Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  All right, I told myself. No more of that. I had given way before, summoning up vivid horrors, but I didn’t intend to do it again. The shadow had been there, its shape resembling a man’s head and torso, and the footsteps had echoed a little too long, but this was a long hall with walls of solid concrete, and no doubt the acoustics were peculiar. I moved on down the hall, paying no attention to the sound of footsteps that echoed around me. I glanced back once, quickly, and it seemed a figure darted into the obscurity of shadows, but I merely scolded myself and moved on.

  I reached the great hole in the wall where the steps led down. I could smell mildew and decay, a horribly fetid odor that caused me to recoil. No torch burned nearby. The steps led down into a yawning pit of darkness. I hesitated, shuddering. I heard rustling, scurrying noises that rose up from the well. I stood stiffly at the top of the steps, trying to summon enough courage to start the descent. I urged myself to move, but something seemed to hold me back. I couldn’t go down. I had lost control of my body and was unable to force myself to take that first step.

  My skin prickled. Great gusts of clammy air swooshed up the steps and whistled against the walls and stroked my cheeks. There was an aura of forbidding evil, and voices unheard cried out, protested, warned me to stay back. I knew that if I once started that descent, I would never return. I would be swallowed up by that evil, destroyed. Nothing, nothing could induce me to go down. This was insanity. I should have taken my proof, gone for help, brought a whole fleet of men with me to investigate Castle-moor. I had come this far, but I couldn’t go down into the dungeons alone, not for anything.…

  Then I thought of Donald. I squared my shoulders, lit the oil lamp, and started down the rough stone steps.

  The steps were wide and narrow, gradually curving down at an angle. I moved carefully, the lamplight revealing damp brown walls streaked with a moss-green fungus. In this confined area, my footsteps echoed even louder than ever, ringing like a battalion pounding on the rough stone. Down and down, closed, confined, a damp mossy tunnel, fetid-smelling and alive with scurrying sound—the aura of evil was thick, alive, surging around me. I clenched the lamp. I thought of Donald. I sensed something behind me. It was a curious sensation, instinctive, a feeling of vulnerability rather than anything definite. I looked over my shoulder, but I saw only darkness, yet I could not shake the feeling. I felt exposed, watched, followed.

  Something rustled near my feet. I saw a large gray rat scuttling down the steps, making a weird squeaking noise that sounded like a scream in the strange echo chamber. Down and down I went, and I suddenly realized that I must have been in the dungeons at first, or at least a part of them, before I climbed the spiral staircase. The hall leading away from the south wall had slanted down sharply, and it seemed now that I had come down almost as many steps as I had climbed earlier.

  I saw flickering light ahead. Descending the remaining steps, I came out into a large, cavernlike room with passages leading off from it in every direction. The floor and walls were concrete. Torches burned in black iron brackets. There were chains on one wall, rusty manacles attached. I stood in the middle of the room, puzzled. Donald was here, somewhere, but there were half a dozen passages, each leading in a different direction. I frowned. I wondered why the torches should be burning here. It was … It was almost as though someone had been expecting me.

  I heard footsteps approaching from one of the passages. I stood very still. I seemed to have stopped breathing, and I had to restrain an urge to laugh, because this was not real. It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening to me. It was a nightmare, and as the footsteps grew louder I knew I would wake up and stretch and see the sun and no longer feel the dreadful evil that held me captive. I dropped the oil lamp. It shattered at my feet. I shook my head slowly.

  Edward stepped into the room from one of the passages. He was smiling, and he wore a flowing white robe.

  “Congratulations,” he said calmly. “You’ve done remarkably well. We never dreamed you’d actually find your way here. I was sure you’d get lost, that we’d have to come find you, bring you here.”

  “You knew I was coming?”

  “I knew you would come eventually. You see, I didn’t underestimate you. I knew you were too intelligent, too inquisitive to accept things as they were. I knew you’d begin to piece things together and come to Castlemoor. More specifically, we saw you coming across the moors this afternoon. Fancy your knowing about the door in the south wall.”

  “Nicola told me about it.”

  “Ah,” he exclaimed. He nodded soberly.

  “She—knows.”

  “Of course. Her ‘fragile nerves’ made it relatively easy to convince the others she was having a breakdown. Convenient that Burton finally took her away. Convenient for her. Otherwise, I’d have had to kill her.”

  “But—”

  “Surely you suspected me, Katherine?”

  “No.”

  “You suspected Burton?”

  I nodded.

  He chuckled. “No, my dear, he hasn’t enough imagination for anything so grand. He’s too sober, too sensible, too corrupt. This takes—purity, and purpose, a total dedication to ideals. Burton’s too dense, too stupid to see what’s been going on right under his nose. He’ll be easy to deal with—when the time comes.”

  “I—I can’t believe this—”

  “You’re a fool,” he said. “It’s a shame things worked out this way. I rather fancied you for a while there. I was almost willing to risk contamination.”

  “Contamination?”

  “There are only a few of us left,” he said solemnly, “a few with the pure, unsullied blood—direct descendants of Boadicea and all those Celtic ancestors who ruled this country before the invasions. Just a few of us, but we’ll unite, we’ll overcome, we’ll overthrow—”

  “You’re insane,” I whispered.

  “A typical reaction, that. The great visionaries were always laughed at, mocked, insulted. We’ll overcome. We’ll have our revenge. It’ll take a long time, granted. I may not live to see it, but that day will come, and England will belong to its rightful owners.”

  I was right. He was insane. I could see it clearly now. His handsome face looked pale and drawn, deep shadows under the radiant blue eyes that gleamed with a fanatic light. He seemed to be consumed with an inner flame that burned fiercely, and it had always been there. The heavy, masculine charm, the hearty manner, had concealed it before. I was afraid, and I was trembling, yet I was fascinated by the spectacle of the man who had a curious splendor in his flowing white robe. The ancient Celtic priests must have had that same golden-bronze hair, those same rough-hewn features illuminated by a fanatic glow as they wielded the sacrificial knife. I was horrified by the man, yet, at the same time, intrigued by the phenomenon. I backed away a step. He smiled, the wide pink lips stretching slowly, curling down at the corners. The vividly blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as he sensed my terror.

  “Afraid?” he asked tenderly.

  “You—you can’t get away with this,” I stammered.

  “Come, don’t toss platitudes at me. Have some dignity. You’re going to die, but your death will be an honor, a tribute to the only true gods. In ancient times, maidens vied for the privilege of such a death. You’ll be a splendid gift.”

  “You killed Jamie,” I said.

  “Yes. The color of his hair determined it. Had he been a brunette, he would be alive today.”

  “And Bertie.”

  “Sheer necessity. He knew too much.”

  “And—Donald—”

  “That will come, in time.”

  “The moon dance,” I said.

  “You are well informed, Katherine.”

  “He’s here. My brother is here.”

  “He’s quite comfortable, actually. Well taken care of. He gave us a hard time once or twice, tried to escape, almost made it once.”

  “Nicola saw him.”

  “Yes. That was unfortunate. Another of her �
��delusions,’ the one that finally convinced Burton he must send her away. Most fortunate for her.”

  “Edward,” I whispered, “you can’t really believe in this. You can’t really … believe you’ll succeed.”

  He ignored the remark. “I liked Donald, truly. I tried to discourage him. I tried to persuade him to give the whole thing up, but he persisted. He made a grave error. He probed too deeply. He saw too much, suspected even more. He showed me the manuscript. I knew then that he would have to be punished.” He paused. “As do you,” he added.

  He moved slowly toward me, the white cambric robe billowing, softly rustling. His wide mouth was still stretched in a smile, but the face was hard, a mask, the eyes like blue agate. For a moment I was too stunned to move, and then I turned quickly, intending to flee back up the staircase. Buck Crabbe moved casually down the last few steps, blocking my way. He had been in the room. He had been behind me along the hall and down the staircase. I had imagined none of it.

  “What have we got here,” he said.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “A regular prize,” Buck said. “Nice, what?”

  “Very nice,” Edward replied.

  “Dandy,” Buck said. “Just dandy.”

  He loomed there like a giant in doeskin trousers and leather jerkin, a terrifying mass of male strength. I stared at him in horror—tight bronze-blond curls clinging to skull, broad, bony face with long nose, wide mouth, and flat, expressionless eyes. He raised his large hands and flexed the long fingers, cupping them around air, grinning.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said.

  “Come, Buck,” Edward said quietly, reasonably. “We mustn’t be selfish. She’s a plum. Her death must be shared.”

  “I’m gonna kill her now. I’ve been waitin’ a long time—”

  “I know what you want to do, Buck, and I’d like nothing better than to turn her over to you here and now and watch the—proceedings. It would be a satisfying experience, granted, but we must think of the others.”

  “They needn’t know about it.”

  “Ah, but they’d find out. We’re having a meeting tonight, as you very well know. She’ll be our special guest. Her execution will be a formal one, on the stones, a treat for everyone. If I let you kill her now, the others would feel cheated.”

  I stood very still, caught between the two of them, looking from one to the other—a madman in white cambric robe whose handsome face was transformed, and a giant bully with brutal face whose urge to kill had nothing to do with religious zeal. Edward was insane, but he really believed in his cult. It was real, sacred to him. Buck Crabbe believed in nothing, but the cult enabled him to indulge his innate sadistic instincts. I did not know which of them was worse. Both were warped, twisted by an evil that had removed everything decent and humane. They continued to talk as though I were an inanimate object they were appraising. Buck was sullen, eager to kill me now and be done with it. Edward was calm, patient, explaining why that was unfeasible.

  They were perhaps eight yards apart, Edward standing in the middle of the room, Buck still in front of the staircase, and I was directly between them. The torches burned fiercely, flinging blue-orange shadows over the brown walls and filling the air with the odor of smoke and tar. The voices echoed, Edward’s melodic, Buck’s harsh. The sound whirled around the room and drifted away down the various dark passages. My eyes were fixed on the passage directly in front of me, some twenty feet from where I stood. If I moved quickly, I could reach it. I braced myself, my body taut as an arrow ready to leave the bow. The men continued to argue, ignoring me. I took a deep breath and flew toward the passage.

  I reached the entrance and stumbled. My heel broke. I fell to the floor with stunning impact. White cambric billowed about me. Iron fingers pulled me up. Edward held me against him, my face buried in folds of cloth. Buck was shouting. Edward silenced him with a word I couldn’t understand. I was trembling violently. Edward held me away from him and looked down into my eyes. He was smiling. I tried to break free. He raised one arm, the great white sleeve fluttering like a rustling wing. He released me and clenched his fist. He looked at me almost tenderly before smashing the fist against my jaw. I cried out as the pain shot through my body and blankets of darkness smothered me, heavy, wet, pushing me down, down into a white-hot oblivion of pain and terror.

  Sensation piled on sensation, dark, murky, vivid, obscure. I was drowning, enormous waves breaking over me, and I welcomed them. A light burned dimly far, far above me, and I tried to reach it, failed, fell back down into a pit full of shifting black shadows. Layer by layer they lifted, and reality returned, ever so slowly. My eyelids were heavy. It took great effort to lift them. I was in a small cell, not much larger than a broom closet, rotten straw on the floor, damp stains on the wall, a barred window looking out onto the hall, where a torch burned briskly and shed enough light for me to study my surroundings.

  I was on a narrow cot littered with rags. I sat up. My head whirled, but my jaw no longer hurt. There was a dull ache, but the pain was gone. I must have been here for a long time, two or three hours at least. I went to the door and looked through the bars of the window. A heavy lock secured the door, and there was no way I could escape. I staggered back to the cot and sank down, my temples throbbing. Panic rose up, disappeared. Fear vanished. All feeling vanished. A numbness set in. Trancelike, I sat on the cot and waited. I was objective, curious, almost as though this were happening in a novel I read, not real at all, a fiction that did not really involve Kathy Hunt. I watched the shadows cast on the wall by the fire, and time passed without my being aware of it. Fifteen minutes, twenty, an hour, two: I don’t know how long it was before I heard the footsteps in the hall outside the cell.

  Buck unlocked the door and pulled it open. The hinges creaked loudly. He jerked his head, summoning me. I stood up on shaky legs. Buck wore a white robe too, now, of a coarse white linen not nearly so fine as the one Edward wore. Edward was behind Buck, waiting casually in the hall. I took a step and stumbled forward. Buck caught me, supported me, led me out of the cell, holding my elbow firmly. The three of us began to walk down the hall, one on either side of me, their robes swirling with the movement and rustling, Buck’s stiffly, Edward’s with a soft, silken sound. The hall was long and narrow and seemingly endless, and soon the brick walls gave way to walls of solid-packed earth braced with strong wooden beams. We were in a tunnel smelling of damp earth and root and the smoke of torches that burned in brackets every fifty yards or so. Alan had once mentioned a secret tunnel that was supposed to lead out onto the moors, although no one was certain it actually existed. This must be that tunnel, I thought. It really did exist, and it went on and on, endless.

  We must have walked at least a mile. The tunnel grew more narrow, and there was a new smell, curious, like peat. Buck still held my elbow. His face was impassive. I glanced at Edward. He seemed to be meditating, his eyes far away, unseeing, his full lips moving silently, one heavy wave of dark-gold hair fallen across his brow. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he had the appearance of a priest going to some sacred ceremony. I moved like an automaton, awake yet asleep, aware of everything around me, yet curiously detached. It was as though I had been given some potent drug that allowed me to move but prevented me from feeling anything.

  Far ahead, two torches burned, one at either side of a small door at the end of the tunnel. Buck released me and hurried to open the door. Edward fastened his hand around my wrist, pulling me along with him. I moved jerkily. Buck held the door open, and we stepped outside.

  The door was completely hidden by a towering pile of broken stones. We stepped around them. The sky was dark black, starless. An enormous white moon spilled milky light over the ruined city, gilding temples and columns and ruins with murky silver and spreading bizarre purple-black shadows over walls and ground. Far away, among the ruins, I saw flickering orange flames that burned like an apparition from Hades, and I heard the distant chanting, a s
trange, murmuring sound, monotonous, rhythmic, music made by a coven of lost souls, satanic. Centuries disappeared, time vanished, and I was in a living nightmare of the past. Numb, trancelike, I walked beside Edward, my body moving of its own volition, while inside a silent scream shattered all semblance of reality.

  Buck glided ahead of us, passing through misty light and shadows, his robe floating about him, now silver, now a mere white blur in the darkness. The moonlight illuminated parts of the city, picking out each detail in sharp silver-blue and black, while other sections were in total darkness, masses of impenetrable black that seemed curiously alive with movement. Edward’s fingers were like iron bands fastened about my wrist, pulling me along beside him. He was mumbling to himself, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. We stepped over stones, moved around columns, passed through stretches of darkness alive with darker forms moving quietly and whispering with the sound of wind, phantoms risen from the past to observe this revival of their long-dead rites.

  Ahead, the flames seemed to burn more brightly as we drew nearer. The fire burned in the circles of stones where I had talked with Burton Rodd. I remembered the altar with its brown bloodstains. No, I cried, no, no; but no sound came. The cry was silent, inside, piercing nerve and fiber while I moved along beside the man in billowing white cambric, drawing nearer and nearer the circle. I could see the columns now, glowing reddish orange with firelight, and through the stones I saw the figures in white moving slowly around the altar, their shadows following them like black spokes of a revolving wheel. The muted, monotonous chant was music heard in nightmare, an insane sound droning on and on and sweeping away all hope.

  Buck stopped at the portals of the circle and pulled on his hood, then moved inside. The chanting stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the sound had been. It hung over the city like a threat. The stillness was the stillness of death. Edward and I moved toward the circle. Our footsteps sounded incredibly loud. I could hear now the crackle of the flames and smell the odor of oak boughs burning. Edward tightened his grip, and I felt sure my wristbone would snap. It was useless to cry out, useless to struggle. I moved through hazy nightmare air shimmering with imagined horror, for it couldn’t be real.