‘ “I think I am well again, thanks to your ministering care, O holy one,” I answered. And then I blurted out, “Can it be you, Father Albert? . . . Of course it can’t be, but you have the face of a man I loved when I was a boy.”
‘ “If you have kept a dream of him in your heart, than I am he,” the old man replied. “Here all beloved dreams are to be found. But do not inquire too closely into these matters, my son. Your garments are at your side and if you feel strong enough, I counsel you to rise and take a short walk.”
‘With a courteous salutation he left the room, and I was left thinking how wonderful it was to find my old teacher in a Tibetan monastery. It seemed so natural and matter-of-fact that the strangeness of it did not trouble me at all. My clothes had been washed, pressed, and carefully repaired. I donned them and crossed to the window. The monastery was poised between earth and heaven, with great precipices below and ranges of snow covered mountains in the distance. It then occurred to me to wonder what kind of a lamasery this was where a Christian priest wore the robes of a Buddhist and every monk spoke perfect English. The name sounded poetic enough—the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.
‘I tried the door. It opened easily enough and I found myself in a long corridor leading into a large hall. Upon investigation this room turned out to be quite empty—there was not one item of furniture in it, not even a chair. I passed through into other rooms and found each one empty and deserted. For the first time I felt a little frightened, but that calm peace reassured me.
‘I returned to the large hall and gazed out of one of the windows. Suddenly a quiet voice said, “Greeting, brother,” and at my side stood a venerable man dressed in a long white robe embroidered with gold.
‘ “Fear has no place in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams,” he went on. “Here only is peace.”
‘ “But it is all so strange,” I stammered. “How comes it that you speak English and that my old tutor is here? And tell me why all these rooms are empty?”
‘ “This is the house of dreams,” answered the gentle voice. “Here each man hears his own tongue spoken and finds some of the dear things he has lost in life. The rooms appear to be empty because the distractions of the world have no place in this abode of peace. Here there is nothing but dreams.”
‘ “Do you mean that the lamasery itself is just a dream?” I asked. “Is nothing real?”
‘ “Of course it is,” was the reply. “Dreams are real when they are made to live again.”
‘ “And what else shall I find?” I asked.
‘ “Your most beloved dream awaits you,” he said, pointing towards the corridor.
‘Now, I have never told you before, Gerald, but once in my life I was really and truly in love. You may have wondered why it is that I have never married. It is because I have tried to be faithful to an ideal. I was about thirty when I met Doreen, and we planned to marry and settle down when I returned from an expedition into South America. I was away in the heart of primitive forests for over three years, and, before I got back, her parents had persuaded her to marry some titled rotter with plenty of money. Her father was very hard-up at the time. I believe there was some hint of scandal and Doreen had to sacrifice herself for the sake of the family name. I never saw her again. She died in giving birth to a child.
‘I say I never saw her again, but that is wrong. As I stood in that strange lamasery, and turned to see where the old priest was pointing, a white cloud floated into the room. Gradually the mist materialised until the girl I had lost so long ago stood before me. She was just as lovely, and she was real. I held her in my arms and she kissed my lips.
‘ “Brother,” said the old man, speaking again. “Those who come to the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams must learn the lesson of peace. Life is a quest for peace: death is the attainment. Only in peace may our dearest dreams be found again. You must go back into the world, but you will not forget.”
‘ “Why must I return to the world?” I protested. “If I go back will not all this seem just a dream?”
‘ “You must return because for a while you belong there and not here,” he replied. “But, so that you will remember the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams and all that it means, Doreen shall give you a gift.”
‘From the third finger of her left hand my dear one removed a beautiful ring and slipped it on to the little finger of my right hand.
‘ “Look upon it,” she said, “for you will never behold it again. Three times shall it be seen by others—once to save you from forgetting, once to save your life, and the third time to warn you that life ends.”
‘With that she placed her arms about my neck and kissed my lips. It was the sweetest imaginable caress—an expression of pure, tranquil love. A gong sounded in the distance, the heavy perfume of incense filled the air. I saw her face vanishing into a silver mist and felt myself sinking to the ground. When I awakened I was in the valley where I had fallen in the snow months before. The snows had gone and spring flowers decked the slopes. I looked up towards the peak where stood the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams. The snow-crested summit stood out against the blue sky, but there was no sign of any building.’
‘So it was a dream after all?’ I exclaimed.
‘How could it have been? I was nursed back to health in some monastery, and must have spent the whole of the winter there. I couldn’t have dreamed it all.’
‘And what of the ring?’ I smiled. ‘Have you heard or seen anything of it again?’
‘I have never seen it myself since the day Doreen placed it upon my finger in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams, but others have. Once I came very near to forgetting; in fact I almost married. You may remember that for a brief while my name was linked with that of Mrs Illingworth.’
‘What, the American woman who was twice divorced?’
‘Yes, you may well be surprised. She was hardly the wife for an old codger like me, but she was very attractive and I was almost caught. I was on the point of proposing to her one night whilst sitting out at a dance, when she cried out, “What a lovely ring! I have never seen it before.” And then she laughed, and said it must have been a strange optical illusion. But I knew it wasn’t that—only that I had come very near to forgetting. I didn’t propose to the lady, and a month later she married Tony Ducrow.’
‘Poor devil!’ I remarked. ‘A fine dance she led him.’
‘The ring did save me from that, and it saved me again when I was in Tibet three years ago. I was captured by bandits and they were about to murder me. The chief, a most evil-looking wretch, was actually raising his knife to plunge it into my heart when he seemed to sag in terror and fell at my feet yelling that the holy ones had set their mark upon me. From what I could gather he had seen the ring and the wearer of that jewel was protected by the Buddha. Those brigands treated me with great honour after the episode, and conducted me to the nearest town.’
‘And now,’ I said, ‘it will appear once again.’
‘Only once,’ he answered softly. ‘Only once again, and then I shall find her waiting for me in the Lamasery of Beloved Dreams.
‘Well, that’s the story and you may believe it or not—just as you like. I date my real interest in Buddhism from that winter in the mysterious monastery, for there I learned that the foundation of all true religion, the only thing worth striving for in life, is peace. And now I must be getting home.’
He raised himself from his chair, and I jumped up to assist him into his coat. As he turned to say goodbye something gleamed on the little finger of his right hand. I gave an involuntary cry.
‘What do you see, Gerald?’ he asked quietly.
‘A ring of carved jade with a small ruby in the centre,’ I replied slowly. ‘But it has gone now.’
He laughed softly and gripped my hand. ‘Goodbye old fellow,’ he said. ‘Remember that only by the path of peace may we find our heart’s desires—our most beloved dreams.’
God grant that James Revans found his dearest dream waiting for him in the lamasery
on the mountain top, for he died at three o’clock on the following day.
The Cadaver of Bishop Louis
PROFESSOR CECIL WALLACE glanced idly at the letter propped up on the mantelpiece, recognised the writing as that of his cousin canon Walter Escott, and went into the bathroom. He had been playing golf all the afternoon, and had barely time to dress for Hall. The letter could wait until after dinner. It was bound to be a rather boring epistle, for nothing exciting ever happened in the village of Slympynton where the Reverend Walter was vicar. His letters were always composed of scraps of local gossip and regretful sighs for the friendly charms of Cambridge. Walter was a companionable kind of person and found life in a small village little to his liking. One day he might become a bishop and gracefully assume the lordship, spiritual and temporal, of some sleepy cathedral city. Meanwhile, so far as the Professor was concerned, dinner was the business of the moment and the letter must wait.
On that particular evening the Master was entertaining guests in Hall, and invited Professor Wallace to join the party in the Lodge after the meal. As the company included a Cabinet minister, a famous author, and a celebrated anthropologist, the Professor accepted the invitation with alacrity.
The time passed very pleasantly, for the Master kept a good cellar, and, as no ladies were present, the stories that were told came neither under the head of politics, literature, nor anthropology. In fact, to be quite candid, the immortal Rabelais would have been perfectly at home in the company of these learned dons and famous men. The clock above the Great Gate chimed the hour of two in the morning before the party broke up and the Professor returned, rather unsteadily, to his own quarters. As he entered his study he glanced at the letter, but again deferred opening it. It could wait until breakfast time.
When the Professor’s gyp awakened his master at the usual hour of 8.30 a.m. he got sworn at for his pains. Various signs, such as trousers on the floor and shoes on the dressing-table, had already prepared the servant for the fact that his erudite employer might possibly be suffering from what is vulgarly known as a ‘thick head’. He returned quietly and reappeared later with a cup of strong tea and two aspirin tablets. After this frugal breakfast, which he swallowed most ungraciously, the learned gentleman buried his head under the bedclothes and fell into a sound sleep from which he did not awaken until after midday. A bath proved refreshing and made him feel more capable of facing the world, but it was one o’clock before he settled down to read his cousin’s letter.
As he slowly grasped the contents of the epistle his face crimsoned with annoyance. He damned the previous night’s party: he damned the Master, the Cabinet minister, the author, and the anthropologist—he even damned himself, which certainly proves that he was very upset. Having relieved his feelings in this time-honoured fashion he re-read the letter, which ran:
St Winifred’s Vicarage,
Slympynton, Blankshire
10th May, 1936
MY DEAR CECIL,
I write in haste, for a most interesting discovery has been made here. Yesterday a portion of the south wall of the chancel collapsed and, upon examination, proved to be nothing but a false wall erected to preserve a magnificent tomb or chantry. The monument is set back in a recess which was evidently concealed by this screen of rubble about the time of the Reformation. So far as we can ascertain at the moment the tomb is of Purbeck marble, richly gilded, and bears the effigy of a bishop with a cadaver below. So far little of it is to be seen, but a portion of an inscription is visible and reads, ‘Hic jacet Louis de Clinton . . .’
Tomorrow, May 11th, at midday the wall is to be demolished, and I am very anxious that you should be present. Old Fearnhead is coming over. I know what you think of his archaeological knowledge, and I feel that such a learned authority as yourself should be here to advise us. There is a good train which arrives at Slympynton at 11.15, but I am not sure of the time it leaves Cambridge. In any case I expect you will prefer to drive down. I know I can rely upon you to be here.
Ever your affectionate cousin,
WALTER
PS. If you have time will you see if you can discover anything about Louis de Clinton?
You will have gathered from this that the Professor was an eminent archaeologist. His interest in the subject almost amounted to a mania, and he would most willingly have sacrificed twenty parties and just as many politicians, authors, and scientists, to have been present at the opening of the Slympynton tomb. He glanced at the clock, saw that the time was twenty minutes past one, and again cursed himself for not reading the letter on the previous evening. Heaven alone knew what vandalism might have been perpetrated at Slympynton—more especially if old Fearnhead, the despised rural dean with an archaeological kink, had assumed charge of the operations.
The Professor decided that, having missed the actual removal of the wall, nothing would be gained by rushing down to Slympynton. It was better to lunch first, then visit the college library to see what he could discover about Bishop Louis, and drive down to his cousin’s place in time for dinner.
When lunch was served he found that the mere sight of the food was enough for him. He crumbled a roll, nibbled a few lettuce leaves, and sipped a glass of Sauternes. But the soup, the steamed turbot, and the cold chicken went untouched. The Professor was certainly out of sorts. He was also out of temper, as the librarian discovered an hour later when he tried to find some reference to Bishop Louis de Clinton. It was the Professor himself who eventually traced a short biography of the bishop in a privately printed book called Blankshire Worthies. The entry was very brief, and he copied it down on the back of his cousin’s letter.
LOUIS DE CLINTON (1423–1501). Born at Slympynton in Blankshire. Bishop of Oldminster 1474–78. Accused of sorcery and deposed. Retired to his native village. Said to have died there and been buried in the parish church, but no trace of tomb has been discovered.
‘Ah, ah!’ cried the Professor. ‘So you were a naughty boy, Louis, and lost your mitre. Shame upon you for a wicked knave.’
Feeling in a better humour he left the library and made his way to the garage where he kept his car. By three o’clock he was leaving Cambridge by the Trumpington Road and, within two hours, he turned into the drive of Slympynton Vicarage.
The Reverend Walter, a bright little man with no signs of austerity about his person, greeted his cousin with an injured tone in his voice.
‘So you’ve arrived,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I was very disappointed not to have you here at midday. I know practically nothing about ancient monuments and Fearnhead had too much of his own way.’
‘You don’t mean to say that you allowed him to interfere with the tomb?’ asked the Professor anxiously.
‘Well, I could hardly prevent him. He poked about a bit to try to ascertain that the bishop’s coffin was under the cadaver. He wanted to raise the slab, but I told him that couldn’t be done until tomorrow. Of course it’s all your fault. You should have been here.’
The Professor began to explain why the letter had not been read as soon as it arrived, and then, realising that his excuses must sound rather lame, abandoned the attempt to justify himself and started to revile the absent rural dean.
‘The man’s a fool,’ he bellowed. ‘Fancy wanting to interfere with the tomb to satisfy his own curiosity. He knows as much about archaeology as I know about botany, and that’s precious little.’
‘The bother is that he thinks he knows a lot,’ said the canon.
‘Yes. A little knowledge is the most dangerous thing in the world. However, I suppose there’s no harm done, and you may as well tell me if there is anything peculiar about the tomb.’
‘Fearnhead puts the date of it as late fifteenth century, but no actual date is given in the inscription so far as we could see. The figure of the bishop is an exquisite piece of work, with the gilding still fresh on the mitre and on the orphrey of the cope. The cadaver is horrible. It’s a ghastly thing—too revolting for words.’
‘No cadaver i
s pleasant to look upon,’ snapped the Professor. ‘After all, it’s only supposed to represent the body after the flesh had decayed.’
‘I know,’ replied the Revd Walter. ‘Even an ignorant country parson knows what a cadaver is. But this is no ordinary specimen. The sculptor must have been a perverted genius who made his work as horrible as he possibly could. I tell you the thing is a nightmare—the hellish, nauseating creation of a disordered mind.’
‘What do you mean? Can’t you explain yourself more fully?’
‘No, I can’t. You must see it for yourself. It’s too late to go over to the church now, but I’ll take you first thing in the morning.’
‘Morning be damned,’ the Professor exploded. ‘I’ve missed far too much already and if there’s anything to be seen I’m seeing it tonight.’
‘Then you’ll have to see it by candlelight, for, as you know, there’s no electricity or gas in the church. Anyway, if you insist we’ll go over after dinner. And, by the way, did you find out anything about Bishop Louis?’
‘Yes, just a few facts. He was born here and became Bishop of Oldminster, but got kicked out of the job for dabbling with the black arts.’
‘Oh! So he was interested in sorcery. That may explain why the tomb was concealed. I thought it had been bricked up at the Reformation, but an entry in one of the registers proves it to have been done within a year of the bishop’s death.’
‘Are you sure of that? It seems very strange and unusual. What on earth could have induced them to wall up a tomb when there was no danger of desecration?’
‘You’d better see the entry and judge for yourself,’ answered the canon, crossing to an open safe and taking a large book from it. ‘This is the earliest of our registers, and here is the note concerning the tomb. This particular book was only discovered about a month ago and is likely to throw a good deal of light on the history of the parish just prior to the Reformation.’
THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS Page 13