The Dark Gateway

by John Burke

  “Stop looking so worried,” said Denis unsteadily.

  “The wind’s risen again. It’s a queer sort of night. That’s all.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “What, then? Is Jonathan behind all this?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Denis said: “If this is a throwback to the Dark Ages, and we’re in for a spell of Black Magic, it won’t be dished out by little squirts like Jonathan. I don’t know what a Druid looked like, but I’ll bet he was an imposing sort of bloke, and there’s nothing imposing about Jonathan.”

  “Physically there isn’t.”

  “I don’t believe there’s anything at all about him,” said Denis.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure. Not that I can visualise Jonathan as one of ‘the black family of accursed adepts,’ as they are referred to in this little volume of bedtime stories.”

  “Nor me. Blow the candle out and we’ll snatch some shuteye.”

  Reluctantly, Frank craned up and blew out the candle. He lay back, waiting for the odour of burnt wax to drift over to him. The wind was still making that unearthly noise at the window, and as he listened, unwilling to indulge in the childish but tempting trick of plunging under the bedclothes and muffling his ears, he thought that it became more impatient. It appealed more and more peremptorily. The window vibrated nervously as though a tram were passing the house.

  Absurd thought. But, he found, a reassuring one: a world in which trams, buses, and aeroplanes existed was not a world that had any room for necromancers.

  As though to deny this, the wind shrieked once, wildly, and then relapsed into its plaintive, angry whining. Now it was almost forming words. There was a strange blend of rising and falling music and the mutter of voices.

  The voices were real.

  Frank prodded Denis and said: “Hey! Wake up!”

  “I’m not asleep. What is it?”

  “Listen to those voices.”

  “That’s the wind.”

  “No; there’s something there, besides the wind.”

  They lay staring up into the darkness, trying to hold their breath so that they could distinguish what was real and what was imagined.

  Denis said: “You’re right.”

  “Voices in the wind…? It seems to come from in and around this house.” They were whispering now.

  “Or—or the castle.”

  “Good lord, yes. I wonder where the castle fits into this?”

  “Search me.”

  They were quiet, and in a slight lull in the great sighing of the wind, they heard a foot strike a board outside their bedroom door. A voice said: “Shut up, you fool, and hurry. Hurry—there is not long to wait.”

  Denis said: “That’s Jonathan.”

  He slipped out of bed and moved stealthily towards the door.

  “No,” said Brennan’s voice.

  There was a muttered argument. Frank joined Denis, and they stood shivering, waiting for another sound.

  “I won’t do it,” said Brennan.

  “Don’t stand here arguing, damn you. If you wake the house—”

  “I’ll wake them, all right. I’ll—”

  “Do you think that would save you now?”

  Brennan whimpered.

  “That’s better,” said Jonathan softly. “Now come along. If you must argue, argue downstairs, where we won’t be heard. But you might as well not argue.”

  “They’re near the head of the stairs now,” said Denis.

  He opened the door slightly, and tried to peer through. Then Jonathan began to speak again with venomous irritation; this time his voice was much clearer.

  “What’s the matter now? We’ve been over all this—what’s frightening you, you blockhead?”

  “It wasn’t the same. I won’t do it. You’re not going to open the gateway.”

  Denis giggled. Frank dug him in the ribs

  “Sorry,” muttered Denis, “but all that hissing out there on the landing sounds so silly.”

  “I have a feeling it’s not so silly. I think it’s deadly serious.”

  They could see two dark shapes against the lighter blur of the landing window. Jonathan, standing on a higher tread of the stair, hung over Brennan like a vicious hawk. He said: “The gateway will open tonight. Pull yourself together. This is our hour of greatness.”

  “Ours? I know the truth. I should have known it all along. When it’s all over, what will be left of me? I’m going to wake them all up, and tell them. As soon as I got here, I knew.”

  “You knew? What did you know, puny little fool?”

  “I’m a sensitive. You seem to have forgotten that. I know all about places when I’m in them. This is no materialisation you’re after. It’s something far more than that. This is black evil. This is—”

  “I was a fool to choose you,” said Jonathan bitterly, “but since you’re here, you’ll go through with it, even if I have to make you.”

  Brennan actually found the courage to sneer. “Not a step do I go of my own free will. And I know as well as you do that force doesn’t help. Results may not be…satisfactory. There’s more danger in it for you, isn’t there? That’s the way it is.”

  “I’ll take that chance. I am one of the ancient lineage, and I can afford to take chances. I am a lord of power and of illusion.” He was beginning to speak louder, forgetting the people asleep along the landing. “Look, little fool, out of the window, and see for yourself the splendour that is to have its birth from your miserable body.”

  Brennan looked towards the window.

  From where Frank and Denis stood, keeping the door open just enough for them to see the two weird silhouettes that argued and gesticulated at the head of the stairs, it was impossible to see what lay outside the window. Brennan appeared to be looking up at the castle, which lay at an angle from this window, but none of it was visible to the two watchers.

  What they did see, however, was the change of colour in the sky. Beyond the window was a dull flickering and then a swift surge of light like the gush of a blast furnace.

  It lit up Brennan’s pimply little face for a hellish second. He stared, his mouth twisting and his eyes widening. Frank felt sick in the pit of his stomach at the sight of that face. In it was all the inexpressible terror that man could ever have imagined. It was a terror beyond normal moral ken—something that screamed up from the depths of Brennan’s being, seeking to show itself in small, ordinary features that were inadequate: this was fear that could not be expressed. Brennan stared, and the light pulsed once more, casting its unholy crimson radiance over his head and shoulders, and illuminating Jonathan, leaning forward, delighted with what he saw. Then the light was gone, and Brennan shouted at the top of his voice. It was a high-pitched, mad shout, and it went on as he fell and rolled downstairs, bumping to the bottom and then suddenly becoming silent as he struck the tiled floor.

  Denis pulled open the door and was out on the landing. Frank paused to pick up the candle and a box of matches, and followed him. Jonathan, who had started to descend the stairs swiftly, cursing to himself, stopped as Frank struck a match and lit the candle. His head showed between the banisters, etched with dark lines of fury.

  “The little fool,” he said between his teeth.

  Then Nora’s door opened, and was followed by the opening of her father and mother’s door. They huddled together by the candle, staring down over the rail into the dark well of the ground-floor passage.

  Mrs. Morris said: “Whatever—”

  “Brennan,” said Frank. “He was—”

  “Sleepwalking,” said Jonathan loudly. He stared defiantly up at them.

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Denis and I heard the two of you—”

  “He was sleepwalking. A very strange case. He was one of those somnambulists who can answer you quite coherently in their sleep—an unfortunate accident, this.”

  “Accident?”

  Denis said in Frank’s ear: “Maybe we’d better let him
think that we believe him. Keep him here until the police come.”

  Jonathan began to ascend the stairs again.

  “The poor fellow is dead.”

  Mrs. Morris gasped. Nora, moving closer to Frank as though for protection, turned pale.

  Jonathan said savagely, half to himself: “Now he will have to be replaced.”

  They did not ask him what he meant. They were tired, bewildered by this thing that had happened in the middle of the night Brennan’s crumpled body was carried into the parlour and laid on the couch.

  “In the morning,” said Mr. Morris gravely, “I will go for Williams the Police.”

  “If you can get down to the village,” said Jonathan slyly.

  They regarded him with hostility. For the rest of that night Frank and Denis took it in turns to lie awake, listening for any sound from Jonathan, in case he should try to get away. He made no move, however, and Frank was filled with a gnawing suspicion that Jonathan knew all about their vigil and was amused.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was a still, translucent morning. No one lingered in bed: there was too much to be considered.

  Frank awoke with his toes tingling with cold, baffled on the first second of consciousness by his surroundings. Then he realised where he was, and the strange occurrences of the previous night came back, deformed and unreal as a fleeting dream. Surely that hadn’t happened? He sat up, noticing that Denis had already left the room, presumably leaving him for an extra rest until breakfast was ready. That incredible incident at the head of the stairs—how had he come to imagine such a thing? It all shifted and changed as he thought about it, but as he swung out of bed and began to get dressed, the chill striking at his fingers as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, he knew more and more certainly that it had all been real. What where they going to do now? How was Jonathan going to come out of this? There were too many questions to be answered. He must get down and talk to the others.

  His eyelids drooped. This was as bad as the night after a watch: sleeping in two-hour spasms was in some ways worse than not sleeping at all. Still, Jonathan hadn’t got away—unless, he thought with not nearly as much scepticism as he might have done yesterday, he’s turned into a bat and flown out of the window.

  He went downstairs, startled by their blankness and innocence. He would not have been surprised to see Brennan still lying at the bottom. One would have expected the aspect of the stairs to have changed subtly, somehow. But there was no blood, no mark.

  Denis, looking out of the kitchen, said: “Oh, good. I was just coming to give you a shout. Come and join us.”

  They were seated awkwardly near the fire. The kettle was beginning to sing tentatively. The whole scene was wrong: no one was at ease, sitting down like this before breakfast. Mr. Morris, a sparkling hint of frost on his eyelashes, stretched out his wet boots and shook his head.

  “Best get Mr. Jonathan down now,” he said.

  “I think we ought to talk first,” said Denis, “and keep an ear open in case he tries to get away.”

  They stared at a little wreath of steam that was emitted from the spout of the kettle. Its singing grew more jubilant.

  “Breakfast, is it?” said Mrs. Morris. “While we talk.”

  The others moved their chairs, and she began to bustle around, but instead of concentrating on what she was doing, she was trying to listen to what they were saying, and throwing in a word here, an interjection there.

  “What are we going to say to him when he comes down?” asked Nora.

  Denis laughed harshly. “There’s a woman’s point of view for you!” he said. “Not the little matter of murder, or manslaughter, or responsibility in any way whatsoever for Brennan’s death; not what we’re going to do about the man, but what we’re going to say to him! What do you think we ought to do, Frank?”

  “The first thing is pretty obvious. I suppose Brennan really is…dead?”

  “No question about that. Notify the police, I suppose?”

  “Naturally.” Then a thought struck him. “But suppose we can’t get down?”

  “Easy this mornin’,” said Mr. Morris. “You can see the way clear. Try you now. Or, no—I will go down myself. I have to go to chapel, and I can tell police on the way.”

  “They won’t let you go to chapel until they’ve made enquiries,” said Denis.

  Frank repeated: “Suppose we can’t get down?”

  Nora, he was sure, understood. She was pursing her lips thoughtfully.

  “Remember what happened to me last night,” Frank went on. “I know you think it was due to mistakes on my part, but I’m pretty certain it wasn’t. Unless something has changed overnight, I don’t think there’ll be any way of reaching Llanmadoc.”

  The lid of the kettle jingled excitedly.

  “It’s quite clear this morning,” said Denis reasonably. “You can see where you’re going, you can’t get mixed up about directions, and the darkness won’t fool you like it did last night. Anyway, the police have got to be notified as soon as possible.”

  “In my house,” said his mother plaintively. “Never have we had police up here, only when there was that party when Joseph the Station broke the dairy window, and he thought that was funny. A thing like this.…”

  “Bear up, mother,” said Denis.

  Mrs. Morris shuffled knives out of a handful on to the table.

  Nora said: “It was nothing to do with us. We didn’t know anything about it. Mr. Jonathan will have to explain.”

  “And after we’ve said what we’ve got to say,” Denis remarked, “Mr. Jonathan will have a lot of explaining to do. Come to think of it, I meant to go and call him.”

  “You said we were going to talk first,” his mother reminded him.

  “Did I? Oh, hell, what’s the use? Jonathan’s the man who’s responsible for all this, and we might as well have it out with him. Frank and I know what we saw, and there’s no reason why we should keep quiet about it. Those two were up to something—what it was, that doesn’t concern us—and they had a fight.”

  “Not exactly,” said Frank.

  “Well, near enough. It was Jonathan’s fault. That business at the window, when he showed Brennan something—”

  Nora started. “What was that?”

  “A queer light that blazed up—somewhere up by the castle, you’d have thought, though we couldn’t see from where we were standing. The way they were talking, you’d have thought Jonathan himself had switched it on. What’s the matter?”

  Nora told them about her own experiences at the window of the passage, when she had seen the hideous red sky and the vision of the complete castle. “I couldn’t tell you before, because it seemed so crazy, but now it doesn’t sound so mad.” There was wonder and doubt in their faces, but not the scorn that might have been there if she had told them at any other time. It all seemed real and close. Denis made a step towards the passage door, then stopped. He said: “I—”

  “I think it would be best for all of us if we decided not to wander around alone,” said Frank. They murmured agreement. “We don’t know what’s happening, but it’s all very fishy, and if anything weird is going to pop up…well, I’d sooner have a bit of company.”

  “Good,” said Denis. “In that case you can come to the foot of the stairs and wait while I go up and call Jonathan. I imagine we’re near enough to one another like that. He can’t do much with you there, watching me.”

  They had now accepted the fact that Jonathan was capable of abnormal deeds, Frank realised. He thought what a waste of time it had been to keep watch last night, fearing that Jonathan might escape. He would not escape: he was here for some purpose, and he would not leave until it had been achieved. Their vigil had been ridiculous. And why bother to call Jonathan down? He would come when he was ready. Nevertheless, Frank said: “I’ll come. We’ll straighten things out with him over breakfast.”

  It was strange to think of such an important discussion taking place over bacon and eggs. Mrs.
Morris found time to lament the fact that no one would pay any attention to the lovely Sunday treat she was giving them, as she broke the eggs skilfully into the frying pan, but she was all the time glancing swiftly at the door, waiting for Jonathan.

  When he came in, dressed in his dark, shoddy suit, he looked serious but untroubled. He gave a brief, affected little bow and took the chair that had been left for him: it was felt that this was too serious an occasion for him to sit on the couch.

  “Good morning,” he said soberly. “A sad day, I fear.”

  He showed no sign of reacting towards their manifest hostility. Frank caught Nora’s eye. She flashed a smile, and he knew that she had the same sensation of comradeship that he was experiencing: he and Nora were the only two here, he was sure, who fully appreciated the menace of Mr. Jonathan. They did not understand—they were only groping towards comprehension of this sinister little man—but at least they had no illusions about him. Mr. and Mrs. Morris were bewildered; Denis, stout fellow as he was, could not take in the full danger of the situation; only he and Nora, aware of a mutual bond of sympathy, were attuned to the all-pervading note of fear, a resonance that grew in volume rather than diminished with the daylight.

  It was Denis who launched the attack. His clumsiness was an asset: while the others were eating with furious concentration, wondering how to tackle Jonathan, Denis went in like a fearless novice jumping flat into a swimming pool. He said:

  “About last night.”

  Jonathan studied his bacon reverently. “A most unfortunate occurrence. I can understand how you must all grieve that such a tragedy should have taken place in this house. If there’s anything I can do to help during my short stay here—”