by Maynard Sims
I became aware of a sound behind me and turned to see Barnes, who looked as if he had also dressed hurriedly from bed. He had dropped to his knees and was praying. I grabbed him by the arm, and forcibly dragged him out of the church. I made to run back to the house but he held me back. Then I saw why. The path was covered with worms. Hundreds of them oozed from the ground, covering the path and the neatly trimmed grass as well.
Longer specimens dripped from the gravestones, raising blind shapeless heads in our direction as though sensing we were there. Many of the worms on the ground adopted this attitude; their bodies rearing up like the swaying masts of ships at anchor. I felt a dampness press around my ankles, and looked down to see the worms from the church wriggling under the door. They were beginning to crawl over my feet.
We ran across the carpet of slime, our feet sinking as though in thick mud. The squashed bodies spattered our legs. At one point at the edge of the trees I fell. Immediately tiny quivering bodies, cold and damp, covered me, clinging to my hair, falling inside my clothes. My mouth open, I felt several slither over my lips until I spat them out in disgust. Barnes hoisted me to my feet, and ripped the clothes from my back. Naked, I ran through the trees behind him, the lights of the house nearer with each slipping stride. Mercifully the worms had not reached the house. We locked the door and Barnes stuffed books and blankets against it to prevent anything being able to crawl underneath.
Neither of us could speak. We sat by the door, petrified, until the first light of dawn appeared through the window. The storm had abated.
"What should we do?" I said.
"We can't just sit here, that's for sure. There is no alternative, we shall have to go back and see what's happening."
"Were you as frightened as I was?"
"It's natural enough to be frightened, only a fool would not be, but we must never be defeated."
Armed with a spade and pickaxe we ventured outside. There was no sign of the worms. The gravel path was disturbed but otherwise the ground looked fresh, with pools of rainwater slowly seeping into it. The air hung heavy with silence, all the more menacing for its normality.
The brass when we reached it was back in position. It looked as if it had never been moved. The only evidence of the night was the remains of the rubbing strewn about the pews, and my equipment in tatters. We had already decided what we were going to do. Barnes swung the pickaxe while I worked with the spade, prying and levering to get a hold underneath the brass, in order to lift it up completely. After a combined effort pulling at the pickaxe handle, the brass gave a loud groan and rose from its mountings.
The back of the brass plate was covered with a set of deeply scored scratches, running in two rows parallel to each other. In the cavity the brass had concealed lay a shroud, once white, now brown and decaying. It was not laying in peaceful repose. Instead the cloth was disturbed, curiously folded in places, as though there had been frantic movement beneath it. For a long while we stared into the hole. Barnes sighed.
Suddenly the shroud began to move with an undulating, rippling motion. I cried out in fear. The shroud parted like a gauze curtain being opened, and a mass of bloated worms wriggled to the surface, crawling over each other to reach the freedom of the church floor, where they began to move towards the door. Barnes and I stood staring for a moment, then we pushed the brass plate back into position, sealing most of the slimy creatures within the tomb. The rest we disposed of with the spade. Barnes took some water from the font and splashed it over the brass, and with a few words he performed a simple ceremony of blessing.
Barnes knew of no history behind the brass. We both looked into it further in the records of the parish, and could find nothing, except a single reference to a seventeenth century nobleman whose family had insisted he be buried in the church despite the fact that the man had led a peculiarly unholy life. Apparently he had despised the church with a fierce loathing, and the family saw the choice of burial site as the last chance for his redemption. It seemed he did not accept their choice.
To my knowledge neither Barnes nor I mentioned the existence of the brass to anyone.
SMOKE
Frank Monkton and I had been eagerly anticipating our fishing holiday for some months. Neither of us were in any way expert anglers, but we were both competent enough with rod and line to find the prospect of spending two weeks indulging in this relaxing pastime appealing to the more indolent side of our natures. The general idea was to head down towards Devon, and from there to make a slow progress back up-country, stopping at any place that looked likely to provide us with a day's fishing. We were under no illusions about the distance we were expecting to travel - it was decided, after all, to forsake the car as a means of transport in favour of trains - but if we reached Bristol by the end of our holiday we would be more than satisfied.
Our respective wives deigned to give their permission for us to embark on this venture, and so it was with this initial triumph tucked securely under our belts we set off one fine September morning in the direction of Paddington Station and the first stage of our expedition.
For the first week things went well, better in fact than either of us had any right to expect considering our plans were so tenuous. We had worked our way half through Devon and were fortunate enough to find a place to fish every day. Our catches had not been particularly exceptional, but sufficient to keep our enthusiasm aroused. On the second week, however, our luck seemed to desert us. The weather changed for the worse, as the rain came down in torrents, and a fierce wind blew in from the east.
We found ourselves holed up in a tiny village by the name of Cawle. We sought and found refuge at the local pub, a charming little place built in the late sixteenth century, resplendent with thatched roof and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The landlord and his wife were charming folk, typical Devonshire stock, warm-natured and hospitable. Despite the disappointment I felt at being deprived of my fishing I could not think of a more comfortable place to spend a few days whilst waiting for the weather to turn. Frank did not agree. His first reaction at the onset of rain was to pack up and head for home, and it took much persuasion to get him to sit it out with me.
Our room was small, but adequate for our needs, with two single beds, and enough cupboard space to store our clothes and tackle. The window overlooked the railway line, and our first day was spent doing little more than sitting watching the trains pass by with almost hourly regularity. This was in the days before diesel and electric trains were commonplace, and I derived immense satisfaction from seeing how the mammoth, and yet graceful, steam locomotives went about their business; transporting holidaymakers to and from the coast, hauling great cargoes of oil and grain, and countless other goods from one destination to another.
Frank however was less than enthusiastic about this way of spending the time. "The sooner this blasted weather clears up, and we get back to the reason we came down here the happier I'll be," he said, and added gloomily, "I can't see us making Bristol at this rate."
"Why not relax and enjoy yourself?" I suggested. "We've only lost two days; besides isn't this better than suffocating in your office in London? Think of the noise of the traffic and the chaos of the rat-race. Give me this place any time."
He shrugged non-committally. "I'm going down to the bar." He glanced at his watch. "Can I get you one? They should be open."
"No thanks," I said. "But don't let me stop you. I may join you later."
"Right," he said, and walked to the door.
"And cheer up," I called out. "It's not the end of the world. You see you'll wake up tomorrow to brilliant sunshine."
He paused with the door half open. "And if I don't neither you nor the archangel Gabriel will keep me here a moment longer. I don't like this place, and it doesn't seem to like me." With that he was gone.
I listened to his heavy tread as he paced along the landing and down the stairs and then settled myself on the bed with a book and prepared for a quiet evening's read. I must hav
e dozed off for I awoke abruptly as the bedroom door opened. I had no idea what time it was, but the room was in darkness. In a bleary half-wakened state I tried to distinguish the figures on my travelling alarm clock, but to no avail. I turned over on the bed and closed my eyes again.
Suddenly the light was on and Frank was at my side shaking my shoulder. "Come on, old man. The rain's stopped and the sky is clearing. It will be a beautiful day tomorrow. Ideal fishing weather, eh?"
I rolled over to face him. "What time is it?"
"Half past ten. The bar has just closed; missed your nightcap I'm afraid."
"It's not important," I said yawning. "I see you are in better spirits, or should I say that better spirits are in you?"
"Droll," he said. "Actually I have drunk very little tonight, but I did have a most interesting conversation with a chap downstairs. An old boy, it wouldn't surprise me if he was as old as this place." He paused to laugh at his own joke.
I didn't join him; all my tired mind would tell me was that it wanted to sleep and that the details of Frank's `most interesting conversation' would keep quite happily until morning. Unfortunately Frank was undeterred by my apathy. "Seriously though, Tony, I think you would have been enthralled by his stories about the area. He has lived here his entire life and he knows the place, and the people, inside out. You would be amazed if you knew half the things that have happened here in the past."
"Frank," I said holding up a restraining hand. "Can't all this wait until tomorrow? I'm too tired now to be particularly interested in what has happened in the past. Wake me up early in the morning and tell me then. I assure you I will be a much more attentive audience when I am fully awake."
"That's as maybe," he continued doggedly, "but I think we'll be too occupied tomorrow to spend much time chatting."
"Really?" I said, my patience wearing thin. "And what do you expect us to be doing that is going to take up so much of our time?"
"Why, fishing of course. Why else are we down here? Certainly not to waste our precious holiday watching the trains go by."
"But the rain..." I began.
"I told you, it's stopped, and according to what a local farmer was saying down in the bar, the weather forecast promises sunshine in this area tomorrow. Anyhow, to get back to what I was saying, this old chap was talking, and finally he got around to the reason for our being here. `Fishing you say?' - you know how these country people talk, as if every thing you say to them has some profound meaning. He went quiet for a while and kept rubbing his chin as if deep in thought, then quite suddenly he gripped my arm. The strength in those gnarled old hands was really surprising, and for a moment I wondered if I had done or said something to upset him, but then I noticed his eyes. He was peering at me intently, but there was no malice there, only what I construed as a mischievous gleam. Then he drew me across to him and began to whisper. `There's a lake nearby,' he said, all the while glancing around us as if to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. `It's a big lake, see, 'bout a mile across, but you ask folks hereabout an' they'll tell it's been fished dry, either that or that it's foul an' all the fish are dead an' gone, but I know different, see. Old Bob knows different.' I must admit the old fellow had me intrigued, and so I pestered him, trying to find out its exact location. At first he would say nothing more about it, but a few rums later his tongue was sufficiently loosened and he carried on: `Oh, there's fish in that lake all right, but what folks don't know is that they stick close to the island that sits slap in the middle of the water. Lake's deep just there an' that's where the fish hide from you and me.'
"I asked him why it was that nobody ever thought to go over to the island and fish from there. His grip tightened further on my arm and his voice had a ring of urgency about it when he spoke. `They daren't, not local folk. There's tales about that place, tales that have been handed down from father to son, from mother to daughter, no sir, they daren't.'
"And yet you are suggesting that I go over there to fish," I said. `I ain't suggesting nothing, sir. What you choose to do is your own business.' Confound the man's contrariness! When I spoke next it was difficult to disguise my impatience. "What kind of tales?" I said, "and whereabouts is this lake of yours, I can't recall noticing it on the map?" `It ain't on no ordinary map, sir; never has been and never will be, but I'll tell you, seeing as how you asked.' And tell me he did, but as for the tales about the wretched place he would not say a word. Before I took my leave of him though he did say something else, something that I found as curious as anything he had said that evening. `Like I said, sir, if you do go on the island it's of your own choosing, but make sure of two things; don't go there by yourself; and be certain, certain mind, to leave the place as you find it. Understand? As you find it.'"
Frank sat down on the edge of his own bed and began to undress. "Well, what do you think?"
"If you want my honest opinion, I think that foolish old men should learn to refrain from drinking too much, it sends their minds woolly. But obviously you won't be satisfied until you have visited this island and seen for yourself what it is that scares the superstitious locals away. Am I right?"
"How very astute you are, Tony...even at this hour. Will you accompany me on my voyage of discovery?"
"Have I a choice?" I half smiled.
He grinned. The decision was made for good or ill.
"We'll discuss it in the morning," I said. "But as far as I'm concerned, all I really want to do is sleep now. Agreed?"
"Not another word until daybreak," he said, then got into his bed and switched off the lamp on the side table.
When morning came there was very little to discuss. Frank beat me to the rise, and when I finally awoke he was already dressed in his full angling regalia, and had laid out the tackle ready for the off. I had no need to ask him whether the forecast of the previous evening was correct, the brilliant sunshine that poured in through the window did enough to confirm it.
Frank noticed I was awake. "Pull back the sheets," he said energetically. "No shirking today. There's a lake to fish and an island to explore, I want to make an early start."
I rose and dressed quickly. While my enthusiasm for this particular venture was not as great as my partner's, the pleasant change in the weather encouraged me to throw off the trappings of sloth that had so firmly enwrapped me for the past two days. Soon I was in a state of readiness equal to Frank's.
"Have you made any provisions for lunch?" I enquired.
Frank was crouched on the floor engaged in the thankless task of untangling lengths of twisted, knotted line. He looked up at me with a patient expression on his face.
"If you can't rely on me to make the arrangements you should endeavour to rise at a suitable hour and see to them yourself."
Having firmly chastised me he returned his attention to the chore. Then a moment later he added. "Not only have I attended to the culinary side of this trip, I have also laid on a boat to take us across to the island. And if that is not efficiency personified...” He left the metaphor open. "There, finished." He tossed an untangled skein of line into the canvas bag that contained the bulk of his equipment and buckled the flap-front tightly. "Well, I'm ready," he said in a challenging tone.
"So am I. Shall we go?"
The landlord's wife had conjured up several rounds of cheese and pickle sandwiches to keep hunger pangs away for the duration of our trip, and so with this vital part of our gear stashed away we left the pub. Frank led the way. I followed. Despite the discourse of the previous evening he had neglected to divulge the exact whereabouts of this mysterious lake, and any questions I asked relevant to this piece of information were greeted with either a curt, "You'll see," or no reply whatsoever. Luckily I knew Frank well enough to see that he was enjoying a mild game at my expense, and in knowing him so well, realised that there was nothing more wicked than a gentle leg pull involved. I decided to let him have his fun and from then on kept conversation to the minimum.
We walked for an hour or more, keeping ma
inly to the narrow lanes and the occasional footpath. The countryside was enjoying the summer. The trees formed a verdant canopy above our heads and the foliage was lush and alive with nature. I could have spent the day quite contentedly walking along simply enjoying the scenery. Frank, however, had his sights firmly set on the matter in hand, and after a while pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He stood for a moment, studying this intently. I caught a glimpse of it as he folded it away. It was a map of sorts, drawn in a shaky hand, not his own.
"I take it that the old man furnished you with that?" I said.
He nodded. He was staring into the distance. "The path should be just up there to the right," he said, almost to himself, and then strode off at a determined pace, causing me to run to catch up with him.
We soon came upon it, a thin curling pathway that led into a dense wood of birch and elm. "For a moment back there I had the horrible feeling that the old devil had sent us off on a wild goose chase," Frank confided.
"I had that feeling when you woke me up last night to tell me about this damned place. I only hope it will be worth all the effort."
"We'll soon find out. Look!" He was pointing at an opening through the trees. Sure enough, there was the lake, but a more depressing place I could not imagine. As we walked through to the clearing this impression was intensified. The lake was as large as we had been led to believe, but never had I seen a body of water so lifeless. The lake was completely stagnant, not a ripple crossed its surface, not a single bubble of air rose from its bed, and any that might have escaped would have been choked by the thick scum of weed, which covered large areas of the water. A thin yellow haze floated in the air a few inches above the weed, and this gave off the most nauseating smell. Frank gave a theatrical cough and tried to make light of it, but I could sense and share his disgust. It struck me how quiet it was here, and I paused for a moment, just listening. Listening for the normal sounds one associates with large stretches of water; the steady hum of insects, the chirruping of birds on the lookout for easy prey. Instead my ears met only silence, total silence.