by L. A. Lewis
‘Yes,’ I answered briefly.
‘Very well You shall hear it. But, remember, I have no idea what I am about to play, and shall remember nothing of it afterwards - so please ask me no questions.’
That was all, and there had been no great difficulty in persuading him. I took a sip of port, exchanged a glance with Eustace, and leaned forward to listen.
Once more Westenhanger took his place at the piano and, closing his eyes, let his head sink forward upon his breast. For the space of several minutes, there was absolute silence. He seemed instantly to have fallen asleep. Then his lean, white fingers began to wander over the ivories with a strange, half-conscious caress, and the first rippling notes of an unknown music rang out in the stillness.
Even with those first trembling bars I held my breath. It was as though a primeval voice were speaking out of the unborn darkness of Eternity. Without rhyme or rhythm, the sound rolled forth, now low and plaintive, now rising to an exultant crescendo, in waves of unearthly melody, alluring, though foreign to the human ear. To this day I wonder whether an instrument made by man could have produced those sounds, or whether, rendered receptive by some unseen influence, I heard them in spirit alone. Whatever their origin, to me they were real; and as I closed my eyes, the more readily to absorb their wild cadence, they conjured up vague, formless pictures, chasing each other across an opaque veil.
Astounding as it may seem, scarcely a moment could have elapsed since the medium had entered into his trance, but already I was forgetting time, place, everything, in a kind of hypnotic sleep. How long this condition lasted I do not know. The scented air seemed to grow denser and still more dense, a green mist surrounded me, and
my ears were filled with a reverberating roar. Fainter and less distinct came those musical waves, and some dormant inner consciousness called into being a dream that was not a dream - the memory of a long-forgotten life.
I stood alone on the outskirts of a great multitude, thronged in the moonlit courtyard of a temple. On three sides rose massive walls of hewn stone, their castellated summits dimly outlined against the starry sky; and in front, the temple itself, a vast pile, wrought in black marble, with towering minarets, its base half hidden in a pool of inky shadow. There was something terrifying in its looming majesty - a callous, indestructible pride.
The brilliant moon immediately overhead poured down a cold, white light upon the sea of upturned faces, from which came the murmur of a thousand tongues. Each motionless figure was bareheaded, and clad in flowing robes of some dark material. My own dress was the same, a long purple garment, embroidered with serpents of black and gold, and fastened on the left shoulder with a single metal clasp.
I looked down at my feet. They were encased in sandals of rawhide; and, strangely enough, there seemed to me nothing unusual in this attire. It was as though I knew no other and had worn it all my days. My eyes lifted, and once more I gazed round the packed assembly.
All were waiting, even as I waited - but for what? Dimly I remembered that it was the performance of some mystic rite, but of its nature I was profoundly ignorant; nor was there a sign within the whole spectacle, save for a restless motion which now began to stir the feet of the crowd.
Presently I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and became aware of another standing by me, the clear light revealing his bearded face.
‘Greeting to thee,’ I whispered in a language long dead, though one which I spoke with natural ease.
‘Greeting,’ he answered softly, and, by some freak of double consciousness, I knew him for the past self of my friend Eustace. Evidently we have been age-long associates, and, in my dream memory, trusted comrades-in-arms even as in the present life. One bend in the eternal spiral of evolution, and the conditions were repeated.
‘Tell me then,’ I said, addressing him by his ancient name, though
that I have now forgotten, “to what ceremony are we bidden - thou and I?’
‘It is the night of our father Chaos,’ he replied, ‘of him that bred the Earth in fine mist: yet of the manner of his worship I too am without knowledge. Once in ten score years this festival is held, nor is its nature told to any save to the priests alone; for some say that no man of the people shall leave these walls alive.’
At these words a chill crept over my body; a thrill of expectant fear and a sense of dread stirred my heart. With a shudder I turned to look behind me, and, as I did so, the mutter of voices grew in volume. There came the shuffle of many sandals upon stone, like waves on a shingle beach, and the mob surged outwards to the sides of the court, so that we were jostled this way and that.
With a resonant clang, two gates of bronze swung back, and as a lane opened through their midst a great cry went up to the echoing heights: ‘They come! They come!’
Then stillness fell again as the babel of tongues gave place to the tramp of a marching column.
Through those twin gates they entered - a sinuous procession of white-robed priests, each bearing upon his brow’ a tiny lamp like a diadem of flame, and at their head strode a stately leader, his vestments glittering with a maze of jewels. As he went, those in the foremost ranks bowed themselves to the ground.
By reason of our stature, my companion and I were able to see him over the heads of the throng, and it was with an inward shock that I saw in him the soul of Julian Westenhanger - yet still I dreamed.
Speechless, the column moved on until it came to the temple steps, where it halted in a half-circle, the high-priest solemnly ascending until he stood within the gloom of the portal. Not another sound could be heard as, in a dirge-like chant, he addressed the tremendous gathering:
‘Give ear, O people of Atlantis - ye that have come up from the four points of the heavens to make obeisance to the Father of Life. Ye are the dust, the fragments of his creation. How then shall ye exalt yourselves to tyrannize the world that gave you birth? Humble yourselves, things of vileness, that your Father may see in you repentance. Haste ye, slaves of vanity, to make your sacrifice; for Chaos, the Lawless, the Ungoverned, knoweth not delay.’
He ceased, and withdrew into the dark interior, followed by the file of priests, while, in echo of his words rolled up the muffled answer:
‘We make our sacrifice.’
Little did they they guess by what means the Black Powers would take their toll.
One and all bowed themselves low, hushed and awestruck, awaiting manifestation yet untold.
It came.
A burst of thunderous music boomed through the columns of the temple, a volume of bass chords from some tremendous organ. Out of the inmost recesses it poured forth to fill the quivering air, until the whole huge fabric of the temple throbbed with its mighty utterance. Its effect upon the audience was instant and notable. Some swayed dizzily as they stood, some fell upon their knees, while others prostrated themselves as though overcome.
For my own part, I felt that my reason was tottering. The mass of sound - it seemed almost tangible - hammered in my ear-drums with a sensation of acute physical pain; and all the time those stupendous notes increased in power until they broke and mingled in one terrific paean, flinging its echoes infinitely into space.
All about me the wonderful, unholy music pealed out, whirling in a tempest irresistible, and my senses withered like shrivelled grass. Dazed and half blind, I sought vainly for some pathway of escape, but the monstrous walls mocked me, and the crowd, a maelstrom of formless spectres to my distorted vision, pressed close around.
Then came the fearful climax.
Somewhere within that temple of sin the unseen instrument crashed into hideous discord, causing an anguish no human tongue could describe. My whole frame was racked with the agony of it, and the last shreds of self-control swept away in blind, brutal insanity.
Within one flash of time the court became a ghastly scene of carnage, men and women rending each other in frenzy of diabolic hate, and beating their own heads against the granite floor. In tortured fury I clawed and struck at my com
panion, snarling like a beast - my one passionate desire to kill - to kill! His arms gripped me with a superhuman strength, his teeth were grinding at my throat... and in that appalling moment I regained consciousness.
Eustace was crouched near to me upon the carpet, his eyes reflecting my own unutterable horror; and Westenhanger lay spread-eagled upon the keyboard, sunk in deep oblivion.
Mutely we staggered out into the twilight.
All night I lay awake, tired out in mind and body, but unable to sleep for the poignant remembrance of that dreadful nightmare. Time after time my thoughts travelled back over every detail of the sinister drama which had become part of my waking life, until no vestige of doubt remained that it was true. Not a single word had Eustace exchanged with me upon the subject, for each knew what the other had seen.
Had we not stood together through the ordeal up to the consummation of all things - victims of the black magicians in old Atlantis? Both had awakened with the same loss of energy, the same indelible terror of the spirit, and, try as I would, I could not put aside the premonition that oppressed me.
The story was not complete. The curtain had yet to rise for the last act. And somewhere, locked in the fathomless heart of Nature, existed that foul combination of sound-waves which could turn the whole human race into a race of maniacs.
In the morning I felt no relief. My head ached, my limbs were heavy, and I was shadowed with uneasiness. Eustace noticed it, but himself looked thoroughly overwrought.
‘It is the effect of last night,’ he explained; but said no more. On that Sunday, nothing could restore our vitality or our contentment. We tried to read, to play bowls, even to weed the garden, but our listless melancholy only increased.
About five in the afternoon Rex found me in my room, staring out of the window, and appeared anxious to unburden himself of something.
‘Are you coming with me to the evening service?’ he inquired after a pause.
‘If you wish me to,’ I returned. I did not ask the name of the Church. It would be St. Mary’s, I felt sure.
‘Very well,’ he said briefly; ‘I will be ready in half an hour.’
At six we were in our places for the celebration of Evensong.
It was a fine building containing a great deal of beautiful caning, and some very noteworthy stained glass. The size, I thought, was sufficient to hold a congregation of about six hundred; and, to judge by the way the pew's were filling, quite that number would be present, many, no doubt, having come more for the concluding organ recital than to join in the divine senice.
The architecture of oaken roof beams, the magnificent reredos and the stone columns, all occupied a large part of my attention. I am no great churchman, and always prefer a church when it is empty, from the artistic point of new.
Some time before the benediction I had found Westenhanger sitting in a front pew, just below the pulpit. To render the service short, no sermon was given, and I do not think I was the only one glad of this, as the time for his part drew near. Despite my recent awful experience at his house, the consequences of which I could not yet shake off, I found myself looking forward to a new exhibition of his skill.
At last the blessing was given, priest and choir were gone, and quietly Westenhanger left his seat.
It was noticeable that, of the whole congregation, not one man, woman, or child moved, and I could not help smiling as I remembered the words: ‘A prophet is not without honour...’
And then came the greatest artistic treat I have ever known.
If this man could handle the piano, his execution on the richest of all instruments was nothing less than superb. Oblivious to my surroundings, I listened in ecstasy as he played from Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Elgar indiscriminately, each piece with more feeling, if possible, than the last.
But, suddenly, something took place which called me back to earth from the sublime. The key-note of his music was changing as he drifted on into a fresh composition. The seductive charm of his touch remained, but something cold had crept in, like the voice of a condemned soul; and as I listened to its evil grandeur, a frightful conviction stabbed through my heart. In a trance, or with the full consciousness of a hellish purpose, he was playing once more the music of my dream.
With a rush, that undefined fear which had hung over me, took form. Another moment, and the awful Chords of Chaos would hurl destruction upon hundreds of innocent victims. Panic-stricken, I turned to seek the help of Eustace. He had risen, and was standing motionless in the aisle. I tried to follow but a supernatural power had paralysed my limbs, so that I could only watch, wondering childishly what he would do. Then I saw* that he held something in his right hand - something which glittered. A man behind me, in the next pew, had evidently seen it as well, for, with an inarticulate cry, he sprang forward.
It was too late.
There came a muffled report, a spurt of flame, and half-way through a bar the music stopped.
As the horrified congregation leaped to its feet, Julian Western hanger fell dead at the base of the organ.
There is little more to tell.
I cannot bear to linger upon the sad conclusion. The silent horror of the onlookers, the arrest, the trial, the verdict - all is a lurid dream of yesterday; for what Bishop, or what stem-faced jury, would hear this testimony and believe?
Among many of its kind, in the grassy churchyard of St. Mary’s, stands a tombstone inscribed:
‘JULIAN WESTENHANGER - REQUIESCAT IN PACE‘
In the northern shadow of the belfry, beyond the pale of consecrated ground, is a nameless grave. Some say it is that of one who desecrated the House of God by the Unforgivable Sin.
Let me pray that two souls find justice before a Higher Judge.
The Meerschaum Pipe
November 17th.
Never having tried keeping a diary before, it will be amusing to see whether I have enough mental energy to go on with it. At all events my new-found leisure will not give me the excuse of being too busy. The only question about it is - shall I find anything worth recording in this quiet, country existence? Well, it pleases me to begin with such a trifle as my own enjoyment in this property I have bought, and, after all, I am writing for myself and not for others.
My ability to retire and settle down at the early age of forty is a cause of gratitude to the Gods of Chance, who gave me such rapid commercial success in the ‘slump’ years when so many others were feeling the pinch. I just happened to strike the right propositions all the time, and now I can play the Squire in my new ‘domain’ and look forward to the idyllic life which next summer will bring, fishing and pottering about these beautiful, unspoilt backwaters. Not that I despise the country and its pursuits in winter - being country-bred - particularly in this fine old house. I shall find all the entertainment I need for the long evenings sorting through the books and all the lumber with which it is stocked, and by next winter I hope to have made friends who will come round for billiards or cards.
Perhaps I may marry again, for ‘Heronay’ should possess a hostess, but I fear I could never bring to another union the zeal of my first romantic attachment so quickly ended in one of the London air raids.
I feel myself lucky to have got ‘Heronay’ at such a bargain price, and suppose it would have cost me a good few thousands more, but for the bad name it derives from its former occupant. After standing empty, however, for so many years, the dilapidation was great, and I could see how the agents jumped at my offer.
It is rather strange how a house can continue to bear an ill repute from the misdemeanours of a tenant, even years after his or her death, though no doubt this place holds very gruesome associations for many of the local residents. One can excuse Harper his crimes on the ground of his undeniable lunacy, but his ‘reign of terror’, conducted from here, must have been a ghastly period for the neighbourhood, especially in view of the shocking mutilations he always practised. Still, he died long ago in Broadmoor, and it is thought that the ground was cleared of all his
victims. I have had the exterior entirely re-faced, and I think ‘Heronay’ may now claim to be purged of his influence.
Well, I seem to be rambling on - a good start for the diary, anyway, if I can keep it up! Now I will close for today, and spend the rest of the evening looking over my new possessions.
November 18th.
A bright day for the time of year, crisp and frosty. Had a call from the Vicar, who asked, among other things, if I proposed to join the local Hunt. Told him that I was no horseman, but hoped to do a bit of shooting when more completely settled. He then touched on the poor maniac, my predecessor, and I asked him if he thought the dreadful record of the place would affect my welcome in the village. He replied that he was sure the people in the other big houses would soon forget Harper when they realized the hospitality of the new owner and saw how the whole estate had been cleansed of its former unkempt appearance. The villagers, though, would take longer to accept me to their confidence, and I must not be surprised if tradesmen refused to deliver goods after dark, as the grounds of ‘Heronay’ were popularly supposed to be haunted. He made his exit, after inviting me to dinner next week, when he promised I should meet some of my new neighbours at the Vicarage. I shall welcome the change from solitude, although my evenings here will not be dull while I have so many of Harper’s belongings to look through. He appears to have had no next-of-kin, which accounts for all the furniture being sold with the house. Before his dementia overtook him he must have been a man of refinement. His library is a book-lover’s paradise, and his personal knick-knacks and ornaments mostly of quite intrinsic value. While rummaging in the drawers of the study desk last night I found a remarkably fine meerschaum pipe, which he must have smoked for many years, to judge by the degree of coloration of the bowl. It has an amber mouthpiece set in gold, and is, in fact, quite an ornament. I intend to clean it up and give it a place of honour on the mantel-shelf. My man can polish it when he starts on the china. As an ex-army batsman, polishing is a hobby with him.