Mirror of the Night

by E. C. Tubb

  “They won’t be photographed?”

  “It isn’t that.” Clark shuddered at recent memories. “The best looking woman there is over forty and weighs close to two hundred pounds. The men are as bad. Stripped they look like literal hell and how the devil they manage to perform the essential rites is something I’ll never understand. Maybe they don’t, that could be why they have a record of one hundred per cent failure. Not that they admit it, of course, but that’s what it amounts to.”

  Mavis frowned. “I’m not with you.”

  “The purpose of a coven is to summon their master, the Devil,” said Helen precisely. “They appeal to him, or use persuasion, or even force to get him to appear. In that the ceremony is very much like orthodox religion; a band of worshippers, usually thirteen, dance and chant beneath the auspices of a master. There is a sacrifice and various other ceremonies. The culmination should result in the manifestation of the Prince of Darkness who then dispenses various powers, grants favours, etc.”

  “Favours?”

  “Kills enemies, wilts crops, wins the agreement of a desired one, fixes a satisfactory deal, dries cows, blights orchards, sours beer—nasty little vengeful things the witch wants done.”

  “Black magic,” said Tony. He looked thoughtful. “I could use some of that.”

  “You’re not likely to get it,” said Mark flatly. Not from the Fairfield coven. They seem to be living in a dream.”

  “Compensation for boring lives,” said Helen. “A futile search for personal power by an appeal to the realm of the imagination. The Devil exists only in the region of speculation. He, or it, is as unsubstantial as a fairy. I read a good book on the subject. It seems that way back the poor and oppressed people tried to find a way to combat the establishment. So they went in for worshipping the reverse of what was considered good. To do evil was to strike a blow at untouchable authority. To do it in a way interesting and mysterious was to gain secret power—more correctly the illusion of power. The old practitioners of witchcraft were neurotics of the worst kind. In a sense the whole thing was what we would call a protest. The pathetic thing is that it has hung on and still attracts the frustrated and miserable. Still, as it can do no harm, I suppose it doesn’t matter much.”

  Clark snapped his fingers. “Got it!”

  “Again?” Conway shrugged. “What is it this time?”

  “The title. What we’ll call the film. What it will be about. The End Of An Era. Get it? The death of the old belief. The living, scientific proof that the covens and witches are wasting their time. A documentary which will finally bury the hoary old concept of a Prince of Darkness, Satan, the Devil, the Evil One. We’ll put out a blast which will rock all the nuts who dream of a shortcut to power. They’ll scream but what the hell, we’ll get talked about. Arabesque will be made!”

  His enthusiasm was contagious.

  “How will you work it?” demanded Sherman. “I like the idea. There’s some gimmicks I want to try, trick stuff using variable images and cancelling lights, but you said the coven was out for photography.”

  “We don’t need them.” Clark reared to his feet. “Mavis, you know a lot of young types without inhibitions. Pick a dozen, half and half, good lookers game for a bit of fun. Hell, there’s enough out of work actors and actresses who’ll jump at the chance to get on film, and most of them have performed in the raw. Helen, you get the accessories. Make a list of what we need and Tony will get it. How about the incantations and chants?”

  “Mostly in Latin,” she said. “But not to worry, I know a scholar who can read it better than English.”

  “How’s his voice?” Conway, the sound artist, leaned forward from where he sat. “I want something good. Electronics can soup it up but it’s better if we can start with a good, deep, full-bodied voice with plenty of punch.” He looked at Clark. “Dubbing?”

  “No. I want this to be a genuine experiment. We’ll use speakers and recorders and get the artists to mime. Boost the power and it won’t matter if they actually talk, they won’t be overheard. And how about the Lord’s Prayer? Didn’t they used to use it said backwards or something?”

  “That’s in the Black Mass,” said Helen.

  “Never mind. We’ll use it and anything else which seems appropriate.”

  “How?” Conway was professional. “And what do you mean by backwards?” He frowned, thinking. “And deliver us from evil,” he murmured. “That comes out—evil from us deliver. Something wrong there. Why should a devil-worshipper ask for deliverance from the one thing he is supposed to believe in?”

  “I said backwards,” snapped Clark. “You’ve got a tape recorder, use it. Have someone with a good voice repeat the prayer then turn the tape, adjust the head and play it back.”

  “Neat,” said Conway. “Anything else?”

  “Later,” said Clark, and yawned. “I’m beat. Auditioning that coven was damned hard work and wasted at that. We’ve got three days to get everything ready and a week for rehearsals. I want to catch the next full moon.”

  * * *

  Simon Dene rested the tips of his fingers together and looked severely over the steeple. “You realise, Mr. Bannerman, that as a practising wizard and as head of the coven I cannot permit any levity?”

  “None is intended,” said Clark. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the dead eyes of a stuffed bird. It was mounted on a wall together with a mummified snake, a shred of long, lank hair, a photograph of the pyramids and what seemed to be a death mask from Africa. Rows of books showed faded bindings and the whole study smelled of dust and decay. There was also the sickly trace of incense and something that reminded him of marijuana.

  “The practice of witchcraft is a serious thing, Mr. Bannerman,” continued the head of the coven. “I have devoted my life to the pursuit of arcane knowledge and do not take it lightly. You will be dealing with tremendous forces and the danger of arousing malevolent entities is not to be ignored. The Prince of Darkness, Mr. Bannerman, is not to be treated with casual indifference.”

  “This is why I am asking you to conduct the ceremony,” said Clark. He was quite serious. “I realise that for us to do as we intend your help and guidance is essential. There will be no levity. My cast is a group of serious-minded devotees eager to both learn and help. Unfortunately, for reasons which I have explained, we cannot use the members of your coven but, as leader, you cannot be replaced.” He paused and then added, “Naturally full credit will be given and due acknowledgment made for any help you may give. I think it fair to say that, once our film is shown, you will be recognised as the leading authority on witchcraft in this country and perhaps the world.”

  Dene hesitated.

  “However,” Clark pointed out, “if you cannot agree to help I shall understand. Fortunately there is another who is willing to cooperate, not as well-versed as yourself, perhaps, but—”

  “That will not be necessary.” Dene responded to the threat as Clark knew he would. “I shall have full control?”

  “Within the limits of practicability, yes.” Clark rose. “The cast is staying at the Manor together with my crew. If you would be so good as to brief them, ground them in the basics as it were—?”

  He left, irritated at the necessity of co-opting the old coot but recognising the necessity of having some recognised authority lending weight to the project. And Dene would make a good contrast to the others, old flesh against young, the stark bones of age against the lush curves of youth. And there wasn’t time for anyone to learn all the minor details. As an instructor if nothing else Dene would be an asset.

  A voice hailed him as he left Dene’s house. It was a big voice and it came from a big man. Eustace Edwards, vicar of the parish and incumbent of the decaying church had played rugby in his youth and some of his early strength remained. He came striding down the road towards Clark, sunlight glinting from teeth and eyes.

  “I say! Can you spare a moment?”

  Clark sighed and turned to face the vicar. Th
is was one confrontation he had hoped to do without. The man of God would hardly likely to be for the project and, as in all small communities, his word carried weight. Unless handled carefully he might arouse a gang of the local youths to wreck the shooting. Smiling he advanced, hand extended.

  “Vicar! How good to see you. I was just on my way to the vicarage. You may have heard of me, Bannerman of Arabesque. We make cultural films of interest to educated minorities and—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Bannerman,” said the vicar grimly. “And I know what you intend. How any right-thinking man could propose such an obscenity is beyond my comprehension! To toy with the spirits of evil, to fly in the face of Christian doctrine, to pander to the very worst in human nature—!” He paused to recharge his lungs. “I am amazed, Mr. Bannerman! I am astounded! More! I am disgusted and horrified. I must insist that the entire vile intention be abandoned immediately! I would be failing in my duty if I were not to stamp out this monstrous practice with every atom of my strength!”

  “I agree with you, vicar,” said Clark quickly. “And that is just what I am trying to do. Now, if we could go somewhere for a cup of tea, I will be happy to explain.”

  It took three hours of hard talking and harder lying but at the end of it the vicar was convinced that the project had been authorised by Higher Authority as the means to combat witchcraft by means of the mass educational media and would be the direct means of restoring his diminished congregation.

  Mavis met him when he returned to the Manor. She wore a neat ensemble of painted skin, the hides joined at the neck and tied at the sides so as to expose a generous expanse of gleaming white flesh. Her feet were bare and her face grotesque with writhing lines of colour. From behind the closed doors of what had once been the gunroom came the sound of padding feet, chanting and the thin tones of Simon Dene as he called instructions.

  “So he’s on the job,” said Clark. “Good. At least he didn’t waste any time.”

  “He arrived a couple of hours ago. Where have you been?”

  “Taking care of the opposition.”

  “The vicar?” Mavis smiled. The effect, under the make-up, was disconcerting. “I’d wondered about that.”

  “Stop wondering,” said Clark. “He’s against it but is willing to hold his fire. He’ll probably verify what I told him with his bishop so we haven’t much time. To play it safe we’ll shoot tonight. Where’s Sherman?”

  “At the oaks with Joe. Tony’s running errands and shifting equipment.”

  “Helen?”

  “Inside.”

  She stood out like a sore thumb among the crowd of semi-nude youngsters prancing in widdershins around a table on which stood Dene.

  “No!” he said. “No! No! No! You really must be serious. No smiles, no talking, nothing but utter concentration. Each must look towards the altar as they move. Hands must remain in contact. The arrangement is man-woman-man. Now please let us try again.”

  Clark shouldered his way forward. “Listen,” he snapped harshly. “This isn’t a game. If you want to stay m the cast you cooperate. We shoot tonight and if anyone isn’t up to scratch they can start walking home.” He glowered at a slim young thing with a mane of midnight hair streaming over her rounded shoulders. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I want to change places. I want to be next to Claude. We—”

  “All right, change.” Clark glared at the others. “Anyone else want to swap? No? Then you’re now in the positions you’ll be tonight. Remember them. I don’t want any foul-ups. Who’s handling the sound?”

  “I am,” said Mavis. “But do we need it now?”

  “This is a dress rehearsal,” said Clark. “We use everything we’ve got, well, almost. Play it soft and move to time. Go!”

  It was impressive, even in the light of day in a carpeted room with the Head of the Coven standing like a stork on a polished table. The actors were quick to slip into their roles, prancing, mouthing, eyes mirroring dedication.

  Clark sighed as one of them slipped and broke the ring. “Cut! Start again!”

  He turned as Helen came to his side, a glass in her hand. “Here, Clark, you look as if you could use this.”

  He drank and gagged. “What the hell is it?”

  “Witches brew. I made it in the kitchen. The pressure-cooker helped to break down the solid constituents and I added a bottle of brandy after it had cooled. Have some more.”

  He sipped again, cautiously. The stuff had the consistency of soup, clouded with the pulverised remains of best-for-gotten ingredients, spicy and harsh to the tongue. Yet it had something. He sipped again, thinking. Even though it was late summer the nights could be cold. A good dose of this stuff would help to keep things going.

  “Not bad,” he said finally. “But you’d better add another bottle of brandy and a couple of rum.” He swore as the line broke again. “Damn idiots! Can’t they stay on their feet?”

  “Don’t worry,” soothed Helen. “It will be all right on the night.”

  * * *

  There was cloud scudding across the moon, a thin wind stirring the grass and twitching loose leaves from the gnarled oaks. From high in the branches an owl hooted then, disturbed, lifted on wide wings against the sky. Clark watched it go, wishing they had caught it on film, remembering to fake the shot later. Before him huddled the members of the cast and, inevitably, the foul-ups had begun.

  “Where’s the sacrifice?” He caught Tony as the clapper boy passed. “Damn it, where’s the sacrifice? I told you to get a black goat.”

  “I couldn’t get a goat and, anyway, nobody had a black one.”

  “You could have dyed it.” Clark shook his head. “Do I have to see to everything? What did you get?”

  “A cockerel. Helen said—”

  “All right. Is it black?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then dye it! Rub it with soot or something. Move!” Clark glared around as the prop man scurried away. “Where the hell is the altar?”

  The altar was stoned. She sat with her back against one of the oaks smiling cheerfully over the rim of a pint mug. The interior was thick with traces of witches brew.

  “Hi!” she giggled as he stormed towards her. “You wanna join me? Sit down and have a drinky. Have two little drinkies.”

  “Stand up!” Clark stooped, gripped her shoulders and lifted. She hung a dead weight in his arms. “Quick,” he said to Helen. “Help me to carry her over to the slab.”

  Dene met them halfway there. The Head of the Coven was wearing full regalia, skins, paint; an antlered headdress. He shook his head as he saw the condition of the altar.

  “No,” he said, “It won’t do.”

  “Why not?” Clark heaved at his limp burden. “All she s got to do is to lie there.”

  “It won’t do,” repeated Dene firmly. “The altar must be pure, a virgin, without blemish or stain. She’s drunk. To use her would be unthinkable. Suppose she was sick or started to sing or laugh or something? It would ruin the ceremony. No, Mr. Bannerman, it simply won’t do.”

  “Damn!” Clark glared around. Mavis had insisted on joining the dancers and Helen was the only woman left. Firmly she shook her head.

  “No, Clark. Don’t ask me.”

  “I’ve got to.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Why not? All you’ve got to do is strip and lie there. It isn’t a Black Mass so there will be nothing for you to worry about. Please, Helen,” he urged, conscious of approaching midnight. “For me. For the company. For Arabesque.”

  She was unexpectedly beautiful. Clark followed her stark white figure with his eyes and then, dumping the discarded altar behind one of the oaks, got down to business. From apparent chaos came sudden order. The participants were professionals and had rehearsed until they were movement-perfect. Dene needed no tuition. The crew, Sherman, Conway and even Tony took up their positions. Disguised lights glowed from where Sherman had hidden them in the branches, each lens traced with a
pentacle. A fire sprang to life glowing beneath the fury of canned heat. Incense plumed the air. Glancing at his watch Clark waited until the exact stroke of midnight.

  “Shoot!”

  There was always a great satisfaction in seeing a production get under way. Clark relaxed as, like clockwork, the cast commenced the performance. Now there was nothing more he could do. With any sort of luck they would run straight through without a hitch. Sherman had scrounged the loan of extra cameras so could use alternates without having to break to reload film. Power from the Manor fed the lights and the rest of the equipment was self-contained. If necessary they could re-shoot bad sequences but, somehow, Mark was certain that would not be necessary. For once things were going just right.

  He watched as the dancers gathered around for the symbolical draught of brew, then came the anointing with the salve, the genuflections, the ritual movements, the gestures, arms lifted like writhing snakes, fingers flexing, heads jerking to the subtle beat of drums coming from the speakers.

  Conway would earn a prize for the sound alone. The taped incantations rolled through the oaks like the pulse of a mammoth heart, incredible syllables enhanced by electronic wizardry, scratching at the nerves and goose-pimpling the skin. The chanting followed, the dancers miming as they whirled widdershins, moving faster and faster in a mounting frenzy. Tall beyond the naked body of the living altar Dene, grotesque in his antlered headdress, lifted his arms and added his own voice to the din.

  Clark turned as something rustled at his side. Tony, eyes wide as they reflected the dancing light of the fire, stared at the performance.

  “This is great, Clark,” he whispered. “The best yet. It’ll win for sure.”

  The Golden Rose, the accolade, the seal of achievement! Clark could feel it now. And Tony was right. He had a winner at last!

  The frenzy increased as Conway turned up the sound. The air stank of burning gums and animal extracts. The dancers cavorted, screaming as they abandoned restraint, naked flesh gleaming, glowing with salve and perspiration, bodies merging in sensual embrace. They were no longer acting, Clark sensed that, they had yielded to the beat of the drums, the urge of the incantations, surrendering themselves to the mystery of the night, reverting to the animal in their primitive emotions.