by Dion Fortune
“Good Lord, what's that got to do with it?”
“You want to wake the Old Gods, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, go where the Old Gods are accustomed to be worshipped.”
“But then surely one would go to Avebury itself, or Stonehenge?”
“Too much of a tourist show. You would get no seclusion. No, the lines of force between the power centres are much better for your purpose. You will get quite enough power without being overwhelmed by it.”
“If there is so much power knocking about, why aren't the local yokels bowled over by it?”
“Because they don't think about it. You only contact these things if you think about them. But you will find that people living at these power-centres simply hate any mention of the Unseen. It rubs their fur the wrong way and makes them writhe. That is their reaction to the invisible forces. Ask Glastonbury what it thinks of Bligh Bond if you want to see people really savage.”
“I'd as soon ask them what they thought of John Cowper Powys. It's been my experience that a prophet is not only without honour, but without reputation in his own place.”
“You aren't expecting to preserve any reputation, are you, if you go in for this sort of thing? Because if you plant yourself down in a country place and do anything out of the ordinary, people will think the very worst.”
“The worse, the better. The one thing I want to be spared is local society.”
A slow smile spread over Mona Wilton's face as she bent over the map.
“You will be spared that all right,” she said.
“Well now, look here, I've got my finger on Avebury, what next?”
“Put the edge of the ruler on it and revolve it slowly. Where is it now?”
“One end's on Cornwall and the other to the north of London.”
“Can you see Tintagel?”
“Yes, it's just north of my ruler.”
“Then bring the ruler onto Tintagel. That's the western power-centre. Now draw a line right across the map to Avebury.”
Hugh ran the pencil down the ruler.
“Now project your line to St Albans. Is that straight?”
“Dead straight. It's one line.”
“St Albans is the eastern power-centre. Now take St Albans Head in Dorset, and lay your ruler from there to Lindisfarne, off the Northumberland coast. Does that pass through Avebury?”
“Yes.”
“Lindisfarne is the northern power-centre. So you see, if you take a line through Avebury from either Lindisfarne or Tintage1, you end up with a St Albans. Odd, isn't it?”
“Yes, it's odd. But I don't quite see why it's odd.”
“St Alban was the first British saint.”
“Look here, we don't want any saints in this business.”
“Don't you realise that these prehistoric saints are really the Old Gods with a coat of whitewash? Do you know that somewhere in the neighbourhood—sometimes actually in the crypts of the oldest cathedrals—the ones with some Saxon work in them, you invariably find traces of the old sun-worship?”
“What's the reason for that?”
“It's quite simple and natural if you think it out. The old pagan Britons were in the habit of having fairs when they assembled at their holy centres for the big sun festivals. The fairs went on just the same, whether they were pagan or Christian, and the missionary centres grew up where the crowds came together. When the king was converted, they just changed the Sun for the Son. The common people never knew the difference. They went for the fun of the fair and took part in the ceremonies to bring good luck and make the fields fertile. How were they to know the difference between Good Friday and the spring ploughing festival? There was a human sacrifice on both occasions.”
“‘Plus fa change, plus c'est la même chose’,” said Hugh.
“Precisely.”
“So when you want to get on the track of the Old Gods, you sniff round the heels of the dean and chapter because you know they won't be very far off?”
“Yes, that's it. You see, where people have been in the habit of reaching out towards the Unseen, they wear a kind of track, and it's much easier to go out that way.”
“But surely to goodness the dean and chapter would exorcise the whole affair with bell, book and candle if they knew?”
“Of course they would, and that's why we who worship the Old Gods use the lines of force between the power-centres, and not the power-centres themselves because those power-centres have all been exorcised long ago. But they didn't know enough to know of the lines of force, so they never exorcised those.”
“How did they exorcise them?”
“They put up chapels dedicated to St Michael, whose function is to keep down the forces of the underworld, and had perpetual adoration there. There is one right on top of Glastonbury Tor; and another on St Michael's Mount in Cornwall; and a third on Mont St Michel in Brittany, and those three make a perfect triangle. And I'll tell you a funny thing about the one on top of Glastonbury Tor. The body of the church fell down in an earthquake and left the tower standing. And a standing tower is one of the symbols of the Old Gods, so the Devil had the best of it down there.”
“Are the Old Gods synonymous with the Devil?”
“Christians think they are.”
“What do you think they are?”
“I think they're the same thing as the Freudian subconscious.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Now I wonder what you mean by that?”
“Shall we get on with our house-hunting? Now the best place to get the kind of experiences you want is on the chalk. If you think of it, you know, all the earliest civilisation in these islands was on the chalk. Turn over the page and look at the geological map, and see where that line of yours runs through the chalk.”
“It runs through quite a lot of chalk, doesn't it? Avebury's on the chalk; and St Albans is on the chalk.”
“Well, anywhere on that line, where it runs through the chalk will serve your purpose.”
“That's narrowed the field of search down very satisfactorily. Now what's the next move?”
“Get a large-scaleordnance map and look for standingstones and hammer-pools.”
“What in the world are standing-stones?”
“They are supposed to be the altars of ancient sacrifices, but as a matter of fact, they are the sighting-marks on these lines of force between the power-centres. The stones on the high places, and the hammer-pools in the bottoms.”
“I thought hammer-pools were to do with ancient forges.”
“You get hammer-pools in parts where there is no iron, so they can't be.”
“Then what did ancient man dam the streams for?”
“Because water shows up in a valley bottom among trees, where stones wouldn't. Then, you see, he sights from one to another, and gets a dead straight line across country. You know the Long Man, cut out of the turf on the chalk downs ? You remember he has a staff in each hand? Well, those are the pair of sighting-staffs that are used for marking out these lines. These lines criss-cross all over England just like a crystalline structure. You can work them out on any large-scale ordnance map by means of the place-names and standing-stones and earthworks.”
“But look here, you know, my idea is to do an invocation of Pan. What has all this got to do with Pan?”
“Well, what is Pan?”
“God knows. I don't.”
“You don't suppose he's half a goat, any more than Jehovah is an old man with a gold crown and a long white beard, who made man out of mud, do you?”
“To tell you the honest truth, I've never thought about it. The one's just as much a name to me as the other.”
“But they both represent something, you know. They're—they're factors.”
“They can please 'emselves about that. I only know I get a kick out of the idea of Pan, and I get none out of the idea of Jehovah since I outgrew Hell. But never mind the metaphysics. Let's get on with the house.”
“But it's applied metaphysics you're aiming at.”
“I don't know anything about that either. I'm afraid it's beyond me. I must leave that to you and Mr Jelkes. Now look here, what's the next item on the programme? Go house-hunting along this line of villages on the chalk? Who's going to do it?”
“I will, if you wish.”
“How will you manage about transport?”
“Green Line buses, and then walk.”
“That's a slow and weary business. Supposing I run you round in my car, and then we can look at them together?”
“That is very kind of you.”
A movement in the background caught Mona's eye, and glancing up, she saw the old bookseller's vulture head come round the jamb of the kitchen door and eye her reproachfully.
Jelkes evidently considered he had done enough washing- up for one night, and that it was his duty to return and keep a hand on things, so he sat himself down in his usual chair and registered all the psychological symptoms of a hen whose ducklings take to water. After that, conversation languished.
CHAPTER X
AT ten o'clock precisely Mona Wilton presented herself at the second-hand bookshop, clad in her brown tweed coat with the coney collar and her little knitted cap. Outside the door stood an open two-seater of the kind that is used for racing. It had the minutest windscreen and no hood. Mona gazed at it apprehensively; her tweed coat was of the cheapest, with little warmth in it, and the day was bleak.
She entered the shop and found Hugh and the old bookseller still at their breakfast. She was offered a cup of tea, and accepted it. Old Jelkes quietly cut her a thick slice of bread and marmalade, and she accepted that too.
Hugh rose from the table and girded himself into a heavy leather motoring coat; fitted a leather racing helmet onto his head, and pulled a big pair of wool-lined gauntlets onto his hands.
“Now we're ready,” he said. Mona acquiesced. They went out into the street.
“I must apologise for the car,” said Hugh. “I had forgotten I'd only got this one when I offered you transport.”
Mona remembered what had happened to the other car, and she guessed from his face that he was thinking of the same thing.
They entered the two-seater. She had a beautiful llama-wool rug round her knees, but the cold wind cut like a knife through the upper half of her as the car whipped into the main road. To her surprise, they turned east instead of west. The car twisted through the traffic like a hound, and then came to an abrupt standstill outside the magnificent premises of a firm of motor accessory dealers. Hugh Paston got out. Mona, supposing he was going to get something for the car. stopped where she was.
“Corne along,” said Hugh, opening the low door for her. She got out meekly and followed him. One does not argue with clients.
He led the way through the region of lamps and horns and came out where rows of leather coats hung on stands.
“I want a coat for this lady,” he said to the shopwalker.
Mona gasped. Opened her mouth to slay him. Shut it again in bewilderment and stared at him in speechless protest. He turned to her with a melancholy smile on his face.
“Don't worry,” he said. “This means nothing to me. I've got a lot more than I know what to do with. You can leave the coat in the car if you don't want to take it, but I can't stand watching you shiver.”
Mona could not find a word to reply. Every instinct of the independent professional woman was against accepting the gift, and yet she was profoundly touched by the way it was done. The man's manner conveyed the impression that he had not the slightest expectation of being liked for himself; that he had not the slightest expectation of receiving any gratitude for anything he might do. Before she could find her tongue, the assistant returned with an armful of coats.
Mona's eye fell on a sober nigger brown, but Hugh Paston put out his hand and picked up a fold of vivid jade green.
“I rather like the look of this, don't you?”
“Oh no,” said Mona. “It's much too bright for me.”
“You are a funny person. You're supposed to be an artist and know all about colours, and yet you go and wear the things that kill you dead.”
“I know. Uncle Jelkes is always grumbling at me. But it isn't because I like them. It's from motives of economy.”
“Let's cut a dash for once. Try this green. I think you'll like it.”
She allowed herself to be strapped into the jade green coat. In the pocket was a soft leather helmet with a chinstrap which gave a curiously elf-like effect, framing the girl's straight-cut black hair and olive-skinned face.
Hugh Paston looked down at her thoughtfully.
“Do you know, I think that's a very appropriate kit in which to go and look for Pan,” he said.
It was a very different matter, driving in the camellined leather coat to what it was driving in her thin little worn-out wrap. The car, roaring in second, whipped in and out of the traffic. Mona was interested in watching how Hugh Paston handled it. One can learn a great deal about a man by watching the way he handles a car. She saw that he knew exactly what he was about with a car, what he could do with it, and what he could ask of it, and that he relied quite as much on his accelerator as on his brakes to get him out of a tight corner, which is a thing that reveals the calibre of a driver. He was in sympathy with the car, and seemed to rely on the car's sympathetic response. He was, in fact, in far closer touch with the inanimate machine than with human beings. The one thing he did not appear to expect from human beings was sympathy. His whole attitude seemed to say: ‘I know I bore you. I don't expect you to like me; but I am quite used to not being liked, and I don't mind it.’ There was no resentment, no reaction; just a tacit acceptance of solitude. She wondered what experiences had made him what he was, and what rebellion against life had led to this breaking-out in the quest of Pan.
She realised very clearly that the man beside her was by no means in a normal state at the moment, and wondered what he might be like when he was himself. Between his sudden flare-ups of animation he was curiously negative. She got the impression that this negativeness was his habitual attitude; and yet it did not seem to her that it could be considered normal. He gave her the impression of a man who had given life up as a bad job; and yet in his position he had only to formulate a wish in order to gratify it. Now she had been on the point of giving life up as a bad job because the struggle to keep her head above water was too severe. If she had had this man's resources, she thought, she would have lived with a most amazing fullness of life. She had no realisation of the enervating effect of great wealth, or the victimisation to which its owner is subjected. She knew that the usual attitude of a rich man, especially one who has not been the architect of his own fortune, is to suspect everyone who is more than decently civil of trying to get a hand in his pocket. But Hugh Paston's attitude seemed to be: ‘It is only natural for you to have your hand in my pocket, and I don't expect it to be anywhere else. My money is very little use to me. If it is any use to you, you are welcome to it.’ She felt that he gave freely to all who asked, expecting no return-and got what he expected. There suddenly arose in her an ardent desire to protect him from exploitation.
With a car like Hugh Paston's, and handled in the way he handled it, they were not long before they got clear of the London streets into an arterial road. Hugh changed into top gear, the car settled down to a steady snore, and conversation became possible.
“How far out shall we run before we start househunting?” said the man to his companion as the scanty weekday traffic thinned out behind them.
“We must run clear of London's aura,” came the answer in an unexpectedly rich speaking-voice that rang above the rush of the wind and the roar of the car without effort.
“How far is that?”
“It varies on the different roads. Barren soil and rising ground both break it. I will tell you when we clear it.”
They travelled on for some time in silence.
“Are we clear of i
t yet?” said Hugh presently.
“No, not yet. It strings out along this valley bottom with the ribbon-building. I expect all the folk in these little red houses go up to London every day. Look, turn down one of these lanes. We'll soon get away from it now if we leave the main road.”
Hugh swung the car into a narrow by-lane that dipped to the valley bottom where a marshy stream ran amid osiers, crossed a hump-backed bridge, and began to climb steeply up the far flank of the valley. Presently they found themselves coming out onto a wide common. Everything was brown and sear up here, though first green had been showing in the hedges of the main road. The sparse growth of Scotch firs broke the sky-line; a scanty sprinkling of birches marked the wide expanse here and there, and the blackened stems of a burnt-out patch of gorse writhed as if in perpetual agony, the tins and bottles of many picnics revealed among them. It was not a prepossessing spot.
“We are still too near the main-road,” said Mona.
“This is where London slops over on a Sunday.”
They left the common behind them and dipped into another but shallower valley, little more than a depression between two ridges, and found themselves suddenly in rural England. The average picnicking motorist had gone no further than the first bit of open ground. Here was unspoiled country. They followed a winding lane between high hedges that opened every now and then to give a glimpse of plough-land. Then the ground rose again, and plough gave place to pasture. The gradient grew steeper, and pasture gave place to open common with a few geese walking about. A hamlet strung out along one side of the common, and as they drove towards it an old dame in a sun-bonnet waddled slowly down the road with a bucket in her hand and began to agitate the handle of a pump.
“By gum,” said Hugh, “this is primitive if you like.”
“Not as primitive as it might be,” said Mona. “They are lucky to have a pump. They might only have a bucket and windlass. Now keep a look-out for the village shop, for that is where we shall be able to pick up some information.”