Herald of the Hidden

by Valentine, Mark

  ‘So far as I was aware.’

  ‘You mentioned your doctor. Are you receiving treatment of any kind?’

  ‘I am not.’ The denial was peremptory.

  ‘You take no medication?’

  ‘No.’ There was a visible restlessness at the persistence of these questions of a personal nature.

  ‘Do you have vivid dreams?’

  There was a sharp sigh.

  ‘Really, Mr Tyler, I hardly expected you to practise amateur psychiatry. What I require is a practical explanation of what I saw. I observe you have plentiful records . . .’ he gestured at a crooked shelf of tatty folders ‘. . . and must surely have a precedent which will cast light upon this matter. Eh?’

  Ralph paid no heed either to the tone or the substance of these remarks. Instead, he rose from his grey armchair, stretched, and took up a favourite jacket from its hook.

  ‘I think I must ask you to take me to the exact site of the experience. Does that present any problems?’

  His client got to his feet wearily.

  ‘None whatever.’

  Madberry Hill rises like a great green dome out of the pastures on the south-eastern edge of the town. Its edges are wooded but not densely: paths wind through the trees and converge on the clearing at the crest, which has been left to wan, coarse grass.

  Frederick Bentley, it transpired, lived in Hillview Avenue, the apt, if scarcely original, road from which a footpath could be followed to the lower slopes. It was still only mid-morning as we ambled through the yellowing deciduous wood, a mild breeze creating a restful murmur in the trees. After we had climbed for some minutes, the older man paused.

  ‘It was just up a little from here,’ he whispered, as if there were a need for secrecy.

  The plateau at the top was visible through a veil of young trees and bushes.

  ‘I’d strolled down from the Tower site to look at the vegetation, as I explained. . . . It couldn’t have been much further away than, well, around here.’ And he shrugged, perhaps unconvinced that a place of such calm and quiet could be the scene of his former encounter.

  ‘Did you halt anywhere in particular?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘Hmmm. I may have leant against a tree trunk or something.’

  My friend wandered through the screen of saplings at the edge of the copse, glanced briefly around the open space which was the summit of the hill, then retraced his steps slowly. At intervals he stooped to the ground, or paused by a particular tree, or craned his neck to regard the scene as a whole. He was only a few yards from us when he diverted slightly along a narrow track. He was lost from sight for a minute or two, then emerged, examining thoughtfully an object held between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Try this,’ he asked Bentley, handing him a globular white berry. His client recoiled.

  ‘What is it?’

  Ralph ignored the question.

  ‘Go on. I assure you it will do you no harm.’

  Bentley placed it cautiously, and with evident reluctance, in his mouth, tasted it tentatively, then immediately ejected it. He stared at Ralph accusingly.

  ‘Familiar?’ my friend enquired.

  There was a short silence. Bentley was evidently preoccupied with the lingering effect of the white fruit. Then he nodded slowly.

  ‘It is the taste I was left with last night,’ he agreed, then repeated his demand, ‘What is it?’

  ‘The glowberry,’ replied Ralph. ‘So named for a slight phosphorescence it emits in certain conditions. Heavy rain or concentrated sun causes its juice to seep through to the outer flesh, from which in turn it may rise into the atmosphere, creating a slight haze and a heady, but elusive aroma. The shrub is quite uncommon now, but there is a cluster in a little hollow over there. . . .’ He gestured along the shaded path he had followed.

  ‘Taken in small doses,’ he continued, ‘The glowberry is quite innocuous. But little is known of its influence in the case of greater quantities. . . .’

  ‘But look here,’ interrupted Bentley, ‘I don’t recall eating any of those at all.’

  Ralph regarded him curiously.

  ‘Nevertheless, a number have been plucked recently. Come and see.’

  We made our way carefully through the overhanging trees, and came upon a group of low, spindly bushes, to which a few of the waxen-looking berries clung. Ralph pointed out where several had burst upon the ground, then held for our inspection a limb of the plant. ‘Here—and here—see? This thin stalk once held the fruit. If it were simply natural ripening and spilling the pattern of dismemberment would be irregular. The fact that whole offshoots have lost all their fruit suggests otherwise.’

  He turned to Bentley. ‘But even if you didn’t consciously eat any, it may be that the hovering distillation from the plant was sufficient to work upon you, with the results that we know from your account.’

  ‘So, you suggest what I saw was partly a natural emanation, and partly hallucination? A result of lingering too long close to the glowberry plants, and thus inhaling the fumes in some quantity?’

  Frederick Bentley’s relief could be heard in his voice. He began to express profuse gratitude, then broke off abruptly;

  ‘Do you suppose that is how the Hill came by its name? Yes, it must be. In days gone by, they knew all about this, and the Hill was called after the strange fruit it harboured . . . you can imagine that it might have a repute for inducing madness, why I was much disturbed myself. . . .’ Then his thinking switched again. ‘. . . of course if we are to have this place as a properly arranged country park, we can’t have hazardous plants about, however rare . . . perhaps they can be sealed off in some way, or maybe even shifted . . . the trouble with erecting a fence and a “Keep Out” notice is it excites people’s curiosity, so that won’t do. . . .’

  Ralph interrupted sufficiently to suggest that Bentley should stay clear of the curious shrubs except for short visits, then, after further expressions of admiration from his satisfied client, we parted from him and descended the gentle slope.

  ‘A quick solution,’ I remarked, not without a tinge of disappointment. But Ralph appeared to be lost in thought. Finally he surfaced from his reverie.

  ‘Mmmm? Oh—yes. The symptoms he described following his vision appeared to suggest some hallucinogenic experience. There aren’t many wild substances able to induce such a situation, and nearly all are rare. The mist narrowed down the possibilities still further, so I had some idea what I was looking for—and there they were.’

  As we gained the town pavements and our respective routes home were about to diverge, Ralph, who had again relapsed into silence for the rest of the walk back, came to a sudden decision.

  ‘Will you come round this evening? We can maybe repair to the Unicorn.’

  He referred to the obscure inn which was our not infrequent haunt. I expressed satisfaction at this idea.

  ‘I can call this afternoon if you like,’ I added.

  ‘Uh? No—no, I shall be in the library I think. . . .’ replied Ralph. I left, and Ralph went on his way still much preoccupied.

  **

  When I called at number 14, Bellchamber Tower, at about 8 pm, I was struck by the similarity of its interior to the ethereal scene which Frederick Bentley had described earlier. The pungent reek assured me, however, that the cause was no lilting, luminescent plant moisture, but the cigarettes favoured by my friend, a continental brand of some repute. Ralph Tyler obligingly hauled open his sash window. A bright full moon hung in the clear sky, and there was a chill edge to the night air. Ralph had prepared, on his battered table, one of the board-games with which we often occupied an hour or so of an evening before strolling to the Unicorn. This variant of an ancient game known to the Norse and Celts required a peculiar steadfastness of mind on the part of one player, and much invention and cunning from the other (their tasks being mutually irreconcilable). At intervals during the play it was evident that my friend’s thoughts were wandering elsewhere. Finally, he flung down a piece,
leapt up, and bundled on his jacket. My mild enquiries concerning what was ‘up’ elicited the cryptic response: ‘The moon is up, that’s what.’ And the further hurried phrases as we scurried down the steps of the tower block, ‘Madberry Hill—bloody quick—come on.’

  Our progress to the foot of the Hill was a halting combination of brisk walking and occasional urgent spurts of running. Given that Ralph Tyler rarely indulged in activities of any energetic kind, and that my work also tended to foster a sedentary approach, the speed with which we covered the mile and a half from Ralph’s flat to the footpath out of Hillview Avenue was pretty remarkable. I felt my pulses pounding, and my breathing was in heavy draughts. Ralph, too, doubtless labouring under the influence of the cigarettes on his respiration, seemed quite done in. I croaked out a string of questions concerning this abrupt outburst but Ralph merely beckoned the way up the Hill.

  The gaunt spinney was considerably transformed from its mild appearance of earlier in the day. The serried trees on either side of the winding path seemed more dense and brooding. Shadows gathered all about us, with that starkness which the moon carves when it is high and bright. There were scents and sounds in the air, subdued and intangible, which seemed to belong only to the night. We trod cautiously, dodging supple branches whose purpose seemed to be to claw at our eyes and hair, stumbling over raised roots, evading clumps of thorn that loomed in our way. It was difficult to gauge how far we had gone into the wood—I peered ahead, hoping to spot an opening, but there lay only the twisting corridor of intertwining ash and linden, beech and birch, rowan and young oak, matched by flickering grey replicas cast by the gleam of the moon.

  We tramped on wordlessly, Ralph gazing around earnestly. As I listened intently to the quiet rustles and stirrings on each side of us, I became aware of a more sustained hissing from a height just above our heads. I paused, and saw that Ralph had heard it too. It was a sibilant whirring that in its insistence seemed to grow closer to us. The cause became rapidly apparent. Out of the sombre tunnel of trees there streamed a swirling cloud, full of tiny, intricate movement, and billowing out to occupy the whole of the narrow way ahead. Instinctively, we sank to the ground. Then the susurrus seemed to fill the air, and we were enveloped by a flock of pale moths, their soft wings beating against our face and neck, their bodies becoming entrapped in our hair. I flailed my arms and shook myself vigorously, but for each that seemed to succumb, a horde of others settled on my flesh. The insects clustered with thickening layers over my eyes and around my mouth, until my whole head must have been a mask of moths. I tore at them, detaching whole chunks, but merely drawing them onto my hands—and others took their place on my face.

  For how long we fought against the glimmering swarm, it is difficult to tell; it may have been only four or five minutes. I buried my head in the dust and the earth. I recall pressing my face with almost grateful force into the rich soil, and the deep, ripe smell that filled my nostrils. But this evasive action alone did not account for our deliverance; for, as if sated on our fear and desperation, the flock rose again and danced off down the Hill, leaving only a few of their kind behind. We scrambled to our feet. I may have uttered a few disgusted oaths by way of relieving my revulsed feelings. But Ralph scarcely paused. He dashed forward through the thicket, filled with a new urgency.

  I followed Ralph as rapidly as I could, blundering through the undergrowth heedlessly, until I saw with relief the clearing at the hill’s summit visible through the last trees of the spinney. With a surge I made for the arc of light that denoted the wood’s end—but as I staggered closer, Ralph stepped out from the shadows, and motioned me to the side. I stared out into the glade.

  The spare, stooped figure of Frederick Bentley stood in the centre of the open space. He was swaying slightly. And he was the fulcrum of a giant white spiral, weaving with bewildering speed in pulsating eddies around him. The first impression was of a swirling mist, whose whirling wisps were caught in some freak gale. But soon shapes emerged too; bones, boulders, bleached tree trunks, pale forms that hinted at animal or even human features. As I watched, I caught glimpses of misshapen faces, mouths ajar, eyes wild, heads lolling. All were spinning in a seething mass around the focal point of the entranced victim. And the maelstrom seemed to get madder and madder, so that I felt sick to see it, and lurched forward. There was a plaintive, thin singing in my ears and I knew that I, too, must join the throng. Through blurred vision I saw the surging circle of lunatic, cavorting creatures rise like a wave over my head, and then suddenly I was amongst them, and my skin seemed to pucker into the pit of my stomach as I was swept into the squirming mummery. I felt guttural grunts heaving from my tongue in a sordid gibbering, and my limbs lurched and leapt like things possessed, and I knew I was losing control of my faculties. All I wanted was to be a part of the amorphous mass; and I felt a fierce, ardent kinship with the frenzied beings around me; bizarre beasts, semi-human figures, sentient manifestations of plant and mineral forms, and some which seemed mockeries of all creation. But something in me summoned up a spasm of resistance. I urged together what rags and scraps of reason were still mine, and flung myself, using the impetus of the giddying orbit, out of and beyond its sway; on all fours I tried to crawl away from its gravitational influence. It was not until I had scrambled to the comparative sanctuary of the trees that, clinging to the trunk of an ash, I was able to turn and face again the white tumult. I saw then that it was shuddering and faltering and disgorging objects like some giant serpent seized by convulsions. And the reason became clear; it had been deprived of its axis. Frederick Bentley was no longer there. A trail of glistening slime stretched from the eye of the spiral upwards to the taut sky, and gradually I saw that it was winding itself away, dissolving into the higher air. Through the empty darkness, I observed Ralph Tyler hunched over a prostrate form. I made my way hesitantly towards him. Frederick Bentley lay sprawled awkwardly.

  ‘Suffering from shock,’ Ralph commented, as I drew near, ‘But otherwise unharmed. Let’s get him home.’

  We stayed at the house in Hillview Avenue overnight and, when the elderly occupant was sufficiently restored, Ralph recounted to him a little of the background to the events he had witnessed. He also obtained, without much difficulty, a certain undertaking concerning the Hill; and then we left, each to our own home.

  Later that Sunday I returned to Ralph Tyler’s flat. I was still quite tired from the alarming experiences on the Hill, yet I felt a desire to hear from my friend his reasoned exposition of the matter. I found that he was bitterly self-critical.

  ‘I was completely deluded by the glowberry theory. It seemed to suit the case so well. And Bentley himself, with his evident desire to find an explanation from other than the paranormal, influenced my judgement. But, on the other hand, it was a remark of his which made me think again. Madberry Hill as a place name derived from the vision-inducing glowberry seemed far too straightforward. Place names are rarely so readily identifiable, if only because they tend to alter over the centuries. So, yesterday afternoon, I pottered about in the local studies collection at the library. I wanted to find the earliest reference to the Hill, and get to the root of its name. The definitive county survey records that in 1526 it was “Maydenberweye” . . .’ Ralph spelt out the archaic title.

  ‘Before then, though there is no archival evidence, it is likely that the name was even closer to what was the original sense—Maiden Bower, derived from the Old English “burh” meaning “fort”. There are a scattering of earthworks and hill settlements with this name and, until recently, its precise significance was uncertain. But a folklorist called Jeffrey Hurt recently published his findings about traditions associated with the localities of “Maiden Bower” or “Maiden Castle” sites, and I remembered seeing his article in last year’s Journal of the Northern Oral History Group. Here is a pertinent passage. . . .’

  Ralph opened a booklet and read;

  ‘ “The persistence of otherworldly maidens in the legends of Europea
n peoples must argue for their foundation in some objective reality. Their association with ancient sacred sites such as springs and groves is plenteously recorded. As one guise of the threefold archetypal Earth Goddess (maiden, mother, hag) the impression upon folk-consciousness is even more powerful. The correlation between such spirits and the landscape around each Maiden Castle or Bower must be the subject of detailed investigation—but may we not, as a preliminary hypothesis, presume that such an otherwise unaccountable place name preserves the idea that here, in or on these earthworks, the Maiden dwelt?”

  ‘And then,’ continued Ralph, ‘A curious chain of deduction came to me. Suppose that Hurt is right, I thought, and Madberry was once peculiarly sacred to a Maiden deity—the same whose face Bentley saw—then how would the construction of a tower seem? When no other man-made structure has apparently been set up on the Hill? In symbolical terms, the intention could hardly be more aggressive. . . .

  ‘Bentley’s constant brooding over the erection of the Tower stirred the latent guardian spirit against the assault. The first vision was by way of warning, and I almost incline to believe that its use of symptoms connected with the glowberry may have been a trick for our too-rational minds.

  ‘As we did not take the appearance of the Maiden at face value, but concocted instead what we liked to think of as a logical explanation, we were blinded to the truth of the matter. Similarly, the flock of moths was a microcosm of the great throng assembled on the hill top. To carry such clues to extremes, we might even say the glowberry forewarned us of the significance of the full moon—the pale, shining globe was an exact facsimile: There are many dimensions to the Maiden—at lowest, a cunning deceiver and wild jester, at highest a Moon Goddess. All aspects were on display for us, if only we chose to understand.

  ‘These things began to fall into place last night as we were playing Tawllbort. Unlike the cold, linear logic of chess, that game demands thinking of a circular kind, multi-layered. It prompted me to piece it all together. And then I realised that Bentley would almost certainly be on the Hill for his evening walk, and that night, of all nights, the Maiden’s powers were at their height. . . .