Herald of the Hidden

by Valentine, Mark

  ‘Want to come along tomorrow?’ he enquired, pulling on his threadbare jacket.

  I assented. ‘Where are you off now?’

  ‘Where do I always go when I start a case? Library of course.’

  Marlestone House had originally been built of the local cinnamon-coloured stone, but at some stage had lamentably been covered with stucco. It had stood as a roofless wreck since a disastrous fire in the 1930s. One wing only remained habitable, and this had been occupied by a succession of short-term tenants. Until recently, tall nettles had clustered around all the walls, moss colonised every crevice, creepers clung sinuously and, where deep damp had set in, livid green stains fouled the plaster. Connoisseurs of decay had wandered freely around the ruins, speculating on the downfall of the house and, perhaps, philosophising about nature’s insidious dominion.

  But now a great mud track had been gouged out by the heavy construction vehicles, cables and pipes and temporary cabins installed and a large sign in silver letters announced: ‘Marlestone Heritage Hotel—An EPC Development’, while in smaller text underneath was the standard warning against trespass and damage. Rumbling machinery, growling plant and a rhythmic clanking suggested that work was proceeding apace.

  As we hastily retired away from the din, I remarked to Ralph that it was difficult to see how whispers, footfalls and weird birdsong could have been discerned if this was the usual noise level. But he shook his head.

  Our hasty retreat took us along a gravel path, which wound past a spinney that served to stifle some of the sound.

  ‘Ethelred’s reports all point in one direction,’ Ralph replied. ‘The garden. And this must be it. . . .’

  We came upon a canopied gate made of dark wood, not unlike the lichgates where coffins could be rested at the entrance to graveyards. By each pillar was what seemed to be a tall stone toadstool, although these had a little niche let into them. A latticework fence led away on either side in a gentle curve, and it had clearly been receiving attention recently, for holes had been patched, posts replaced, and much encroaching foliage had been cleared away. We passed through the gate and found ourselves on the brim of a shallow hollow. A fine lawn, again newly cared for, swept down to the shores of a still jade pool. Within this was an islet of stone and evergreen, reached by an arched footbridge of perhaps four or five strides. The garden seemed to be shaped like a shell, its graceful slopes overgrown with trees shimmering in manifold shades of green, with here and there a great spray of white blossom. Winding paths could barely be made out between the trees.

  There was a stillness and quiet within this old pleasaunce. The roar of the building work seemed shut off completely. I found myself eager to explore further, to find what other features there would be. I wondered if there might be a sundial, with some suitably melancholy motto; perhaps statuettes lay unhonoured in the undergrowth; and there must surely be a Summer-house somewhere.

  ‘All artificial, of course,’ remarked Ralph unromantically. ‘Even this crater itself is a disused quarry, presumably where they got the stone for the house.’ He pointed to several outcrops of tawny rock.

  ‘Those stones, however,’ he continued, pointing to some pale weather-worn boulders on the further side of the little lake, ‘are not local.’

  We walked over towards them, and found there were five gathered together in a group, some pointed, others squat, reminiscent of the remains of a primeval stone circle. Ralph examined these carefully, even scraping away some encrustation with a pocket knife, but he seemed unsatisfied and his gaze strayed elsewhere. At the head of the deep, opaque pool was a lonely dark monument, and we made our way towards this. It proved to be a small black obelisk, whose surface must once have possessed a sombre sheen, but which was now dim and pitted by erosion. It was difficult to approach very closely because this solemn sentinel stood on the very shore, on a plinth of pebbles, and the ground was queachy underfoot. Nevertheless, Ralph subjected the obelisk to the same scrutiny he had given the standing stones and, surveying the views from this point, he noticed a narrow pathway leading up the shelving sides of the garden.

  We followed this, and found ourselves accompanying the bed of a tiny stream whose water was reduced to a tired trickle. Just below the crest of the ascent, we came upon the Summer-house I had assumed must exist. It was humble indeed, a little wooden shack which, however, when the brook was in full flow, would be ideally placed above a cascade of carved steps. It was quite derelict—obviously the restorers had not reached this far. The thatched roof had sagged inwards, a paper screen which had presumably stood in the doorway was broken, and the whole structure had begun to collapse. We had to push our way past a pole, enmeshed in creeper and shreds of paper, which obscured the entrance. It was scarcely worth our effort, since the interior, apart from debris, was virtually bare—a low table against the far wall had survived the fall-in, but anything else was buried. Ralph sifted some of the mouldering pile for a while but, except for a few fragments of twisted metal, found nothing.

  We walked around a little further outside, then retraced our way back to the gate, passing en route some workmen who had resumed operations on the garden’s renewal. I asked how things were getting on and whether they’d noticed anything unusual about the place.

  ‘Yes,’ replied an older man, pushing a straggle of lank grey hair from his damp forehead, ‘unusually hard work, that’s what I call it. Gardeners we are, not ruddy labourers. We’re spending half our time lugging things away and then carting them back again after Ethelred’s fancy experts have given them a polish. Why can’t they leave the blamed things alone? We’ve got enough to do clearing out this wilderness. . . .’

  There was more on this theme—quite a lot more—but I only half-heard most of it as we edged away, leaving the offended horticulturist still fulminating darkly.

  ‘Well, we rather asked for that,’ remarked Ralph wryly, ‘or to be exact, you did. But I don’t think we can find out much more here. We have very little to work on really. So—you won’t be surprised to hear—I intend to come back here tonight. Most of the incidents in Ethelred’s file seem to have happened after dusk. That is when people are more susceptible to this sort of thing of course. But also I suspect it becomes almost a different garden in the dusk.’

  Ralph’s words came back to me as we entered again that evening through the high dark gate, which seemed much more ominous in the half-light. The restful silence of the daytime, when the garden had been a refuge from the construction noise, had been replaced by the sort of tense stillness a beast of prey assumes when it is watching its quarry. It was not possible to feel at ease. We had brought torches with us, but their column of yellow glare only made the shadows on either side deeper. Deprived of the full use of sight, our hearing naturally became more sensitive and we found ourselves interpreting every subdued sound into something sinister.

  Uncertain of our steps, we slowly paced our way down the gentle slope to the little mere, which could be heard lapping on the unseen shore. I tried to remember whether the waters had made the same murmur earlier in the day: I did not think so, but if not, what was causing the ripples?

  Ralph swept his torch across the black sheen of the pool, casting a wan, tired light on the trimmed, sentinel evergreens which stood upon one bank, and on the cluster of bleached stones. As the beam briefly touched the miniature island, I thought I sensed a movement of deep shadow, merely a flicker of a darkness denser even than the night. I whispered ‘Wait,’ and at the same time swung my own torchlight onto the artificial outcrop. And then it seemed as if a lineament of utter black lunged forward swiftly and silently out of the feeble glow, and so beyond our perception, and we were left waiting intently, wondering what it was and where it had gone.

  ‘Is it heading for us?’ I muttered, grimly.

  There was a brief pause, then Ralph replied: ‘I don’t know. But I know where it isn’t.’

  And he quickly strode towards the ornamental arched bridge, with me closely following. A few s
teps took us to the little island, and we balanced rather precariously on this. Ralph shone his torch on the mound of stone at its centre, and ran his hand around a shallow hollow of compacted earth, where the crushed weeds glistened palely. I heard him groan lowly.

  Anxiously, I cast the torchlight across the black lake and into the dark slopes beyond, on edge in case I should see again some swooping denseness of air. I was relieved when Ralph finished his inspection, but only momentarily—for he showed no signs of halting the vigil in the garden.

  We moved carefully away from the island and followed the shoreline, curving away to the farther sides. When we were perhaps fifty paces forward, I seemed to sense a shadow behind us glide across the glistening water and return to rest on the island. It was as if I had caught this movement out of some unknown corner of my consciousness, for I did not see it directly, and the only sound was the faintest stirring. I hesitated, and Ralph noticed my indecision. Turning, he shielded his torch and simply said, ‘Leave it.’

  I was perfectly content to do so, but I could not resist one final glance back at the island. It may have been my over-stretched nerves at fault, but I thought there was more to the island than there had been before.

  Slowly, and not without some stumbling and sinking into softer ground, we made our way around the rest of the garden, until we began to approach again the narrow path which led to the Summer-house. It took some moments to register that the stream which had been so stagnant before, now sounded in full spate—we could hear its tumbling commotion as we drew near. Yet there had been no rain, so how could it have been refreshed so soon? Was this another of the heritage people’s improvements? Ralph stopped, listening intently. The rush of natural running water is always soothing, and I was soon quite enraptured by its gentle rhythm, so reminiscent of leaping footfalls, with whispers and murmurs, eager and excited. Ralph moved cautiously forward and, leaning over the brim, held a hand over the cascade. Instantly, the sounds subsided, leaving a hollowness and a pitiful trickling noise. I heard my friend sigh sharply. He withdrew his hand, but the tumult did not resume. Frowning, he simply reported—‘Dry’—and then walked briskly away.

  We did not remain in the garden much longer, completing a circular tour by passing around the lake again close to the obelisk, which reared up solemnly and made me think of war memorials because of its sentinel-like and sombre form. At last we saw the gateway again, and seemed within reach of less disturbing terrain. Yet even then we could not be entirely sure of ourselves, for there glinted for the merest moment yellow light as of candle-glow on each side of the two tall pillars: but by the time we came level with them, the flickering light had vanished.

  **

  Ralph spent most of the next day on a visit to a university library in a neighbouring county, but despite this diligence, I began to feel that the case was petering out. Every researcher into curious and unaccountable matters comes upon some incidents or claims that cannot be resolved, and this seemed to be one of those. None of the impressions we had received last night was completely clear, and, even taken together, they did not add up to very much. So I was agreeably surprised when Ralph called in on his return to ask me to stop by at his flat in the evening: his mood was quite cheery. He added that he had received a note from his client, James Ethelred, asking for a progress report, and the developer would be joining us later.

  When my friend greeted me, however, he did not dwell very much upon his day’s investigations, saying that he would keep his ideas until Ethelred arrived. But he was keen to tell me about a board-game he had discovered, which was new to both of us, although it was our mutual hobby to try out all the ancient variations we could find. This fresh Far Eastern example was most intriguing and we were immersed in trying to reconstruct some of its nuances, and its relationship to other games, when the dull clunk in the hallway announced the arrival of our client.

  ‘Getting anywhere, Tyler?’ he demanded, as soon as he was inside.

  ‘Oh yes, thanks,’ returned Ralph.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Mmmm? Oh. Well, the fact is, Mr Ethelred, that Marlestone House had—I suppose, has—a most interesting garden. It was designed last century by Arthur Raynesbury, a great scholar and a friend of the then owner, Sir Nathaniel Horne. We are fortunate that it has survived so well, it is such a fine example. There were plans to turn it into some kind of grotto years ago, but they came to nothing when the house was destroyed.’

  ‘All very interesting, Ralph. Good background material. We can use this. And don’t worry. We’re keeping the garden just as it is, tidied up of course. I respect its past. The only exception is that old obelisk. It’s such a great eye-catcher, I want it in front of the house, on the lawn. Don’t worry . . .’ there was a perceptible stirring from Ralph, ‘. . . we’ve taken good care of it. I had the workmen winch it down with the utmost care. And what do you think? It was pointed at the base as well, almost half as long as the column above ground: and there was more writing underneath, even though it was completely buried, though we can’t quite make it out yet. I tell you, it’s a fascinating monument. . . .’

  He trailed off as Ralph Tyler started to his feet and bundled on a drab, baggy jacket.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, staring at Ralph’s grim expression. ‘We can easily replace it with a replica, surely . . . ?’

  ‘You have your car here?’ requested Ralph tersely.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What on earth?’

  ‘Not on earth,’ said Ralph, bleakly. ‘That’s the point.’

  Shaking his head, but by now convinced of my friend’s seriousness, James Ethelred led us rapidly to his waiting vehicle.

  As the car swept to a halt on the crackling gravel of the drive, we saw at once a swollen glow of pale yellow pulsing above the hollow of the garden. Ralph flung open his door and raced in that direction, and I followed as rapidly as I could. A palpable shock of dull warmth rose up to us as we neared the sombre portal. There was a glowing mist licking up the shelving sides and darting towards the gate. In its wraith-like wreathing it was like the mist that rises from rivers and fields at dawn, yet this had a sulphurous quality, and every droplet seemed tinged with a sickly ochre. It seemed to flow outward in ever-encroaching tides, so that as we advanced down to the dark pool, it rose and absorbed us. I soon lost sight of Ralph, ahead of me, in that jaundice-sheened fog. My head was filled with a rushing, roaring noise: it seemed as if all the leaves of the trees, and their limbs too, were quivering in motion with the rippling mist, setting up a great hissing and grating as in a fierce storm. Bewildered by all this, I missed my footing and made the rest of the descent at a rapid pace, sliding and stumbling all the way.

  As I landed, I felt my flesh scorched by a blaze of burning heat, and I scrambled in a panic back up the slope, on hands and knees. Breathing heavily of the harsh, cutting air, I turned to see what had leapt up at me. And there below, there shuddered out of the ground a lunging golden plume of fire, sending out its incandescence into the mist. Sharper bursts of metallic blue flame could also be seen flicking up from the earth, and it even seemed that some scarlet and some purple strands hung in the glowing veil for many moments.

  I was half fearful and half fascinated at the sight of these strange pyrotechnics, but my awed gaze was abruptly broken by another great burst of fire, arcing outward like some volcanic eruption. I covered my eyes with one arm, and kicked and scrabbled at the grass bank to get further back, away from the tearing heat. And all the while my mind was working furiously away to deny the painful probability that Ralph was somewhere in that living furnace—had he gone full tilt into its maw?

  I tried hard to make sense of what I was seeing and to account for it by what we had learnt of the site in the last few days, but in the torrent and turmoil of the moment, nothing coherent or coldly logical came to me at all. I began to feel dazed and drained by the clammy yellow cloud clinging to me like the burst yolk of some va
st egg, and by the withering breath of the churning cauldron below. My thoughts wandered feverishly and I seemed to suddenly cling to the remembrance of the joyful tumbling, gurgling stream of yesternight, which we had briefly heard but could not find.

  Then I saw the figure of my friend limned in fire, a fragile silhouette framed against the raging blaze below. I shouted hoarsely and uselessly. He seemed to be shivering violently, despite the heat, and clinging fiercely to a stick or stave he held out. As I watched, he recoiled backwards, there was a deep, cavernous rumbling, and a great spurting ichor of white fire, which yet also seemed to drip dank slime, erupted from the earth. I clenched my eyes against the blinding glare, but kept blinking them open and shut, to catch glimpses of what was happening to Ralph. I saw his head sink down before the rearing form, then he seemed to tense, fling back an arm and thrust the staff he held with full force at the bulging pillar of sheer fire. The slender paling stabbed deep into the earth, and Ralph gripped it with both fists. As I saw the scene, flickering on and off, first vividly alive, then etched on my eyelids when the glare forced them shut, there froze for a fraction of a second a single startling image: the crackling coil of pure flame seemed to gape wide open, then shudder and slither down into the depths, swallowing within itself all the fiery tendrils it had issued forth. As the obscurity cleared, I stared from sore eyes at the sight of Ralph, face grimed with glistening black, clothes sodden, clutching at the curious spear from which, I could now see, paper tassels wafted gently, incongruously.

  ‘Most Japanese gardens in Britain,’ began Ralph, slumped in his armchair and still somewhat dishevelled an hour or so later, ‘are purely ornamental. Their creators failed to realise that in their native country, these gardens have a sacramental quality. They are places for meditation, prayer, and wonder—even for sorcery. Each feature, each object has a symbolic name and nature which is of high significance. Now Arthur Raynesbury did know this. He had stayed in Japan for some years and his learning is credited in the acknowledgements to one of the first Western studies, Ancient Spirits—Faiths in the Far East. So I began to consider that his garden was also imbued with the same sanctity and potency as the originals. All that remained then was to piece together the meaning—and purpose—of its features.