I didn’t hesitate. I tossed my bag over the wall and clambered over after it. I felt more certain than ever that I was on the right route for Morbing Vyle.
It was dark and gloomy on the other side, in amongst the trees and bushes. I picked up my bag and pushed forward. It was hard going. Although the dirt track was visible on the ground, there were branches and twigs sticking out everywhere across it. I stooped down low under the bigger branches, but the smaller branches still whipped and scratched at me.
Soon my hands were bleeding in numerous tiny places. Many of the bushes were armed with thorns and prickles. Again and again I had to stop and unsnag myself. A couple of times I stumbled and fell to my knees.
But gradually the banks on either side fell away, lower and lower. I began to notice a curious smell in the air, like stale smoke. And then there was light up ahead – the light of open space. At last the trees and bushes were thinning out.
I lifted my bag as a shield in front of my face and barged my way out through the last of the thicket. Suddenly I was standing on a slope of green grass, with a winding stream in front of me. On the other side of the stream was a burned-out forest.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Six
Now I understood the reason for the stale smoky smell. There must have been a great fire here. The blackened trees curved away to left and right as far as the eye could see. On my side of the stream the grass was fresh and green. But on the other side, not a single speck of colour. The trees were like charcoal and the ground was pale with ash.
The strange thing was that the forest seemed so intact. There were mighty branches bowed and buckled, huge cleft trunks and hollow shells gaping with holes. Yet still the trees were all standing. Though some leant over at impossible angles, though some held up only with the support of their neighbours – yet not one single tree lay fallen on the ground. Even the twigs on the branches seemed perfectly preserved. It was as though the whole forest had been instantly, magically carbonized.
I didn’t much like the idea of going into it. But that was the way I had to go, if I wanted to keep following the track. For there across the stream in front of me was a double line of stones: obviously the remains of an old causeway. And beyond the causeway, a kind of avenue into the forest, where the trees stood further apart and an arched space opened up under the branches. No doubt about it: this was the track to Morbing Vyle.
Balancing cautiously, I made my way across from stone to stone. The stream was slow-moving and shallow. When I stepped off on the other side, my shoes sank deep into the fine white ash. I gritted my teeth and went forward in amongst the trees.
It was deathly quiet. Nothing moved or stirred. The only sound was the soft padding of my footsteps – that, and the beating of my heart. I tried to whistle a tune but the notes seemed to die in the air. I gave up and went on in silence.
The forest was quite beautiful in its weird petrified state. It was not only the twigs that were well preserved; here and there were skeletal clusters of leaves, burnt away to lace-like imitations of themselves. And grass blades too, poking up through the carpet of ash, crisp and brittle and grey. It seemed incredible that such fragile delicacy could survive. I advanced further and further along the avenue between the trees.
Then all at once the silence was broken by a rushing sweeping noise. RRRRRRSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH!!! It seemed to be rushing towards me from behind.
I panicked and ran. An image came instantly into my mind: the image of a great black carriage, open at the top, with furious spinning wheels and gleaming brass lamps. I didn’t even turn to look, yet it was as vivid as if I saw it right in front of my eyes. And it was hurtling towards me, closer and closer…
But then I felt the wind on the nape of my neck and the wet spots of rain on my skin. I halted and turned around. There was nothing behind me at all.
I laughed at myself. The sound I had heard was the sound of the rain, advancing through the trees on a gust of wind. The storm had finally begun.
I pulled my coat tighter, turned up my collar, and continued on at a walking pace. Of course, it was the checkout girl’s nightmare that had made me think of a carriage. Her story must have affected me more deeply than I’d realized.
Soon the rain was pelting down. It crashed through the branches overhead and fell to the ground with tiny white explosions in the ash. So many explosions that the ground seemed to be stirring like vapour, writhing and rising in snaky white tendrils. When I cast a glance behind, my footsteps were vanishing even as I walked.
Then I noticed something else. The smell in the air was growing smokier and there was a strange noise over and above the noise of the rain. It was a sort of hissing. It seemed to come from the trees themselves.
I veered to the side of the track to inspect more closely. I stood by one particular tree, a cracked old shell of an oak. The rainwater trickled and glistened down its black burned bark. And out of the cracks – I could swear that there was steam coming out.
I pressed my hand against the bark. Nothing. Or was there? After a while I seemed to feel a faint creeping warmth. I poked my fingers into one of the cracks. No doubt about it! The inside of the tree was hot.
I was surprised. Somehow I hadn’t thought of the fire as being that recent. But I supposed there was no reason why not…
I looked around. From every tree came the same hissing noise. The same deep heat must be smouldering in every one of them. I was surrounded by a thousand separate voices. Suddenly the trees didn’t seem so dead after all.
I hurried on down the middle of the track. Of course it was only my imagination playing tricks – but now I saw the blasted trunks and twisted branches as black-robed mourners, reaching up with wild tortured arms. And the hissing noise – to me it was like a sighing and sobbing, a bitter deep-down weeping. The forest was full of torment and pain and anguish.
Faster and faster I hurried. When would I ever get out from these terrible trees? The whole place seemed charged with an unbearable intensity of emotion, weighing down, suffocating me. For the moment I had forgotten all about my quest for Morbing Vyle.
Then suddenly the trees were behind. The forest ended as abruptly as it had begun. Suddenly I was standing out in the open, with the rain like a grey murk all around. I couldn’t see a thing.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Seven
Only now did I realize just how heavy the rain really was. In the forest I had been under a kind of canopy. But out in the open the deluge hit me with its full force. I was getting drenched.
I walked forward into the nothingness. I lifted up my bag and held it over my head for some small protection. The ground beneath my feet was bare soft clay, rapidly turning into mud. There was no longer any kind of a track to follow.
It was lucky that I was looking down at the ground. Suddenly a great gaping hole opened up in front of me. At first I thought it was a newly-dug grave. It was about four feet wide and six feet deep, with a mound of raw excavated earth heaped up on the far side. But then I realized it was too long to be a grave. I couldn’t even see where it ended: to left and right it extended out of sight, vanishing into the rain. It was a trench.
I didn’t fancy jumping over it, especially into the mound of earth. So I walked along by the edge a little way. Soon I came to a place where a plank had been laid across as a bridge. I crossed over and went on.
Then I became aware of something ahead of me. It loomed out of the rain in a vague grey silhouette: a silhouette in the shape of an arch. Immediately I headed towards it.
I had to make a detour around yet another trench before I could come up close. It turned out much larger than I’d supposed – about thirty feet high. It was a Gothic arch like the arch in a church. Only here there was no church. This arch reared up all by itself in the middle of nowhere.
Then I remembered Morbing Vyle. Was this strange arch an answer to my quest? Perhaps if the village had been abandoned, if it had fallen into ruin…
Could this arch be a last surviving remnant from the church I had seen in the photograph?
But my hypothesis was soon overthrown. For now I observed that the stonework of the arch was surrounded by a framework of timber. Scaffolding! I whistled in amazement. So the arch was not the remnant of some ruined building, but the start of a new one! It was under construction!
Then I thought of the trenches I had crossed over, and the bare earth all around. Of course it all fitted together! The entire area was a building site! And the trenches were the excavations being dug out for foundations!
I stood under the arch and inspected the stonework. It was a curious hodgepodge of different kinds of masonry all cemented into a single mass. There were even a few bricks incorporated amongst the stone. The scaffolding was similarly ramshackle, lashed together with cords and ropes.
I was completely baffled. Who were the builders? And what was it for? Why on earth would anyone be building a Gothic-style church in the late 20th Century? Mystery upon mystery!
But I didn’t stay worrying about it for long. By now I had more important worries: my own wetness and discomfort. The rain had soaked right through my coat, and there was a cold clamminess against my skin. I had to find shelter – and quickly.
I trudged on in the murk. The trenches were everywhere, crisscrossing this way and that. Some were small and shallow, others wide and deep. They were filled at the bottom with puddles of brown water and thick quaggy mud. I was forced to take so many turnings that I soon lost all sense of direction.
Then I saw another silhouette looming through the rain. It looked like a low squat building. But when I came up close, I discovered only a pile of building materials. There were bricks and stones and slates and tiles, all stacked up ready for use. I shrugged and went on.
On and on and on. I gave up carrying my bag over my head; the rainwater was trickling down my upheld arms and into my shirt. As for my shoes, they were so thick and caked with clay, it was like dragging two immense puddings over the ground. My feet squelched in my socks with every step.
And still there was no shelter. I headed towards one phantom shape after another. It was always the same: fragmentary bits of unfinished construction. I found a half-built wall a couple of feet high, and the beginnings of a stone pier set upon a massive pedestal. I found some stone steps and a semi-circular platform, a great ramp of earth and a section of new paving. But never a single complete building.
I felt as if I had been walking forever. I don’t know how long it was in real time. I trudged along mechanically, head lowered and shoulders hunched. I kept on walking only because it was as easy as standing still. But I came to a sudden halt when I discovered the chairs.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Eight
There were five of them: plain upright chairs with slatted backs and wooden seats. One of the seats bore a plush but soggy cushion. They stood all by themselves in a torrential rainstorm, arranged side by side in a row.
I dropped my bag to the ground and sat down on one of the seats. But not for long. There was something else just visible through the murk, about twenty feet away. It was a massive lectern of carved wood. It seemed to be facing towards the chairs.
This I had to examine! I stood up and went to take a closer look. But even as I approached the lectern, I caught sight of something even more bizarre. Another twenty feet beyond the lectern was a large white shape, sort of square and flat at the top. It looked at first like a table covered with a white tablecloth.
Immediately I thought of shelter. If I could crawl in underneath the table…I marched on past the lectern and headed towards this new discovery.
But my hope was soon dashed. It wasn’t a table at all. The shape was solid: an oblong block of panelled marble. The white cloth that covered it had a decorative gold border and hung down half way to the ground. It reminded me of an altar in a church – a marble altar with a gold-and-white altar cloth.
On top of the block, in the centre of the cloth, lay a silver box. It was about twenty inches long by ten inches wide, engraved all over with a fine scrolled pattern. I could see at once that it was a work of remarkable craftsmanship. At the sides of the box were two tiny clasps.
I unhooked the clasps and opened the lid. Inside the box was a bed of green velvet, moulded into snug cavities. Three chisels nestled in the cavities, along with a fretsaw, a file, an auger and a small hammer. The heads of the tools were gleaming steel, the handles were smooth black ebony.
I let the lid fall. I was beyond being surprised any more. Nothing made sense, nothing at all. It was like living in a dream. The only real thing was the cold wet rain on my skin.
And then I had a lucky break. Just as I was about to turn away, I noticed that one of the marble panels was different. Whereas the others were creamy in colour, this one was a dark porphyry red. I’d assumed that the marble was a single solid mass all the way through. But what if it was hollow?
I went down on my knees and took a close look. Yes, the red porphyry panel was quite separate, divided by thin cracks from the panels on either side. There was some dry blobby substance in the cracks, like sealing wax.
I lifted up the white-and-gold cloth. Better and better! At the top of the red porphyry panel were two brass hinges. The panel must be a kind of door, a hatch leading into the hollow interior.
There was no handle. I scrabbled with my fingers at the bottom of the panel and scraped away the wax until I could get a hold. Then I prised the panel slowly outwards and upwards. Once I had squeezed my whole hand in under the edge, it came up easily enough.
Shelter at last! I didn’t waste time wondering whether I might be committing blasphemy or sacrilege or whatever. Even if it was an altar – I wasn’t superstitious about that sort of thing. Holding the hatch open with one hand, I wriggled my way inside.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Nine
Inside it was dark and close and stuffy. I groped around blindly, unable to see in front of my nose. The air smelt very stale, as though it had been sealed up for centuries.
But at least the place was dry. And there was even some kind of padding on the ground. It felt like a big soft leather-covered bean-bag.
I didn’t think too much about it. I was just happy to be in out of the rain. I rolled over into a sitting position and settled myself comfortably on the bean-bag. I had my knees under my chin and my arms around my knees. But I still kept one foot wedged against the hatch, propping it open. I didn’t want to lose sight of the daylight.
I don’t know how long I was there before I heard the sounds. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten. Long enough to get a little warmth back into my body anyway. Huddled up in the fuggy dark, I felt my sodden clothes beginning to lose their chill. And then I heard the sounds.
They were very faint at first, almost ghostly, coming and going in the drifts and gusts of rain. Sounds of sloshing and slopping, like people walking in the mud. I pricked up my ears and listened.
It was people. Suddenly I could hear their voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, they were still too far away. But they were coming steadily closer.
I felt strangely reluctant to move. I can’t explain why. I should have crawled out into the open and shouted for help. But I didn’t. Perhaps it was just that I was finally starting to feel warm. I didn’t want to go out in the rain – not even to be rescued.
So I stayed huddled up and listening. The voices had fallen silent again, but the sloshing slopping sounds were very close. They seemed to be heading towards the row of chairs. I remembered that I had left my bag there. I waited for a sudden cry of discovery. Then I would have to do something. Any minute now…
But something else happened instead. How can I describe it? Suddenly I became aware that the bean-bag had moved. A sort of surreptitious sliding movement beneath me. Like a muscle flexing inside the leather!
Instinctively I sprang up. But the marble roof was only inches above my head. I banged th
e top of my skull and collapsed back down onto the bag.
Again the bag moved, and again. Now it was starting to fold itself round me. It was trying to envelop and hold on to me! I lashed at it with my arms and legs. In sheer terror I yelled out at the top of my voice:
“HELP!! HELP!!!”
I flung myself free from that leathery embrace and dived out through the hatch. I hardly knew what I was doing. For a second I lay sprawled in the mud, out in the open in the grey rainy murk. Then I jumped to my feet and fled.
I think I was still yelling for help. Running, stumbling, looking back over my shoulder. I was about twenty paces away when a trench suddenly opened up in the ground in front of me. I tried to stop. Too late! My feet stopped but my body didn’t. I plummetted forward over the edge.
The trench was about ten feet deep. Headfirst I fell, all the way down to the liquid mud at the bottom. There was a loud GLOPP!! as I hit the mud. My head was submerged and my arms were stuck. I couldn’t breath! In a state of wild panic I kicked out with my feet.
It was the very worst thing I could have done. My kicking caved in the wall of the trench and brought down a whole heap of earth on top of me. A great soft weight settled over my body.
Now I was buried as well as submerged. I felt as if I had been completely encased in wet plaster. My legs were clamped and my arms were pinioned. I was aware of the folds and creases of my clothes pressing and moulding against my skin, like folds and creases in the earth itself.
Slowly the mud invaded my mouth and eyes and ears. It was a thick glutinous syrup. When I opened my eyes, all I could see was a liquid film of sepia brown. The clogging wad in my mouth tasted gritty and dark. When I tried to close my mouth, long dribbling clots ran up inside my nostrils and down the back of my throat. I felt my gorge rising. I wanted to vomit.
The Vicar of Morbing Vile Page 3