Carefully, I drew out the folded sheets of paper which were inside the envelope and opened them. They, too, were yellowing and faded, and covered in brown spidery calligraphy. It was easy to read and I read, fascinated and oblivious to the impatient sounds from my two curious companions.
Castle Mountmayne,
Co. Waterford.
September 11, 1881
Dearest Peggy,
I am afraid that this will be the last letter that you will receive from me. I fear that my remaining days on this earth are not long. Forgive me, darling, therefore, if I write with brevity of my affection for you. Know, too, that my thoughts are ever with you. God keep you.
Darling, you know the circumstances of my coming to this place. However, I must needs repeat the occasion of my arrival here, in order, perhaps, to clarify matters in my own troubled mind.
I was invalided out of my regiment in November, 1880, having been wounded in the disaster which overtook our British garrison at Maiwand, in that accursed country of Afghanistan. In July, the rebel, Ayub Khan, had stormed Maiwand, just west of Kandahar, and killed nearly a thousand of our men. I was one of a mere 160 left wounded who managed to escape to the besieged town of Kandahar. Kandahar was relieved by General Roberts some time later and I was transported to India and back home. But such was my wound, I was no longer deemed capable of service in Her Majesty’s army.
What was I, an ex-infantry captain with a permanent limp, to do in life? What could I offer you, whom I had promised to marry and support on my return as a victorious hero from the Afghan war? Indeed, what could I offer now that I had returned merely a crippled man with no private income to sustain me?
That was when I renewed the acquaintanceship of Justin Mountmayne, who had been the colonel of my regiment. He was a good sort. A man of sensitive humour and joviality who, assessing correctly my predicament, immediately offered me a job on his Irish estates as his agent. He owned three thousand acres in Co. Waterford which produced an income of nearly nine hundred pounds a year. Apparently, Mountmayne had an intense dislike of Ireland and never went there, not even to visit his estates. Therefore, my task and duty was to ensure the estates were kept in order, live in the Mountmayne mansion, a strange, brooding pile called Castle Mountmayne, though anything less like a castle you cannot imagine. It is simple a grandiose 18th Century manor. In addition to this it was also my task to collect the rents from the tenant farmers.
How I jumped at the chance for it not only offered me a rent free mansion but also an income of one hundred pounds a year.
You’ll recall, my dear Peggy, how we decided that we should marry immediately and then I should set out for Mountmayne alone to prepare the way before you followed to our new home.
I was glad that I had gone on alone, as matters turned out.
Castle Mountmayne was a grim, dour and deserted place. The peasantry were suspicious and sullen. There were rumours of the illegal Land Leaguers active in the area but generally there was no trouble. No evictions. The rents were fair and Mountmayne gave as much security of tenure as could be expected of him to the poor tenant farmers. Yet there was a feeling of gloom and foreboding about the estate. The very name of Mountmayne seemed to inspire sullen hatred among the local people. I was appalled for there was never a more worthy man than Colonel Justin Mountmayne.
To give you an example of the depth of feeling, when my carriage passed through the gates of the estate, there was a bunch of sullen peasants lined up to watch its conveyance to the house. I saw several fists shaken and one old woman leapt forward almost into the path of the horse and spat, crying: “Remember Black John’s curse, Mountmayne.”
It was then I discovered that the people had mistakenly thought I was the new heir to Mountmayne and when my true identity became known, the people became less hostile but still retaining a great deal of reserve.
It was only after I had been here several weeks that I uncovered the dark secret of Mountmayne’s family and the reason why Justin Mountmayne had never come to claim his inheritance in person. Three generations of his family had met violent deaths here. Jasper Mountmayne had been killed in a hunting accident in 1846; Jervis Mountmayne had drowned in a nearby lake in 1857 and Justin’s elder brother, Jodocus, had died of a heart attack on Fascoum mountain in 1879.
The local peasants firmly believed there to be a curse on the Mountmayne family.
Well, as I say, things began to improve a little when I made clear that I was in no way related to Justin Mountmayne and that I was merely employed as his agent. Eventually, the overseer, a dour man called Roe, began to speak with me more freely and it was from him that I eventually learnt of the local belief concerning the Mountmayne curse.
It seems that during the years the locals refer to as “An Gorta Mór” or “The Great Starvation”, a period in the mid 1840s, when a terrible famine gripped Ireland and destroyed two-and-a-half million of its population, Jasper Mountmayne lived on his estate. He was the 9th earl of Mountmayne, a family who had won their title and lands at the battle of the Boyne while fighting for William of Orange. By all accounts, Jasper was given to an evil temper, was a wild, profane man who delighted in his feudal grip over the surrounding countryside. He was absolute lord of life and death on his estate.
The story went that one day, while out riding to hounds, which was a favourite occupation, his pack picked up the spoor of a fox and followed it across the mountain of Fascoum, which overshadows the estate. The chase was tough but the fox was a young vixen and she was pregnant. The beast eventually went to earth, exhausted, and was soon surrounded.
Mountmayne and his hunting cronies gathered in for the kill.
It was then that a young peasant girl, Síle, appeared. She was pregnant herself, the wife of one of the tenant farmers named Seán Dubh, the name means Black John, Sheehan. She cried out, rebuking the huntsmen for chasing a pregnant beast and she placed herself before the pack of hounds, shielding the fox for a while and so managed to divert their attention that the vixen succeeded in slipping away to freedom.
The anger in Mountmayne, deprived of his sport, was so great that he slashed out in uncontrolled rage at the young woman with his whip, cutting open her face. The blood began to run. This terrible deed excited the hounds and they, thinking the poor woman to be a kill, leapt upon the unfortunate in attack. By the time Mountmayne’s horrified companions managed to drag the hounds away, she was in a bad condition. One of Mountmayne’s hunting colleagues took her in his own carriage to Waterford where she died within a few days not only from her terrible injuries but raving and insane from the experience.
Now a strange thing happened. Mountmayne had always seen human life on his estate as cheap, as, indeed, had his forebears before him, for they say that there had been no less than two hundred executions on his estate in the wake of the uprising in ‘Ninety-Eight with the captured rebellious peasants being killed by boiling pitch being poured on their heads. Locally, this was called, in the Gaelic, a cáip báis, or death cap. The words have since entered English currency as putting the “kibosh” on something. Meaning to “end it”. Therefore, Jasper Mountmayne did not see the death of Black John’s wife as anything to fret over, nor the death of her unborn child as a matter of concern. Had they not ruined a good day’s sport?
One evening, however, Black John stood before the house and called out Mountmayne. The man was hysterical from his grief. He cursed Mountmayne to the seventh generation. Fear and death would haunt the generations from Jasper through all his offspring. Jasper, laughingly, called for his overseer, had Black John whipped and thrown off his estate.
The next day Jasper went riding by himself across the mountain of Fascoum, a place where he usually rode. The estate workers swore that day they heard the curious yelping cry of foxes on the mountain. That was unusual as foxes are a quiet, almost silent species which have come to fear man who hunts and destroys them. They are quick to avoid announcing their presences. Yet people swear they heard the wailing
bark echoing a long, long time across through the mountain stillness.
When Jasper Mountmayne failed to return by evening, his overseer and some estate workers conducted a search for him. They found him in a hollow below the mountain, his horse standing nervously by. He had been ripped to pieces as if by savage animals. One worker swore that only a pack of wild wolves could inflict such damage. But the wolf packs had been depleted in Ireland. In the 17th Century the English authorities had offered rewards: an English soldier could claim £5 for the head of a wolf or, incidentally, for the head of an Irish rebel. By the 19th Century wolves had vanished from the countryside.
The Royal Irish Constabulary, knowing of the curse of Black John, were not so superstitious about the matter. Black John was found in Waterford that evening, boarding a ship for America and arrested. Eventually he was released when the doctor made it clear no human agency could have torn Mountmayne limb from limb in such a manner. On his release, however, Black John repeated the curse that seven generations of the Mountmaynes would have to pay the price for the death of his wife.
Eleven years later, Jasper Mountmayne’s son, Jervis, who had inherited his father’s estates but only then came to the area, arrived with a crowd of rowdy friends and a mistress, whose name, recalled Roe, my overseer, was Ella. Apparently, Jervis was already married to some titled English lady and had two sons, Jodocus and Justin, living in London. Jervis seemed as profligate as his father, Jasper.
A week after his arrival, Jervis disappeared and a search was made.
The search party eventually made their way across Fascoum to Coumshingaun where lies one of the most impressive sights in these mountains, an upland lake set among a cirque of cliffs rising sheer from the water on three sides to a height of thirteen hundred feet. Locals will tell you that the dark waters are bottomless. That’s as maybe. The lake is certainly very deep, dark and dank. Some bolder spirits have fished there for brown trout but they are no good to the taste. Locals will tell you that the place is haunted and that the trout are the reincarnation of lost souls. No local would eat them.
It was in that dark, isolated lake that they found Jervis Mountmayne, floating face downward, fully clothed.
A local sergeant of the Royal Irish Constabulary reported that Jervis, judging from a series of footprints he had discovered nearby, had actually walked into the lake. The local doctor pointed to the fact that only the toes of his boots made an impression on the muddy shore which indicated that he went on tiptoe. No one could quite work out the reason why. The curious thing is that around the footprints, indeed, overlapping them were the prints of what were taken to be dogs. Yet the overseer swore that the Mountmaynes’ pack of hounds were in their kennels that day. The inquest found that Jervis, in walking or tiptoeing into the lake, had committed suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed. But the coroner failed to mention what had caused that disturbance and why a man in the prime of life, with no worries whatsoever, had taken his life.
Roe, the overseer, told me that Mountmayne’s mistress, the lady called Ella, had soon after returned to London and rumour had it that she later gave birth to Jervis’ illegitimate brat.
Finally, and this is now only a few years ago, Jodocus Mountmayne had grown to manhood and went to Ireland to claim the estate. He was Colonel Justin’s elder brother. He was barely on the estate two weeks when search parties were called out again for he was missing. He was found the next morning on the slopes of Mount Fascoum – dead. His face an immobile mask of fear. The local doctor was called out and averred that the man had died from a heart attack and that there was nothing sinister in the manner of his death.
The locals, who like to embellish a good tale, reckoned that they heard the jubilant bark of foxes all through the night.
And so, my dear Peggy, the Mountmayne estate, across the slopes of Fascoum, has became the inheritance of Justin Mountmayne. I cannot blame the Colonel for not wanting to claim that inheritance in person. He did well to employ an agent, myself, to act as his representative while he remained in the safety of London where Black John’s curse does not appear to extend.
That much I thought only a few days ago. Now I am not so sure. Things are happening which I do not understand.
I was out walking a few days ago when I saw, on the mountain slope about fifty yards above me, a large dog . . . or so I thought. Looking more closely, I saw it was a fox, slightly larger than the usual run of foxes. Its sharp features stared keenly down at me. It was a beautiful creature and I realized that it was heavy in pregnancy. A great vixen with steely, bright eyes.
I halted and examined the creature. After a while, it rose languidly, gave a yelp, and moved off sedately.
That night, I awoke from my sleep, and lay in my bed with sweat pouring from me and wondering what had disturbed me. To my ears came curious wailing sounds. At first I thought it might be a child screaming in the night, then I imagined a group of cats crying. The sound created such a weird tingling feeling on the nape of the neck. I lay fearful for a while. The noise died away and eventually I returned to sleep.
In the morning, my overseer looked troubled. He inquired whether I had heard the sound of foxes echoing from the mountain nearby. I replied that I had not realized that the sound was that of foxes, never having heard the like before. Then he said a curious thing: he asked me whether I was sure that I was not a Mountmayne.
I did not understand then. I laughed and replied that I wished I was and that this beautiful estate actually belonged to me. I might then have no more financial worries.
The following night the sounds once more roused me from slumber, disturbing my sleep yet again.
That afternoon I was walking across the mountain side to one of the cottages of the tenant farmers when I encountered a girl sitting on a rock by the roadside. It was obvious that she was a local girl, dark of hair, white of skin, with natural red on her cheeks and eyes of bright grey-green. She had those attractive Irish looks for which the colleens, as they are locally called, are renowned. Her feet were shoeless, her thin dress worn and she made no attempt to hide her pregnant condition.
“Good afternoon,” I said politely, raising my hat.
“Bad cess to you, Mountmayne,” she replied, so sweetly that for a moment I thought she had politely returned my greeting until the meaning of her words sunk into my brain.
I frowned in irritation.
“Now what call do you have to abuse me?” I demanded, angrily. “My name is Harlyn Trezela. I work for Colonel Mountmayne and am not of his family.”
Her sweet, smiling expression did not alter.
“I have the right to curse all Mountmaynes no matter what guise they present themselves in.”
“I am not a Mountmayne!” I stormed, my anger increasing. “When will you people get that into your head? I have had enough of people making mistakes. I am Mountmayne’s agent and no relation.”
She chuckled. I have seldom heard a sound so devoid of humour.
“Remember the curse of Seán Dubh? Even unto the seventh generation.”
Then she rose and walked away with a rapid pace which seemed incongruous to her condition.
I stood staring after her a moment or two and then shrugging continued my journey.
These are a strange and stubborn people, Peggy. You do not realize just how foreign these Irish are to we English and yet we pretend they are part of the nation we are pleased to call “British”.
Returning from my visit to the tenant farmer, I was passing along the same road when something made me look up the hillside. The sun was lowering in the sky and its feeble pale rays were spreading themselves over the grey boulders and the now muted colours of the gorse.
I halted in surprise.
Not far away, seated on its haunches on a rock, was a fox. I swear, it was the same large, pregnant vixen which I had seen a few days earlier. It was looking at me keenly with its sharp, bright eyes. For the first time, a thrill of fear ran through me. Yet I held my ground, rai
sing my chin defiantly, and stared back. After a while, it rose languidly. This time it opened its jaws, showing its rows of sharp white incisors. My lips came together tightly as I saw the tiny flecks of blood on those white razor teeth. I glanced nervously about for something to defend myself with for I felt a terrible menace.
Then with a sharp yelp, it turned and disappeared.
It look me a while to return to Castle Mountmayne for my heart was pounding and I had a feeling any time that I might collapse with the strain of the blood surging through my head.
I reached the house and went straight into the study, pouring myself a large brandy and slumping in a chair. The sweat poured freely from me. But gradually my heart ceased its cannonade and my pulse became less rapid.
I knew that something, evil was dogging my footsteps. Dogging! The word had come ironically to my mind. That Mountmayne was haunted by evil, that the Mountmayne curse was real, I have little doubt now. But what can it mean, Peggy, that I have seen these things, can feel these things, and I am not a Mountmayne? Does Black John’s curse apply to all who come to live in Castle Mountmayne? I do not understand it. All I know is that I, too, am cursed, and shall meet an awesome fate which rolls remorseless and inexorably towards me; I know that I am helpless against it. I am doomed.
I scribble these lines now, in my study, as darkness approaches. I shall not survive long here.
But I do not understand why. Why me? Why me? Why should I inherit the Mountmayne curse?
My last thoughts will be for you, dearest Peggy.
Your loving husband,
Harlyn Trezela
I sat back, shaking my head in wonder at this astonishing document.
Dan and Shawn were examining my expression curiously.
“Is it a relative of yours?” demanded Dan.
I shrugged, more bewildered than certain.
“None that I know of. And I know my ancestry back to my grandparents. My grandfather was a Harlyn Trezela but his wife was named Cynthia and he died in 1956 at the age of seventy-five. So he could not have been this Harlyn Trezela who calls his wife Peggy.”
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 26