by John Burke
“Let’s try to get through. That’s the way we came—”
“It might be a one-way street,” said Frank with a mirthless laugh, “but we’ve got to have a shot at it. There’s no one about now.”
“Isn’t there? I keep feeling that there is: a sort of feeling that someone, or something, is slowly becoming aware of our presence here. Something in the castle is waking up, and it knows we’re here. Can’t you feel it?”
She could not find words to express this indefinable sensation, but there was no need to do so. Frank understood. He lay still, his nerves on edge, alert to whatever message might be conveyed to them, and then he said: “You’re right. And when it’s fully awake.… Come on, we’ve no time to lose.”
They rose to their feet, completely defenceless, and as they took a step forward a figure appeared in the archway for which they were heading. It stepped from the swirling mists that bubbled within, and Nora caught despairingly at Frank’s arm.
Nora said: “Simon! It’s Simon!”
He was beckoning to them urgently. Their minds were flooded with the knowledge that now the entity that slumbered within the castle was fully aware of them, and they began to run towards the arch.
Before they reached it, they saw a burst of activity further along the castle wall. A door had opened, and something was surging out to meet them.
“Don’t stop!” cried Frank.
The distance seemed interminable. This was not a dream, but they lived in the conditions of dreams, in which it took interminable ages to run a few yards, while danger mounted swiftly about them. In the brief span of time that it must have taken to cover the short distance to the arch where Simon waited for them, they saw the dim outline of the strange thing that oozed through the door. It was nothing tangible, nothing that moved or walked or behaved in any way reasonable: it was an impalpable, fierce essence of evil, able to strike more swiftly than a snake because it had no substance, yet held back by the sickly weight of its own foulness. Nora’s knees weakened.
“Don’t waste time!” Simon called, and his voice came from a great distance.
She would never reach him. Her strength was failing. She was running but not moving. If she were really getting anywhere, she would have covered those few yards long ago. But it was no use now…no use at all. This great surging cloud of evil, which was capable of pervading the whole atmosphere, of rolling down and filling the entire valley up to the brim, like tea poured into a cup, would possess her and hold her back; already it was twined about her, gently drawing her back as she tried to run forward to that remote, useless gateway where Simon stood shouting to her. His face began to fade. No use now.…
Then Frank’s arm was about her, and she was lifted bodily through the arch, Simon catching her at the other side and bringing her to a standstill, looking down the gleaming white slope to the farmhouse below, a wreath of smoke curling languidly from its chimney.
CHAPTER NINE
“You fools!” said Simon. “Fools—what possessed you to go through the gateway?”
They were going slowly down the hill. Nora felt too exhausted and too faint to walk quickly through the welcome snow. More, she wanted to look around and feast her eyes on the calm white landscape, looking so much more attractive than she would ever have believed possible.
Frank said: “We didn’t go through any gateway. We just walked under an arch, and there we were.”
“I’ve been under it hundreds of times,” said Nora, “but I never came out in that sort of place before.”
“The gateway is open,” said Simon. “You’re lucky to have come out again.”
“What gateway is this you’re talking about?”
Simon, supporting Nora’s left arm, glanced across at Frank.
“There are many things you don’t know,” he said. “I think it will be necessary to clear them up after tea.”
“Tea?” said Nora with a feeble smile. “I’m so glad we’re not late for tea.”
“That would have been dreadful,” agreed Frank, trying to dismiss the thought of what was behind them.
They reached the farmhouse, never so welcoming before. On the step, Frank paused and turned to Simon. “Since you know so much about all this craziness, perhaps you can tell me what risk there is of that gateway being used again.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean that if we could come through it, there’s nothing to stop those—those abominable creatures from following us through.”
Nora paled.
“They won’t come through,” said Simon calmly.
“How can you be so sure?”
“They won’t come through; not without certain conditions.”
“What are those conditions?”
Simon opened the door. “That’s one of the things that you’ll probably discover later. Not on an empty stomach, though.”
Nora found it hard to adjust herself to the untroubled nods of welcome: she had expected something more rapturous, and found it hard to conceive that the rest of the family should have sat in the house without any inkling of what was going on at the top of the hill. But was it really the top of the hill? More likely another world, another dimension.… Swiftly she glanced around the room to gain confidence from the clock, the well-worn chairs, the faded wallpaper and the picture on the calendar. This was what she had to cling to. Perhaps if her mind wandered, the ground would slip away beneath her feet, the kitchen would dissolve about her, and she would be back in the territories of nightmare.
“What’s the matter, Nora?” said Denis anxiously. “Have you seen something queer again? What is it?”
Frank came to her rescue. “Something very unpleasant,” he said. “We’d sooner not talk about it now—we’ve both had a bit of a shaking.”
“All right, old son. We’ll get round to it later—among other things.” This was directed at Jonathan, who sat sullenly nursing his knees like a wizened old man by a brazier. “We’re going to let our hair down after tea.”
There was no great amount of chatter over tea. Nora felt no appetite. The plate of bread and butter looked revolting. She drank a cup of hot tea thankfully, and waited impatiently for the others to finish. If there were going to be any revelations, let them come soon.
If the experiences of this afternoon had not been so real, she could have believed that what was coming after tea would be merely a game. The familiar appearance of the room and the crockery on the table, the warmth of the fire on her back, and the very ordinariness of everything…all these cancelled out the possibility of anything uncanny in the world. Yet she knew it was no good relying on appearances. The world was not solid, but treacherous; not steady, but shifting. One false step, and you were plunged into outrageous abnormality. The ogres and grim castles of fairy tales waited for you through a familiar archway, on a hill where you had played since you were young. There was no certainty; nothing was reliable. She concentrated desperately on the tablecloth, focusing her attention on a small brown stain near the bottom of the sugar basin.
“Got your speech ready, Mr. Jonathan?” said Denis brusquely.
Jonathan’s hand wobbled, and he dripped tea over a piece of cake. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he said.
Simon reached out for the sugar. Nora kept looking at the stain on the cloth. Simon said gently: “Is your knowledge so wide, Mr. Jonathan?”
“Wide enough.”
“How did I get here today, Mr. Jonathan—can you tell me that?”
Jonathan moistened his lips. Nora was conscious of a great wave of relief. This might be an anticlimax, but it was a welcome one. Simon knew what was going on, and Jonathan was not going to get away with it. It was a reassuring feeling: it helped her to struggle against the gnawing memory of what she and Frank had so recently seen. Simon could, somehow, deny existence to those frightful impossibilities.
Simon said: “Wouldn’t it be better if you went home, Mr. Jonathan?”
“You’re scared of me,” s
aid Jonathan unconvincingly. “You want to get rid of me. You know what’s coming, eh?”
“And I know that this is the wrong time. This is not the right time for taking such a terrible risk that may result in a catastrophe you, with your puny, evil-grubbing little mind cannot begin to comprehend. You are not the right person for this. According to your books—”
“My books!” snapped Jonathan. “Yes…my books. They’re mine, all brought together at last, and they say that this is as good a time as any.”
“Are you one of the adepts?”
“Yes.”
Simon shook his head gravely. “I think you are running a tremendous risk. For your own sake, as much as for anyone else’s, stop before you have gone too far. Don’t dabble with powers beyond your control.”
“It would be pleasant for you if I stopped, no doubt. Who are you: why do you want me to stop?” Jonathan seemed to be regaining his courage, and as he did so, Nora felt her own confidence slowly ebbing away. “Who are you?” demanded Jonathan again. “Are you one of the White Adepts—the emasculated fools who are, as usual, too late?”
“They have not always been too late,” said Simon quietly. “They have kept you and your kind from the books for a long time—across an infinity of generations that makes all this present civilisation but a moment of eternity. Don’t underestimate them, Mr. Jonathan.”
“Too late!” crowed Jonathan. “I have all the books, and I know what it was intended that I should know.”
Simon shrugged. “So be it. But the—shall we call it the assistant?—what about your assistant, now your trained man has so inconsiderately passed away?”
“It will have to be someone else.”
“How unfortunate. It is not safe, you know, Mr. Jonathan. You need one who has been chosen and well-schooled. This is not a game for the uninitiated. Dangerous, Mr. Jonathan, dangerous.…”
Denis said: “What the hell are you two yapping about?”
Mrs. Morris said: “Denis—”
“I’m tired of this,” said her son rebelliously. “Let’s have it out.”
“After I’ve cleared the table—”
“Leave the table alone.”
“Personally,” said Simon mildly, “I can discuss nothing with plates and crumbs and dirty cups staring me in the face. Let’s form a cosy little semicircle about the fire. We may as well be comfortable while we hear what our visitor from the great city has to say. A semicircle, mark you—not a circle. A circle is too potent, isn’t it, my friend?”
Jonathan got up from the table, his mouth working. “You young whippersnapper—”
“Let’s finish all this shouting and arguing,” said Denis. Frank signified his approval. “We’ll sit round the fire all right—and let’s have some sense out of you,” Denis added warningly. “What’s going on here? And let’s have it in words that mean something.”
Once more they were grouped near the fire. This movement to and from the chairs, taking them to and from the fireside, was becoming as regular as a movement in a dance. In weather like this it was only natural—but today Nora felt an undeniable strain. Normally they would sit down as a matter of course, where they could benefit from the warmth: that was all there was to it, and you thought no more of it. But today and yesterday all the moves had been made stiffly and self-consciously, as though they were moves requiring careful thought. Grave committee members assembling to discuss matters of great import…or pawns being shifted into position by an unseen hand?
The fire shone in their faces. Mrs. Morris turned the wick of the lamp up, and sat down.
“There’ll be no peace till this is settled,” she said wearily. “Washin’ up can wait.”
Nora was more scared than she had ever been before. There was the most incontestable proof of the abnormality of this weekend! Only a conviction of imminent catastrophe could have caused her mother to leave the washing-up until later. Was she, then, also possessed by this conviction, fearful that they had not a great deal of time left—that the shadow was already beginning to fall on them, its grey fingers groping for the heart?
“Right,” said Denis. “Shoot.”
“What about your father?” said Mrs. Morris. “It’s here he should be. Wait a minute for him.”
They had noticed his absence. He had slipped out to make a plodding tour of the outhouses. In five minutes he returned, looking incuriously over the little group.
“Come on, Dad,” said Denis impatiently. “We want to get started.”
“What’s this, now: a meetin’, is it?”
“Mr. Jonathan is going to tell us what brought him down here for the weekend.”
“None of your business,” said his father severely.
“But it is our business. What do you imagine all this secrecy has been about, this weekend? What caused Brennan’s death, and why couldn’t you get down to Llan this morning?”
Mr. Morris joined them and brushed the chill from his eyes. The corner of his hand rasped against a patch of stubble he had missed when he shaved that morning.
“And what did Frank and Nora see this afternoon?” Denis went on.
Jonathan started. He eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said inquiringly, “what did you see, Miss Morris? And you, young man—tell us what you saw.”
Frank told them calmly and succinctly, as though relating a tale about somebody else. His quietness and self-control carried a conviction of their own, despite the fantastic nature of the whole affair. When he had finished, there was silence.
Jonathan was the first to speak. He said: “What conclusions do you draw from your truly remarkable experience?”
“None,” said Frank, “as yet.”
“Except,” said Nora, “that it ties up in some way with what you showed me from the passage window. The castle was the same. And the creature or creatures inside—or things, those horrors—”
“You’re speaking of your future masters, dear young lady. Be more respectful.”
Denis slapped himself on the knee. His father surveyed him reproachfully. Denis said: “Come on, tell us what’s up your sleeve.”
Jonathan crossed his legs and his eyes wandered around the tense little semicircle. They were all waiting for him to begin, and he enjoyed his moment of power, though it was marred when he looked at Simon.
“Go on,” said Simon coolly. “We’re waiting for you.”
“I suppose you think you know it all, already?”
“Not all of it,” said Simon, “just a part. Go ahead.”
Nora was not in the kitchen, but in the cinema. It was four or five years ago, a winter evening, when she had walked down alone to the cinema that was cramped in between the garage and the stained, faded Wesleyan chapel. A horror film—a ridiculous thing full of creeping shadows, hand reaching from corners, contorted faces and screams, all backed up by muttering music…and Nora, who had gone there only because of the depression brought on by an accumulation of damp, miserable evenings behind her and the prospect of many more to come, shivered in her seat. It was nonsense, it was only a film, and even if it had been serious it would have lost much of its effect because of the catcalls and raucous comments of the usual gang of youths clustered at the back of the poky little hall. But it was frightening, nevertheless. Even though she knew it was a shadow play, Nora was scared to the pit of her stomach by the gradual approach of the gruesome climax. She knew, at the back of her mind, that she had to face that long walk back home, between rows of sinister shapes leering out from the dark trees with great phantasms of abomination stooping out of the skies.…
Waiting, with her heart beating painfully.
This time it was no film, but reality.
Jonathan said: “It’s hard to know where to begin. It really starts a long way back—so far back that I couldn’t make it clear to you. Not easy to know how to explain why—and in any case,” he said with a sudden defiance, “why should I pass on my information?”
He seemed aghast at his own folly. He opened and
shut his mouth, and then settled in his chair and folded his arms.
“Why should I tell you? Foolish of me: I nearly allowed my vanity to run away with me. A bad failing. You’d like to know how much I know, wouldn’t you?”
He was addressing Simon, who inclined his head. “I admit,” he said without rancour, “that I was hoping to hear your version of it. It would have filled in the pieces that are unfortunately missing from my own picture. Congratulations on your restraint: you have more self-control than I thought, Mr. Jonathan.”
“I’ll get it out of him,” said Denis, making a lunge forward.
He did not get far. Simon’s arm shot out and restrained him. They leaned at a precarious angle for a moment, then Simon forced Denis gently backwards.
“Don’t be rash,” he said. “This little man is an upstart, but he has certain talents. He wouldn’t be sitting there smirking like that if he didn’t feel that he could cope with most of us.”
“With all of you,” said Jonathan.
Simon’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You don’t know where I come into this.” And he repeated the question he had asked earlier: “How did I get here, Mr. Jonathan?”
Jonathan now had himself well in hand. He made no reply, and showed no emotion. Simon smiled.
“Since our visiting expert won’t let us into his secrets,” he said, “I’ll do my best to outline for you the story of what has led up to this night—”
“Stop! I won’t let you tell these fools—”
“In order to finish what you have begun,” said Simon, “you will need the help of someone here. Don’t antagonise them too much. It will do them no harm to know what is being done.”
Jonathan, undecided, tried to weigh him up. While he was still pondering, Simon continued.
“This is a crucial night in the history of the human race. Tonight the threads are all gathered up. Scattered and lost in uncounted centuries, they are now ready to be brought together once more—or so our friend here thinks. We are back at the gate, and the gate is open. The seal is broken, and all that we need now is the body through which the dark glory is to be made manifest. Am I right, most learned adept?”