“Now here is a strange thing, Professor Calloway, which I cannot explain. I was to Doctor Wayt’s left, crouched inside the door’s frame, and I had a good view of his torchlit profile as he leaned forward to that gap. It looked to me as if something gushed out from that hole in the seal and settled itself all over Doctor Wayt’s face. He made a choking noise as if he had inhaled it.
“I don’t know what it was, if anything. It seemed to be a black, drifting, shadowy mass, like a cloud of dust or cobwebs. But when we got him into the daylight, there were no traces of anything around his nose and mouth other than the sweat and grime one would have expected.
“Perhaps it was some kind of optical illusion; the darkness, the cramped conditions, the narrow beam of the flashlight, all of these could have contributed to what I thought I saw.
“I started to tell one of the kids to go for a doctor but just about then Wayt recovered a little and countermanded my order. He said something about a fainting fit caused by heat and cramp and that he would just rest in his tent until he felt well again.
“He stayed there all night and in the morning he seemed recovered although rather subdued. Doctor Wayt was always an ebullient man and the change was very marked. He suggested that as we had all worked hard recently, that we take a couple of days off. I queried this—after all, since I’d known him he’d been quite a workaholic. He told me with some asperity that the tomb had been there for a couple of thousand years, that it would wait a bit longer for us.
“He just lazed around for several days, then he extended our holiday and asked me if I would mind taking him to London on my motorbike. Said he wanted to do some research at the British Museum Library. Turned out that we were in London for four days. I was able to lodge with some friends but I don’t know where Wayt stayed.
“Then when we got back to the dig, the Doctor, in effect, fired the lot of us. Well, not quite the lot of us, he kept several people on. Wasn’t much that we could do, so we all upped our tents and went.
“But I wasn’t happy, the whole thing felt wrong to me. During those few days in London, Doctor Wayt changed a lot. He became unpleasant in manner and acted kind of furtive. Then... it was odd about those he kept on.”
“Odd in what way?” interjected Calloway’s voice.
“Well, for a start they were the least experienced of the students. Then they were all foreigners—by that I mean that there were no British or Americans or any other native English speakers. There were two girls from mainland China and a Ugandan guy. Yeah, and something else funny, they were the smallest and skinniest kids there, none of them much use for heavy work.
“Don’t know why, I felt kind of... creepy about it. I went back one night to have a mooch around. There was nobody there, there was nothing there save for Wayt’s big, old-fashioned tent. Then I heard some noises, distant like they came from over the hill.”
“What kind of noises?” Calloway again.
“I don’t know. Weird, kinda like chanting.”
“Did you investigate?”
“Hell, no!” Porter gabbled. “I suddenly got real scared, lit out of there. Then I remembered what you said about calling you.”
The voice stopped and there was the hiss of blank tape. I reached out to switch the machine off.
“Have you done anything yet?” I asked Calloway.
“I called a friend at the Museum and found out what Wayt was doing there. He was consulting the Al Azif and some other hideous books.”
Calloway had once told me about the Al Azif. I turned to look at him. His face was grim. “And that worries you,” I said.
He fumbled with his cigarette case. “And that worries me,” he agreed.
***
We drove straight through Lower Bedhoe without stopping. I don’t think that anyone paid attention to us but it had been some time and two men in a battered old Rolls-Royce probably look totally different from two men in a battered old Land Rover. Instead of driving directly to the camp-site, Calloway drove the Rolls into the small car park at the rear of the youth hostel.
We climbed out of the car and Calloway stretched his huge frame until I thought that his scruffy grey suit would come apart at the seams. “A pleasant summer’s evening, Roderick,” he said. “Just the right kind of evening for a stroll up that hill. Of course, we’ll have to detour slightly. It’s better that Wayt doesn’t know we’re here until we call on him a bit later.”
Without bothering to ascertain my feelings about this suggestion, Calloway set off at an astonishing pace for such a grossly-built man. We clambered over a wooden fence and approached the “Dad” hill from the west side. “We won’t have the benefit of that excellent path, I’m afraid,” said Calloway. “I hope that I don’t damage my suit on the brambles.” I kept my uncharitable opinion to myself.
As it happened, the climb was less arduous than I expected, the slope being more gentle from this approach. The brambles were a bit vicious but we were able to avoid the worst patches. Soon we were through the woods and looking down upon the stone circle. “Almost there,” Calloway grunted.
As soon as our feet touched the level turf of the amphitheatre, Calloway dashed over to the flat stone and began to examine the ground. “Come here, Shea,” he called. When I reached him, he was indicating small patches where the grass had been trampled and crushed.
“There’s been a struggle here,” I said.
“Yes, and look at that... and there... and again there...” Calloway pointed to a number of ominous brown stains on the flattened grass and on the altar stone itself. Comment was unnecessary. I crossed myself and muttered a quiet prayer, for whom or what I wasn’t sure.
“One more thing.” Calloway led me to the barrow and we squeezed our way in, illumination provided by the flicker of his cigarette lighter. The huge rock was still in its place sealing the tomb of Priscus. The jambs’ carvings goggled at us, looking even more lifelike in the dancing glow shed by the tiny flame. Calloway jerked his head towards the entrance and we crawled out.
“No more work done,” I said, brushing the dirt from my trousers. My friend stood tapping a Turkish cigarette on his thumbnail and then for the first time since I had known him, replaced it in his case unlit.
“Let’s go and have a word with Wayt,” he said quietly.
We went back through the woods and this time down by the beaten path. We circled the solitary marquee, sole remnant of the camp which had been here, and approached from the front. Despite the warmth of the evening the flap was closed, and yet muted noises from within told us that the huge tent was not unoccupied.
“Hello in there!” called Calloway.
“What’s that! Who’s there?” The startled voice was that of Wayt but there was something different about it. It was coarser somehow, as if he was in the early stages of laryngitis.
“It’s Calloway.”
“What do you want? How dare you come here without permission!”
Calloway had been toying with the tent-flap and now he threw it open. “It would be better if we could talk face-to-face,” he said.
The evening light did not penetrate very far into the marquee. From where I stood behind Calloway, part of the trestle table was visible, enough for me to see that it was covered with notebooks and sheets of paper, many of them illustrated with geometric patterns and scribed with copious notes. There was a hand resting on the table, a hand which was snatched back with some haste as the light poured in.
I had a glimpse only, but I saw that there was something wrong with that hand. I had an impression of some unpleasant skin disease, psoriasis perhaps. The area beyond the table was heavily shaded and I could see only the faintest outline of a seated figure.
“Get out!” Wayt screamed.
Calloway’s voice was affable. “But I came here to offer more help,” he purred. “I thought that if we worked together we could solve the riddle of those weird carvings.”
There was a bark of laughter from inside the tent. “You fool, C
alloway! I don’t need your help! I don’t want your help! I’ve found the answer to that riddle already. I know exactly what those carvings mean. It’s something too immense for your peasant intellect, so go away and leave me be. I have important work to do.”
“Of course,” soothed Calloway. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He beckoned me away and we trudged back to the road. My friend was full of surprises this evening. First the unlighted cigarette and now this uncharacteristic capitulation.
“Did you notice Wayt’s hand?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Calloway. “Interesting, wasn’t it?”
We reached the Rolls and I said, “Now what?”
Calloway had been gazing around at the landscape and now he pointed to a gentle rise about one-third of a mile back towards Lower Bendoe. “I think that would make a good camping site,” he said.
“Camping site?”
Calloway reached into the back of the car and took out my holdall together with the second bundle I had noticed earlier. Handing me the latter, he said, “That’s your tent. I’ve got a box of supplies for you and I’m leaving you a good pair of night-glasses.”
“Calloway, would you mind telling me what is going on?”
Reuben Calloway looked at me as if I were simple. “Why, you’re going to keep an eye on Wayt while I go to London to check on a few things. I also want to have a word with a certain occultist. I think that he will be able to lend me something very important.”
***
Calloway was right. The rise did make a good camping spot, giving me an advantageous overview of Wayt’s tent while remaining unseen myself. Calloway must have searched hard for the small tent which he had forced upon me, for its colour blended perfectly with the surrounding vegetation. I had protested against Calloway’s presumption to no avail. Confident of his rightness, he would hear no argument. I agreed at last, for I knew that he was quite capable of presenting a fait accompli by leaping into the Rolls and leaving me stranded if I persisted in opposing his wishes.
“I’m sure that you won’t have to worry about the daylight hours,” he told me. “If my suspicions are correct, Wayt won’t venture out while it’s light for fear of being observed. So you’ll be able to rest during the day and watch him at night. I am equally sure that nothing will happen for at least the next two nights by which time I should be back here. And Roderick, be careful. You’re an observer. No action of any kind except as a final resort.”
As a priest I try to practise tolerance and charity. As a human being I sometimes resent both Calloway’s arrogance and his propensity to be right so often. We are good friends but I can appreciate why many find him intolerable.
During the day I rested. When I ate and drank, it was cold tinned food and bottled mineral water, for I did not want to risk a fire or cooking smells which could attract Wayt’s attention. At night I dressed in denims, sweater and windcheater, all black, and lurked amidst the undergrowth with the binoculars trained on Wayt’s tent.
Either Wayt, too, rested in the day or else he could tolerate darkness far more comfortably than most, for it was not until the darkest hours that any light would show in the tent. Then I would see his shadow, distorted by the feeble glow and the canvas walls, moving about or crouched over his table all night.
I almost missed his exit from the marquee on the third night. It was well after midnight and bright with stars, so much more clear and plentiful there in the countryside, but the moon had not yet appeared. I was becoming bored and every now and then, for a few moments, I would turn the binoculars to the night sky, enchanted with God’s universe. I turned back just in time to see the light extinguished. The night-glasses to my eyes, I strained to see what was happening.
I glimpsed a slight movement, the flap of the tent being lifted, I presume, and then a patch of shadow moving towards the far side of the smaller hill where it turned towards the road.
Despite Calloway’s promise, he had not yet returned. I felt obliged to do what he would have done. I jumped to my feet and began to run towards the road, caution abandoned. I hoped that Wayt would have no reason to turn back and that if he did, he would not see me.
I reached the fence, hauled myself over and squatted in the shallow ditch by the verge. With great care I lifted my head, binoculars at the ready and fixed on the road. I did not know which direction Wayt would take but thought that I could give him a few minutes to come my way before setting off in pursuit.
Then, black against the light metalled surface of the road, I could see a dark figure drawing near. I was sure that it could only be Wayt, and yet there was something disturbing about the archaeologist’s appearance. He was swathed in a cloak and hood of dark material, his body was huddled over and he moved with a peculiar, quasi-hopping gait. I wriggled further down into the ditch, expecting momentary discovery, but he turned suddenly into the grounds of the youth hostel.
As Wayt moved out of sight, I hurried along until I was opposite the hostel and then again took cover. Within moments my quarry reappeared, this time bearing a large, well-wrapped burden which he handled with ease. He turned back the way he had come and having given him sufficient time to get well ahead, I followed.
Wayt retraced his steps but instead of returning to the marquee, he went directly to the larger hill and started up the path. I followed him with the binoculars until he vanished into the treeline.
Clipping the glasses to my belt, I moved rapidly up the path and plunged into the claustrophobic darkness of the woods. The going was not easy but I believed that I had good enough recall of the way the path ran. Foolishly, I put on a burst of speed and I think that I was almost trotting when a blow to the head knocked me flat on my back. Badly dazed, I could only wait for the coup de grâce.
Nothing happened. I’m not sure how long it was that I lay there but probably no more than seconds. It became apparent that I had not been assaulted but had run into a heavy lower limb protruding from one of those immense old trees. I crawled to its base and hauled myself up, disorientated and struggling against nausea.
I leaned against the bole and raised a hand to my head. There was a swelling above my right eye, very tender to the touch, with wetness on my brow and cheek. Blood, no doubt, from abraded skin. I set off again in what I thought was the right direction, only more slowly this time, holding my arms out before me to fumble a way through the murk and tangle of branches and bushes, taking great care not to suffer further disaster.
I became aware of a strange noise ahead. It sounded like a monotonous, wordless chant, interrupted every few notes by a chilling wail, a high-pitched ululation which dried my mouth and knotted my stomach. This might have been what young Porter heard when he came to investigate. I understood now why he had felt panic, for it took all of my will power to carry on.
The forest began to thin out and the darkness to lessen, and suddenly I emerged into the open. By some good fortune I was more or less where I had intended to be, near to the head of the track leading down to the tomb of Priscus. There was no need for immediate concealment, it being unlikely that my black-garbed figure would be visible against the gloomy backdrop of trees.
Cold stars glittered and almost in front of me a full moon shone. Although yet very low in the sky, it had risen sufficiently to cast a wide ribbon of light over the calm surface of the sea, creating a motley of silver and jet and ultramarine. The glow spilled onto the land, turning the amphitheatre with its stone circle into a gleaming bowl. Below me on the hillside, his singular gait unmistakable, was the misshapen figure of the archaeologist.
He reached the foot of the hill and turned with his burden to the altar stone. I started to follow, and as I did so I saw that in that strip of white light upon the sea there had appeared two or three black silhouettes, looking for all the world like immense flat heads. As I watched, another surfaced and then another. Despite the distance, there was something about those featureless shadows which made me shiver. I reached for the night-glasses but they were no l
onger at my belt. I must have lost them when I had my accident.
Then I realised that the weird chanting and the intermittent wailing were coming from far out at sea and were getting closer.
My approach down the slope was made more easy by the moonlight. I concentrated on stealth, but I think that Wayt was so intent upon his own business as to be oblivious to all else.
At the bottom I lowered myself onto my stomach and wriggled forward until I was safe within the shadow of a menhir. From the direction of the sea, in addition to the throbbing chant, I could now hear some splashing and there were other sounds, a medley of indistinguishable mutterings interspersed with an occasional coughing croak. Although not necessarily abnormal in themselves, in that place and at that time these new noises made the hair on my neck stiffen.
I peered out from behind my hiding place. Wayt was huddled over the altar stone, his body concealing from my eyes what he had there. His movements suggested that he was arranging something, and I had a morbid mental picture of a mortuary technician laying out a corpse.
There was a slight noise from somewhere behind me, a nocturnal animal or bird, perhaps, up there in the woods. Wayt whirled. His face was fully concealed beneath that heavy hood but I could sense his suspicion. His head swung from side to side as if he were snuffling out prey. Despite my conviction that he could not detect me within the shadow cast by the stone, I pressed my body closer to the ground.
The noise was not repeated and Wayt seemed to relax. For an instant he stood away from the altar and I could see what it was that lay there. Stretched out on that sinister slab, pinioned wrist and ankle, was the naked form of a young woman. She, then, was the burden Wayt had carried, the reason for his detour to the youth hostel. No doubt she was an innocent hiker or cyclist who, if travelling alone, would not be missed as quickly as a local person. She was still and quiet and I guessed that she was either drugged or in a trance. I recalled Calloway’s admonition to do nothing unless and until absolutely necessary.
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