Freya's Quest

by Julian Lawrence Brooks

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Yeah. She had taken her father’s boat out on the water. Must’ve been nearly thirteen. She was very adventurous and could handle herself well. Just a freak accident, that’s all.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She had very long hair – that’s what crowned her beauty, for me – but the wind splayed it out over the end of the boat and it got caught in the propeller of the outboard motor. The engine cut out, but it jolted her off into the water. If I hadn’t seen it as it happened, and sent Faversham to her rescue, she would’ve drowned.’

  He paused, as I swung around to face him.

  ‘She was traumatized and began to cling to me after that.’

  ‘Did she suffer injury?’

  ‘No. Not physically, at least. Only to her hair – they had to cut a lot off to free her.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder, with hindsight, whether it might’ve been better if she’d drowned after all.’

  ‘Before you got so heavily involved with her emotionally, you mean.’

  He did not reply.

  I was still facing him, resting from my paddling. ‘So you wouldn’t have to’ve faced up to her committing suicide later?’

  Dylan’s face fell. His eyes narrowed. ‘Who told you that?!’

  The force of his response was so strong I nearly fell off my seat.

  ‘Janis,’ I said.

  His face reddened under his growing rage. He thrust his paddle back into the water and trebled the speed of his movement. ‘Come on. Start paddling!’ he shouted.

  I turned, and did as he said.

  ‘Faster, damn you!’

  I could feel the heat of him burning into my back. And the anxiety he’d also instilled into Quasi, who was cowering up against me.

  I wanted to apologize again, but found I daren’t open my mouth, for fear of reprisal.

  Luckily, we only had another half an hour before we regained the northern shore. Dylan kept up his relentless paddling pace throughout, then jumped in as we approached. He hurried past me, walking shin-deep in the water. When he reached the shore, he smashed his hand-made paddle over the nearest rock, repeating the action again and again until it had shattered.

  I was left behind in the canoe, bewildered at the force of his pent-up rage. And guilty at being responsible for provoking it.

  - XX -

  IT HAD TAKEN a long time for Dylan to calm down. We ate lunch at a pub in the town, surrounded by old photographs of Donald Campbell’s ill-fated attempts on the water-speed record. The long drive back to the Lodge was undertaken with an awkward atmosphere inside the Rover throughout. Once back, Dylan retreated to the tower, and left me alone.

  I took a walk with the dog around the grounds, then had a swim. Later, I strode into the library and picked up Dylan’s final novel, The Immigrant. After the first few chapters, however, I was drawn away by nagging thoughts. Recent events had drawn out a compassion which now threatened to compromise my quest: going deeper might upset Dylan further. But Dylan’s reaction had stopped me from pressing him about what Paul Norton had said. Now I had to follow my instincts and find out more myself. And John expected it, too.

  I scoured the shelves again, remembering ancient tomes I’d fleetingly glanced at when hunting out Dylan’s scrapbooks. I found one elaborately bound book and pulled it out. It was large, about two foot by one, and I almost buckled under its weight. I steadied myself and lifted it over to the coffee table. The binding was old and battered, edged with gold plates. I noticed some fire damage. Perhaps it had once been in the library at Faversham House.

  I opened it and felt and smelt the dust and odour of past ages. The frontispiece, much foxed around the edges, gave a publishing date of 1779 and a title in elegant Gothic calligraphy. As I carefully turned over the first few pages, I realized it had been handwritten. Each chapter started with a highly decorous letter, depicting goblins and serpents and other mythological creatures – half man, half beast.

  The text was in Latin. This was disappointing, as I had no knowledge of the language. However, every now and then, there were detailed sketches which left little doubt what the book was about. There were depictions of geometric shapes on walls and floors of unusual temple structures. Some – like the pentagram – were not unlike those I’d seen in the folly and the ruined chapel.

  There were various ceremonies and detailed hierarchies of where people should stand. Differing costumes appeared to indicate differing ranks. There was also a list of eight dates: 2 February, 21 March, 30 April, 21 June, 1 August, 21 September, 31 October and 21 December. I construed these to be possible times of the main ceremonies, as some marked the equinoxes and solstices. This was followed by extraordinary representations of sexual acts and orgies.

  The final section appeared to show codes of practice, each sentence prefixed with Roman numerals. The last page was an image of the Devil, executed to perfection. But ultimately chilling. I struggled to replace the book.

  There were two more, smaller volumes, one with a hobgoblin embossed on its spine. These dated from the early nineteenth century and were in German, again a language I couldn’t understand. They contained long lists of procedures in tight Gothic print, but with no pictures to conjure with, it was difficult to connect them to black magic with any certainty.

  The middle pages of one of these works began to crumble and part from the binding. I hastily shut it again and put it back on the shelf, lest Dylan find out I had damaged it.

  In the back of the other book, I found a handwritten sequence of names and dates, most written in differing hands. Wolfram von Kloeppendorf was the first name, with a date of 1721. I searched down the list. Most of the rest were von Eschenbachs. The last name was Sir Ernest Faversham, with a date of 1889. I recalled this was the date when the Baron had died. There was no more space at the end of the page for additional names. I studied the binding closely. It was the final page.

  I put the book away and went into the kitchen for some refreshment. As I sat at the table with a mug of tea, I was left with more nagging questions, and no answers.

  I returned to the library and Dylan’s novel. Then I was hit by another thought: what was it about that old photograph of this room, when the building was a ruin, that wasn’t quite right?

  I retrieved the book and flicked through the pages, needing several attempts to rediscover the photograph. I looked at it long and hard. Then I stood up and orientated the photograph to the room. Some of the old panelling and shelving had been reused, or very good copies made. But the photograph showed a dark hole between two of the bookcases. There was no wall. It was an opening of some kind. And now my gaze was being drawn towards its location in the modern room.

  I was led to the fake bookcase I’d discovered on my first visit, seemingly months ago. Now what had always been the obvious finally entered my mind: it had to be a secret door!

  I walked over to it and began a detailed examination. The carving of the books had been expertly rendered, the overlay of different paints crowning the effect. I ran my fingers across the surface, searching for some kind of mechanism which might open it. But I found none.

  I stepped back, viewing the unit in its entirety. I noticed one book was sloping to one side, on the middle shelf, when all the others were upright. I felt into the space between this carved book and the next. My fingers touched a metal ring. I pulled on this and heard a clunk.

  I stepped back, with bated breath, then thrust my outstretched hands against the bookcase. And the whole unit, hinged on one side, moved outwards. It was indeed a hidden entrance.

  I ran back to the main library door, checking for any signs of Dylan. There were none, so I returned and stepped over the dark threshold. I found myself in a small chamber. Light was coming in from the left. As I walked into this space, I found myself looking back into the library. The glass must have been the backing of the mirror.

  I felt around the edges of the room at this end, but found
no way forward. I returned to the entrance, opening the doorway further to cast in extra light. A narrow staircase swept up into the shadows.

  I started to ascend. After two full twists of the spiral, I was met by a solid oak door. I found a handle, and grabbed it. It opened stiffly. I was suddenly bathed in light. I was on a well-decorated landing, with a wider staircase heading upwards. I saw another door on my right, unlocked the latch and found myself out on the bedroom landing.

  Realizing I had to be inside the tower, I immediately shut the door and headed back whence I’d come. I knew Dylan was up there. There was no telling what might happen if he discovered me.

  Once back in the library, I was about to close the bookcase door, when I looked down. There was a trapdoor in the floor, directly under the first step. I brushed my hands over its wooden surface, discovering a brass-ringed handle and pulled. It was very heavy and I had to strain hard to lift it over the perpendicular. Its hinges creaked, which suggested no one had opened it for quite some time. I dusted my hands off against the top of my jeans and gazed down through the opening. The spiral staircase appeared to descend further into the depths.

  I’d never been very brave in the dark, so I wasn’t encouraged to venture forward. Instead, I rushed out of the Lodge and over to the stabling block. I remembered seeing various torches in amongst the tools. I leant against the side of the Austin-Healey and rifled through various boxes. I picked out two large torches and a box of matches and returned to the library.

  I tested them both out down the hole and picked the one with the stronger bulb. I crept down the stairs, with increasing trepidation. I counted twenty steps before I hit another level surface. I shone the torch down at my feet to be met by black-and-white tiling similar to the flooring in the ruined chapel. Then I scanned upwards to a superb vaulted-brick ceiling.

  I edged forward, along a small passageway and through a pillared archway. The torchlight didn’t hit on anything but blackness at first. Then I realized I had entered a large open space. I turned and followed the side on the wall with my fingers, directing the torch beam along the hewn stonework.

  I was becoming increasingly disappointed. While large, it appeared to be no more than a storage cellar.

  I was about to give up on any further exploration, when my hand felt something metallic. The torchlight confirmed it to be an ornate structure, housing an old beacon. I pulled up the old wooden handle and it came away quite easily. There was a cloth wick still in the top, surrounded by metal gauze. I placed the torch at my feet and drew out the matchbox. I lit the beacon. I coughed as a foul-smelling odour filled my nostrils. When this had subsided, I realized the beacon was producing a lot more light than the torch.

  I swayed the beacon above my head. Now I could see I was in a large man-made cavern. A vaulted ceiling, supported by serried rows of pillars, ran for over a hundred feet. There were other beacon holders along both walls. There were also rusting iron chains and shackles mounted at regular intervals. On closer inspection, the shackles appeared to be dog collars.

  As I stepped through the pillars, I was met by a pentagram within a circle on the floor tiles. I moved into the middle. Then my right foot gave way, and I keeled over. I felt my ankle throb with pain and clutched at it, writhing in agony. Once back to my senses, I realized I’d not done any lasting damage. I picked up the flaming beacon again. I’d fallen into a hole about two feet deep. It appeared to be in the centre of the floor pattern and was perfectly round. A closer inspection showed signs of burning inside. I looked upwards and could make out a tapering chimney in the ceiling.

  I climbed to my feet again, testing the ankle and finding it could still take my weight. Then I crept further forward. Ten feet past the end of the pattern, I came across a raised stone dais. I thrust the beacon forward.

  I began to make out a carving of exquisite quality on marble. I staggered back when glimpsing scenes of a sexual nature on this frieze. It formed one side of a plinth, some six foot by two. All the other sides were similarly carved. I expected the top to be smooth, but there was a deep impression in the marble. As I traced its outline, it was as if someone had lain flat on a lump of wet concrete to create an indentation of human form. But this effect had all been achieved by the skill of a stonemason.

  I leant against the plinth and peered further into the gloom. The light cast by the beacon was ebbing away as the wick burnt down. I could see enough to safely negotiate the edge of the dais on the other side and walked slowly onwards.

  Then I recoiled in fright!

  There was a horned head staring at me from the far wall. It was like the centrepiece of the medallion and the gargoyle above the entrance to the ruined chapel. But this was a much larger carving, with a diameter of at least five feet.

  I fell backwards on the floor, jarring my back. The torch exploded into pieces to my left and the beacon rolled off across the floor and was soon extinguished.

  I was left in utter darkness. Scared. With only my thudding heartbeat for company.

  Eventually, I recovered enough to feel around on the floor for the beacon. This took longer than envisaged. When I traced the outline of its handle, I picked it up and fiddled with the matchbox. Once I’d relit it, I braved another look at the horned head, stepping closer. The eyes had red-coloured glass in them. Traces of wax, which had dripped down over the cheeks, gave the impression the face was crying. It looked as if the lenses could be opened and candles placed inside to add to the effect.

  Underneath the head, there was a sunken archway. Another flight of stairs led down from the dais to give access to this. I descended and found my way into another anteroom. The concave shape of the horned head was visible on this side. There were a number of stone plinths in niches along both sides of the walls. Ahead was another passageway.

  I began to sense the beacon was coming to the end of its life. I needed to retrace my footsteps. As I was about to climb back up the stairs to the dais, I saw a torch beam arcing through the cavern.

  It had to be Dylan! I was going to be discovered!

  I hastily sat down, using my bottom to extinguish the flame. I felt the denim scorch and pulled the beacon away before it could burn my flesh. I heard it rattle off down the stairs.

  I crouched in a state of mounting fear. The beam of light was getting closer, but there were no sounds of a human voice. Yet I was convinced he must have seen my own light source.

  He was going to be angry. I didn’t want to face his wrath. Nor another of his destructive moods.

  I bum-slid down the stairs, then carefully stood. I felt around the floor, but could not find the beacon. The torch had been broken, so there was no sense in retrieving it. And the beam of light was getting closer still. Soon he would be upon me!

  I stumbled forward, trying to use my outstretched arms to guide me through the archway. I must have achieved this, as my shin slammed into one of the plinths in the anteroom beyond. I fell to the floor, rubbing my leg furiously, cursing aloud.

  I crawled on all fours, touching each plinth in turn and counting them as I went. There’d been six of them in all on each side. Beyond lay the narrower passageway. By extending my arms full length, I could feel the walls on both sides, so I knew I had negotiated my way into the only possible escape route.

  I began to walk, then run along the lengthening corridor. I tripped and fell several times, due to slight rock falls from the ceiling or sides of the structure. The walls were getting slimier with moisture the further I travelled.

  I was going deeper into the labyrinth. And I appeared to be descending.

  I must have gone a couple of hundred feet before I had to stop. At least, it seemed that far. It may have been much more, or a lot less. I was getting more confused with every step.

  I leant against the wall, gasping for breath, clutching at my chest. The air was stale and unventilated, which added to my discomfort.

  Then I saw the flicker of light. He’d entered the passageway!

  This was enoug
h to spur me into action once more. I tried to quicken my pace. I stumbled, did a half somersault, then stood up again and continued. My knees and the palms of my hands had been grazed. One knee of my jeans had torn and I felt blood oozing down my leg.

  I couldn’t let that bother me. He’d soon be on top of me if I didn’t hurry up!

  But the passageway went on and on. Then it began to flatten out. I wanted to halt again. My lungs were at bursting point. My ankle was throbbing. But the light was approaching, beginning to illuminate the darkness behind me.

  He was gaining on me!

  I persevered without let up. Within another ten paces, I stumbled and fell, landing awkwardly. I shook off the fuzziness in my head. I was sprawled out against a flight of spiral stairs. I must have tripped on the first step.

  I gathered myself together for one last effort. I crawled on all fours ever upward. On and on and on and on. Was there to be no end to my torture? I’d counted over fifty steps before I rammed into a solid wall. I crumpled against it.

  I’d expected there to be a way out. But it was a dead end! I was trapped! Panic gripped me. I began to claw at the masonry. All reason gone.

  A light flickered up from below. He was mounting the stairs himself now. Soon he’d catch me! All hell could break loose. I’d abused his trust.

  I could sense the beginnings of hyperventilation. I sat back and tried to calm myself, clasping my hands around my mouth in a cup-shape and breathing deeply into it.

  I could hear footsteps below. Getting closer.

  Then I became aware of fresh air cooling my face. I had to be near the surface! I climbed to my feet once more and felt around the wall. High above my head, my outstretched arms were detecting the source of the air. My fingers passed through a small crack. I pulled down on this, but to no avail. I stood on tiptoe and ran my hands down from the crack.

  I sensed I was slipping before I fell backwards. I thought I was going to career back down the stairs. And headfirst at that.