The service went forward on the traditionally prescribed lines. Gates read the collect for the Third Sunday after Trinity, a humble and trusting appeal enough. When it came to reading the proper epistle, which is from the first chapter of St. Peter, he began quietly enough, though rather grimly. But his voice rose suddenly, even fiercely, as he read out:
Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.
Similarly, he began quietly as he read the Gospel for the Third Sunday after Trinity, from the Gospel of St. Luke. But he raised his voice significantly when he came to the passage:
I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.
From step to step the service proceeded. At last, David Gates announced several church activities, a collection for foreign missions, a meeting of church ladies for a community project, and so on. After that, it was time for the sermon.
Gates drew himself up at the pulpit and stood impressively tall. His attitude was more that of a prosecuting attorney than of a minister of the Gospel. He gazed to this side and that, his eyes burning palely as they raked the congregation.
“For this day I have chosen a text singularly appropriate,” he declared. “It will be familiar to all of you. It is to be found in the twentieth chapter of the Book of Exodus, the second verse. It is also easily to be found in our Book of Common Prayer, the first of the Ten Commandments, and the most important among them all. In the Scriptures it reads, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me/ ” He squared his broad shoulders and looked at them again, pew after pew of them, as though to note the effect of his words.
“That is the command of God our Father,” he said, “spoken to Moses at the top of Mount Sinai, to be cut by him on the tables of
stone. It disavows, it forbids, the turning after false gods to worship them. Now, today is the Third Sunday after Trinity, and the fourth day of July. And the fourth day of July also happens to be the day of the year on which, in this our community of Claines, a bizarre and infamous heathen ceremony is traditionally accomplished at the hour of midnight.”
His voice shook, as though he strove to master a fury within himself. “I refer,” he said, “to the annual turning over of what is called the Dream Rock that lies out there at the edge of the street in front of this church, this holy church.”
He clamped his meaty hands on the sides of the pulpit and leaned powerfully forward above it. The folds of the chasuble stirred upon him. Fiercely he gazed. It was as though he menaced his listeners.
“Against this pagan ceremony I shall preach this morning. I promise you that my sermon will not be a long one, nor shall I search out elegant, elaborate words and phrases. I shall strive to make it simple and forthright; because I want it to be well understood by all of you. And if you care to repeat what I say to others who are not with us here this morning, why, so much the better.”
Another pause, as though to gather himself for his next words. All listened raptly. Some leaned forward in their pews. Hob Sayle sat stiffly in his chair in the choir loft. He gaped, he stared. He seemed to hold his breath.
“Think, my people,” burst out Gates. “Why are they here so close together, St. Jude's little church and that strange, uncouth menhir called the Dream Rock? I can assure you that this is no accident, no fortuity. How long ago they built the first church of St. Jude's here, there can be no sure saying, but it was long, long ago, centuries ago. It was built here under a classic missionary policy.”
Another breathing space.
“Our first ancestors, here and elsewhere in Britain, were pagans, of course,” Gates went on. “For untold centuries, for centuries almost past counting, they worshipped false gods, sacrificed to them—sacrificed wild beasts and tame, sometimes even their unfortunate fellow men. The Roman legions came and brought in their own culture and their own pantheon, their string of Latin deities from Jupiter on down, and worshipped them far and near until the Roman Empire was enlightened by Christian faith. But that faith suffered in turn in Britain, was put down by the conquering invasion of the Angles and Saxons. They followed their own barbarous heathen worship of Wotan and Thor and other Teutonic gods, until Christianity was returned to our land by Saint Augustine.”
Gates warmed to the old story of missionary strategy and success, telling the oft-told tale of how Pope Gregory the First—Gregorius, Gates called him, apparently forgetting his promise to stick to plain language—showed a somewhat sophisticated tact toward the Saxon pagans. Taking up a sheet of paper, Gates read a translation of Gregory’s instructions:
If these temples are well built, it is requisite that they be converted from the worship of devils to the service of the true God; that the nation, seeing that their temples are not destroyed, may remove error from their hearts and knowing and adoring the true God may the more frequently resort to places to which they have been accustomed.
Philo Vickery had mentioned that policy, Thunstone remembered as he listened.
Gates finished reading, and fairly flung the paper down on the pulpit. His broad palm slapped the wood resoundingly.
"There, my people,” he said, "a missionary work was well begun here in Britain. The Saxons proved adaptable, reasonable. Their very kings gladly accepted the true faith. Their ancient places of worship were purified with holy water and prayer and those places became Christian churches. Why?” His voice rose suddenly. "The older cathedral at Salisbury stood on the site of just such a place of pagan worship. And it was so with many, many others. Let me read to you from John Milton’s beautiful work, ‘On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity.’ ”
He then read extensively from that poem. He chose verses which described the banishment of the gods of Greece and Rome, of Philis- tia, Phoenicia, and Egypt. Plainly he enjoyed the reading, and he smiled as he finished.
“The uncouth festivals of those barbarians also were adopted and adapted by the church and its communicants,” he said. “Beltane became our happy May Day, when country folk dance around the pole and choose their king and queen of the May. Halloween, our eve of All Hallows, falls on the ancient date of Saunhaim, the Celtic festival for the dead. The old Midsummer Day, when once Druids sacrificed human victims, is now Saint John’s. And so on. And, as I have said, all throughout this land churches rose on the sites, the very graves, of heathen rites and worship. More than a hundred such churches can be pointed out, in England and Ireland and Scotland and Wales, including our church of St. Jude’s.”
He returned to citations from the Bible. He dwelt with relish upon the story of how Elijah contended with the priests of Baal on Mount Carmel; of Elijah’s sneering mockery of Baal’s priests when they could not pray fire down upon their sacrifice, Elijah’s triumph when his appeal to Yahweh kindled his own altar, and the massacre of the unsuccessful priests afterward.
“Thus have the true and false faiths contended, side by side, through time,” he summed up impressively. “Now need we stir from here to see the evidence at first hand?”
He pointed a big forefinger, and the wide sleeve fluttered on his arm like a wing.
“Yes, my people, out there!” he fairly roared. “Out at the edge of our own church’s yard, our own holy ground, lies the relic of a false belief that has not yet died! Though Saint Augustine and his fellow missionaries hoped and strove, that thing exists and its ritual is observed in Claines, even upon this day! You know what I mean. I mean the Dream Rock, and the dreams it gives are dreams of the pit below the very floor of hell itself!”
He gestured downward as he spoke, as though to indicate to his hearers where the floor of hell was. A sigh went up from those who listened. They hung upon the words he gave them.
“For how many years, for how many lifetimes, has the Dream Rock been turned at this midnight?” he flung out at them. “And what does it signify, portend, this annual turning? My people, I’ve looked
into the most ancient records I could find. And I have not found a year in those records when the turning is not noted as taking place. At midnight—the witching time of night when, says Shakespeare, churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. That’s always the hour when the Dream Rock is turned over in its place, by those who think they have good reasons for the turning.” Gates flourished both his big hands. “Reasons?” he said again. “What might those reasons be, pray? I wonder if anyone here present, or away from here at home in Claines, can give plain reasons. The custom’s been passed on through time, from grandfather to father to son. I would feel no surprise to learn that these turners of the Dream Rock are not sure themselves why they do that turning. No! They turn the thing because it has always been turned, isn’t that so?” He clenched his hands. They made fists as rugged as cobbles. “Oh yes,” he said, “I’ve had advice on this matter, well-meant advice from high places, about letting ancient traditions alone, letting ancient traditions take their course, go on as they have gone so long. And, as you know if you’ve been out at midnight of a fourth of July to watch the turning of that triply cursed rock, you know that never yet have I attended. But—”
One fist raised itself on high.
“I’ll be out there this midnight,” he promised at the top of his lungs. “I’ll be present to forbid that turning, forbid it as it is my duty —my duty as a clergyman, a man of God. And here and now, let me give warning. I am a strong man of God. I have muscles in these arms. God has given me these thews and sinews. He has found it good that I have exercised them, schooled them. I can use them in the service of the right and the true. And—”
Yet another fearsome sweep of his blazing eyes.
“If there are those out tonight who, in spite of my warning, try to turn the Dream Rock, I shall oppose them; I shall resist them! Let my vow to do that go forth in Claines, too!”
With that he fell silent, and the church, too, was silent. He leaned heavily on the pulpit, as though the vigor of his speaking had wearied him. He breathed deeply, drawing in great panting lungfuls of air. Thunstone saw sweat on his brow beneath the tossed fair hair.
When he spoke again, it was quietly, almost tonelessly, to announce the offertory:
'To do good, and to distribute, forget not; for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.”
Mrs. Hawes struck a chord on her organ and began to play a selection that Thunstone did not know. Two men, dressed in suits of consciously decent drab cloth, came forward to take gray plates and return along the aisle, passing the plates along each pew in turn. Thunstone put a five pound note in the plate, noticing as he did so that the plate was of dull pewter with a crude but interesting antique design around its edge. Such a piece, he reflected, was undoubtedly old and rare; a collector would pay a big price for it. When the collection was finished, the two men stood at the head of the aisle and waited.
Rosie sang a solo then, and it was a hymn that Thunstone had always liked, "There is a Green Hill Far Away.” Her voice was pleasant, tuneful. When she was done, the men fetched the plates forward and Gates recognized the offerings with some words of prayer and placed them on the altar.
He then pronounced the benediction. The choir began another hymn, while Gates moved almost hurriedly away toward a rear door. The choir proceeded up the aisle and away, and when the hymn was finished all rose and moved to depart.
Mrs. Fothergill spoke to several acquaintances on the way out, but stayed close to Thunstone, a hand on his arm. Outside the front door, Gates stood, shaking hands with men and women and speaking to them. Mrs. Fothergill made a fluttery occasion of taking his hand.
"What an eloquent sermon, Father Gates,” she bubbled, "but it was a bit frightening, too.”
"So I meant it to be, Mrs. Fothergill,” he assured her readily. "Mr. Thunstone, you kept your promise to attend services.”
"I do my best to keep all my promises,” said Thunstone. "Now, we’re to understand that you’ll be present beside the Dream Rock at midnight. I want to be present, too. That’s why I came to Claines in the first place.”
“And if 1 should need your help, Mr. Thunstone? Your physical help?”
“If you need it, I’ll give it as well as I can.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
At least a dozen men and women stood listening. They stared at Gates, at Thunstone, two big men who were promising to be there at midnight. Hob Sayle was one who watched and listened. After a moment, he strolled to where the Dream Rock lay and gazed thoughtfully down at it.
Gates turned away to speak to another couple. Thunstone and Mrs. Fothergill walked together along Trail Street.
CHAPTER 13
Others who walked on Trail Street met Mrs. Fothergill and Thunstone and spoke to them. Mrs. Fothergill glowed as she exchanged words of greeting. Plainly she was glad to be seen walking with Thunstone. They had almost reached her doorstep when she first mentioned the sermon Gates had delivered.
“Those were powerful words,” she said. “Fighting words, I should call them.”
“He means to stop the turning of the Dream Rock tonight, that’s plain,” said Thunstone.
“And sounded ready to fight,” Mrs. Fothergill went on. “With his fists, I mean.”
“I judge that he can do that,” said Thunstone. “He told me that he had boxed for his university, boxed heavyweight.”
“I don’t know anything about boxing,” confessed Mrs. Fothergill, “but I should fancy that he would be quite good. And you told him you’d help him. Can you box, Mr. Thunstone?”
“I’ve done a little of that in my time.”
They mounted the front steps and went into the hall. “Now,” she said, “you’ll be for dinner with Mr. Ensley. Mightn’t I offer you a glass of something before you go?”
“Thank you, but Mr. Ensley will have drinks, and I’m no heavy drinker.”
“Oh, to be sure. I quite understand. Maybe later this evening, then, before our little supper tonight.” She smiled, as though thoughts of supper pleased her. “Don’t eat too great a dinner; leave some room for the ham and veal pie.”
“I’ll leave room,” he promised.
“And when you come back, you can tell me something about Chimney Pots.” Her smile became conspiratorial. “About who it is who stays there with Mr. Ensley, that woman of mystery.”
“Doesn’t anybody know who she is?” he asked.
“No.” Mrs. Fothergill shook her head. “He brought her here in his car, oh about five months ago. All anybody saw of her was her rich fur coat. And once or twice, there have been glimpses of her, here and there among the trees behind the house.”
“Then she doesn’t come out into the village, to the shops or anywhere?”
“Not she. And Mr. Ensley doesn’t speak of her, and nobody here would think of asking him, wouldn’t ever dream. Nobody knows a thing of her, not even her name.”
“I know that she plays the piano and paints pictures,” said Thunstone. “But I haven’t met her.”
“Well, if you should meet her today, bring back a report, then. I’m so curious.”
Up in his room, Thunstone communed with his pipe. He promised himself an interesting visit to St. Jude’s when the Dream Rock was turned at midnight, and permitted himself to wonder if David Gates, with his sturdy determination and formidable fists, might not be able to prevent that turning. In any case, Thunstone would be there to find out.
He finished smoking his pipe, tapped it out, and slid it into the side pocket of his jacket, along with the pouch that held the mixture of herbs and tobacco. As he stowed the things away, he noticed that his small flashlight was still clipped in his breast pocket. He left it there, picked up his sword cane, and went out.
He strolled slowly along Trail Street. A number of people were out in the bright Sunday air. Fully half a dozen of these spoke to Thunstone, calling him by name. It was as though he were a well-known, well-liked resident of Claines, where actually he had been
for less than three full days. His watch told him that it was almost exactly half-past one when he came opposite Chimney Pots. He crossed over, mounted the wide, low porch and swung the brass knocker on the massive door. He waited. Inside, the piano made music.
Hob Sayle opened the door to him, wearing a white linen jacket.
"Mr. Thunstone,” he said. "Please come in, sir. Mr. Ensley is expecting you.”
"Yes, Mr. Thunstone, come in.” That was Ensley, walking toward him in the entry hall, with the music of the piano behind him. Bach, Thunstone recognized at once, a two-part invention. Ensley was dressed in a tawny jacket and slacks, and in his lapel he wore a tiny pink flower.
"Come in, come in,” he invited again, taking Thunstone’s hand and shaking it.
Thunstone leaned his cane against the stand of armor. He went with Ensley into the drawing room he remembered from his previous visit. The music was there.
A young woman sat at the piano. Thunstone’s first impression was of pallor, pale hair, pale face, a sort of glow like a night-blooming flower. She stopped playing and rose to her feet. She was tall and seemed taller for the high-heeled shoes she wore. Her dress was of soft black fabric and it clung close to her proud, slim figure. A rope of pearls hung around her neck and down upon the soft curve of her bosom.
"Gonda,” Ensley addressed her, "this is Mr. Thunstone. I’ve mentioned him to you.”
"How do you do,” she said in a sweet, deep voice. She had an oval face, creamy-skinned, with a short, pink mouth and eyes somewhat aslant and as blue as the sea on a cloudy day. Her short hair, almost fleecily curly, was so blond as to be almost ashen. She was not an albino, but it took a second look to make sure of that. Thunstone had never seen so light a complexion.
"How do you do, Miss Gonda,” said Thunstone, taking the long, slim hand she held out to him.
"Please,” she said softly, "my name is Gonda, only Gonda. All the name I use.” She spoke with the smallest touch of an accent.
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