Herald of the Hidden

by Valentine, Mark

  ‘Bentley was standing more or less exactly where he wanted to put the Tower. You can understand that, to all intents and purposes, he was the Tower. And so he became the concentration for a vast summoning of all who owe allegiance to the deity of the Hill. The gyrations soon mesmerised him into accepting his rôle, not only as the focal point for the suppressed energies and entities, giving him the delusion of wielding awesome power; but also as their victim. To experience this heady sensation as king of the vortex, this taste of raw, divine, kinetic ecstasy, the penalty was final loss of individual identity, and immersion within the great force. Had we been a little later, when the process was complete, we would have found merely the husk of a human being; whether alive or dead would be of no consequence, for no knowledge of self or other reasoning or experiencing attribute would be left to it.

  ‘What Bentley had to do to evade this fate sounds absurdly simple: hit the deck. He would then no longer be the axis. Besides, such an action would imply renunciation of the tower scheme, restore him to the level of the Hill, and carry with it an element of homage. But he could not do it. He was, in both senses, enthralled by the wild impetus of the white spiral. You know yourself, I think, the sense of overwhelming yearning which that phenomenon creates—the desire to belong to its throng, be a part of its chaotic dance. Imagine then the intensity felt at its heart.

  ‘Yet I could see no way through to Bentley without myself succumbing. It was your sudden plunge into the circle that provided the opening. Momentarily, there was a hiatus in the process whilst you were—temporarily, I am glad to say—absorbed. It was then I burst through. It felt like my head was ripping asunder, and I was sure I’d emerge at the centre just a fleshless skeleton, but I survived intact and then struggled with Bentley to get him to kneel down. I thought at first he’d get the better of me. He resisted with more than his own strength. And all the while the sensation of the surging circle was flickering at my consciousness too, luring, offering me the temptation to which it was fatal to yield. In the end, I as good as tripped him up, pushed him into the pasture, and dived down myself. It was a gesture, and not much more, but it was sufficient. We clung to the grass with desperation, Bentley from instinct, and I from insight; and that deep dependence upon the form and fabric of the Hill was accepted as an expression of contrition. The whirlpool flung out its debris—including you—and was recalled.’

  Ralph, wearying of the intricacies of his narrative, lit a cigarette, and began to set up a new Tawllbort board.

  ‘What did you tell Bentley?’ I enquired.

  Ralph sighed. ‘I said that, however he might wish to interpret his experiences, it seemed to me prudent to give up his plans for a Prospect Tower. He agreed quite readily. I mean, apart from anything else, his recent close inspections of the hillside have quite spoiled two suits—positively covered in dust they were. He appears to recall the rest imperfectly—a sense of unease deters him from pursuing his ideas for developing the Hill, and I supplemented that with very strong recommendations along similar lines.’

  For myself, I was grateful to take refuge in the singular game that our latest escapade had interrupted, whose mental stimulation was of the tranquil, ordered kind I found to my taste; and I sensed that on this occasion, Ralph Tyler was perfectly ready to concur with this sentiment. . . .

  Afterword

  A week or so after the Madberry Hill experience, I tackled Ralph Tyler about a matter which I had discovered by virtue of a little research of my own.

  ‘There is no such plant as the glowberry,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ he replied, and pretended to be searching for his noxious cigarettes.

  ‘They were common or garden snowberries,’ I continued, warming to my theme, ‘Just an ornamental shrub.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, I may have confused the names.’

  ‘What is more,’ I added, ‘I believe it was you who plucked a few so that it appeared Bentley had eaten them.’

  Ralph stared at me oddly, attempting unsuccessfully to conceal some amusement at my deduction.

  ‘Very shrewd,’ he conceded. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘You wanted to mislead him into thinking everything was alright, so that he would continue visiting the Hill. You wanted to see what would happen.’

  ‘Very ingenious of me,’ remarked Ralph sarcastically.

  ‘It’s hardly ethical,’ I objected feebly.

  For some reason Ralph found this comment a source of some hilarity. When he had finished sniggering, I tried my finishing touch.

  ‘Furthermore, the snowberry does not give off strange fumes. Neither is it necessarily hallucinogenic.’

  ‘Proper botany buff aren’t we?’ was Ralph’s riposte. ‘But look at it from my point of view. Had I said to Bentley straight out—Oh, yes, you’ve had a vision of the Great Goddess, you must throw in the Tower project at once—do you think he’d have accepted that? Not he. It had to be the way it was. Besides, his insistence on an instant answer needled me. I needed time to follow through my instincts as to the meaning of the first apparitions he saw; and to check up on the history of the Hill. So I gave him the kind of explanation he wanted.’

  ‘You might have told me,’ I protested, somewhat lamely.

  ‘I might have done,’ agreed Ralph. ‘But you’re not as good a liar as I am.’

  I am still not sure if this was intended as a compliment or not.

  ‘But what made Bentley think the taste of the snowberry was the taste he was left with after the first apparition?’ I persisted.

  ‘I did,’ replied Ralph, shortly. ‘The fact is that he passed out, and when he came to, his breathing was sharp and his mouth rather clammy. There was no especial taste left with him, really. Likewise, the snowberry’s flavour has been described as “ethereal”. He accepted that this was the supposed aftertaste because he wanted to believe it, and because I assured him of it.’

  I was silent for a few moments.

  ‘What about all this rot that the berry was the warning of the Goddess as to the importance of the full moon?’ I finally demanded in a hurt tone.

  Ralph shrugged, grinning.

  ‘She moves in mysterious ways . . .’ he said.

  The Ash Track

  The Ash Track is a curious remnant of a once long and well-used green lane, which ran from the neighbouring county of Bedfordshire deep into our own area, passing through and connecting a number of straggling settlements. Much of this ancient route has now disappeared. Some of it has been superseded by a major road which, however, eschews the almost aimless curvings and contortions of the older way, and imposes instead a more rational line across the countryside, as straight as was negotiable. Thus, fragments of the green lane are left forlorn and stranded in the middle of fields, moorland or woods.

  The Ash Track is one such; there is access to it by a footpath from the main road, it ambles along for a little over a mile, and then comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of private pastures. There is no alternative, without trespass, to turning and retracing your steps. It is an oddity, a leftover, but one carefully preserved by the local hikers’ group, who jealously guard the popular privilege in this matter, and ensure the path is walked at regular intervals.

  The landowner whose field sees the sudden end of the path is tolerant but firm. He makes no attempt, as did his predecessor, to prove by archival research and legal representation that the right-of-way is a chimera; he has reconciled himself to the intrusion upon his domain. But, nonetheless, he declines to allow the footpath’s extension across his lands by about a quarter mile, which would take it to a gate onto a by-road not far from the village of Fernho.

  The usual theory concerning the Ash Track is that it did indeed extend further once; but successive ages witnessed the requisitioning of great stretches of it by unopposed landowners, until the definitive survey earlier this century could only accept the present anomalous conditions.

  Even local opinion differs regarding the Ash Track’s name; some attrib
ute it to the trees of that type which grow at intervals along it, whilst others note the dark, dusty topsoil of the lane, and say that this so resembles cinders, as to be responsible for the title.

  An acquaintance of mine is a leading light in the walking club I have already mentioned, and as I have a passing interest in the hobby too, we occasionally exchange talk about our latest rambles, forthcoming events, natural history notes and so on. I knew that Stephen Hope was rather inclined to enjoy the seemingly pointless stroll along the Ash Track, and it was usually he that watched for any depredation upon the public rights there. Indeed, he was in a real sense the sole warden of this historic vestige, for few other people had cause or desire to tread upon it. My attention was stirred beyond the usual, therefore, when he remarked, during a lull in conversation when I was paying him a call:

  ‘There’s something rather worrying about that dead end lane up by Fernho.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I responded.

  ‘Well, whenever I’m down there lately, there seems to be a sort of whirring in the air. At first I thought my hearing was getting defective, but I never have any problems anywhere else. Then, I wondered if it might be the wind in the trees, but it just isn’t like that. It seems to rise to a certain pitch, then falter and break apart. I can’t fathom it.’

  ‘Farm machinery?’ I suggested.

  ‘I’ve never noticed any. Anyway, it doesn’t strike you as mechanical.’

  I shrugged. ‘What else?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much, probably. It’s just that . . . have you ever noticed wheel ruts about halfway along; very deeply sunk into the ground? They’ve been there for ages. But it only really occurred to me the other day that no vehicle uses the track, it would be a futile and rather tricky exercise anyway, it’s so narrow and overgrown and stony.’

  ‘Not a tractor?’

  ‘No, the grooves are far thinner than that would make.’

  ‘Motor-bike? A bit of amateur scrambling perhaps?’

  ‘No, the tracks are a set of two wheels. And no treadmarks that I could tell.’

  I gave up accounting for the incidental curiosities associated with the Ash Track, and the talk turned to other matters; however, I asked Stephen Hope to let me know if much else turned up to foster his suspicions. I had in mind that it was from such inconsequential beginnings that stranger matters might emerge, and so told my friend Ralph Tyler of what I had heard.

  It was evident to me that the polite attention he gave my account of Hope’s comments masked a more eager interest. Some weeks had elapsed since our last involvement in any ‘case’ and the fond recollection of success in past incidents was beginning to strike pale. Ralph was never more absorbed than when some disturbing occurrence demanded his energies and intuition, even more so when the matter lay close to home, in the region which was our own.

  It was therefore not so great a jolt for either of us when Hope fairly burst into number 14, Bellchamber Tower at the late hour of 11.30 pm one night, a few days later. We had been mulling over an intriguing geometric board-game Ralph had been recommended by a correspondent of his, one of those with whom he frequently exchanged notes about their mutual pastime of games of skill. The flow of play kept us deeply immersed and insensible to the passing of the hours, and we were both snatched abruptly out of our pensive attention to the board when a rapid, loud noise at the door announced Hope’s arrival. He rather breathlessly spluttered out terse explanations—

  ‘Glad you’re still here, went round to your place, but they said you were still at Ralph’s. Look, eh, sorry to barge in right at this time of night only it’s quite important, you see, well, you remember what I said about the Ash Track . . . ?’

  Ralph took advantage of this brief pause to motion Hope into a seat, and himself assume his favourite, slumped attitude in the grey-flecked, disreputable armchair that had seen better days.

  ‘There were wheel marks and an odd undertone of humming the last I heard,’ Ralph confirmed, and I nodded.

  Our visitor’s nervous agitation seemed to have subsided a little now, and he said quite calmly:

  ‘I have seen something down there. I don’t know if it’s a delusion, a hallucination or what. Well, it was so blurred, I am hardly sure now.’

  ‘When did you see—it?’ demanded Ralph, eager to ascertain facts.

  ‘Tonight. I’ll start from the beginning. I’m sorry, I haven’t really taken it all in yet.’

  We waited as Stephen Hope appeared to collect his thoughts.

  ‘I was in Fernho with some mates. We went for a drink at the New Inn. I stayed for about an hour-and-a-half, I suppose. Left a little after ten. I only had two pints and as you know that’s nowhere near enough to get to me. Well, I thought as I was out that way I might as well take a turn down the Ash Track, the cool night air would be very refreshing and it’s quite an enjoyable sensation, being utterly alone under the stars just walking along . . .’ Here our visitor grinned ruefully, as if in embarrassment.

  ‘I hadn’t gone so far along when I was struck by the solemn silence I was in. That’s not unnatural of course, given my situation, gone ten at night in remote countryside, but I feel it was more than that. Anyway, I was lingering in the experience of it when there came over me the impression that the lane ahead was growing blacker, more opaque. I remember stopping, unsure if I should go on any further. Although the way is so familiar to me, I suddenly felt as if it were a yawning abyss in front, daring me to take another step. Nervousness swept over me.

  ‘As I peered, hesitating, I caught sight of a flicker of flesh in the dim distance, as if a face had appeared briefly, then been hidden again. I took a few more faltering steps. And then the same image, only greatly multiplied, splashes of face as it were, emerging, hovering, disappearing all along the lane ahead, like masks hung on the bushes. Well, then I must have been rooted to the spot in morbid fascination. Telling it to you now, I can see normally I’d have run like hell. Something held me there, I suppose it was sheer fright.

  ‘As I watched, I began to make out that these faces, sort of shivering, sort of blurred, belonged to bodies, but they were all dressed so darkly it was hard to tell where their forms ended, they seemed to fade into the atmosphere. The more I looked, the more I seemed to see.

  ‘It was like two long rows of people, on both sides of the way, dotted at intervals, receding into the dim horizon as though like a tunnel. And they were all just standing there, still. I don’t really know how it came to an end, the scene just sort of swayed inward and went away, without a sound. Then I bolted, got in the car, drove away pretty recklessly, pulled in to a lay-by a few miles on, tried to make sense of what happened, got very unhappy and frustrated, and so I’ve come straight here. I hope you don’t mind. . . .’

  Stephen Hope looked at us eagerly, as if fully realising for the first time the strangeness of his situation, and half-wondering how we would respond.

  Ralph murmured, hardly looking up from his sprawling repose:

  ‘If you were able to see actual people in your vision . . . what did they look like? Ordinary, everyday?’

  ‘It’s so hard to tell. The clothing was dark, I remember that. Mmmm, it didn’t seem to be a proper modern way of dressing. Maybe I just imagined that though. I don’t know. Everything was so . . . sort-of, smudged.’

  ‘The faces then. Could you see individual characteristics? Expressions?’

  ‘Ye—es. Yes. I could see they were all different. Men and women, a few children. And it was all so heavily serious, that was very distinct, a great impression of solemnity.’

  ‘Stern? Or sad?’

  ‘Well, both. But now you mention it, there was a feeling of sorrow in there. Despair almost, just underneath, like an unspoken hidden emotion.’

  Ralph considered this for a while. Then:

  ‘You know the track better than most. What could be responsible for this incident?’ But Stephen Hope shook his head.

  ‘I’ve been trying to puzzle that out. There�
�s nothing. But I mean there can’t have been a real crowd of people like that in the old lane for over a century. Longer than that.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ralph mused, ‘Then is that how it seemed to you? A scene from long ago?’

  Our visitor hesitated. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘But nothing happened to you? You didn’t feel in any way threatened? This mass apparition, it didn’t seem to be for your benefit? It just happened; and you were there?’

  ‘All that is absolutely true. Of course I was scared at the unfamiliarity of it all. So I ran. But I never seemed to be in any danger. I wasn’t harmed.’

  Ralph got up. ‘Thank you for coming so soon after your experience. Those first impressions are invaluable. I ask you to give me a few days. I will be in touch with you both . . .’ he nodded to me as a sign for my departure too, ‘. . . as soon as I have anything to report.’

  ‘In the meantime, should I go near the Ash Track?’ enquired Hope anxiously.

  ‘Entirely up to you,’ was my friend’s reply.

  It was, unusually, several days before I heard from Ralph Tyler again concerning this matter. From past cases, I had grown accustomed to Ralph’s habit of examining a scene of an apparent incident at the earliest opportunity. I assumed, therefore, that he would be in touch with me very quickly after our meeting with Stephen Hope. But it was not until four days had passed that a message was left for me to pay him a visit at his flat in Bellchamber Tower. On arrival in the early evening, after work, I found that Stephen Hope was there before me. We exchanged greetings, and desultory comments, before Ralph, pacing within the limited floor space of his confined accommodation, summarised the purpose of our gathering:

  ‘I have already explained to Stephen that I feel we will be enlightened if we visit the Ash Track tonight, abiding as closely as possible to the conditions of his previous experience, with the sole exception . . .’ here Ralph grinned wryly, ‘that we cannot take in two pints of intoxicating refreshment beforehand. I am perfectly assured that what Stephen drank in the New Inn was of no account so far as the later occurrence is concerned, but we must be certain of our faculties this time.