by KT King
“Well, I’m glad that is over and done with!” Jennifer moaned, as she warmed herself next to the open fire. She looked at herself in the palatial, mirrored overmantel and frowned.
“It was a lovely service,” Varsity said, taking a chilled glass of champagne from Collins.
“If this room wasn’t so large I would be warm for a change!” Jennifer complained, rubbing her hands together over the flames. “Why we can’t get a modern sofa, I don’t know! It would be much more comfortable than these rigid old things!”
“They are called antiques, Mother,” Collins laughed. “This one belonged to the Duc D’Orleans or some such person.” He put his feet up on the chaise longue as if to illustrate a point.
“I don’t care if they belonged to the Queen of Sheba!” Jennifer said with venom. “But, I suppose I shall have to put up with them ‘til things change! I think we should tell Robert what we have decided tomorrow!”
“Are you sure this is what you want, Mother?” Collins asked. “You will lose him! He will never agree.”
“He will agree!” Jennifer replied, sitting down on one of the damask covered chairs. “He has no choice in the matter! Lose him? Honestly Collins! Robert will do exactly as I tell him to do. You are sure your cousin Lucas is agreed?”
“Yes, I spoke to him again yesterday. He will vote with me.” Collins sighed.
“I wonder if there is another way?” Varsity began to say. “I was thinking…”
“This is nothing to do with you, Varsity!” Jennifer interrupted. “I will make you a very rich woman and you can thank me for it later! As for now, I suggest you say nothing about it to anyone. This is a family matter and will stay as such. Collins will do as I tell him, and Robert will too.”
“Well, if you want to go ahead, Mother, we will. But you may find Robert is less of a pushover than you imagine,” Collins went to make himself a whisky chaser.
“It isn’t a case of being a pushover!” Jennifer snapped back, holding her glass out to him for a refill of champagne. “He will do as he is told and that is all. Your father left this place to you boys, and we can do as we want with it now that that interfering do-gooder Lillianna D’Or is gone! That woman and your Aunt Elizabeth stood in our way for far too long, both of them lording it over you boys as if Little Eden belonged only to them. Well, your Cousin Lucas agrees with me now. He’s not like his grandmother, thank goodness! That’s an end to it. Tell Lancelot and India I wish to see them in the morning and tell your brother to join us as well.”
~ * ~
Having stormed out of the meeting, Robert didn’t have a plan as to where to go, and he found none of his usual comfort in walking around Little Eden. He suddenly remembered that he could not go and talk to his friend Lilly any more, as he always had in times of trouble. His heart ached as he thought of her and he longed for her to be alive again. Alone and afraid, he marched quickly towards Devil’s Gate and across the moat bridge into London’s Gilbert Place. He just kept walking amongst the slush and the crowds down Drury Lane, and he found himself in the midst of the bustle of Covent Garden. The sides of the roads were piled high with grey and black speckled mounds of snow. Some of the cars were still buried deep, but Londoners were still about their business, none the less. Robert hardly noticed anyone, even when he nearly collided with some of them! He apologised automatically, seeing nothing except his internal rage. He didn’t even try to shake it off. He fed it with anxious and angry thoughts, which whipped up more and more fear.
As he reached the Thames he found himself standing next to Cleopatra’s Needle. The water, silvery and thick, like liquid mercury, reflected the low and heavy sky, overcast with mink grey clouds. He stood for a while, feeling the icy chill rising off the water and the sharp bitterness of frosty air which seemed to emanate from the snow on the Sphinxes’ faces. His anger suddenly vanished, leaving an empty, aching darkness, churning in his stomach. His breath began to fail him. He felt nausea creeping through his veins and he steadied himself against the frozen wall. He couldn’t sit down - the steps were covered in ice and the benches had blankets of white over them, three inches deep. His body and hands felt hot and cold at the same time. He needed to get inside and sit down somewhere! He looked around and he could hardly get his bearings. His mind was sweeping and swirling - no thoughts could find a place to rest. He found himself turning, automatically, to the only place he could think of. He hurried down the street to Craven Passage - to Shilty Cunningham’s house.
As he reached Shilty’s abode, a diffident Clive Basildon was leaving the house. He was kissing Shilty goodbye at the front door. Robert walked up the steps and they greeted each other as old school friends do.
“Barty, old chap!” Clive said, shaking Robert’s hand vigorously and slapping him on the back. “What brings you out here? Just off myself! Had f**king grand Yuletide with this one!” he added, winking at Shilty again. “Lucky I got her off you, old chap!”
Robert couldn’t raise a smile, fake or otherwise, but he shook Clive’s hand.
“Coming to the wedding aren’t you?” Clive said, going down onto the slippery pavement. “F**k!” he exclaimed, as he nearly went arse over elbow into a snow covered car. He grabbed the railings and laughed. “That’s if I get to the altar alive! All the old chums will be there! Grand day out it’ll be! Au revoir!”
With Clive out of sight, Shilty looked at Robert, and Robert looked at Shilty. She was wearing a short silk kimono which didn’t cover much of her long tanned legs. She smiled welcomingly, and opened the door wider, beckoning him inside. Without a word Robert grabbed hold of her waist, spun her around and kissed her. His strong hands cradled her head as her long dark hair cascaded through his fingers; and before she could think what was happening, he had thrown off his coat, spun her round again and pressed her up against the wall. The emotional confusion twisting in his heart had turned to lust and Shilty felt the ripples of his desire racing through her body, igniting her own. As he pushed himself deep inside her, the thundering and whirling in Robert’s mind transformed into a potent physical force. Shilty gasped. She was swept up into his uncontrollable passion. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed and his frustration was broken - shattering his former anger into a million tiny pieces. He pulled her back against his chest, trying to catch his breath, and held her tightly.
“F**k! I’m so sorry,” he whispered, as he gently kissed the nape of her neck.
“What for?” she asked, turning around in his arms and keeping her body tight against his. Her eyes were bright and her heart was racing beneath her breasts. She smiled up at him.
Robert half smiled and said, “Because I don’t have the right to do this anymore. To just walk in and…”
“Sweep me off my feet?” Shilty laughed, interrupting him. She looked into his eyes and could see fear, not love; sorrow, not joy, and it dawned on her that his passion was not from his desire for her, but due to something else entirely.
“Something ghastly must have happened?” she said to him. Robert winced as if her words had cut him. She took his hand. “Come upstairs and tell me,” she said, and led him to her bedroom, which was still dark, the shutters drawn. He let her undress him and they slid into her unmade bed, still warm - always inviting.
Not more than a few words passed their lips for the next two hours. Robert felt it was time to leave when she began to ask him questions again. He was aware he had used her purely for his own needs, and he felt a little ashamed about cheating on his friend Clive, but Shilty just lay back against the pillows, naked as you please, and smiled, saying, “That’s break-up sex for you! I wondered if it would ever happen!”
Robert let his guilt slip away as he ventured out onto the cold streets again. Within minutes he had forgotten he had even been with Shilty and he was consumed by thoughts of Little Eden again. Anger still breathed within his chest, but it was quiet for now, like a sleeping dragon rising and falling
just beneath the surface.
Crossing the bridge at St Peter’s Gate he looked down at the old moat, which is now only a stream with pathways and cycle tracks on both sides. In the spring it is a river of tulips, and in the summer it transforms into a multicoloured ribbon of flowers. But, in the frozen grip of winter, the shallow water was as smooth as glass and the water lilies lay captured within its icy embrace.
Robert tried to bring his mind to order. What would Lilly do? He remembered the escapades in the crypt after the funeral, the night before. Her ephemeral presence had brought a warning which now seemed suddenly very real. All he could think was: Lilly had brought a warning - maybe she would bring the solution too?
~ * ~
Five-hundred-year-old oak trees have grown into the masonry of St Mary’s Church, creating living pillars, which flank the entrance and breathe life into the ancient edifice. The nave is always open to all who need to go in, and fresh flowers charmingly cascade from the font and on either side of the altar. A narrow and exposed staircase winds its way up into the bellcote at the far end, and from the vestry one can travel down into the crypt, where the friends had had their supernatural adventures the evening before.
Robert paused for a moment in the tiny chapel of St Katherine and prayed for guidance:
St Katherine, St Katherine, St Katherine.
Sit with me a while in peaceful contemplation, whilst I listen to the divine guidance from within my heart.
Create with me a sacred space in which my mind is quiet and my heart is still.
With your strength, dear sister, I am refreshed and renewed.
As we become one in tranquil solitude.*
Robert had never been much of a churchgoer. He was bored by the sermons, and sometimes even offended by them, but Iris Sprott often reminded him that a great deal of good had been done by Christians in Little Eden over the centuries. He had come to realise that the true heart of Christianity was older than its namesake. His father had taught him that at the core of both Christianity and Buddhism was an incorruptible well of unconditional love - even if organised religion had often become ‘twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools!’*
Lilly, as well as writing songs, had also written some new prayers, which had been adopted by the Little Eden congregation. She had always felt old prayers were clutching at her heart instead of opening it. Lilly always said she could tell which prayers and hymns inspired the soul and which tried to take it from you.
He asked earnestly for help from St Katherine and St Hilda, and he felt an urge to go down into the crypt, alone.
Robert took the back stairs, through the vestry, and down into the dark crypt. He lit a couple of the candles and sat a while in the shadows, amongst his ancestors. He didn’t feel afraid, but he did feel oppressed. He could sense a crushing pressure inside his chest, as if every person entombed there was crying out for him to help them. It was silently deafening. He asked for Alienor or Lilly to appear before him. A few minutes passed, and he nearly gave up; but just as he got up to leave, he felt the familiar chill of a spirit beginning to take form.
Closing his eyes he could see an apparition of Alienor rising from her hidden tomb. She walked through the marble edifice in front of her as if it was not even there. She stood before Robert and he could see that she looked just as she did in her effigy; wearing a cowl and a cape. A sword hung in its scabbard at her side, and she was holding a thick set of papers bound by string in one hand. In the other, she held Lilly’s Faberge egg; as Alienor blew gently on it, it opened up like a puzzle box.
A white light suddenly shot out of the egg and almost blinded Robert, to the point that his eyes actually started to water. The white light faded into a rich purple and then into a soft lilac. In this violet flame he saw a vision of Lilly appearing. She became a silvery ephemeral figure, with graceful snow-white wings which seemed to fold perfectly behind her. Her angelic-like form grew taller until she shimmered and shone, life-size, beside the regal Alienor. The two women stood smiling at him. He reached out his hand, but there was nothing to feel in reality. He tried to keep his concentration, attempting to hold the apparitions in his mind; but he was not an adept (this was his first major psychic vision without Sophie by his side) and before long, the delicate light of Lilly began to fade, leaving only Alienor standing in front of him.
All of a sudden, her countenance changed. She looked powerful and stern. She pushed aside her velvet cloak and drew her sword in a quick deft motion. Its shining blade vibrated as it moved, and a deep, tenebrous, sweeping sound, resounded in his ears. She offered it to him, but he dared not take it from her. He could feel her willing him to take the sword into his own hands, but a force, stronger than her, stronger than him, prevented his hand from accepting it. Without warning, she threw her book at him, and he ducked, as if it were real and about to hit him. “Whoa!” he cried out loud. Its pages fell around him like a pack of cards. His concentration was broken.
Robert tried to refocus and find Alienor’s image again with his third eye. He finally caught sight of her kneeling at his feet as if in prayer. She was weeping. At first he could not see why she was crying so. But, as his vision panned out from her recumbent position, to his horror, he could see dismembered human bodies strewn about the floor of the whole crypt. Looking upwards, he saw a foggy grey cloud hovering over his head. He tried to back away from it, but the whole place was filling up with dark forces and there was nowhere to hide. Black, writhing, slithering snakes came up from the cracks in the flagstone floor and squirmed their way between and through the dead bodies. He lifted himself up onto one of the tombs to get away from the squirming reptiles. He knew that the snakes were not real, but he was filled with such a feeling of unholy dread, he knew that whatever this darkness was, it was having a very physical effect upon him. The supernatural had come to feel very real indeed!
Then, from nowhere, he heard a disembodied, guttural and maliceful laugh. Its monstrous echo cackled amongst the sepulchres. It set his teeth on edge. Robert felt a gelid shiver race down his spine as a freezing blast of air ran through him like a knife. He saw, for a fleeting moment, the miasma of a red-haired woman, dressed in a white night gown, run through the north wall of the crypt. She left only a vapour of mist behind her and the putrefying stench of death. He thought he was going to be sick! He started to say the Lord’s Prayer, and for the first time in his life, he was grateful for having been made to learn it off by heart at school. It came up from his subconscious like a wellspring that had been closed off for many years.
The creeping darkness cleared away in a flash, and the smell of corpses was replaced by the odour of roses. As he turned his attention back to the floor, the bodies were all gone, and so was Alienor. He felt the temperature returning to normal again. His odious nausea abated and he breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly blew out the candles, and made his way, as quickly as he could, back up the steps into the nave, and back to his sanity.
As he came out into the graveyard Robert pondered for a moment. A flashback of Alienor throwing the book at him kept replaying in his mind. It made him think of Mr T and the books in the basement of No.1 Daisy Place Café-Bookshop. Perhaps Mr T would know more about Alienor? Robert immediately took himself off to Daisy Place.
Chapter 8
~ * ~
Mr T is so called because he looks like a faun! He is a veritable Mr. Tumnus.* His real name, however, is Avery Goodfellow. Mr T’s history goes something like this:
After his university days, Mr T took a job at the British Library. His love of books, history and languages is insatiable. He can speak a dozen languages, including many ancient ones, and can read and translate even more than that! His life, however, has been limited by his inability to recognise his strengths and to improve his weaknesses; so he really is the same man at sixty two that he had been at twenty two; and he has never changed or grown up a day since. His concession to human feelings has found
its outlet via his Lhasa Apso, called Cedric, who is now so ancient a dog that he looks as threadbare as his master.
Unfortunately, Mr T did not last very long at his first job. After a rather unpleasant debacle involving some Gorgonzola and an illuminated manuscript, Lilly gave Mr T the Bookshop to run. It is debatable whether Lilly had done him a favour by providing such a sheltered life, or whether, if he had had to make his own way in the world, he might have grown up and into himself. But, the ‘what ifs’ of life are always impossible to know for sure, and it is just as likely that, without the surrogate care of Lilly, he would have withered away years ago; perhaps dying alone somewhere amongst the stacks of the British Library - being found several days later, by a wandering curator drawn towards his corpse, only due to him starting to smell!
Over the years, Mr T has amassed a large personal collection of books, for which he has become quite famous amongst a certain clique of scholars. Few other people know that Mr T’s cavern of treasures exist beneath their feet. Mr T’s secret cellar ventures under Sumona’s Tea Emporium, next door to the Café. It then continues beneath Tom Thumb Alley (where you can find the smallest shops in London) and finally, underneath the tourist information shop, which holds pride of place in the only remaining section of the 14th Century wooden balconied coaching inn.
Robert arrived at Daisy Place and entered via the secret door at the end of the alley. He did not want to be seen by the others just yet. He found Mr T where he usually was, amongst his most adored and prized manuscripts.
This cellar is not a dank, cold, dark place as cellars often are, but a technological marvel of temperature control, humidity stabilisation and dust eradication! Each book has its own glass case, powered by electricity to ensure perfect storage. Some of the folios are two thousand years old, dating back to ancient Sumeria. One of the walls is a sea of scrolls, each carefully rolled and neatly placed in small tubes which are immaculately labelled and dated.