THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS

by Frederick Cowles

  Lady of Lyonnesse

  FOREWORD

  IN THE MOST remote part of Cornwall, not far from Land’s End and Sennen Cove, there is a tiny bay which is yet to be discovered by tourists. It is called Lishana and is hemmed in by tall, craggy cliffs. There is a path down to the beach, but it is only known to the fishermen, who occasionally use it in summertime. About a quarter of a mile inland, on a low hill, is a ruined church with a scattered graveyard, and the broken walls of a house near the crumbling boundary wall. For over a hundred years no service has been held in that ancient building. Owls nest in the tower, swallows dart in and out of the shattered windows, and those who are forced to pass near it do so with averted eyes, as if something evil had its home there.

  The church-town of Lishana is almost a mile away and is little more than a collection of red-roofed cottages clustering around a grim-looking Methodist chapel. There is no church in the village, nor has there been a parson for nearly a century. The people of the place are silent and taciturn. Most of the men are fishermen, but they sail from St Ives or Penzance, and never from Lishana Cove. The women, when young, have a certain wild beauty, and it is said that they are the descendants of Spanish seamen who were wrecked on this coast when the mighty Armada was defeated. But they age quickly. Their skins coarsen in the salt breezes, little wrinkles soon mar the splendour of their eyes, the mouths harden into straight lines, and they grow forbidding of aspect.

  And beyond the village stretches the mysterious moorland, with the black shafts of ancient mine workings, the beehive houses where forgotten peoples lived, and the fallen cromlechs and monoliths which were once the temples of a forgotten faith. In the heart of the moors there is a great cave where King Arthur waits to come to earth again, and the little pools amidst the bracken are fairy wells where pixies dance on moonlight nights. The grim shadow of the moorland creeps close to Lishana in the wintertime, and then it is best to stay indoors with a good peat fire glowing on the hearth and a rowan branch above the door.

  Should you ever discover Lishana you will want to know why the church is a ruin, and why the spiritual welfare of its inhabitants is left in the hands of old Isaac Trewella, who is but a Methodist lay-preacher and can only rant of hell and Judgment Day. But it is little information you will glean from the folk of Lishana. They may say that the church is too far from the village, but that could apply to many a Cornish place of worship. One, more talkative than the others, may tell you that the building was abandoned when the last rector disappeared in 1812. Perhaps you will feel encouraged to ask who the clergyman was and why he disappeared. Your informant may whisper the name of Matthew Cantell. If he does it is certain that he will immediately regret uttering the words and vouchsafe no answer to further inquiries. You will wonder if you heard aright and if there ever was a rector of Lishana of that name.

  Let me assure you there was. This is the story of Matthew Cantell, once rector of Lishana, who sold his soul to the devil for the sake of a fairy’s smile. Matthew Cantell who took to his bed a woman who had been dead a thousand years, and for his sin is doomed to haunt Lishana Cove until the ending of time.

  I

  The archdeacon swallowed the last of his port and belched loudly. He picked his teeth delicately and then glanced across at the young man on the opposite side of the table.

  ‘Well,’ he boomed, ‘I think the ceremony passed off very nicely. Very few people there, but I did not expect a crowd. Now you are properly inducted and can begin your ministerial duties. I wish you well, Mr Cantell, but I cannot say I envy you this bleak parish.’

  ‘What is wrong with the parish, Mr Archdeacon?’ asked the young man earnestly. ‘All who have spoken of it to me seem to regard it as a place accursed. Even the bishop seemed loath to confirm my appointment.’

  The archdeacon belched again. The lobster was having some trouble with his digestive organs, and he felt mentally and physically uncomfortable. It was a great pity that such a likeable young man of twenty-seven should be left to strive against the moorland and the other things that made Lishana a place of dread. The bishop should have sent a cleric with more experience.

  ‘There are things—strange things—told of this parish, Mr Cantell,’ he slowly replied.

  ‘Yes, but what kind of things?’ the young clergyman impatiently exclaimed. ‘It’s all so vague—this talk that leads nowhere.’

  The older man tapped his teeth with his toothpick and seemed to come to a sudden decision.

  ‘Mr Cantell,’ he asked. ‘Have you ever heard of the lost land of Lyonnesse?’

  ‘What! The fabled country that vanished beneath the waves?’ Matthew Cantell was obviously surprised at the question. ‘Surely that old legend had nothing to do with Lishana?’

  ‘You call it a legend, my boy, but wiser men claim that the story is true. Lyonnesse is said to have been a fair land adjoining the Cornish coast. Its people were skilled magicians, but their god was the god of the cloven hoof. Their devilish practices became a byword, and at last the whole country was overwhelmed by the waves of the ocean.

  ‘It is generally held that everything and everybody belonging to Lyonnesse perished in that awful cataclysm. But in these parts another tale is told. It is said that some of the people of the lost land escaped to a small island where they set up a temple to the god they worshipped. That island is believed to be in Lishana Bay and is only visible for a few hours during the times of the great pagan festivals—such as Midsummer Eve and Hallowe’en.’

  ‘But surely there can be no truth in such a wild legend?’ Cantell protested.

  ‘Call it that if you like. Your predecessor here, Mr Stephenson, claimed to have seen the island and to be able to prove that it influenced Lishana in an unholy manner. He intended to lay certain facts before the bishop, but on the night before he was due to ride to Exeter he was found dead in the ruins of a pagan temple on the moors.’

  ‘I cannot believe it—I cannot believe it,’ stammered the young man.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Cantell. Perhaps I should not have told you these things. I can give you my assurance that I have no desire to alarm you unduly. God prosper your work at Lishana. My last word of advice is seek not to pry into these matters, and if ever you find yourself in any difficulty, consult the bishop or myself without delay. And now I must be going for I have to make Redruth before nightfall.’

  Matthew Cantell conducted the portly cleric to the back of the house, where his horse was stabled. He assisted him to mount, returned his friendly farewell, and watched horse and rider pass out through the rectory gate.

  ‘The year of grace 1811,’ he muttered as he turned back into the house. ‘The nineteenth century and yet learned men speak of the lost land of Lyonnesse and the worship of Satan.’

  II

  Susan Mencken, the Reverend Matthew Cantell’s housekeeper, who had accompanied her master from Fowey, did not like Lishana. She took a dislike to it as soon as she saw the lonely church, the bleak cliffs, and the unfriendly moors. Time did nothing to change that first impression, and she soon found herself hating the dark-visaged people. Only a few of the inhabitants attended church, and not once had she received an invitation to take a cup of tea with a villager. Even the parson found no welcome when he visited the cottages. Susan suspected the folk of Lishana of evil practices and had gone so far as to mention witchcraft to the rector. The expected rebuke was only half-hearted and she realised that her master himself was far from happy.

  Matthew was puzzled. There seemed to be some dark, sinister power at work in the church-town, and those few of his parishioners who outwardly conformed to Christianity mixed their beliefs with strange superstitions. For almost a year he had striven to win their confidence, to break down the barriers which existed between the rectory and the village, and to make religion a vital force in the district. What was the result? He was practically ignored by the people he sought to serve. Apart from an occasional christening or burying his help was never required. Even the infants brou
ght to the font were, for the most part, born out of wedlock.

  Once he attempted to speak of these things with the old man who acted as sexton, bell-ringer, and clerk.

  ‘What is it that makes all the people so secretive, John?’ he asked. ‘Is it the sea or is it the moors?’

  ‘Happen it’s both, parson,’ was the reply. ‘Keep away from the sea when the moon is full and give the moors a wide berth when the moon is new. That’s my advice, and you’ll do well to follow it.’

  In vain the clergyman pressed for further explanation. The old man shook his head and refused to utter another word on the subject.

  Then, one December night the rector was summoned to a distant farm where an old lady was dying. He had given her the usual consolations of religion and decided to take a short cut home across the moors. A sickle moon hung in the dark sky and by its light he had seen a strange sight. By the monoliths, known locally as the Ten Maidens, naked figures were dancing to the music of reed pipes. His first impulse was to break into the circle and remonstrate against such heathenish practices. Then he remembered that his predecessor, the Reverend James Stephenson, had been found dead within that group of stones. Perhaps he, too, had seen the hellish Sabbat and had tried to interfere! Fear entered Matthew Cantell’s heart, and like a coward he crept away.

  He never spoke of that night, for he was ashamed to confess his lack of courage. Yet often, when he stood in the tall pulpit and preached the Gospel of Christ, he found himself looking down at the upturned faces and wondering which of these people had sold their souls to the devil.

  Gradually a change came over him. He lost his boyishness and became a serious man weighed down by some sense of impending disaster. Always in the back of his mind was the memory of the archdeacon’s remarks about the lost land of Lyonnesse, and sometimes he found himself softly quoting those lines from Milton’s Paradise Regained:

  Faery damsels met in forest wide,

  By knights of Logres, or of Lyones,

  Lancelot, or Pelleas, or Pellenore.

  No longer could he find any comfort in prayer, and the services became just a matter of monotonous routine. June came with long hours of sunshine and roses in the rectory garden. June brought midsummer, the time when the mysterious island was supposed to appear in the bay. Matthew Cantell made up his mind to make one desperate bid to save the souls of Lishana. Some evil influence undoubtedly controlled the parish, and perhaps it emanated from that lost land beneath the sea. He would discover for himself if such an island did exist, and then he would definitely know that he was fighting the powers of darkness. Yet, could he fight them? Was he not fast losing touch with the God he had vowed to serve? Was his desire to discover the secret of the island nothing more than idle curiosity?

  III

  Midsummer Eve. The night was hot and sultry and there was a hint of thunder in the air. The clergyman, seated under the shelter of a projecting rock, watched the calm waters of the bay. It wanted but a few minutes to the hour of midnight and already he was half convinced of the folly of his quest. This story of a phantom island was but an old wives’ tale—a legend of the dim and distant past.

  The church clock struck the hour and as the last note sounded Matthew caught his breath in a startled gasp. The surface of the sea was strangely disturbed. It seethed and bubbled and then, slowly and gracefully, a green island appeared above the water. It was covered by a grove of trees and in the centre towered a tall white building. The rector gasped at the sheer loveliness of this fairy isle floating upon the waves.

  Soon he was conscious of movement on the beach and two boats sped towards the island. The watcher saw them approach the green shore and then five or six people disembarked from each vessel and vanished among the trees.

  Filled with a burning desire to probe the heart of this mystery he left his point of vantage and made his way to the beach by the steep path down the cliff. A small boat was drawn up on the sand and he dragged it to the water. Within a few minutes he had reached the island, and after fastening the boat to an overhanging bough, followed the way through the trees. It led him to the white building. The structure was smaller than he had first supposed but gracefully built in the Grecian style and approached by a flight of marble steps. Sweet haunting music sounded from the open doors, and seemed to draw Matthew up the stairs and into the temple. The interior was dim and full of shadows. It was open to the sky and the light of the moon fell coldly upon the white pillars and a black marble altar. Naked figures performed the motions of a ritual dance and the air was heavy with the scent of pungent incense.

  In the centre of the temple a white-robed man was kindling a fire in a golden brazier and, as this flamed up, the intruder was able to see the thing above the altar. At first he took it to be an animal, for the legs were covered with coarse hair. Then he saw the bearded face and the horned head, and knew that he beheld the very father of evil. Horror rooted him to the spot. He saw the dancers quicken their steps. He saw other figures come from the shadows and take the naked forms in their arms. Then followed a bestial orgy, with wild music echoing through the white hall, and the human beings and demons struggling like animals.

  With a great effort Matthew Cantell tore himself away from the loathsome sight, and fled down the steps, through the wood, and back to the boat. He leapt into the vessel, seized the oars, and rowed desperately in the direction of the mainland.

  As the boat left the shadow of the island he saw her for the first time. She was sitting in the prow and her white hands were folded in her lap. A loose robe of green enveloped her form, and her golden hair glinted in the moonlight. Her face was that of a child—so lovely that he gasped in amazement.

  ‘Who are you, and how came you here?’ he whispered.

  ‘Does it matter?’ she answered, and her voice was like the sound of faraway music. ‘I shall be yours for ever I think, for I need your love.’

  He, who knew nothing of women, felt the blood course hotly through his veins. He bent over the oars, expecting her to be gone when he raised his head again. But she was still there when the boat grounded on the beach, and it was she who took his hand and led him up the path. He missed her as he walked from the bay to the rectory, and, believing that she was but a phantom of his own imagining, felt a sense of bitter loss. He climbed the stairs to his room, lit a candle, and divested himself of his clothing. And then he saw her again. She was in his bed, and her naked breasts gleamed like ivory. With an imperious gesture, she beckoned him to her side and extinguished the light. Two arms encircled his neck and warm lips found his own.

  Later, when the first pale streaks of dawn fell upon her lovely face, he kissed her white neck.

  ‘Your name? Tell me your name and from whence you come,’ he implored.

  Calmly she opened her eyes, and he was afraid of what he saw in their depths.

  ‘I am called Lilith,’ she said, ‘and I was old when the world was young. I am the desire of all men, and yet I have given myself to you. Together we shall live when the world is forgotten.’

  ‘Lilith, Lilith,’ he whispered. ‘May God help me. I love you, I love you, and I think you have robbed me of my immortal soul.’

  IV

  Months later, when Susan Mencken was summoned to give evidence before the bishop at Exeter, she maintained that a woman had been at the rectory and, on more than one occasion, slept in the Reverend Matthew Cantell’s bed. Pressed for evidence in support of her assertion, she admitted that no food had ever been served to the stranger, nor had the rector made any mention of her presence in the house.

  ‘Flesh and blood she may have been, my lord,’ said the housekeeper. ‘But it’s my belief that she was a fairy from the moors. I only caught one glimpse of her, and she had golden hair and was wearing a long green smock.’

  ‘Come, come, Mrs Mencken,’ protested the bishop. ‘You say you only caught sight of her on one occasion, that she never ate in the house, nor did Mr Cantell mention her presence. Yet you make a grave accusa
tion against a very worthy minister who is not here to answer the charge.’

  ‘God knows I could have thought no more of him had he been my own son,’ replied the woman. ‘Yet I know he was her lover. I have seen the impression of her body upon the linen sheets of his bed, and I have heard him speak with her and call her by name.’

  ‘And what name did he use when addressing her?’

  ‘He called her Lilith, my lord bishop.’

  This simple statement seemed to upset the bishop more than any of Mrs Mencken’s previous remarks. He dismissed her almost immediately, and afterwards discussed the conversation with the archdeacon.

  ‘The crux of the whole matter is in the woman’s name,’ he explained. ‘Mrs Mencken says that Cantell addressed the creature as Lilith. Now, according to the Talmudists, Lilith was Adam’s first wife, who, refusing to submit to him, was turned out of Paradise and became the queen of demons and succubi.’

  But much was to happen before the housekeeper was called upon to visit the bishop, and I have wandered from the actual story.

  When Matthew Cantell awakened on Midsummer morning the sun was shining through the window and he was alone. Yet he was not at all disturbed, for he knew she would come again whenever he called her name. And come she did, not once, but many times during the weeks that followed. They were seen together on the moors, and one fisherman, walking from Sennen in the early evening, was surprised to see a green-clad figure dancing by a wishing-well and the parson standing by.

  The rector of Lishana knew that the green-eyed woman, with her elfin beauty, was a thing of evil. Yet he never consulted a fellow-priest, nor did he, so far as can be ascertained, make any effort to free himself of her spells. In fact, it has been proved that he so far forgot his sacred calling as to allow the very church, erected for the worship of Christian God, to be used for the blackest rites of hell.