"Gonda is Norse,” contributed Ensley. "She is greatly talented in various fields. You have heard her play, and these paintings on the front wall are hers. But sit down and talk for a moment, and won’t you have a trifle of sherry before we eat?”
Thunstone and Gonda sat in armchairs. Ensley went to the sideboard and poured from a tall bottle into stemmed glasses. He offered these, sat down himself, and lifted his own glass. “Cheers,” he said hospitably.
It was an excellent sherry. Thunstone sipped appreciatively, and looked at the paintings Ensley had indicated on the front wall, paintings he had not had time to study on his previous visit.
The largest of them was done rather somberly in dark oils, brown and gray-blue and gray-black, with only touches of brightness in two places. It seemed to be a night scene, with a pale disc of a moon in the gloomy sky and a tag of orange firelight on the ground below. Around the fire crowded figures, darker than the darkness, barely touched by the glow of the fire. To Thunstone, they looked like something he had seen.
“How did you come to paint that, Gonda?” he asked.
“It was what you might call a vision,” she replied. “More or less.”
“And a highly interesting vision it is, wouldn’t you say?” asked Ensley from where he sat. “Don’t you have visions, Mr. Thunstone?”
“Don’t all human creatures have visions?” asked Thunstone in turn. “And don’t the visions become realities sometimes?”
“I can believe that,” said Gonda, her slim white hand poising her sherry glass, while a jewel sparkled on her ring.
“I’m interested in what both of you might say about visions,” said Ensley. “Mr. Thunstone, you and I have touched on the subject before this. We recognized the possibility that Claines is particularly rich in the stuff of visions.”
“I remember,” nodded Thunstone. “And you spoke of times ten thousand years ago, in the Old Stone Age.”
“Ten thousand years ago is an even hundred centuries,” said Ensley. “Claines has been here that long, in some sort of established community. My finds of artifacts, of the traces of old habitations, prove as much.”
“And Chimney Pots?” asked Thunstone.
“Hardly as old as all that.” Ensley smiled. “Stone Age homebuilders had far less elaborate notions of architecture. But Chimney Pots has been recognizable, name and all, for several centuries at least.”
“It has a true feeling of antiquity," offered Gonda.
“Of course, it has gone through changes and alterations," Ensley went on. “But it stands, I feel certain, where once a Stone Age habitation stood."
“Indeed?" said Thunstone.
“After dinner, perhaps, I can show you some evidence of that. Historically, I mean in times of written history, Chimney Pots was some sort of fortress. During the Wars of the Roses, that is, and again during the Civil War—I’m speaking of our Civil War, Mr. Thunstone, not your American one. The place came in for attack but was never taken, not even by Cromwell, who used to take whatever fortress he attempted."
“And your family has always been here," put in Gonda.
“Oh, not quite," put in Ensley. “Nothing has always been here. Earth’s life has been long and various. But we’ve lived here from far back in history; one might say well before history. It is always a younger son who lives at Chimney Pots—the Ensleys have a title and a fairly stately home, a good way off to the north." He sipped at his sherry. “I’m the younger son of my generation, you see. My brother, my elder brother, has only one son and is unlikely to have another. So I feel fairly well established here."
“You and all those younger sons before you," said Thunstone. “Does that succession perhaps go back for those ten thousand years?"
“Exactly," said Ensley. “We have certain family traditions, which we take seriously—written records and oral ones. When I was a boy, my elders instructed me in those oral traditions, made me commit many things to memory."
“For ten thousand years?" asked Thunstone again.
“Why not for ten thousand years? Traditions hang on, don’t you find? Here, may I give you a little more of this sherry?"
“It’s very good, but no thanks."
Thunstone gazed at another of the pictures on the wall. It was an exaggerated representation of a gigantic homed creature, seemingly a bull, in the act of charging at the smaller figure of a man with a poised
spear. The bull seemed to be stuck full of spears. The colors were bright brown and black, with strokes of red.
“That’s an interesting composition,” said Thunstone. “It looks like a painting from a Stone Age cavern.”
“It was suggested by just such a painting,” said Gonda. She twiddled her glass. Again the jewels sparkled on her hand.
“You’ve studied prehistoric paintings?” asked Thunstone, interested.
Hob Sayle plodded in, in his white coat. “Dinner is served,” he proclaimed.
“Thank you,” said Ensley, rising. “Will you come along with me? What we’ll have today is fairly simple, even unimaginative. One might say, a representative company dinner in a plain old English home. But I’ll warrant it’s well cooked. Come on then, follow me.”
He escorted Gonda toward the inner door. Thunstone followed. Ensley seated Gonda at the head of the table, with himself and Thunstone to either side.
Mrs. Sayle brought in a tureen, from which she ladled jellied madrilene into bowls for each. Ensley took up a tall bottle and studied the label.
“Ah yes, this is a Portuguese red article. I found some and thought it quite good,” he said. “I hope you’ll think the same.”
Sayle took the bottle and poured a trifle into Ensley’s glass. Ensley sniffed it expertly, tasted it, and nodded his head. Sayle went to fill Gonda’s glass, then Thunstone’s, then returned to finish filling Ensley’s.
The madrilene was good and flavory. The three of them finished it and Sayle fetched in a great platter with a splendid-looking rib roast of beef. Ensley took up knife and fork and carved with skill.
“Gonda, my dear, I know you prefer a rare inside slice,” he said. “How about you, Mr. Thunstone? Rare, or well done at the end here?”
“I don’t have a choice,” said Thunstone.
Plates were sent along with generous slices of meat. Mrs. Sayle appeared to offer a dish of squares of hot Yorkshire pudding, another of small roast potatoes, still another of brussels sprouts with butter sauce. Everything was excellent.
“You did wrong to call this a simple dinner, Mr. Ensley/' Thunstone said. “It's as fine food as I've had since I came to England.”
“When I was a boy, we had a dinner of this sort every Sunday,” said Ensley. “How glad I am that you enjoy it. Will either of you have more? No? All right then, Mrs. Sayle, the dessert.”
Hob Sayle cleared away the dinner plates, and Mrs. Sayle came in with dishes of strawberries on bits of cake like rich, slightly sweetened American biscuit. The strawberries were crowned with cream so thick as to be clotted, and they were as sweet as sugar. Thunstone praised them, and so did Gonda. Ensley went on with his discussion of the past as they ate.
“I say that my family has traditions that go back too far to be easily believed,” he told them. “Things that have been passed down by word of mouth, from long before the invention of writing. From back when Claines existed here, under what name has not survived, and its men took their stone weapons to hunt deer and geese, and more baleful game like bear and wild cattle and wild swine.”
He said that in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, as though commenting on something that had happened only the other day.
“Yes,” Thunstone agreed, appropriately as he hoped. “Wild cattle and hogs must have been formidable.”
“Formidable's the right word,” said Ensley. “Strong, fierce animals. They must have taken a considerable taming in later centuries, and at the time we speak of they took a considerable killing. No wonder they were both worshipped as symbols of power—the bull and the b
oar. And there were other menaces in those ancient thickets —the bears and wolves. But those men had to hunt if they hoped to eat. There was no agriculture here as yet. Ten thousand years ago, it was having its beginnings in the Middle East, but that old aftermath of the last Ice Age still lingered here—short growing seasons, fierce winters. Nobody grew grain or kept herds. They only hunted. And the women gathered what wild fruits and nuts they could find, and edible leaves and seeds.”
Plainly Ensley expected to be believed. Thunstone could give himself no good reason to doubt.
“And all this is part of your family tradition/’ he said to Ensley. “These people you tell of in the Stone Age, they’re your ancestors.”
“They’re the ancestors of all Britain,” said Ensley. “Celts came in later, and Romans and Saxons and Danes and Normans, to mingle. But the old blood remains.”
“Did any of their language descend?” Thunstone asked. “Naturally they had language. Did some of their words come down to the present?”
“One word at least. A name, to be explicit.” Ensley paused as though for effect. “Gram,” he said suddenly.
Gonda drew in her breath. “Gram,” she repeated. Thunstone waited.
“And so, as you see,” went on Ensley, “my given one is an old one. Back in the beginning, it was the name of a god. There has always been someone named Gram in my family.” He turned his gaze on Thunstone. “Do you think I’m talking foolishness?” he challenged.
“I hope that I’ve indicated no such thing,” said Thunstone.
“See here,” said Ensley, “if we’ve all had enough dinner, why don’t we go back to the sitting room for our coffee? We can talk more comfortably there. And if you remain skeptical, perhaps I can manage to convince you.”
They rose with him and walked back to the sitting room together. Hob Sayle followed, balancing a silver tray with a coffee pot, three delicate china cups, a cream jug, and a sugar bowl. He set the tray on a central table.
“Now, Hob, will you bring in that decanter of brandy?” said Ensley. “Sit down, please. Gonda, maybe you’ll pour for us.”
Gonda filled the cups. “Cream?” she asked Thunstone. “Sugar?”
“Neither, I thank you,” he replied, taking his cup. Gonda and Ensley both took cream and sugar. Hob Sayle brought in another tray, with a tall dark bottle and three little silver cups, not greatly larger than thimbles. Ensley unstoppered the bottle and filled the little cups. He lifted his own.
“I’ll propose a toast, and I hope you’ll join me,” he said. “I drink to the nature of reality.”
They drank. The brandy, too, was excellent. They returned to their coffee.
“Will you take a good cigar, Mr. Thunstone?” invited Ensley.
“Thank you, I have my pipe,” said Thunstone.
Gonda chose a long white cigarette from an enameled box on the coffee table. Thunstone filled his pipe and Ensley lighted a cigar. They finished their coffee as they talked.
“I’ll admit, Mr. Thunstone, that some of my claims sound extravagant,” said Ensley. “About how old Claines is, and how old my people are in Claines. Gonda here has heard me on the subject, and I think she’s more apt to credit me.”
“I haven’t questioned anything, have I?” Thunstone appealed. “I’m intrigued, naturally, but that’s all. I take a great interest in everything you say here.”
“We have spoken of visions,” reminded Ensley. “Visions of ancient times, back beyond man’s memory. Gonda can speak to those if she will.”
“Yes,” said Gonda, blowing out a pale thread of cigarette smoke. “I have always been able to see into the past. Yes, I paint and play the piano, and I have been on the stage, but I am also a psychic. I have demonstrated that fact to scholars of the occult.”
“Which is how I met her, in Stockholm,” contributed Ensley. “Which is why I have invited her to Claines, to help in my study of beginnings here. And she has been most helpful. You’ve admired her paintings, Mr. Thunstone. I wonder, I dare ask myself, if there isn’t something in them that you find—shall we say—reminiscent.”
He watched Thunstone expectantly. Thunstone looked at the paintings.
“I suppose it’s time for me to admit that I’ve had sensations of what Claines used to be,” said Thunstone. “I’ve never called myself psychic, but I’ve done considerable research in the field of the supernormal. At night here, when it’s fully dark, I’ve felt the force of antiquities.”
“Felt,” Ensley echoed him. “Felt. And perhaps seen?”
“Well, yes. That, too.”
“You have seen,” said Ensley, frankly eager. “I knew it from what you’ve said and what you’ve left unsaid.”
“Have I been as obvious as all that?” asked Thunstone.
“It may be that I recognize the sensitivity in you,” said Ensley. “Because I, too, can see into a far backward reach of man’s life on earth.”
“I’ve told you that Constance Bailey can do the same.”
“Constance Bailey would have been invited here long ago,” Ensley half snorted, “but she’s chosen to be my enemy. She claims witch powers, second sight. She’s tried to spread rumors about me. She’s tried to use spells against me. I’ve cast her out. Nor do I hold with David Gates’s pretenses to scholarship about this community and its history and prehistory. I’ve heard that he threatened in his sermon today to be downright violent at the turning of the Dream Rock tonight.”
“Yes,” said Thunstone. “He was quite emphatic.”
“Hardly the way for a churchman to act and speak,” said Ensley. “And you, sir, you promised to come and help him.”
Hob Sayle must have run to Ensley with that news.
“I did say that I’d be there,” admitted Thunstone.
Gonda had refilled their brandy cups. “May I offer a toast?” she said. “To no violence.”
“Hear, hear,” said Ensley, and again they drank together. Ensley got up.
“Mr. Thunstone,” he said, “it’s high time for me to show you that I don’t speak idly about records going back to Stone Age times.”
“Ten thousand years ago,” said Thunstone once more.
“That long ago, if you wish. Will you and Gonda come with me, then, down into the cellars of Chimney Pots? I promise that you’ll find them interesting.”
CHAPTER 14
Ensley raised his voice: “Hob Sayle!” he called.
Sayle came from the dining room. “Sir?”
“Get those electric lanterns,” ordered Ensley. “Both of them.” “Yes, sir.” Sayle bustled away somewhere and was back with the lanterns. They were impressive lanterns, a foot and a half high, with tubular glass all the way around and bails to carry them by.
“Give me one,” said Ensley, reaching his hand for it. “You keep the other. Now then, Gonda, Mr. Thunstone, follow me.”
They went into the hall, Sayle bringing up the rear. Ensley led the way to where, at the back, rose a massive door of ancient varnished planks. It had a dull brass lock, in which was a key that looked hand- hammered. Ensley turned the key. The lock rasped powerfully and Ensley drew the door toward him and went into darkness beyond. As he did so he turned on the light he carried.
“Be careful on these steps,” he warned. “They're very old—how old they are is one of the things I can't surely tell you about Chimney Pots. But Ensleys were using them before the time of Elizabeth. The first Elizabeth, I mean, the great Elizabeth. Turn on your lantern too, Hob.”
Sayle obeyed. Ensley went downward, between masonry walls that clung close on both sides of a narrow descent. Thunstone looked back at Gonda, but she motioned him to go ahead of her, then she followed. Sayle came behind her. The glow of the two electric lanterns danced and crept around them. The steps under Thunstone's soles were narrow and rough, and he was careful in his going down. Gonda's hand rested on his shoulder.
“I’ve been here before,” said her voice in his ear, “but it's a dubious descent.”
�
��Yes,” he agreed.
They came out on some sort of landing. The walls were farther apart here. To either side, Thunstone saw shelves cut into rock, and upon them rows of bottles, lying flat, one upon the other.
“Our wine cellar,” Ensley informed them. “My people have always been serious about their wine. Even during the war, we were able to keep a good selection here.”
“The wine we had at dinner was splendid,” said Thunstone.
“But we’re on our way to an older selection yet,” said Ensley. “Come on, and here we have more stairs. Be rather careful of these, too.”
He was right in giving that warning. The steps beyond the wine cellar seemed to be uneven slabs and chunks of rock, roughly plastered into place, and the walls to either side were not of masonry. They seemed to be steep faces of rough stone. Thunstone kept a hand on the one to his right, and Gonda fairly clutched his shoulder. They followed Ensley down, down. Thunstone counted more than thirty steps to another fairly flat surface below.
“Here we are, then,” proclaimed Ensley. “More or less.”
He lifted his lantern high. Thunstone could see a sort of gallery, rock walls and ceiling that had the look of some ancient wash of water. The walls looked splotched.
“Mr. Thunstone, you and I have touched on the fact that nobody knows of any important cave paintings in Britain,” Ensley was saying. “That’s because nobody has been allowed to see these except for members of my family. Oh yes, Gonda has been down here, and you’ve seen an effort she made to do a picture inspired by them. But except for her, you’re something of a first here.”
He took a couple of steps forward and directed his light on a rise of the wall. “Here,” he said, “what do you think of this?”
Thunstone, too, came forward. He looked and Gonda came beside him and looked.
Over the rock was spread a huge picture that at once jogged his memory. It was done in primitive tints, blacks and browns and reds, perhaps worked up from earths of various colors. There the whole scene was, the mighty bull with spears jutting from it, blood pouring from it, charging at the hunter who poised another spear for a cast. A study of that scene was upstairs in Ensley’s drawing room.
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