‘The High Road boasted numerous parades of shops: you know the sort. A couple of inns, one of which was probably the old village inn, still surviving under the weight of plastic half-timbering and imitation latticed windows. Opposite was the little park with its remaining sentinel trees. I crossed the main road and headed along the lane by the park. At least, the road was still named as a lane: it was now just an apparently ordinary suburban road, littered with semi-detached houses and bungalows. The lane had retained much of its original crooked and winding ways, but even so, the houses looked just like a drawing out of one of the excellent architectural primers by the late Sir Osbert Lancaster.’
‘Half-baked Tudor,’ I said.
‘Hmm. Well, I don’t think that was one of Sir Osbert’s terms, but it will serve!’
The Connoisseur sipped from his glass, then rose and replenished mine.
‘Now, after a half-mile or so, I noticed that there were one or two clearly much older houses up ahead. They were in the traditional old Middlesex style: half-timbered and tiled. They had clearly survived from the old village, and had not been demolished when the waves of speculative building had engulfed the entire area. Around the next bend was my goal. As soon as I saw the house, I knew that it was perhaps the original farmhouse for the area. Low and rambling, yet gracious and distinguished, the house was a jewel in an utterly commonplace setting.
‘The entrance porch was very early nineteenth century, possibly by Soane or one of his disciples. In fact the house was more a small manor-house than a large farmhouse. An old board of skinned black paint with chipped gilt lettering read:
Ferdinand MUSCOTT
Oils, Gums, Unguents.
‘I knocked.
‘The man who opened the door had the most piercing blue eyes that I had ever seen. They were glinting and flashing. I had to look up and into them, for the man was vastly tall. He was all but bald; but then I noticed that his hair was shaved very short indeed, in addition to being very fair. The rest of him was not so alive.
‘I gave the name that I had adopted for our brief correspondence. He smiled and opened the door wider, beckoning me inside. He led me through the hall and along a corridor that disappeared into the depths of the house. We emerged into a room that looked like a combination library and conservatory. What walls I could see were white. The spaces between the tall sash windows were filled with high bookcases and cabinets. The lower parts of the windows were barred. A large work-table was covered with small paper envelopes, and boxes of coloured powders, vials and retorts with curious liquids, and what looked like seeds scattered around. Ranged on shelves there were great glass jars, green-tinged, with vivid contents, and curious manuscript labels: Gethsemane, Seraphim, Ascalon, Zerubbabel, Dragon of Revelation. My host indicated a seat, and then sat down opposite me. He folded his arms over his knees and leant forward.
‘ “You said you wanted me to compound for you,” he said. “More of a particular order I made up for a friend?”
‘This was the story I had concocted. I nodded.
‘But he was cautious, eyeing me bleakly. “A friend, or— a rival?”
‘ “Well, maybe not exactly a rival,” I said. “Let me say, a fellow labourer in the, ah, vineyard.”
‘He pretended to consider. “Well, I am asked for many special creations. Which was this, do you suppose?”
‘Here I decided to try a gamble. “It was for Mr Ascherson,” I ventured.
‘ “Mr Ascherson? Mr Thomas Ascherson. I believe I have heard of him. He is the author, is he not, of Ophiomorphus—a study of the serpent god in ancient mythology? It is useful for me to keep up with developments in the esoteric: it affects trade, you know. Well, I am afraid you are—misinformed. I have not supplied that scholar with any incense.” That was a blow, certainly, but the intelligence about Ascherson’s interest was most helpful to the theory I had been forming.
‘Muscott, however, tightened his lips. His brilliant blue eyes blazed out at me.
‘ “You know, it’s a most curious thing, though. I did have someone come to see me from his terrain—Saltway, isn’t it. They brought a resin with them and they bade me mingle it with certain other ingredients. This I did. No doubt that is what you want. It is, however, a very rare matter indeed. It will be most expensive.”
‘I stared back at him—and made another surmise. “Surely,” I said, “Cedar, Cypress and Yew are not so very costly?”
‘There was the merest flicker in his shining gaze. “Shrewd,” he conceded, “but they certainly are if they come—or purport to come—from the stock of those trees grown in Jerusalem for many centuries. And the fourth and last element, which my client brought with them—well, that has a boundless value.”
‘ “And a boundless power,” I threw back, “All who have had a hand in its use: shall they emerge quite inviolate, do you suppose?”
‘He sat there, evidently considering what I had said. He half-closed those glittering blue eyes. I glanced around the room, looking at the books and the packages on the table. Here, in this room, deep in an ordinary suburb, the means for the most extraordinary, and, to most people, utterly unbelievable, transactions and transformations were prepared and sold, like so many aspirins or bottles of cough mixture.
‘Suddenly he got to his feet, and strode across to his worktable. I followed him. He pulled open a drawer at the end of the table, and took out a small metal box. It was dull and grey: like lead or pewter. He held it out to me. “This is it. This is what it was. This is the final ingredient that—my client—brought to me. I kept a very small quantity behind. They will not have noticed.”
‘I took the box and opened it. The bottom was covered with a drying smear of a red resin.
‘ “Take it. It’s yours. I don’t want it.”
‘ “As I said—a—”
‘ “You don’t have to pretend any more, Mr—” He spat out the name I’d been using. “Whatever your name is, that isn’t it. I know that. But when you contacted me so soon after—the other—I knew you were—inauthentic, shall we say.” ’
My friend smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, indeed, I had been “seen through” right from the very start. But it was my very good luck that our alchemist of incense had a suspicious mind. As soon as he realised what was going on, what he was getting involved in, he retained a quantity of the powder—’
The Connoisseur paused in his narration.
‘And what was it he had made?’ I asked.
He became very subdued. ‘I am rather afraid it is intended to be the Oil of Mercy. The most holy essence imaginable. It requires the sanctified unguents of the three stocks that comprise the primordial Tree of Life (Cedar, Cypress, Yew): and—the blood of Christ.’
‘Before I left, I had him devise for me another incense. He was grudging at first, but then rather amused… . I see it as a sort of antidote.’
***
It was evident that Muscott’s client would be acting rapidly to put to use the Oil they had gained from him, so after The Connoisseur had recounted these events, we made the journey to Saltway immediately. My friend clutched a small black box-like case with a brass clasp, and would not let go of it.
Our friend the churchwarden met us at his modest, desolate stone cottage. His wispy hair looked wilder than ever. ‘I am very glad to see you,’ he said, ‘For I am afraid a most unworthy suspicion has entered my mind. We had a meeting of Mrs Westerling’s Fellowship last night, only a few of us. She read us a most peculiar bit of scripture I never heard of before. I picked up the slip of paper she wrote it on. Look… .’
The Connoisseur read it aloud:
‘Since you have done this and become an ungrateful vessel, so far as to lead astray the careless of heart, accursed are you beyond all wild beasts. You shall be deprived of the food which you used to eat, and shall eat dust every day of your life. You shall crawl on your belly and you shall be deprived of your hands as well as your feet. There shall be left for you neither ear nor wing nor one
limb of all that with which you enticed them in your depravity… .’
‘It says it is from the Life of Adam & Eve,’ he observed. ‘An apocryphal text, no doubt.’
The churchwarden looked bewildered. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Then she led a discussion about it, over our tea. And she said if you read it carefully, it means the serpent in Eden must have originally had wings and ears and limbs, otherwise they could not have been taken away. And then, you know, she became quite—well, transfigured is the only word. She clasped her hands together and said how wonderful it would be if only the serpent itself could be forgiven—shriven, she said. Surely it would lead to many great spiritual changes in the world. The Oil of Mercy would flow over all, she said. And Tom Ascherson, he agreed.’
‘Where are they now?’ burst in The Connoisseur, abruptly. The churchwarden paused.
‘I should think both of them are in the church now,’ he said. ‘I’d noticed that their names coincided on the flower and cleaning rotas, and… .’
We wasted no time getting there. The old churchwarden unlocked a side door into the vestry, very quietly. ‘Please lock us in again,’ my friend told him. ‘If we are successful we shall let you know. If not—well, not having a key won’t be of any consequence. And I venture to think that this ancient building won’t be either.’
We crept into the dim little side-office, among the hanging cloaks, jam jars, a clipboard with the church roll. We peered out. There was no sign of any cleaning or flower arranging going on, but there was dim movement within. I found a candle and lit it.
‘I think we are in time,’ The Connoisseur said. ‘Please see if you can find where Westerling and Ascherson actually are. I have to prepare Mr Muscott’s special concoction.’
To my not very great surprise I soon noticed the glow of a few candles seeping from the far eastern end of the church, in the apse. I was soon able to make out whispering, and I saw a form I recognised as Ascherson, and an ample body with fluttering hands. I crept back to the sacristy.
‘They’re both there, all right,’ I reported back. ‘They’re preparing to do something. I can tell.’
‘Yes, and see here.’ The Connoisseur indicated a table with matches, candles, and various boxes scattered around on top of it. ‘They were already prepared. But now, so am I.’
He had opened the little case, and had taken out what I saw to be a thurible: the vessel specially designed to burn incense when used in a liturgical setting. I leaned over to take a closer look. This one was of exquisite design, and simply but beautifully crafted. The thurible rested in a special stand, so arranged that a candle could be lit underneath its lower section, thus heating up the incense within. The thurible’s chains hung down over the stand, and were spread out, along with its perforated top, over the top of the table.
‘I knew that I’d not regret obtaining this,’ my friend said. ‘Although I never dreamed that it would ever be put to so practical a use.’ He looked into the thurible. ‘There’s no sign that the metal is hot. It is made that way. But I would not advise that anyone touch it!’
I sniffed at the unmoving air. The Connoisseur raised his eyebrows. Even though he had not yet charged his own vessel of scents, the usual ecclesiastical smell of the church, all polish and prayer-books, was becoming intincted with a trace of sharp gums and herbs from within the body of the church. Then we could hear a low chant: a duet that rose and dipped rhythmically, like a psalm.
I stood upright again. The Connoisseur touched my arm lightly. ‘Not yet.’
Now the smell was becoming stronger. It was clearly a powerful incense indeed. I moved on tip-toe to the sacristy door, and glanced up and down the almost deserted church. Clouds of incense were rising up from the apse, like grey storm-clouds gathering over a peaceful landscape. The paintings were becoming obscured. The glow of the candles from underneath the cloud added to the sublimity of the scene.
‘ “And dark is his path on the wings of the storm”,’ my friend half-sung and half-whispered. ‘But what they’re doing isn’t for the right “him”.’ Using a tiny spoon, he scooped incense from a small lead box into the thurible. It was the box that he had brought back with him from his meeting with Muscott. The incense started to burn straight away, releasing clouds and such a smell that banished the one already seeping through the church. He picked up the thurible by the ring holding the chains together. With a rattle the top of the thurible clattered down onto the bottom section. The smoke was cut off for a moment, before it started to pour out through the intricate pattern of holes that punctured the top. My friend swung the smouldering container to and fro a few times. He pushed the lead box and spoon into my hands. ‘Hold those and come on.’
We entered silently into the shadows of the church, and into the aisle, pausing behind a pillar. The Connoisseur swung the thurible while I looked eastward along the nave. The clouds billowing up from the base of the apse had grown stronger, as had the chanting—although with just the two voices, it did not seem likely to achieve the strength that the situation must have demanded. The candles flickered like flashes of lightning.
The Connoisseur must have sensed what I was thinking. ‘The quality or even the quantity is not the most important factor,’ he whispered. ‘It is the intention of the celebrant, and getting the words right. And the accurate mix of the incense in order to catalyse the whole invocation, of course.’
The two voices rose and fell in their eerie chant. The combination of bass and contralto added to the unearthliness. More clouds billowed forth. Our incense seemed to be in danger of being smothered. But gradually it was our incense that I could smell the stronger. Unless that was merely because I was standing next to its source.
‘Look!’ my friend whispered. I gazed into the apse. The crowned snake, as described to us by the churchwarden, seemed to be writhing slightly behind the smoke. The form began to flow and undulate. Its black limbs were as if about to burst into flight. There was a shining intelligence in the scarlet eyes. At least that’s what it seemed. But it was difficult really to make it out, because of the smoke and the lack of strong light. Then there was a low susurrus as of stealthy movement, and the arched wall of the apse seemed almost to tilt and waver.
The Connoisseur grabbed my arm. ‘Sing and chant out anything that has a sacred import. Lustily as possible. And —now!’ He propelled us both out into the nave. We strode in unison towards the apse, as if naturally playing our part in a procession. The thurible swung higher and higher, until it reached shoulder-level before falling back to begin its next arc.
It was a work by the master, Johann Sebastian Bach, in which I had once sung, which came into my mind. I started to sing at the top of my voice: ‘Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, Der Wächter sehr hoch auf der Zinne, Wach auf, du Stadt Jerusalem!’
I glanced at my friend. He looked up at the apse, and then glanced at me. He started to smile. I closed my eyes and continued to bawl out for all I was worth, trying not to choke in the mingling clouds of incense now filling the church. We marched onwards.
The voices of Mrs Westerling and Tom Ascherson were noticeably faltering. There was a hint of desperation. By comparison my voice was still fresh. I opened my eyes for a moment. Smoke and candlelight swirled and flickered. And the image of the painted snake was no longer moving with as much unholy vigour. I sang out again.
We reached the apse. I could feel the heat thrown off by the candles and all the burning incenses. I was beginning to drown out the now unconfident voices of the duo, but I sensed they were about to start up again, their eyes fixed upon the dark, writhing image. Then the rackety wooden door from the church porch burst open. The tall, bare-headed, gleaming-eyed figure of Ferdinand Muscott stood framed in the opening, while the light from outside and the shadows clustering in the church played about him. I faltered, and I could see The Connoisseur’s flailing thurible began to slow. If this sinister alchemist were to throw in his forces with them, all was surely lost.
He spoke very quietly
. ‘Mrs Westerling, it is really of no avail. I am afraid my cedar, cypress and yew have been nowhere near Jerusalem. Crushed cabbage, with a few pine needles. I am so very sorry. And that red resin you gave me—’ he cast his gaze upon the walls, ‘well of course I kept some, and tested it. Vegetable matter. Rhubarb, I shouldn’t wonder. Or maybe radish. Not what you thought at all.’
The duo subsided onto a pew. Then Ascherson cast his unguentarium upon the floor, and strode past the incense-maker, glaring fiercely at him. The churchwarden entered, eyeing Muscott rather warily. He helped Mrs Westerling to rise unsteadily to her feet, and I heard a murmuring about tea.
The Connoisseur stared steadily at our intercessor.
‘Thank you,’ said my friend, ‘I see the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge is not only to be found in the incense you made for me.’
The great high Incense Maker of Middlesex shrugged.
‘Can’t have universal peace and bliss breaking out,’ he said. ‘No need for spells, curses, rites then. Bad for business.’
‘So you ended on the side of the angels then, after all, Mr Muscott?’
‘Certainly,’ he responded, with a delicate pause. ‘But which: fallen or unfallen?’
And with a jaunty twist to his eyebrows, he favoured us with a gleaming stare, and strode away.
The Temple of Time
In these dreams I apprehend gigantic façades, vast stretches of magnificently schemed landscape, moving roads that will take you wherever you want to go instead of you taking them. ‘All this we do and more also,’ I rejoice. And though endless lovely new things are achieved, nothing a human heart has loved will ever be lost.
H.G. Wells, The Happy Turning
I glanced nervously at my watch as I hurried up the stairs to the rooms of my friend, The Connoisseur. Outside, the old town was bathed in the lurid orange light of an apocalyptic sunset. Although it was still late summer, a slight breeze brought with it the first chill of autumn. The smell of traffic and cooling pavements was displaced sporadically by the scent of cut grass, and the fragrance of mown hay blowing in from the countryside beyond the city. I was already in a somewhat morbid mood; and the overall scene presented the feeling of the impending end of an era, not just of a season.
The Collected Connoisseur Page 27