“Despite the heat of the fire, the library felt quite as cold and dank as the cellar. I heard again the sounds of girls dancing, the high chanting was sent echoing through the library, and I believed I heard an answering echo from the cellar—I don’t know if you noticed, but it lies immediately below these chairs. The chanting on the playback rose to a crescendo. In my mind’s eye I saw it all again—Hugh walking, smiling, into the circle.
“The playback seemed to increase in volume of its own volition. Several books shook themselves loose from the shelves and fell to the floor with thuds that were like drumbeats in time with the chanting.
“‘Dhumna Ort!’ Hugh shouted.
“The lights in here flickered, the tape ran out and spun off the reel, and everything fell silent. Just as I leaned over to turn off the recorder, something skittered, high up in the rafters.
“That was the first time anyone heard it.”
Blacklaw stopped, raised his glass, having to use both hands to stop the shaking, and took a long gulp of Scotch. He looked up toward the roof.
“It has been here with us ever since.”
“But what is it?” Carole asked. “Or rather, what do you think it is?”
The old man took some time to reply, and when he did, he had fresh tears coursing down both cheeks.
“I think it is Hugh,” he said finally. “Or at least all that’s left of him.”
= 14 '
Blacklaw’s announcement brought their evening together to an abrupt end. A minute later he rang for old McKinnon to help him to bed, and left John and Carole in the quiet library.
Both of them looked up at the rafters at the same time.
“If anything so much as moves in here, I’m off,” Carole said.
John saw that she was trying to maintain a detached attitude, but wasn’t quite pulling it off. Given the day they’d had already, he wasn’t feeling all that relaxed himself.
“We should listen to that tape,” he said, with more determination than he actually felt.
Carole shook her head.
“Not now. Maybe in the morning, but not tonight. Let’s just go to bed.”
“It’s only ten o’ clock.”
“Then we’ll take the Scotch through to the sitting room. But let’s not stay here a minute longer. Please?”
John nodded, and followed her through to the front of the house with the bottle and two glasses. He switched off the lights and closed the door behind him, but he didn’t feel any more secure.
^
Although the two-bar fire in the front room was not switched on, it was still warmer here than in the library, despite the huge bay window looking out over the black moor that, without curtains, must have been a huge heat drain all on its own.
They sat at the table for a while, sipping Scotch and picking at Blacklaw’s story.
“I don’t quite know what to make of it,” John said.
“It’s obvious the people here believe it,” Carole said.
“Hell—I think I’m coming to believe it myself,” John replied. “We’ve both heard it—there’s definitely something in there. And I hesitate to use the word—but I think it’s definitely supernatural.”
Carole took his free hand.
“We should leave in the morning,” she said. “There’s nothing else to be learned now anyway.”
“Just one more day, sweetheart. I want to listen to some more tapes, and Blacklaw might still have something to tell us. Besides, tomorrow’s Sunday. Nothing moves up here on a Sunday.”
“Okay,” she replied, grudgingly. “But you won’t get me back in that library—or the cellar either. If you need me, I’ll be in here stuffing my face with cake.”
“Good plan,” John said.
They both laughed. By the time they finished their drinks and headed to bed much of the tension generated by Blacklaw’s announcement had faded into the background.
^
John couldn’t sleep.
His mind kept returning to the vaulted roof of the library and the thing that skittered there.
He remembered his own experience in the dark, with the noise getting closer, and the books thudding at his feet. He’d certainly felt something—a presence of some kind.
Is it possible? Does something of old Hugh survive?
Another thought struck him.
And if there is something still there—is it trying to communicate?
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t as dark as the night before—perhaps the fog had finally lifted outside, for thin watery moonlight came in through the curtains and sent dancing shadows around the room. He watched for a while. Carole breathed heavily and contentedly at his side, and the bed was snug and warm after the damper chill of the main body of the house. But still sleep would not come.
His mind raced—snatches of taped speech, bits of Blacklaw—and McKinnon’s—story, images of the high rafters above the books, and the black-and-white photographs from the cellar all jumbled and dancing like a fever dream. Finally he gave in to the inevitable.
He got out of bed, dressed quietly, and padded down, shoeless, to the library in search of answers.
^
It was after two o’clock in the morning, and he had the run of the house to himself.
The fog had indeed risen and moonlight washed the hallway from the skylight high above. The library was likewise bathed in silvery light from on high, casting black dancing shadows capering around the shelves. He dispelled them by turning on all of the lights and stood there for several seconds until he was sure that the room was quiet and still before making his way to the armchair.
The fire had gone out but there was still some residual heat in the grate. He pulled a chair and the box of tapes over to the fireplace, and set about loading up the last-dated tape in the reel to reel player. On impulse he also set his own recorder going—if there were any noises from inside the library itself, he intended to get a record of them.
Hugh’s voice spoke to him again.
^
“And now we finally come to it. The crew is recording and filming the whole thing of course, but I’d like to have my own little memoir of the occasion too, so I will set it down here—if not for posterity, then for my own satisfaction.
“I had a bugger of a time memorizing the chant from the book, but I think I have it down pat now. If not, if I make a mistake, it scarcely matters, as it is the overall effect we are after—that is what will count in the end.
“All the preparations have been made. We painted the circles on the floor this morning—one of the crew gave me a hand to make sure they accurately matched the diagram. Strangely, as soon as we were done, the cellar felt somehow fuller, and carried the same sense of anticipation as you get in a theatre before a play, as if the room itself is waiting for the final act.
“I will leave this tape running now, for we are about to start. Onward and upward.”
The tape went silent for several seconds, then a voice John didn’t recognize shouted “Action!” As in the rehearsal he’d listened to previously, he heard the sounds of dancing, feet slapping on stone accompanied by the gradual rise of a high whining chant. It immediately sounded different this time—fuller, with more depth, body and resonance and ringing like a choir in a cathedral. The chant grew louder, more frantic.
The lights in the library flickered, threatened to die, then came on again even brighter than before.
The chant rose to a crescendo and Hugh’s voice joined in, shouting out his ritual above the high singing.
The lights dimmed and flared in time to the rhythmic beat. Something beneath John’s feet joined in, a pounding like a kettledrum sending vibration up his spine, his chest feeling the beat as if he stood too close to a huge bass speaker.
Hugh’s voice rose to almost a scream.
“Dhumna Ort!”
The lights blazed, then steadied. A book fell with a thud from the library table onto the floor; then there was only sil
ence.
It took several seconds for John to realize it was over. The tape ran out off the spools and clattered around until he switched the player off.
The house sat quiet around them. Nobody came to investigate any noise, although the pounding John had experienced should by rights have had the house in uproar.
Was it real? Did I imagine it?
He turned off his recorder, stood, and went over to retrieve the fallen book.
It was only when he looked at the spine that he realized that maybe there had been an attempt at communication after all.
He opened the book in his hand. The first interior page had a title he had heard already—it might even be the same one that old Hugh bought in the shop in the Cattlemarket for nineteen shillings and sixpence.
The book that had fallen to the floor was The Twelve Concordances of the Red Serpent.
= 15 '
Carole woke just after dawn, rolled over and found that John wasn’t at her side. His clothes had gone from the chair by the bedside, so she guessed he’d got up early to do some work—it wasn’t unusual when he had a story in his sights.
She had a leisurely bath, then opened the curtains to check on the weather before deciding on what clothes to wear for the day. It had been a frosty night. A thin film of white blanketed the moor, and the only fog remaining was over the distant hills or hanging like wispy smoke over the larger of the boggy pools.
Just as she was about to turn away, a movement caught her eye. Someone walked around the corner of the house and into her view, only twenty yards or so away. It was the same hunched figure she had seen from the window—and possibly the same one they’d seen out on the foggy driveway. He was wrapped up in a heavy overcoat that looked several sizes too large. He had a hat pulled down over his eyes casting his face in deep shadow, and he still trudged wearily through the heavy ground, as if his legs were tired and heavy.
She watched him as he crossed her view, heading in the direction of the main door. He went out of sight and she waited for the doorbell to ring. No sound came.
She dressed quickly and went downstairs.
McKinnon was just coming out of the kitchen. He saw her on the stairs and bade her good morning. Apart from him, the hallway was empty, and there was no sign of any new visitors.
^
She found John in the front room, sitting at the table and poring over an old book. He looked up as she entered. He looked tired and pale from lack of sleep, but was also as excited as a puppy.
“I think Hugh is trying to tell me something,” he said.
She had a glance out of the window on the way across the room, half-expecting to see the hunched figure again, but there was only the cold, empty moor.
“Did you see anyone out there this morning?” she asked, but John was oblivious to everything but the book.
“This was definitely Granddad’s copy,” he said, holding the book in his hands. “He’s annotated it with notes in many of the margins. And look…”
He motioned her over to peer over his shoulder. There on the right hand page was a diagram of a naked young man, smiling broadly, stretched out, arms and legs akimbo, on a burning circle.
“I think we know now where the old man got the idea,” John said. “And the book is full of occult symbolism—I can see why it drew him in.”
He showed her another drawing.
It depicted a figure standing on a border that ran down the middle of the page. On the left-hand side was a winter scene, a snow-covered landscape that twinkled with frost and reflected harsh moonlight in dark shadows that seemed to creep across the view. On the right-hand side it was summer. Children played in a field of green with lambs and foals. A glorious sun lit everything in deep gold. A tall, cloaked figure stood between the two scenes. He had two faces. An old, wrinkled visage watched the summer scene, while a fresh-faced youth watched the snowfall in winter.
Carole couldn’t take her eyes off it—it was of the finest quality and had been done by a master of the form. It was also almost certainly worth a small fortune—or would have been had someone not scrawled across it in pen Not this one.
Before she could comment on what was probably his grandfather’s vandalism, John turned the page, leafing through the book.
“I haven’t identified the chant he used yet—but it’ll be here somewhere.”
She sat beside him. “And what then? What happens when you find it?”
John looked up. “I think he’s trying to get through to me. Maybe he has something he needs to say.”
“Something he hasn’t said to me, the man who was his best friend for decades? Something he hasn’t said in more than forty years?” Blacklaw said from the doorway.
^
John at least had the grace to be embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean any offense…” he said.
“And there is none taken,” the old man replied, taking his seat at the head of the table. “And please, don’t stop perusing the book on my account. It was left here after everyone else had gone, and has sat on the shelves ever since. I’m surprised you were able to find it.”
John looked like he was about to say something, then thought better of it. Carole knew that look—he was hiding something from Blacklaw. There was a story there—she’d have to wheedle it out of him later.
McKinnon started to bring in breakfast, and once again Carole found that she was almost ravenously hungry. The three of them made small talk while they ate—there was no mention of the library, or of Blacklaw’s revelation of the night before. And all the time John scarcely took his eyes off the book, whereas Carole’s own gaze kept being drawn to the window, expecting at any moment to see the hunched figure.
Blacklaw saw her looking.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
“I feel silly asking,” Carole said. “But I thought I saw someone out on the moor this morning—someone I also saw yesterday—and when we first got here.”
Blacklaw shook his head. “I don’t think so. No one bothers us out here. We’re sort of the strange neighbors that nobody likes to meet by accident. Are you sure it wasn’t a deer? We get plenty of them poking around.”
“It wasn’t a deer,” Carole replied. “Are there any stories about…” She hesitated, reluctant to bring it up, then ploughed ahead. “Are there any stories of ghosts out on the moor?”
Blacklaw started to laugh, then saw she was serious.
“No,” he said. “You need not worry about that. We only have the noise in the library, and that’s less trouble than the bats and mice. For an old house, we’re remarkably specter-free.”
Carole did not feel reassured. Either Blacklaw was wrong, or she was seeing things—and neither of those possibilities caused her any joy.
John hadn’t paid attention to any of the conversation. He still had the book open beside his breakfast plate and was scanning it avidly. Carole thought that their host might upbraid him for rudeness, but Blacklaw was an old-school gentleman and maintained eye contact with Carole.
“The McKinnons and I are off to church in half an hour. Would you care to join us? The place is a wee bit on the cold side, but the minister is a marvelous orator, and the singing is lovely.”
Carole hadn’t been inside a church since her sister’s wedding six years before, and was about to turn him down politely, but John still had his head in the book, and the day stretched off for many hours ahead. Maybe some time away from the house was exactly what was needed.
= 16 '
Carole had pecked John’s cheek, said something about church, and then they were gone. He scarcely noticed that he’d been left alone in the house. The book had him in its grip, as it had his grandfather so many years before. There was a secret here, he was sure of it, but he was as yet no closer to breaking the book’s impenetrable code.
He started again at the first illuminated diagram that was on page ten, after nine pages of chemical formulae he wouldn’t understand in a hundred years.
The artwork was titled MALAGMA, and showed a fiery red serpent coated with thick smooth scales eating the planet, which was depicted as a shining golden disc. The age of the map was evident in the fact that the American continent was not shown, and Asia was mainly India and some of China.
Granddad Hugh had made notes in the margins. His writing was clear and crisp—certainly more intelligible than the text of the book itself.
“This is not part of the process at all; rather, this picture is a symbolic representation of the whole. Malagma is Latin, meaning Amalgamation. The ultimate goal of this book seems to be a quest, of sorts, a journey that will lead to the amalgamation of the adept’s soul, the microcosm, with the universe, the macrocosm in order to attain oneness with eternity—and effectively, live forever.”
John flicked to another page, another illuminated diagram.
“Sublimatio” was the heading of this one. Hugh’s notes informed him that it depicted the transfer of the soul from the microcosm into the macrocosm, transcending the material world and leaving it behind to soar in the greater cosmos beyond.
The picture showed a shining white dove rising out of a black moorland pool.
John was beginning to wonder whether Hugh had indeed considered the whole ritual thing a bit of a prank—or whether he may have been more serious about attempting some kind of supernatural transformation than anyone had yet imagined.
There was an extra note at the bottom of the same page in Hugh’s handwriting that was underlined in heavy pen strokes that seemed to give some credence to John’s new theory.
The initiate must prepare to leave the things of his old life behind.
There were more notes—some copious, some only short phrases of agreement or disagreement—studded throughout the two hundred or so pages of dense Latin, old Scots, and complex drawings and word squares. As a work of art it was a beautiful thing, but, to John at least, it was still almost completely incomprehensible. And as yet he hadn’t identified the particular passage that Hugh might have used as his ritual.
The House on the Moor Page 7