The Hearing Trumpet

by Leonora Carrington

  Behold the Wise One is robber of Her Holy Vessel which lies in bondage of the Sterile Brothers, which lies empty and forsaken of the most miraculous Pneuma.

  Woe unto the children of earth who worship a trinity of men. Woe unto the Sterile Brothers who have torn the cup from Her keeping.

  This ambiguous document was unsealed, but the quality of the papyrus must have been of ancient date. The second scroll was also unsigned and written by some unknown hand:

  Et volabo cum ea in coelo et dicam tunc. Vivo ego in aeternum. Foreign Strangers have entered the Rath of Conor [evidently the name of the fortress where the Knights Templar were gathered since the persecution]. A Spanish noble accompanied by a corpulent French Bishop from Provence. They have come to solicit initiation into the Order of the Knights Templar.

  The Grand Master is making a preliminary examination of the travellers.

  Satisfaction has been granted to the Spanish noble, Don Rosalendo de Tartaro. He is to begin instruction under Sir Aillen. The case of the Bishop is being withheld for further inspection.

  The Rath of Conor has been shaken by an earthquake and the community is just regaining an orderly routine which was thrown into chaos from the shock. A subterranean murmur is still audible from the bowels of the earth.

  The rumors from underground still prevail and are said to issue from the vault where we keep the Arcanum.

  The Grand Master has called a General Assembly in the Octagonal Chamber, we believe the subterranean murmur is connected with the Arcanum. The Grand Master will no doubt illuminate us further on the alarming occurrence.

  A wandering bard seeking shelter has just arrived at the Rath of Conor, he calls himself Taliessin.

  The Grand Master has informed us that the vault of the Arcanum is to be opened after being sealed for the last two hundred years. This momentous decision was taken last night after a conference lasting for five hours.

  The Bard Taliessin has kept us amused with humourous songs of the earthquake. He has improvised a ballad telling that the Arcanum has stirred in its sleep because of the arrival of a lady. This made us all laugh merrily. No woman has entered the Rath of Conor since it was donated to the Order by the Moorheads.

  Tonight we are to draw lots in order that fate shall decide who shall enter the dreaded vault alone and unaccompanied according to the tradition.

  Sir Sean of Liath is to be the first Knight Templar to enter the vault of the Arcanum since it was sealed by Sir Rufus two hundred years ago after the mysterious death of twelve Knights of the Order.

  Sir Sean of Liath will meditate all night by the Altar of the Spear before his ordeal.

  He will be purified with water from the well of Annwn and wear the silver sword won by the Knights Templar from the conquered people of the Sidhe.

  Terrible happenings have plunged the Rath of Conor into deep mourning. Four of the most honoured Knights of the Order have been blasted to the death.

  After the vault was ritually unsealed by the Grand Master each successive knight to enter the chamber of the Arcanum has met a frightful and inexplicable death.

  Each one has issued from the dread chamber convulsed and raving of a frightful horned apparition that glitters as of burnished gold. Then with blood pouring from their eyes and mouth they expire cursing the Grail.

  May God Have Mercy on Their Souls.

  Sir Sean of Liath, Sir Thomas Vervin, Sir Stanislaus Brath, Sir Wilfred Donnegan. All have met untimely and fearful ends. They will be buried with all the honours of the Order in the East Crypt.

  Taliessin sings that only a lady may enter the presence of the Horned God and come to no harm. An unknown stranger from the nether world is to come and replenish the cup. All this sounds like talk of the Sidhe with whom Taliessin may be secretly allied.

  To our general consternation Don Rosalendo de Tartaro has volunteered to enter the vault of the Arcanum. This would be excessively unorthodox as he is not yet ordained.

  However since this brave cavalier will be unlikely to survive the adventure general opinion is in favour of allowing him a glorious death and ordination on the deathbed.

  Taliessin sings a curious roundelay which sounds like advice for Don Rosalendo.

  It is increasingly probable that the Bard had dealings with the Sidhe although this would be impossible to prove.

  The refrain of his roundelay bids the Spanish cavalier carry “Something to strike and cut and bind.” He then refers to something feathered “to be born,” which may mean some kind of bird.

  Don Rosalendo has entered the twelve-hour meditation in his own apartments. He has solicited the use of the silver sword of the Sidhe, a willow branch and a length of rope. He will carry a small flacon of a substance he refuses to name and which is of his personal property. He carries seven flacons of this substance in an ebony casket engraved with luminous unicorns.

  We are anticipating the Death of the brave Spaniard with heavy hearts, “et invenitur in omni loco et in quolibet tempore et apud omnem rem, cum inquisitio aggravat inquirentem.”

  The Spaniard has emerged Alive from the dreaded Vault. The triumph of a layman over Ordained Knights Templar is causing much discussion.

  Six Knights and the Grand Master witnessed the entry of Don Rosalendo Tartaro into the Arcanum chamber where he passed three whole hours behind closed doors.

  Finally he emerged, smiling, unscathed and emitting a pale blue light. He still bore the Sidhe sword and the willow branch, but the flacon and cord had been left behind in the chamber.

  According to traditional ritual he was searched at sword’s point and to our unbounded horror we found he carried the Grail itself concealed under his cloak. Four of the knights fell prostrate on their faces while one fled. The Grail emitted a luminous essence impossible to behold. The sixth Knight, Sir Pheneton, held his ground and obliged Don Rosalendo to return the cup to the vault under pain of death should he refuse.

  After much deliberation the Grand Master has decided to spare the life of Don Rosalendo for his Gallantry. However for Sacrilegious Dishonesty Don Rosalendo has been requested to leave the Rath of Conor immediately together with the Bishop and all their luggage, never to return, under pain of execution.

  The Bard Taliessin will accompany them at his own request.

  Sir Pheneton Sanderson has been awarded the Iron Pentagon for his valiant conduct. The subterranean murmur has entirely ceased and all is as still as death in the vault.

  These documents concerning the sojourn of the Abbess abroad are so incomplete that many mysteries are unexplained. Since I found the two scrolls amongst her personal effects after her death I suppose she must have stolen them from the fortress of Rath of Conor. How this was achieved only Doña Rosalinda could know.

  As I already said, two years passed before the Abbess returned to Spain. A courier preceded her arrival by some seven days, bearing a message that all should be prepared for her imminent arrival at Santa Barbara de Tartarus. Some apprehension and a great deal of excitement prevailed throughout the community.

  When she finally arrived however few of the nuns witnessed her entry into the convent, for the hour was before dawn, the zero hour, as they say. My own apartment happening to be situated over the main Zaguan, I was woken by the sound of horse and coach. Dressing hurriedly, I descended to welcome Doña Rosalinda back to the convent.

  Although the Abbess was swathed in a long dark cloak it was impossible to mistake the fact that she carried an enormous belly, at least twice the size of an ordinary pregnancy and in the ninth month before delivery.

  When the servants had transported all Doña Rosalinda’s effects into the octagonal tower she herself retired inside, walking slowly and laboriously. Mother Gastélum de Xavier attended her during the last three days of her life.

  The third day I was summoned to the tower by Sister Fabiolina, who had taken the responsibility upon her own sho
ulders to call me, having fallen into a state of collapse on having witnessed the terrible events in the tower.

  The Abbess was lying in her death agony, the hour was midnight. I still shake with ague when the terrible sight returns before my mind’s eye. For Doña Rosalinda, who had always been a thin woman, had swollen to such a monstrous size as to resemble a small whale, and she had turned coal black. The swelling process had attained its utmost dimension and she slowly floated into the air, where she remained suspended for a moment. Then a sudden quaking came over the body, followed by a report louder than any known cannon and an explosion of such violence that I was thrown against the wall. All that remained of the Abbess of Santa Barbara de Tartarus was a morsel of damp black skin no larger than a pocket handkerchief, and this lay on the bed.

  Pungent fumes so heavy as to resemble a thundercloud, and with a most dreadful stench, filled the death chamber. Reeling from the shock of this most awesome spectacle, I did not at once become aware of a small object or luminous body, suspended and flapping in the density of the fumes. A short period passed before I recognized a boy, no bigger than a barn owl, luminously white and winged, that fluttered near the ceiling. He bore a bow and arrows but the penetrating light that issued from his body prevented me from a more detailed examination. The stench of the gasses released from the dead Abbess had now turned into a heavy and most exquisite perfume, like Musc and jasmine.

  At this moment the terrified sisters, having heard the frightful explosion of Doña Rosalinda, rushed into the Tower, accompanied by Monseñor Rodriguez Zepeda, a priest from Madrid. All that they witnessed was the perfume, or Odour of Sanctity as they called it, and a momentary vision of the winged boy who disappeared up the spiral staircase into the observatory and was no more to be seen. Of course they took him to be an angel.

  The awkward fact that the Abbess left only a morsel of dark skin as the remains of her mortal body did not deter the sisters from proclaiming her a saint. On the contrary, they held that she had ascended to Heaven like the Blessed Virgin, leaving only an angel and the Odour of Sanctity behind. The scrap of skin was laid out amongst roses and lilies and afterwards interred in a magnificent coffin big enough to hold three Abbesses. The burial was performed in the convent crypt which I believe I already mentioned.

  Monseñor Rodriguez Zepeda and fifty nuns had all witnessed the scene after the explosion of the Abbess, therefore any testimony I might have volunteered would never have turned their conviction that the miracles were indeed from Heaven and not from the depths of Hell, as I know beyond doubt.

  This document was written by Dominico Eucaristo Deseos, ancient confessor of the Convent of Santa Barbara de Tartarus, burned at the stake at the age of ninety-seven by Order of the Pope . . . . . . . . . . [Name illegible.]

  In te inimicos nostros ventilabimus cornu. Et in nomine tuo spernemus insurgentes in nobis. Cornu veru nostrum Christus est, idem et nomen Patris in quo adversaris nostri vel ventilantur vel spernuntur.

  A footnote written in cramped writing and faded ink bore the following words:

  Putrefactio without which triumph of the opus cannot be attained.

  Cup and Pneuma for release of SS.

  “And it hath changed my darkness into light, and it hath rent the chaos which surrounded me.”

  ――

  Here ends the tractate of Doña Rosalinda.

  By hanging a blanket over the window I was able to read the entire script without betraying the fact that the light was on well into the small hours of the morning.

  So this was the history of the Winking Abbess. I must say I was not disappointed, although I found her final disintegration somewhat depressing. During the narrative I had become affectionately attached to the intrepid and energetic Abbess. The fact that the snooping priest, Dominico Eucaristo Deseos, had done his best to portray her in a pernicious light, hardly distorted the purity of her original image. She must have been a most remarkable woman.

  I longed to question Christabel Burns further. How, for instance, had the portrait of the Abbess come to America, and why was it hanging here in the Institution? I meant to question Christabel after sunrise, as soon as I could find her. Events turned out in such a manner however that I was unable to talk to Christabel for some days; indeed during this period few of us would have considered any other subject of discussion than the dramatic circumstances which I am now to relate.

  •

  Owing to my perusal of the history of the Abbess I overslept and was woken by Anna Wertz. She was talking and gesticulating as she shook me awake. An excited state being the usual condition of Anna Wertz, I did not take any particular notice until she handed me my hearing trumpet and forced it, so to speak, into position.

  “I had just dropped in to ask her advice about a piece of embroidery I intended to apply on some velvet I happened to have for some time, a fine piece of velvet in its way, and really looked like new although I must have had it before I came here. As you know I never get a moment of time to myself to take the smallest recreation and I do enjoy just sitting alone and sewing beads into some fanciful sort of flower, but people cannot be expected to understand one gets more pleasure from being alone and working at something inspired than just running off one’s feet at all sorts of tasks which really are the responsibility of other people.”

  Banging the table with my hearing trumpet, I shouted: “For the love of peace Anna come to the point, what ails you?” Experience had taught me that any kind of diffidence in dealing with Anna’s monologues was doomed beforehand.

  “Well you really don’t have to shout, I was just about to explain how she came running out like an escaped steam roller and grabbed me, gibbering, literally gibbering and before I had time to resist, you know how strong she is, she pulled me inside the bungalow and of course the poor thing was stiff and dead, I was so extremely shocked . . .”

  “Anna,” I yelled, now thoroughly frightened, “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

  “Why about Poor Maude, can’t you understand, she died during the night, and we are all so upset and as I knew you were friendly with her there I was banging away on your door but nothing seemed to wake you up. Then poor Natacha, you know how very sensitive she is? Well she has had to retire to bed she is so terribly shocked and sad that Dr. Gambit has had to give her sleeping tablets, at least three, although I never did notice that she was such a great friend of Poor Maude, did you?”

  No indeed I had not, but I did see the chocolate fudge like an apparition. Chocolate fudge containing something out of a packet that had been meant for somebody else. Poor Maude with her dainty flowered blouses and Ame de rose face powder. Her peach crêpe-de-Chine cami-knickers which we all envied and which had taken her six months to sew. Timid, sensitive Maude, the only one of our number that had in any way resembled the Dear Old Lady of Tradition, with fluffy white hair, pink cheeks and white teeth. False of course, but white.

  It was easy to picture poor Maude sitting under a bower of rambling roses in some old-world garden full of hollyhocks and lavender, sewing dainty cami-knickers through all eternity.

  I was deeply shocked by the terrible news. Especially as I might have saved her life if only I had warned her when I saw her emerging out of Natacha’s igloo, and gone to seek medical attention immediately.

  This put me in a dreadfully awkward situation. Should I repeat what I had seen in the kitchen between Natacha and Mrs. Van Tocht? Obviously it seemed best to inform Dr. Gambit immediately, especially as Natacha and Mrs. Van Tocht might continue making chocolate fudge, having failed to extinguish their victim at the first attempt. This, of course, would make Dr. Gambit wonder why I had been peeking through the window myself, and there was no dignified explanation that I could think of. Common greed or inquisitive nosiness were the obvious conclusions. Perhaps Mrs. Van Tocht and Natacha would go to gaol. I knew of no age limit for imprisonment, especially if it concerned murder; it would still
be murder, I supposed, even if they got the wrong victim. In England they would no doubt have undergone capital punishment, in which case I would have to risk saying nothing at all, as nobody could convince me of the morality in deliberately sending somebody to their death.

  The whole affair was most disturbing. Poor Maude, I might have saved her.

  In the meantime I was fully dressed, but felt no real appetite for breakfast. Anna Wertz was telling me something: “We could easily climb on the roof and look through the skylight, there is a small ladder at the back of the bungalow which is used when the gutters have to be cleaned out. They never seem to clean them out but the ladder is still there. I would like to get a look at poor Maude because we will never see her again. Such a fragile little woman.”

  Anna was suggesting that we should climb on the roof and spy on Maude’s corpse. Horrible and dishonest, from anybody else’s point of view, but who would ever expect two old ladies to be perched on a roof?

  We had to push our way through a lot of undergrowth in order to be able to approach the bungalow without being seen. I felt as if we were playing at boy scouts. The ladder at the back of the bungalow seemed alarmingly old and the wood looked rotten. Anna Wertz, who had stopped talking for the first time since I had known her, had begun climbing cautiously up the ladder. I hoped she would not find it imperative to give a running commentary once we were up there, as discovery would be ignominious. I hauled myself up the creaking ladder in the wake of Anna Wertz. The roof of the bungalow was flat and had two skylights which emitted light to the rooms below. We installed ourselves over the one that gave a perfect view of Maude’s room. Death had converted Maude’s face into a narrow, unrecognizable mask that somehow reminded me of a thin slice of unripe pumpkin. Her mouth was half-open, and she stared up at us with an expression of mingled reproach and surprise. Her false teeth stood in a glass of water beside the bed. This accounted, I suppose, for the narrowness of her face. Still fluffy, her white hair frizzed over her dead face.