by Chico Kidd
‘It’s not so much Southwell who worries me,’ said Kim frankly. ‘All right, he was a magician, he had these powers, but he was human. It’s that glass. That presence I felt in the studio - which Alan saw in the glass. And didn’t you say that Southwell hung bells in his tower to ward off a demon?’
Rendall’s head came up. ‘You’re saying this glass is a means of calling up something beyond the control of its summoner?’
‘No, I think it’s been called already. By Southwell. By Alan. I don’t know who by. I don’t know why Southwell wanted the glass found. I need to find out more about the man, to learn something about the demon.’
The bookseller stared at the closed glass door of his shop, and the relentlessly empty street beyond. ‘Well, I shan’t lose much trade by shutting up for a while now. Just wait a few minutes, then you can have the run of my library again.’ He started doing mysterious things which presumably were necessary to safeguard the closure of the shop.
As he pottered, Kim asked, ‘Do you know how the bells were supposed to keep this demon away?’ ‘That’s a fairly common superstition. People often used to ring bells to scare off the evil spirits of storms, for instance. Something to do with the essence of bell-metal, which I presume is iron.’
‘No,’ said Kim. ‘Bell-metal’s a mixture of copper and tin.’
‘Really? I was sure it’d be the “cold iron” syndrome.’
‘You get steel bells - very occasionally. They sound awful. They have a sort of wailing noise underlying the actual sounds of the bells themselves. I’ve rung on some. It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat.”
‘Can’t say I’ve ever noticed that different churches’ bells sound different.’
‘I guess you need to be a ringer to notice. Or fairly musical.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got the original cloth-ears,’ said Rendall. ‘Right, I’m ready. Where’s your car?’
‘In the Pay And Display. Want a lift?’
‘Why not. Won’t hurt me to miss one walk.’
Apart from the strangely disquieting portrait, Kim had noticed very little in the bookseller’s house on her previous visit. This time, however, Rendall left her in the living-room and disappeared, presumably to fetch something from his library. It was an arctophile’s den: Kim counted eighteen bears, some most venerable, and vaguely recalled seeing more in the rest of the house. She concluded that no-one with such taste in companions could be all bad.
James Rendall reappeared carrying just one book, which he handed to Kim. ‘Start with this,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll go and see whether I can find anything else.’
Like all the other books she had encountered since the tomb, it was old: a brown-bound tome which creaked slightly despite her care in opening it. It was called The Magus and his Magic by one Edward Dunning, MA, FRS, and sub-titled The Alchemical and Hermetic Tradition in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. In its table of contents Kim noted chapters devoted to John Dee, Giordano Bruno, some obscurer names, and halfway down, Roger Southwell. It appeared to be a short chapter, so she turned straight to it and began to read.
‘Those who spend any amount of time in research are, of course, apt to be diverted from time to time by red herrings. For some months the name of Roger Southwell, builder of “Fenstanton Abbey”, was wont to crop up in connection with magical matters, but I formed the impression, subsequently proved to be erroneous, that he was only a very minor figure in the canon of the Magi.
‘On the contrary, it appeared from later research, Southwell was indeed an important figure - not, however, because of any new ground he explored, but rather through what he achieved. If all the sources - contemporary and otherwise - are to be believed, Southwell was one of the very few practitioners of High Magic who actually succeeded in making it work.
‘Little is known of his early life. The tradition persists that a contemporary account of some of Southwell’s exploits exists, in the form of a diary penned by one of his acquaintances, but I have been unable to locate it. Indeed, since it may be said that we suffer from a surfeit of seventeenth-century diaries written in impenetrable prose, I may venture to suggest this lacuna to be no great loss.
‘Returning, then, to the man himself. A strong local tradition maintains that he was born in a Wiltshire town, Market Peverell, some three miles from Warminster, in 1626. The family appears to have been well-to-do, but no further details are forthcoming.
‘The story proper, if such it can be designated, begins around 1657, when the construction of Southwell’s famous (or infamous) “Fenstanton Abbey” commenced. Southwell built this imitation “Abbey”, with its tower and ring of bells, on the pattern (it would appear) of Romsey Abbey, which, on the evidence of a 1692 oil painting by Edward Cluny, it closely resembled.
‘Southwell’s reputation locally was, in a word, mud. Of the many rumours circulating about him, some are unusually specific: not, for instance, that he had truck with devils, but that a particular female demon known as his “Dark Lady” was attendant upon him. Another version of this story asserts that the demon, far from being a familiar, was haunting him and that the sole purpose of the bells hung in the “Abbey” was to confound this malevolent spirit (a common belief with regard to bells).
‘Demons were also held to be source of Southwell’s fortune. By 1657 he was certainly a very wealthy man, and it was this auri sacra fames, according to one legend, which led to his death. Indeed it is a curious depiction of this story which ornaments his supposed tomb at Fenstanton.
‘I say “supposed” because reports conflict, and it is here that the most astonishing rumour about Roger Southwell comes to light. On the one hand, there is the simple local story: Southwell was excommunicated for his wizardly activities, and so was buried outside the churchyard. On the other there is absolutely no evidence to support these assertions;strict as the Puritans were, “excommunication” properly pertains only to the Roman Church. Quite the contrary, in fact, since Southwell’s name appears in the church of All Saints, Fenstanton, in the bell-ringers’ records; and there is also evidence that the present churchyard wall was erected subsequently to the tomb, which is dated 1697. Certainly Southwell seems to have disappeared from the vicinity of Fenstanton in that year, but there is no evidence at all that he either died, or was buried there.
‘Now we must move back to Wiltshire. Not far from the hill-fort at Battlesbury Hill near Warminster there is a mound known locally as “Roger’s Mount” in which it is said that a wizard is sleeping. The legend is as follows.
‘An aged magician (the implication being a “white” magician), having done battle with a demon all his life, but feeling himself becoming too frail to fight, entered the hill to sleep in order, presumably, that the demon, too, should become “dormant”. The wizard let it be known that he intended to sleep until such time as he was summoned, at which he would “clothe himself again in flesh” and return to life. Certain clues, which are not specified, were left in order for his avatar to accomplish this.
‘If the “Roger” of “Roger’s Mount” and Roger Southwell were one and the same, and the evidence suggests this, the conclusion appears to be that here was a man whose magic actually worked. Whether his plans ever come to fruition, and whether or not his reincarnation (if this is indeed what is implied) would be a good thing - especially for the man who accomplishes it (because presumably when Southwell wakes, so too will the demon) - are questions not within the scope of this work.’
‘Now the other thing,’ said James Rendall, making Kim jump by coming back in just as she finished reading, ‘is this.’ He handed her the incomplete pamphlet she’d seen before.
‘Yes, I’ve read that one,’ she replied, distracted.
‘I know. But it’s fairly contemporary - and you said it fell out of another book. Do you remember which one?’
‘I’d know if I saw it.’
Having identified the book, Kim re-read the strange chapter on Southwell while Rendall searched his recor
ds. It looked as though she ha been right about the treasure hunt: Alan had swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker.
‘Have you got anything on the practising of magic?’ she asked the bookseller.
‘What, like a grimoire? No,’ he replied without looking up.
Kim shook her head. ‘I was thinking more of defensive magic. Have you read this about Southwell?’
‘Not recently.’
‘You should.’
This time Rendall did look up. ‘Why?’
‘Because it does explain something - but not what to do about it.’
‘When I’ve found out - ah!’
‘Success?’
‘Yes. Here we are. The book came from a library in Wiltshire belonging to a Mr Joseph Baker; he died about five years ago and his widow sold the books - what is it?’
‘Probably a coincidence,’ replied Kim, who didn’t believe it for one minute. She told Rendall about their trip to Market Peverell. ‘You’d better read the chapter.’
Rendall took back his book and began to read, while Kim picked up the dilapidated pamphlet once again and squinted at the spiky handwritten message.
But what became of Roger Southwell?
She sighed, more inclined to think the question should read What’s to be done about Roger Southwell?
‘I suppose you’ll be going to Wiltshire, then?’ asked Rendall when he had finished the chapter.
Kim looked at her watch. It was ten to two. ‘Looks like it,’ she said glumly. ‘I wasn’t cut out to be a detective.’
‘Take the pamphlet,’ he suggested. ‘If you happen to find the rest of it, I’d be willing to pay a reasonable amount for it.’
‘I’d rather make a copy - it’s a bit old to be carted around in my pocket.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have a photocopier. But I’ll pop it in a plastic folder. Look, it’ll be quite safe like that.’ ‘I suppose so,’ said Kim dubiously, accepting it.
‘Good luck,’ said James Rendall. He did not ask for a receipt, as she had half-expected he might.
Kim thought she’d need more than luck. She remembered the ravens and her hectic flight from Rome. Powers were ranged against her. ‘Well, you knew that,’ she told herself, starting the car.
She had always been a fast driver, even before she could afford a fast car. It was impatience as much as anything: chafing at the fact that she couldn’t actually do anything while driving - except drive.
Whereas Alan - thinking of Alan, Kim gritted her teeth. No three-centuries-sleeping wizard was going to take him over. Not if she had anything to do with it.
It started to rain, and she flicked the wipers on: their metronome movement dislodged a few leaves and threw them past her vision. With a burst of rifle fire at the execution of Cavaradossi, Tosca drew to its close, and Kim groped for another tape.
Water poured in a cataract over the windscreen, as if someone had suddenly thrown a small reservoir at it. Kim swore violently and clicked the wipers to fast. It appeared to make little difference. She slowed, carefully. The rain gushed down, blown at her by a buffeting wind which rocked the car in a cocoon of whirling spray. Kim turned on the headlights.
The wind grew worse, yowling across the exposed road. Kim saw a lorry toiling towards her down a long
hill, its canvas sides flapping like the sails of a clipper ship in the teeth of a tropical typhoon. She changed down to tackle the hill, right hand tense on the steering wheel.
Twenty yards from her the lorry began to slide sideways over the white double line in the centre of the road. She saw its driver’s blanched, panic-stricken face as he wrestled to bring his juggernaut under control -even as she hauled on the wheel to bring her own car round in a desperate U-turn, feeling its wheels lock and skid for a few dreadful seconds before gripping the road again and allowing her to accelerate away from the careering lorry.
Escaping up the next side-road, Kim slewed her car to a stop just in time to see the lorry tip completely over, crashing and sliding in the hurricane-like winds. Sparks flew up from the road, instantly quenched by the teeming rain. As the lorry shuddered to a halt against trees splintered by its impact, she scooped up her phone and shakily punched out 999.
‘We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse For the Land we look to - for the Tongue we use.
We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,
While his hired captains jeer us in the street.
Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun,
Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.
Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled,
Laying on a new land evil of the old -
Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain -All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.
Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue -Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.’
Rudyard Kipling, The Old Issue
By the time Kim had told several different people what had happened, and the shocked and bruised (but otherwise unhurt) lorry driver had been conveyed to hospital, it was too late for her to continue on to Market Peverell. The rain, unabated, had brought on early night; Kim was damp and chilly and tired, and still shaken by her narrow escape.
She drove slowly home, too weary to make the effort of selecting an accompanying opera: Radio Three piped Brahms and less pleasant things at her. The wipers snipped across the windscreen, to and fro, to and fro, producing their own monotonous music, counterpointed by the rain.
Alan was still at work when she finally got back. Genuinely at work, it seemed: pencilled roughs were strewn over his desk, bearing the headline ‘Enter our great Treasure Trail Prize Draw and you could win £50,000’.
He had Joan Sutherland singing quietly in the background: ‘The soldier tir’d of war’s alarms/Forswears the clang of hostile arms/And scorns the spear and shield. /But if the brazen trumpet sound/He burns with conquest to be crown’d/And dares again the field.’
So engrossed was he that he did not notice Kim until she spoke.
‘You all right?’ she asked.
He raised his head, looking reassuringly like the old Alan, and nodded.
‘How was your day?’ he said, putting down his pen - he still liked to do first drafts in longhand, and the first two fingers of his hand were habitually grey with old ink - ‘Find any decent locations?’ This was the convenient fiction Kim had invented to explain her absence.
‘Ugh. Don’t ask,’ she groaned. ‘I was very nearly mashed by a lorry.’
Alan got to his feet, looking concerned.
‘Oh, don’t worry - no harm done. Only I had to waste the rest of the day hanging round in the bloody rain while the police took dozens of statements.’ She yawned cavernously.
‘Poor you,’ said Alan, and she could almost believe he was back to normal. ‘Let me get you a drink.’
‘G and T. Easy on the T.’
‘Coming right up.’
‘First I’m going to change.’
‘Have a bath,’ Alan suggested. ‘I’ll bring it to you.’
Kim found the temptation of immersing herself in quantities of very hot water irresistible. She soaked herself and consumed her drink, feeling the cold and the annoyance drain away, and nearly fell asleep in the tub. She returned downstairs to find Alan making supper. It was all so normal that, perversely, she felt herself growing suspicious, yet was too tired to do anything about it; contenting herself with devouring a large plate of spaghetti bolognese. Outside, rain still lashed against the windows.
‘...deepening anticyclone,’ Kim heard a television weatherman say. She brought up her head, startled: she’d almost been asleep again. On the screen the forecaster flickered in front of his blue-and-green map, which was strewn with the tarot symbols of his art, like an image in the scrying-glass. ‘Heavy rain and strong winds, gale force in places, gusting up to...’ A snore made her look towards Alan. He was sound asleep, his head tucked into his shoulder, almost like a bird’s.
Somehow he looked very alien.
Collecting up the debris of plates and glasses, Kim passed into the kitchen and stared at the windswept garden for a while before turning the light on. There was something unnatural about this storm: something that reeked of malice.
That thought identified, Kim shivered. Storms and demons - how could she combat them? She thought of looking in the glass again, but something held her back. Still, somehow, she was going to have to regain control of her life, if she were to thwart this invisible puppet-master who commanded wind and weather to confound her.
Moved by an impulse to impose a sort of order at least upon the sounds of chaos - she resorted again to music, slipping the tapes of La Boheme into the deck and donning a pair of earphones so as not to wake Alan.
Exuberant music, passionate music. This opera which, many years ago, had first opened up that world to her, still managed to bring inchoate tears to her eyes at its close. Silly, but there it was. Having music within herself, she had always rejoiced in the miracle which once had enabled composers to go on and on continuing to produce such melody, aria upon aria, upon duet, trio, quartet, ensemble. Chorus upon chorus. Divine music, the art of its finding now lost in cacophony. How had Rossini borne not composing, all those barren years? Kim wondered. Surely it was like relinquishing magical power: a loss too bitter to bear.
Power. The word snagged like a bramble, caught in her brain. Music has power - that could not be denied. But just how much?
Kim drew a deep breath, her heart suddenly pounding with possibilities. The possibility that music had real power - it was a kind of magic, after all. And the possibility, at last, that here might be a weapon in this curious and arcane fight into which she had unwittingly been drawn. If she could learn how to use it, of course. How to gather it up and fling it, like a missile. Like a Mills bomb. And, of course, where to direct it.