So you might say the worst part of it all was the trips to the seaside and he came to dread the long summer days when the children would be clamouring to go to the beach and Gloria would be sending him up to the attic where the beach things was kept. How he prayed for rain or even just the chance to be left at home, but Gloria would never allow it and truth to tell even this small reluctance of his gave her pleasure in the overcoming of it, being the kind of person she was.
On the morning of this particular day we are speaking of the skies were clear and there was nothing more certain that the children would be wanting to play on the seaside, and sure enough after breakfast it was ‘Frank dear go up to the attic and get down the beach things while I pack us a lunch.’ You may be sure that his steps were as lead and that he mounted the ladder that led to the attic like a man mounting the scaffold where he was to be hanged, but for all that he went and did as he was told, as always.
Only this time there was a small accident. It was nothing much in itself, only it happened there was a loose board so that when he stepped upon it he tripped and stumbled and fell with his face inches from a cobwebby old trunk that had been there since they had moved in. He barely heard Gloria down below asking what was the noise and so forth, because being so close to the old trunk he could smell something, very faint it was but as if someone had lit a candle a long way off in the fog.
Gradually he became aware of Gloria down below asking what was wrong and why wasn’t he bringing down the beach things and what was taking so long? So he answered back that it was only that he’d tripped over a loose board and of course nothing would be more sure than that she would shout back up; for heaven’s sake would he get a hammer and be quick about the fixing of it, before the children should drive her mad down here with their wanting to go to the beach. So the Selchie went and got the hammer and up again to the attic and it was the work of a moment to smash away the rusty old padlock and open the trunk so he could see what was there inside of it.
Now Gloria as we have said was a modern young woman, and the notion that she actually had a skin that had belonged to her husband Frank did not sit well with her notions of what life was all about, not to mention her job and her friends and the new house with the wide screen TV down there in the sitting room. The memory of what her old Granny had said about keeping the thing safe so that Frank would never find it was what had moved her to lock it away in an old trunk she had, and there it had lain ever since so that Gloria herself had put it from her mind, being as we have said a modern young woman with no time for superstitions.
Meantime, there was the Selchie up there in the attic putting out a hand to what lay folded in the old trunk. Of course as soon as he had touched it all that he had been came back in a rush, and he remembered leaping in the salt spray and diving deep, deep down to the places beneath the waves that only the Seal Folk know, the secret grottoes lit by the living lamps of the sea, and the cities built by the patient labour of the coral creatures for the Seal Folk to live in, and the sound of music from all the bells looted from all the sunken ships that had ever been ringing down there in the deep, and swimming in play with their cousins the dolphins, and long slow conversations with those great creatures that men call whales which are to the Seal Folk the carriers of all the wisdom and poetry of their race. He knew also what had been taken from him, and who had done it.
So here we are at the beach, and there is Gloria working on her tan while the children play with someone’s small dog down in the surf, and here is Frank looking miserable as usual slumped down in the beach chair. Only now under his clothes he has on the skin that was stolen from him that needs only the touch of the sea water to complete the change, the sea that is calling so strong to him now that he can barely sit still for the power that is in it, yet sit still he does, remembering fully all the last ten years of life with this woman who sits beside him, and now she holds out to him the suntan lotion to put on her back, but instead a hand stronger than any mortal hand should be fastens itself on her wrist, and she looks across at Frank and her breath stops in her throat for it is not her Frank sitting there in the beach chair, but a thing with staring round eyes and a mouth full of sharp dog teeth and the hand is not really a hand at all, and a voice she would never have known which was not a voice that ever could come from a human throat says, ‘Come Gloria. Come take a swim with the children,’ and Gloria screams ‘Frank!’ unable to believe what is happening, even as the creature that has her by the wrist is dragging her down to the water, and the Selchie turns to her one final time and says slowly the last words she will ever hear: ‘My . . . Name . . . Is Not . . . Frank.’
Now down where the waves break you will see four pairs of footsteps in the sand going into the water and none returning, and the little dog sits sadly looking out to sea for his lost playmates.
Were you wondering, perhaps, why no one came to help them? Only think how ordinary it all would seem, the man fully clothed dragging his wife into the sea and her screaming to be let go and you would have thought, would you not, that it was only a bit of foolery and would all end in the whole family soaking wet and laughing to beat the band? Surely there is no reason for yourself to look so sad, for it was only a story in the end and anyway the tide is coming in and even the footprints will soon be gone.
FROGS
Captain Vasili Illych Argamakov turned up his coat collar and swore. Did it never do anything else but rain in this cursed country? He was a big man, made still larger by the military style greatcoat over a six-foot body with the build of an athlete beginning to run to fat. His high cheekbones and narrow slanting eyes betrayed his Mongolian ancestry which, he liked to point out to women, indicated that the blood of conquerors ran in his veins. And there had been not a few women he reminded himself, overcome by his aggressive, dominating air of authority and the status of his military rank.
Even now, he thought resentfully, as Soviet chief of police in this Polish backwater, he could if he chose have had the pick of the local females. So why was he standing here at the entrance to this crumbling old bridge in a persistent drizzle at such a late hour? He pressed his full moustache with the back of one hand to squeeze out the excess moisture and puffed angrily, sending a cloud of droplets flying. Well, he was intrigued, he had to admit that much. He had first noticed the woman a few nights ago as he made a late call at his office to check on the work of the local staff. Long before in the military he had learned the value of unannounced inspections to keep the underlings on their toes.
As he crossed the deserted Market Square he had noticed the cloaked and hooded figure standing all alone on the rain slicked cobbles peering into the communal well. The enveloping garment could not disguise the womanly form and out of curiosity, and because after all his office required it, he had approached and asked to see her papers. He was agreeably surprised to find that she was young and not unattractive, and even more surprised and perhaps even a little startled at her reaction.
Rather than the somewhat overstated deference (which he was beginning to suspect concealed what was probably a mulish dislike of authority in general and himself as its most visible representative) the woman responded with a shrug and a smile, freely admitting that she had left her documents at home. Her air of treating the whole matter as trivial, laughable even, would normally have merited a stern reprimand or even an interview at Headquarters, but something in her frank warmth and teasing smile had charmed him, starved as he was beginning to be of simple human contact. She was not a street woman, that much was obvious from the modesty of her somewhat old fashioned attire. She ended by saying that as the hour was late she must hurry home, but if the honoured captain should chance to be here in the square tomorrow night she would be certain to have brought her papers for him to see.
The next night she was indeed there at the same spot, and apologised for still being without her documents; as the weather had been so wet she had been worried about ruining them. But perhaps the honoured captain would condes
cend to accompany her to her home, as the night was so dark?
So arm in arm like some decorous couple of the old days they strolled through the ancient cobbled streets. She introduced herself as Pani Marzena, and he had learned enough of the local customs to appreciate the necessary formality, although privately he thought it might be judged dangerously counter-revolutionary by his superiors. The warmth of her smile and the sweet curve of her breast beneath the concealing robe, however, inclined Captain Vasili Illych to generosity, thinking to himself that it lacked only some tottering crone acting as chaperone, and that matters would take a different turn when he reached the woman’s home.
Somehow, though, this never happened, and at the entrance to the Old Bridge where he now stood, Marzena suddenly remembered that her aged Mother, whom she had not mentioned up to now, was attending the Midnight Mass at the great church in her village, and she must now hurry home without the honoured Captain. Apologies prettily given with a discreet press of her two hands on his did much to soothe his thwarted expectations, as well as a promise that should he return to this spot one week hence he should go with her ‘. . . so far as the honoured Captain might like.’ The pretty blush with which this promise had been given, with eyes demurely downcast, had fired the passions of Vasili Illych as perhaps a bolder invitation might not have done, showing the power of imagination in such matters.
So here he was, like some lovesick schoolboy, the Captain chided himself, and grimaced, tucking his head into his collar more securely. The lake must be nearby, he thought, for in spite of the persistent rain the local frog population was out in force, and the syncopated ‘Bre-ek—Bre-ek!’ filled the night. Suddenly he caught sight of movement on the road leading to the bridge, and his heart gave a great leap before he realised that the outline was too short and round to be the one he waited for.
Indeed as the figure drew nearer he recognised the village priest, Father Aleksandra, his dark vestments and full beard beaded with moisture as he shuffled along with the aid of a tall staff tipped with the three tiered cross of his office. Vasili Illych hoped that the old bore would pass by on some errand of his own, but it was not to be, for with his teeth showing white against the dark mass of his beard the priest stopped and bowed. ‘Ah, greetings to the honoured Captain,’ he said in his rumbling bass. ‘How unfortunate that the Captain must be out and on such a night as this!’
‘It is only a little rain, comrade priest,’ he returned stiffly, putting emphasis on the lack of a formal title.
Father Aleksandra looked up briefly as if he had just noticed the weather for the first time. ‘Oh, I meant not that, honoured Captain,’ he said, ‘Rather that tonight is an ill time to be abroad. . . .’
Vasili Illych bit back the automatic question that came to mind, dismally certain that he would be told of yet another peasant superstition, which Father Aleksandra seemed to collect as a dog collects ticks.
To no avail, for the little priest babbled on regardless. ‘The honoured Captain perhaps does not know of the town beneath the waters? How, long ago, the Mongol invaders came in their thousands to this region, and swept all before them.’ His eyes were bright with the enthusiasm of the inveterate storyteller and he seemed to ignore any possibility that his listener might take the implied censure personally.
‘The Mongols, our ancestors, brought order and justice here and elsewhere,’ said Vasili Illych with a stiffness which should have warned the priest that he was treading on sensitive ground.
‘Yes, no doubt, later this may have been so,’ conceded Father Aleksandra, ‘but at the time I speak of it was mainly fire and the sword that they brought. Oh, many a brave man fell defending this town I speak of, until none was left alive and the women, children and old people crowded into their church and prayed to God to save them from the known fate of all those unlucky enough to fall prey to the Mongols.’
‘And were they successful with this prayer?’ Vasili Illych drawled with barely concealed sarcasm, hoping to hurry the end of this slanderous tale.
‘Ah, in a sense it was so and in a sense it was not so,’ said the priest, rocking his palm from side to side to illustrate the ambiguous nature of the occurrence. ‘For even as they prayed, they saw through the stained glass of the windows the burning fire arrows of the invaders as they rained down upon them, and over the sound of their singing the thunder of the hooves of the lustful Mongols as they swept unopposed toward the gates of the town.’
‘So their foolish prayers were in vain,’ sneered the Captain, intrigued despite himself at the vision of all those helpless women gathered together in the great church.
‘I did not say so,’ returned Father Aleksandra, raising a cautionary forefinger, ‘for even as the song of their prayers began to falter and die away, a thunder greater than the thunder of the hooves was heard, and a darkness rose from the ground outside, blotting out the glare from the fires, and then the great stained glass windows burst inward as the waters rushed in, rising swiftly until the entire town was engulfed, even to the topmost spire of the great church and the bells tolled one last time and were stilled forever, and where the town had been was only one vast lake, filling the valley from side to side.’
Vasili Illych was silent, feeling an unaccustomed stab of superstitious dread such as he had not felt since childhood, listening to the ghostly tales the old people told around the fireside at night. ‘What of the Mongols, then,’ he said finally with a laugh which tried to be jovial, ‘That must have been a surprise, to find only a lake!’
‘Imagine it!’ cried the priest, spreading his arms wide in an extravagant gesture of astonishment. ‘They rein their horses in, mouths foaming around the bit, mad with the lust for battle no less than their riders, and all halted in baffled fury, staring down at the still waters of the lake where floated the innocent white waterlilies that grow there to this day, which some claim (I do not say it is true, mind you) are the spirits of all those drowned as the waters of the lake poured in. The Mongols are furious! It cannot be, they cry! Moments before the lights of the town lay before them, there for the taking, they had heard on the wind the voices of the women raised in a prayer for mercy. . . . The leaders shout, Forward All! It is some trick, some enchantment!’ (Father Aleksandra pointed with his staff up the road that led over the ancient bridge.) And with that they spur their horses forward into the dark waters, scattering the innocent pale waterlilies . . .’ He dropped his arms and his staff thudded on the cobbles with a curious finality.
The laugh of Vasili Illych was more successful this time. ‘How foolish they must have felt, to be up to their necks in the cold water!’
The little priest shrugged. ‘It is said,’ he murmured thoughtfully, ‘that of all that vast host, none who entered into the waters of the lake ever came out again.’ He cocked his head in an attitude of listening, and in the silence both men heard the rising chorus of the frogs all about them. ‘Such a lot of frogs here tonight. Some say . . .’
‘Enough of your childish fables!’ roared Vasili Illych in a sudden fury. ‘Away with you, Priest, before I decide to report your seditious words to the Ministry!’
Father Aleksandra’s eyes widened in astonishment, which if feigned was extremely well done. ‘Report? Me?’ he said, ‘But truly, I came but to warn the honoured gentleman!’
The flame of Vasili Illych’s fury flickered and went out, leaving something cold and calculating in its place. ‘Warn me about what?’ he growled, putting his hand upon the holster of his revolver and scanning the shadows round about for any hint of movement.
‘I saw the honoured Captain take this road out of town,’ the Priest said. ‘Does he not know what lies on the other side of this bridge?’
‘Some houses, a hamlet or two I imagine, what of it?’
Father Aleksandra’s eyes widened. ‘On the other side of that bridge is the very lake of which I spoke,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘the road skirts the eastern edge. And on this night six hundred years ago, all took place as
I have said.’ Forgetting propriety in his intensity he clutched with his free hand upon the Captain’s sleeve. ‘Why, there is not a man in this village would set foot over that bridge tonight, not for any reward in heaven or out of it would he do so!’
Unintentionally the priest’s last words recalled to Vasili Illych the face of Marzena, who surely would be along any moment. ‘Well you can thank your saints,’ he grated, ‘that I am not such a man, you have no need to fear for me! A stout heart and a loaded pistol is my answer to any such womanish fears! And now, Comrade Priest, I bid you good night.’ So saying he bowed in dismissal and Father Aleksandra sighed and turned to retrace his steps back to the village.
As his stout little form topped with the ridiculous mitre faded into the twilight, Vasili Illych heard quick footsteps from behind, and turned back to see the graceful form of Marzena just skipping over the arch of the bridge, her kerchief loose upon her shoulders and her lovely blond hair flying free. He looked up briefly in surprise, for it seemed as if the persistent drizzle of the rain had ceased upon the moment.
Her beauty and grace struck him afresh, and fumbling for the customary phrases he bowed low and said, ‘Pani Marzena, I am honoured,’ taking the hand that she held out with an impish smile.
‘Oh,’ she said, dropping a graceful curtsey, ‘we may dispense with formality, may we not? Tonight I shall be plain Marzena, and what shall I call you, honoured Captain?’
The Captain felt himself elevated to the level of courtly romance, and he puffed out his considerable chest as he answered, ‘Captain Vasili Illych Argamakov, at your service!’
Marzena clapped her hands and laughed, then reached out and touched his sleeve. ‘But how wet you are, Vasili Illych Argamakov! How good of you to wait so long in the rain!’ She reached into her waist band and produced a bulbous silver flask. ‘Here I have a remedy—a very old brandy which is only drunk on very special occasions such as this.’
The Girl with the Peacock Harp Page 15