The Tunnel Behind the Waterfall

by William Corlett

  ‘Power?’ William said at last. The word had come into his head, but he scarcely understood what it meant. ‘Is that what it means for you? Power?’

  ‘Yes,’ Morden answered. ‘Power, little boy . . . and much more. Soon the Master will die. He’s an old man. He’s already beyond his time. When that happens, I must inherit all this. I’ve worked for it. Not only the estate, but also his magic and his knowledge. He has trained me himself. He is unable to stop it. I am his creation. When he dies, little boy, I will be the master here. I will be your magician. You will need me. I will show you all the wonders of the art. Together we will make gold. Not . . .’ he raised a finger and wagged it, ‘. . . not like the pathetic Lewis. This time we will get it right. You and I, little boy. Together, you in your time and me in mine, we will be supreme. We will be all-powerful. We will hold the secret that all men crave. Riches and power in abundance. Gold.’ As he said the word, he shivered with excitement. ‘Gold, little boy. Unlimited gold. No man will be our equal then. We will be invincible, you and I. Now give me the pendulum!’ And as he said the last words, he jumped at the stone, trying to reach up to where William was standing.

  With a squawk of rage, William launched himself into the air and dived at Morden. His beak closed over the skin on the back of the outstretched hand. Morden immediately pulled away, with a cry of pain, and William saw blood ooze from the wound that he’d inflicted.

  ‘God’s blood!’ Morden yelled.

  William flew at him again, his wings beating and his beak and claws aiming at the man’s upturned face. Morden raised his arms above his head, beating savagely, trying to ward off the attack. William’s claws sank into his shoulder and he managed to nip one of Morden’s ears. Then he was knocked off balance and had to flap away, out of the man’s reach, before turning once more into the attack.

  ‘Crow!’ Morden screamed. ‘Crow! Obey me!’

  But William was in crow’s mind and, for now, crow was William’s bird. He flew again at the man, squawking savagely. Morden took a step back, looking desperately over his shoulder, searching for a place to hide. As he turned to run, William beat his wings and reached forward with his claws, winding them in Morden’s flowing hair. With a piercing cry of rage and fear Morden knocked the bird away again. Then, abandoning the fight, he ran, arms flailing above his head, towards the shelter of the distant beech forest.

  ‘Little boy!’ he shouted, ‘I will be even with you. You have made Morden your enemy. The day will come when you will wish you had not been born.’

  ‘Squawk!’ William replied.

  ‘Little boy!’ he heard a voice call again. ‘No point hiding, we know you’re there!’

  As William watched he saw the crow flying in pursuit of Morden . . . Then the beech trees towards which they were heading merged and changed into dark, dull firs . . . The bright grass became parched and brown . . . The heat was intense . . .

  ‘Come on, little boy, come out from there,’ he heard the voice say.

  William walked out from his hiding place behind the standing stone and looked towards the lake. He was confronted by a strange group of people. Alice and Mary were there, with Spot beside them, his hackles up and growling quietly. They were standing between the two men from the public meeting – the solicitor, Martin Marsh, and Charles Crawden with his pink, shiny face. In the middle of the group an ancient man, wrapped in a tartan rug – although it was such a hot summer day – sat in a wheelchair. He was glaring at William, leaning forward out of his chair on an ebony walking stick.

  ‘Well, come on,’ he said. ‘Come here where I can see you!’

  As if in a dream William walked towards them. He looked once again across the lake at the dark fir forest that so recently had been bright woodland.

  ‘It’s like a dream,’ he thought.

  Then he looked again at his sisters and the men. They didn’t look real either. None of it seemed real.

  ‘Which is the dream?’ his mind whispered.

  He knew, without any doubt, that, briefly, he had seen into Tudor England, four hundred years in the past. Now he was back in what he called the present. The transition between these two times, these two worlds, had been as smooth, as uncomplicated, as uneventful, as the blink of an eye.

  ‘Maybe it’s all a dream?’ his mind questioned.

  ‘Come here, boy,’ the old man said. ‘I want to look at you.’

  Up above, in the bright sky, a solitary crow wheeled and turned, squawking.

  14

  Sir Henry Crawden

  THE MAN IN the wheelchair stared at William.

  ‘Go on then, cat got your tongue, boy? Name? Reason for being here? Bit of your history? Relationship to these two? Hurry up! I am a very old person. Time is precious to me.’

  William forced his mind back into the present. He was finding it as hard now to listen to the man’s questions as, moments before, he had found it hard not to attend to the thoughts in his head. He glanced over his shoulder again, looking at the far side of the lake, reassuring himself that what he could see there was indeed fir forest and not beech wood. He swallowed. His heart was beating too fast and his mouth was strangely dry. It was almost like being afraid, this sensation he was experiencing, but without any panic. He was calm and frightened at the same time. He wanted, more than anything, to be alone with Mary and Alice so that he could tell them what had just happened. He wanted to shout out: ‘I’ve just seen through the crow’s eyes – and what I saw was another age, another time. I’ve just managed, somehow, to travel back in time. Not me – but my mind. My mind has seen into the past.’ But now he had to focus instead on this old man in front of him, who seemed in a bad temper, and was staring at him with hostile eyes.

  ‘Are you going to answer me, or are we going to have to wait here all day?’ the man said.

  William felt suddenly enraged by the man’s behaviour. How dare anybody, let alone a complete stranger, address him like that? He remembered how, when the crow had glared at him with just the same hostile eyes as this bad-tempered old man, he had forced his mind not to panic, not to be overawed.

  William took a deep breath and straightened his back. Then, in a clear, calm, voice he said:

  ‘I’m William Constant. My sisters and I are staying with our uncle in Golden House. That’s the big house down in the valley . . .’ he explained, turning and pointing in the direction of Golden Valley.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the man interrupted him, testily. ‘I do know where Golden House is. So you are the brother of these two, are you?’ he said, nodding his head in the direction of Mary and Alice. ‘Well I, young man, am Sir Henry Crawden,’ he continued, glaring at William as though he wanted to frighten him, ‘the owner of the land on which you are now standing.’ Then he nodded again and waved a hand. ‘Wheel me round, Charles. I want to look at the view.’

  Charles Crawden stepped forward and taking hold of the wheelchair he pulled it round so that the old man now had his back to William and was facing the lake with the distant high ground and the wooded shore on either side.

  ‘What do you think of my son’s plans for this place, William?’ he said at last.

  ‘I think they’re horrible,’ William replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  Sir Henry’s head jerked round as he tried to see William, then he beckoned to him impatiently.

  ‘Come where I can see you,’ he said.

  William crossed and stood beside the wheelchair. Mary and Alice moved in to stand on either side of him.

  ‘You don’t want a funfair here?’ the old man asked, in a conversational tone.

  ‘It isn’t going to be just a “funfair”, Father,’ Charles Crawden protested. ‘You’ve seen the plans. This will be an enormous undertaking.’

  Henry Crawden shrugged.

  ‘So? It will be a big funfair, then.’ He looked silently at the view. Birds were singing in the trees towards Four Fields and the surface of the lake was as flat and as still as a mirror. ‘I haven’t been b
ack here since the summer of 1940,’ the old man said, quietly. ‘Back from Dunkirk – on a bit of leave, you know? I could walk then. The legs got it in ’45.’ As he spoke, he rapped his thighs with clenched fists. ‘Very useful things, legs. Look after them if you can.’ He was silent for a moment, remembering. ‘Aunt Crawden was still alive then,’ he continued. ‘But batty, of course. I rather dreaded visiting her. She became increasingly odd after Uncle Crawden died. But it was always necessary to keep in with her. That was the summer of 1940 – and it was the last time I saw her. She died in ’45. I lost the legs and Aunt Crawden lost her life . . . practically on the same day! I remember thinking that she might have got the better end of the deal. But now I’m not so sure – to be batty would be worse, I think.’ He shrugged, looking at the children. ‘Life without legs is merely . . . limiting . . .’ He shook his head, lost in a memory. Then, with a shrug, he leaned forward on his stick and said, over his shoulder, ‘So, Charles, paint the picture for us all.’

  ‘Picture?’ his son asked, surprised.

  ‘That’s what you brought me here for, wasn’t it? To sell me the idea?’ the old man snapped. ‘Well, now’s your chance. Sell it, to us all! Convince us that this isn’t another of your crackpot schemes.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we get rid of these children first, Father?’ Charles Crawden asked.

  ‘Don’t underestimate them, Charles. Play your cards right and they may very well be your first paying customers!’ the old man said.

  ‘Very well then,’ the son said, sounding haughty, ‘if you insist.’ His voice took on a note of new authority. It sounded as though he was reciting something learned by heart: as though he was giving a lecture. ‘The site we will be utilizing is all to the right of the lake. As you know the land to the left belongs to the Forestry Commission. Down on the shoreline we plan to create a waterfront lido, for small craft – speedboats, pedaloes, canoes, etc. This will be constructed of breeze block faced with local stone – as far as possible. There’s a disused quarry nearby which we intend to utilize. The lido will resemble a Cornish fishing harbour scene. Behind it will be situated a central square with shops and stalls; a supermarket, cafés, restaurants . . . an amusement arcade . . . a fountain in the middle. Flower beds. Places for people to sit.’ He was getting quite carried away with the wonder of his vision. ‘It is here that our Medieval and Tudor Experiences will be held on certain days each week. Jousts and Tournaments and . . . all that sort of thing. There will always be something going on. It will be the hub of the fun.’ He glanced nervously at his father. ‘We intend to call it “Crawden Plaza” – in honour of you, Father.’

  Sir Henry’s face remained impassive. His son cleared his throat, nervously.

  ‘Martin, did you bring the plans to show Father?’ he asked. But at once his father interrupted him, irritably.

  ‘I have seen the plans, Charles.’

  His son cleared his throat again and his hands were trembling.

  ‘Go on, tell me more!’ the old man rapped. ‘Make it live for me.’

  ‘The Hotel Crawden will be situated behind and to the side of the plaza. Here there will be gardens and a maze . . . All the ground on this side of the plaza will be taken up with chalets – for self-catering holidays. The adventure playground will be through the woods over there. We will also build a safari lodge-style hotel on the edge of cliffs behind us . . .’ As he spoke, he turned his father’s chair so that they were all looking up the gently rising ground to the standing stone and the yew tree beyond. ‘This is a comparatively new idea and we have no plans to show you as yet.’

  ‘Where will it be?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Where the yew tree is, Father.’

  ‘I see. The tree will come down?’

  ‘No!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘You can’t chop down the tree.’

  ‘That position affords the finest view across the valley,’ Charles Crawden told her, ‘and is also best suited for the guests to watch the badger sett from the lodge balcony.’

  ‘Mmmh! Badgers! What else have you planned for your guests?’

  As Charles Crawden continued to speak, he slowly wheeled the old man round once more so that he was viewing the lake.

  ‘Pony trekking in the Welsh hills. Forest trails. A Wild West expedition – complete with bears!’ he made it sound like an amusing joke. ‘A cinema . . . and yes, I must admit, for the children, a “funfair” as you call it, Father. Possibly a zoo – but that will be in phase two. And, depending on how well we do on phase one, we are thinking of constructing a monorail through the woods so that guests who do not feel energetic can enjoy the forest experience from the comfort of a chair . . .’ He was beginning to sound desperate now, longing as he was for his father to show signs of some real enthusiasm. ‘There are plans afoot to exploit some of the mine shafts that lie below ground level. We could have ghost rides and . . . a “journey to the centre of the earth”, that sort of thing. Young people enjoy being frightened! We intend that there shall be so much going on to amuse the guests that they will never be bored. We intend to give them value for money.’

  ‘Well, Charles,’ the old man said when his son had finished speaking. ‘We’re most impressed. Aren’t we, children? It all sounds most exciting. You seem to have thought of everything. And, yes, you are of course right, it is an “enormous undertaking”. Now – what are the snags?’

  ‘That really is family business, Father. We’ll discuss all that in private, I think.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ the old man said, waving aside the idea of secrecy. ‘Access? Is that it?’

  ‘Mmmh, yes,’ his son replied. ‘We have offered the woman good money. But I’m not sure she will go for it.’

  ‘How will I be able to persuade her?’

  ‘She said she wanted to speak to you in person,’ Charles Crawden said.

  ‘Who is this woman?’ his father demanded.

  ‘Funny old bird, bit of a loner. Not quite all there, I should say. What is her name, Martin?’

  ‘Lewis,’ Martin Marsh replied.

  As soon as he uttered the name, Henry Crawden gasped.

  ‘Lewis?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, Sir Henry. Margaret Lewis. She owns the property, called Four Fields that lies between your land and the moor road.’

  ‘Meg Lewis,’ the old man sighed. ‘She is still alive? I somehow thought . . .’ Then he shook his head. ‘No. I will not see her. Wheel me back to the car . . .’

  ‘She asked for you, father. You may be our only hope.’

  ‘I will not see her, Charles. Let that be the end of it. Get your access through the forestry land. The Commission won’t object, I’m sure . . .’

  ‘So – you approve of the plans?’

  ‘I will not see that woman,’ Henry Crawden said. ‘As far as the rest is concerned that’s for you younger people to decide.’

  Across the old man’s head, Charles Crawden and Martin Marsh exchanged a look of relief.

  ‘Splendid, Father. I’ll get Martin to draw up all the necessary documents.’

  ‘Documents?’

  ‘It would be more simple, Sir Henry,’ the solicitor said in a smooth, wheedling voice, ‘if the land was made over to your son . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Henry Crawden said, seeming hardly to be interested in the matter. ‘Do what you like with it.’

  ‘But – if you have any suggestions, Father, we would of course value your advice.’

  ‘There is one,’ the old man said. ‘Why not use the original family name? It would be more in keeping with the place. After all, our family have been here since fifteen-ninety-odd.’

  ‘The original name?’ William asked, speaking for the first time since Charles Crawden had started to reveal his plans.

  ‘Yes,’ the old man said. ‘One of our forebears was a bit of a rogue, I’m afraid. Got into trouble with the church and state! We, being a sensible family, changed our name. We didn’t want any of his muck sticking to us, did we? Oh, this was cen
turies ago. We’ve been called Crawden almost since the day of his death. Well – if there’s a rotten apple in the barrel you toss it out, don’t you? Though, to tell the truth, I’ve always rather enjoyed the idea of having a wizard on the family tree.’

  ‘A wizard?’ Alice exclaimed.

  ‘That’s what they said he was. He was drummed out of the county. Mind you, by that time James the First had come to the throne – and there were plenty of rumours that he was a bit of a wizard himself! Sorcery was in vogue! But not in these parts. The locals got very hot under the collar! Had the poor chap sentenced and then executed.’

  ‘The wizard was . . . executed?’ William gasped.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mary asked him, trying to stop her voice from shaking.

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ Sir Henry replied, cheerfully. ‘We Crawdens have always been a colourful lot . . . Until recently, that is,’ he added, glaring at his son. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued, ‘the Crawdens are only here in these parts thanks to the wheelings and dealings of our family wizard. Perhaps that’s why Uncle Crawden was so desperate to win the house back.’ The old man shook his head. ‘Perhaps he had a sense of family? Not that it brought him any luck either . . . he went as potty as his sister. Both of them right round the twist! You want to watch out, Charles! Maybe we Crawdens are destined never to be happy here in the Goldenvale.’

  ‘Superstitious nonsense!’ Charles Crawden exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, quite!’ his father agreed. Then he leaned over towards William in a conspiratorial way. ‘My son enjoys the other great Crawden family characteristic – he has an insatiable desire for riches! If there’s any money to be made . . . he’ll be there, regardless of the danger!’ Then he straightened up once more. ‘I’ve had enough now, Charles. Take me home. Goodbye, you children. Enjoy the lake while you can. Poor lake! Poor countryside! Soon this will all be a “funfair”!’ and, once again, he said the word with relish, as if he enjoyed taunting his son with it. ‘Well, get a move on, Charles,’ he snapped, irritably, ‘push me back to the car!’