Carnacki: Heaven and Hell

by William Meikle

  “I headed first for Arisaig railway station to check on the status of the delivery of my defenses. As I walked down the path I was aware of the Dark Island to my left but in the cold light of morning I felt no touch of the Outer Circle, and it was as if the events of the night were no more than a fading dream.

  “That brought another thought, as to the nature of the waking dream, and the nature of that vast dark pyramid under a purple sky, but I did not have enough information to reach any firm conclusions. I was getting nowhere. Maybe the use of more sophisticated defenses would bring enlightenment.

  “But that too would have to wait. Mr. Neild the stationmaster was just opening up as I arrived. He proved to be a man after my own heart, heading straight to the stove and getting a kettle on before attending to the rest of his tasks. I let him potter for several minutes before broaching the subject of my expected delivery.

  “He was most apologetic and I have rarely seen a man so disappointed at something that did not affect his own self directly.

  “‘I am very sorry Mr. Carnacki. The sleeper from London has been held up in Glasgow. It will be lunchtime at the earliest afore your luggage arrives.’

  “I let him make me a pot of tea as his penance, and I shared some of my tobacco with him. Over a cup I learned all I needed to know about the comings and goings of the people of Arisaig. I learned who was drinking too much, who was seeing the postman’s wife while he was on his rounds, and which of the older residents would be lucky to see out the coming winter. But all mention of Sir John was met with silence.

  “It’s no’ my place to be speaking ill of the Laird,” was all he would say, then went back to chewing on the stem of his pipe.

  “I left him with a guinea and the promise that he would have my crate delivered to the keep with as much haste as they could manage in this sleepy part of the country. He also, without prompting, pointed me in the direction of the keeper of the local folk stories.

  “‘Jock Monroe is your man for the old stories Mr. Carnacki sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll find him at the croft on the loch side to the south of here. He’ll put you right on yon island you’re so keen on knowing about.’

  “I had not been aware that I needed to be put right, but in cases like this one it never hurts to make oneself aware of all the local folklore on the matter. You never know when something that at first glance appears outlandish might prove to be vital in the resolution of the matter.

  “Monroe’s croft proved to be little more than a glorified barn that he shared with two cows and a family of chickens. The place stank of peat smoke and manure, and Monroe himself was perhaps the oldest man I had ever laid eyes on. He did not rise as I entered, merely stoked a small fire with an iron poker then took a stone jug from under his chair, swigging a long gulp from it. Some of it ran down his long beard and I smelled another odor in the air – that of strong liquor. I almost turned and left, sure in the knowledge that there was nothing to be gained from listening to the demented ramblings of a drunken herdsman.

  “But the man’s eyes, deep and blue, were perfectly clear, and his hand was steady as he motioned me into his home. He handed me the jug, clearly expecting me to have a drink. It would have been impolite to refuse. I took a swig, expecting some harsh country-style hooch and was most pleasantly surprised by a smooth peat-infused whisky that would grace any of the highland distilleries.

  “Monroe smiled, and once more surprised me when he spoke.

  “‘It is never a good idea to judge a book by its cover.’

  “His voice was cultured, and spoke of a certain amount of time spent in mannered company. I sat down opposite him in an old badly upholstered chair that threatened to swallow me, and we traded the liquor jug as we spoke. I offered him some tobacco but he preferred his own blend of aromatic shag that smelled somewhat of hops and left a distinctive taste in the throat that I couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it masked the general stench that pervaded the room enough for me to feel much more comfortable.

  “Which was just as well, for Monroe proved to be from an old school of storytellers; ones who like to weave much incidental detail and local color into even the simplest of tales. And the tale he related to me there in that remote croft was far from simple. I will not tell it to you as it was told to me, for that would lengthen a story that is already lengthy and convoluted enough as it is. But I shall try to paraphrase such that you will know as much as I did when I finally left the room, many sips of uisque and some two hours later.

  “Let me say at the start that there was nothing in Monroe’s tale that spoke of Sir Michael Scott, nor of any family curses that might afflict Sir John’s family. All of Doig’s theory as to the nature of the emanations was passed over as a mere tale to frighten the children. The history of the island as related by Monroe was far older than that, taking me back to a misty past where the inhabitants of the area were primitive mound builders and lake-dwellers.

  “Monroe spoke about faerie folk who had been inhabitants of the region long before the arrival of the first human settlers. He spoke of places where the boundary between our reality and the faerie reality was stretched so thin that a man could pass between the two if he were so minded. This part of his tale took a lengthy diversion into a story about Thomas the Rhymer which, although interesting in itself, will have to wait for another evening lest this drag on into the morning hours.

  “What interested me most were his stories about the Dark Island, and its history of being a thin spot where reality and myth could easily become indistinguishable from each other. Many local tales were told, of lost children, of herdsmen being lost and spending weeks carousing with the elves while decades passed in the real world and, most interesting to me, of men becoming beasts, snuffling and pig-like.

  “‘It does not pay to delve too deeply into the ways of faerie,’ Monroe said, and I realized that the warning was the reason I had been directed here. Stationmaster Neild had been more astute than he had given me to believe. ‘Walk away Mr. Carnacki. Sir John is long past saving.’

  “‘I refuse to believe that,’ I replied, passing back the jug which was now considerably lighter than it had been when I entered.

  “‘Then you too shall be lost,’ the old man said sadly, draining the last of the liquor and fetching a fresh jar from beneath his chair. I declined when he offered it to me.

  “‘I must keep a clear head for this evening,” I said. ‘And I must prepare my defenses.’

  “He laughed at that.

  “‘I find the cratur to be the best defense against just about anything.’

  “His last words haunted me as I left the smoky hovel.

  “‘It does not pay to notice the faerie too much,’ he said. ‘For then, you might yourself be noticed.’

  “Whether it was the result of the early morning partaking of hard liquor, or my foolhardy streak asserting itself, I found myself, some twenty minutes later, sitting in a small rowing boat. I was approaching the small island with as much speed as I was able to apply through waters that were being churned in a stiff breeze.

  “Now you chaps know, I have rarely backed down from a confrontation, being of the firm belief that gathering more information is always the best approach to a problem. I intended to meet this one head on, for I was flummoxed -- and that is not a condition I enjoy.

  “But by Jove that island had a presence to it that almost made me turn tail and flee before I even reached its shore. But I had been brought to this juncture because I was supposed to be the expert, and I was not about to show a yellow streak now. It had almost become a matter of my professional competence, and I meant to show Doig and Sir John that I was up to the job.

  “Besides, it was broad daylight, and in all my adventures up until that point I have always found that the sun dispels most denizens of the Outer Circle readily enough. I girded my loins and with no little effort, dragged the rowboat onto the small shingle shore that passed as a landing jetty and strode ashore.

  “
A rough track through the undergrowth was the only sign that anyone had set foot here before me. I set off along it, aware as I did so that the path had been well trodden, and recently at that. But some, if not most, of the prints in the mud were only vaguely similar to anything a human might make, and I found myself once more quailing, thoughts of swine filling my head.

  “I stopped for a minute and fortified myself with a pipe of tobacco, and wishing I had taken up Monroe’s offer of further fortification. But the simple, well known actions of getting the pipe lit brought me back to something resembling my old self and I was soon able to carry on.

  “Now that I had actually arrived on the island I was able to detect a distinct miasma hanging over the whole of the terrain, a shimmering haze that made the surrounds seem indistinct and unworldly.

  “The geography of the place was in itself unremarkable, with nothing to distinguish it from hundreds of other small islands on hundreds of other Scots’ lochs. What did mark this spot out as different from the others was the feel of the place. A word Monroe had used came back to me as I walked up a rough track through tangled pines to the approximate center of the island.

  “Thin. The place did indeed feel thin, as if only a veil lay between this world and somewhere else, somewhere that might be glimpsed could you just part the material aside.

  “I shook my head to dispel such fancies and chewed hard on the briar stem of my pipe as I approached a raised area ahead. As I closed in I could see it was a cemetery, the kind of small family plot that was always popular with the landed gentry, a secluded spot in which they could whittle away eternity far from the eyes of commoners.

  “But any bones interred there had not been allowed to rest. The ground was disturbed and torn, almost as if someone had taken a plough to it. Or -- and the thought almost had me running back to the rowboat – as if someone had dug their way out from below.

  “I had a good look around, but there was no sign of any skeletal body parts or remains, and I was thankful for small mercies. I also realized that I was procrastinating for, you see, there is something I have not told you yet about the raised area in the island’s dead center. In the Victorian era someone had tried to make it look like a traditional sepulchre with the addition of Doric columns and an arched entrance passage. But even from ten yards away I saw that the additions were mere window dressing on what was obviously a far older structure, one that my training told me was a Neolithic long barrow.

  “And it was equally obvious that I had found the source of all that ailed his Lordship. The miasma was thicker here, almost palpable. The very air seemed to shimmer, and as I turned my head I thought I caught a glimpse of a greenish tinge hanging all around the mound, the graves and even the vegetation. It was strongest around the tomb’s entrance but even in the light of day I was not ready to approach too closely. I would go no further until I had access to more protective weaponry.

  “I had turned away, having identified the focus of my next move, when I felt it again, the tickle in my mind of something from the Outer Circle looking for purchase. But this time I was prepared. I brought the exorcism to mind and sang out the words, my voice ringing out across the island.

  “Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.

  “As quickly as it had come the tickling vanished. The shimmering miasma was still hanging over the mound – my spell had only partly succeeded, but at least it was enough to allow me to beat a strategic retreat in relative safety.

  “Having now at least found the source of my adversary I returned across the loch to the keep to await the delivery of the defences I would require to turn the fight my way.”

  * * *

  Carnacki paused again. He did not make a move to rise from his seat so we knew this was just a resting point rather than a longer break in the tale. There was a rustling around the quiet room and scratching sounds as matches were lit and applied to pipe bowls. Even Arkwright held his peace this time. Carnacki had us in the palm of his hand, wrapped deep in the story, hanging on his every word for the next revelation.

  He started again as soon as he had a fresh pipe lit to his satisfaction.

  * * *

  “The wait for my protections was to prove even longer that I had anticipated. There was a note waiting for me at the keep on my return, from Mr. Neild the stationmaster. The note informed me that the sleeper had been yet further delayed by a track failure at Fort William and that it would be supper-time before I could hope to take delivery of my crate.

  “That was going to be cutting things mighty fine, and I may even have chosen discretion as the better part of valour and taken my leave had Sir John not developed a backbone in my absence.

  “‘I will not be driven from my home by animals,’ he said as we took tea in a library that had once more been tidied and cleared. I was pleased to see that they had left my rudimentary defences intact, and that even as tea was poured, both Doig and his Lordship were careful to stay inside the pentacle. I also saw that extra boards had been nailed across those already on the windows so that, although it was full daylight outside, lights were needed to pierce the gloom in the library.

  “Doig had also been busy in the scullery, and had prepared us a meal. It was mainly cold meats, cheese and bread, but along with a flagon of ale and some very sweet homemade shortbread courtesy of the redoubtable Mrs. Jameson it may well be among the best meals I have ever eaten. We all felt quite replete and comfortable as we got the fire going.

  “It was as yet still only late afternoon, and I knew the night would be a long one.

  We passed the time playing three-handed bridge but neither of the other two had their mind on the game and I soon tired of winning continually. We put down the cards, and Doig pressed me for some anecdotes to pass the time.

  “As you chaps well know, several of my tales would have been too terrifying for Doig and Sir John in their tired and slightly confused state. I could not, for example, tell them of my encounter with the Hog, for that would have been far too close to the situation at hand. I thought long and hard before deciding on the tale of the Lady in Glamis castle. As you will remember, it is more a tale of sadness and regret, and the spirit that haunts it is one to be pitied more than feared. I could see that neither of my companions could bring themselves to fully believe in the story, but that was of no matter. The important thing was that we passed the time without thinking about the coming night, keeping worry and fear away in the telling of stories.

  “My crate finally arrived, coinciding with me reaching the end of the Glamis tale. Two young porters, one of whom must have been Neild’s son if his ears were any indication, brought it inside and left without hiding their apprehension at being in the house, but I had too many pressing matters at hand to be worried about local gossip mongering.

  “I pressed Sir John and Doig into helping me lug the crate into the library. Afterwards they started making inroads on a fresh bottle of single malt while I made preparations for the night to come.

  “I set my electric pentacle to overlay the drawn pentagram upon the floor, seven glass vacuum circles -- the red on the outside of the pentacle, and the remainder lying inside it, in the order of orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. This particular order of colours had proved most efficacious during my adventure in the Larkhill Barrow, and I felt sure that it would once again serve me well having seen the design of the barrow on the island. When I connected up the battery, a rainbow glare shone from the intertwining vacuum tubes. Sir John and Doig seemed suitably impressed, but then went back to their Scotch and reminiscences about their time together at college. Content that my protections were in place I detached the pentacle from the battery and made for the scullery, for I knew that if I were to face more of the swine things, it would be best to be fully fortified in advance.

  “I made myself a hearty supper of more bread, cheese and cold meats that I found in the larder, and washed it all down with a bottle
of strong stout from Skye, which in itself was enough to fortify me for the night to come. I washed up the plates and was about to brew a pot of tea when raised voices sounded in the library. As I headed in that direction I noticed that night was falling outside. I only just remembered in time to snatch my pipe and tobacco pouch from the table.

  “The long night had started.

  “I arrived in the library just in time. Doig and Sir John stood inside the pentacle, and Doig had the shotgun raised, pointing once again towards to largest of the windows.

  “‘It’s back Carnacki,’ he said, looking ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. ‘That damnable snuffling is back.’

  “I took the time to attach the coloured valves of the electric pentacle to the battery, switched it on, and went to join the others in the circle. The dancing glow from the valves lit the room in a wash of colour as they warmed, then flared blue in unison with a loud snuffle from outside.

  “‘What in blazes do we do now?’ Doig asked. ‘The coloured lights are dashed pretty and all that, but what do they do exactly?”

  “I did not reply. A movement, just discernible, could be seen beyond the boarded window. Another snuffle sounded, but no closer than the last. They were being more cautious tonight, perhaps due to my new defences.

  “The green valve on the pentacle flared and pulsed in a definite rhythm, almost one flash per second, and getting faster all the time. The effect was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. And whatever was outside took up the same beat, pounding against the windows in time. Any remaining glass beyond the boards broke and fell away. From my position at the fire I could see the boards buckle as a heavy weight pressed against them, again and again. The nails I had so assiduously pounded into place squealed and complained, but they held - for now.