Mythophidia

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Come up with anything?’ I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Haven’t I just? I’m on a quest, now.’

  Quest? Cathy and I sat down, while Helen leaned against the mantelpiece to light a cigarette. Her fever had cooled. She seemed quite businesslike.

  ‘Psychic questing,’ Helen said. ‘A lot of people are doing it.’ I noticed she did not look at Cathy as she spoke, although her voice was firm and confident, as if challenging Cathy to poke fun. ‘I wrote to some people who are into it, and they’ve been helping me. It’s a science, you know.’

  How far had she gone that she could speak this way in front of Cathy? Her reserve had vanished, which to me spoke of a replacement mania. ‘Are you questing about Rufus Aston?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Absolutely. There’s more to it than meets the eye. He was involved in something, Anna, something from the past that can still affect the present.’

  ‘Oh really!’ exclaimed Cathy, unable to contain herself.

  Helen gave her a hard look, the hardest look I’d ever seen her give anyone. ‘You can scoff, Cath,’ she said in a cool voice, ‘but I know what I’ve seen and experienced. I was sceptical once, too. If you can listen to me with an open mind, I’ll tell you about it.’

  Why had I thought she was fragile? She wasn’t. If anything, her experiences, whatever they were, had strengthened her. There was a new steel to Helen Marchant, almost as if she’d somehow become anchored to the earth, had slowed down, become part of real life. Absurd. But that’s how it felt. And from the way she spoke, it was impossible to laugh at her, even for Cathy.

  With the help of her new friends, who were thorough researchers and had recourse to documents that Helen would not even have thought about, she had discovered that Rufus Aston had been found dead in the grounds of the house, during a visit in the summer of 1883. He had been twenty-two years old. The cause of death was given as an overdose of laudanum. Well, they were all into it, then, weren’t they? Poets and artists, the bohemians. The incumbent of the House at the time, Richard Pargeter, had been a patron of the arts, and much else besides, it seems. The glitterati of artistic society had regularly gathered at the estate, or so Helen said, but I must admit I’d not heard of any of the names she cited as evidence.

  ‘They had a society,’ Helen said. ‘A secret society. There’s no documentation about it, but Steve – he’s my psychic aid - picked it all up at the... well...’ She looked guiltily at me. ‘We had a little session here a few days ago. I know you think it’s dangerous to meddle with, Anna, but honestly, it’s quite safe with people like Steve around, who know what they’re doing. Pargeter was head of the society, like a kind of High Priest, I suppose. They were seeking immortality.’

  ‘Well, at least poor old Rufus never grew old!’ Cathy observed.

  ‘Quite,’ Helen agreed. ‘Things got a bit out of hand, apparently. The strange thing is, there are so few records about what went on. Strangest of all, Richard Pargeter just sort of fades from history not long after Rufus’ death. There’s no mention of him, other than that his brother took over the estate. We can only presume something was effectively hushed up.’

  ‘But this is all conjecture,’ Cathy said. ‘The facts are a man died, in not very suspicious circumstances, really, and then Richard Pargeter stepped down. Probably to avoid a scandal, or something. This other stuff, about secret societies and immortality, was only dreamed up at your séance.’

  ‘I realise it appears that way,’ Helen said. ‘But if you’d been involved you’d feel the same way I do. I was there. I heard him speak. Through Steve.’

  ‘Heard who speak? Rufus Aston?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no. Pargeter. He took over Steve’s body. It was outrageous!’

  ‘His ghost came?’ I said, as an exclamation rather than a question, but Helen answered me.

  ‘Of course not! Pargeter’s not dead. But he is very powerful.’

  ‘Er... what does Roland think about all this?’ I enquired, quite gob-smacked by her revelation. Neither Cathy nor I could bring ourselves to question Helen about it.

  ‘He thinks it’s just a quaint little interest of mine. Poor Rolly, he’s not very spiritual!’ She laughed.

  Cathy wound the visit up very quickly after that, and we left.

  On the way back, Cathy broke a silence between us to say, ‘She’s off her head, Annie, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  Was there anything I, or anyone else, could do? Perhaps we had no right. Helen did not seem ill, or even particularly disturbed. She was excited, yes, but who wouldn’t be, in her shoes? Cathy didn’t believe the stuff about the séance and the psychic questers. She thought they had to be charlatans. I, for whatever reason, call it instinct or gut reaction, was not convinced about that. Still, I wasn’t going to admit that to Cathy. I told Ted about it though, because he has a casual interest in strange phenomena. Was waiting to find his first crop circle, in fact, although his aim would be to disprove more than prove the evidence. In Helen’s case, he thought the danger of applying that much concentration, or will power, to a search, was that you tended to find whatever you were looking for, be it a demon from ages past or a pound coin on the pavement. ‘It can lead to a kind of group hysteria,’ he said. ‘Then you’ll believe, in fact, see, anything. And is that reality or not? It’s marshy ground, I think. We don’t know enough about it.’ Ted reads up on that kind of thing. I asked him to find me the article he’d seen about it. I wanted to read it too. ‘I’d be wary of getting involved,’ Ted said, but he trusted me not to.

  Helen phoned me two days later. Her voice was low, so she must have had company somewhere in the house. ‘Anna, this is a secret, but I have to let you in on it. We’re going to quest for his tomb!’

  ‘Excuse me? Whose?’ I’d lost track of who she believed was dead, and who not.

  ‘Aston’s! He’s buried around here somewhere, but no one knows where. There’s no record, but we’re going to find it. Steve is absolutely quivering with vibrations.’

  ‘Lucky Steve,’ I said, and then added carefully. ‘You will take care, won’t you, Hel.’

  ‘It’s all in good hands, Anna, don’t worry. I’ll let you know about it.’ The phone went down. Just that. I was left looking at my own receiver, wondering if I should do anything, and if so, what? In the event, I did nothing.

  I expected to hear something from Helen pretty soon, but then we had a crisis with our eldest, who had a messy accident with a broken limb, and blood and screams. So I was preoccupied with running backwards and forwards to the hospital in the nearest town for a while. I forgot about Helen’s quest. She phoned me a couple of times to ask how we were, but didn’t mention much about her new interest. I had the impression things had faded out a little. Perhaps, as they hadn’t found the tomb, Helen’s enthusiasm was dying.

  The next news came from Cathy, via Mags. ‘You won’t believe this,’ Cathy said, breezing into my kitchen one morning. ‘Helen’s buying a church!’

  ‘What? You’re joking!

  ‘No. Do you suppose she’s found religion now?

  ‘What’s been going on?’ I hadn’t heard from Helen for weeks, so had assumed Rufus Aston had gone the way of all her previous crazes. This must be a new one.

  ‘Well the ghost hunters are out,’ Cathy said gleefully. ‘Mags thinks a disagreement happened, or perhaps Roland got sick of them. Anyway, Helen has done up a room in the house like an Egyptian temple or something. No one’s allowed in there, but Mags had a peek when the designers were in. She says the house absolutely reeks of incense some mornings when she goes in. Can you believe it? Has dear Helen become a sorceress now?’

  ‘God, I dread to think! But where does the church come into this?’

  ‘Mags doesn’t know exactly. All she does know is that it’s an abandoned church - practically a ruin - near Loxcombe, and that Roland is buying it for Helen. She only found out about it because Roland was bragging in front of his friends when she wa
s serving sherry to them last Sunday. He thinks Helen’s into conservation. Thinks it’s a great idea. There was talk of opening a craft centre in it. Agh! It’s too much! Can you imagine it? Helen in High Priestess robes, selling joss sticks and corn dollies?’ She fell back in her chair, laughing helplessly.

  I joined in with the hilarity, although inside I felt a little disturbed, and absurdly, somehow disloyal to Helen for laughing.

  I called her in the afternoon. ‘So, what’s all this, stranger?’ I said in a joky manner. ‘Where have you been, what have you been up to, and why are you buying a church?’ I expected the usual breezy answer, but Helen was reticent.

  ‘How do you know about that?

  ‘Little bird told me,’ I replied glibly. ‘Is it true?’

  She didn’t want to answer me, I know she didn’t, but eventually she said, with utmost reluctance, ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  I heard her sigh down the line. ‘Anna, I found the tomb.’

  It didn’t take a genius to work out where it was. I wanted to see her. I don’t know why, but the impulse could not be ignored. ‘Can you come over?’

  She hesitated. ‘All right. Give me an hour.’

  In the event, she didn’t arrive when she’d promised and I had to drive to the school around three o’clock to pick up the middle child, with my youngest in the back of the Discovery, making havoc, as usual. Eldest son was prolonging his convalescence at Ted’s parents for a few days.

  I waited outside the school for my daughter, tapping my fingernails against the steering wheel, wondering why Helen had stood me up, and desperate to get back in case I missed her. Then coincidence spilled beans from the mouth of my lovely daughter, as she threw her bag in through the passenger door and climbed up beside me. ‘Mum, there’s witches at Deermount House!’

  ‘What, darling?

  ‘Ben said so. His brother saw them in the grounds, wearing robes and everything. There was a fire. Is Aunty Helen a witch?’

  I laughed, in a brittle fashion. ‘Probably just one of her parties. You know what she’s like.’ Already, my daughter did. Must be that country woman intuition Helen spoke about.

  Helen was waiting for us when we got home, leaning against her shiny black car, which looked like a big cat, and actually was, in another, brand name sense. She was wearing a big coat and dark glasses, her glossy hair covered by a scarf.

  ‘Don’t you dare mention witches!’ I hissed at my daughter as she tumbled out of the Discovery.

  Daughter despatched to friends nearby for pony activities, with the firm directive, despite complaints, to take younger brother with her, I settled Helen in the parlour. I considered making tea, and then poured her a glass of wine instead. She took off her dark glasses, and yes, she looked haggard. Makeup could not conceal the dark puffiness below her eyes. Worse, her nails were lacquerless and bitten. It was too much, almost as if she’d designed herself to look like the archetype of a troubled woman. The biggest shock was when she took off her scarf and shook out her hair. She’d cut it to shoulder length and had dyed it red.

  ‘That’s a change,’ I remarked, almost choking.

  ‘Mmm.’ Helen rubbed her forehead.

  ‘You look terrible,’ I said, ‘although I suppose you know that.’

  Helen managed to avoid my eyes by reaching down to delve in her bag for cigarettes and lighter. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well, actually.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I demanded.

  She lit up, blew smoke at me, or rather a smoke screen in front of herself. ‘It’s nothing bad, Anna, honestly. Just tiring.’ A monumental lie.

  Is it anything to do with the tomb you found, or the secret temple in the house?’

  Helen smiled wanly. ‘God, you just can’t get the staff nowadays, can you? I presume your information comes from the fount of all rumour, Mags Whitely?’

  ‘I never betray my informants,’ I answered, ‘but what I heard concerns me, Hel. And look at you! What are you doing to yourself? What’s the temple for?’

  ‘I find comfort in it,’ Helen said. ‘I feel safe there.’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘Even my daughter talks of witches in the gardens at Deermount. Just what is going on?’

  Helen considered for a moment, and then relented. ‘All right. I don’t want this going back to Cathy, but, well, I would appreciate a chat.’

  I gave her my promise, and I meant it. She spoke at length about how much she’d found out about the secret society of Deermount House, circa 1883. The Bearers of the Old Light, they called themselves. All of the information had been channelled through Steve during psychic sittings. (The so-called witches in the garden, incidentally, had been an outdoor séance). The Bearers of Old Light had consisted of ten members, three of them women, all of them artistic or creative, but for Richard Pargeter, who called the shots. Helen said he was a vampire for the creative energy of the others, but that he also replenished them, whatever that meant. They sought immortality, through magical artefacts, which failed, and then through ritual. ‘It’s not magic as we know it,’ Helen said, ‘but a form of parascience. It’s trying to make contact with a more evolved form of yourself, who of course knows all the answers.’

  And Rufus? His death, Helen said, was not accidental.

  ‘Exactly what it was is difficult to establish. Steve never made contact with Rufus. He thought that Pargeter was blocking him.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I ventured, ‘I remember you saying something outrageous like Richard Pargeter wasn’t dead...’

  Helen nodded. ‘I know it sounds crazy, I know it does. I don’t want to believe it myself, but Steve was convinced. And now, I feel him myself, around the house, in the back of my head, everywhere.’

  I shivered, thinking of cruel eyes beyond the window, where the afternoon was darkening. ‘I hate to say this, but how... how genuine do you think this Steve is?’

  Helen flicked me a crystalline glance. ‘No one could act that well,’ she said shortly.

  ‘So you’re saying Pargeter actually found immortality?’ I risked a smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I find that very hard to believe. What has he been doing for the past hundred years? Do his family know about him? And how on earth did he manage to live so long? Come on, Hel, you must agree it’s pretty far-fetched!’

  ‘It’s not just far fetched, it’s insane,’ Helen said. ‘But I also believe it to be true.’ She leaned towards me. ‘He’s making his presence felt to me, Anna, he really is.’ She shuddered, and looked around herself, as if a malevolent draught had suddenly chilled her.

  My spine prickled in sympathy. ‘Do you think you’re in danger?’ I asked her gently.

  She gave me a naked, wild look that made me jump. For a second, something else seemed to look from the face of my friend. I remember saying her name in shock. Then she shook her head, hiding her face with that new, red hair.

  ‘I don’t know, but I feel I have to... I need Rufus’ help. I’m sure he’d be able to tell me what to do.’ She rubbed her face wearily with her hands. ‘God, Anna, why did I get into this? Why? Now, it’s too late. I’m in it!’

  Sitting there, in my cosy parlour, it was hard to believe this other world existed; a world of magicians, secret societies, voices from beyond, psychic quests, supernatural threat. And yet, there was Helen before me, a ragged, haunted Helen who’d uttered the first regrets I’d ever heard from her, the first truly honest words concerning herself. I realised, with some awe, it was also the first time she had truly confided in me. No bravado, no wit, no barrier; just a frightened woman.

  I’ll help you,’ I said impulsively. ‘Whatever I can do...’

  She reached to squeeze my hands. ‘Darling, thank you, but I don’t know what you can do, other than listen to my ravings! Steve and the others have gone now. I’m afraid I threw them out. Stupid of me! I realise I need them, and yet I don’t want to be part of their world.’

  ‘Why did you throw them out?’

  She sighed. ‘Two re
asons. First, I haven’t seen Rufus in the gardens since they came, or since Richard Pargeter made his presence felt. I believed Rufus would come back once they’d gone, but he hasn’t. And second, I thought this nightmare would end if Steve and the others left. But it hasn’t. I feel he’s there with me all the time, Anna, watching me, waiting for a weak moment. He hates me.’

  ‘Pargeter?’

  She nodded miserably. ‘Sometimes I tell myself it’s only my imagination. I tell myself not to be so silly, to throw off these ridiculous fears. Then I’m in bed at night, terrified, and whatever I do, however I scream, and hit out, I can’t wake Rolly up, and I’m alone with this...’ She struggled for colourful enough words. ‘With this... evil, cold mind. All around me. My little temple offers some respite, but not for much longer, I’m sure.’

  ‘Perhaps you should contact Steve and his friends again,’ I suggested lamely.

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. Then it would just go on and on. They love this kind of stuff. It’s like a drug to them. They’d only make it worse, I’m sure.’

  ‘Then someone else. There must be other people who deal with this kind of thing? A priest even.’

  She nodded, a little distantly. ‘Yes... you’re right.’ Then she flicked her attention back to me. ‘But I know Rufus can help me. I nearly have him now, Anna, what’s left of him.’

  ‘No, Hel, no!’ I insisted. ‘Go home, get your spooky journals, or whatever it is you have, and ring some people. Get someone to help you. Leave it alone until then. Have you told Roland about it?’

  She laughed coldly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! He’d have me committed.’

  ‘Surely not? He loves you.’

  ‘Yes, I think he does. But he’s afraid of madness, of anything he can’t see and touch and control. If he could say to people “Oh, we have a ghost, you know”, he’d love it, but not this, not something real and dreadful.’ She took a breath and dropped her cigarettes and lighter back into her bag. ‘Anyway, I must be going. Hate to sound dramatic, but I don’t like being out alone after dark.’