by Beech, Mark
“You’ve mentioned this before, don’t you remember; the other day?” I said and she became instantly irritable, the very idea of it was absurd to her and she refused to discuss it further saying that I’d started to imagine things. Had I heard it, I couldn’t be sure?
Yet she had mentioned hearing that sound before, I was certain of it. Rachel had mentioned it too and she was not the sort of girl to talk about dreams, not to her old folks anyhow, but she’d said she had dreamt of a sound that had caused her to wake, and that sound was still there outside of sleep. That was the phrase she’d used, I recall; “outside of sleep”, as if sleep took precedence over waking life. She said it sounded like it was coming from outside and when she went to her window to open it and leaned out to view the deserted streets she said she could hear the music, that’s how she then described it, she heard a breath of music on the air. She was entranced then, and she only gave more details because I urged her to be specific, knowing all along she would liken the sound to a flute.
What had I already failed to recount so far? What was possible then? Lampton’s diary was a blur, read so long ago and in such grief that I could hardly retain with any accuracy what he had disclosed there. Was the music mentioned in the diary too, and what of the face? And Peter had returned. It was Peter. He had brought all of this back with him. He’d suggested that I reacquaint myself with his father’s words and awaited the opportunity to show me the way back, as if his use of the diary could take us back to a time when his father was still alive. Yet Peter had returned so anything was possible, that was what he wanted us all to believe.
“I’ve brought it with me.” He patted his canvas satchel as he sat beside me, bleak fields sweeping past the window at his shoulder. “And I’ve returned the pages to their rightful place with the rest,” his voice trembled and not just with the vibration of the bus trundling along. “It’ll be our talisman. Just like you. It’ll guide the way; show us where my father hid his treasure.” Peter was a boy again; I could see his eyes welling up as he turned away to the view outside. “We’ll be there soon.”
With disgruntled resignation the driver let us off by the side of the road where only a roofless shell of the old bus stop stood. We crossed the road and through a break in the hedgerow on the other side we plunged into the wooded trail. Although it was mid morning the path we followed was shaded by a dense net of branches, damp leaves underfoot quietening our progress along the way, making our own silence all the more uncomfortable.
“You know we’ll find nothing here don’t you? You’ve been here before. Why come again? Why put yourself through this?” Peter had taken the lead now, walking a few feet ahead, turning to look behind him as he replied.
“Hadn’t you better humour me? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with madmen? Why put myself through it? Well, it’s not just me is it? I’m putting you through it too. You have to endure this nightmare as well and I’m here to see that you do.”
“So that’s it. You just want me to suffer.” It was unreal that we were now so matter-of-factly discussing such an impossible prospect. We trudged down the path as it descended into a shallow wooded valley; the thin trail meandered on, vanishing now and then under fallen leaves. While the canal still remained hidden by thickets the aroma of stagnant water permeated everything there.
“It’s necessary. It’s all part of coming back here. If it didn’t hurt there’d be no point; we’d go home empty handed. You’ve been here before as well. It stirs things up; unexpected things that you didn’t know you had inside you. That’s the vein we need to tap. Follow the pain back to its source. It’s intuition’s sting that you’re feeling.” In the wider stretches of the path where the canopy thinned above us a current of air stirred the brittle branches and leaves causing everything to crackle and whisper around us.
“You’re thinking of the music aren’t you? You’re listening out for it already; the music your wife and daughter heard and dreamt?” I was but I wasn’t going to admit it to him. Dorothy and Rachel must have confided in him too, possibly even before telling me. My suspicions weren’t so unfounded then; he was developing some kind of hold over them.
The narrow way through the trees finally began to open out, the undergrowth thinning too, allowing sparkling reflections from the canal’s water to pierce the hush of our progress. Then off to our right, through rusted and buckled mesh wire we saw the canal, oil in the water’s surface lending it the lustre of mother-of-pearl in the sunlight. It seemed that there was not a single sound as we arrived, climbing through a breach in the fence to reach the water’s edge. As we stood upon the cracked concrete bank the natural world resumed its chirruping and scratching.
Young Lampton searched through his satchel, pulling out a portfolio. It was his father’s diary. He’d gone to the trouble of having it bound. I could see where he’d attached some of the loose pages I’d given him, secured in place with paperclips. As he looked for a particular entry he struggled to keep the sheaf from fluttering in the breeze as if it had a life of its own. He cursed under his breath and finally resting his right hand on the page he required he lifted his gaze towards the bridge. Without saying anything he started to walk along the canal and I followed.
“It’s this way. That’s what he says in here. This is where he first heard it calling. And that’s where it ended. That’s where they say he did it; under there.” Peter was pointing at the bridge ahead. It seemed much smaller than I remembered. Had the place changed? It was as though some of the vegetation had been drastically cleared and the concrete bank may have undergone a piecemeal repair. The bridge too was sealed at both ends with fencing and a faded sign declared it had been condemned, yet it lingered on.
“You attended the inquest, you must know the details. They didn’t find his body until a week later. One of the few bargemen that still passed through here found him. I’ve always wondered who he was. Did you know him?”
“He wasn’t a local man if I remember. But you’re right. He found him under the bridge. It was a different place then, a wilderness after the war. There’s been work here since, although they didn’t bother finishing what they started.” I was being banal, thinking that I might ward off the growing sensation that something impossible could easily happen. Peter turned to look back at me; he had that remorseless look in his eyes again.
“You feel it too. Don’t pretend. Don’t try to hide it. I can see it in your face. The hairs at the back of your neck... on your scalp... the shivers in your spine... your hackles are up. It means we’re near, we’re getting closer. You feel it too; the panic. Give into it.” There was a fevered, breathless tone in his voice as he turned to look at the water. Young Lampton had closed the diary as we approached the bridge, walking into its shadow as it loomed above us. The odour of damp became sweeter there, mingling with decay and the tang of rusting metal. The water under the bridge at times seemed to have the consistency and colour of tar as it softly undulated in the shadows.
I had seen those faces before, the night I’d watched Peter fall asleep. Yet now the faces were there in the water of the canal, shimmering as reflections within a film of green mercury. I understood what the third face was then; it was the face of a satyr, its sardonic smile frozen and mask-like, perpetually laughing. Peter stood there transfixed, his reflection shrinking and swelling, the image warping, rhythmically dividing and reforming in captivating patterns in time with the ripples in the surface. His distorted reflection was lost in the dance of faces as they leapt through the darkness. I found myself gazing too, my reflection drawn into that silent dance, the fluid masks transposed over mine and for a moment melded only to break free again. The mounting wind made the water’s surface restless; there was a low wailing sound as it travelled through the bridge’s archway. Then caught there within the maelstrom I heard something else; the wild sound of a flute, shrill then mesmerising on the air, weaving a faint hypnotic melody through the fabric of the wind as I felt something coming, as one feels th
e weather turning and then looks to see a broiling cloud, so I sensed the approach of something elemental and unforgiving sweeping down the length of the canal... and what was that? Was that the clatter of hooves across the iron bridge above us? All the while Peter had been laughing hysterically; had I somehow mistaken his echoing laughter for the sound of the strange reed-pipe? And how had I found myself running down a succession of dirt tracks, half-deranged, believing I was being pursued? Yet there I was as if carried by the tumult itself, on my knees in a clearing God-knows-where, my heart pounding, my hands grasping fistfuls of dead grass. It was desolately silent, not a single bird on a branch. It was cold and I was trembling. Suddenly it was dusk and I was alone.
5.
“It’s a terrible thing. There is only pity left, once the anger and anguish goes. Only pity remains and resignation in knowing your loved one must be delivered into the hands of the authorities.” That was the speech I heard Peter delivering in my living room to my wife and daughter as I returned that night, wearied from my walk home from the canal. As I entered the room in my dishevelled state his tone changed.
“That was the case with my father, anyhow. Or so I’m told. But they arrived too late for him.”
“Yes, a terrible business. Truly...” my wife was talking to Peter but as she looked at me her speech trailed off and I saw a look of dismay come over her. Rachel was wearing a similar expression. It was Peter who was the first to address me, approaching me with open arms. I backed away.
“You had us all worried there for a minute old man. You shouldn’t go running off like that.” He said, putting an arm around my shoulder and guiding me into the room.
“Peter’s right. We’re here to help, you just have to say.” Dorothy was speaking as if from some way off, then adding; “We can get you help.” My daughter nodded in agreement, squinting at me as if trying to discern something in poor light, and smiling faintly.
“There are people...” Rachel began.
“I’m not quite ready for the loony bin just yet. I got lost that’s all. The weather took a turn for the worse and, well not knowing that area too well... I must have panicked, yes that’s it... panicked.” Even I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
“Yes, quite, of course. I mean it’s a funny old place down there and well it’s all changed since your day and what with my father and all... look, you probably need a good rest.” Again it was Peter shepherding the conversation along. It was his turn to humour me and he relished it.
“Do you think I can’t see what you’re trying to do Peter?!” I was gesticulating more than I’d intended too.
“Come come now, let’s not lose our temper.” My wife was actually scolding me. I was exasperated.
Rachel must have sensed and somehow shared a little of my anguish, adding more sympathetically, “Yes, and we’re all tired and just need to put our heads down for the night.”
“Yes let’s put our heads down.” Peter slid his hand around Rachel’s shoulder as all three of them formed a united front, my wife seated in her chair with Peter and Rachel standing to her left in the glow of the fire, the shadows flickering over them across the wall as a single mass.
The walls of home no longer mattered; they offered no shelter as the wind whistled through the rooms as it would through the trees in a forest, carrying odours of sap and earth. There was another scent in the night air too, somewhere between blood and roses. He was there of course walking naked through the house, listening at each door with an erection, the tip of which stood upright against his navel, sprouting from a nest of dense black hair and pulsing of its own accord as if on the verge of ejaculation. Wherever he went the shadows writhed in convulsions, as though each room was about to tear open at his approach. Murder was in the air and blood in the soil underfoot. That’s it; there was soil underfoot and the stairs were soft with moss, leading down to water. The whole house was overgrown and coming apart at the seams. The horned shadow roamed wild, his smeared skin and lithe limbs sliding from room to room. As he hunted through the house again, rooms and passages transformed into a dense and humid forest with the passing of his cloven feet. Under his laboured breath I could hear him chanting my daughter’s name. Then in a hollow at the heart of the wood I found all three of them, my wife, my daughter and the beast together, their bodies knotted in the depths of shadows, their faces drifting and rippling and sighing on the surface of a pool.
I must have awoken in the night, traces of the dream still lingering in my thoughts as I looked about the room in the murk finding Dorothy by my side, feverishly mumbling in her sleep.
When I entered the landing it was as a fugitive. The moonlight that night filled the passage with too much lucidity; everything became translucent. I was following an impulse to confront Lampton’s son. That’s all I knew. What my intentions were at that point I didn’t know. Not being satisfied with driving me out of my mind by returning here, he seemed to be dedicated to casting me out of my family’s affections too. As I reached the door to the spare room and watched my fingers slowly close around the doorknob there was a faint murmuring of voices accompanied by the sound of soft footfalls on carpet. My God was he in there with her; Peter and my daughter? In that moment I could only think of how his throat would feel in my hands, clenching my teeth as I throttled the life out of him. I could not even remember opening the door but the room was empty and Rachel’s bed had not been slept in. Then I heard the sounds again; they were coming from downstairs.
In the front room a great black ram was sitting upright at the dining table. The tablecloth and surrounding carpet were covered in dung. The ram looked quite pleased with itself. Between its spiralling horns there was a black crown and from that a single black candle sprouted. When it slid from its chair it walked for a brief while on its hind legs as if demonstrating a circus trick to please me and seeing that I wasn’t impressed, abruptly stopped and turned away, letting out a thunderous fart as it crashed into furniture. The crown must have fallen from its head and rolled away out of view, yet the candle was still hanging there in its mangy dark mane, or was it a turd or piece of old cake? It became hard to tell. Out of the corner of my eye shadows kept darting and snaking across the floor.
I found Peter and Rachel in the next room. They’d stoked up another fire. It was about two in the morning.
“I thought we agreed you needed to rest? Go back to bed. There’s too much happening here right now and you’ll only frighten yourself in your current state. Come back in the morning when we can speak calmly about all of this.” Peter was standing behind Rachel’s chair. He was passing her long hair through his hands as if counting each strand.
“Why a black ram Peter?” I asked him, but Peter just kept combing Rachel’s red hair in the firelight, threads as bright as embers flowed between his fingers from time to time. Rachel had something cupped in her hands, resting in her lap. There was something wild and unhinged about her expression.
“The black ram? Well, it’s British. It’s personal. I’ve made it personal to you. And anyway, there are black goats in Greece too, where the story originated. I mean, Pan was part goat wasn’t he? And besides, I told you I have a way with animals.” Rachel snorted a laugh at that point, acknowledging a secret joke then returned to her despair.
“I get the joke. I know who Caliban is. I have seen William Blake’s drawing Ghost of the Flea too. And that thing in the front room is Levi’s Baphomet; I can follow the clues, the witty allusions. None of this is lost on me. Do you think you can tie me up without me noticing? I know your game.”
“I’m afraid you’re not making a lot of sense uncle. Come back in the morning before you get in too far. The water is about to get a lot deeper so I suggest you swim off back to bed.” He gestured at the blue cavern walls around him then returned to combing Rachel’s hair. I didn’t move and Peter’s face darkened.
“Look old man, your daughter will play the flute in a minute and that’s not something you should hear right now. You
’re not ready.”
“Not ready? I never want to hear it. Never!” As I said that last word Rachel brought her cupped hands up to her lips in unison and taking a great breath began to slowly exhale into the unseen instrument.
A sound abruptly woke me from sleep. I spent the morning in dread, fearing what the day might hold, turning over in bed not knowing if I’d dreamt those last few hours I found that my wife was not there. The thought of her filled me with apprehension. What would my wife and daughter say to me that morning? Would they come to me while I still lay there in bed like a stricken invalid and with pitying looks talk about seeking professional help? And yet they didn’t appear. I waited in bed another hour carefully listening but they didn’t come. I paced the room yet another half an hour but hearing nothing went downstairs in my dressing gown and found the house empty. I went from room to room; there was no sign of them. There was no dung in the front room either and certainly no lingering odour of a ram. I even called out to my wife and daughter but there was no response. Peter the incubus had stolen them away.
We are only the first to herald his time; an age of nightmares when multitudes will run panicked from the cities at night. The streets will ring out with the discord of the flute and echo in the woods and valleys. That was his plan, this great exodus; to unhinge the civilised world one family at a time. He would show them how to play the syrinx and in joining him in his innocent epiphany he would drive them from their senses; shepherding them, returning them to the wilderness where they would forever lose their way.
The canal was always deserted. There were signs that children and vandals had passed that way from time to time but I never saw another soul. Just as well as I feared my appearance and manner that day might make my troubled state of mind all too evident. At the bridge again I loitered a while, breaking a slat from a wooden palette to scour the detritus and weeds at the water’s edge as if by chance I might uncover a clue. Then I heard it, a soft tone at first then keening some distance away, my gaze following the sound but seeing only the canal vanishing into a low mist. Then from a line of sparse trees I saw figures emerging to progress up the side of the canal towards me. As they advanced I looked for my escape route yet hearing a faint sound I hesitated on the wood’s edge, turning back again to listen intently while straining my eyes to make out the approaching forms. Even before I recognised them I knew who they were, for the sad almost breathless melody told me it was Peter playing his flute. Even as he stood directly before me he continued playing, the instrument still unseen, his hands covering his mouth, his eyes smiling through his dishevelled fringe. My wife and daughter stood behind him, not obediently but willingly, defiantly even, standing proudly against anyone or anything that might challenge their newfound liberty. That defiance shone in their eyes and I could not meet their gaze for long. Anyone witnessing the encounter whether from afar or near could not know what passed between us, yet there was an exchange. If it did indeed rest in my hands then the artefact took on another shape momentarily before it joined the contours of my flesh and bone and was gone. It was not the warped flute or the figurine Peter had led me to believe but closer to a braid as it slipped through my fingers. The music came again as the three disappeared. I was left standing alone by the water as they shrank into the mist, the sound of the flute and a panic rising to the point of unbearable bliss. The music drew from me a longing the like of which I had never known as I brought my hands up to my face and vanished into the maze of lines that awaited me there.