over the hushed, slumbering cell in which were interred the remains of a dynasty five hundred years old. I felt no particular distress about the confined presence of mortality, indeed I was reminded of a museum atmosphere, with its dusty exhibits estranged from any semblance to real flesh-and-blood people of times long ago. Ralph seemed absorbed in a close scrutiny of a number of fragmentary tomb slabs, and there was an expectant silence as Ronald Alwyn waited for him to finish. For my part, I merely stared vaguely about the crypt, feeling rather uncertain of my role here.
After a while, my friend got up from his crouched position near a particular monument, nodded affably to our guide and led the way back up the steps. The gate was locked again behind us.
‘Thank you for allowing me this opportunity, it is very co-operative of you,’ Ralph commented, as we emerged. Then he turned directly to the particular cause of our call.
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