by Tom Kasey
The stone was dark, almost black, which struck me as being rather unusual, and she, whoever she was, had three eyes; two in the usual places and one in the centre of her forehead. Round her neck was a carved necklace of what looked like tiny human skulls, and she seemed to have snakes round her waist, like a living grass skirt. Altogether rather nasty, and I don’t mind admitting that it sent a shiver down my spine, holding that little figure in my hand. It had a kind of life, a fascination, that I can’t really explain, and above all I got a feeling of incredible age and evil. I put it away in a drawer at home, intending to take it to the museum the next day.
The nightmare started that night. I woke up at just after four in the morning in a cold sweat, and with only hazy recollections. I knew I was being chased, though I didn’t know, or couldn’t remember, what by, and there was a sort of swinging beam or pole, and chanting people. And a feeling of fear so palpable I could almost taste it. I’ve had the same nightmare every night since then, and it’s no clearer now, though at least I now know what it’s all about.
The man at the museum – a funny, wizened old boy who looked more like an exhibit than the resident expert on Neolithic and post-Neolithic cultures – was quite excited by the pick-axe and the hooks, as they were in such good condition.
‘Definitely Bronze Age,’ he said, turning the pick-axe over in his hands. The hooks puzzled him a little. He said they looked the same age as the pick-axe, and I told him I’d found them at the same place, on the edge of a bit of common land I’d dug on before – I could hardly tell him I’d been digging round the barrow.
He asked me if I’d found anything else with them, and I said I hadn’t. I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to tell anyone about the figure yet. I asked him how old the bronze bits were, and he said about five thousand years, as they dated from the early Bronze Age, which surprised me. I left them at the museum, as they were no good to me, and of no special value, and went home.
I took the dog out for his usual walk that evening. I thought he was a bit off-colour, because he refused to go as far as he normally did, and seemed all too eager to get back home again. On the way back, down the lane, he suddenly started barking. He’s a quiet dog normally, and rarely ever barks, so I supposed he’d heard or smelt a fox or badger. Then I heard something too.
It seemed to be a long way off, but it sounded like some huge animal pushing through the trees in the wood at the end of the lane; a kind of deep breathing and a crashing, crushing sound. I don’t think I’m a particularly nervous man, but it scared the hell out of me, and I ran – yes, ran – back to my house, the dog beating me by a substantial margin. God knows what it was, but I decided that in future the dog and I would exercise on the main road after dark, and leave the lane well alone.
The nightmare came again that night, just as confused, but even more vivid, than before. The only difference this time was that I saw the face of the stone figure in the dream. As I lay there, sweating, I decided that I would definitely take the figure to the museum the next day and get rid of it to them. Until I’d found the damn thing I’d always enjoyed dreamless sleep, and it was too much of a coincidence for the figure and the nightmares not to be linked in some way.
And then I heard it again. That same sound of deep breathing, and the impression of a huge body in motion, from the field at the back of the house. The dog, in the kitchen downstairs, started whimpering quietly, then lapsed into restless silence. I can’t express just how much effort of will it took for me to get out of bed and go to the window to look out, but I did, and I saw nothing.
Then, from the other side of the house, I heard the noise again, but this time accompanied by a clicking, clattering sound, like monstrous unsheathed claws, on the metaled surface of the lane. I ran to the spare bedroom and looked out. And again I could see nothing, though the noise was still as audible as before.
And then it stopped, and a deep silence fell. It was quiet, but certainly not peaceful. Sleep didn’t come again.
The old man at the museum didn’t look too pleased to see me again, and the reason was clear enough.
‘We had a burglary last night,’ he told me, ‘and a considerable amount of damage was done to several exhibits. We’re still trying to get it cleaned up.’
‘Was anything taken?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Three things; the pick-axe and the two hooks you produced yesterday. You wouldn’t, I suppose, know anything about that?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’d hardly give them to you, then break in and steal them back, would I? And I’ve told no-one what I found, far less where I’d taken them.’
He thought about that for a moment, acknowledged the logic of what I’d said, and apologized.
‘I wouldn’t mind the break-in so much,’ he went on, ‘if only they hadn’t done so much damage. The rear door to the building was attacked – that’s the only word to describe it – with a crowbar or something. It looks almost as if it’s been chewed off its hinges.’
I felt a chill pass over me.
‘What do you mean, ‘chewed off’?’
He looked a little surprised.
‘Oh, just a figure of speech. But it is very badly damaged. The police, as usual, are baffled. Museums aren’t the usual targets of burglars or vandals. Anyway, what can I do for you today?’
I reached into the carrier bag and brought out the stone figure. His face lit up as he looked at it.
‘Good heavens,’ he exclaimed. ‘Kalima.’
He examined the figure minutely for some minutes, saying nothing. Then he turned to me.
‘This is a very fine example. Where did you find it?’
‘I’d rather not say,’ I replied.
‘If I was a betting man, I’d say that this was found very close to where the pick-axe and the hooks came from. And I don’t suppose for a moment that any of them came from the common.’
I remained silent.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘What do you know about it?’
‘Nothing. Please tell me anything you can.’
With the air of a professor lecturing an especially stupid pupil, he started.
‘Kalima. Or, more correctly, Kali Ma. Black Mother. She’s a goddess, a recurrent symbol in both Neolithic and, interestingly enough, Hindu mythology, as the consort of Siva. And Siva is also Baal, Bel, Balor, Beli, Belenus or whatever; the sun in its most powerful form.
‘Baal, as I prefer to call him, was the father of all productiveness, but he also had a staggering capacity for human victims, demanding living sacrifices – they were burnt alive – at Beltane on the first day of May, and at Samhain or Hallowe’en and other festivals throughout the year. The major Neolithic god, in fact.’
‘And Kalima?’
‘His consort. The goddess of fruitfulness, but with a particularly nasty black side. She was the goddess of death and destruction, and was more often known as Kali the Terrible. In her black role she carried a sacred pick-axe for digging graves –’
I gave an involuntary start. The old man nodded.
‘Yes, I thought you’d pick up the reference. I didn’t have time to examine the pick-axe in any detail, but I suspect that it had never actually been used – in other words, it was purely symbolic. Of course, this figure is much older than the bronze artefacts. This is at least six thousand years old, possibly a good deal older, to judge from the way it’s carved, so I suspect that worship of Kali, or of this particular Kali figure, was a dominant religion in this area for some years.’
‘What about those two hooks?’
He smiled at me, somewhat sadly.
‘Ah, yes. I said she had a black side. Like Baal she demanded blood. Her victims were all men, who were tortured to death by being pierced with hooks, suspended on a beam, and then swung in a circle until they expired.
‘I think,’ he added, noting my silence, ‘that you’ve probably stumbled across an ancient temple site or burial area, because you certainly appear to have found the majori
ty of the ceremonial regalia for worship of Kali; the figure of the goddess herself, her sacred pick-axe, and the hooks for the sacrifices.’
‘You mean that those hooks were the actual, the ones they –’
‘Oh, yes. Almost certainly. They were endowed with the same magical properties as the pick-axe or figure, I would think.’
‘Anything else?’
He thought for a moment or two.
‘Only the legend of the Elemental.’
‘You’d better tell me,’ I said.
I looked at the museum door before I left. The old man had, if anything, understated the case. It looked as if the door had been attacked by some kind of wild beast, and the marks looked as if they had been made by huge claws, not teeth or anything man-made.
I realized I had to act swiftly, for the whole picture had now fallen clearly into place. The dream I could understand, and the incident at the museum had convinced me that something was loose. I just hoped there was enough time.
At the barrow, I carefully lifted away the piece of turf from the hole I’d dug. I couldn’t remember replacing it, but it was back in place. Underneath, as I’d half-expected, were the hooks and the pick-axe.
I took them out, placed the stone figure at the bottom of the hole, then placed the bronze artefacts on top. I filled in the hole, replaced the turf, and then drove away as fast as I could, for even as I finished I had again heard the sound of deep breathing, getting closer.
And here I sit, waiting, for I know it’s coming. The dog started howling as night fell, but that stopped a little while ago. I’m sure he’s dead, but nothing will induce me to leave this room now. Nothing.
The old man answered my questions, even some that I hadn’t asked, and I think I now know what it is that’s been stalking me these last two days. Two days! Is that all?
Kalima demanded blood, both in regular sacrifices and if her rest was disturbed. For the first time in over five thousand years she was awakened when I pulled her from the ground and, as she awoke, so did her guardian. What it is I do not know, but I have felt its power, and I know that I am shortly to meet it, for until I die Kalima cannot rest because I know where she slumbers.
I hope that this account – no more time, for I can now hear the clattering on the stairs outside this room, as huge claws fight for purchase, and the sound of breathing fills my ears and –
THREE: CURTAIN CALL
Flashes of lightning fitfully illuminated the tops of the pine trees, bending and swaying in the wind, each flash followed by a rumble of thunder. The storm was close, and getting closer.
Shafts of pale moonlight could be glimpsed through the row of tall windows that overlooked the gardens. The trees cast long shadows that danced across the lawn towards the old house, dark and silent as a tomb, and played over the weathered stone, bringing an illusion of life and movement where no movement could be.
Inside, all was quiet. Quiet, but certainly not at peace. The last dying flames of the log fire in the drawing room added to the light of the flickering candles, and lent a ruddy hue to the face of the young man sitting in the leather wing chair, sunk in thought.
He gazed sightlessly into the fire, a look of relief on his face, but it was relief tinged with horror, or even dread. Unconsciously he rubbed his palms together, as if to wash some unclean substance from them. Then he stared at his hands, in his mind’s eye again seeing the blood that had caked and covered them just hours earlier.
If only there had been some other way, some better, cleaner thing he could have done. But at least it was all over, and now no-one would ever know what he had been forced – yes, forced – to do, and what even now lay rotting under the flagstoned floor of the cellar.
He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. At last, at long last, his life was his own. He relaxed slightly, but then sat suddenly alert, turning his head towards the door of the room.
He was sure he’d heard something. Some creak or groan. His eyes searched the gloom, seeking a shape in the shadows beyond the loom of the candles.
‘Mary?’ he called out. ‘Is that you?’
There was no sound, no response. He sat up straighter, gripping the arms of the chair. Then he heard it again. A faint creak, but louder, he was sure, than the first. And then a slithering, shuffling noise, like a heavy sack being dragged over a wooden floor.
‘Mary! Stop playing games. I’m not in the mood.’
Nothing. No reply. No sound. He reached out his hand towards the candlestick on the occasional table then stopped, his eyes widening in horror.
A cowled figure, now dimly visible, was advancing slowly, shuffling steadily towards him, as inexorable as the incoming tide. The knuckles of the young man’s hands showed white as he pushed himself back in the chair, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
‘No,’ he mouthed, almost inaudibly. ‘It can’t be. You’re dead. You’re dead! You’re –’
He stopped abruptly, angrily, and stood up.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Robert. You’re supposed to be frightening the life out of me. You couldn’t frighten the life out of a ninety year old granny with terminal paranoia.’
The cowled figure stopped, and threw back the hood.
‘And I suppose you think you could do better? When you’ve been in as many plays as I have –’
‘I’ll be over the hill, just like you. That’s your trouble, granddad. You’re past it, and you have been for years.’
The old man shook his fist in fury.
‘I’ve forgotten more about acting than you’ll ever know. I remember when I was –’
‘That’s enough. Lights. Cut the effects.’
The thunder and lightning ceased in an instant as the stage manager stopped the playback, and the house lights flared into life.
The director, sitting in the fifth row back from the stage, stood up, put down his script, and stared at the two men in front of him.
‘I thought we might at least have got through the last full dress rehearsal without you two tearing into each other, but it seems I was wrong. For God’s sake will you both bury the hatchet and try to behave like professionals? Remember that we’ve now got less than twenty four hours before the curtain goes up on this play, and I for one am running very short of patience.’
He looked at them in silence for a moment.
‘I’ve just about had it with you two,’ he added. ‘You both seem determined to ruin this production one way or the other. But if you do, I’m going to make sure that everybody knows exactly what happened, and how you can’t apparently even be on the same stage without sniping at each other. Now, we’ll do that last scene once more – without the unscripted drama, please – and then call it a day.’
The Elphington Players’ production of With Malice Aforethought, written, produced and directed by James Teague, a country solicitor whose somewhat staid and business-like appearance concealed the heart and soul of a true Thespian, was clearly never destined to make it to the West End.
Nevertheless, it was confidently expected to be a rousing success in the village hall – the Players had always enjoyed the enthusiastic support of the local community for all their productions – for Malice was by far their most ambitious project to date. Very expensive and comprehensive sets (by the usual Players’ standards) had been prepared, the sound effects painstakingly synchronized with the lighting, especially for the last and most dramatic scene, and a positive fortune spent on costumes. The play was a period piece, a murder mystery with a supernatural twist, set entirely in a large country house in the mid-1800s, and the script had been drafted, redrafted, drafted again and redrafted again until it was as sharp and poignant as James Teague could make it.
The only flaw, if there was one, was the constant and bitter rivalry between old Robert Theobalds and Daniel Park.
In fairness to Daniel, Robert was rather on his last legs as a performer, having reached the age of 83, but he had been the mainstay of the Players for longer than anyone reall
y cared to remember. Putting on any production without giving Robert Theobalds a part was almost unthinkable. Even if he was now a little slow, that was hardly a sufficient reason to pension him off completely.
Though these days he only played small parts – his casting as the ghost of the murdered uncle in Malice was typical – he had the somewhat tiresome habit of drawing on his decades of experience on the amateur stage to advise the younger and less experienced performers. And that, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to do as far as Daniel Park was concerned.
Daniel had aspirations towards the professional stage, and had made it clear from the first that he regarded the Elphington Players as a mere steeping stone in his glorious future career, an attitude which had in no way endeared him to the other performers. He and Robert had taken an instant dislike to each other upon first meeting, and their relationship had consistently and markedly deteriorated since then.
The friction between the two men was a constant and niggling source of irritation, and James Teague had privately resolved that Malice was going to be the last production in which both men would appear. One or the other of them was going to have to go.
From his seat at the back of the hall on the opening night, James Teague spent as much time watching the audience as he did the play. He prided himself on being able to judge the likely popularity, and hence the financial success, of any production simply by closely observing the first night audience. And Malice, he felt sure, was going to be a winner. There had been some most satisfying gasps during the second act, and spontaneous applause twice – always a very good sign – and now, as the climax neared, the tension in the air was almost palpable.
The flickering candles and the glow from the fire (careful use of shaded red bulbs and discreet spotlighting) lent just the right atmosphere to the performance, he decided. Perhaps he might add another candlestick or two at the back of the stage for future performances, but really the set worked extremely well.