by Ken Webster
The other personalities in this message were traceable but for one Mutianus Rufus. The ‘friend’ he mentioned was Erasmus, one of the most important writers in the pre-Reformation era. The excitement that this latter information should have aroused was submerged: the whole twelve weeks since the first ‘poltergeist’ event was someone’s joke.
8
Rear three-quarters view of Meadow Cottage showing kitchen and bathroom areas
Cross-section of Meadow Cottage showing main living areas
The kitchen and bathroom area really is incredibly small but at the same time unoppressive, well-lit and quite airy. Rod Emberton’s initial sketches had become a comfortable pair of rooms. It was so small that he called it a ‘Bambi’ extension after the Walt Disney cartoon character. We had to agree it was a small project for an architect. The original inverted ‘L’ shape of the extension had been preserved. It was and is a single-storey structure. A fine slate roof is supported on brick walls and a hip joint running across from the pillared internal corner of the ‘L’ to the wall of the main building. It is a very substantial roof set with ‘Velux’ skylights and the whole insulated with a layered styrofoam dry lining system. This helps reduce any outside noise.
The ‘studio’ bedroom overlooks the kitchen roof. There is no access to the roof from The Cottage (the house next door, towards the shop) unless the steep roof of the terrace is used. Corner cottage has a similar arrangement to Meadow Cottage in that there is a one-storey outshut but access is still difficult, if only because it means clambering about under the glare of the sodium lamps along the street at the busy junction of Church Road and Kinnerton Road.
This evening the Velux were closed. Above and behind the white wire chair at which I sat I could see the dark sky and the occasional star between the small knots of pale grey cloud just visible in the moonlight. The clouds looked awfully cold and lonely.
I was at the computer looking back through a couple of files on the disk. Deb was half-watching me, but her attention and conversation were also on the goings-on in her new neighbourhood. All this gossip for such a small estate, but she was making friends. In an instant our conversation was shattered by the sound of footsteps, heavy, deliberate footsteps on the roof. I stood up and looked fleetingly at the Velux.
‘That’s it!’
I strode quickly out of the kitchen deliberately trying to control the weakness which threatened my knees. ‘Come on!’ I shouted to Debbie. She seemed very slow. Out of the living room, through the front door and onto the pavement, without turning. For the first time I was really scared. Scared of being scared.
‘I don’t need all this, do I?’ I said nonsensically.
Deb was much more excited and then again composed. I felt small, for a big man. Shame brought resolve. ‘I’m not going to give up this bloody house,’ I whispered angrily in Deb’s ear, and strode back in rather boldly. Perhaps rather too boldly in order to give myself the appearance of being in control. An image of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, stuck in a haunted house, came floating into my mind. A couple of fools like me completely out of control. Too late, of course, we looked around outside the kitchen. If it had been our hoaxer we’d see some cracked slates in the morning so loud were those footsteps, but early next day we were London bound.
Nic Bagguley had invited us to see Elvis Costello in concert at Imperial College, London; she’d even bought the tickets in advance. In the daylight on the Inter City and flicking through a copy of Classic and Sports Car I could put the previous night’s incident to one side. It belonged to another time. Gone.
To pass the time before the concert Deb went to the Westminster City Library. She wanted to find out more about Jesus College in the hope that Lukas could be justified or excused his comments. I thought it rather like hoping your summons for speeding would land on next door’s parquet flooring unnoticed.
Later, we were sitting on a wall opposite a tarted-up South London terraced house, staring into the ground disconsolately. I’d forgotten the number of Nic’s house. We were in the right street but that was proving to be of little or no consolation. No Nic, no Elvis Costello.
A late-night train home. We were so tired that come Chester General we chose to drive to the cottage. It was closer to the station by many miles than East Green. We didn’t care any more about poltergeists or footsteps. It could stack a container lorry in the garden for all we cared.
It was the custom for me to greet the new day first and – since I was up – make the coffee and breakfast, and, if it was a Sunday, take the car for the papers. It was just such a morning. I came back to the cottage perhaps half an hour later.
In a manner which seemed to mimic my more relaxed mood I found several tissues from a box I’d left on the kitchen table scattered over the computer and the disk drive. It appeared lightly done. Deb came down to inspect. We enjoyed this little display. Quite unexpectedly I felt encouraged to try and accept these events; to go along with them in an essentially practical sense. The six tissues, the soft morning sunlight and the fact that I had temporarily conquered my sense of fear encouraged me to plan new questions for Lukas.
Peter had said it would be unwise to correct Lukas on his errors about the college, etc. The idea was to make us seem still gullible. But on a day like this I looked forward wholeheartedly to the next communication. Last time it had come with Deb in the house so I went out in the car. Debbie sat in the living room very quietly with the door to the kitchen closed and everywhere locked up. A message was not long in coming. Debbie heard nothing and was surprised to open the kitchen door and see the following:
MYNE FREEND AGAYNE I MUSTE NEEDS SAYE I HAN NO WANT TO MAKE YE DISCONFORT I BEETH NAT ESEN MYNESELVE WEN I HATH ENTRECOMUNEYON WITH YOW BUT TIS SOE WE BOTHE ART FREENDLICH AND HATH INTELLECT YNOGH TO KNOWETH ANTICS OR DRONKES WE AR NOT AND TIS IF NOT TO YOURS MYNE COMMODITY FOR MYNE BOOKE METHINKS YOW NOT OF BEELEFUL FULL OF GOOD GOODLY UNLEST ME FAYLE MYNE COOKE SAITHE I SHALT REPENT FOR MYNE ADVENTURE AND THAT IT WIL COME TO FOUL ISSUE BUT METHINKS SHE BE YELOWE AN TOLDE HER SOE SHE DOTH NOT LYK ANOTHER SHE IN MYNE HOME AND NAT O AS FAIR AS YOWR MAYDE ME FANCY MYNE REDE BOOKE BE STRANGE WOT SKIN BE IT AND MYNE KEY BE STRANGE ALS WHOS CHARACTER IT BE IN MYNE BOOKEPREY YOW HATH MANYE BOOKES BUT I FEER THEY ARN TO ILLSCRITIN TELLE ME WERE MYNE SCRIT DEVISE CAME FROM AND HOW DOTH IT MAKE MYNE LEEMS I HATH SOE MANYE AXYNGS TELLE MORE ABOOT MYNE WORLDE
LUKAS
My friend, again I must say I have no wish to cause you discomfort. I am not easy myself when I have communication with you but ’tis so that we both are friendly and have intelligence enough to recognize that fools or drunks we are not and ’tis, if not for yours, my material for my book I think. You [know] now of ‘beeleful’ – full of good, goodly, unless I mistake. My cook says I shall repent of my adventure and that it will come to a foul end. But I think she is jealous and told her so. She does not like another woman in my home and not one as fair as your maid, I fancy. The red book is strange. What material is it? And the key is strange also. Whose handwriting is it in the book, pray? You have many books but I fear they are too badly written. Tell me where the writing device came from and how it makes the lights. I have so many questions. Tell more about your world.
Lukas
Initial reaction was mixed. Curiosity: that he had not himself discovered the error. Surprise: that a message could come while the house was occupied. Satisfaction: that he still spoke to me, not at me. I was happy to see that he was able to joke about his cook’s jealousy and to answer Deb’s question about the word ‘beeleful’, except that Deb had asked this some two weeks previously. I took his comments about the red book and the key as referring to the plastic folder in which I kept the print-outs of the messages. The key was the slightly stiff key in the lock of the corner cupboard. Did he walk about my house? How far? Why mention only these items?
I concentrated my reply on his request to know more of our modern world. It was hard to know how to start or where. I later added a few lines a
bout Peter, mentioning that he was an Oxford man:
IN YOUR TIME YOU USE THE STRENGTH OF HORSES TO TILL THE FIELDS, THE POWER OF THE WIND TO MOVE THE SAILS OF SHIPS AND THE MOVING WATER TO TURN THE MILL WHEEL WE HAVE MANY NEW POWERS NONE OF THEM MADE BY THE DEVIL ALL ARE MADE BY MAN. THE LIGHTS ARE WONDROUS BUT THE POWER IS NOT A FLAME BUT SOMETHING CALLED ELECTRICITY. IF YOU SEE STRANGE STRANDS JOINED TO THE SCRIT DEVICE THESE CARRY THE ELECTRICITY. THE ELECTRICITY IS MADE MANY MILES AWAY AND BROUGHT BY STRANDS OR WIRES CAREFULLY WRAPPED TO KEEP THE POWER SAFE FOR IT CAN KILL IF INTERFERED WITH BY FOOLS.
Sunday 10 March, late evening: walking from the bathroom to the living room I heard the footsteps again in the same dreadful pattern, beginning by the wall of the house and moving across above my head. All resolve, all thoughts of acceptance and equanimity vanished. Fear resurrected itself. In a time-honoured way the hair bristled on my neck. Spooked. I was spooked. In another time, Lukas was also being spooked … by us.
MYNE FREEND PREY WOT STRANGE FURIE ART THOU I AM CONFUS SOE. YE BE METHINKS GOODLY BUT YOWR LESINGES AGASTE ME MUCHE THOU SEYDE THOU LIV BUT THYS IS NOT SOE I HATH NO WANT TO AGILTEN THEE SELVE BUT YOW SEYDE ALS THAT THOU ART A LEARNED MAN THAT AND YOW KNOWETH OF MYNE FREEND ERASMUS BUT YOW DOTH NOT MENCION MYNE ILL SCRIT WORDES IF YOW LIVD YOW WOLDE SAYE YOW KNOW NOT OF MYNE JESUS COLLEGE YOW ALS SEYDE ABOOT A POWER THAT I HATH NO REKENYNG FOR WER DOTH THYS POWER COME FROM AND WOT DIDST THOU STUDIETH IN THY PLAS OF LOORE WER IS IT FOR WY IF YOW N’OTE DEVYSE UNTO ME THEN I MUSTE MAKE ENDE TO MYNE WORDES WITH YOW THYS WOLDE CAUSE ME MUCHE DESPEIR ’TIS NOT I THAT MAKETH YOW AFFREY ’TIS YOW THAT MAKETH MYNESELVE AFFREY
LUKAS
My friend, pray what strange demon are you? I am so confused. You are goodly, I feel, but your lies frighten me much. You said you are alive but this is not so. I have no wish to accuse you but you said also that you are an educated man and that you know of my friend Erasmus but you do not mention my misspelt words. If you were alive you would say you know not of Jesus College. You also spoke of a power of which I have no knowledge. Where does this power come from and what did you study in your place of learning? Where is it? Because if you do not explain this to me then I must make an end to my words with you. This would cause me much despair. It is not I that make you afraid, it is you that makes me afraid.
Lukas
A stiff wind cut across the field from the estuary towards East Green. Smoke blew from the chimneys every which way in the eddies and currents. I could see broken glass on the road, a child’s tricycle, as I leant against the car. What a barren place! I was here not because I was poor, or out of work, unfortunate or derelict. I gazed across the fields, the street lights were very harsh. There was nowhere to look. I was here because my house was spooked and I was scared of a few noises. Oh, Lord! What a thought!
If Lukas was what he said he was I should celebrate in some way. This gave no comfort. The wind sharpened yet more. It drove me indoors. Melancholy and self-pity were joined by confusion. They were 40–15 up against celebration. Eating away at me was the terrible thought that Lukas was going to reject us as ‘devylls’ no matter how encouraging or how sweet my message. I became unutterably depressed.
We had been arrogant and mindless in assuming that he couldn’t possibly want to test us. To him, we were the devils. That electricity stuff and all the talk about power. I could see it now but … ‘Sorry’ wasn’t worth saying. He was in the real world, we must be phantoms. I didn’t laugh at the absurdity of it.
11 March
I wanted Lukas to write. I willed it of him, so I was very soothing, and a little awkward in my communication. I apologized for not noticing the errors and spelt them out for him.
The reply came next day. Debbie was smiling, simply grinning at the screen. She showed me the message proudly.
MYNE GOODLY FREEND WILT THOU MISPLAS MYNE MISDOUTES OF MYNE LAST MESSAGE I WERT SOMEWHAT CONFUS THOU FREEND FROM OXFORDE DOES MUCHE SCRIT IN MYNE REDD BOOKE PREY WOT DOES HE SAY ’TIS UNNIST TO MYNESELVE BUT HE URSES SOM OF MYNE WORDES DOES HE COME FROM MY TYME ’TIS TREWE ABOUTE MYNE LYE ’TWAS JUSTE A JAPE MYNE LATIN BE NOT SOE BAD AS THAT AND I KNOWE MUCHE ABOUTE MYNE MOSTE WORTHY DESIDERIUS BOOKES HE WAS A MOSTE ARTFUL MAN WHO I HATH MUCHE LOVE OF AND HE DIDST HATH MUCHE WISDOME ON MYNE ILL FRIVOLUS AND MISGOVERN WAYS OF THY CHRITYAN DOCTRYNE METHINKS HE HAS OPEND MANYE EYES TO SUCHE SO-CALLED LEARNED MEN WEN HE WAS GIVEN HIS TITEL TO GREKE I BEGANE MYNE TYME AT BRASENOSE COLLAGE OXFORDE NOT JESUS COLLAGE AS I HATH SEID IN ALLE MANER THYNGS BY MYNE PAN HIS BESTE MUSTE BE COLLOQUIA THEROF I KNOWE NO BETTER MYNE COOKE KATHRYE ASKE WOT BE YOWR MOSTE WHOLESOM MEEL AND HOW DOTH YOW MAKE IT MYNE SOES BE MADE OF SWYNE. SKYN AND SHEPES COAT I HATH VIII SWYNE AND XVI FOWL ME TANNS SWYNE SKINN CUTS SKYN THEN SHAPES AND SEWS IT TOGIDER AND PUTS MYNE SHEPES COAT AND HERBES IN TO THEM TO KEEPE MYNE FEET HELEE ME WOLDE FORTH WOL YOW TELLE BUT MYNE GLAS MUSTE TURN QUID AGIS NOSCERE DE MEUS ADAGIA HABERE YE RECITARE HIC MEUS LATINNUS IS NON UT UTILIS
VALE LUKAS
My good friend, will you dispel my doubts in the last message? I was somewhat confused. Your friend from Oxford does much writing in the red book. Pray, what does he say? It is unknown to me but he uses some of my words. Does he come from my time? ’Tis true about my life. It was just a joke. My Latin is not so bad as that and I know much about my most worthy Desiderius’s [Erasmus’s] books. He was a most knowledgeable man for whom I had much love and he spoke much wisdom on the frivolous and misgoverned ways of the Christian doctrine. I think he has opened many eyes to such so-called learned men when he was given his appointment in Greek. I began my time at Brasenose College, Oxford, not Jesus College. As I said, in all manner of things, his [Erasmus’s] best must be Colloquia than which I know no better. My cook Kathryn asks what is your most tasty meal and how you make it. My shoes are made of swine skin and sheep’s coat. I have eight pigs and sixteen fowl. I tan the pigskin, cut the skin, then shape and sew it together and put the sheep’s coat and herbs in to them to keep my feet healthy. I must go out, time is moving on. Quid agis noscere de meus Adagia habere ye recitare hic meus Latinnus is non ut utilis.*
Farewell, Lukas
All was forgiven. Peter tried to make sense of the Latin phrase himself but eventually gave it to Valmai Bayliss, the only teacher in school competent in the language. She considered it rather careless ‘dog latin’. After all his efforts to convince us of his superior education he comes out with this.
I was taken by the question: ‘Does he [Peter] come from my time?’ Quite unselfconsciously Lukas was reinforcing the notion of two distinct physical worlds coexistent in some way but fluid enough to allow interpenetration. I think Lukas thought it rather more fluid than we did.
His talk was of the commonplace, of pigs and chickens, books, scholarship and scholars, friends and the lateness of the hour. I thought that this must be a starting point, for if this communication could be sustained I hoped that an investigation would uncover some of the mechanisms behind it. Some rather narrow-minded friends had said that since there was no explanation or even a hint of a mechanism to explain the messages then they should be dismissed out of hand. This I considered naïve in the extreme and, as I said at the time, very much ‘flat earth’ logic. An investigation was needed and soon, but there were lessons to be learnt from this recent confusion.
Understanding must be allowed to develop, unforced and unhurried by our anxieties. We must think, as Lukas might, like a pre-scientific man – a farmer, a villager alone with his thoughts and us. An educated man amongst superstitious and ignorant people who would burn an old woman as a witch if their cattle died suddenly. The medieval was only receding slowly before the light of the Renaissance. Dodleston, clustered on its rise above the stinking marsh close to the ‘heathen’ Welsh, was a good place to be aware of superstition and fear.
For evidence we would gather his words, at least it made for a good start. If the apparent inconsistencies continued, and indeed grew in number they would soon reach a ‘critical mass’, an overwhelming case for
fraud. On the other hand if the inconsistencies declined or the ‘clear-up rate’ improved as our researches delved deeper, then we could feel less wary. It would not add up to proof but it would add up to something. Most important, however, was time. Time to think, to investigate, to live this adventure.
13 March
Debbie and I travelled up to Hawarden to see Peter. It was the first meeting in which we planned to consider a framework for the coming weeks. Peter felt confident that I should continue to allow the communications and that something would indeed be gained, and he was keen to be involved. I in turn valued his encouragement and knowledge. The fact that we were planning future strategies demonstrated that this ‘experience’ was not being dismissed lightly. In a way it never had been. But a more coherent approach to the problem brought complications; for example it might increase suspicion that there was a conspiracy behind the whole thing.
Besides anything else, the words used in the messages were of utter fascination to Peter. He saw their value more clearly, more immediately than anyone. As I listened I realized that this strange affair was being placed at the heart of his life and people and events were beginning to gravitate around it. And as if in a mirror I saw how close it was to my own heart.
Debbie and I would continue as before: collecting messages, asking questions, establishing patterns of behaviour, talking with experts, reading up. We would try to be open and aware. Peter offered his continuing support, and for that we were grateful.
And if it was, after all, a hoax Peter said that he would shake the fellow’s hand. Scholar meeting scholar. I could hardly agree less; I thought that a smack in the face with a baseball bat was a more appropriate response.