The ground around the house was swampy and strewn with animal droppings. The traveller picked his way through the mulch without much enthusiasm. The house appeared taller from the back than at the front; the basement was at ground level. Owen ducked into a hole which seemed to have been frenziedly torn into the wall; bricks covered a wide area of ground nearby. The traveller wondered whether Owen and Lily were responsible for it. Hesitating only for a moment, he followed the boy inside.
The traveller had to concede that Owen was right about the place; it did seem larger than it had appeared from outside, but he knew that was an illusion. Pigeons were roosting in what remained of the attic rafters and the moist, peaty ground was white with their guano. There were signs that people came here regularly. Crates were bunched together to form a makeshift table, their surfaces marked with candle wax. It was as if occult rituals had been conducted there. The traveller swallowed thickly, and the taste was sour. He hoped he was wrong.
‘Feel the atmosphere,’ Owen said, in a whisper. ‘Just be still, and feel it.’
The traveller felt nothing. If this was the Winter twins’ temple, its ambience left him untouched, but then it would.
‘What am I supposed to feel?’ he asked.
The boy looked at him sharply. ‘We thought you were like us,’ he said, and then shrugged. ‘Close your eyes. Wait.’
Sighing, the traveller did so, and then opened them again quickly. By his side, Owen Winter was standing with his head thrown back, his eyes peacefully closed, his lips slightly parted. The traveller realised the boy was really quite beautiful. He looked like a dying saint, or someone inviting a kiss. Not realising he was being observed, Owen reached out and took the traveller’s hand in his own. ‘You will feel it through me,’ he said. The traveller felt nothing, nothing other than the warm pressure of living fingers. That, at least, was not unpleasant.
My dalliance with these waifs will be short, he thought, but not without refreshment.
Owen sighed and released the traveller’s hand. ‘Well,’ he said, blinking. ‘Did you feel it?’
‘I felt only you,’ the traveller replied.
Owen smiled. ‘I think you are too old, or something. Let’s go.’
They spent the afternoon tramping around the moors, visiting several other empty cottages and farm buildings, but none of these were treated with the bizarre reverence Owen Winter had displayed for the first house. Some of the places were indeed interesting, and the weight of the centuries there pressed down upon the traveller like a welcome blanket in the thick of winter. Owen’s behaviour was erratic. At one moment, he appeared almost scholarly, talking about the history of the moors, while at another he might sound positively deranged, alluding to ghosts and unexplained phenomena. The traveller was genuinely confused as to whether the boy was slightly mentally ill or just deliberately contrary. It was impossible to tell. He could not believe this innocent was involved in any occult practice; he was simply an immature romantic, looking for mystery. And don’t I do that myself, in a way? thought the traveller. Owen did not attempt to touch him again.
In the late afternoon, they got back into the car, and Owen drove them home. The traveller was intrigued by what the Winter house might be like. It could be large and look haunted, with ivy over the eaves, or small and cottagey, hugged by climbing roses. He dismissed the possibility of it being nothing more than a grey semi-detached house, bought by the mother from a district council. The reality, however, was none of these options.
It was a detached house, though not large, situated on a winding lane, where family homes were widely spaced. It was surrounded by tall evergreens, but had no name. It had rather a raddled appearance. Owen parked the car in a muddy drive at the side of the house, and when the traveller got out, he could see a distorted, wire chicken-run behind the house, where a few ragged birds were scampering up and down. There was a kennel and a chain, but no dog, and a bare clematis hugged one of the walls. The back door was painted in an unsightly flaking turquoise colour.
Owen scraped mud from the soles of his pumps on a piece of metal by the door and, out of politeness, the traveller did likewise. Then, they went inside.
The back door led straight to the kitchen which was steamy with the smells of cooking food. Pots bubbled on an old gas stove. The traveller took off his hat and put it down on the large, farmhouse table. He looked around himself with interest. The walls were bare brick, except for one that had been inexpertly whitewashed; splashes of white marked the brown tiled floor. Bunches of herbs hung from one of the roof beams, but were so dusty, it did not look as if they were used for anything. Three crates of apples under the table gave off an over-ripe smell, one of them occupied by an elderly cat, asleep among the fruit. A group of new kitchen units against one of the walls were the sole concession to modernity but, white as they were among so much dark and earth, they looked absurd and out of place. Their formica surfaces were already scored by cutting knives, and the scratches had been stained brown by tea. At one time, someone had begun to turn this dilapidated house into a home, but the job had never been finished, and there was no sign of recent work. Strange. The twins’ mother must have lived here for about fifteen years.
‘Hope you don’t mind the mess,’ Owen said and went to open a door, calling ‘Lily!’ into the space beyond.
The traveller stood in the middle of the kitchen, bombarded by the images before him. His home, when he returned to it, would never be allowed to sink into such disarray. How could a person be comfortable within such chaos? It mystified him. He was beginning to think of home more often now. He sat down on a wooden chair by the table an Owen said, ‘No, don’t sit there. Go into the parlour.’ He gestured to show the way.
The parlour was surprisingly comfortable; a woman had made her mark here. Perhaps the mother had begun renovations in this room. The walls were covered in framed embroidered samplers and a large, welcoming fire was burning in the huge stone hearth. Again, the walls were of bare brick, but in this room, it was simply rustic; a decorative effect. A beautiful old Persian rug covered most of the floor, but around its edges the boards gleamed with honey-coloured varnish. The traveller threw himself into a well-padded chair and Owen offered him some wine. ‘Home made,’ he said. ‘But you’ll like it.’
The traveller was not prepared to disagree, although he had a refined palate which objected to brutality. Owen poured out a glass of pale liquid from what appeared to be a crystal decanter. ‘We make it from apples,’ he said. The traveller was pleased to find the wine tasted of fairly well-bred sherry.
Then, Lily came into the room. She looked enchanting, wearing a simple, long black dress, her hair held back with a silky scarf. She had painted her lips with a smudge of pale lipstick and her lashes were spiky with mascara. The traveller’s heart warmed. He wished she had been with them for the afternoon.
‘Did you have a good time?’ she asked, sitting down on the arm of the traveller’s chair. He burned with the proximity of her body. She smelled of soap and floral scent.
‘Yes, it was very interesting,’ he said.
‘Did you show him the house, Owen?’ she said.
Owen sat down on the rug at their feet. He nodded.
‘What did you think of it?’ Lily asked the traveller.
‘I suppose you mean your little church,’ he said.
Lily laughed. ‘Well, it’s not exactly that!’
‘I think I disappointed your brother. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react.’
‘I wasn’t disappointed,’ Owen said. ‘We only wanted you to go there. You weren’t supposed to react.’
‘Why did you want me to go there?’ the traveller asked. He thought he might as well enter into the spirit of their game.
‘We wanted to show you to the land,’ Lily said.
‘Oh.’ A dark misgiving touched the traveller’s heart. He did not approve of the implications in those words.
‘Anyway, the food’s ready now,’ Lily said, jump
ing up. ‘We’ll eat in here, shall we?’
The meal was wholesome, if rather sloppy. Lily and Owen kept up an inane chatter the whole time, plates balanced on their knees. When everyone had finished eating, Lily piled up the plates in the hearth, and refilled the wine glasses. Her cheeks had become slightly flushed. She curled up on the floor by the traveller’s feet and, twirling her glass in her hands, said, ‘When are you going home?’
He smiled down at her. ‘Soon,’ he said.
‘Where do you live?’
‘My family have a place further south.’
‘And you’re going back there?’
‘Yes.’
Owen was lying on his stomach in front of them, his chin in his hands. ‘What do you do? Do you work?’
The traveller paused. ‘I will do, I expect.’
‘You’re rich, aren’t you!’ Lily said, pleased with her deduction.
The traveller shrugged. ‘My family have money, but that’s no excuse for being lazy. Besides, I will have a family to help support eventually.’ He wondered why he was telling them even this much. Why? It was the first occasion he had ever opened up to anybody during his travels, including those times he’d spent with distant kin. Perhaps he was satisfying a need because the journey time was nearly over. Perhaps he was throwing coins at destiny. Perhaps.
‘Oh,’ Lily said, having digested this information. ‘You have... a girlfriend, or a wife, then?’
The traveller leaned back in his chair and blinked at the ceiling. ‘I will enter into a marriage when I return home.’
Lily giggled. ‘What a funny way of putting it.’ A silence came into the room.
‘I’m not married yet, though,’ the traveller said, and sat up straight again, with a sigh. He held out his empty glass to Owen. The boy gave him a studied, calculating look that went on for a few seconds too long before he got up and refilled the glass.
Lily extended a cautious hand and traced a pattern on one of the traveller’s boots. ‘You are a very strange man,’ she said.
‘How strange?’ he asked.
‘Well, we don’t like people much, but you are different. We like you, don’t we, Owen.’
‘That’s why we showed you things, invited you here,’ Owen said. ‘We like you.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Do you like us?’ Lily asked him shyly. She did not look up at him, but the traveller could see her colour had deepened around the face. Her little ears had gone scarlet. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘I think you know the answer to that,’ he said.
‘We have many secrets,’ Lily said. ‘We think we can trust you.’
‘People here think we’re witches,’ Owen said, ‘but we’re not.’
‘We are very close,’ Lily said. ‘We always have been.’
The traveller got out of his chair and sat down on the rug between them. He gently pulled Lily against him with one hand and reached out to stroke Owen’s hair with the other. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘It’s not necessary.’
The traveller woke up alone beside the fire. He lay for a few moments reliving the delicious experience of Owen and Lily Winter: their hands, their young eyes, the impossible slimness of their bodies, their utter submission to his pleasure. They had obviously experimented together for a long time. Where were they now? Had they stolen away to indulge in a more private communion? The traveller considered that, for tonight at least, it would be best if he returned to the White House. The clock on the wall told him it was not yet midnight. He sat up and pulled on his clothes, noticing that Lily and Owen’s garments were still mixed up with his own. Wherever they had gone to, they had gone there naked. Strange and lovely children. He wondered how long he should stay with them. He did not want to encourage a dependence, which he suspected was a risk, but neither did he want to leave this abundant orchard right away. All too soon, the time for travelling would be over. He would be given new responsibilities and commitments. There could be no more sampling of the world’s fruit then.
The smell of apples, very strong, slightly sickly, drifted in from the kitchen. The traveller went out there, stretching, looking for his coat and hat. The lights were all off and he did not know where the switches were. It was very dark, and the house was making comfortable, sleepy sounds, wrapping him in its perfume of apples and cooking. It no longer seemed unhomely to him; its mess was comfort. His coat was lying over the back of a chair. As he shrugged himself into it, he looked out of the window at the dark garden. He saw pale shapes moving about, and heard a sharp, high-pitched giggle. The twins were out in the garden; naked in the chill, naked beneath the stars. The traveller stood by the window to watch them, an affectionate smile on his face. They were so beautiful, like sprites, slim and white. They ran around a sundial, around and around. He wished he could scoop them up, put them into his pocket, and carry them home. He would like to have such wonders in his own garden, one day.
You have your secrets little wild things, he thought, and I have mine, but tonight mine are heavy, heavy.
He sighed and thought of his mother’s face, one straight finger pressed against her pale lips. ‘Never speak, never speak of what you are. Trust only your kin, for the kin stay together, and those beyond the community are a danger to all.’ Her words echoed through his mind, words that had been with him since childhood, so long ago. He forced himself to look away from the window, but just as his head turned, an odd movement caught the edge of his vision. He pressed his face against the glass, his mouth open. His fingers were flat against the panes.
Twirling, dancing, long-limbed sprites, they were attenuating even as he looked, their muscles flexing outwards. They were blurs upon the dewy grass, reaching out for one another with fingers like blades of frost. Changing shape.
We thought you were like us...
He could not believe what he was seeing, and the gristle cracked in his own face as he stared.
We have secrets...
Yes. Yes! You shouldn’t exist, not here, not alone.
Our mother was an outsider...
The traveller ground his forehead against the glass with a groan of pain. Look away, look away. Forget!
Impulsively, he smacked the flat of his hands against the window, and the sharp, sudden noise of cracking glass splintered the night air.
The twins froze, caught like animals in a glare of light, looking, with the startled eyes of feral animals, in at the house. Loners are not tolerated. Loners unwittingly betray. They must be culled!
Lily walked up to the window, and put her fingers to the glass, touching the place where his brow pressed the other side. Her small breasts nudged the panes. She looked very brave. She could not guess what was on his mind. She thought he was afraid. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Really. It’s all right.’
‘It is not!’ the traveller said, through clenched teeth.
She looked puzzled, throwing a glance behind her to where her brother stood uncertainly by the sundial.
The traveller’s throat had filled with fluid. He blinked at the pale wraith outside. ‘Keep moving,’ he said thickly. ‘Sell the house! Go away! Keep moving!’
Lily frowned. ‘It’s all right,’ she repeated. ‘We often dance outside like this. There’s a wall round the garden. No-one can see we’re undressed.’
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he’d seen nothing but a pair of children enacting a private rite of their own. The glass was old, warped. He backed away from the cracked window.
‘No,’ Lily said, her brow puckering, ‘don’t go. Please don’t go.’
He knew he had to leave. If he left now, he could convince himself his sight had deceived him. If he stayed, they would show him their secrets, all of them. They had promised as much. Now, he was afraid of what he might find out. He did not want to be the keeper of unwanted knowledge, for the keeper defers to a higher authority eventually, and then the time would come when a stranger would arrive in Little Moor, someone whose functio
n was to eliminate dangers from the world. The traveller could not bear to think of that. If they were like him, the Winters did not know what they were; they were innocent. The people in this village looked out for them. They might be safe, unless another of his kind came by.
‘We want you to stay with us,’ Lily said urgently, patting the glass with her fingers. ‘Stay for a while. We will make you happy.’
‘I know,’ the traveller said, standing in the shadows. ‘You already have.’ He backed slowly towards the door, feeling behind him for the handle. Outside the air was sharp with the promise of frost. He inhaled deeply, feeling the needles in his lungs. Then, he walked briskly away towards the White House. Nobody followed him.
The train sped south, casting a flickery shadow over the yellow cornfields, recently harvested. The traveller stared out at the dying season, his cheek pressed against glass. The winter was coming now, coming fast. Up north, in the hidden valleys, on the bare moors, in the timeless pockets of life where very little ever changed, the secret people thrived. They could be very different these people - outcasts from the human race, eccentrics, grievers, loners - an infinite variety of separate souls. The hard season would come to Little Moor, and in the moonlight, wraiths might dance in the snow, pale as the winter element, timeless creatures. He remembered the warmth of their hearth, the warmth of their flesh. He remembered nothing more.
How Enlightenment Came to the Tower
He lived within a tower of white stone, in a part of the forest where the light was greenest and the trees dwindled to a furry, sighing sward. The tower was crowned by sparkling marble, which could be seen from the nearby mountainside town of Tooreal, poking up above the trees, golden radiant upon sunny days and shining with the pallor of a sad, sick face at night.
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