by Nick Brown
Part of the cause of this had been a disastrous, short lived affair with one of his post grad students that he embarked on after Sal left. In the acrimonious aftermath of this he found most of his remaining social set had sided with his erstwhile girlfriend. He was reduced to a few old acquaintances, all of whom had wives and families and were fully occupied at weekends conducting self satisfied and inward looking activities to the exclusion of anyone else. Even worse, his extra mural activities with a student blighted his academic career and as a consequence he was now running an archaeology unit with no prospects and, since the recession and cuts to grant funding, less money.
Until, of course, the unexpected find at Skendleby. This, if it was interesting enough and he could muster the resources and energy to publish quickly, could, he hoped, restore his declining career. Maybe he could even sell it to television, become the first archaeologist on ‘I’m a Celebrity’. That would show Richardson. It was the sudden shift in his train of thought that decided his day for him. He’d visit the site.
The drive to Skendleby lifted his spirits; the sun shone in a crisp blue sky although there were traces of gathering cloud over the hills. Once out of the city he followed the country lanes at the back of Skendleby Hall to the site. Parking his car at the end of a farm drive he followed the track across the fields. The excavation should have been deserted for the weekend but there were signs of activity. One of the site hut’s doors was flapping open and tools and finds were scattered across the excavation. The earth around the burial feature was disturbed by a series of cracks around the suspected entrance. It looked like the site had been visited by vandals, a plague of moles and earth tremors.
On top of Devil’s Mound there was something blackish at the spot Rose had been at the time of her accident. He wanted to be away from here but forced himself to investigate: on the mound he saw the eviscerated remains of two magpies. Their heads had been cut off and placed where the stomachs had been. The heads were angled down to make it seem they were staring through the earth into the chamber and as he looked closer in horrified fascination he saw their eyes had been removed and replaced by thorns. He jumped back in horror and rapidly backed away from the mound heart racing.
He paused to get his breath: what sort of thing would do that? It was obviously some type of warning but what did it mean? He walked back to his car and lit a cigarette, then glanced anxiously towards Skendleby Hall. Si Carver lived there and he wanted them off the site but would even a man like him stoop to this? The symbolic language of the warning belonged to a time when omens and the natural world meant more. Using social messaging and criminals would be more in Carver’s line.
Then he thought back to Steve’s story about the nutter who’d warned him off in the pub shortly before Rose was injured. This brought an image of Claire Vanarvi to mind. She’d been very worked up about the excavation and obviously wanted it stopped. Yet she didn’t seem the type to resort to vandalism and criminal acts.
Now he was desperate to be away but first made himself ring Steve. He got an answering machine and left a message telling him to check the site over and get it cleaned up. Increasingly uncomfortable he kept looking back over his shoulder convinced someone was watching him from the tree line. He pocketed the phone, hurriedly secured the door to the shed and jogged back to the car.
He didn’t want to return to his squalid lonely house so decided to check out Lindow. The drive along the back lanes didn’t take long. He left the car in the small car park which served visitors to the common, crossed the road and followed the track across the Moss to the site where the body had been found.
This had been a major find and the nearest he’d come to making archaeological history. Yet he never felt comfortable with his memories of Lindow Man, a grisly and disturbing find. He’d been garrotted and pushed head first into a shallow pool of water on the Moss like the ones that he was now picking his way between. There’d been a thong of sinew wound around his neck, wound far too tight to be a collar, biting deep into the flesh. His head been dragged into a contorted position and two of the small vertebrae at the top of his spine had been broken. This was consistent, as the pathologists report stated, with simultaneous strangulation along with a heavy blow. Examinations of the head confirmed that in his last moments Lindow Man had received two heavy blows with a blunt instrument, which split the scalp driving fragments of bone down into the head. The brutality and frenzy of this attack had always disturbed Giles.
But it was the contrast between Lindow Man’s sudden death and his life that was the most disconcerting; he’d led a prosperous and sheltered life. At the time of his death his finger nails were beautifully manicured. Why should such a well kept pampered individual have met such a savage death? These reflections now occupied Giles’s thoughts all the way to the spot where he’d been discovered. The blackish pools of water shone dully as the clouds swept across the sky and the light darkened. This was not a place to hang about; so after a brief mooch round he retraced his steps.
Wandering back the sense of loneliness returned: he wanted to talk to someone who’d understand his mixed up feelings about the dig and his fucked up life. But of course there was no one. He worried that maybe his state of constant anxiety was the first symptom of a recurrence of the bouts of black dog depression which had been a feature of the last few years. His thoughts rambled; then he realised someone was talking to him.
“You ought to warn your friend that some of those pools he’s walking across are quite deep.”
The speaker was a middle aged woman, walking a dog and following the same path but in the opposite direction to Giles. As Giles explained he was alone he noticed the woman was peering over his shoulder at the way he’d just come. She obviously didn’t believe him and said peevishly,
“Well he looked like he was with you! Yes, I saw him standing right next to you over in the middle of the Moss a few minutes ago. He must have been with you: he had his hand on your shoulder.”
She paused, looking disconcerted.
“Well, that’s strange he seems to have gone now.”
Giles suggested it had been a trick of the light, which had in fact changed over the last few minutes. The patches of sunlight were gone and the afternoon grown dark.
“I’m sure I saw a man with you, but I suppose you must be right, my eyes aren’t what they were.”
She paused again and he saw a flicker of uncertainty cross her face.
“Well, that’s a relief because he looked most odd; almost like a scarecrow, dressed in some type of long black garment and…”
She looked across towards the Moss before gabbling,
“And he was moving in a most peculiar way.”
Giles nodded then moved on; just as he crossed the road to the car park he turned round looking back over the Moss. He noticed that the dog walker had decided not to continue with her walk and was following only about 30 yards behind him and walking rather more quickly than the dog seemed comfortable with.
He briefly toyed with the idea of walking round the area to try to find the location of Claire Vanarvi’s house but the Moss was bleak and desolate and instead he returned to the car. He leant against the fence with one hand as he scraped the mud off his left boot with a stick. Then he changed over and as his right hand grabbed at the fence it felt something squishy and soft. He jerked back in revulsion his heart racing as he saw, in front of his car, a line of small, partially decomposed field animals, mice, shrews and voles, had been strung up by their tails, dead on the fence.
“Christ where did they come from, they weren’t here when I parked.”
He stared at them in horror trying to wipe his hand on his jeans then got in the car and drove off as fast as it would go.
CHAPTER 7
OH GOD WHAT IS THAT WHICH STANDS AND WATCHES?
His last job of the day completed, a meeting of the ill attended church’s ‘young people for Jesus’ group, Reverend Ed Joyce removed his clerical collar and moved with ple
asurable anticipation into his study. He could forget about his parish, its peculiar worries and Richardson’s crudely disguised threats to escape into the world of scholarship. In that world he was safe.
He paused to glance with just a hint of satisfaction at the poster from his first parish which covered the wall above the fireplace. It was a picture of himself in front of St Barnaby’s church in Norfolk and underneath it was the legend ‘Are you man enough to serve the Church of England?’ Very appropriate, he felt, to put forward a role model that would encourage young people into the clergy. He felt that now he would have preferred it to read ‘man or woman enough’ but back in those unenlightened backwaters that would have been too modern.
He moved to his desk, unlocked its top drawer and extracted the sheets of stained and yellowing paper, wondering for a moment what impulse had led him to lock them away. What would these pages reveal that Heatly Smythe had considered unfit for Oriel College? Perhaps some record that might make his work on Heatly Smythe’s prosaic, self satisfied letters exciting enough to attract publication. If it was a scandal, then perhaps some erudite reflexions of a moral nature from him could result in a work that would be both scholarly and populist. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, took a sip of tea, opened a packet of chocolate digestives and sat down to read.
18th Nov 1776
Dear Sir,
Today I had thought to bestir myself from those melancholy humours that have of late shaped my inclinations, with an account of some of our local superstitions and customs in which you will no doubt discern echoes of Selborne. However, your maxim ‘It is the hardest thing in the world to shake off superstition’ echoing only too well ancient Lucretius, leads, I find, my pen in another direction. Alas I now find it hard to mock such antic foolishness as once we did when young before the fire in our chambers of reason at Oriel. I fear that what I have set down will not serve its purpose in extending our scientific correspondence but will remain hidden in the repository of my troubled soul.
First you must understand that betwixt the fields that shape this parish and that of Woodford lies a stretch of ground unmarked by any sign of habitation or even the slightest trace of pastoral endeavour. This ground now amounts to waste although a countryman such as you would rapidly deduce that it contains all the prerequisites that would sustain a prosperous village and be a fit place to test some of the recent agrarian theories. Neither is there record of any habitation by the ancients, nor does any track or way cross it, despite the lane between the parishes taking many a winding detour round its periphery. My abode, well known to you from my epistles, sits a short way from the church at the end of the estate where the lane emerges from the wood on its quest to join the parish of St George’s. Yet never in my years as priest of these two parishes have I seen a soul cross this land. The reason lies in local folklore, for in that field there is a feature called by the ignorant “Devil’s Mound.”
Yet, I fear I must confess, not only by the ignorant but also by the better sort, though it must be adduced that this counts for little in this forgotten and benighted part of the Kingdom. All in fact consider this mound to be the work of the devil and the fields surrounding to be cursed sufficiently strongly to imperil the life and mortal soul of any who would stray within its bounds. A view held even by the Squire who, you recall, betimes affords me the honour of his society. Though much disinclined to discourse upon the matter he will substantiate the belief with a list of events occasioned on those who through the years have attempted to assay such a feat. Neither will he be persuaded by my explanations of the new scientific understanding, so recently adumbrated by Mr Hutton in his exposition on uniformitarianism, of the forces which shape the earth. That in fact the mound is merely a consequence of the ancient sheets of ice that must at one period of antiquity have shaped the fields in which we live.
Alas such rational thought is of no avail in these parts where ignorance remains unchallenged if not venerated. The Squire asserts that the mound has some type of supernatural curator who watches it from the shelter of the woods that fringe the estate and which he is thought to inhabit. A tradition of the Squire’s family has it that in the confused period of the reign of Richard II one of his ancestors encountered this curator and was for his pains cursed unto death. But that before his death he divulged that the malign force that had struck him down in the prime of manhood was a form of evil yet more ancient even than the mound. That hereafter he and his descendants abjure and eschew any thoughts of visiting those fields. Signs of the curator, it seems, are rare but his appearance betokens an evil about to fall and is prefaced by strange lights that appear to float above the mound and between the trees. More on this matter he refused to speak of, although by now my curiosity was ignited. These past days my mind has much run on that conversation for reasons that I will set down on the morrow. But now there is a shadow moving amongst the trees and it grows dark. To dwell on such matters will, I fear, unsettle my sleep.
I thank you for the copy of Scopoli’s work ascertaining the nature of the birds of the Tirol and Carniola that you sent to improve my mood following my recent indisposition. I fear that I am still too saturnine to have enjoyment of such diversion for, as with the Dane,
‘I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth.’
I will bestir myself to the fireplace to while away some hours and take a glass of good Burgundy to encourage healthy repose and the hope of a better morrow.
I am, sir, your most obedient friend and servant.
21st November 1776
Sir,
I have, these last three days, been unable to bring myself to the task of writing lest that which I have tried to suppress should reawaken. Yet now it stirs! So this I will set down.
I had not long sat before the fire when I was disturbed from my contemplations by a loud knocking at the door, which, on being opened, revealed John Rundle carrying a lanthorne to light his way. His mother being in the last stages of a chest palsy and like to die required spiritual comfort in her last hours. The way was not far and he had brought his cart in which to convey us.
The night was cold, yet a crisp manner of cold, and therefore not unpleasant. I was in truth not too much displeased by this turn of events having been solitary of late and inclined to thoughts of morbidity. Mother Rundle rallied slightly at my arrival and I was able to impart some of the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, much to her comfort. In the damp and chill of her cottage it surprised me that she had endured this existence for so long. It must have been near midnight when she departed the sorrows of this world for the blessings of the next, secure in the knowledge of her salvation. Although John was willing to convey me back I considered it ill to separate him from his family and devotions. The departure of the blessed ever leaves an impression on those left behind and with mind much occupied I ventured forth to walk home. One of the few benefits of such remote livings is the comparative safety of the rude highways.
By the time I had reached within five minutes’ walk of my abode and was passing the churchyard my spirits had begun to revive, such are the consolations of our Saviour. I decided for reasons which now elude me to walk through the churchyard and follow the path along the boundary wall of the estate house rather than to follow the lane. In this manner, I now believe, I was ensnared.
The sky was clear and the light of the moon radiantly illuminated my way whilst the firmament shone in all its glory. All was quiet in the churchyard, the neatness of which reflected well on the diligence of Mr Brigstock the sexton. In the stillness and gentle light I could see the vapour of my breathings precede me and in a mood approaching satisfaction I gained the ancient and rough wall that girdles the estate.
Being somewhat out of breath, I paused a moment to rest and, leaning on the wall, gazed over to observe the effects of moonlight on the woods. Through the trees, shining clear and bright in the distance, stood the feature the unlettered villagers call Devil’s Mound, illuminated by moonbeams as was t
he case in the land of faerie in the books we read as children.
I collect not why the thought of a scientific examination of the feature came to mind but I fancy it was a remembrance of the works of Mr Aubrey and Mr Stukeley and their experiments on the burial mounds of our ancient British forebears from the time of the Druids.
Yet I confess not to have felt the temptation to assay such a task before this hour, or why I should attempt to refute my scientific classifications of the mound’s natural origin. But indeed the thought of the practical application of natural philosophy dispersing the heathen darkness much cheered me and I returned to my abode with a lighter tread than that with which I had quit it.
On the morrow I rose to a bright morn with the early mist already dispersed by Phoebus’s chariot as it rose in the east. The verdant sward was covered in a light hoar frost and, anxious to be about my work after my devotions and a hurried breaking of fast, I hastened with my measuring equipment to the estate boundary and from there to Devil’s Mound. At the fringe of the woods I discerned but vaguely a very white faced fellow in black about some business of his own. Not wishing in any way to appear that my business was sub rosa I hailed him in the manner of an upright Christian. I received no answer but on turning to remind the fellow of his obligation to display respect to his betters I could find no trace of him.