The Wind of Southmore

by Ariel Dodson

  Arlen silently rose from the chair arm and walked slowly over to where he stood, shaking, by the jagged panes of glass. The wind moaned mournfully, slinking over the fragile teeth and breathing into the curtain until it looked like the sheeted ghost from an old horror movie.

  She gazed at the old man, suddenly so frail and vulnerable, and her voice was soft. “What about the others, Mr MacKenzie? Don’t you think it’s about time you told us the whole story?”

  Old Mac turned, and moved his dry, crumpled old hands away from his creased, worn face, and he nodded as he regarded the girl with something like relief in his eyes. He moved slowly back to the armchair and seated himself in it, his back upright and his face determined. One by one, Arlen, Alice and Robbie took seats on a red, plush footstool at his feet before the fire, and it was then that he began his tale.

  “Robbie, this will all be new to you. Girls, some of this you will be familiar with. Some has faced you and fought you already, some is yet to come. And some, although not physically brought before you, has touched you inside and marked you with the hard finger of inheritance.” He stopped, and gazed at the three solemn faces before him, then he sighed, his eyes bright with pain, and began his story.

  “Have you seen the beast that guards the village fountain, girls?”

  They both nodded.

  “It was said for years that the golden serpent, the symbol of the Penmorvens, was the protector of the town. There are many stories still whispered behind the frightened shutters of the villagers, of hopes for its return to save their home, this one strange spot on the sea. They have been a long time waiting. And they have never forgiven Lord Penmorven for its disappearance.”

  Alice gasped slightly, and Arlen’s face hardened.

  “Do you know of the alchemist, girls?”

  They nodded again.

  “Then you will know that he was your ancestor, and lived within the walls of Penmorven Castle nearly five centuries before you, when the towers were still proud and tall, and the lights could be seen shining like the sun, the whole way along the coast. The Penmorvens then were a generous bunch, and their home was open and bright, and there was often to be heard singing and music from the parties they held.

  “Yet Lord Penmorven had a deeper side to him, and, late at night, after the torches were extinguished and the guests departed or put to bed, he would mount the winding stairs to his secret room, high in the north tower which no longer stands, and pursue his studies. Like many noblemen and students of his generation, he was seduced by the glinting whispers of alchemy, the science that was said to turn metal into gold, and to open the gateway to eternal youth. You may have heard about such hopes.

  “But it was a far higher and more generous ambition which gripped Lord Penmorven. Being of a philanthropical nature, he desperately wanted to offer something to the world that would do it some good, for people have never really been happy with the world in which they live. People who yearn for days gone by would find themselves just as or more unhappy as those of a previous era. And so his great mind set up a scheme which would bring happiness to his fellow kind. Unlike many of his contemporaries, his hopes were magnanimous, although his art itself did require the same painstaking patience and meticulous approach. Also, most importantly, was the use of stones and metals to achieve his purpose, and his wealth was able to supply him with these necessary tools.

  “Night after night he worked long hours, sometimes straight through to the next evening, and his large brain often ached with the fear of failure and disillusionment. It perhaps may have been better if he had failed, for success certainly brought him nothing but disillusionment, as well as centuries of suffering for the people of his village.

  “The alchemist had two daughters, identical twins, like you two. I can remember your grandmother showing me an old portrait of them in days gone by, and the resemblance is quite frightening. And yet – I think – perhaps because you may also have inherited their strength – you will succeed where others before you have failed, and failed tragically.

  “Isobel and Imogen were young and lovely and, like their father, of a magnanimous nature. Their hands were much sought after by young noblemen from all corners near and far, and yet none of them were able to win either of the girls over in marriage. Whether this was because they did not wish to be parted, or that they didn’t want to leave their family home, or because they just did not like any of the young men who sought them, I do not know. But life went on at Penmorven Castle, until one day there arrived a tall stranger out of nowhere, to beg for shelter at the castle gates.

  “His name was Penvynne, and he had been washed up from a shipwreck along the coast further west. He was returning home, he said, after many years away travelling, and spoke affectionately of the Penmorvens, although certainly neither Lord Penmorven, nor his daughters, nor their servants, had heard of any family by that name down by the tail of the land, from where he claimed to originate.

  “Nevertheless, it was obvious that he was a young man of breeding and good taste, and, like Lord Penmorven, he shared a deep interest in the possibilities of alchemy.

  “It would have done Lord Penmorven better if he had been more cautious, far more cautious, than to open his doors to a stranger whose story was yet unopened, and who seemed to already know so much about the household that it was not long before he ingratiated himself there almost as one of the family. Suddenly long held friends were turned away, as the Penmorvens were too busy to receive them, and the hall now sat dark and quiet, while the strange blue light burned feverishly upstairs in the small tower room, two heads bent ceremoniously over the flickering flame.

  “It is to be wondered that Lord Penmorven did not sense his guest’s true nature at those times, for stories circulated through the lower quarters and the village that when the light burned on Penvynne’s face, his skull was to be seen beyond it, and his eyes would redden and glow with an unearthly fire. Perhaps he was held under some sort of spell – it is only left to us to wonder at now.

  “And what of the twins, meanwhile? Both unhappy with their father’s interest in the stranger, they were nevertheless prevented from speaking with him, as strange illness after illness seemed to break out in the village, and the girls were busy tending to the sick. And often could be seen, as they hurried out into the mist of morn or eve in their dark cloaks, the face of Penvynne watching them from the dark tower, and his expression was one of greed and covetousness.

  “Many whispered that the alchemist had gone blind with desire for knowledge and success. He could not see that Penvynne’s motives were not as altruistic as his own. However he must have sensed something, for the lights in the north tower room began to burn less brightly and less often than before, and the rage in Penvynne’s face went not unnoticed. It was then that he pursued his courtship of the twins with even more fervour, bribing even the seagulls to spy on them, winning their scavenging natures over with promises of dead, white flesh.

  “It was at this time that rumours began to circulate around the village claiming that Lord Penmorven had met with some success. The alchemists believed that by transforming the metals they worked with, they could transform themselves. Much of this was concerned with the single human being – the alchemist himself. But Lord Penmorven dreamt of greater things, benefits that would go beyond the individual, to affect humankind. One of his projects, Dr Jekyll fashion, had been an attempt to separate the good and bad of human nature. For many nights he poured over the crucible, testing the metals in a tiny ocean as they bubbled fiercely above the burning flame. And eventually the mixture congealed and formed into two round stones, like large pearls – yes, my dear?” for Alice had gasped slightly. But she shook her head after a fierce look from Arlen, and Mr MacKenzie continued. “Two perfect spheres, miniature worlds of their own. He had managed to capture negative reactions in one them – the black pearl, which burned and boiled to the touch. He hoped to destroy this pearl somehow, in the belief that it would improve the lot of
the world. Yet he was unable to realise this hope, for the black pearl proved resistant to all kinds of destruction. Furthermore, he could not dispel the attraction of the the pearls for each other, a sort of magnetic force, which caused them to roll together continually.

  “Poor Lord Penmorven had become so divorced from the outside world and the people of his community, that he failed to realise he himself was upsetting the balance. One cannot separate good and evil, because one cannot exist without the other. The very mention of one suggests its opposite within the same breath. Life is not that simple, as, no doubt, you will find.

  “Penvynne had been witness to some of these experiments, and it may have been the covetous gleam in his eye which finally raised Lord Penmorven’s suspicions. Whatever it was, the jewels were swept away from under Penvynne’s nose, and the alchemist entrusted their protection to his daughters. What he hadn’t counted on though, was Penvynne’s relentless pursual of the girls, and he had certainly not anticipated that with one of them, he would be successful.”

  Arlen felt herself draw breath sharply and so suddenly that her chest was swelled with pain and her eyes smarted with tears. Was this, then, going to be what she had seen, as if a spectator standing before actors, on the long coastline by the walls that no longer existed? Mac threw a keen look in her direction, and she lowered her eyes and lifted her hand slowly to the charm. The delicate coils felt like fire to her touch, and she thought that she would almost burst as she waited for him to finish the story.

  “Who can say how it happened? Penvynne was, and is, still capable of many tricks. What is certain, is that Imogen began to change. Suddenly resentful of her sister’s company, she would disappear for long instances, and return, flushed and windswept, but would not say where she had been. Seemingly resentful, too, of their previous closeness, she would refuse to answer Isobel’s questions, or even to speak with her at times, and she suddenly became fond of engaging Penvynne in long conversation, which he was only too delighted to encourage.

  “Isobel was frightened of his growing power over her twin, and she seemed unable to reach any part of her sister’s mind. Imogen was becoming opaque, her reflection muddy, and Isobel sometimes felt that she was a stranger to her. It soon became clear that Imogen was no longer to be trusted with guardianship of the secret, and, one night, the pearls vanished.”

  Arlen shuddered suddenly. It was happening again, and she felt nauseous as the room began to sway and dissolve and blacken around her, as if she were travelling through a tunnel, and then before her the particles seemed to swirl and grow, until she was standing on the cliffside again. Only this time she was not watching. She was taller somehow, and dressed in a deep wine gown of velvet, and long strands of hair covered her like a cloak in the breeze. Alice was opposite her, similarly attired, except that it wasn’t Alice, it was Isobel, and she seemed at that moment to lose her identity completely and to become that girl of so long ago.

  They were engaged in a fight, and she suddenly knew the spiteful words that had issued from her own mouth only a few minutes earlier, and they wrenched at her like talons. Isobel was near to tears, pleading, cajoling, and yet still, there was a gentle strength and a serene beauty which shone through the pain she seemed to be feeling.

  Such pain. And yet how could she know about pain, that starry faced girl, so like herself and yet so obviously free of the torment that gnawed at her own insides. She had never been in love; she did not know what pain was. She felt her face twisting into the harsh, passionate hatred of some ancient, mythological goddess, and she knew then that she and Isobel could never go back. How could she? What did Isobel know of the fear and all consuming desire that seemed to well up from the very core of her soul and tear through her body like red hot pincers? She couldn’t understand it – she didn’t think she even liked him – and yet, he had made it so she couldn’t live without him. What has he done to me? she cried inwardly, and the mirror in which she had always seen herself compared to Isobel cracked and splintered suddenly, and she felt the jagged shards of her own self strike at her like knife blades.

  Pain tore through her like a spear, and her face contorted again with the wrenched hatred of her passion. He had told her things, promised her things, and she had wanted to believe him. She had wanted to be herself. And yet – was this herself? Or was this merely his voice, prodding, poking at her, relentlessly, mercilessly. She raised her hands to her face and screamed suddenly, long and anguished, a creature under torment, and Isobel gazed at her with tears streaming from her eyes, yet still she stood firm.

  “Tell me,” she begged, and she felt herself dropping to her knees, the velvet wine crushed in dirt and sand. “Where are they? He will leave me alone, if you tell me. Please.”

  “I cannot,” Isobel answered again, and her gaze was sorrowful.

  “Then I have no other choice,” Imogen replied, and her face was white and defeated. With hot tears and bleeding lips, she raised the call for the serpent. Isobel uttered a heartbreaking cry, for she could see the treachery that was to follow. But it was too late. Penvynne appeared from beyond the wall, and, as the creature circled the castle, its golden rays dazzling, he raised his hands and uttered some words. From his fingers shot a fine, strong rope, which wrapped around the dragon’s wings so tightly that they broke, and the beast came crashing to the ground, taking half the castle with it, its roar of pain belching smoke and fury as it struggled futiley against the cords.

  Isobel ran forward, her mouth full of magic, but she could not prevent the damage that had been done, nor was she in time to save her sister. For Penvynne had disappeared from the clifftop into the waves, and he had taken Imogen with him.”

  Mac stopped and gazed with sorrowful, faded eyes as Arlen slid from her seat and into a small, crumpled heap on the floor. It was some time before she came to, her breath so racked and shallow that she could barely focus.

  “What happened?” Alice whispered, her voice tight and anxious.

  But Arlen could only shake her head and turn away.

  “They – they never found her – did they?” Alice asked, after some time.

  “No – no, child, they never did,” replied Mac. “They sent search parties out, but the seas welled up in anger against them, and they were lucky to escape with their lives. Heartbroken, Lord Penmorven and Isobel returned to the castle, with the terrible knowledge that Imogen was trapped beneath the crushing waves.

  “But Penmorven hadn’t finished yet. His faith in his experiments unshaken, he embarked on a quest to find his lost daughter, and he called upon the power of a stone which had been in the Penmorven family for many generations. An ancient gem, it was said originally to have come from Ireland, a fiery treasure of one of the Sidhe, the Irish faeries, which had been won in battle by a Penmorven forefather many centuries before.”

  “The ruby,” Arlen whispered, and Alice tightened her grasp on her arm.

  “Yes, my dear – the Penmorven ruby. A gem so bright and beautiful, it was said to be like crimson satin or velvet, or flowing wine. Or human blood. All who looked into its deep recesses were filled with a wonder that consumed their souls, and for many, a covetous greed that devoured and controlled them, until they were driven mad. Many had tried to steal the stone, but it had always evaded capture, and it was said, indeed, that should the ruby ever leave the Penmorven clan, days of darkness would fall upon them until the stone resumed its rightful place.

  “It was to this stone that Lord Penmorven now turned for the rescue of Imogen. He called on the ruby, and the strange, fierce power within, but in his grief he forgot that the gifts of the otherworld are not servants, and their promises can be dangerous to the manacled mind. Penmorven was no longer the great student of knowledge, but the anguished father, mourning over the loss of his child, and he subjected the ruby to the fan and the flame, cajoling it and threatening it with his pain, trying to force open its secrets to find his lost daughter.

  “And meanwhile the waters curled and spat,
and the wind of Southmore roared and hissed around the village, and the people began to be afraid to brave the ocean. It was the cause of many a loss of income, not to mention loss of life, and there was much suffering amongst the villagers. Perhaps inevitably, talk began to turn against Lord Penmorven and his family. However the alchemist knew nothing of this, and continued to work feverishly, the bloody light flickering night after night from his tower room over the dark waters, and over the villagers’ tongues.

  “But Imogen was not to be found, and Lord Penmorven’s sorrow grew, and with it his anger, and his rage turned to the stone and its silent crimson heart, which was beginning to consume him. He had forgotten the origins of the ruby and its place with his family, and he had attempted to manipulate its power with his cold instruments. And when the ruby responded to his obsession, the pictures he saw in the deep glowing centre proved to be false.

  “Meanwhile the villagers, already a wary and superstitious folk, and now much resentful of what seemed like Penmorven’s curse upon the town, were starting to voice their anger, and a plan was formed to rid themselves of the Penmorven family and their devilish experiments forever. One night, as Lord Penmorven sat amongst the yellowing parchments and flickering lights in his room, the villagers stole to the castle ground and lit a huge fire at the bottom of the tower, fully intending to burn the place and all its occupants to the ground.

  “The flames raged and the villagers danced and whooped, but Penmorven escaped with the ruby through a secret passage that led out of the castle. The north tower and all of Penmorven’s work were burned to the ground, but the damaged remains of the rest of the castle were saved, as were Isobel and the servants.

  “His house was falling down around him, the Penmorven dragon lay crumped and broken, the servants had scattered, and Isobel could not reason with her father. Feeling he had lost both his daughters, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

  “Completely disillusioned, Penmorven resolved to free his family and the villagers from his own folly, and he cast the ruby from the mound of rock on the Beach Road into the sea, vowing to cease his experiments forever. Yet this was a foolish thing to do, for he had discarded something of immense power with no care for its future, and it has been said that Penvynne’s finger has worn it ever since. The stone that had turned against the Penmorvens was now on the hand of one more dangerous, and it was then that the waters of Southmore, so deadly and treacherous to begin with, became near impossible to sail, and anyone who ventured forth lost their lives, and perhaps even more than that. The stories in the village grew, of course, and it began to be told that the ruby, betrayed by Penmorven’s guilt and grief, had opened the door to a curse, claiming not only the bodies, but the souls of the dead. It was said that they were bound to Penvynne forevermore, appearing periodically to dance around the ruins of the castle, reliving their attempt to exact revenge upon the family who had wronged them. It is their lost, soulless cry which calls through the melancholy wind of this cursed village, their only voice.”